[New Moon AU: La Push / post-Port Angeles movie fiasco / the night Jacob wolfs out.] [A/N + Prompt down the bottom.]
Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
Abiding in the Turmoil
Amidst the confusion of the times, the conflicts of conscience, and the turmoil of daily living, an abiding faith becomes an anchor to our lives. / Thomas C. Monson
"I really think I'd better go home now," he said before she waved him off.
She is selfish. So very selfish. But how can she ever come clean without hurting him badly? Without losing him, too, you mean? a tiny part of her says. No. She couldn't lose him, too. It would be the end of her.
It is the expression on Jacob's face that haunts her now, though. She tries to call, but there is no answer and she's getting worried. Much too worried. He should be home by now. What if he didn't make it? What if he drove off the road? He was so very, very hot. Why did she even let him drive off by himself?
God, sometimes she is so sick and tired of herself she wishes she could just—enough. She will get in her truck and drive to La Push, and that is the end of it. She needs to know that he is all right. Screw curfews and all else.
Bella makes the ancient engine roar at her with prehistoric might as she floors it and turns onto the One-Ten. She will be in La Push at record speed.
Almost there, she pulls over, parks her truck at the entrance to the rez and walks the rest of the way. She doesn't want to wake them up, in case she is just being paranoid.
He paces back and forth in the makeshift garage, balancing precariously on the edge. The flames lapping at his insides, and the crawling beneath his skin do little to help the chaos he's sure is about to literally tear him apart.
"You should leave," he finally tells her in a choked off whisper. "I- I don't know what's wrong but you should go—I think it's best if you leave, Bella." He isn't sure why she should leave, and he doesn't want her to go, but he says it all the same.
Bella's head snaps up and she stares at him, disbelieving. She starts to shake her head. "No," she says firmly. For some reason, she wraps her arms around her middle, like she, too, is about to come apart, and he remembers that jerk left her. "No," she repeats, and he can hear she is going to cry.
"Yes!" He doesn't mean to snap. Why is he being so mean? Jacob doesn't understand, and he feels guilty that he's asking her to leave when he sees it hurts her.
Frustrated, he reaches up to twist his hair.
Bella steps toward him again, and he swallows back on the fire that is constantly pushing up his throat. It burns, and he very possibly might choke on it.
She watches his hands twitch restlessly at his sides. He is all but overcome by the urge to reach out.
"I'm staying" she says with finality and meets his eyes. She pauses to shift her weight from one foot to the other. "Jake, I hate seeing you like this—please, what can I do?"
"I don't know," he says, and it's hopeless. You could take my mind off it. The next words are out before he can process, and he is appalled with himself. "You could always take your clothes off—that's guaranteed to—" He snaps his mouth closed and sees his shock mirrored on her face.
"Excuse me"—she sputters, and then laughs—"what?" But she quickly claps her hand over her mouth.
His reply snaps out like a knee-jerk reaction, "Don't pretend you don't know what I want." What the hell? Quickly, he scrambles for an apology. "Shit—God. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I don't know why I said that—forget I said that." He is such a moron. Why did he say that? He is losing it, and losing it big time. "You know what? You should leave—leave now, before I ruin our friendship. Go."
Bella's face is a mask of indignant outrage. "Oh. Oh, I get it. That's nice. So—what? I have to leave for my own good now, is that it? You know what? No. Screw that. I'm not taking that from you, Jake—nuh-uh—no way."
"Bells?" he wonders, worried, as she angrily starts pulling at her flannel over shirt. Crap. "Jeez, Bella, I was just—I was kidding!"
A wet snort. "Sure you were, Jake—but this isn't about that." Bella keeps yanking at the material, like it offends her, until it's off. As if to herself, "If this is what it takes to prove it..." She throws the bunched up heap at him and her chin juts out defiantly. "What do you want me to take off next?" When she tugs at her t-shirt, he puts his foot down.
