Fandom: Twilight Saga
Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes
Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella
Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me.
A/N: I'm writing a Twific. Dear God, kill me now.
Okay, so this fic is a completely new change of scenery for me, and I haven't read the books in years—I'm currently trying to hunt down my copy of Eclipse—so I'm going on memory here. Bear that in mind if and when you review, and know that I'll be keeping my middle finger ready for when one of you decides to sneer at my first Twific attempt.
And since I can't find my copy of Eclipse, I'm just gonna say it's the beginning of March in Forks, so just go with it. Also, for convenience' sake, Jacob attends Forks High School instead of going to the rez.
Even though I totally get the appeal of two extremely smexy vampire guys going at it like rabbits, and I'm already addicted to the Edward/Jasper slash fanfiction, I absolutely adore Edward and Jacob because there is just so much potential for a die-hard, throat-throttling, groin-gripping romance, which is why I'm writing this. So hold on to your belts, 'cause here we go!
There is nothing quite as satisfying on a rainy Tuesday morning as shoving a puny freshman against a wall of lockers, just 'cause you can. Of course, my self-pleased euphoria is completely and utterly ruined by the pair of disappointed, absurdly bright green eyes that meet mine from across the hall, framed by even more absurdly long dark lashes. I scowl and ignore my victim's sniffles and mutterings of abuse, and storm down the hall just to pass by the girl-snatcher and snarl in his ear, "Got a problem, Cullen?"
I stalk away, not waiting for a reply, knowing that if he answers in that soft, ever-so-sweet, I'll-pray-for-you-tonight voice, I will snap and give in to my long-held desire to rip his balls off and feed them to vultures—and oh, the pleasure it would give me. Only I can't, because standing right next to him, with her fingers entwined in his, is her. Bella Swan. The girl who knew exactly how much I wanted her but still left me and my nine inches for Cullen and his nonexistent balls. Honestly, Bella is quite possibly the most eager girl I've ever kissed, but that could have been because she was slam drunk when I finally made my move, though I still considered it progress. She knows just as well as I do that Cullen is a church-going, hymn-singing, old-fashioned kind of guy who won't even think of going past first base until they're married—hell, he probably doesn't know what first base is—and yet she still goes flouncing around the school every day with her big brown eyes and lightning smile, kissing him on the cheek and reading him love poetry in English.
It's positively sickening.
But the worst part is I can't do a single fucking thing about it. Even if she rejects me and spits in my face and totals my Harley and breaks her hand again trying to punch me, I'll still chase after her because she's the only girl I've ever felt anything for—and I don't mean the let's-go-make-babies-on-my-Star-Wars-sheets feeling. I mean the feeling like when Tinkerbell starts spraying the fairy version of pepper spray in my eyes, and suddenly all I can see are glittering specks of gold and pixie dust and other shit that sparkles. Because when I look at her, I know she's not thinking about a quick fuck in the locker room or someone to sponge off of. She doesn't expect me to be nice to her all the time or put up with her treating me like shit on a bad day. She doesn't try and tell me that riding my Harley at eighty miles per hour on the freeway is dangerous, or that I should ease up on the smoking. She just . . . loves me.
The first time she said that, I felt like she was a human vacuum. It was like gravity was pulling me toward her, and since I was so totally incapable of speaking, I felt I owed her a reply in some form. So I tried to kiss her.
Which is how she broke her hand.
I would've been pretty damn proud of myself for possessing such a devastatingly resilient jaw, but it was Bella, and if she wasn't already pissed off at me for making a move, breaking her hand in the process of telling me to fuck off did the job quite nicely. I wouldn't be surprised if she chose Cullen just to get back at me. Of course, that wasn't her style; she would have preferred stringing my intestines up over the school's main entrance. But apparently Cullen had cured her of her violent tendencies, like he's finally caged the canary. And I loathe him for it.
