Gently Through This Broken Sky (R/K) Fic
Title: Gently Through This Broken Sky
Author: shadow_walker3
Pairing: Kristen Stewart/Robert Pattinson rpf (written in KPOV)
Rating: I believe I’m incapable of writing anything less than R or NC-17, so this is no exception, but I’m incapable of also writing porn without plot (just ask my friends). One day though…I’ll succeed.
Warnings: Other than the above, I can’t really think of any…unless you have a really weak stomach.
Summary: I will preface all summaries by saying that I enjoy injured men. I have since I was about eight years old. I cannot explain, nor do I promote the injuring of men; however, there will be no complaint from me if they are. For some reason, I find them hotter when injured. I believe it to be some sort of Florence Nightingale complex, where the need to then take care of them takes over and…I have no idea - they’re just hotter, ok? So to get to the actual summary, which is longer now than it should be, I finally just asked my friend/beta/lover/wife/hetero-life partner, Kaia what the hell the summary should be and she said: “It’s a story about how a plane crash brings people together (she doesn’t write for Hallmark, I swear), like a bat mitzvah, but less fun - with less dancing and relatives and food and more snow and possible death and crash landings.”
Timeframe: Right after the MTV Movie Awards 2009
Chapter 33 of ? who the hell knows by the time I’m done.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor am I profiting in any way besides my torrid fantasies. And I really didn't think I'd ever write anything of this nature again after the last epic I attempted, so...we'll see. LOL
SO! This is Rob's first POV. In general, when Rob has a POV chapter, it's the end of an arc in the story. He sort of ties things up, so this is the first of those. So he jumps a bit back in time, as his POV really started at the very beginning of when they get home and moves close to where it left off with Kristen. He overlaps though, so where he ends is not necessarily right up to where the last chapter did. Hope you enjoy the first look into the mind of Mr. Pattinson. :P
Chapter 33: Scenes from a Couch
I find myself in a very odd position. Which is not to say that I haven’t been in a series of odd positions since I agreed to take on Twilight. I find myself the Mecca of a blending of two families, with no fucking clue how I got here. Which is a lot like how Twilight happened actually, so I suppose it’s getting to be common for me. That seemed to turn out all right, all things considered. The spotlight it’s shone on the entire cast is an opportunity beyond all imagination and it brought me to her, so maybe I should just keep riding the wave and see where it takes me.
I don’t question why the plane crashed. It was shitty maintenance or whatever. Things happen. I don’t consider myself to be above or below the normal everyday fate that befalls all people. I haven’t fallen to my knees to rail at the injustice of the Almighty’s ‘grand plan.’ I couldn’t get up from my knees right now anyway, so it’s best not to try, I think. Plus, if the movie business teaches you anything, it’s that if you bend over, it’s too hard to stand up straight again.
Things have been a blur of incredible confusion. My family has always been supportive, and they’re basically bound by law to do something with my annoying ass, so that’s not really confusing to me. What I don’t understand is her. She cares about me, that much I know. I know that she said she loved me on the plane, and after as well, but there’s just this nagging freight train that keeps barreling towards me all the time, blowing its really fucking annoyingly loud whistle in my head and constantly chugging out the question: ‘Is it love and affection, or is it guilt and boundless determined obligation?’ Love or obligation. Love. Obligation. LoveObligation. Is there a difference? Does it matter? Do I care? Obviously, since it’s driving me literally insane. If it’s love, I have nothing to worry about. If it’s obligation, she’s here for the wrong reason. My biggest fear is that she’ll regret this in a year, two years, five years, come to her senses and wonder what the fuck she thought she was doing with an idiot like me. And not be able to come up with an appropriate answer that makes any sense to her, and I’d be forced to stand there and watch her leave when I couldn’t answer it for her, either.
I think about what this might be doing to her. If it’s healthy. If it’s wise. I love her. I want her to be happy. I want to make her happy. I don’t know how that happens in this particular scenario.
She thinks I’m a terrible liar. Maybe that’s true, maybe I have a problem with dishonesty. I value honesty from other people, so I think it’s only fair to purport that as well. We don’t live in a world where honesty is important anymore. We live in a world that’s full of lies - small, tiny white lies and huge, universe-altering lies. Most people are hard-pressed to tell the truth when you ask them a simple question. I learned a long time ago that the more you lie, the less of yourself you are. The more you lie, the more you start believing the lies, and pretty soon, you don’t know what the real truth is anymore; the lie becomes fact, and that’s an extremely dangerous place to be. I think it’s less that I’m a terrible liar and more that I don’t want to lie to her. Or to anyone. I don’t want to lie. So my first instinct is to just be truthful, which has its own downsides.
I don’t lie…that doesn’t mean I’m full disclosure, either. What no one asks, I don’t have to answer or offer.
This whole thing has kind of felt like being unemployed again; only this hurts more and there’s less rain here.
Being under the influence of a controlled substance for a long duration of time was not as fun as I might have once imagined. I won’t lie and say I’ve never participated in illicit drugs, and I may be an idiot, but I’m not that much of an idiot; messing around with anything other than weed is just…not a good idea. The pain medication in the hospital was wonderful. It was like a continuous, steady hum that kept the pain at bay. It was odd - like I knew the pain was there, but the drugs created a safe, little cocoon around the pain - like it absorbed the pain into its all-encompassing alleviation. Then they take those away and it’s like the little cocoon of alleviated pain shatters and spreads so that it feels like even your hair hurts, or your fingernails. It’s disconcerting and exhausting. And the pills are seriously for shit. That could be in the grand scope of things because I constantly puke them up, but even when they managed to stay down, none of them provided the same type of comfort like the continuous hospital hum. Each of the pills only shelved a portion or specific pain it seemed - one killed the shoulder pain, but left largely everything else. One made it feel like my head was entirely stuffed with cotton balls, but did nothing for the actual hurt. Another made the rib pain ease, but left me feeling a level of high even I wasn’t comfortable with. True euphoric highs, or at least weed-related highs, the good shit, just made everything even and calm; it made everything level out. This stuff made weed seem like acid on LSD; like acid…only doubled. It was just…bad. The only thing that ever truly worked or reproduced the same continuous level of peace and calm was the morphine. Which made sense, because it was the largest drug in the plethora of shit I got at the hospital. But that wasn’t a drug to mess with, either - and I didn’t need an addiction on top of everything else, so it was used as sparingly as possible, only in emergency situations where I literally could not take any more pain.
The pain itself is kind of like a cancer, spreading its evil wings all over anything that would allow glomming. And like cancer, it’s not picky - it’s happy making anything hurt in its path, and it did. It usually just reached a point where giving in was easier - fighting it too long took too much energy, and that was in short supply as it was.
What sucked most was that managing that level meant retreating inside my head, which can always be a good or bad place to be. It just promotes more thinking, and more thinking makes me question, and questioning more just leads to more questions. It’s a vicious cycle and I can get myself monumentally confused or fucked up really easily. And then even questioning what you know to be true is plausible, just to have something else to think about to keep your mind off the pain.