"Nothing! You don't have to rub it in—but, prove what? I didn't mean any of it—I would never-"
Bella glares at him through the tears and hisses, "Nothing, huh? Nothing. It's always nothing. I am nothing—no. No more. If this is what I have to do"—she yanks her t-shirt up while grumbling under her breath—"to prove that I am good enough to stay"—and manages to get it over her head, tossing it, too, at him—"then fine!"
Jacob isn't trembling anymore, but Bella is—no, she's shaking. Her face is all wet, and she has her hands behind her back and he has no idea what to say. He still hasn't said one word when she, chest heaving, suddenly stands in the middle of his garage with nothing but jeans and a flush covering her.
"Bells," he tries as softly as he can, but gaping at her all the same. "You are good enough, you didn't have to do that."
"Sure. You say that now," she tells him.
"I do. And you are good enough and youre mine—you just don't know it yet."He cringes. He doesn't know where that came from either. "I- I...," he stutters. Her fingers, only seconds ago fumbling with the button to her jeans, are still. Their eyes lock. "This is so messed up, Bells, I- I honestly don't know why I—"
She stops, because he stops. He can't back up any farther, is now trapped against the wall blocking his retreat. All he needs to do is raise a hand and he will touch her, and then she shivers and chokes out a sob because his fingertips graze her stomach and all he can do is to release a defeated rush of breath and bruise her lips with his.
And then his hands are everywhere.
She is soft and cool under the blaze of his skin, and she gasps into him when his palms and fingers explore her curves like he means to claim and keep each inch he finds.
Inexplicable heat pushes through him like a wave, and knocks the air out of his lungs. "You're supposed to be mine—not his. Mine." What's happening to me?
Her eyes, large and conflicted, search his while he tries to make sense of the slow ache that seems to vibrate in his bones. There is a pressure from within that makes breathing so very difficult. "You should go," he mouths, the words barely building in his throat, let alone leaving his lips.
Hot. Everything is so hot.
As if she just freed herself from some kind of a vortex, her mouth finally moves in retaliation. "No, Jacob," she tells him fiercely. "No. I want to help—let me help."
"Tell me—explain, Jake, please, I can't stand it—I need to help you."
Not knowing what else to do, he takes her hand. "I feel—it's like I'm... breaking...," he manages before he chokes on the rest, and then presses her palm into his burning skin over his heart. "Here."
"I'm sorry," she says and more tears flow. "I can—if it helps, I'm-" Her arms move like magnets to enfold her midsection, but he yanks her hands back to him.
"Why do you do that?" he demands.
"Because I'm falling to pieces, Jacob! So you know I know all about breaking because I already am broken and I can help you—please." She mouths, "Let me help."
"How?" he challenges. He has her wrists locked in his hands, and talking is becoming more and more difficult. He can't—he just can't. Tremors shiver up and down his arms, and he isn't sure if it's coming from her or him. When she's this close he can't seem to think straight.
Finally, after the longest time, she swallows and tells him, "Anything—anything you want, you just tell me what you need and I will—I can." The strangest noise comes from somewhere deep within his chest, and Bella tilts her head to meet his eyes.
"You," he says, and he is sure he should apologize again for it, but he agrees with the simplicity of the statement—he does want her. Also it's getting harder still to string his thoughts together in the thick fog that's clouding his mind.
And then, just as he is so sure she is going to tell him how damaged she is, instead she plants quivering lips on his chest. She is hesitant, but the contact is too much for him.
Trembling, with her cool, damp face pressed to his skin, he hopes he is holding her tightly enough for her to come with him to wherever he is about to disappear to. He then bends to her ear, manages a shallow intake of air, and whispers, "Don't let go."
She turns her face and finds his lips. "I won't," she vows, and then her mouth is on his, hard and desperate. It stirs a longing deep inside, and whatever is happening to him—that makes him say and do the things he has—moves his hands across her skin like he knows the path just as well as the destinations.
Lips throbbing and tongues aching they draw apart, but Jacob is far from satisfied. There is a burning hunger within; he aches with it, he longs and feels sick, all at the same time. He doesn't mean to, but as he moves down her neck, to the junction where her throat dips to the collarbone, he grazes her with his teeth. She whimpers and he is convinced he just marked her skin.