Of course, that's not the only reason I loathe him. He grew up in a two-story house in the suburbs; I grew up in a shack on the rez and slept on an air mattress. He plays lacrosse and runs track; I beat up kids and roar around on my Harley. He's president of the celibacy club; I lost my virginity in seventh grade. His dad is an over-qualified doctor; mine deals drugs and booze to minors out of the back of his van. His mom volunteers at the local animal shelter; mine abandoned me and Dad for a barely-legal waiter at Olive Garden when I was five.
I wouldn't have minded such different backgrounds—really, I wouldn't—if he didn't wave it in my face every day. His virtuous, let's-all-be-best-friends persona truly drives me up the wall, and the effect it has on me causes me to act like I have a stick up my ass whenever I so much as hear his name. After all, he's the only person who doesn't cower in fear of me when I pass him in the hallway; instead he just gives me that usual gentle, deep-down-I-know-you're-a-good-person, damned annoying smile, and I give him my usual gentle, talk-to-me-and-I'll-deck-you glare. Unfortunately, it has absolutely no effect on him, which only makes me hate him more.
Hence my step quickens and my English teacher looks extremely alarmed when he sees me walk into class with my famed someone-is-going-to-die-today scowl. Several of my classmates look like they're about to pee as I stomp past them, practically hurtling my backpack against the two-person desk table in the back where I sit next to a quiet kid who I would actually get along with alright if he didn't have a constant cold. His habitual sneezes make it impossible to sleep through the lecture.
I look down at my phone, knowing there aren't any texts for me but checking anyway, and when I look up there they are again, sitting together at a table by the window. Bella has her hand on Cullen's shoulder, the other on his thigh, and is whispering something in his ear with a dirty little smile on her face that immediately ruffles my feathers; she used to smile at me like that, before the kiss, when we worked on cars and bikes in my dad's backyard, drinking Coke and eating cold pizza and joking around. We were best friends—until I went and fucked it up royally, that is.
My scowl deepens and when the teacher raises his voice to address the class, I glare at him like I'm trying to taser him merely with the power of my eyes. Unfortunately, my efforts are in vain, as I hear him saying loud and clear, "As you all know, for the next couple of weeks we will be focusing on a poetry project, the majority of which will be done at home." Over the noisy groans of the lazier ones in the class, he continues, "I'll write the instructions on the board; meanwhile, find your partners, guys."
I glare at the wheezing kid I sit next to—I think his name's Tyson—who has already abandoned ship, so to speak, to grab some scrawny kid with an afro at the front and proclaim rather loudly, "You're my partner!"
Now who am I going to threaten into doing the project for me?
"Um, actually, Bella, I'd rather you not partner with Edward this week." The teacher's obnoxiously composed voice makes me snap my head up to catch him add, "It looks like Jeremy doesn't have a partner; why don't you ask him?"
"But why?" Bella pouts in that damn near irresistible way of hers that I always give into, but the teacher miraculously withstands her assault of fluttered black lashes and big, sad brown eyes.
"I'd just like you to get around a bit, have some variety." He sounds almost amused. "Plus, both of you are very good students; perhaps that scholarly attitude might rub off on your partners." He smiles at them, that lazy, half-hooded smirk that teachers have that brooks no argument.
A young, testosterone-charged kid up front turns in his seat and grins at Bella and Cullen, saying loudly enough for the whole class to hear, "Yeah, they've been doing a lot of rubbing lately, I hear." He leers, ignoring the disapproving frown of the teacher, and a few fuckers snicker for half a second before returning to whatever pointless discussion they'd been having before.
Bella and Cullen blush simultaneously, glancing away from each other in obvious embarrassment.
Bella's blush is pretty, like she's got rose gardens in full bloom on her cheeks. Cullen's . . . well, it's— . . . not half bad. His skin is really pale, even paler then Bella's, and if the light strikes just right, I can see the blood pumping in his neck, pulsing rhythmically. Underneath, his skin is a light gold, like frosted sunlight, and the flush that's rising in his cheeks looks like brilliant red carnations have taken over and run rampant across his skin.