I thought about writing a lot. I thought of script ideas, screenplays, and I was fairly certain I’d mapped out an entire movie in my head one day, but the pain would inch in then and force it away. Which sucked - I really should have written it down when I was thinking about it because there was no way I’d ever get it back. I think taking up writing while trying to retreat into my head would have been healthier and more cathartic. I mean, I could have written nothing but how much the situation sucked, it wouldn’t have mattered, because without it, all the thinking just stays there, nothing gets poured out, there’s no outlet that lets the random, inane, or really important, pivotal shit out. Creative losses like script ideas aside, there were times when insanity might have been in progress. Because I’m overly analytical by nature - curious and inquisitive, but take nothing at face value and try to find the inner meaning or the ‘why’ of something, regardless if it’s really there or not. And you start to wonder and question some weird shit. And some I didn’t want to overanalyze. Some I just wanted to have, or to just accept, but boredom, pain and necessity made me do something else, so everything was scrutinized in a way I might not have otherwise done at all.
Kristen was already dealing with so much that I didn’t really think it was fair to unload this on her, too, and really, everyone else besides Tom would have had me committed. Tom was the only other person in the world that ever related to me on the same level like Kristen - where it wasn’t completely weird for me to question something that was normally unquestioned, or to randomly ask them about something that was outrageous. Sometimes talking wasn’t an option, either - it was hard enough to just stay quiet, stay still - the level of concentration needed to not continuously cry out or shout or otherwise express the pain, to keep my body in a semi-restful state without giving too much away was completely consuming. There were times I lost whole hours, or a few times where I lost complete days, where I had no recollection of any events at all. And telling Kristen that would have been cruel. Telling her that nothing even remotely medicinal was working at all would have just defeated her. Because she tried so hard to help, just sitting there day after day. Sometimes, her talking could make me focus long enough to get lost in that instead - just having the cadence of her voice, concentrating on the pitch, something small and insignificant like counting all the times she said ‘shit’ in a ten minute period, or the way she said all the words with the letter ‘s’ in them - sometimes that’d be enough. When she got to the point of physical contact - holding me - that made it easier. And she must have known because, eventually, she started doing it more. Like I could mentally or physically transfer some of the weight of the control over everything onto her without her really knowing (or totally knowing) and not burdening her with other bullshit.
Sex. Like a big topic heading in a textbook. It’s like its own continent of thought. Sex with her is like…there’s nothing in my vocabulary to describe it. From a purely physical side, in relation to the pain, it was completely liberating. She will never know or understand just how much one orgasm can take away, just how much a few muscle movements or a touch could completely be the difference between a shitty or ok day. There’s no way she could conceptualize that. Her hands are like pure bliss, like hell’s last drop of water - completely capable of destruction or redemption in the same package, and such a small package at that. Once sex was in the picture, that could thankfully take up large amounts of my thinking time. It was a wonder that I wasn’t hard 24/7. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her hands on my face, the way that one hand always seemed to drift to my ribs, like she could hold them up or together and do the same with me. The truth was, she could. That’s what it felt like anyway.
She’s a combination of so many things. In some ways, a contradiction, but not really - there’s two sides to everything, a balance inside her. She’s alternately brash and gentle, bitchy and adoring, tough and emotional. But she’s never been contradictory when it comes to proving she loves me. Once I was it, that’s all there was. Just me. There was no wavering, no change in feelings or desires or wants. She loved me unconditionally, and I’ve been hers since the moment I laid eyes on her.
It’s hard for me to believe that she loves me. It’s always been hard to rationalize, no matter how much I wanted her from day one. And to commit to this willingly, with no baggage or attached guilt from obligation, was a hard thing for me to understand.
But when she makes her mind up, she’s in it until the wheels fall off.
Sex has always meant so much more, too - I feel like I won the lottery or something - there’s no other way someone that amazing would ever agree to be with an idiot like me.
So this is the inherent problem with having too much time to think - when you already have an overactive brain. Elbert Hubbard said that “pain is deeper than all thought; laughter is higher than all pain.” I dunno much about the laughter part - there wasn’t a lot of that in the beginning, and later, laughing hurt, too, so…yeah. I think the pain was deeper than the thought, though, because no matter how far I retreated, no matter how far I lost myself in Kristen, it was still there, and I tried to at least be somewhat coherent when something might have been asked of me. It bothers me that much of the first part I couldn’t be anything for Kristen but there. And ‘there’ only in the sense of presence, not necessarily in mind. And if she needed something, I wasn’t able to provide it. I remember reading once, too, that one often learns more from ten days of agony than ten years of contentment.
This is what I know - I should have learned a whole lot more than I think I did based on the first part of that idea.
I also managed to have both agony and contentment at once, because no matter how bad it got I had her, and that was worth all the pain in the world.
I know that life-altering events are supposed to change your perspective, or hand you some new profound meaning that wasn’t there before, but maybe it was more the catalyst so we could find the meaning together.
I’ve never had someone in my life like her - no one before that I could depend on. Not in a significant other or girlfriend or whatever. My friends are dependable, and I know they’d be there for me if I really asked, and my family, of course, but that’s not the same. Those are the people who you’re intrinsically supposed to be able to count on - the ones who are, in a sense, forced to allow you to count on them by genetics or default. But I’ve never felt like it wasn’t just me in a situation, or that it wasn’t still just me plus one who really didn’t care enough about me anyway. This is different. Call it whatever you want, love, devotion, I don’t have a long list of terms. I know I love her. Whatever the term, I don’t ask for a whole lot, but she’s never turned me down when I do, and she’s never been too busy or too self-absorbed to just stop and focus on me for a while. She’s the only person in my entire life who has willingly done shit for me just…because.
Things were bad a few days ago. And it’s not like we don’t know that about each other - there are times I think I know her or her reactions better than I know my own. So, she already knew shit was up with me, but she never (or rarely) forces the issue, either, knowing that it will just push me farther away. She’s the same way - we just wait for the other person to come around and explain or express what’s happening. So, she already knew, but hadn’t asked. And it was one of the times that it was bad enough that I was seriously losing touch with that hold on reality. Usually I can retreat to a place that far enough removed from the pain, but its underlying reality doesn’t slip because, in an odd way, the dull current of the pain is continuous - oddly comforting in a really fucked up way, because, hey, at least it’s consistent, dependable. It was to the point when everything hurt and was being swallowed completely - my head hurt so bad that my vision was starting to white out, the thoughts wouldn’t stop; like they were trying to outpace the pain and I couldn’t force them to recalibrate or shut off. It was just out of my control. And I actually couldn’t really do anything to ask - there were no words to say, nothing that I could articulate that would be anything less than pure, agonized screaming.
She was good with visual cues - like she studied mine or something - and she must have been picking up on them without me really knowing, most likely because I was to the point where I didn’t even know they were happening; breathing, jerking, whimpering, I’m beyond caring what they manifest as when it gets like this. She doesn’t care, and I can’t worry about it. Besides, she’s told me before they don’t always follow the same pattern, they happen differently, but she can always tell. Who knows? I don’t question that stuff when she’s right.
She’s capable of calming the most violent and tumultuous storms inside me, mental or physical, with just a touch, a word, a kiss - like some goddamn life preserver thrown out to a drowning man. She’s my preserver. And I was drowning - badly.
She’s not always patient. She’s not always gentle. She can be a real pain in the ass. She lacks understanding when the topic is sometimes really fucking important. I know all the ways her body manifests nervousness or fear, and when I see them, I really try not to add to that. At the beginning, when things started and everything either led to puking or torment, I would simply shut off. Which I think made her insanely angry and remorseful because she knew I was doing it as a reaction to her. In turn, that only led to more frustration and it was a rather tense environment sometimes. My point to all this is that she’s not perfect, and I know this. She drives me absolutely fucking nuts sometimes. She gives me the bitch-face numerous times a day. But she’s there. That’s the key. She may be an impatient, tough, uncompromising, exasperating irritant. But she’s there. She’s always there.
