The Simple Art of Breathing
Title: The Simple Art of Breathing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bella Swan/Carlisle Cullen
Disclaimer: Fiction. I own nothing.
Summary: Two clandestine lovers share a single kiss.
Author's Note: This is my first Twilight fanfic. It's quite short, but I think the message is conveyed despite its length. Written in 2nd person.
Breathing.
It is, by no means, a difficult act to achieve when someone so handsome-so perfect-is within a hair's breadth from your skin. Your breathing is disjointed; it interrupts simple words that try to form in your mouth. Your sentences lack the syntax that makes up the rules of grammar.
And then you feel foolish for even attempting to say hello.
But he greets you first, and you thank whatever's above that your vocal cords can even manage to say, "Hi, Dr. Cullen."
This is where it begins. This will lead to the pinnacle of your relationship, but yet you doubt yourself. How can a flawless being, like the man standing before you, love a young and foolish girl? You blame yourself for your social ineptitude, not to mention your deficiency when it comes to the archetype of a graceful and polite female.
Before your mouth can stumble over an excuse, he makes contact with your skin. An involuntary shiver runs down the length of your spine; it makes your hair stand. You freeze and catch your breath.
His cold lips touch your own.
Quietly, you accept what has occurred even though your mind is running at the speed of light. No thoughts compute. Your head is refusing to believe what is evident right before your eyes. Akin to a puppet, you tilt your head just slightly as he holds you like a fragile lamb.
And like his illicit lover you return his kiss with one of your own.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bella Swan/Carlisle Cullen
Disclaimer: Fiction. I own nothing.
Summary: Two clandestine lovers share a single kiss.
Author's Note: This is my first Twilight fanfic. It's quite short, but I think the message is conveyed despite its length. Written in 2nd person.
Breathing.
It is, by no means, a difficult act to achieve when someone so handsome-so perfect-is within a hair's breadth from your skin. Your breathing is disjointed; it interrupts simple words that try to form in your mouth. Your sentences lack the syntax that makes up the rules of grammar.
And then you feel foolish for even attempting to say hello.
But he greets you first, and you thank whatever's above that your vocal cords can even manage to say, "Hi, Dr. Cullen."
This is where it begins. This will lead to the pinnacle of your relationship, but yet you doubt yourself. How can a flawless being, like the man standing before you, love a young and foolish girl? You blame yourself for your social ineptitude, not to mention your deficiency when it comes to the archetype of a graceful and polite female.
Before your mouth can stumble over an excuse, he makes contact with your skin. An involuntary shiver runs down the length of your spine; it makes your hair stand. You freeze and catch your breath.
His cold lips touch your own.
Quietly, you accept what has occurred even though your mind is running at the speed of light. No thoughts compute. Your head is refusing to believe what is evident right before your eyes. Akin to a puppet, you tilt your head just slightly as he holds you like a fragile lamb.
And like his illicit lover you return his kiss with one of your own.