He looks almost . . . beautiful when he blushes.
I frown at that last errant thought, and look away, determined not to examine it more closely, and so focused am I on not focusing on the rosy heat that is still blooming in Cullen's cheeks, that I don't see Bella move away toward the lone kid a few tables away, and I only catch the end of the teacher's sentence: ". . . be Mr. Cullen's partner?" For some reason, Cullen is the only student who always gets referred to as "mister" by the teachers. Prick.
Both the teacher and Cullen are looking at me; I purposely avoid meeting the eyes of the latter, and instead stare at my teacher like he's grown a second nose. "Huh?" I ask. I recline in my seat with my arms crossed and scowl at the man, but apparently he's got a death wish, because he just gives me that fucking smile of his—looking far too un-intimidated—and repeats the question.
"Would you mind being Mr. Cullen's partner?" He tilts his head and arches his eyebrows, waiting for my response.
Why, yes, Mr. Prick, sir, I do mind being the partner of a virgin-ass, cock-sucking, Bella-stealing chick magnet. He obviously can't read my thoughts, unfortunately, because he takes my silence as an affirmative, and gives me another smile that makes me want to saw it right off his face, before nodding, "Good," and moving back to the board, turning his back to the classroom.
It's a miracle steam isn't coming out of my ears as I grab my bag and practically launch it into Bella's now vacant seat next to Cullen. He jumps as it lands, and slowly raises his head to look at me, but I don't look back, and the only reason I know he is looking at me is because I can always feel those sad, moss-green eyes slipping under my skin, always so gentle and accepting of every single fucking thing on this earth. Those eyes drive me insane, because they make me feel guilty. He stares and I feel like I've let him down. I feel like I need to do better.
I feel that way now, and instead of hatred, I feel ashamed—too ashamed to look Cullen in the eye. So I scowl even more and make a point to scoot my chair as far away from him as possible, but it's no use, because I can feel those eyes gazing at me, disappointed and hurt, like I just fucking ran over his dog and called his mother a slut. It makes me angry that I care how he looks at me. It makes me angry that I don't want him to be disappointed in me. It makes me angry that I want those eyes to sparkle and dance, to beam with happiness, like forest trees with shafts of blinding sunlight winking from between the branches and making every single leaf glow a brilliant shade of green.
It makes me angry that I don't want to make him sad.
Part of me does. Part of me wants to take away his perfect house, his perfect family, his perfect girlfriend, his perfect life, and leave him stripped bare in the streets so that I can laugh at him for thinking he could have everything. Part of me wants to hate him with everything I have.
I do hate him, so fiercely that even I don't entirely understand it. He annoys me, it's true; he would've annoyed me even without his dream life and the fact that he stole Bella from me. He always seems so at peace, so removed from the petty squabbles and dramas of high school, and so patient and kind all the fucking time. Even when I swear and call him all sorts of names to his face and threaten him with fire-inducing glares, he's never looked upset with me. Just disappointed. Always disappointed. He smiles at me every morning, but when he sees me scowl at him, he looks like he might cry, and God knows I want to make him cry for everything he has that I don't, but when he actually looks like he might do just that, I feel like a monster. Like the bad guy about to drop the heroine off the side of the bridge.
The teacher's voice distracts me from my thoughts, and for once I pay attention to him, just to keep from glaring at Cullen. "This project is going to span over the next three weeks, and it's going to count for a good percent of your grade, so don't slack off on this one." I watch the teacher determinedly as he waves his hand with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone over fifty, and sigh when I hear the steady scratch of Cullen's pencil as he takes notes. "This is going to be quite basic, actually," the teacher rambles on. "I want you to find two to three poetry pieces of any kind, and I want you to combine them with your own spin. They don't necessarily have to have a similar topic or theme; in fact, the more varied, the better."
Some scrawny kid in the front raises his hand. "Do we have to write the combined thing ourselves?"