Alternately, there’s a completely different side that she refuses to show the world on a consistent basis. She can be the most gentle, understanding, and patient person when things don’t abate on a good timetable. I mean, really, despite my attempts to reduce her responsibility in regards to my recovery, the girl is unbelievably devoted. And I feel incredibly lucky, and guilty, and selfish, when she spends six hours trying to get my mind to calm down to the same steady beat she can get my body to in five minutes. Her touch is like a light switch - completely capable of turning me on or turning physical torment off. My mind isn’t so easily appeased. So, she’ll argue with me for hours about something she doesn’t even remotely care about because she knows I need it and my head will just continue to the point of implosion without it. She’ll sit with me while a headache drives ice picks into my skull through my eye, providing pressure, or heat, or cold, or background noise, and she won’t bitch about it. She’ll sneak herself between me and the couch and just hang onto me when it feels like nothing can possibly be right in the universe and my heart is just going to rip its way out of my chest. She’ll touch my face or grab my hand or startle me back into reality because she can. Because she knows she’s capable and it works.
I don’t think I’ve ever needed someone as much as I do her. And the rub, the thing that just blows my mind, is that she insists she feels the same way, that she needs me, too. Me. The idiot rambling foolishly in the corner. No one has ever needed me like that before either. I suspect she really doesn’t, she’s strong enough on her own, but she maintains that I provide the same security and presence that she does for me. And…that’s nice. Completely terrifying too, but not in a bad way. It’s nice to feel needed, like you have a purpose beyond just yourself - to know that other person so well and take on part of the responsibility for them, that you’re integral, you mean something.
However, I’m also the type of person who needs control, you know? Not about everything, because that’s not realistic, but in terms of my work and the aspects of my life that I can control. That said, I haven’t had a problem with Kristen telling me exactly what to do. Probably mostly because I had no concept of what the fuck to do anyway, and in a way, that was kind of scary, willingly giving her that much. And I’m not sure she realizes that. That I had to just give that up, give up all control to her. I think she has this conception that I was lost or floundering, and in some ways I was, because there is no way you have a path or direction or focus when your entire world is reduced to constant pain and one small couch. But to just willingly let her lead my entire life, indefinitely, in literally every aspect, she has no idea the amount of trust I placed in her. And what complete and total utter destruction she could have wreaked. Because I would have let her.
So this chunk of time a few days ago when I was completely just…fucking lost in everything, caged to the physical existence of the couch and imprisoned in my mind with no possibility of a foreseeable parole, she, thankfully, picked up on my total lack of ability to function quite early on. And I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t verbally communicate that oblivion was necessary or wailing weeping and sob-filled lament was going to occur - which would only make it hurt more. She says sometimes she can just see it on my face - that it’s not necessarily anything my body is physically cueing her to know, it’s just when I look back at her, she knows it’s there. I must have looked like shit that morning, because I remember through the tunneling vision that she let out an audible inhale and was sitting by me the next second, moving entirely too fast for my overtaxed brain to process accurately.
I remember her asking me a bunch of shit, only half the words of which I was actually getting and none of it was actually sticking with me at all. It’s incredibly frustrating. Because I know she’s scared, and while I’m, sadly, kind of used to it, there’s no physical way for me to express that I’ll be ok and that she doesn’t need to be scared. But she didn’t need words or responses from me. She knew I couldn’t process what she was saying or respond in any coherent way. So she just lets instinct take over, I think. And she pulled me out - she always pulls me out. Whether it’s words or contact, or argument, or simply sharing the same space, or sex, she always pulls me out.
Sex has become sort of a two-fold experience. It’s still purely recreational and fun, but it’s morphed into some sort of therapy as well. And it’s genius because I don’t think there’s literally anything else that would be as intimate as that. So, sex always seems to mean more, even when it’s just fun and recreational. Because somewhere along the line, it wasn’t just about me or her, it was about us, it was about fixing whatever needed to be fixed, but just being us, together, too.
The longer we’ve been together now, and the more sexual encounters we participate in, like I said, the more that’s become a blessedly happy way to spend my thinking time. And it could help me occupy countless hours that would have been spent otherwise thinking entirely too philosophically, or wallowing in the shitty situation I found myself in. She wore this fragrance every now and then. It was hard to describe, but it was some form of vanilla. She told me what it was called, of course, and when I’m actually capable of coherency, I’ll ask again and buy her a truckload. It wasn’t the vanilla you find in candles, and it wasn’t mixed with any flowery scent or fruity scent, either. It was a professional fragrance - something you wouldn’t think a teenager would go for. But, fuck, was it the best smelling perfume I’d ever come across. When she was wearing it, I could have spent a whole day just happily inhaling the wafting aroma. And actually, I did. Because, coincidentally, a lot of those days were the ones she spent holding me on the couch and trying to make all the shit go away. Perhaps that wasn’t so coincidental. It became both intensely arousing to smell it, and completely comforting at the same time. Which was a perfect metaphor for the wearer herself because she had the capacity to be both at the same time. And it was like she strategically placed the scent all the places I’d be able to smell. Her neck was always a wonderful place to get lost in, breathing it in while her hands fluttered and fussed over various parts of me. And all I had to do was tilt my head up and back and that scent would overwhelm anything else. Her clothing often carried the scent, too, so if I were dozing on the couch or something, I would get a hit of the scent almost before she was physically there. It never failed to make me smile. Her wrists were similarly marked with the scent, which was awesome as her hands were often in my hair, at my face, on my chest, all excellent markers for allowing me to partake of the wonderful bouquet. What was perhaps the best part was even after she’d gone, or I was left alone to my own devices for a while, the fragrance stayed around me then, like she’d transferred it from herself and left it on me, scent-marked me as well. Those were usually good mornings, good afternoons, good nights, because whether she was with me physically or not, it felt like she was, and if I wanted to, I could feel her phantom hands wherever I wanted them, wherever they ghosted themselves, like a gossamer version of herself.
I sound like Edward fucking Cullen - with all the bouquet talk and shit - I might as well just go ahead and add that she’s like a drug to me, my own personal brand of heroin, ‘cause all that shit’s true anyway.
So, the sex. Funny, you’d think that’d be the first thing I’d blurt out. I digress a lot into other specifics, but the fragrance stuff was really sex-related, because she’d frequently be wearing that scent when we were having sex. And like I said, the minute I was able, I was going to have a truckload delivered here. What can I possibly say that would explain what sex with her feels like? She looks like some sort of supernatural being when she’s on top of me, when I’m moving inside her. Her hair is usually framing her face, sometimes falling forward, and she never fails to provide just exactly what I need, whether I know what that is or not. I just trust that she’ll get me there, and she hasn’t given me a reason to ever doubt that. Her movements are like art, like she’s performing some sort of dance, her limbs move in a rhythm with me, her features relaxed and content.
I haven’t found an equal yet to waking up with her asleep on my chest, her warm weight distributed over my body, pressing into all the right places like she’d planned out a course of lying action. And knowing her, she probably had. The perfect place that would provide warmth and comfort and alleviation. The only thing better than that is waking up still inside her, sheathed in an unbelievable amount of fiery heat, her muscles tight and holding me to her, like she didn’t want me to leave any more than I wanted to go.