"Sorry," he tries to say, but it's so useless to talk because his throat isn't allowing much more but a raspy rush of air to pass.
"Don't—I don't—mind," she gasps when his palm and fingers drag across a soft rise and swell—and again—in a greedy, kneading motion, until she whimpers Jake into his neck. And then his skin is pulled taut when she draws it into her wet warmth—he feels her teeth, and again that strange noise sounds from deep down.
The sound reverberates through his entire body when he feels tiny pinches along his skin where her fingertips dig into his lower back.
He doesn't understand it, but all of him says she is his, and it's with a startling motion he spins her, reaches into her jeans and grips her hip to push her into an ache something tells him only her body can soothe.
She is secured to him with his arm around her, and his hand moves to latch onto her breast, causing her to smother a breathy moan. With the other he soon meets unreal warmth and damp cotton.
"Oh, yes—please," she pants. "So much—I want you to touch me so much."
Jacob has imagined this many times, but he has never touched. It matters little, however, as that surge of unjustified confidence courses through him. He slips his hand further and presses it flat to the source of the heat.
That noise vibrates in his chest again when she whimpers, but this time it pushes up his throat, and comes out low and rough. "Mine." She quivers against his palm, and he says it again, "Mine, Bella...," while stroking along the soft material—it sticks to her more and more.
The noises she makes grow ragged, and she begs him, "Touch me." A moan makes him clutch her against the ache, when he searches past the wet fabric.
He can't think anymore. He can't even see—he just hears and feels, and slides and rubs his fingers against the slick warmth until her entire body is quaking. A string of shallowly panted words implore him not to stop, and then Bella comes apart in his hand, trembling and gasping.
As she turns and clings to him, he struggles with three very potent urges, dueling for the upper hand inside him. He wants to take, and he wants to fix her, and he wants to marvel at what he just accomplished, but none of that stays with him when his entire body throbs as another sickening ripple runs under his skin.
Because suddenly he can smell everything, including what's on his hand. It slams into him with staggering force and before he knows what he's doing—again—he's got his fingers in his mouth and he's tasting her and dying of shame and arousal all at the same time.
Swamped with the strange mix of self-reproach and burning want, he turns his head and squeezes his own eyes shut against Bella's wide-eyed stare, unwilling to meet the disgust he is sure is there. But then, cool and gentle, her hand is around his and she speaks. Her voice is a little unsteady, but she doesn't sound upset or even grossed out when she quietly says, "Please don't—can you do it again?"
His eyes open and bewildered, they question her, but she has guided his hand back to his face, and between her soft chest grazing his, the intense curiosity in her gaze and the responding urges pulsing through him at her scent, he can't not do as she asks.
She watches him, and when he—still somewhat embarrassed—slips one finger between his lips to lick, her breath catches. She takes in a deep, shaky gulp of air. "Oh—oh, yes. I- I think," she stutters, and the rest follows in a rush. "I think you're fixing me, Jake. I can feel my heart and it's beating so hard and it's like all the pieces are fusing together and it's all you, andthe way you're looking at me, and I can do that-" Her hand flutters down his abdomen, making the muscles there bunch up, and then she touches him through his jeans.
It's all a jumble and it's such a struggle to think but his mind manages to latch onto one thing: fixing—fixing her. The relief is overwhelming. That is what he does—it's who he is. A fixer of broken things. He swallows several times before he can speak past the thickness in his throat. "You're—I did that? I'm... fixing you?"
"Yes," she says as she takes his hand and presses his palm between her breasts. His breath stops and hers shudders, but she reconfirms, "Yes... Can't you feel it?"
Not only does he feel, but he hears. "Yeah." Helpless against the overpowering demand in his blood, his hand is on her breast again.
"Jake?" Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away from her body, although still touching, and meets hers. "Is it—" a hitch in her breath cuts her off when his fingers find her nipple, "—are you still breaking?" He nods, and she drops her gaze as she splays her fingers over his heart. In a shallow whisper, she asks, "Does it hurt a lot?" and looks back to his face.
"This helps," he replies with difficulty, and wonders how much longer he can stay together when he feels like something is already cracking inside.