"You mean the actual verses?" The boy nods. "Yes, I will not accept a poem with verses from the original. The focus of this project is for you to draw your own conclusions about the poems and express those conclusions from your unique point of view. It doesn't matter how 'poetic'"—he puts air quotes around the word—"your version sounds; I just want to know and understand your opinion of the works."
A brunette girl up front raises her hand and asks in a snappy, obnoxiously high voice, "When is it due?"
"This project will be due on Friday, the twenty-fifth of March." The teacher raises his voice over the rising murmur of voices. "I'll go over the details tomorrow in class, but in the meantime be thinking about potential poetry to use. They can be songs, poems, excerpts from books, Chinese proverbs, pretty much anything you like." When I glance over at Cullen, who is currently bent over a notepad with his messy bronze hair hanging in his face as he scribbles furiously in his far-too-perfect scrawl, and I snicker when I see the words "Chinese proverbs" written with a bullet.
The teacher backs off and wisely takes a seat at his desk. There's twenty minutes of class time left before third period ends, not enough time to do any classwork—far too much time to sit next to Cullen in what has to be the most awkward, anger-charged silence in history, at least on my side.
I nearly groan in relief when at last the bell rings, and I leap to my feet, grab my bag, and am just about to sprint from the classroom when I feel Cullen's eyes on me, hear him inhale slowly before pushing the air back out just as he says, "Would you prefer my house or your house?"
I pause mid-step and try not to glare too ferociously at him. "Yours."
"Okay." He hesitates for a moment before apparently gathering up his scraps of bravado and smiling at me. "How about Wednesday?" he asks with that soft, almost girlish voice of his, and I smile a bit to myself, enjoying the timid, half-afraid way he speaks to me, like I'm a wild animal he's trying to back away from without getting hurt.
"Fine." I shove away from the table, and he doesn't call after me. When I actually think about what he was asking, though, it irks me for some unknown reason that I know where he lives. Of course, everyone in Forks has the Cullens' address highlighted in the phone book, simply because they're the Cullens, the richest, strangest, snobbiest people in town, but still, the information seems too personal, too intimate, and it makes me uncomfortable thinking I know something like that about my almost-girlfriend's boyfriend.
I don't see Cullen or Bella again that day, for which I'm grateful, and soon the day is over and I'm on the road. The sky is turning an angry black, and I know it'll be raining soon, so I speed up a little. I need to get home so I can work on my Rabbit before it starts.
The streets are nearly empty, as usual, and soon I'm pulling up in front of the run-down garage and lugging my bike into its customary bed underneath the eaves. It's drizzling now, making the grass soggy underneath my feet as I trudge around the side of the building to the back door. When I slip inside I feel a rush of grease-scented warmth envelope me, and I sigh and smile a little when I see my scrappy ol' Rabbit sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for me to get to work.
For the next few hours I fiddle with her, exploring under her hood for a bit and using what self-taught knowledge I have to figure out what I need to fix. My fingers get blacker with grease and oil as the afternoon goes on, and little by little my clothes get taken off—first my jacket, then my hoodie, then my T-shirt—until I'm on my back underneath the car in nothing but a red bandana, my ratty black tank, and my even rattier jeans, tinkering away. There's sweat gathering on my forehead and I probably smell disgusting, but when I tried revving her engine a few times, my beautiful little girl gave me a hint of an eager purr before sputtering dead, and I'm in heaven.
After I while, though, I can hear the rain rapping against the garage window, and I sigh. It'll get freezing cold in here in a few minutes, like it always does when it rains, and the garage roof leaks like a bitch, so I'll have to cover up my little girl soon and head indoors.
I adjust a few parts, just eating time, and a little while later I get out the tarp and give her a pat before gathering up my shit and holding my jacket over my head as I sprint across the puddle-ridden yard. It's raining much harder than I'd thought, and by the time I reach the porch, I'm soaked through. The screen door creaks in protest as I open it, and my shoes make muddy tracks on the green carpet as I drop my stuff on the hallway floor and set off to the kitchen in search of food.
