Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You tremble a little. 

Not because you’re cold. You don’t acknowledge the cold anymore. 

Not lately, at least. 

No, you’re trembling because your (extremely hot, and equally unavailable) professor is staring at you expectantly in the middle of the most expensive clothing store you’ve ever set foot in. 

With said feet currently dripping onto, the equally expensive, marble floor. The water tracks down your jeans, darkening the fabric. And the store smells like credit limits you’ll never reach. 

“Pick something.” 

She gestures to the rack in front of you with those same thin, nimble fingers that held you in the middle of the women’s bathroom on campus. That tangled themselves between yours as she ushered you into her cherry red leather passenger seat. The same fingers that reached across the center console, grasped the buckle of the seatbelt and gently secured it at your hip.  

She had lingered there, you swear she did.  

(Or maybe you’re just fucking insane, Bella.) 

Despite the voices curling at your neck, you still find yourself distracted by them. But the moment doesn’t last, because your professor is as impatient as she is erotically terrifying. 

“Pick. Something.” 

A jolt surges your veins, and you wince. She isn’t yelling, but her commands never fail to leave you with very little body autonomy. And it takes everything in you not to fall to your knees and wallow at her feet. 

You know it isn’t normal. You know you’re majorly obsessed and marginally sane, at this point. The thing is— 

You don’t care. 

You rub at your wrist, fingertips tracing phantom bruises that aren’t there anymore and thin lines of callous, raised skin. Evidence of your most recent attempt to stay alive by destroying yourself.  

Your knuckles throb from nearly rearranging Lauren’s face.

“Dr. Hale..” You bite your lip. Shaking your head slightly, you say, “I can’t—” 

The way her amber eyes narrow tells you that she already predicted your answer. Nor does she appreciate how you addressed her in such a private setting. 

It’s the furthest from campus that you’ve ever been alone with her. The fact that she brought you here, to the next city over, should ring some alarm bells for you. How comfortable she is stealing you away from your never-ending self-loathing. Despite the obvious professional boundaries being crossed. 

That someone you barely know—and are completely, utterly obsessed with—is so hell-bent on saving you from yourself.  

It was never part of the plan. She was never apart of the plan. 

And it should frighten you—the way that you simply let her. 

(It does.) 

“Isabella..” She warns. 

Something warm—no, hot—presses underneath your ribcage. Your vision starts to blur, and your skin itches. And you will your consciousness not to slip sideways.  

Not here. Not now. 

“Rosalie..” You push back. 

The blonde woman’s nostrils flare. In irritation, or satisfaction at hearing you speak her name—you’re not sure. But the smile that follows is devious. And you know the image will etch itself into the confines of your mind every time you close your eyes.  

“You can, and you will.” She purrs, closing the distance slowly—so close now that you can smell the sweetness of her perfume, “Do you know why, darling?” She asks softly. 

You find yourself slipping back to the memory of the day you first met. How she immediately and unapologetically made your space her own. How she didn’t ask. How she never asks. 

How that’s exactly what the darkly sadistic, twisted part of your brain needs her to do to keep you sane. 

“Uh—” You mumble. 

Your professor leans in, your pulse triples in speed, and the coolness of her breath tickles your earlobe as she speaks lowly in your left ear. 

“Because I said so.” 

Her palm moves up, ghosting the plane of your chest beneath the hoodie. Grabbing the strings there, she tightens her fingers around them, twisting until there’s pressure pressing firmly against both sides of your neck. “Yeah?”  

You gulp, relishing in both her proximity and her authority over your windpipe. Your breaths coming short and shallow. 

(You’re sick.) 

You like it. 

You nod, and the strings tighten further as your professor growls at your lack of vocal affirmative. 

“I will.” You finally agree. 

She doesn’t say ‘Good girl’ when she releases her hold on the strings. But she does pat your cheek fondly. 

“Thought so.” She murmurs, “Stay here.” 

She turns on her heel and disappears into a rack of winter coats. And you finally release the breath you had been holding. 

You’re left behind. In sneakers that squeak with every step, hands jammed in the pockets of a hoodie you’ve been wearing for three days. 

You try to make yourself small among racks of silk dresses that cost more than your rent. It’s easier to spiral than to stand still. 

(You don’t belong here. You never belonged anywhere. This whole thing is some kind of cosmic joke—drop the suicidal girl into a luxury boutique and watch her implode.) 

The mirror to your right warps your reflection under its perfect lighting—pale face, dark circles, hoodie clinging to your ribs. You stare until your skin crawls. 

“Bella?” 

Your heart stutters, and that voice stops you cold.  

You blink and lift your head, and there she is.  

You squint slightly. 

Your throat burns. 

“Dany?” You ask in clear surprise. 

