Fic: Singular
Title: Singular
Author: bagsandshoes
Fandom, Pairing: RPF, Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart
Rating, Word Count: PG-13/light R, 1225 words
Summary: She was a part of a they, an us, a plural.
Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own them.
Note: Written for the VMA challenge over at set_break . It’s slightly different than the lemon goodness that other people have produced. Slightly inspired by the song “Sleep” by Azure Ray, and another song called “Sleep” as well by the Dandy Warhols. Comments are greatly appreciated. *g*
Note #2: A HUGE thank you to jumatias for the beta. She makes it prettier. Really.
They could be different.
She could say no, take a step back and turn her head away from his burning desire.
He could stay in the morning, tell her he’s in too deep and that thought pleased him more than it should.
They could have been different from the beginning.
He should have left her alone instead of pushing her back against her trailer, the surprise and want in her eyes propelling him forward even as he thought nothing good could come out of this.
She always felt the choice when he looked at her, because he always sought her eyes for permission before their bodies crashed and the burn left her wondering if it was the infidelity or him that fed the fire.
They could be different, but they were a he and a she, never a they.
*
Michael and she were always an ‘us’. A plural; attached from the very first time he held her hand and she was glad she found someone she could share things with.
His support was depthless, willing to cancel projects just so he was there, to be her extension amidst the Twilight confusion. He held her hand, and she felt safe, tethered somehow to the ground. But she’s afraid her heart had fluttered away beneath calloused, guitar hands and a foreign accent. So she held on to Michael’s hand tighter, reached for him faster in front of the flashing cameras at the various events, suppressing the slight shiver of satisfaction when Rob nodded his appreciation of her legs behind Michael’s back.
She was a part of a they, an us, a plural.
*
He sometimes wondered if the guilt that he often saw in her eyes when she looked at Michael would push her to the edge, cutting either of the two strings that she’s holding on to.
She’s grasping Michael’s hands and he resists the urge to trade in his drink for something stronger, his masochistic side coming out to play in the VMA’s after party. A pretty blonde slid her number into his pocket, tapping his ass once, and it was surprisingly easy for his masochistic side to ignore the advance and brush away Cam’s suggestion of taking a few of the girls home.
“What’s wrong, Spunk?”
“I don’t trust where they’ve been,” he answered.
Cam just shook his head and said, “We’re not in Portland no more man, time to enjoy the fruit of our labor.”
Robert just shook his head in veiled amusement, but when she caught his eyes an hour later, he mused that he has tasted the forbidden apple, and he was addicted to its taste.
*
He told her one time, a week before they moved to Portland and a day after he met Michael, just how mature she was for her age.
“Are you sure you’re seventeen?”
“Nearly 18,” she reminded him. And she felt strangely her age, her face warm, pleased that an older boy noticed her.
He confessed to her after their third bottle of wine, how he missed his mother - the one woman he truly cared for.
“Don’t you have, I don’t know, a girlfriend?”
“Not all of us are lucky like that, Kris. Some people come in one packet, you know, two peas fitting nicely into one box. But some of us are one-item only type of people.”
“So you’re what? A hermaphrodite Ken?”
He burst into a fit of giggles and slid down from her sofa to the floor, knocking a bottle in the process, and beneath her own laughter, Kristen wondered if he truly believed that he would always be a one, a finite number.
*
She told him she was leaving with Nikki, not Michael.
He told Cam he wasn’t in the mood and called his car to pick him up.
He used the spare key underneath the green ceramic pot to enter her kitchen. He was early, and doubt began to creep in. Maybe he was so desperate, so addicted to her that he had imagined the slight smirk on her smile, the miniscule tilt of her hip. Maybe she was off somewhere with Nikki, and he felt momentarily foolish standing in the dim light of her kitchen.
The front door opened, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He smiled when the sound of her slippers padded towards the kitchen instead of her discarded heels. She smirked when she saw him leaning against her kitchen counter, and he felt the silence grow quieter underneath the beating of his heart.
He still looked at her with burning desire, and she still didn’t turn around like she should. She didn’t really know if she could.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and vest, eyes trained on her legs, impossibly long and pale in the crescent moonlight. He approached her, do you want this? ringing in the air. She licked her lips in anticipation, and he lifted her up, placing her on the island. He brushed her hair back, cupping her face, and in the dim lighting, the forbidden joined the shadows and she was all he could see.
It was so easy, too easy, to fall for his handsome face. She traced his lips with her fingers, ridged and soft and hers if she wanted. She knew the look, the color change in the fire behind his eyes, the deep affection that’s growing with each clandestine encounter. It should scare her, hell maybe that should send her running, cut off this unspoken arrangement between them. But then he kissed her, and someone had told her that everything looks different in the morning light, so she decided to wait until he stays.
He kissed her slowly, gently pushing away the guilt that hovered too close to the surface. She opened her mouth, but he wanted to savor the moment, wanted to remind her that he’s patient, the only virtue in their fucked up relationship. The pores on her upper thigh reacted to his touch, the short gray dress hiding the bare essentials. He didn’t even think she was wearing any underwear, and when his hands reached up to her hips, they were rewarded with bare skin. He approved by lifting his tongue slightly against hers, the delicate slippery feel of their connection humming through their bodies.
Wrapping her legs and arms around his waist and neck respectively, she pulled him closer. She felt the hard on against her center, and felt him twitch beneath his pants. She ran her hands down his chest, her legs locking him tighter, pressing him to her, telling him to stay.
He shed his pants when she moved against him like that, all warm and ready and his. She always held on to him when he pushed inside her, like she didn’t want to float away in the bliss alone, and he wanted nothing more than to be the string that held her.
She liked being an us, a part of a they.
But she couldn’t ignore the different feeling of being a one. Singular in the way his body encompassed hers.
He said that some people are meant to only be a one-item box.
She was a we, a they.
He was a singular noun. And somewhere along the way, she realized that their unnamed it was a far more intimate one than a two.
Together, he and she were one.