Age of Edward Contest
Title: Lavender
Your pen name: vanilladoubleshot
Type of Edward: 1969 Woodstock Edward
If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this contest visit: The Age of Edward C2 Community:
http://www(DOT)fanfiction(DOT)net/community/The_Age_of_Edward_Contest/70125/
So, this is my first story for Twilight and my first story published at FFnet... I hope you enjoy it!
To clear up potential confusion before reading, this is intentionally second-person POV. A microdot of lavender is a hit of LSD.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to any publicly recognizable entities, including Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series and its characters, any lyrics or music by Joe Cocker, or the Woodstock Music Festival.
You've been out in the sun three days and it's gleaming in your dirt-riddled skin like the salt-leather red sheen that shines through the warm earthen brown arms of the boys on the Quileute reservation near your home in Washington that you left behind two years ago to come to California.
For three days you've been high and wet and loose and free and loved and loving and full. The music is in the air and the water and you can see it floating around you like sunbeams and pink soft clouds of little girls' hair when you slip the microdot of lavender onto your tongue and fly away to Ravi Shankar and the odd twanging lullaby of a land you'll never see, but you can see it now, swirling around you and the air becomes birds…
It's morning now, or the closest thing to morning that any of you have seen in probably weeks, and Joe Cocker's about to start to sing and he's up there, shirt swirled with colored ink like the spots behind your eyes and your hands are floating and weightless and for once in your goddamned life you feel beautiful and the lavender is so good you wish you could remember the name or the face of the boy who slid the little tab into your hand when he and his friend were inside you last night.
And your eyes and fingertips and a sway of your hips beneath the soft white muslin skirt she made you when you got to San Francisco and sat you in her lap and swirled her fingers on your skin beneath the lying white cotton as you packed the pipe with sweet pine sap green leaves and burned your throat are following a dovecote of gray-pink lovebirds across the sky burning blue so fiercely you shade your eyes and it's "Delta Lady" up on the stage when you see Them.
Your yearning eyes have ghosted Them and painted them iridescent pure pale ever since you arrived alone with your white muslin skirt that's stained with the girl you left in the seaside fog and the greasy smell of Chinatown lurking over the hills in the morning, carrying your pipe that still tastes like the boys whose lips have curved around its edges and sucked in the sweet nectar to give you with their tongues in a fog of white – white, always white – burn left behind for the festival of love out here in the sunbaked godforsaken country now that I found you.
They are beautiful ghostly seraphim, and you're not sure if they're real or if the lavender is giving you a beautiful gift that makes you afraid to close your eyes because they'll leave you longing in your soft and fertile delta and you just want to watch them love. You're certain they do. They are different, unearthly and special and bound to each other like everyone else here refuses to be and you can see it in the way they're tangled together in a statue of molten lava limbs and you creep closer, away from the stage and Joe Cocker sangin' and growlin' and fingers are touching you brushing you loving you as you make your way through the crowd but you can't notice for the way his mouth purses into a kiss – a real kiss – to brush against her temple.
He is the white knight and Prince Charming and John Lennon and jesus and cary grant and lilacs and honey and sunshine and he's not looking at you as you almost reach them, afraid to get too close and make the beautiful mirage dissolve. His irish cream freckled chest is bare and glowing with sweat and grass stains and the mottling of white and sunburn red and freckle tan beneath the shimmer of exhaustion and exultation makes him almost sparkle in the sunlight and he's so beautiful you forget how to breathe when she turns her head to meet his lips and they cling to each other. Their interlocked lips move in whispering patterns that seem to be sighs to satisfy the longing and the lavender magnifies their kiss until it's washing over you and you bask in its pink warmth.
You haven't seen a real kiss since San Francisco, and it's fascinating. It's not a peck of dry rouge from Aunt Clara that last Christmas before you left Washington that made you feel guilty for the bittersweetness in your stomach from the boy next door the night before and it's not the hot-sticky openmouthed pant more sound than motion of breath and lips and bodies colliding in a fuck; their lips move like the kiss is all they need, even as their hands tangle together above their heads in a knitwork of skin and bone and dirty fingernails that confuses your lavender eyes.
You can see the love between them crackling through the cosmic chakra of their kiss and it's red and pink and whitebillowing sheets and strawberries and deep water and your heart is tugging and you're afraid of your breastbone cracking open and spilling your want all over the ground when suddenly her tongue flicks out of her mouth against his lips and that small pink muscle makes you ache for the warm and tender shelter of their bodies.
You've been so lost in his shimmer that you're just now looking at her because his hands are on her body and you can't decide of whom you're jealous and you wish you were the girl he was touching and you wish you had that girl to touch and a part of you is begging to approach them and ask if you can join, because you want so badly to know what the sparkle on their skin tastes like, but a bigger part is begging please don't ask because it would mean that they're not so in love and so whole together as you need to believe.
