Entry for "Pimp My Bunnies"

Title: Bridges

Author: buildmeapyramid

Rating: M

Plot Bunny Inspiration: #3 Edward/Jasper, human Edward, vamp Jasper, angst. Picture a meth addict, but exchange the meth for Jaspers power. Edward is traumatized in some way, death of a parent, mugging, whatever and his totally enraptured vampire boyfriend only wants to take his pain away for a little while but when Edward starts needing it more and more, so much that he can't even leave Jaspers side for fear of the effects wearing off, will Jasper be able to withhold his boyfriends drug of choice or will his rose colored glasses prevent him from seeing the damage. I want to hurt for this one. I want Edward to be so addicted that he will do anything for one more "hit", use sex, threaten to leave, whatever it takes. I want Jasper to be so in love, so attached to his human, that ripping out his own heart would be easier than saying no. This should be angsty, hurty, with lots of dirty, "drug" enhanced smut. Bonus points for a "I'm high so I'm a slut" Edward :)

Disclaimer: SM owns. I just borrow them sometimes. xP

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There's the muffled sound of breathing on the other line, a half-sigh that makes my chest tighten. For an endless stretch of time all I can hear is each slow drag of air crackling through the connection, and I wish I could be there, wish I could feel those warm breaths fan my frozen skin, feel his heartbeat thrum against my fingertips. No, I remind myself silently. I stare out the window at the darkness below, but all I can see is him. His eyes. His lips. His skin.

Autumn.

Burnt leaves with frayed edges.

Banners of color fluttering over the bridge of the wind, dancing around that beautiful, silent boy on the bridge with the hollow eyes.

I see his lashes flutter down, masking those forest irises that gleam with unshed tears as they peer at his hands for a moment before ghosting back up again, staring out onto the gray expanse of the river. I swallow hard, smell his heady scent carried on the breeze, and breathe him in from a distance, suddenly parched. I crave him. The way his lips quiver and part as he rests his palms against the worn stone of the rail makes me draw a ragged breath down my throat. The brilliant flood of color pulsing in his neck against the canvas of his fair skin taunts me, reminds me of his humanity, his mortality.

And it is then that I know I should walk past him, refuse to acknowledge that kindling of fire within me, that sudden flutter of nerves that I haven't felt in over a century. I was made into a stone likeness, molded to be a soulless tool for the use and whim of another. But with one glimpse of that beautiful, silent boy, I am alive. And I want him.

"Hey." His voice is cold, as always. Empty. Broken.

"Hi, darlin'." I cradle the phone closer to my ear, desperate for his voice.

"I hate it when you call me that." The knife in my gut twists, slices upward and cuts through my heart.

"Sorry," I rasp. There is no surprise at his flat tone, just the same stab of sharp pain. These phone calls are always painful. But I still crave each one. Still live for the few minutes each week when I can hear his hollow, ringing words, muffled and mangled by static and distance. But his words they remain. His voice. Always his voice.

Five years. Five long, agonizing, monotonous years of silence and loneliness in the midst of the crowds. I've grown restless since that boy on the bridge. Impatient for a day when I can see autumn leaves without images of his eyes, his blood pulsing beneath ivory skin, his sin-colored lips parted and trembling as he breathes. I frequent bars and clubs, eager for someone, anyone, to ease my cravings. It helps me learn to control my thirst, yes, but not my longing, not my desire for that broken boy. I wander, ghost from one city to the next. Always finding my way back to Chicago. Back to that bridge and that murky river. Until one day I find him.

"How've you been?" I ask, letting my head fall back against the wall, treasuring the sound of his breathing on the other end. My chest clenches.

His voice is coarse, broken, when he finally replies: "I'm managing."

My hand finds its way to my heart and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing they were his arms instead. "What did you do today?" I try to keep my voice from breaking. I can't let him know how much it hurts me. He needs space. He needs distance. He needs time.

Loud music. Dark eyes and roaming hands. A sea of dancing, grinding bodies swaying together like a field of tall grass bending in the wind. I stand in the corner, watching, waiting, hoping. My nights in Chicago are filled with hope. Pointless hope. But I can't stop myself from scanning every new face that comes through the door. Searching for him. For his cavern-like eyes and fair skin and parted lips.