She doesn’t hesitate to move closer—her silver-blonde braid falling over one shoulder. Her perfume brushes over you as she stops a few feet away—peppermint and rosemary.  

“I thought that was you.” Daenerys smiles, and it wields the same impossible warmth that once kept you alive longer than you meant to. Bright and comforting in all the ways you’d like to forget.  

Her eyes flick over you, her blonde brows furrowing in concern. “Why are you wet?” 

Her hand reaches out. Tentative at first, then steadier as her fingers curl over your forearm. Warm, familiar, and entirely too much. 

You swallow against the dryness of your throat, “Uh—rain. Outside.” 

”So it would seem.” She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth tugging upward, but her gaze lingers.  

She’s dressed casually, though “casual” on Daenerys Targaryen still means the finest silks and subtle jewelry. Wealth clings to her as effortlessly as that smile. 

“How are you?” she asks, softer now. Regarding you with the same old unbearable patience that she always has. 

You shift your weight. There’s no mention of your dad, but the loss hangs in the air between you. You hate how easily she can still read you. 

She always could. 

“I’m…” You don’t finish. A half-shrug passes for an answer. 

Dany doesn’t push. She never did. That was the worst part—her patience made you want to scream. 

“Are you working again?—" Before adding gently, obviously noticing the dark rings around your eyes, “Too much?” She dips her head, trying to catch your eyes. 

You hate that look.  

You rub the heel of your palm over your brow, a nervous habit, biting your lip you say, “I’m always working.” 

“You know, Bella,” Her fingers begin to trail upward, already halfway between your bicep, “—if you ever need me…” 

The implication hangs in the air, and you find yourself thinking about the time you once shared together. The laughs. The distractions. The sex. God, the sex. If you’re honest, she finally made you feel something after years of trauma. 

You’re grateful. Then you wonder whether she could bring you out of this crazy obsession with your college professor before it spirals out of control. 

“Dany..” You begin weakly, then you lick your lips, I—” 

“Bella.” 

Rosalie’s voice cuts through the boutique, and you flinch as if it were a snap of a whip.  

You don’t even have to turn. The hairs on your arms rise before you see her. She’s holding an armful of carefully chosen garments, her expression neutral in the way only a predator’s can be. 

Dany looks just as off-center as you are. 

Silence settles thickly as Rosalie stops next to you, facing Daenerys—whose hand had promptly fell from your forearm. The warmth disappears too quickly, leaving your skin cold and burning all at once. She never moves out of your space, though. And Rosalie’s face is unreadable as she glances down to where Dany’s hand had touched you, then back up. 

After a few tense breaths of them both simply staring at one another, your brain reboots, and you gesture to the older woman to your left taking a subtle step back and away from the younger woman near you. 

“Shit—yeah, this is my—” 

“—Rosalie,” Your professor interrupts smoothly, stepping forward before you can explain the context of your relationship. Her smile, cool and practiced. “And you are?” 

Dany straightens, her own composure sliding into place as you begin, “An old fri—” 

“Ex-girlfriend, actually,” Daenerys corrects curtly. Extending her hand in greeting, Rosalie shifts the clothes to one hand. Dany winces a bit when the older woman’s fingers wrap around hers. And you write it off as simply a trick of the light when their hands return to their sides. 

Rosalie wouldn’t have hurt your ex on purpose, would she?

Dr. Hale’s eyes sparkle. She turns to you then, eyes narrowing with that small, private ferocity you’ve learned to call attention. 

And suddenly you aren’t quite sure if you are in danger, or whether she’s just simply amused at the sheer audacity. 

“Ah, so she does have a thing for pretty women.” She tilts her head, gaze flicking between you and Dany. The corner of her mouth lifts smugly, “Blondes too, I see.” 

Daenerys’ cheeks begin to redden in rising irritation. Something in her jaw flexes. She doesn’t flinch, nor retreat. You cough into your fist, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. 

The air tightens, invisible strings pulling between them while you dangle in the middle.  

You want to interrupt them. Tell them that they should save their breath. That none of it will matter in a few months. That you’re nothing but a demented college student who needs guidance.  

And you’re stuck between them, insane little Bella Swan—soaked through, hoodie clinging to your ribs—while two of the most terrifyingly beautiful women you’ve ever known measure each other up like duelists. 

For you. 

You laugh in your head. It sounds shrill. Unhinged. You want to clap your hands and shout, Do you two realize how absurd this is? But you don’t. You can’t. You’re transfixed. 

Because you’re spiraling. Spiraling so fast it’s almost funny. You can’t believe that any of this is happening. Rosalie Hale—terrifying, magnificent, unreachable—staking ground with your ex in the middle of a luxury boutique she dragged you to. 