She's as barechested as he is and just as milky-pale, but she doesn't have his freckles and her skin is touched with pink at the edges like roses. Her shoulders are pink from the heat of the sun and her cheekbones are pink and her fat little nipples are pink, too, but his fingers are on them and you can't quite see anymore.
You're certain now that they can't be real and it's just the lavender making you see everything you wish because he's touching her so beautifully that you'd swear you can feel it yourself and the sun's shining down and somewhere behind you there's still Joe Cocker and "Delta Lady" and the grass is hot and dewy beneath your feet and the angel boy's mouth is red and pretty and you can see the sucking motion of his his lips and palesoft neck as he loves her nipple with his tongue and your own body is reacting like it's you standing wet and naked in the green green field and yellow sunshine.
And they can't be real because you're so close you can hear her murmuring "Edward, Edward, Edward, I love you," and no one's named 'Edward' anymore except the dashing men in those old books covered in dust in the library you gave up even though you used to love sitting in the oiled leather armchair in the window with the light making the dust glitter and you should've been in class, and now you should be up at the front of the crowd near the stage trying to find Jimi Hendrix before his set later because you've got a good mouth and instead your eyes are tearing up as you watch this Edward with his butterfly-wing hair kissing his way across his girl's breast and you think of the days you used to have and never had and can't help but to sorely want.
And it has to be the lavender because suddenly she's looking at you and her face says she doesn't mind that you're standing there in your dirty muslin skirt watching them, but her face is so innocent and pretty that she would have to mind if she were real because you're certain now that there's never been anyone but Edward in her. But her doe-brown eyes the size of tea-saucers with pupils like dinner plates just like yours are kind and soft as she watches you watching her lover's teeth nip against the pale white underside of her breasts, and it's such a different way than you've ever been held – and that's what she's doing: she's holding you, just with her eyes; she's embracing you and caressing you and telling you it'll be alright.
And the boy murmurs for "Bella" and you agree.
His red lips are kissing down her milkwhite belly and his two longest fingers are touching the puckers of her nipples like he's tuning radio dials and when his tongue slips out of his mouth and into the small crevice of her belly button you shiver and your own nipples harden in sympathy.
She's still watching you, curious, and you can't understand why the angels aren't sprouting wings and flying away from you because you're so aware of your separation from them that it hurts like a broken bone. They are the cherubs in old stone fountains and the children on greeting cards and the lovers at the altar and the sweating roil of skin at the dirty movie house that's hidden from the road, all rolled into one, and given wings and devil horns and dropped onto this wet dewy Earth and he's rolling her long yellow skirt up to her waist and you're holding your breath.
Edward is genuflected before her in a salaam to her sainthood, his nose grazing her neat dark curls, and you can see through the translucent lucidity of her sunburned skin the way her heart is beatin' and the pulse is calling to you as he breathes her in, enjoying her bouquet, and for the first time the moment is so intimate you have to look away.
You first saw them the first night, while Arlo Guthrie sang "Amazing Grace" with his mountains of black curls (like Bella's your brain sparks now and your cheeks color and your heart skips and the lavender's making you dizzy) and they were in the crowd, far in front of you, almost glowing in the paleclear air. She perched on his back with her legs and arms wrapped around him, yellow skirt bunched up like now so he could run his long-fingered hands up and down her legs, and her hands caressed his chest with fingers flying yarn over his collarbones and down the faint trail of fair hair and fluttering over tiny flat boy nipples and dipping down to stroke his slim stomach and curling up to loop his jaw and you were fascinated but so high you couldn't move and anyway, you had your arms too wrapped around a man and your mind too wrapped around how sweet the sound to let them save a wretch like you.
Now the song has changed and your feet have planted and the flying float is still going strong and the sky is pink and purple and blue and falling all around you and you believe in a love at first sight and Edward and Bella are the magnets that reversed your gravity's polarity and you look back at them and your cheeks flush and your hands find the inside of your muslin skirt and you know your eyes are planetary as you watch.
She has one delicate muddy foot, the further from you, balanced on his shoulder, opening her secrets to your eyes and the wind and his mouth and she's pretty and pink and little and dark and Edward is steadying her with hands on her lush hips as his pink tongue moves on her pink round nerves, gathering sweetness.
Your breath is coming ragged and your hands are moving, following grazing wishing beneath your muslin skirt as your eyes spark watching his mouth on her: tongue flat and velveteen and soothing strokes in long laps up up up and down the soft pink crease that hides the inside of her body, moving heavy and wet just off-time to the music and you're fascinated by the effect of the ragtime syncopation of his flicks to her clit and the strum of joe's guitar and Bella's giggling gasps and tugs at Edward's hair.
