I am convinced that Twilight fanfic readers are the best people in fandom. So much love has come my way because of these boys and their story. Thank you all, a thousand times. I *adore* Jasper & Edward, and it's an amazing gift to connect to others who love them too.
Funny, slightly non-sequitur story: my husband gave me heck the other day for calling them "boys" since I clench a bit when men refer to us as "girls". Hehe!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything Twilight-related. Stephenie Meyer does. I, however, take great pleasure in corrupting them with condoms and shower ledges.
-o-
Jasper
It's 7:30 a.m. Always an early riser, I am already awake despite the late hour at which I got to sleep. The lean, lanky angel with whom I spent the night, is lying wrapped up in my arms, his head resting on my bare chest. His lips are parted and his gentle, rhythmic breathing is like a song to me. I gently run my fingers through his burnished locks, attempting to bring some order to his perpetual 'sex hair'; but I give up rather quickly, deciding it's not worth waking him from his peaceful rest. Besides, I decide, when it comes to this particular boy, I rather like the post-coital look.
I am not a lay-in-bed kind of guy. I don't require much more than five or six hours a night, and I am the type of person whose feet hit the floor literally within thirty seconds after I wake up. The fact that I have been lying awake for half an hour, holding Edward, watching him sleep, listening to him breathe, is a monumental testament to my complete and utter contentment at this moment.
In my mind, I replay the memory of coming face-to-face with Edward last night. As much as I'd thought he was gorgeous in high school, he was still really a boy then. Even seeing him from across the club, I could only really tell that my memory hadn't done him justice. But turning to see him standing so close to me – the color of his hair, the determined set of his jaw, and the vivid green eyes that snapped and sparked as he stared me down – I had been rendered temporarily speechless by the sheer beauty of the man.
I silently congratulate myself on having worked so hard to carefully cultivate an outward demeanor of calm, even when I am anything but calm on the inside. Practicing a killer stare has saved me in the past, whether from a hospital board of directors who demand unrealistic changes to the operating budget, or club queens who don't get the message when I tell them I'm not interested. It's not in my nature to be rude to people – I even feel a bit guilty about resorting to cursing at the infant who whined when Edward blew him off – so the Jazz Stare is my go-to mechanism. It communicates my point fairly effectively.
And having the Jazz Stare down was the only thing that saved me from dropping to my knees on the spot at the sound of Edward's now-masculine voice, when he'd verbalized what I'd fantasized about for ten years. I want to make you sit on my nine-inch cock.
I close my eyes and groan softly, my cock twitching even now at the memory. If I stay in this bed, I'll be waking Edward up much sooner than I should, out of sheer need and lust. Slowly, carefully, I inch out from underneath him, and lower his head to a pillow. He stirs a bit at the repositioning, but doesn't wake.
I visit the bathroom, the scene of the most mind-blowingly intense blow job I've ever had the pleasure to receive. I decide against showering yet, not knowing how deeply Edward sleeps – I don't want to wake him. I also can't help wondering, if I wait till he gets up, might I get an opportunity to saddle up the shower ledge? The prospect gives me a little shiver of delight.
Passing back through the bedroom, I pause to pull on my jeans, then continue to the living area of the apartment. A large window at the end of the kitchen faces east, and I'm pleased to see that it will be a sunny day. Living in Texas and then Southern California, I became used to beautiful, consecutive days of full sunshine. San Francisco's fog and moderate temperatures were, I reflect, probably good stepping stones in my eventual re-acclimation to Pacific Northwest weather.
On the granite kitchen counter sits a Krups coffeemaker; so I figure there must be some coffee somewhere in this kitchen. I open a few cherry-wood cupboard doors; I find filters and a coffee grinder, though I hope I won't need to fire up the noisy grinder. I check the fridge. There sits an opened pound of Starbucks' Christmas Blend, in its signature gold bag. As I retrieve the bag, I chuckle at the cliché of Starbucks coffee in Seattle, but I'm grateful – this roast is my favorite. It's now February; Edward must stock up during the two months of the year when the Christmas Blend is available. The coffee in the bag is already ground, saving me from having to having to use the grinder.
Once the coffee is brewing, I wander out into the main living area to look around. It's a beautiful apartment, with high ceilings, exposed brick on one wall and floor-to-ceiling windows on the exterior wall. The apartment is on the third floor, and the view of the neighborhood is somewhat obstructed by the tops of mature trees; but it's not an unpleasant view. I meander through the living room area, noting the sleek black leather couch and industrial-looking glass-and-chrome occasional tables. At one end of the living space, a separate room has been constructed and it cuts into the open feel of the rest of the apartment. I wonder about the purpose of the intrusion, until I remember that Edward is a photographer; this must be his dark room.
I continue to slowly peruse the room. There are pieces of art on the walls; and some framed photos, I assume taken by Edward, of architecture and the Seattle skyline. There's a sleek, modern wall unit that holds a flat-screen television and an expensive-looking stereo system. The window treatment is a light, airy sheer panel that gives some privacy without blocking the light. Altogether, the apartment is everything a typical, well-off, young single male would want in a home.
