TWILIGHT UNCANON DRABBLE-A-THON
LET'S DO THIS.
(This idea, by the way, was shamelessly stolen from fated_addiction and her epic RPF post of win.)
So, let's get straight to the point.
Comment to this entry with a drabble.
Here's the catch: it has to be centered around a non-canon ship (like Alice/Edward, for instance), which is a relationship that could never, ever happen in the books ( Read more... )
(This idea, by the way, was shamelessly stolen from fated_addiction and her epic RPF post of win.)
So, let's get straight to the point.
Comment to this entry with a drabble.
Here's the catch: it has to be centered around a non-canon ship (like Alice/Edward, for instance), which is a relationship that could never, ever happen in the books ( Read more... )
Family is taken before their time, and she reflects, a look into the mirror, that being a vampire is always too soon for some of them.
The future starts becoming a dark abyss, a part of which no one can see anymore without the light that guides the way, the star in a Southern sky, and the sun stops shining as the years pass on.
He starts sitting in the rain, a bench he’s built with his own two hands. She could’ve sworn he was human, the day and a bit he took to make a seat for himself and an invisible lover.
Leaves the shape of hearts, broken and full and cut at corners, fall around them, land on the top of his head, and as she looks on at him, the way his shoulders slump and his body doesn’t move, snaps something cold in her chest.
Twigs snap beneath her feet, none of them walk the same way as before; there’s a limp to Esme, a shuffle to Emmet, a pain in Edward’s leg as moving from the kitchen to the front door is more of a pain than it ever has been.
(Losing sight does that to vampires, so Carlisle says.)
She sits beside him, a sigh greets her and he blinks. Faint lines crease his face, the way they start forming tales on humans; she runs her fingers over his cheek, keeps her eyes on the tip of his nose as his look straight on.
Grey stones mark the loss of a human; he believes in the what’s yours is mine and mine is yours. She never has, never will; sharing something with a beating heart causes her more pain than she’d like.
Rain pelts harder, her hair becomes matted and the ground beneath her feet sinks, “Jasper,” she says, voice as slippery as rain, eyes blink harder against a war they will never win and something sparks in his cheeks.
He doesn’t say anything, her hand finds his and squeezes his damp fingers.
His whisper of “Rose” is like rust against her shoulder.
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