I open the fridge and pull out a TV dinner, throwing it in the microwave and scowling as I hear the obnoxious tapping of rain against the tin roof. I've heard somewhere that the sound is supposedly pretty, but try living your entire life under a tin roof in the rainiest town in the States and you'll quickly lose all appreciation for the racket.
The microwave beeps and I open it to grab my dinner, hissing and jerking my hands back when the steam burns my fingers. When I hear the door slam, I turn in time to see my dad slouching toward his room. I listen carefully as I grab a potholder and take the dinner out, hearing the jangle of keys and the sound of some pill bottles. With a small sigh, I get a cup and put it under the faucet, and keep my back turned away when I hear him putter into the kitchen and open the fridge. There's a short silence, filled only by the thrumming of the fridge and the gush of the tap water, before I hear the telltale sound of bottles clanging together and a muted thud as he closes the door. He shuffles out of the room, but after a few seconds I hear him come back and mutter, "I probably won't be back tonight, so you can lock the door."
"Okay," I tell him, my back still turned, and he trudges out. Moments later the door bangs shut, and when I look down I see the overflowing cup clutched so tightly in my hand that my knuckles are white.
I pour the water down the drain and put the cup back in the cupboard, opting for a bottle of Jack Daniels instead and grabbing my dinner. We only have four TV channels, so I watch the local news for a while as I take sip after sip from the bottle, my meal forgotten as I listen to the pitter-patter of the rain against the roof and the dull drone of the weatherman. The hours drag by, and "Jeopardy" comes on just as I get up to get another bottle. I'm seriously considering getting thoroughly drunk, just 'cause I can, but I change my mind when I remember the sound of my dad's beer bottles clinking together as he grabbed them from the fridge, so even though I still get a second bottle, I promise myself not to get too shitfaced.
I'm just settling back down on the couch again when I hear the sound of someone hammering on the door like they're trying to stab a hole through it. "What the fuck—" I grumble to myself as I stagger to my feet, half-empty bottle in hand, and shuffle down the hall to tell whatever idiot is knocking to get the fuck off my porch. When I fling open the door and peer through the screen, however, my words get lost somewhere in my throat as I see who's huddled on my porch like a lost kitten.
She looks up, her dripping wet hair hanging around her face, and even with the raindrops streaming down her face, I can tell she's crying. I clench the edge of the door when I remember that the last time she stood on my porch like this, it was because she wanted to tell me something important. That "something important" ended up being her now-public exclusivity with Edward Cullen. My heart slows for a second, then picks up its pace, because the sense of déjà vu is nearly overpowering, and my eyes widen when she moves toward me, trembling with cold, her arms crossed over her chest like she's trying to trap something inside her, trying to hold herself together. I've only seen her do that once before, and I know now that something went wrong today.
"Bella, what happened?" I ask as gently as I can, but it comes out more like a growl, and she pauses mid-step, those huge chocolate eyes staring up at me with clear pain, and I can't watch her upper lip quiver and those eyes leak fresh tears, so I reach out and pull her close. She's so fucking tiny in my arms, like a doll that got lost on the way to the toy box. I can feel her shaking, practically vibrating against me, and I rub her back, trying to soothe her even as my head runs way ahead to various terrifying scenarios of what could've made Bella of all people cry. She sobs against my chest, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, and I hold her and whisper nonsense into her ear, running my hands up and down her arms, stroking her hair, trying desperately to make her calm down, even as my own panic escalates. What the hell happened?
I tilt away after a while, just far back enough to see her face, and wince a bit, wishing my breath didn't smell like alcohol. "Do you-do you wanna come inside?" I ask, half-afraid she'd rather stay outside in the pouring rain than come in and sit down.
