A/N: Re-write of the "you're sort of beautiful" scene. I'll probably do a couple of these. A little darker and kinda smutty—nothing to make it M, but more than I usually do. Reviews, please?
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or Bella or Jacob or Edward or Chevy or whatever else. I. Don't. Own. Anything.
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I know you're probably not impressed
I know it sounded better in my head
But if I don't get this out you'll never hear it
– Treaty of Paris; Here Goes Nothing
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You know you're beautiful, she states matter-of-factly.
He smirks—his eyes glint as he squints at the road in front of him. Oh, really?
Yup, she smiles. She traces her hand over his chest; his muscles contract with a sharp intake of breath, and she laughs, scratching her nails lightly over the brown skin.
You're such a tease, he growls. His voice is deep and husky and it makes her shiver. It's his turn to grin as he puts his big hand on her thigh and she bits her lip, blushing, suddenly shy again. What? he scoffs, keeping his gaze on the windshield. Hypocrite.
She knows that this is past her imaginary boundaries—the lines that she had so carefully drawn washing away like the constant patter of rain outside the window. All the tentative hugs and sharp words are melting into the ground, and every indecision disappears from her head. She recalls a thought: he is hers, and he is here. And that is enough.
She places her pale hand over his and tightens her grip, his large palm encircling her cool skin, hot and heavy and real. She sees his eyebrows shoot up, but his stare is fixed. If it surprises him that she has changed her mind, he doesn't say so.
She moves his hand up slowly to the edge of her skirt, then lets go. She moves closer towards him, the heat radiates from his form like a magnet pulling her in and she can't help the shudder that racks through her body.
Painfully, sinfully slow, she moves her hand to his arm, tracing the sinewy veins underneath the russet shadow, watching the pale marks her nails leave vanishing in milliseconds as she walks her fingers down. Her eyes glaze over and she leans her head against his neck, breathing in his earthy scent. So different from his, so natural and rich and organic. Like the woods and waterfalls and hope.
Her lips press softly against his neck and she feels the tremors from his throat as he hums. She tastes the skin, so warm and familiar. The car jerks to the side and she doesn't care whether they are in La Push or Forks or the parking lot of a restaurant, because he lifts up her head and his mouth meets hers, rough and wet and sweet.
She crawls on top of him, her long legs wrapping around his waist, crushing them so close, too close, and she can see that same recognizable expression in his eyes that she knows is in hers. He runs his fingers gently over her jaw and then it is angry and so long past when she grabs his shoulders and kisses him—it is every pathetic apology she has tried to say to him, every forgotten moment that she pretended didn't exist, every questioning glance when she caught herself thinking about what it would be like to fuck him.
It is jagged and broken like her heart, buttons drop to the floor like the pieces inside of her, dead and muffled and unfixable. She needs this—a release of pain and longing, and she is not careful when she kisses him and neither is he. He is fed up and tired and sick, he is the other half of her broken soul and he knows it. And when he takes her, right there in her truck on the side of the road—he opens his eyes and pretends he doesn't see her tears.
She isn't ready. And neither is he.
An hour later her head is on his chest and she is not asleep—she is staring into the darkness and listening to his uneven heartbeat, hoping that one day she will have the strength to fix it.
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END