And all at once he's there. Standing by the entrance and scanning the crowd. Mere feet away, breathing and living and beautiful and hollow. I can almost see the walls around him, see the hardness in his gaze. I want to rip those walls down and love him like he ought to be loved. I want to fill those empty eyes to the brim and show him how full I can make him feel. How cherished.

"Nothing," he answers slowly. I can hear the lie in his voice.

"Tell me," I plead. I wish I could hold him.

He sighs and I wait. It's quiet for a long moment. "I went to the bridge," he confesses at last.

I bite my lip. "Really?"

His silence tells more than words ever could.

"And . . . you're okay?" I prod.

"Fine." His tone is curt.

Not for the first time, I wish I could cry.

"What's your name?" His warm breath tickles the back of my neck, makes me shudder as I turn my head to see him.

God, he's beautiful. Crystalline forest eyes and skin like vanilla. Those full red lips are widened into a crooked smirk, but I can see the emptiness behind his gaze, the coldness. And it makes me ache as I answer, "Jasper."

He inclines his head, burnished auburn hair tumbling forward over his eyes as he studies my face. I can smell his scent, tempting, rich. Cheap alcohol and musk and sweat and sex. Mouthwatering. It's almost too much for me to bear. "Edward," he finally murmurs, and his hand reaches out to toy with the buttons of my shirt. His touch, even through the cloth, brands me with heat, and I let out a shaky breath as his eyes glimmer from underneath those long lashes. "Wanna go somewhere?"

"Do you want to talk about it?" I wish I could touch him, hold him, let him know that I'm there. But he has no idea how close I really am.

"No."

"Edward—"

"Next week then," he whispers.

Something, another little piece of me, breaks. "Okay," I sigh. "I love you."

There's silence and all I can hear is his quiet breathing. And then a sharp beep as the line goes dead.

I press him against the wall, let my hands roam down his sides. His ragged moan hums against my neck and I drag my mouth across his collarbone, inhaling that delicious, forbidden scent. "More," he sighs, and I slip my hands under his shirt, grab a fistful of the fabric and tug upward. His stomach quivers against my touch and I press myself closer, fitting myself against him. He whimpers as we move together, his legs lifting to wrap around my waist. Sobbing as I lift him, drown in him. Press my hips to his and feel him hard and eager against me. I groan and he gasps, and my fingers twine with his as I pin his hands above his head. "God, Jasper," he cries, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, feel him quake and shudder in my arms.

"Edward," I whisper. His skin is flushed, color blooming underneath the fairness, and his lips are bruised from my kisses, ripe and swollen and perfect.

I curl up against the wall, holding the phone to my ear until the last of its warmth is gone and I'm left alone and cold before I toss it away. Hours pass, and faint glimmers of light begin to hover around the edges of the bay window before me. Red sun fringes the sill and I watch it rise, watch the colors array themselves in the sky as red turns to pink and pink turns to cream, until suddenly the sun has risen, warming the horizon.

But still, I am cold.

"Harder." His fingers dig into my back and I arch, fighting to control myself, drowning in his heat, his arms around me, holding me as I move. "Please!" He writhes under me, tangling his legs around mine, pressing hot, wet kisses against my skin. I still, hesitant to hurt him, but his arms wrap around me, clutching at me, pulling me closer. "Jasper," he moans. His forest eyes glitter and they aren't as empty as before, so I obediently thrust forward into that incredible tightness, feeling him surround me, warm me.

I push and he pulls, and we move together in perfect harmony, melting, breathing, loving. His skin glistens with sweat, his lips red and bruised and soft against mine, and he cries my name, over and over, lifting his hips to meet mine as we crash into each other, intoxicated with fiery kisses and desperate touches and muffled groans. It's lust and passion and need.

It's everything.

I wander through the woods, seeking prey. The sliver of moon in the sky seems strange, the one light in the midst of darkness, and the dying leaves quiver when they brush against me.

I feel alone.

It isn't long before a doe makes her way into my path, and I grit my teeth as I attack. I hate to kill. But I must.

When I feel her hot blood gushing down my throat, I want to weep for the life I have taken.