Thoughtfully. "I see..." And then she is closer, both her hands resting low on his hips as she brushes her mouth over his suddenly hypersensitive skin. There's a sharp intake of breath when her tongue darts out to lick him. It makes her pause and he can't handle that.
"Don't stop," he begs. She responds with firm pressure from her lips and tongue to his chest, causing another surge of that something he's not sure what to do with to overcome him. Before he can redirect, his hands are buried in her hair, not a little roughly. "Sorry," he chokes out.
"Shh," is her only reply, but his sudden lapse of control hasn't discouraged her. If anything she seems encouraged by it, and is now slowly sliding down his body while leaving open-mouthed kisses and wet sweeps with her tongue as she goes.
When her fingertips trail along the edge of his jeans, and her knuckles brush his lower abdomen as she begins to twist the button, he is grasping at what little is left of his mind and covers his face. Shaking his head from side to side, as if it will clear it, he manages a weak, raspy query. "Bells?"
The button releases and immediately thereafter he feels the material give way as Bella undoes yet another, and another, and another-
"Oh...," she breathes in fascination. "Oh, okay—um, yes?" He's just about to answer when she runs a tentative finger over him, and even though the thin fabric of his boxers separates him from her skin, it's still enough to make him lose his mind. As if there were any part of it left to lose. Only a strangled noise comes out, and then her hands are on his thighs. "Yeah, okay—slow, right?" she concludes.
But he can't talk—all those efforts are expended—so instead he drops the back of his head against the wall, grabs his own hair to keep himself from doing something he is sure will guarantee her running away from him in horror, and prays for a miracle.
His senses are so sharp that he hears clearly when Bella shuffles, and then her hands grab his thighs as she, he assumes, repositions herself.
The cool air that hits him makes him shudder, and Bella sucks in a startled breath. "Ohh." There isn't even a beat for him to reflect or ask, useless as it may be without the ability to form words, because she's already touching him with her soft fingers.
Jacob locks his jaw and tightens his fists in his hair.
She speaks again, a little more tentatively. "Okay, so this is going to be—okay. I'm just going to..." It matters little that she doesn't finish; he hears when she parts her lips, and then a jolt seems to slam everything inside him to a halt when, warm and wet, her lips lightly brush against him.
Not only does his chest seem to vibrate with that strange sound again, he also moans helplessly as she repeats the motion, but she keeps her lips there now and then her fingers wrap around him with firm determination.
Hot and slick, her tongue darts out, licks along his length experimentally, and he almost dies from the strain of keeping his hands to himself. A choked-off groan is the only thing giving away the herculean effort.
Until she does it again, only this time she adds her mouth when she reaches the tip of him, presses her tongue flat as her lips adheres to the shape and then he's sinking...
There's heat—moist heat and wet pressure and friction and something that builds in his throat and finally, when he just can't any longer, is breathed roughly through gritted teeth, "Holy fuck—" It's all much too much and he's coming apart. "—stop stop stop!"
He might just die a little when she lets go; whether it's from relief or the fiery need for release, he doesn't know, but Bella's worried words break through the chaos in his mind. "What? What did I do wrong? I'm sorry, I-"
Again he's shaking his head. "I can't—I just can't stop. You're killing me."
Bella exhales, "Oh." He hears the smile in her reply. "Good." It triggers the horrible intruder within, and this time he really can't stop himself.
Jacob looks down at her, and she sucks in a shallow, shuddering breath when their eyes lock. "Don't stop—finish it." A shiver runs through them both, but she nods her compliance and licks her lips before she, once more, takes him into her mouth.
Wanting to dash to the nearest cliff and throw himself off of it, he lashes out with his arm to stop another lapse, and slams his fist into a shelf he forgot was there. There's a creaking, protesting sound as it gives way and the metallic clatter against the floor cuts sharply at his sensitive ears. Bella gives a start, but her lips never leaves him.
Nor does she stop.
Being a hormonal teenager and fantasizing often about the girl of his dreams, he knows what is about to happen when the pressure rises and the pit of his stomach clenches. But this is so much more than that, and he is convinced he is literally going to be torn apart any second now.