That first time she basically backed herself right up to me and bared every womanly part of her that there was to behold, she really should have been able to see my face. I’m sure my expression would have amused her endlessly. Because first, I was so fucking confused. I didn’t know where we stood, what the fuck was going on, or how much of her I was entitled to have because we really never discussed that. It was like we bounced around and just talked that out later. And I mean, it was quite obvious to me what she was offering, and it nearly made me cry, but I was far too in shock to actually have the emotions come forth in that way. So there she is, offering herself to me, her sex wet and glistening in the soft light, and knowing that some of that was mine and that this was the one place I always felt safe and completely at peace. Shit. She has no idea what she gave me that night. Even if I was still utterly confused, she’d offered herself to me in a way she hadn’t before, conceding that she was willing to let me see and touch as well as take comfort there, baring her enticingly feminine wiles and giving me permission to have this part of her, too. The smell of her arousal, heady and rich, the radiating heat from her pink flesh, and fucking hell, the taste of her, tangy and spicy yet sweet. The way she tightened on my fingers when I started to explore her, clenching and fluttering her muscles as I familiarized myself with every contour inside her, while the entire time she was either stroking or sucking on my dick - it's a wonder I could accomplish anything at all.
And, Jesus Christ, the sounds she makes. Her moans that night made my dick ache with longing. Made me want to force those sounds out of her every goddamn day. I couldn’t get enough of her - couldn’t taste or touch enough no matter how many times my tongue ran around and over her folds or my lips sucked her into my mouth, no matter how many fingers I had inside massaging her, or how many times any combination of my mouth and hands on her clit made her moan. She was absolutely breathtaking, delicious and responsive, groaning around my cock while shoving herself back on my mouth. I think there were times she didn’t know which way to go - to pull away from me or press for more, but I refused to take my mouth off of her, holding her to me, not allowing her any reprieve. I couldn’t - I didn’t want to stop, so it’s a good thing she didn’t ask me to - I don’t think I would have, honestly. She makes me crazy that way. Animated and roused with need for her - like a complete invigoration of myself. And it’s not necessarily anything she does - she doesn’t do ‘alluring’ very often - she doesn’t need to, she’s plenty sexy just being normal. And yeah, backing herself up naked to me was a sure proposal, an invitation, but it was completely normal, too - she didn’t throw me any appealing looks over her shoulder, there was no anticipatory eyebrow raise, she was just natural - able to fascinate and captivate me, enchant and hypnotize me with her normal self - which was a thousand times sexier.
Her pussy mesmerizes me. It’s completely fascinating. Beguiling and enrapturing my attention - I mean, obviously, but because it’s the most feminine part of her, arguable the softest, the warmest. She’s got a tough exterior a lot of times. She rocks any dress she wears, of course, but outwardly, she’s tougher than she is dainty. She outwardly seems brash and full of attitude, but with me, with herself bared to me in every possible way, she’s nothing less than delicate, elegant, petite and savory, precious. It’s an odd juxtaposition, to want to completely ravish and devour someone while still feeling intrinsically protective and so fucking lucky that she cared enough to even give you the time of day, much less herself. I love being inside her; there’s something fundamentally and naturally comforting about slipping inside the fervent, burning depths of her, the way her body arches and reacts when I’m entering her, the way her hands fan out on my chest and her fingers press into my skin - the look of concentration on her face - I can’t describe it accurately. Determination, satisfaction, gratification, and a hint of thrill, those are all there, but it still doesn’t do it justice. It’s another odd union of ideas to mix wanting to gently adore her with the need to bury myself in her over and over and claim her roughly as mine.
Her eyes tell me everything I need to know. Which, in some ways, makes me think I was even more of a complete idiot for ever doubting anything - that she was here with me for any other reason than she’d made up her mind and fucking wanted to be. Maybe I’m just more insecure than I thought. Actually, I probably am. Because I think that will always be the question I keep asking - why me? What made her choose to be with me? My attraction to her was completely unexpected; I wasn’t looking for it, I hadn’t been seeking it out, it just hit me like a fucking brick to the face when I walked into that audition. Like I’d been waiting my entire life to walk through that door. It was such an intense feeling, something I’ve never felt before - like I was drawn to her inexplicably. And the oddest part was that she reacted in the same way. I mean, I don’t know that she had the whole brick to the face moment, but she obviously felt something, too, she picked me after all out of all those others, so it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to her. And honestly, she basically admitted to me that she had the same feelings much earlier, but just didn’t fully act on them. So…maybe for her it’s as inexplicable as it is for me. In any case, her eyes always tell me anything I need to know. Victor Hugo said, “When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes,” and I’ve never had a problem reading what Kristen tells me that way. Her eyes are fascinating, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, sometimes blue-green and hazel all in one - it’s like they change color depending on the lighting and her mood - like my own personal mood ring. We can have entire conversations just reading each other’s eyes. I know when she’s upset, when she’s afraid, when she’s emotional, and can respond with my eyes, and she can read them, too. It’s actually kind of frightening how much we wouldn’t have to talk. And it’s only gotten easier with this happening. Because there were frequently times I couldn’t talk, and there were other conversations we could have that didn’t have a place before, like now I know when she’s horny, or when she’s feeling particularly gushy about me. I can see the general shift in her eyes from normal or annoyed to gentle and concerned in the next split second.
The fact that she allowed the connection in the plane speaks volumes as to the type of person she is. She told me once that it wouldn’t have happened with anyone else and she was so dead serious about it, I have no doubt that she was completely serious. I think she’s selling herself short, but I don’t argue with her about that. She recognized that it would be the thing that would help most - for whatever reason - and she was obviously thinking on a different level than most. Her thought process led her there, like some metaphor for sex as therapy. I mean, I hadn’t gone there, and yes, I was completely fucked up, but guys are supposed to have sex on the brain 24/7 and it never entered my thoughts no matter how badly I wanted her. And the fact that it probably wasn’t on her mind 24/7, but it was the first place she went, makes me feel very…special? I’m sure there are loads of better words to describe what that felt like, because that one is completely lame and mental, but…I felt like it mattered to her. Like I mattered. To her. And when she looked at me, eyes full of so many things, of concern and worry and a desperate need to make me better, mixed with a deeper sense of love, actual, visible, genuine love, I knew the feeling was completely true deep inside. It was just a matter of getting her to admit it, and then me to actually believe it fully after that.
She’s asleep on me, nestled all warm against my chest. Her head’s on my shoulder, her hand is resting somewhere between my ribs and my heart. Her breathing is slow and deep, and even and I can’t think of anything better than this.
She stirs minutely, her cheek rubbing into my chest, her breathing losing the last vestiges of sleep; the air is moist and warm as it drifts over my chest. She nuzzles into my chin with her head, the strands of her hair tickling my jaw line. She lets out a distinctly sleepy and satisfied deep breath before yawning and stretching. She has no idea how long I’ve been awake and watching her, just enjoying the warm weight of her on me and thinking about what she means to me. Sometimes it feels like I don’t know how to breathe without her there. Sometimes I can’t breathe because she is here and she’s here with me. Sometimes the enormity of everything crashes down and she allows me to just get so lost in her that I don’t know where we are separate anymore. And she’ll let me stay there until I’m ok just being me again.
We argue and we fight, she’s not perfect and neither am I, but we keep trying, we work at it. And when her face turns up from my chest to smile at me and say good morning, the same look is in her eyes - the same look I saw on the plane, and the same look I see every morning. I hope it’s always there when she looks at me. And I hope she knows and she can see the same intensity pouring out of my eyes.
“Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new.” - Ursula K. LeGuin
A/N: Thanks to the usuals. You know who you are and I luff you guyz.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7a Chapter 7b Chapter 8 Chapter 9a Chapter 9b Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17a Chapter 17b Chapter 18a Chapter 18b Chapter 19a Chapter 19b Chapter 19c Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34
Author: shadow_walker3
Pairing: Kristen Stewart/Robert Pattinson rpf (written in KPOV)
Rating: I believe I’m incapable of writing anything less than R or NC-17, so this is no exception, but I’m incapable of also writing porn without plot (just ask my friends). One day though…I’ll succeed.
Warnings: Other than the above, I can’t really think of any…unless you have a really weak stomach.
Summary: I will preface all summaries by saying that I enjoy injured men. I have since I was about eight years old. I cannot explain, nor do I promote the injuring of men; however, there will be no complaint from me if they are. For some reason, I find them hotter when injured. I believe it to be some sort of Florence Nightingale complex, where the need to then take care of them takes over and…I have no idea - they’re just hotter, ok? So to get to the actual summary, which is longer now than it should be, I finally just asked my friend/beta/lover/wife/hetero-life partner, Kaia what the hell the summary should be and she said: “It’s a story about how a plane crash brings people together (she doesn’t write for Hallmark, I swear), like a bat mitzvah, but less fun - with less dancing and relatives and food and more snow and possible death and crash landings.”
Timeframe: Right after the MTV Movie Awards 2009
Chapter 33 of ? who the hell knows by the time I’m done.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor am I profiting in any way besides my torrid fantasies. And I really didn't think I'd ever write anything of this nature again after the last epic I attempted, so...we'll see. LOL
SO! This is Rob's first POV. In general, when Rob has a POV chapter, it's the end of an arc in the story. He sort of ties things up, so this is the first of those. So he jumps a bit back in time, as his POV really started at the very beginning of when they get home and moves close to where it left off with Kristen. He overlaps though, so where he ends is not necessarily right up to where the last chapter did. Hope you enjoy the first look into the mind of Mr. Pattinson. :P
Chapter 33: Scenes from a Couch
I find myself in a very odd position. Which is not to say that I haven’t been in a series of odd positions since I agreed to take on Twilight. I find myself the Mecca of a blending of two families, with no fucking clue how I got here. Which is a lot like how Twilight happened actually, so I suppose it’s getting to be common for me. That seemed to turn out all right, all things considered. The spotlight it’s shone on the entire cast is an opportunity beyond all imagination and it brought me to her, so maybe I should just keep riding the wave and see where it takes me.
I don’t question why the plane crashed. It was shitty maintenance or whatever. Things happen. I don’t consider myself to be above or below the normal everyday fate that befalls all people. I haven’t fallen to my knees to rail at the injustice of the Almighty’s ‘grand plan.’ I couldn’t get up from my knees right now anyway, so it’s best not to try, I think. Plus, if the movie business teaches you anything, it’s that if you bend over, it’s too hard to stand up straight again.
Things have been a blur of incredible confusion. My family has always been supportive, and they’re basically bound by law to do something with my annoying ass, so that’s not really confusing to me. What I don’t understand is her. She cares about me, that much I know. I know that she said she loved me on the plane, and after as well, but there’s just this nagging freight train that keeps barreling towards me all the time, blowing its really fucking annoyingly loud whistle in my head and constantly chugging out the question: ‘Is it love and affection, or is it guilt and boundless determined obligation?’ Love or obligation. Love. Obligation. LoveObligation. Is there a difference? Does it matter? Do I care? Obviously, since it’s driving me literally insane. If it’s love, I have nothing to worry about. If it’s obligation, she’s here for the wrong reason. My biggest fear is that she’ll regret this in a year, two years, five years, come to her senses and wonder what the fuck she thought she was doing with an idiot like me. And not be able to come up with an appropriate answer that makes any sense to her, and I’d be forced to stand there and watch her leave when I couldn’t answer it for her, either.
I think about what this might be doing to her. If it’s healthy. If it’s wise. I love her. I want her to be happy. I want to make her happy. I don’t know how that happens in this particular scenario.
She thinks I’m a terrible liar. Maybe that’s true, maybe I have a problem with dishonesty. I value honesty from other people, so I think it’s only fair to purport that as well. We don’t live in a world where honesty is important anymore. We live in a world that’s full of lies - small, tiny white lies and huge, universe-altering lies. Most people are hard-pressed to tell the truth when you ask them a simple question. I learned a long time ago that the more you lie, the less of yourself you are. The more you lie, the more you start believing the lies, and pretty soon, you don’t know what the real truth is anymore; the lie becomes fact, and that’s an extremely dangerous place to be. I think it’s less that I’m a terrible liar and more that I don’t want to lie to her. Or to anyone. I don’t want to lie. So my first instinct is to just be truthful, which has its own downsides.
I don’t lie…that doesn’t mean I’m full disclosure, either. What no one asks, I don’t have to answer or offer.
This whole thing has kind of felt like being unemployed again; only this hurts more and there’s less rain here.
Being under the influence of a controlled substance for a long duration of time was not as fun as I might have once imagined. I won’t lie and say I’ve never participated in illicit drugs, and I may be an idiot, but I’m not that much of an idiot; messing around with anything other than weed is just…not a good idea. The pain medication in the hospital was wonderful. It was like a continuous, steady hum that kept the pain at bay. It was odd - like I knew the pain was there, but the drugs created a safe, little cocoon around the pain - like it absorbed the pain into its all-encompassing alleviation. Then they take those away and it’s like the little cocoon of alleviated pain shatters and spreads so that it feels like even your hair hurts, or your fingernails. It’s disconcerting and exhausting. And the pills are seriously for shit. That could be in the grand scope of things because I constantly puke them up, but even when they managed to stay down, none of them provided the same type of comfort like the continuous hospital hum. Each of the pills only shelved a portion or specific pain it seemed - one killed the shoulder pain, but left largely everything else. One made it feel like my head was entirely stuffed with cotton balls, but did nothing for the actual hurt. Another made the rib pain ease, but left me feeling a level of high even I wasn’t comfortable with. True euphoric highs, or at least weed-related highs, the good shit, just made everything even and calm; it made everything level out. This stuff made weed seem like acid on LSD; like acid…only doubled. It was just…bad. The only thing that ever truly worked or reproduced the same continuous level of peace and calm was the morphine. Which made sense, because it was the largest drug in the plethora of shit I got at the hospital. But that wasn’t a drug to mess with, either - and I didn’t need an addiction on top of everything else, so it was used as sparingly as possible, only in emergency situations where I literally could not take any more pain.
The pain itself is kind of like a cancer, spreading its evil wings all over anything that would allow glomming. And like cancer, it’s not picky - it’s happy making anything hurt in its path, and it did. It usually just reached a point where giving in was easier - fighting it too long took too much energy, and that was in short supply as it was.
What sucked most was that managing that level meant retreating inside my head, which can always be a good or bad place to be. It just promotes more thinking, and more thinking makes me question, and questioning more just leads to more questions. It’s a vicious cycle and I can get myself monumentally confused or fucked up really easily. And then even questioning what you know to be true is plausible, just to have something else to think about to keep your mind off the pain.
I thought about writing a lot. I thought of script ideas, screenplays, and I was fairly certain I’d mapped out an entire movie in my head one day, but the pain would inch in then and force it away. Which sucked - I really should have written it down when I was thinking about it because there was no way I’d ever get it back. I think taking up writing while trying to retreat into my head would have been healthier and more cathartic. I mean, I could have written nothing but how much the situation sucked, it wouldn’t have mattered, because without it, all the thinking just stays there, nothing gets poured out, there’s no outlet that lets the random, inane, or really important, pivotal shit out. Creative losses like script ideas aside, there were times when insanity might have been in progress. Because I’m overly analytical by nature - curious and inquisitive, but take nothing at face value and try to find the inner meaning or the ‘why’ of something, regardless if it’s really there or not. And you start to wonder and question some weird shit. And some I didn’t want to overanalyze. Some I just wanted to have, or to just accept, but boredom, pain and necessity made me do something else, so everything was scrutinized in a way I might not have otherwise done at all.