It still bothers me that I cannot cry. Crying would be a release. Cutting would be a release. Even throwing myself off a cliff would be a release. But I am trapped in my form.

Forced to survive.

Unable to die.

Unable to live.

I lie next to him, caressing his face with one hand while I brush my lips against his. Once. Twice.

He pulls away. "I should go," he whispers. His eyes dart away from mine as though he can't bear to look at me.

I tangle my fingers in his. Wrap an arm around his neck. Press a light kiss to the sensitive spot below his ear. "Stay," I breathe.

He shudders against me. Exhales slowly and turns. Green eyes glimmer from beneath hooded lids and those lips part. God, he's beautiful. "You don't want me to stay," he whispers. He sounds broken.

I shake my head and pull him closer, fit him against me. He's so warm, so soft, so perfect. "Please." My fingers trace hearts on the satin skin of his back. "Stay."

And he does.

The butler doesn't blink an eye when I slip through the entrance doors well after midnight. I take the stairs three at a time and when I reach my suite I strip down to my boxers and start the hot water, leaving my clothes in the entry. Someone will pick them up in the morning.

I wander through the rooms, trying to ignore the ache curling in the pit of my stomach. When I glance out the window, the sight of the red, dying leaves clinging to their trees makes me want to rip my own hair out. But instead, I turn away. Walk into the bathroom and take off my boxers. Slide under the warm, soothing water. I remember when I use to take showers with Edward. Slow, lazy kisses and hands slippery with soap. Tender smiles and murmured words. His eyes would shine, brimming with contentment. No longer hollow. No longer empty.

He calls constantly, but it doesn't bother me. I love to hear his voice, love to know he's thinking of me. We talk for hours, mostly nonsense. He tells me about his day and asks me about mine. We meet for lunch at noon and I tell him every chance I get how amazing he is. And at night, he's there, in my arms, beautiful and willing and still broken.

But I'll fix him. I vow to fix him. He's already fixed me.

I rest my hands on the railing of the balcony, lean over and breathe in the scents of the dying leaves and hard earth in the park below me. Beyond that, I can see the endless roofs stretching away, like stepping stones of all different shapes and sizes and colors, all leading toward the river. The sky is a strange shade of blue on the brink of purple, littered with glowing, butter-cream clouds, like cotton candy with dozens of tiny dollops of whipped cream all over it. I smile to myself at the whimsical comparison.

It sounds like something Edward would say.

I sigh and look down at the swirl of earthen colors in the garden bed below. The trees are on the brink of losing their leaves, and the wind dances around their trunks, rustling slyly as though trying not to be heard. And I love the way the evening comes alive before me, a forever-changing painting. Everything seems magnified in autumn. Colors seem brighter. Time is treasured instead of wasted.

Life is more beautiful. Death is more tragic.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

The nightmares start after about three weeks. That's when I get the first frantic call.

I'm on my laptop, absently staring out the window, when my phone rings from its place on the coffee table. I know, instinctively, who it is, and I frown as I glance at the clock.

3:07 a.m.

He's never called me this late.

I flip the phone open and press it to my ear. "Edward?"

Muffled breathing. An almost inaudible noise of pain.

"Edward?" I ask again, setting my laptop aside.

Nothing but more uneven gasps of air and faint whimpers.

"Edward, what's wrong?" My voice is slightly panicked now, and I can't prevent the worried edge in my tone.

"Jasper." The word is a broken whisper that sends a splinter of icy fear through my middle.

"Edward, where are you? What's wrong?" I stand, terrified of the way he's speaking, the way his words echo. He sounds hollow again.

The night is clear, lovely and cool. Autumn is nearly over, on the edge of winter's chill. I sit by the window, a book on the Crusades lying open on the cushion beside me. But I'm distracted by the stirrings of the dead leaves blanketing the garden bed below my suite. I can hear the rustle and crack as they are blown to and fro, and it makes me ache to think that as a child I would stomp across the dried leaves with gleeful delight, reveling in the sound of them snapping, crackling. It hurts to remember how easily they broke, grinded to pieces underneath my feet.

My eyes stray to the phone lying on the coffee table, but I look away again. It's only been three days since I talked to him last. And I made a promise to myself and to him. No more than once a week.

