Beautiful (When You Come) – A OneShot for Betti

This OneShot is dedicated to the wonderful and talented Betti Gefecht who made the loveliest banner for my fanfiction "Vampir de Sade"

www . fanfiktion . de /s/ 4f077c430001b6d706705dc0 (Yes, I'm already working on a translation! ;-)

Thank you so much Betti!

You NEED to check out Bettis sensual song "Beautiful (when you come)" which is what I had in mind when I wrote this OS!

audiofiction . blogspot . de/2011/02/ beautiful – when – you – come . html (remove spaces ;-)

(Music and lyrics by Betti Gefecht. Performed by Betti. Produced by Betti on her brave Macbook.) - Couldn't resist copying that one! ;-)



Now let's see what Ulli came up with, shall we?

My gaze roams the dimly lit space, looking for the same thing as every week.

I'm sitting here, sipping my beer, waiting for her to show up. I'm nervous, starting to think she won't come. But that same thought crosses my mind every week. I always fear she won't be here. My stomach is in knots until I see her entering the bar. And from then on it gets rough...

I'm nervous as hell, as soon as I see her face. Her beautiful face. I do nothing but stare at her in awe. And as always she doesn't even see me.

I need her to realize I'm here, that I exist.

I need her to really see me.

I need her to fall for me, the way I fell for her when I first heard her lovely voice.

I need her to love me for all eternity.

I need her!

And yet, here I am. Hiding in a corner, not far from the stage. And being the coward that I am, I can't just walk over and talk to her. Whenever I try, my body betrays me. My palms become sweaty, my heart rate picks up until I fear it will propel out of my chest. My feet won't move. Not even one step closer to her. I can't help it, but I'm a fucking mess whenever she's around.

The only thing that calms me is her rich, soft voice. I close my eyes and the world around me doesn't matter anymore. It simply ceases to exist. All I see is her beautiful face which seems to be engraved on the inside of my eye lids. All I hear is her voice. Her words come to me and I feel like I can finally breathe again, relaxing in my chair, eyes still closed, I let her voice take me to places I've never been before.

But all too soon the performance is over and she leaves the stage. When she comes out of the wardrobe, casually dressed in jeans, a plain shirt and her old, worn-out chucks, my heart stutters even more.

I love the dresses she wears on stage. These outfits are a perfect mixture of sex and… innocence…

Does that even make sense? In my head it does.

She is sexy but never in a cheap way. She oozes glamour and confidence and strength when she is up there, singing her heart out.

But when she leaves in her very normal attire she looks like an angel. A fallen angel, bound to wander the earth and bring happiness to me. Someone much closer to my cowardly human self, but still just out of reach.

I wish I could just talk to her like any normal person would. Hell, I wish I could even look at her like any normal person would. But whenever our eyes meet, I look away immediately, unable to keep my shit together under her scrutinizing gaze. But I'm almost positive that by now she realizes I keep coming back for more.

For the last two months I never missed a single performance. I've been following her around like a damn stalker. Ever since I saw her on campus a couple of weeks ago I try to be as close to her as possible. I would probably laugh at myself if I weren't so fucking pathetic.

I've never been that much of a shy nerd and I've never been afraid to talk to a girl before.

It is all her doing. She has my mind reeling and my body disobeying my mental orders whenever she's near. So I keep watching her from afar.

Although I tried to be subtle about my new obsession, I sometimes think that she knows. I sometimes think she sees me hanging around wherever she is.

I even managed to attend one of her classes. Had to bribe some zit-faced first-semester to leave that class, so I could get assigned his place in the already full seminar. I still don't know what the hell came over me when I even paid for this torture.

Creative Writing. Advanced Creative Writing no less! Ugh…

The only way for me to be creative in any sense has always been my music. I'd sit on my piano bench for hours letting my fingers play the tunes that flow through my head. So yes, I am a creative person.

But when it comes to the other fine arts I'm pretty useless. Let me draw a picture and all I can come up with are stick figures. My art teacher in high school encouraged me to try to express myself and my thoughts by simply using colors, not thinking about what I draw, but even then the stick figures miraculously appeared on my canvas. In the end Mrs. Connelly had given me an undeserved C- for my efforts.

And writing…

Well, I can write! I can write an assignment on economics in no time. It took me a day and a half to write a 30 page essay on the life of my favourite composer. Got a straight A on that one, thanks to Mr. Debussy!

I can write birthday cards, I can write cheques, I can write eMails, I can write sheet music so complex, my Prof needs a whole week to figure out how to play it.

Hell, I can even write my name in the snow, in bright yellow!

But creative writing… It almost killed me!

They say a good education can get you anywhere and I finally figured they were right. That class almost got me signing up for a nice and cosy place in some loony bin.

And yet I always come back for more. No matter how embarrassed I am by my own incompetence, a part of me even enjoys the time I get to spend in that room which is usually filled with words and sentences that just don't make sense to me. And it's all because she is there!

Pathetic, I know, but she seems to really enjoy it and I enjoy being close to her for another hour each week. I'm staying in my personal hell because it is where she is.

So I try to make the most of my time with her, although I do nothing but admire her from afar. Up until now I've never said a single word to her. Never spoken to her, let alone had a whole conversation with her.

It seems like I am turning into a complete mute whenever she is around and as time goes by I mentally beat myself up after every wasted opportunity to even introduce myself.

