[twilight] Statues: Volume XIV
Title: Heaven’s White-Hot Gates
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Leah Clearwater/Bella Swan
Rating: PG
Summary: Through the flames, Leah saw the sun. [for the twilight uncanon drabble request meme at pinkceptional!]
It was hard to keep a placid face, but Leah was nothing if not a great pretender. Billy Black’s words slurred into the smoke and disappeared. Everyone was rapt, but the majesty of their ancestry had left.
Through the flames, Leah saw the sun. The girl was curled into Jacob’s side, eyes glassy and wide as she listened. A knot formed in Leah’s chest, tugging her over. Down her arms and legs, her muscles roped tight to keep her in place, to hold her heart inside her ribs.
Walk through the coals, flint and tinder. Bury both your feet in ashes and the world will burn, burn.
Every detail was more vivid: her doe brown eyes, chocolate hair, the tiny little freckles along her cheeks like sprinkles of cinnamon. Pearl pink lips, broken and flimsy nails, tiny French frame buried beneath sweaters and jeans. And her heartbeat - Christ, Leah could hear her heartbeat. It was rough and raucous, a weathered tune.
Sam glanced over a moment. His face was as flat and humorless as usual, with the same undertone of guilt. This time, it didn’t break Leah’s heart. This time, she barely even noticed.
Billy stopped talking, and everyone let out a collective breath. Leah tore her eyes from the girl across the fire-pit and pretended she had been listening.
Gravity doesn’t move - it simply ceases to exist. She’s become the glow around which you orbit, weightless and helplessly drawn. She’s become the flame that keeps you warm - that blackens you from the inside out.
Title: Symphony of Sinners
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Edward Masen/Esme Cullen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Edward’s return is a quiet one. [pre-twilight][for the twilight uncanon drabble request meme at pinkceptional!]
She drifts into his room like a stream of mist. Her nightgown, blinding white, flutters around her ankles, and the silk ribbons flash when they catch the moonlight. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, caramel and halfway to curling.
Mozart is playing in the background. They don’t interrupt it with words; Edward merely pulls her into his lap and they lean into the couch, folding into each other’s bodies until they are invisible in the fog.
He’s not home, she thinks. What she really means is, It’s not home without him.
Carlisle floats in and out of the house, a phantom. Work and sorrow call him away like a siren perched safely on a rock, luring her sailor into the frothing waves.
A ribbon slips around Edward’s finger, the tie falling from the loop at her breasts. He places his lips to the flat plane of her shoulder and kisses until he finds where her pulse ought to be.
I’m sorry.
His eyes are newly gold, still slivered with violent reds. The thirst and guilt and anger line the hollows of his veins and make it hard to resist much of anything anymore. He tugs; the ribbon snaps, revealing the sparsest whispers of cream-colored flesh.
The record spins on soundlessly, the music having dropped into a close. Now it doesn’t hurt to speak.
“Be sorry in the morning.”
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Leah Clearwater/Bella Swan
Rating: PG
Summary: Through the flames, Leah saw the sun. [for the twilight uncanon drabble request meme at pinkceptional!]
It was hard to keep a placid face, but Leah was nothing if not a great pretender. Billy Black’s words slurred into the smoke and disappeared. Everyone was rapt, but the majesty of their ancestry had left.
Through the flames, Leah saw the sun. The girl was curled into Jacob’s side, eyes glassy and wide as she listened. A knot formed in Leah’s chest, tugging her over. Down her arms and legs, her muscles roped tight to keep her in place, to hold her heart inside her ribs.
Walk through the coals, flint and tinder. Bury both your feet in ashes and the world will burn, burn.
Every detail was more vivid: her doe brown eyes, chocolate hair, the tiny little freckles along her cheeks like sprinkles of cinnamon. Pearl pink lips, broken and flimsy nails, tiny French frame buried beneath sweaters and jeans. And her heartbeat - Christ, Leah could hear her heartbeat. It was rough and raucous, a weathered tune.
Sam glanced over a moment. His face was as flat and humorless as usual, with the same undertone of guilt. This time, it didn’t break Leah’s heart. This time, she barely even noticed.
Billy stopped talking, and everyone let out a collective breath. Leah tore her eyes from the girl across the fire-pit and pretended she had been listening.
Gravity doesn’t move - it simply ceases to exist. She’s become the glow around which you orbit, weightless and helplessly drawn. She’s become the flame that keeps you warm - that blackens you from the inside out.
Title: Symphony of Sinners
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Edward Masen/Esme Cullen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Edward’s return is a quiet one. [pre-twilight][for the twilight uncanon drabble request meme at pinkceptional!]
She drifts into his room like a stream of mist. Her nightgown, blinding white, flutters around her ankles, and the silk ribbons flash when they catch the moonlight. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, caramel and halfway to curling.
Mozart is playing in the background. They don’t interrupt it with words; Edward merely pulls her into his lap and they lean into the couch, folding into each other’s bodies until they are invisible in the fog.
He’s not home, she thinks. What she really means is, It’s not home without him.
Carlisle floats in and out of the house, a phantom. Work and sorrow call him away like a siren perched safely on a rock, luring her sailor into the frothing waves.
A ribbon slips around Edward’s finger, the tie falling from the loop at her breasts. He places his lips to the flat plane of her shoulder and kisses until he finds where her pulse ought to be.
I’m sorry.
His eyes are newly gold, still slivered with violent reds. The thirst and guilt and anger line the hollows of his veins and make it hard to resist much of anything anymore. He tugs; the ribbon snaps, revealing the sparsest whispers of cream-colored flesh.
The record spins on soundlessly, the music having dropped into a close. Now it doesn’t hurt to speak.
“Be sorry in the morning.”