Almost.
Something is missing, and I can't put my finger on what it is. I pace around the living space more quickly now, trying to work it out. I stop and again gaze around the room, but it eludes me. I shake my head, frowning slightly.
The coffee maker is no longer gurgling, so I head back to the kitchen to get a cup of morning nectar. I find a coffee mug and a spoon, and open the fridge to pull out the cream. I doctor up my coffee – always pour the cream in the mug first, then pour the coffee to caramelize the cream – and replace the cream in the fridge. I close the fridge door, and for a long moment, I stare at the black expanse of the door. And suddenly, I know what's missing from Edward's living room, from his fridge door – hell, from his entire apartment.
I think back to six weeks earlier, when I'd put my apartment in San Francisco on the market. "Pack away your family photos and mementos before you show your apartment," my real estate agent had advised. "A prospective buyer needs to be able to imagine himself living in your space, and having your personal effects visible makes that difficult for him." And now, looking around Edward's apartment, one could assume that he is trying to sell it. There are no photos of his family or his friends. He's a photographer, for fuck's sake – documenting people's lives is his passion and his livelihood; yet he has nothing in his living space that documents his life.
What's missing from Edward's apartment, is Edward.
I slump down onto the leather couch with my coffee and tuck my long legs up beside me. I stare out the window and consider what this means. Maybe he prefers a minimalist approach to decorating; that would seem to be the case, looking around his apartment. Everything is sleek lines and neutral colors. He has no plants, no pets…he's the only living thing here, aside from me.
Still…no photos of his parents or his sister? I'm no decorator, but it seems to me that even a minimalist style would allow for some unobtrusive family photos, wouldn't it? And then his words from last night echo back to me: I don't have friends…people don't deal with me more than they have to. And I can't ignore the very real possibility that there is more going on here than just a decorating style.
Realizing that Edward may actually be every bit as isolated as he implied he was, is heartbreaking. I'm self-centered, and I'm cold…The only ones who seek me out are the boys at the clubs who want me to fuck them. I'd thought perhaps he was exaggerating in an attempt maintain his boundaries. The passion I'd seen in those eyes last night…it's difficult to believe that he has no one in his life, not even family, for whom he feels any tenderness.
Wondering about his family naturally draws my thoughts to my own; and I can't help but smile. My parents, still thousands of miles away in Austin; and my sister, Rosalie, three years older than me, happily married and raising a beautiful family in San Diego. I have pictures – no, that's understating it. I have epic albums of my family. Stacks upon stacks of framed photos that are sitting, wrapped up in boxes in my new apartment. My family has been the foundation of my life since the day I was born. I have never been put in the position to doubt my family's love for me, not even the day I told my parents I was gay.
It was early in my sophomore year of college. It had been a difficult summer for me. I'd developed a massive crush on one of the male lifeguards at our community pool; and between trying not to get an enormous hard-on every time I swam, and fending off the unwanted advances of the neighborhood girls, my summer pretty much sucked. Out of sheer frustration, I had finally broken down and accepted a date with my next-door neighbor Victoria. She had just graduated from high school and would be heading off to Texas A&M in September. As I later realized, her goal was to lose her cherry before getting to university, and she had decided I was the one to do it.
Our date was a disaster, of course; she wanted me to go to a party with her, which I did. She kept trying to get me to feel her up, and I couldn't do it – gay or otherwise, I was horrified at the thought that she was willing to have her first time be with someone who cared nothing for her. When I finally said that I wanted to go home, she cried, and I felt absolutely awful for having accepted the date in the first place.
The experience made me realize that I just couldn't ignore my own urges any longer. The first weekend I got back to college in San Diego, I went to the student union, where I knew I would find fliers advertising various social events and bars. I hung around the board till I was sure no one was looking, then grabbed a bright pink (it HAD to be bright pink?!) flier and fled back to my apartment. The flier had information on the campus's PRIDE group. I needed to talk to someone who had already come out. I needed some advice on how to tell my parents, what to expect. I needed to get information on safe sex. And, hell – I desperately needed to get laid.
Attending my first meeting of the PRIDE club, as terrifying as it was, was also an utterly liberating experience. I met friends there – people I was already acquainted with but didn't know were gay, people I'd never met before, men and women, international students...everyone had their own story to tell. They became my support network at school, even after my family knew everything.
I went out to one or two gay clubs every weekend, usually with a group of my new friends, and very soon, I found myself having my first encounter with another boy. The first few times were just giving and receiving head. Eventually, though, I took the plunge. The boy I did it with had never done it before, either; and I think it was actually a good thing that both of us were inexperienced and scared. We were each very gentle and patient with the other, and though it never developed into anything beyond mutual fulfillment of each other's needs, it was a good, non-threatening environment for us both to learn and experiment. Even after we stopped sleeping together, we remained friends throughout the rest of college, and continue to keep in touch.