God, the ferocity of Rosalie. The way she stands, the heat she carries in her words alone. The way her voice cuts as much as it soothes you when you’re on the edge of madness. You can’t look away. If she gutted you right here in front of the silk blouses and your clearly jealous ex, you’d thank her for the intimacy. 

“I suppose so.” 

“So,” Rosalie begins. “How did you two—” Her smile is fake, you know it is. And you squirm uncomfortably at the sight of two different aspects of your life colliding. 

The boutique soundscape collapses into white noise—distant chatter, the faint hiss of rain against the windows—but none of it feels real. 

Dany’s voice doubles, then triples. Rosalie’s eyes flash gold-black-red-gold. 

Dany speaks again—something about you, about her choices that led to the break up—but the words warp. They echo. They double. 

Choiceschoiceschoices.  

Your brain stutters, skips frames. 

You blink and the mannequins are staring at you. One has Rosalie’s face. You blink again, and it’s blank plastic. 

Finally, Rosalie’s hand curls around your elbow and pulls you from the beginnings of psychosis. Gentle but firm. 

“If you’ll excuse us,” she says to Daenerys, her smile is sharp. And you vaguely wonder how much verbal sparring you just disassociated from. 

Dany doesn’t move to stop you. But her gaze lingers steadily, searching your face for something you can’t give her anymore. 

Something that belongs to Rosalie, and Rosalie alone now. 

“Take care of yourself, Bella,” she says quietly. 

You give her an apologetic look over your shoulder, but Rosalie’s tug pulls you along before you can form words. 

The dressing rooms are warm and dimmer than the floor outside. Rosalie sets the clothes on the bench with deliberate care, then turns back to you.  

“She’s pretty,” she murmurs, unable to stop her. 

And yes, Daenerys is absolutely stunning. Once, you thought she was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen. How you couldn’t believe she’d waste her time with a nut case like you.  

Still, the past is the past. And your obsession with pleasing Rosalie takes precedence over whatever dealings you had with previous partners. 

“Pretty irrelevant.” 

You attempt to placate, but Rosalie’s eyes don’t soften. They’re all edges. With sharp barbs, golden fire that never fails to singe your soul. 

“And she was.. your TA?” She almost growls.

”My..” Your mouth clasps shut—not only because you missed that part of the conversation—but because in that moment you realize—you lied to her.

So you call all of your professors pretty then?

Just you.

“Psychology TA.” You admit, swallowing thickly, “I had to choose an elective that semester.”

“Cute,” Rosalie muses quietly, though her eyes are more akin to barbs as the cut to you suddenly, “Do you love her?”  

The question hangs in the air, and for some odd reason—you know you’re fucked. 

Because you won’t lie to Rosalie. She’d know. And you know (or don’t want to find out) the ramifications for that. 

“I do.” You admit gently. Praying it will soften the blow. 

It doesn’t. 

“Hm..” Rosalie hums, eyes now completely black. And sweat begins to bead at your brow as she turns to carefully separate the stack of clothes she found for you. 

Desperately wanting to change the subject, you palm the back of your neck nervously and ask one of your many nagging questions—

“Did you know that your eyes change colors?” 

Rosalie falters. But only for a moment. 

“I’m aware, yes.” She says simply. Ever elusive when it comes to your ability to notice the things about her that she so obviously would rather not discuss. 

“Why?” You press. Taking a step forward. 

“Why what?” 

She stops, turns to you.  

“Why do they change colors?” You ask, “Do you wear contacts?” 

Her lips stretch. Slow and amused, she gestures up with a wave of her fingers. 

“Fluorescents.” 

She throws your words back at you, and you accept that it’s all she’s going to give you right now. 

“Touché.” 

Rosalie clicks her teeth, moving forward to brush past you. 

“Try those on, I need to—” Her hand reaches to the bicep of your arm, the arm Dany held. Her fingers trails down, until they’re clasped around your wrist. “Run to the little girl’s room.” 

Your heart thunders in your chest, but when you blink again—

She’s gone.

Despite her command to try on the expensive jeans, shirts, and hoodies she picked out. You settle yourself on the chair adjacent to the bench covered in clothes. 

The palms of your hands rub at your eyes. And you begin to think about Dany, and how things ended with her. How you let the darkness consume you, and didn’t want to dampen her light too. 

She did not take the breakup well. She had sobbed in front of you. It broke you a little. And you still have the cuts that brought you through the heartbreak to show for it. 

Minutes past. Maybe hours. You’re not sure where you are in time anymore most of the time. But eventually, your professor returns. And you look up at the same moment that she turns her back to close the door. 

Her breaths seem labored. And her palm and forehead are pressed to the door. 

“Rosalie?” 

When she turns to you, she isn’t amber-eyed anymore. 

They’re red. 