Kristen was already dealing with so much that I didn’t really think it was fair to unload this on her, too, and really, everyone else besides Tom would have had me committed. Tom was the only other person in the world that ever related to me on the same level like Kristen - where it wasn’t completely weird for me to question something that was normally unquestioned, or to randomly ask them about something that was outrageous. Sometimes talking wasn’t an option, either - it was hard enough to just stay quiet, stay still - the level of concentration needed to not continuously cry out or shout or otherwise express the pain, to keep my body in a semi-restful state without giving too much away was completely consuming. There were times I lost whole hours, or a few times where I lost complete days, where I had no recollection of any events at all. And telling Kristen that would have been cruel. Telling her that nothing even remotely medicinal was working at all would have just defeated her. Because she tried so hard to help, just sitting there day after day. Sometimes, her talking could make me focus long enough to get lost in that instead - just having the cadence of her voice, concentrating on the pitch, something small and insignificant like counting all the times she said ‘shit’ in a ten minute period, or the way she said all the words with the letter ‘s’ in them - sometimes that’d be enough. When she got to the point of physical contact - holding me - that made it easier. And she must have known because, eventually, she started doing it more. Like I could mentally or physically transfer some of the weight of the control over everything onto her without her really knowing (or totally knowing) and not burdening her with other bullshit.
Sex. Like a big topic heading in a textbook. It’s like its own continent of thought. Sex with her is like…there’s nothing in my vocabulary to describe it. From a purely physical side, in relation to the pain, it was completely liberating. She will never know or understand just how much one orgasm can take away, just how much a few muscle movements or a touch could completely be the difference between a shitty or ok day. There’s no way she could conceptualize that. Her hands are like pure bliss, like hell’s last drop of water - completely capable of destruction or redemption in the same package, and such a small package at that. Once sex was in the picture, that could thankfully take up large amounts of my thinking time. It was a wonder that I wasn’t hard 24/7. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her hands on my face, the way that one hand always seemed to drift to my ribs, like she could hold them up or together and do the same with me. The truth was, she could. That’s what it felt like anyway.
She’s a combination of so many things. In some ways, a contradiction, but not really - there’s two sides to everything, a balance inside her. She’s alternately brash and gentle, bitchy and adoring, tough and emotional. But she’s never been contradictory when it comes to proving she loves me. Once I was it, that’s all there was. Just me. There was no wavering, no change in feelings or desires or wants. She loved me unconditionally, and I’ve been hers since the moment I laid eyes on her.
It’s hard for me to believe that she loves me. It’s always been hard to rationalize, no matter how much I wanted her from day one. And to commit to this willingly, with no baggage or attached guilt from obligation, was a hard thing for me to understand.
But when she makes her mind up, she’s in it until the wheels fall off.
Sex has always meant so much more, too - I feel like I won the lottery or something - there’s no other way someone that amazing would ever agree to be with an idiot like me.
So this is the inherent problem with having too much time to think - when you already have an overactive brain. Elbert Hubbard said that “pain is deeper than all thought; laughter is higher than all pain.” I dunno much about the laughter part - there wasn’t a lot of that in the beginning, and later, laughing hurt, too, so…yeah. I think the pain was deeper than the thought, though, because no matter how far I retreated, no matter how far I lost myself in Kristen, it was still there, and I tried to at least be somewhat coherent when something might have been asked of me. It bothers me that much of the first part I couldn’t be anything for Kristen but there. And ‘there’ only in the sense of presence, not necessarily in mind. And if she needed something, I wasn’t able to provide it. I remember reading once, too, that one often learns more from ten days of agony than ten years of contentment.
This is what I know - I should have learned a whole lot more than I think I did based on the first part of that idea.
I also managed to have both agony and contentment at once, because no matter how bad it got I had her, and that was worth all the pain in the world.
I know that life-altering events are supposed to change your perspective, or hand you some new profound meaning that wasn’t there before, but maybe it was more the catalyst so we could find the meaning together.
I’ve never had someone in my life like her - no one before that I could depend on. Not in a significant other or girlfriend or whatever. My friends are dependable, and I know they’d be there for me if I really asked, and my family, of course, but that’s not the same. Those are the people who you’re intrinsically supposed to be able to count on - the ones who are, in a sense, forced to allow you to count on them by genetics or default. But I’ve never felt like it wasn’t just me in a situation, or that it wasn’t still just me plus one who really didn’t care enough about me anyway. This is different. Call it whatever you want, love, devotion, I don’t have a long list of terms. I know I love her. Whatever the term, I don’t ask for a whole lot, but she’s never turned me down when I do, and she’s never been too busy or too self-absorbed to just stop and focus on me for a while. She’s the only person in my entire life who has willingly done shit for me just…because.
Things were bad a few days ago. And it’s not like we don’t know that about each other - there are times I think I know her or her reactions better than I know my own. So, she already knew shit was up with me, but she never (or rarely) forces the issue, either, knowing that it will just push me farther away. She’s the same way - we just wait for the other person to come around and explain or express what’s happening. So, she already knew, but hadn’t asked. And it was one of the times that it was bad enough that I was seriously losing touch with that hold on reality. Usually I can retreat to a place that far enough removed from the pain, but its underlying reality doesn’t slip because, in an odd way, the dull current of the pain is continuous - oddly comforting in a really fucked up way, because, hey, at least it’s consistent, dependable. It was to the point when everything hurt and was being swallowed completely - my head hurt so bad that my vision was starting to white out, the thoughts wouldn’t stop; like they were trying to outpace the pain and I couldn’t force them to recalibrate or shut off. It was just out of my control. And I actually couldn’t really do anything to ask - there were no words to say, nothing that I could articulate that would be anything less than pure, agonized screaming.
She was good with visual cues - like she studied mine or something - and she must have been picking up on them without me really knowing, most likely because I was to the point where I didn’t even know they were happening; breathing, jerking, whimpering, I’m beyond caring what they manifest as when it gets like this. She doesn’t care, and I can’t worry about it. Besides, she’s told me before they don’t always follow the same pattern, they happen differently, but she can always tell. Who knows? I don’t question that stuff when she’s right.
She’s capable of calming the most violent and tumultuous storms inside me, mental or physical, with just a touch, a word, a kiss - like some goddamn life preserver thrown out to a drowning man. She’s my preserver. And I was drowning - badly.
She’s not always patient. She’s not always gentle. She can be a real pain in the ass. She lacks understanding when the topic is sometimes really fucking important. I know all the ways her body manifests nervousness or fear, and when I see them, I really try not to add to that. At the beginning, when things started and everything either led to puking or torment, I would simply shut off. Which I think made her insanely angry and remorseful because she knew I was doing it as a reaction to her. In turn, that only led to more frustration and it was a rather tense environment sometimes. My point to all this is that she’s not perfect, and I know this. She drives me absolutely fucking nuts sometimes. She gives me the bitch-face numerous times a day. But she’s there. That’s the key. She may be an impatient, tough, uncompromising, exasperating irritant. But she’s there. She’s always there.
