five times rosalie hale settled for second-best
Rosalie/Tanya. Rosalie/Leah. Rosalie/Bella. Rosalie/Alice. Rosalie/Esme.
written for gabby (lustandthrill). hope you like :)
1. five times rosalie hale settled for second-best
Rating 0/5 Word Count 558 Review this Chapter
There's a pattern here, one she doesn't want to see. She'd rather cover her eyes with bloodstained hands, colored scarlet by her dreams.
It will most likely happen again.
He doesn't suit you, she could have said, but sometimes she enjoys making things harder on herself.
One of her talents.
A sneer, why he likes you and not me I'll never understand, haughty nose turned up to the sky and red-gold hair shining (the feminine counterpart to his), voice coming down like anchors, like deadweight.
She thinks, I don't like you either, but the repetitions in her mind clash with cool lips on her own, hands brushing down smooth curves and she wonders where they'll take her. When her eyes deign to open she sees someone who looks like her but isn't, mirrors cracked after hours of despair.
When it's over, they're both disappointed.
Her hands are hotter than insomnia, fiery like the numbered days of eternity.
It's just more of the same.
Both are bitches, both ignored, swept under until they crumble to dust and are no longer in the way. The statues of their self-importance are weathered, features unrecognizable after all these years.
They used to think they were wanted.
One of them thinks of black hair reaching broad shoulders, a wide white smile and legs that took him far away. The other doesn't think of anything at all, not if she can help it.
She learned that long ago.
The girl with brown doe's eyes looks safe and vulnerable to the rest of the world, a facade that Rosalie cuts through with slicing laughter, piercing wounds leaking lies.
She's dangerous when left alone.
Two boys who would give their lives for her and she's already bored, toying with bitten fingernails in the clockwork of their hearts.
Don't touch me, she hisses, but only in her mind -- the insulation is splendid here; it keeps her thoughts in and everyone else's out.
Hesitant fingers trace her lips like they've never done this before and she doesn't mind; it's all she's good for.
She sees the future and manipulates the present but knows nothing of the past -- the phrase repeating history's mistakes has no value in this situation because when she gets it in her head that she's God, there's nothing you can do.
Rosalie learned to stop trying.
Sometimes they play dress-up and sometimes they go farther and never does it really matter, in the end.
She'll always go back to the other blond and leave a fallen angel in her wake.
She doesn't see her as her mother or mentor of any kind (no authority can raise itself higher than Rosalie's head). How can they, when those long hospital nights led to chaste kisses under the branches of life's lineage?
We shouldn't be doing this, it's a whisper, it's a crime.
So stop, Rosalie wants to scream, wants to hear her voice echo back to her in a thousand voices that are not her own -- but no one stops her and no one will, least of all herself.
She never had much willpower.
But some puzzle pieces fit together only after years of abuse, after time spent worrying the edges to a dull worn cardboard, pliant, softly generic -- until they'll match up with just anyone.