"Can I come over?" I can hear the tears in his voice.

"Of course, Edward." I rub a hand over my jaw, a habit I've been unable to break even after all these years. "Just tell me what's wrong."

But the line is already dead.

Chicago in the winter is exquisite. Blankets of snow and frost cover nearly everything that stays still for more than a minute. Today gray clouds litter the dull-colored sky, and the sun is hidden, so I cautiously step outside the hotel, taking care to cover as much skin as possible. A fitted black coat and jeans, gloves and a thick woolen scarf around my neck. A knit hat that covers my ears.

I keep my head down and my eyes on the sidewalk before me, muttering apologies whenever the occasional pedestrian accidentally swerves into my path. But few do. Even without knowing, something in them is repelled by me, and I am given a wide berth.

It makes me miss the times when Edward would walk by my side, his hand warming mine, and people would not be so hesitant to come near me, so unconsciously alarmed by my presence.

Edward makes me feel human. With all a human's fragility.

His lips are on mine before I've fully opened the door. "Edward, what are you—" I begin.

"Don't talk. Just—just please—" His voice is a desperate keen as his hands tug at my shirt.

"Wait—Edward—" Fiery kisses trail down my jaw, melting my frozen skin, breathing life into my veins. His scent fills the air around me.

"Jasper," he pleads softly. His fingers tremble as they trace my waistline. "I need you."

And I wish I had the strength to pull away.

But he needs me.

So I surrender.

I slip a CD into the stereo and turn down the volume, feeling the slow, dreamy melody ease the bitter swirl of emotions inside me. It's strange, unnerving almost, to have so much . . . conflict going through me at once. Before Edward, I was calm. Serene. Controlled. And now . . .

Sighing, I move toward the window, pressing my hand against the ice-cold glass and letting my fingers trace nonsense on the pane. And when I experimentally press my lips to the chilly surface, something in me aches when my breath doesn't melt the frost.

"Edward." I brush my fingers down his spine and press a kiss to the tender place under the curve of his ear.

His skin shivers in response. But he doesn't budge.

"Edward, please," I beg shamelessly, gripping his hip more tightly with my left hand. I have to remind myself not to curl my fingers to much, the imaginary sound of his bones snapping filling my ears. "Tell me what happened," I whisper.

His shoulders hunch, but when I lift myself up on one elbow to peer at the side of his face, his eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are thin with stubbornness. And when I reach out to brush a strand of hair off his cheek, he turns his head away.

Each week, the quiver in his voice grows more pronounced. Our calls go from ten minutes to twenty to thirty.

But we don't talk very much. For the most part, we listen to each other breathe, hear the words spoken in silence.

I tell him it will get better; he says nothing.

I tell him I love him; he says nothing.

I tell him I miss him; he says nothing.

Why should he? We both know what will happen in the end. And I will fight and fight and fight, but it won't matter.

In the end, I will give in.

I have to.

I'm as lost as he is.

Two months. Agony. Confusion. Murmured whisperings of discontent stirring underneath the surface of our tender kisses and sweet lovemaking. But I don't ask again.

If I ask, I might lose him.

So instead I stay quiet.

Waiting for the moment when finally the word tumbles from parted, kiss-bruised lips.

Waiting for the moment when everything changes.

I flip on the switch. Set my jacket and wallet on the side table. Kick off my shoes. Run a hand through my tangled hair.

My body moves of its own accord, and without realizing it I lean against the door, sinking down until I'm curled up into a ball against the wood. I wish I could cry. Instead I lie here, suffocating in my own misery, and when my phone peeks out from my pocket, I unthinkingly wrench it out with my hand and hurl it towards the nearest wall.

But in the same instant I close my eyes and rest my head against the door, I hear the phone shatter and regret chokes me.

"Jacob."

He whispers the name into the darkness like a prayer. I lift my head from its place on his stomach and look at him. His lashes flutter but he doesn't wake, so I stare a little longer, my expression softening at the sight of his flushed face and riotous curls. I wish I could get rid of the nagging fears that single word arouses.