The sickeningly powerful tremors that threaten to break him to pieces tell him it has something to do with the very same reason behind why Bella is just about to gag if she doesn't have the sense to pull away.
He can't for the life of him talk past the choppy, wordless moaning that is all he seems capable of communicating with. She knows, though, and somehow it has the opposite effect than what he intended.
Instead of backing off, she puts in an extra added effort, sweeps her tongue over him, and that's all it takes. Not even when he tenses up or a groan sticks in his throat, does she move.
But the tearing inside halts when, with a drawn out noise ending in a choked off shout, he pulses between her lips tightly wrapped around him. She does gag a little, but she stays until he can gather enough semblance of control to touch his trembling hands to her face and stroke back the hair that sticks to her damp skin. "Bella?"
He hears her swallow a few times after she lets him go, and for a while he can't stop staring at her swollen lips.
Her eyes are wide when finally he manages to meet them, and he does so warily, still slightly ashamed as everything that has transpired hits him as if in a completely different light. "D- Did I fix it? A-are you okay?" she stutters in a hoarse whisper.
His senses are still sharp—maybe even sharper than before—and while it doesn't cause the same sickening response now, he can still smell her. That scent, mixed in with his own, sets off a strange sense of swelling satisfaction that he tries to stuff to the side, without much luck.
He runs his hands down her neck and shoulders, and then grabs her arms to pull her up to stand. She wobbles a little, but he keeps her steady.
At a loss, not only for words, but confused about what just happened, and why it suddenly just stopped, he tells her, "I... think so."
Tears well up as she searches his eyes and, whatever she finds there, it makes her lips quiver before she throws her arms around him with a sob and blubbers into his skin, "I love you—so much, and I'm so happy you're okay."
All he can do at that moment is to wrap his arms around her and hold her. Tightly.
It's not so much a struggle against an intruding and unknown source of inner turmoil that closes his throat this time, but more a deeply rooted knowing that tells him she really means it this time, the way he means it.
The reassurance makes him warm all over, and it's almost as if he were glowing, or maybe he really has lost his mind and this is some very weird and messed up place he's now stuck in.
At least he held onto her tightly enough, because she is here. If he has disappeared, then being lost with Bella Swan—a naked Bella Swan, hugging him so hard his heart might burst—isn't such a bad thing.
But then suddenly he knows it's reality, as the intruder snaps his mind back into focus. Mine, it growls.
Only when Bella sighs, "Yes," does two—and the only likely—explanations dawn on him.
One: either he has been possessed by a demon with telepathic powers. Or two: Bella Swan finally drove him over the edge.
Jacob doubts it's the first, puts all his bets on the second, but finally decides that he really couldn't give a fuck.
Author's Note: So this started out as an intended smutty drabble to be written on the basis of the prompt stated below, given by audreyii-fic. Not even a few hundred words in did I run into some major problems; how the heck do I write a blowjob from a guy's perspective? (Yes, it's written from third. So not the point.) It was a problem.
As always, the absolutely awesome MeraNaamJoker offered to help, and basically we ended up (as good as) co-authoring the thing. She provided me with constant suggestions/advice (even full paragraphs for me to pick from like a kid in a candy store) until—TA-DA—we had the finished product, which I hope y'all enjoyed thoroughly. (Especially you, audreyii-fic! Will you dare give me another prompt in the future? Ohh. I like it! Let's just say right now, so there are no surprises, that it, too, would turn into an o/s.)
I fail hard at drabbles. You could make money, betting on me not being able to keep it under 2000 words. No joke.
So, anyway. Thanks for reading. Thanks to MeraNaamJoker for your AWSUM skillz and for proofing this, and thank you, audreyii-fic for the hawt prompt.
Much love, me.
Prompt: NSFW: http:/nudes (.) soup (.) io/post/57291078/Bild (by audreyii-fic: I like the "Holy fuck–ohgodyes" feel to it.)
PS. I totally hope this had a "Holy fuck—ohgodyes" feel to it.