Another two weeks into this fucking class, the Prof gives us an assignment that he thinks we might really enjoy.

Oh, happy me!

Nausea grips me and won't let go at the thought of him reading any of my wimpy attempts at writing something original. Something creative.

It's supposed to be the lyrics to a song. Only the music is missing.

So we're all by ourselves.

He says our song has to convey a personal desire. Something we want so bad it hurts. He wants a peek into our heads. He wants us to reveal our true selves, to bare our souls.

I don't know what he expects from me.

It feels like the only thing I ever wanted was her! The only craving I have is her! But I can't write that, can I?

This whole Creative Writing class is the worst idea I ever had. I even asked my sister Alice if she could write something for me but she just laughed at me, exclaiming that I'd "made my bed and should now lay in it".


She's just pissed cause I won't tell her why I signed up for this class. She's suspecting ulterior motives but I'd never own up to being that silly.

So now I'm on my own again. I have one day left to "bare my soul and reveal my true self".

Who thought this would be so tough?

I sit at my desk for hours, staring at the blank piece of paper that seems to mock me. Around midnight I'm desperate.

All I can think of is her when I try to come up with a desire of mine.

So I give in.

Prof Banner wants a peek and a peek is what he gets.

I close my eyes for a moment and I think of her.

Images pop up in my head.

Breathy words come to me.

I can hear them in my head.

Moaning, caressing, whispering.

A slim body calling out for me.

Soft skin, gentle hands.

Touching. Kissing, Biting.

Throbbing need.

Lips, pelvises, tingling skin.

Wet heat.




I open my eyes for a moment, writing down whatever crosses my mind.

What I want.

What I need.

What I crave more than anything else on this fucking planet.

A couple of minutes later I find myself naked and wet… in my shower. Washing away the remains of my desire.

With a shaking hand I put my sheet of paper on Prof Banners desk the next day. I've added a piece of sheet music to my text and stated that it isn't a song unless there's music to it. A bold move from my side but I feel I don't care anymore.

I've come to an agreement with myself.

Even the most beautiful woman on the planet is not worth the terror this assignment has brought onto me. If he doesn't approve of my attempt at being creative I'll give up. I won't come back here, although I'm surely gonna miss her presence.

The week passes in a blur and I am man enough to own up to my defeat. My head held high I walk into class only to find the room empty. There's a note on the blackboard stating that Prof Banner has called in sick and all of his classes are cancelled.

Now that's just my luck! Another week of doubt and pure anxiety ahead of me.

I think I might throw up next time I enter this room.

Saturday comes around and I get ready for another night at the bar. It's crowded tonight and I can make out a couple of new faces. Well, new to the bar but not new to me. A bunch of students from my ACW class is here tonight. I give them a nod but obtain my usual seat.

Close to the tiny stage, where she will be singing in less than 30 minutes.

A beer in hand I wait patiently. And I'm rewarded.

She is stunning! Simply breathtaking when she enters the stage. A black dress hugs her body in all the right places, showing off her delicious curves. As soon as I lay eyes on her I'm sporting massive wood inside my suddenly too tight jeans. Is it hot in here? I swear I can feel the heat radiating from where she's standing.

I shift in my seat, waiting impatiently for her to sing my distress away.

And she does.

As always her voice calms me, gives me time to breathe, takes me to a happy place inside myself. With my eyes closed I sit and take in every word she sings, every breath she takes, every note her wonderful voice spreads out for me.

I know her songs by heart but the intensity of her voice, the feelings she stirs in me hit me off my feet every single time I listen. All too soon she announces the last song of the night.

It's a new song she wants to sing for us and I'm dying to hear it, to know what she came up with this time. The Creative Writing bunch is cheering and catcalling and for a second I'm distracted enough to take my eyes off her and stare at them.I wonder what is wrong with them.

But soon enough the band starts playing in a slow rhythm.

A soft melody that allures me, has me struggling to find that peace of mind, her songs usually give me.

audiofiction . blogspot . de/2011/02/ beautiful – when – you – come . html (remove spaces ;-)

The first words she sings hit me like a ton of bricks.

So familiar.

So true.

So mine!

My eyes fly open searching for her small frame on that stage.

There she is, standing in the dark, holding on to the microphone.

She looks at me. Never averts her gaze.

And all the while she sings my desire. My need for her is coming from her lips like she's never done anything else in her life.

Her voice is rough and caressing. Fire and passion.

Never have my words sounded better than now, when they come from her full, red lips, formed by her tongue.

And then it hits me.

She knows! She knows this desire, this need and this desperation.

I can't help but wonder who she is longing for…

Could it be…?

Her eyes bore into mine and for the first time in weeks I feel alive, like I could actually be able to talk to her, to ask her out, to be bold enough to take her hand and maybe even taste my words on her lips.

I get up from my seat.

Tired of staying away from her, I climb the stage.

Three more steps and I'm right by her side. Facing her, afraid to look away. Her eyes still on mine. There's a fire in her chocolate brown depths that equals my own.

By the time she finishes the song, my song, my breathing is ragged. Just like hers.

She steps closer.

Her small hand is so soft on my cheek.

She smiles at me before her lips touch mine.

And it's in this moment that I know:

My desire was hers all along.




Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing but a couple of words up there.

The song "Beatiful (when you come)" belongs to Betti Gefecht and if you haven't checked it out by now… well… YOUR LOSS, not mine! ;-)