After a few minutes of silence, I press a kiss to his chest and skim my fingers down his side, feeling the steady, melodic thud of his heartbeat. It soothes away my doubts and I let my head rest back on his abdomen, sighing.

But something in the way he said it . . . It almost makes me believe that name means more to Edward than I ever will.

When I get back to the hotel in the evening with a new phone and some fresh flowers to put in the vase on the counter, the woman manning the desk calls me over before I can head toward the stairs. Her eyes glance up at me through long, fake lashes, and I can feel the fearful curiosity coming off her in waves. A bitter amusement wells within me. She's enthralled by me. A fly longing to come just a little closer to the spider's web.

"I have a message for you," she murmurs. Her voice shakes very slightly, and I'm sure she doesn't realize that I can hear the hummingbird beat of her heart, the way she draws in short, anxious breaths. And she doesn't realize that I hate her for it.

"A message?" My voice is cold.

"A young man named Edward Masen called." At the look on my face, her eyes widen in question as she continues, "He said to tell you that he's going to the bridge again."

"Don't leave me." His hand tightens on my arm, preventing me from sitting up all the way, and I look back down at where he's sprawled beneath me, beautiful and tired and . . . scared.

Why is he scared?

"Edward—"

"Please," he whispers. His lips tremble and his fingers curl against the unforgiving hardness of my skin. "Just-just stay with me. Here." His voice breaks on the last word. I wish I understood why there are tears glimmering in his eyes.

I lean down and press a kiss to those parted, quivering lips. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

I stare at the phone where it lies untouched on the coffee table in front of me. I've been here for what feels like hours, sprawled across the couch with an arm thrown over the side, unmoving. Completely still. And silent.

I can hear the dull roar of cars in the distance, the televisions blaring in the houses on this street, the laughter of lovers in the park behind this hotel, the rustle of the wind through the barren trees. But it is still so very quiet. Something is missing.

Someone is missing.

My hand shakes as I reach out, pausing once in hesitation before I set my jaw and pick up the phone, quickly dialing in the number before I lose my nerve. Before I lose my mind.

"If I tell you, you won't want me."

I press a kiss to his temple. "I'll always want you, Edward. Only you."

His heartbeat stutters underneath my hands and I bury my face between his shoulder blades, waiting. "Are you sure?" he asks quietly.

My fingers curl into his chest and I pull him closer, lining him up against my front. He fits perfectly. "Positive." I'm terrified.

I hate the way his legs draw up and his shoulders hunch so that he's curled into himself, like he's trying to protect his heart. It takes a long moment before he drags in a shaky breath. "Okay," he whispers.

"You called." His surprise is obvious.

My fingers clench on the phone as I clutch it closer, more relieved than I dare admit that he answered. That he's alive. "Of course I did," I breathe.

He says nothing, and I can hear the sound of shoes scuffing against ice.

"Where are you, Edward?" My voice shoots up an octave despite my efforts to remain calm.

No answer.

"Edward?"

Feet crunching down on snow. Muffled breathing.

Then, "Hurry, Jasper. I need you."

The line goes dead.

He tells me everything. About his best friend Jacob. Their secret affair, hiding from their parents. I listen and soothe and ache inside while he cries against me, whispers the terrifying truths against my frozen skin.

How Jacob's father found out one night and threw his son out onto the streets.

How Edward was unaware of what was happening, asleep in his bed at home.

How Jacob called a few minutes before midnight to say goodbye.

How Edward was too late.

And his warm breath on my shoulder, broken words revealing his terrible past, makes me hold him closer, and what he tells me makes me understand.

Because when I first saw him that day on the bridge in autumn, clutching the rail with parted lips and hollow eyes, there was a reason.

Jacob jumped from that bridge.

I can feel the chill of the wind whistling through my lungs and I increase my pace. Trees blur and branches whip against my skin. The sky above me is black with blinking stars peering curiously down at the world as though in amusement. And I feel the cruelty of their cold gazes on my back as I move.

I want to scream his name.

I want to save him.

I want to make him see that I need him.

Just as much as he needs me.

Maybe even more.

"Is it better?" I whisper into his hair. "When I'm here?"

"Much better," he whispers back. His fingers curl under my shoulder, and his head fits perfectly into the crook of my neck.