But Bella nods and keeps her arms wrapped around my middle, so I half-carry her inside and lead her to the living room, grabbing my bottle along the way. I'm a bit unsteady on my feet, but not as much as I could be. I've only been sipping at my bottle for the past hour or so, and when I'm drunk I don't slur or trip all over the place, so Bella probably won't notice I'm half-gone unless she gets a good whiff of my breath. We sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, but just as I'm about to speak up, the power flickers out.
I swear under my breath and scramble to my feet to grab the candles stashed on a dusty shelf, and hunt around the room for a lighter. Bella watches me the entire time, her eyes pretty much the only thing I can see clearly in the dark. I know she's still crying though, because once in a while she'll sniffle and let out this huge, sighing sob that makes me want to rip my heart out.
When I finally find the lighter in the hall underneath a pile of my dad's shit, I get the candles going and set them on any spare patch of table I can find. This house is so fucking disgusting, I think to myself, grabbing a few of the dirty dishes that litter the room and running to the kitchen to dump them in the sink. Before my fallout with Bella, the house used to be a lot cleaner, because apparently all girls are sticklers for neatness. But she hasn't been around for at least two months.
I return to my spot on the couch, bottle in hand again, and wish with all my heart for the power to come back on, because my heart is thudding being alone with Bella in the middle of a candlelit—albeit, shitty-looking—room. The candles are throwing these gold shadows across Bella's face and even though her eyes are red and puffy, she looks so incredibly beautiful. It's all I can do not to stare.
She clears her throat and looks down at her crossed legs, wrapping her arms around her middle. "Sorry for barging in like this," she whispers, sniffling again. "I probably shouldn't have come."
"It's fine, Bella," I whisper back. I want to hug her, but more than that I want to know—no, I need to know—what or who made her cry. I look down at the bottle in my hands and hold it out to her with a half-hearted smile. "Want some?" I ask, which probably isn't the best idea, but I don't know what to say or do around her anymore. She hasn't spoken a single fucking word to me in weeks, and I'm afraid of somehow upsetting her.
To my surprise, she takes the bottle almost greedily and lifts it to her lips to take a long swig that has me laughing nervously and reaching out to grab the bottle away before she can empty it. "Whoa, slow down there!" I tell her, half-alarmed. I hadn't thought she'd actually want any, let alone chug a good half of what was left before I could snatch it away from her.
Bella smiles sheepishly. "Sorry," she says, and then wrinkles her nose a bit as the taste registers on her tongue. "Is there any particular reason you're drinking that?" For a second I raise my eyebrows before I understand, and I snicker just a little when I remember how much she absolutely hates Jack Daniels.
I shrug. "It was the first bottle I saw," I reply, glancing down at the retrieved bottle in my hands. She doesn't say anything, and when I look up her arms are crossed over her chest again, like she's trying to keep from caving in on herself, and her bottom lip is quivering. "Bella"—I say her name very softly, wanting to hold her but fearing she'll push me away—"what happened?"
That breaks the dam.
She bursts into fresh tears with a level of despair that, quite frankly, scars the living shit out of me, and launches her body against mine, locking her arms in a chokehold around my neck and sobbing into my shoulder. I can feel each tremor that racks through her body, and I ease my arms around her until I'm cradling her against my chest and letting her warm tears soak my shirt. She's snotting a bit on my shirt too, but I ignore it and rub slow circles on her back, whispering stupid shit in her ears and trying to get her to calm the fuck down and tell me what's wrong with her.
It takes a good twenty minutes before the tears let up, and by then my shirt is fucking disgusting, but she's collapsed in my arms, exhausted from crying so much, and I can't bring myself to care about anything except the way she sighs into my neck and pulls herself a bit closer, her body draped across mine. Luckily for us both, even Bella isn't good at turning me on when she's sobbing her heart out, so it's not that hard to keep my dick under control even with her thigh nuzzling against it, and I'm able to fully concentrate on trying to pry the answers from her.
"I've never seen you cry like this," I whisper, running a hand through her damp hair and setting the bottle on the floor. "What the hell happened?"