The sight of his tongue disappearing into her body is a transcendental experience, and apparently for Bella, too, because her fingers are completely lost in the embers of his bronze blaze and she loves the burn, arching towards it with her hips, pressing so close into Edward's face that their unmatched lips are swallowing each other whole as she shudders and collapses in on herself in a haze of vibrating light.
She's shaking and you fall to your knees as Edward gently cradles Bella by the hips and knees and neck and quim and lays her flat on the parched warm green wet grass. Her yellow skirt is billowed around her waist like sunshine above her neat cloud of brown hair, glistening and shining with her wet and his mouth and the lingering scent of his love for her, and his soft buckskin brown suede pants are pushed down to his knees, his bare bottom pale and dimpled and you giggle at the sight of it because you don't know what else to do, because he's impossibly big and pulsing purple and the pearl bead half-hidden by his crease leaves a shining brand on her stomach when he bends down to kiss her again – and she accepts it greedily, despite her taste surely flavoring his pretty pouty lips, and yes, you're certain that it happens all the time – and he's pressed to her belly, red and straining against calm white white white.
And then he's shifted and her legs are spread like butterfly wings and there's still bright blue music showering clouds over your head and his mouth is gently sucking at her pointed nipple and giving you tremors, and for the rest of your life, what you see when you turn out the light will be Edward's fat and pretty straining pained pink head rubbing Bella's pretty pink wet center, not needing to beg entrance because it's just going home, and he slides into her slowly, stretching and filling and pleasing and pleased by her, and you'd swear you can feel him inside you, thick and twitching and perfect.
Her pretty face is buried in his freckled shoulder and you miss it, you want to see the flush on her cheeks as she feels him moving inside her because you can tell from the way her hands scrabble against his back, nails catching and releasing in half-moons on his sunburned skin, that he knows how to play her like the music enveloping them in lavender and his sweeping thrusts into her scrapes of a bow against cello strings, tremble treble and beautiful vibrato. You can see him coated in her, shining and reflecting the light like rainbows to your eyes with blown-wide pupils, and you've never seen anything more beautiful, and you look around frantically, terrified that anyone else is watching them instead of the stage because you know it's wrong and it's selfish and Edward and Bella would never share with you, but you can see the way they fit perfectly together as he ducks his head to kiss her hair, moving above her around her inside her, and you can't help to think 'it's mine.'
He moves faster, and she's crying an oath into his shoulder as her teeth bite down into his soft skin, her back arching up high as he sends her to the outermost rings of the galaxy and his arms scoop deftly beneath her, holding her close, pressing in deeper, and her yellow skirt falls to cover the place where they're joined from your eyes but you can see his hips moving, snap snap snap and his eyes fall shut and he's so perfect and beautiful that it hurts like you're high and when they fall from their orgasmic bliss, her skirt is around her waist again and you can see the white trickle of edward's Love for her tracing down her Elizabethan white thigh. You want to lick it. Instead, Edward does, tasting himself on her because he can and she's his and he's hers and there's nothing that they don't share.
You read their lips as they murmur together, big eyes shining, smoothing birdlike hands through each other's hair: I love you I love you I love you.
I want somebody to love.
You're dizzy and holding your breath and the second wave of the lavender sea is washing over you in a crashing tsunami and you're not sure that you'll ever be quite straight again as you bend beneath the weight of their soft mouths' caressing kisses and the sparkle of sunlight against the sweat of their skin and the crowd singing a hallelujah chorus that mirrors the epiphany you've had in the back of your mind and the forefront of your heart and it hurts so badly that it can only be pleasure, and Edward grins down at Bella beneath him, nuzzling her eyelids with the end of his nose. Before you can blink the saline tears from your eyes, his pants are back where they belong on his lean hips and the hem of her skirt is brushing the blades of grass again, but her breasts are still bare and wet with Edward's mouth and you're jealous and glad.
They're laughing together has he swings her up onto his back again, legs around his waist, and he murmurs something to her about "hold on tight" and she laughs and kisses his neck. He runs forward with her, into the surge of the crowd to worship at the altar of rock'n'roll and they're lost in the crowd and you could weep.
Could it be anybody?
You've never been so full and sated and empty and needing and the grass is warm and comforting under your cheek when you fall upon it in a haze of ecstasy and the sun makes the spiderweb veins inside your eyelids look so pretty when it shines through them and you're high on song exhaling snowflakes as you drift away on sun and bella and edward and you know, suddenly, like a rocket taking off from Cocoa Beach that you'll be returning home soon.
I want somebody to love.