Alternately, there’s a completely different side that she refuses to show the world on a consistent basis. She can be the most gentle, understanding, and patient person when things don’t abate on a good timetable. I mean, really, despite my attempts to reduce her responsibility in regards to my recovery, the girl is unbelievably devoted. And I feel incredibly lucky, and guilty, and selfish, when she spends six hours trying to get my mind to calm down to the same steady beat she can get my body to in five minutes. Her touch is like a light switch - completely capable of turning me on or turning physical torment off. My mind isn’t so easily appeased. So, she’ll argue with me for hours about something she doesn’t even remotely care about because she knows I need it and my head will just continue to the point of implosion without it. She’ll sit with me while a headache drives ice picks into my skull through my eye, providing pressure, or heat, or cold, or background noise, and she won’t bitch about it. She’ll sneak herself between me and the couch and just hang onto me when it feels like nothing can possibly be right in the universe and my heart is just going to rip its way out of my chest. She’ll touch my face or grab my hand or startle me back into reality because she can. Because she knows she’s capable and it works.
I don’t think I’ve ever needed someone as much as I do her. And the rub, the thing that just blows my mind, is that she insists she feels the same way, that she needs me, too. Me. The idiot rambling foolishly in the corner. No one has ever needed me like that before either. I suspect she really doesn’t, she’s strong enough on her own, but she maintains that I provide the same security and presence that she does for me. And…that’s nice. Completely terrifying too, but not in a bad way. It’s nice to feel needed, like you have a purpose beyond just yourself - to know that other person so well and take on part of the responsibility for them, that you’re integral, you mean something.
However, I’m also the type of person who needs control, you know? Not about everything, because that’s not realistic, but in terms of my work and the aspects of my life that I can control. That said, I haven’t had a problem with Kristen telling me exactly what to do. Probably mostly because I had no concept of what the fuck to do anyway, and in a way, that was kind of scary, willingly giving her that much. And I’m not sure she realizes that. That I had to just give that up, give up all control to her. I think she has this conception that I was lost or floundering, and in some ways I was, because there is no way you have a path or direction or focus when your entire world is reduced to constant pain and one small couch. But to just willingly let her lead my entire life, indefinitely, in literally every aspect, she has no idea the amount of trust I placed in her. And what complete and total utter destruction she could have wreaked. Because I would have let her.
So this chunk of time a few days ago when I was completely just…fucking lost in everything, caged to the physical existence of the couch and imprisoned in my mind with no possibility of a foreseeable parole, she, thankfully, picked up on my total lack of ability to function quite early on. And I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t verbally communicate that oblivion was necessary or wailing weeping and sob-filled lament was going to occur - which would only make it hurt more. She says sometimes she can just see it on my face - that it’s not necessarily anything my body is physically cueing her to know, it’s just when I look back at her, she knows it’s there. I must have looked like shit that morning, because I remember through the tunneling vision that she let out an audible inhale and was sitting by me the next second, moving entirely too fast for my overtaxed brain to process accurately.
I remember her asking me a bunch of shit, only half the words of which I was actually getting and none of it was actually sticking with me at all. It’s incredibly frustrating. Because I know she’s scared, and while I’m, sadly, kind of used to it, there’s no physical way for me to express that I’ll be ok and that she doesn’t need to be scared. But she didn’t need words or responses from me. She knew I couldn’t process what she was saying or respond in any coherent way. So she just lets instinct take over, I think. And she pulled me out - she always pulls me out. Whether it’s words or contact, or argument, or simply sharing the same space, or sex, she always pulls me out.
Sex has become sort of a two-fold experience. It’s still purely recreational and fun, but it’s morphed into some sort of therapy as well. And it’s genius because I don’t think there’s literally anything else that would be as intimate as that. So, sex always seems to mean more, even when it’s just fun and recreational. Because somewhere along the line, it wasn’t just about me or her, it was about us, it was about fixing whatever needed to be fixed, but just being us, together, too.
The longer we’ve been together now, and the more sexual encounters we participate in, like I said, the more that’s become a blessedly happy way to spend my thinking time. And it could help me occupy countless hours that would have been spent otherwise thinking entirely too philosophically, or wallowing in the shitty situation I found myself in. She wore this fragrance every now and then. It was hard to describe, but it was some form of vanilla. She told me what it was called, of course, and when I’m actually capable of coherency, I’ll ask again and buy her a truckload. It wasn’t the vanilla you find in candles, and it wasn’t mixed with any flowery scent or fruity scent, either. It was a professional fragrance - something you wouldn’t think a teenager would go for. But, fuck, was it the best smelling perfume I’d ever come across. When she was wearing it, I could have spent a whole day just happily inhaling the wafting aroma. And actually, I did. Because, coincidentally, a lot of those days were the ones she spent holding me on the couch and trying to make all the shit go away. Perhaps that wasn’t so coincidental. It became both intensely arousing to smell it, and completely comforting at the same time. Which was a perfect metaphor for the wearer herself because she had the capacity to be both at the same time. And it was like she strategically placed the scent all the places I’d be able to smell. Her neck was always a wonderful place to get lost in, breathing it in while her hands fluttered and fussed over various parts of me. And all I had to do was tilt my head up and back and that scent would overwhelm anything else. Her clothing often carried the scent, too, so if I were dozing on the couch or something, I would get a hit of the scent almost before she was physically there. It never failed to make me smile. Her wrists were similarly marked with the scent, which was awesome as her hands were often in my hair, at my face, on my chest, all excellent markers for allowing me to partake of the wonderful bouquet. What was perhaps the best part was even after she’d gone, or I was left alone to my own devices for a while, the fragrance stayed around me then, like she’d transferred it from herself and left it on me, scent-marked me as well. Those were usually good mornings, good afternoons, good nights, because whether she was with me physically or not, it felt like she was, and if I wanted to, I could feel her phantom hands wherever I wanted them, wherever they ghosted themselves, like a gossamer version of herself.
I sound like Edward fucking Cullen - with all the bouquet talk and shit - I might as well just go ahead and add that she’s like a drug to me, my own personal brand of heroin, ‘cause all that shit’s true anyway.
So, the sex. Funny, you’d think that’d be the first thing I’d blurt out. I digress a lot into other specifics, but the fragrance stuff was really sex-related, because she’d frequently be wearing that scent when we were having sex. And like I said, the minute I was able, I was going to have a truckload delivered here. What can I possibly say that would explain what sex with her feels like? She looks like some sort of supernatural being when she’s on top of me, when I’m moving inside her. Her hair is usually framing her face, sometimes falling forward, and she never fails to provide just exactly what I need, whether I know what that is or not. I just trust that she’ll get me there, and she hasn’t given me a reason to ever doubt that. Her movements are like art, like she’s performing some sort of dance, her limbs move in a rhythm with me, her features relaxed and content.
I haven’t found an equal yet to waking up with her asleep on my chest, her warm weight distributed over my body, pressing into all the right places like she’d planned out a course of lying action. And knowing her, she probably had. The perfect place that would provide warmth and comfort and alleviation. The only thing better than that is waking up still inside her, sheathed in an unbelievable amount of fiery heat, her muscles tight and holding me to her, like she didn’t want me to leave any more than I wanted to go.