My lips curve into a smile that I truly can't help, and he looks up, eyes soft and warm and so full of something, some emotion I can't name for fear of what it would mean.

"And you won't leave?" He bites his lip, fingers gripping my arm tightly.

I brush a hand over that pale, smooth cheek. "Why would I ever leave you, Edward?" I'm still smiling when I brush my lips against his and whisper, "You're perfect."

Faster, I tell my body. But I'm going as fast as I can. And it still isn't good enough.

I growl, low in my throat, but there's nothing to be done except keep going. Hope that I'm not too late. Snow crunches beneath my feet and the wind hisses against my skin, trying to slow me down.

But I can't.

I won't.

Or I might be too late.

"Jasper." His voice is a desperate plea.

I pull him back against me, cradling his cheek in my palm. "I'm right here, darlin'."

His hands clutch at me, trying to fit himself closer, clenching tightly around me. "Please, Jasper."

"What do you want, love?" I could never refuse him anything.

"Promise you won't leave," he begs.

I rock into him. Press my lips to his hair. "I promise," I whisper.

I burst out of the trees in a whirl of winter wind and snow, and nearly cry out in relief when I see him, standing in the middle of the bridge, his hands grasping the rail. His bronze hair is tousled and his cheeks are nipped pink, and he looks beautifully broken gazing out onto the still gray waters. I can see the lone tear gleaming at the corner of his eye and I wish I still had that foolish belief that I was enough to fix him.

But I'll never be enough.

I pretend nothing is wrong.

I kiss him. I hold him. I love him.

And each night I do my best to ignore the name he whispers in sleep.

But it hurts.

God, it hurts.

"Edward!" I shout.

He turns. His eyes are empty again. But a victorious smile quirks those sin-colored lips.

I know he's won.

Again.

And I hate myself.

"Maybe we should take a break," I whisper.

I'm not prepared when he jerks in my arms, his voice panicked as his fingers tighten their grip on me. "What do you mean?"

I draw back to look at his eyes. His heartbeat thuds underneath my hands as I brush my lips against his forehead. "You need to find your way." My words are a broken sigh. "You still love him, Edward. You need time."

Tears sparkle in his eyes as he pulls at me, a gasping sob spilling from his lips that cuts through me, makes me ache because I know what I have to do. "No, please." His words are muffled as he buries his face in my neck, breathing warmth on my skin. "Please Jasper," he whispers. "I can't . . .—I just can't. It hurts without you. I need you."

"You came." His voice is soft.

"You knew I would," I accuse quietly, my feet crunching in the snow as I slowly make my way toward him.

He nods and looks away. Back to the river.

I can already feel his warmth upon my skin, and it's a relief. Like knowing my thirst is about to be quenched.

It's been so long.

Too long.

"Don't. Jasper, please. Stay."

His voice, a pleading sob against my back.

His hands, clutching at my jacket.

His tears, wet against my cold skin.

"I can't. You need to grieve, Edward." My voice breaks.

I wonder how long I'll be able to stay away.

His breath frosts the air. I watch the tiny silver cloud escape his lips and I ache to feel his warmth. "I should stay away," I whisper. He's so close. "I should let you be."

"Don't." His lips part as he sighs and hunches his shoulders. "Please don't, Jasper."

"I can't do it." His voice is a pitiful cry in my ear as I cradle the phone closer. It makes me want to rip my heart apart. "Jasper, please, come back."

"You need time." I can't hide the pain in my whispered words.

"I need you, Jasper." It aches to hear his sobs as I tighten my grip on the phone.

"Till next week, Edward." The phone crumbles to pieces in my hand.

My body tingles at his nearness. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him, feel the brand of his warm skin against my fingertips. And God, I want to. "Why can't I stay away from you?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer.

I move closer, needing him. "Edward—"

"Promise."

I pause, my fingers ghosting his side, soaking up the heat that radiates from his body. "What?"

He turns, and his eyes glitter as they meet mine. "Promise you won't leave again."

So I do.

I have to.

Eventually, I come back.

Eventually, I surrender and let myself need him, let him need me.

And then I force myself away again.

Trying not to crave him.

But it never lasts.

I come back.

I always come back.