#frayedhope

               there’s something about his voice that feels familiar, like a warm blanket being tossed onto her. she has a VAGUE sense of movement  ---  movement is still strange to her, the fact that she can reach out within this comfortable place and feel things move, feel her mother  ---  before she knows she’s REACHING for something, grabbing at the source of the voice. she doesn’t know where it’s coming from; every voice is so DIFFERENT. except momma’s; she can recognize momma’s so immediately, can feel it coursing through her and around her, vibrating her warm space so pleasantly. daddy voice is the second she recognizes, knows almost like she knows momma’s. ( he’s so smart! he’s so, so smart and so talented and MAYBE he’s right, maybe she’s dangerous  ---  no, he’s definately right. she decided that when she heard momma scream when she first tried to get comfortable. she broke momma’s rib by accident, and the shout scared her so badly she jumped and broke a second. she hadn’t meant to, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s what BAD things do, they hurt, like she hurts  ---  )

          there it is! she knew that voice FELT familiar, and it feels like this. the DRUMMING inside her calms down. she’s comfortable again, quiet. there’s a yawn building in her tiny throat.

          “you’re upsetting them,” she hears the familiar voice hiss through the barrier that is her mother and the warmth she’s surrounded by.

          she ALMOST doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but then daddy’s voice  ---  it’s so familiar, so smooth and rich, and she loves him, almost like she loves momma, she doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, and oh god, she’s so sorry  ---  comes through: “that thing is a monster!” momma is most definitely asleep, or else she would be upset; she always is. right now though, she can hear the steady, comfortable beat of momma’s heart. “it deserves to be upset. it deserves to DIE. not her.”

          she tries, she tries so hard not to move, tries to make herself SMALLER, but it doesn’t work. she turns around, legs shifting  ---  it’s getting so tight in here, and maybe this is what daddy means when he says she’s killing momma, making her somehow frailer ---

          the drumming calms down again. she feels the way she does when MOMMA talks to her, that sweet, comfortable warmth. she feels loved. safe. her fingers clench and unclench, looking for the source of that love, but she doesn’t want to move. ( she’s a little afraid to move. moving UPSETS daddy. moving hurts momma. moving is a monster’s decision. moving is evil. )

          “when they’re upset, they MOVE more.”

          there’s a long pause. daddy’s voice is soft. “oh.” 

@frayedhope​ said : ❛ I look at you and it is like my throat being cut. ❜

        She  didn’t  look  at  Jasper,  but  stared  at  his  reflection  in  the  window  by  where  she  sat,  feet  tucked  under  her  petite  form.  By  all  appearances,  she  seemed  harmless;  a  slip  of  a  girl  with  fair  hair  and  delicate  features.  But  it  was  the  eyes  that  gave  her  away  (  they  always  did  );  they  no  longer  held  their  red  hue,  but  reflected  the  black  depths  of  night—a  tell-tale  sign  of  hunger  that  Jane  so  stubbornly  refused  to  give  in  to.  

        You  must  at  least  try,  Jane,  Carlisle  had  said.    You  need  to  drink.

        Alec,  for  his  part,  seemed  to  be  adjusting  to  this  new  diet  more  readily;  accepting  this  new  chapter  in  their  lives  with  far  more  willingness  than  Jane  was  capable  of.  Choosing  the  Cullens  hadn’t  been  a  difficult  choice  at  the  time.  Much  as  she  had  been  loyal  to  Aro,  her  self-preservation  had  been  stronger  and  like  the  rest  of  her  covenmates,  who’d  chosen  either  to  deflect  to  other  covens  or  be  killed,  well—she’d  chosen  to  live.  The  look  of  betrayal  in  her  Master’s  eyes  would  haunt  her  for  a  long  time.  

        Jane’s  temper  had  always  been  short,  but  it  walked  a  fine  line  the  longer  she  went  without  hunting.  The  tension  in  the  household  could  have  been  cut  with  a  knife,  her  hostility  towards  everyone  but  Alec  making  it  difficult  to  coax  her  out  of  her  state  of  mourning---because  that’s  what  it  was  in  the  end.  A  mourning.  For  her  coven,  for  the  Masters,  for  the  respect  and  fear  she  once  coveted.  

        The  corner  of  her  eye  twitched  just  slightly,  nails  digging  into  the  tights  that  stretched  over  her  knees.  Finally,  after  a  long  stretch  of  time,  she  turned  to  look  at  Jasper.  

#

what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone: Uncle Jazzy🤠

what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone: soft, smiling uncle jasper upon whom renesmee herself slapped a cowboy hat before auntie rose took a picture. no i accept no criticism. 

what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone: this fall out boy cover by the brooklynn duo

my muse’s last text to your muse: [ sms : Uncle Jazzy🤠 ] Come over to the lake! The packs are competing on who can cannonball the biggest splash. [ sms : Uncle Jazzy🤠 ] Protect your title!

Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship // @frayedhope

Before they went to join the Cullen’s Alice and Jasper traveled together. It was more than just getting Jasper use to the vegetarian diet but it was also so they could get to know one another. 

Alice loves to get piggyback rides from Jasper. She’ll climb up onto his back and he’ll carry her for hours if she wanted him to do so. 

When they first got married it was actually a small affair. Just the family at a beautiful spot that Alice and Jasper both agreed on. It was simple yet very intimate. Alice’s dress was handmade. 

         WHEN she finds him, he is still standing over the body, his once spotless white shirt stained a deep crimson, more read than WHITE. Blood drips from his fingers, and she watches as they fall to the ground, trying desperately to think of what to SAY; trying to focus on anything but the body. A child, or it had been, the child of some distracted mother, who had allowed it to wander away, unaware of the danger.                   Everything was soaked in red, and his eyes, which had been just on the cusp of AMBER ( how they had celebrated, their small victory  !  ) , stared back at her, once more a deep endless burgundy. She remembers endless coffee spoons && the cheery sound of a distant chime, as someone finally enters the diner on a cold, wet day.                    A cold, wet day not unlike this one. She thinks she can see her own irises reflected in his, an ACCUSING shade of pure gold. She doesn’t blame him, for giving into his t h i r s t. More than anything, it is guilt that courses through her veins ( if she h a d been PAYING more attention to the intricate paths that mapped out his future, if time had been on her side, if, if and ONLY if ), and she approaches him softly, aware of the tension in the AIR.