That first time she basically backed herself right up to me and bared every womanly part of her that there was to behold, she really should have been able to see my face. I’m sure my expression would have amused her endlessly. Because first, I was so fucking confused. I didn’t know where we stood, what the fuck was going on, or how much of her I was entitled to have because we really never discussed that. It was like we bounced around and just talked that out later. And I mean, it was quite obvious to me what she was offering, and it nearly made me cry, but I was far too in shock to actually have the emotions come forth in that way. So there she is, offering herself to me, her sex wet and glistening in the soft light, and knowing that some of that was mine and that this was the one place I always felt safe and completely at peace. Shit. She has no idea what she gave me that night. Even if I was still utterly confused, she’d offered herself to me in a way she hadn’t before, conceding that she was willing to let me see and touch as well as take comfort there, baring her enticingly feminine wiles and giving me permission to have this part of her, too. The smell of her arousal, heady and rich, the radiating heat from her pink flesh, and fucking hell, the taste of her, tangy and spicy yet sweet. The way she tightened on my fingers when I started to explore her, clenching and fluttering her muscles as I familiarized myself with every contour inside her, while the entire time she was either stroking or sucking on my dick - it's a wonder I could accomplish anything at all.
And, Jesus Christ, the sounds she makes. Her moans that night made my dick ache with longing. Made me want to force those sounds out of her every goddamn day. I couldn’t get enough of her - couldn’t taste or touch enough no matter how many times my tongue ran around and over her folds or my lips sucked her into my mouth, no matter how many fingers I had inside massaging her, or how many times any combination of my mouth and hands on her clit made her moan. She was absolutely breathtaking, delicious and responsive, groaning around my cock while shoving herself back on my mouth. I think there were times she didn’t know which way to go - to pull away from me or press for more, but I refused to take my mouth off of her, holding her to me, not allowing her any reprieve. I couldn’t - I didn’t want to stop, so it’s a good thing she didn’t ask me to - I don’t think I would have, honestly. She makes me crazy that way. Animated and roused with need for her - like a complete invigoration of myself. And it’s not necessarily anything she does - she doesn’t do ‘alluring’ very often - she doesn’t need to, she’s plenty sexy just being normal. And yeah, backing herself up naked to me was a sure proposal, an invitation, but it was completely normal, too - she didn’t throw me any appealing looks over her shoulder, there was no anticipatory eyebrow raise, she was just natural - able to fascinate and captivate me, enchant and hypnotize me with her normal self - which was a thousand times sexier.
Her pussy mesmerizes me. It’s completely fascinating. Beguiling and enrapturing my attention - I mean, obviously, but because it’s the most feminine part of her, arguable the softest, the warmest. She’s got a tough exterior a lot of times. She rocks any dress she wears, of course, but outwardly, she’s tougher than she is dainty. She outwardly seems brash and full of attitude, but with me, with herself bared to me in every possible way, she’s nothing less than delicate, elegant, petite and savory, precious. It’s an odd juxtaposition, to want to completely ravish and devour someone while still feeling intrinsically protective and so fucking lucky that she cared enough to even give you the time of day, much less herself. I love being inside her; there’s something fundamentally and naturally comforting about slipping inside the fervent, burning depths of her, the way her body arches and reacts when I’m entering her, the way her hands fan out on my chest and her fingers press into my skin - the look of concentration on her face - I can’t describe it accurately. Determination, satisfaction, gratification, and a hint of thrill, those are all there, but it still doesn’t do it justice. It’s another odd union of ideas to mix wanting to gently adore her with the need to bury myself in her over and over and claim her roughly as mine.
Her eyes tell me everything I need to know. Which, in some ways, makes me think I was even more of a complete idiot for ever doubting anything - that she was here with me for any other reason than she’d made up her mind and fucking wanted to be. Maybe I’m just more insecure than I thought. Actually, I probably am. Because I think that will always be the question I keep asking - why me? What made her choose to be with me? My attraction to her was completely unexpected; I wasn’t looking for it, I hadn’t been seeking it out, it just hit me like a fucking brick to the face when I walked into that audition. Like I’d been waiting my entire life to walk through that door. It was such an intense feeling, something I’ve never felt before - like I was drawn to her inexplicably. And the oddest part was that she reacted in the same way. I mean, I don’t know that she had the whole brick to the face moment, but she obviously felt something, too, she picked me after all out of all those others, so it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to her. And honestly, she basically admitted to me that she had the same feelings much earlier, but just didn’t fully act on them. So…maybe for her it’s as inexplicable as it is for me. In any case, her eyes always tell me anything I need to know. Victor Hugo said, “When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes,” and I’ve never had a problem reading what Kristen tells me that way. Her eyes are fascinating, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, sometimes blue-green and hazel all in one - it’s like they change color depending on the lighting and her mood - like my own personal mood ring. We can have entire conversations just reading each other’s eyes. I know when she’s upset, when she’s afraid, when she’s emotional, and can respond with my eyes, and she can read them, too. It’s actually kind of frightening how much we wouldn’t have to talk. And it’s only gotten easier with this happening. Because there were frequently times I couldn’t talk, and there were other conversations we could have that didn’t have a place before, like now I know when she’s horny, or when she’s feeling particularly gushy about me. I can see the general shift in her eyes from normal or annoyed to gentle and concerned in the next split second.
The fact that she allowed the connection in the plane speaks volumes as to the type of person she is. She told me once that it wouldn’t have happened with anyone else and she was so dead serious about it, I have no doubt that she was completely serious. I think she’s selling herself short, but I don’t argue with her about that. She recognized that it would be the thing that would help most - for whatever reason - and she was obviously thinking on a different level than most. Her thought process led her there, like some metaphor for sex as therapy. I mean, I hadn’t gone there, and yes, I was completely fucked up, but guys are supposed to have sex on the brain 24/7 and it never entered my thoughts no matter how badly I wanted her. And the fact that it probably wasn’t on her mind 24/7, but it was the first place she went, makes me feel very…special? I’m sure there are loads of better words to describe what that felt like, because that one is completely lame and mental, but…I felt like it mattered to her. Like I mattered. To her. And when she looked at me, eyes full of so many things, of concern and worry and a desperate need to make me better, mixed with a deeper sense of love, actual, visible, genuine love, I knew the feeling was completely true deep inside. It was just a matter of getting her to admit it, and then me to actually believe it fully after that.
She’s asleep on me, nestled all warm against my chest. Her head’s on my shoulder, her hand is resting somewhere between my ribs and my heart. Her breathing is slow and deep, and even and I can’t think of anything better than this.
She stirs minutely, her cheek rubbing into my chest, her breathing losing the last vestiges of sleep; the air is moist and warm as it drifts over my chest. She nuzzles into my chin with her head, the strands of her hair tickling my jaw line. She lets out a distinctly sleepy and satisfied deep breath before yawning and stretching. She has no idea how long I’ve been awake and watching her, just enjoying the warm weight of her on me and thinking about what she means to me. Sometimes it feels like I don’t know how to breathe without her there. Sometimes I can’t breathe because she is here and she’s here with me. Sometimes the enormity of everything crashes down and she allows me to just get so lost in her that I don’t know where we are separate anymore. And she’ll let me stay there until I’m ok just being me again.
We argue and we fight, she’s not perfect and neither am I, but we keep trying, we work at it. And when her face turns up from my chest to smile at me and say good morning, the same look is in her eyes - the same look I saw on the plane, and the same look I see every morning. I hope it’s always there when she looks at me. And I hope she knows and she can see the same intensity pouring out of my eyes.
“Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new.” - Ursula K. LeGuin
A/N: Thanks to the usuals. You know who you are and I luff you guyz.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7a Chapter 7b Chapter 8 Chapter 9a Chapter 9b Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17a Chapter 17b Chapter 18a Chapter 18b Chapter 19a Chapter 19b Chapter 19c Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34