I told Rosalie, who was my closest confidante outside of my school friends, over the phone the weekend after I first had sex. She was in her first year in "the real world" after college and was working for a financial planning company in Los Angeles. Rosalie, always outspoken, said, "It's about time you figured it out. Are you using condoms??" As it turns out, she had suspected as much for several years. Rosalie's reaction was very encouraging, and it shored up my resolve to tell my parents.
I came out to my parents the weekend I was home for Thanksgiving. I was nervous but not terrified. I knew my parents were very socially liberal; but it is, I imagine, quite a different proposition when your child tells you he's gay. It was a very emotional experience – not because they were upset, but because they were proud of me. Proud that I had admitted the truth to myself, proud that I shared it with them, and proud that I had already taken care to protect myself and my partners, as all responsible sexually active people should. They, too, had wondered whether I was interested in boys, since I'd never dated a girl outside the disastrous date with Victoria next door. The three of us cried together, they hugged me and told me they loved me, and that was it.
When I went back to school and described the scene to my friends, most were jealous; all were in awe. Not one had found such an accepting reaction from their parents. It reaffirmed for me what I already knew: that I had the most loving family I could possibly hope for; that they would be there with me for whatever came my way; and that I was blessed.
Realizing that my coffee cup is empty brings my thoughts back to the present, and as I pad back to the kitchen for a refill, I feel a pang of homesickness. Even though Washington State is where I originated, home is with the people I love. I realize how lucky I am to have an open and loving relationship with my family; even more so now that Rosalie has married her husband Emmett and given me a couple of adorable nephews.
Before I can start to feel too sorry for myself, though, a sadder thought arises: what if Edward doesn't have any of this? No family support, no network of friends who care for him? It's unthinkable for anyone to be so detached from love, and the possibility hurts my heart. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know of his parents. His father is a physician, I think. His mother…hmm, no idea. I met his father once on "Career Day" in ninth grade; he had come to the school to answer questions for those who were interested in a career in medicine. I had sat in on his session, more out of curiosity about my crush's family than from a burning desire to be a doctor. Dr. Cullen had seemed warm and pleasant enough then; but I know that means nothing. From the stories my friends have shared with me over the years, about their coming-out experiences, I know all too well how horribly a parent can react to their child's disclosure. I wince, thinking of the possibility of Edward having to bear the difficulties he went through in high school without being bolstered by loved ones.
Edward is, without a doubt, a badly-damaged individual. From the very little I know about him, I know that he makes himself an undesirable companion by pushing others away; and I am almost certain that it's a learned behavior, a method of coping with the coldness he has encountered; rather than an honest reflection of his true personality. Despite his beauty and his outward "don't fucking care" attitude, he has, somewhere in there, a sensitive nature. I caught a glimpse of it last night when he asked me to turn so he could see me; and after he came, I could swear that his words of gratitude were for more than a great fuck.
He's damaged, but he's not beyond repair. Last night I breached his barricades – not by force, not by means of humiliation or violence – but by patience, reason, and tenderness. He responded, in a reasonably short period of time, with tenderness, gratitude and even generosity; like a plant that has been hidden in a closet finding itself suddenly brought into sunlight. I'm too practical to assume, or even to hope, that when he wakes up this morning, he'll be whole and unscarred and we'll ride off into the sunset together. I know we have a long road ahead of us, and still more things we need to discuss. I'm sure it'll occur to him at some point that me walking into Spin and finding him there was certainly not just a stroke of luck. That will be another conversation in itself.
Despite that – right at this moment, I decide to be happy. I am well-sexed, caffeinated, and sitting on a very comfortable leather couch looking out over Seattle on a Sunday morning. Oh, and, one other minor little detail: I'm in Edward fucking Cullen's apartment! I feel like Laura Linney's character in "Love, Actually", when her long-unrequited love, Karl – I pause briefly to consider Rodrigo Santoro's finer points - finally comes to her apartment and she invites him to come up to her room. She asks him to stay at the door for just a few seconds while she takes care of something – then she ducks around the corner out of his sight, and executes a very brief dance of joy, complete with silent scream. It captures the moment perfectly, and I know exactly how she feels.
A smile is still on my lips as I compare my situation with that of my favorite Britcom movie, when from the bedroom door I hear a velvet voice say, "I'd ask you how you are this morning; but that smile pretty much says it all."
-o-
Hope you enjoyed getting to know a bit about Jasper. A couple of shout-outs to end this chapter:
PurdueLiz of The Perv Pack's Smut Shack referenced Over The Top in last week's "Pervy Word for your Tuesday" listing. Thank you for the love and the quote! Please visit the PPSS at www(dot)pervpackssmutshack(dot)com for a weekly review of a current Twilight fanfic story; and pervy goodness for every day of the week in the sidebar! Definitely worth the visit!
My friend, who reads/reviews as trois mommy, took time from her busy evening the other night to let me frantically bounce a couple of ideas off of her, and for that I'm very grateful. Love you, girl.
As always, please, please review!