She sniffles and draws back into a half-sitting position on my upper leg, but she weighs next to nothing, so I don't mind. "I'm so sorry," she said, and her voice broke on the last word as she looked away from me. "I didn't mean to cry all over you."
I shift, trying to sit up, but she's still seated practically on my lap, so I end up just propping myself up with my elbows against the arm of the couch. "It's fine, Bella," I insist. Only it's not fine, because every time I see you it's like a punch in the gut when I remember I can't have you. "I really don't mind." I do mind. I do mind. I do mind.
"Thanks." She smiles at me weakly, and it's all I can do not to upchuck when I think of how pale that smile is when compared to the one she always gives Edward. When she looks at him, it's almost blindingly bright. She's never smiled at me like that. Ever. "I really don't deserve to be your friend."
"Friend?" I blurt out before I can think better of it, and I want to hit myself when I see her smile falter and her eyes grow wary.
Bella presses a hand to her face, wiping away the moisture that remains on her cheeks and letting out a fluttering, nervous laugh. "Shit," she mutters, almost to herself. "I'm sorry. You're probably dying to tell me to get the fuck out of your house, I'm sure." She sniffs once and rubs her eyes with a bit too much force. "You probably hate me."
I sigh and sit up completely, snagging my arms around her so she doesn't topple to the floor and moving so that she's tucked neatly against my front, now practically sitting on my crotch, which is going to be really awkward in a few minutes when I start paying attention to how nice her ass is. But for now, my semi is safely under control. "I don't hate you," I tell her, sighing again when she presses her face into my neck and takes deep, slow, steadying breaths. I wrap my arms more securely around her back. "I promise I don't hate you."
"You should," she says, her voice muffled against my skin. "I was horrible to you—earlier . . . before-before that." Her fingers twine around the fabric of my shirt and she sniffles again. "I'm still really sorry."
"Hey, it's okay," I tell her, even though we both know it isn't. Trying to reassure her, I add, "I'm over acting like a petty asshole just because you like virgin-ass."
She draws away, and this time there's a glint of amusement in her cocoa-brown eyes. "Excuse me?"
I roll my eyes at her, unknowingly slipping into our old teasing habits. "Baby, your little boyfriend is the poster-child for abstinence. We both know you won't be getting any from him for a century yet."
I'm beyond surprised when she doesn't smack my arm or tell me to fuck off; instead she looks like she might cry again, and I instantly pick up the pieces her tears and silence had dropped.
This is about Cullen.
"What did he do?" I growl, and she looks up quickly, chewing on her lip and drawing her arms up over her chest like before.
"He-he . . ." She sniffles and leans against my shoulder, her face pressing into my neck again as she takes deep, heaving gulps of air.
My arms tighten around her instinctively, and I try to sound gentler when I repeat, "What did he do, Bella? Tell me."
She shudders against me, and even before she says the words I feel a gut-wrenching thirst for blood and I know I'll probably get suspended or expelled after I rearrange Cullen's face because of what she's about to tell me.
"Edward broke up with me."
A/N: A little side-story which will make you roll your eyes: I wrote a fic a while back that got a grand total of 3 reviews, one of which was anonymous. The anonymous one said, and I quote, "what a piece of unoriginal, badly-written, talentless crap this si". I kid you not. The poor little illiterate fucker spelled "is" wrong. So please, if and when you review this fic negatively, try to remember those basic spelling skills you learned in oh, first or second grade perhaps.
Okay, now that the storyteller in my system has been beaten into submission, there's one last thing on my mind. I'm currently looking for another beta for this fic. I'd like him/her to be experienced in beta'ing slash Twifics, with a strong feel for detail and characterization. Please let me know if you're interested. This fic is definitely out of my zone, so having a supportive guide to make my mess readable would be a huge help. (Side-note: I'm not sure whether or not there will be any lemons in this fic, but I'd like any potential beta reader to be comfortable with graphic male-on-male content if it comes to that.)
Okay, I'm done now, so press that little review button and show us some love!