Her lips are slightly parted. And blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, her teeth razor-like and protruding from her top lip. You blink again and it’s gone.

Her teeth—sparkly white, normal.

Your throat burns. The static in your head rises. The boutique flickers—white light, red light, white again. 

She doesn’t answer you. She gets straight to the point.

“Take off the jacket,” she says. 

You stare dumbly. Caught between panic and arousal. Her brow simply raises as she stalks toward you. 

“Shirt too.” 

You swallow. Or try to. 

You stand, grasp the hem of your shirt. It peels away like wet paper, and her hungry eyes follow every movement. Your skin is glowing faintly in the dark—too pale.  

Rosalie steps close, right in front of you. 

You whisper hoarsely, “What now?” 

Her fingertips trail up your sternum, over the faintest outline of ribs that have never healed quite right. Past your bra. Toward your shoulder. 

She stills. Frowning deeply, eyes still somewhat glazed over. Bright and crimson.  

She traces her fingers along your collarbone, until she swipes over the curve of shoulder. You look down at her hand. 

The pads of her fingers press against two, tiny puncture marks there. 

Marks you don’t remember getting. 

Then, the room tilts. Your vision cracks open like glass. The memory slams down—heat, static, and her voice cutting through the blur. Your head falls back as a vision overtakes you. 

Her voice—low, frantic, reverent. It doesn’t hit you all at once, but fragments seep through.

“You fool.” 

“Not at the moment, but if you die tonight—I will kill you.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

“You don’t get to die—” 

“—not yet.” 

“I won’t allow it.” 

“I’m going to keep you alive,” 

“No matter how many times—” 

“I’ll drag you back myself.” 

“Sleep.”

“I—” You step back, energy spent from the fragmented recollection, “I remember.” 

Rosalie pulls her hand back at your words, her face twisting into something that looks like half-hearted regret. Something’s different this time, though. And you have reason to believe it has everything to do with those eyes. 

“You were at my house.” You say. 

She turns away. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

You follow her forward. Eyes glued to the blonde tresses flowing down her back. 

“That Friday. You were in my house.” 

She whips her head back around, and her expression shutters. The red in her eyes flares, and for a moment you see the predator outright. She tilts her head, playing coy as she turns the rest of her body to face you. 

She’s toying with you. 

And you don’t need that right now. Not when you barely have a hold of your delusions as it is. 

“Was I?” She asks. 

You release a harsh breath through your nose in frustration. 

“Rosalie—” 

Something hot sparks in your professor’s eyes, and she stalks forward. 

“Mmm.. say it again.” Her teeth gleam as she smiles wickedly. 

“Uh—” You stumble. 

She growls. 

“Again.” 

“Rosalie..” You’re breathless now, and a little bit of fear creeps up your spine. Not at all unwelcome. And that’s the worst part. 

“Now—let’s get one thing straight, Isabella,” Rosalie draws out the last syllable. Shoving you in the center of your chest with the palm of her hand. Your foot catches, and you fall backwards into the chair that sits behind you. 

And you’re suddenly—embarrassingly—hyperaware of the wetness now coating your thighs. You didn’t realize how much you missed this rough version of your professor. One who takes from you just as much as she gives in return. 

She bends over slightly, hands resting over your wrists on each arm of the chair. Holding you in place. 

“You don’t get to question my actions—ever.” Her fingers tighten for emphasis, and you wince. A pleasant shiver shudders down the length of your spine. “I’ll live under your bed if I damn well please.”  

You can imagine it, now. Rosalie—the monster hiding underneath your bed. 

No, not underneath. In bed. With you. 

Much better. 

The insanity is winning again. 

And at this point, you can’t tell who’s. 

“You can—” 

She answers swiftly, 

“I don’t need your permission.” 

Effectively cut off, you nod quickly. 

Because she doesn’t need it. But if given the choice, you’d give it to her anyway. 

Your professor straightens herself, and you can’t help but miss the proximity already. She reaches forward, palm up. 

“Give me your hand.” 

You do as you’re told, like always. And your breath leaves your body as she begins to trace the expanse of skin there with her eyes. She trails her fingertips over a particularly deep patch of raised skin—extending from your inner wrist to the middle of your forearm. 

It should have done the job. 

It didn’t. 

Not with Jake’s incessant hovering. And his infuriating ability to keep you trapped in existence. You wish he’d just let go. 

You wish he understood you. 

“You did this to yourself.” 

It’s not a question. Because she knows. 

She knows. She’s seen you, bloodied and completely filthy in a pool of your own vomit. 

Shame holds you tightly in its grasp. 

“When was the last time?” 

“The day before I met you.” You admit. 

What you don’t admit, is your other.. methods.. Of execution.  

“No more.” She commands. 

But you can’t stop. 

You won’t stop. 

But you’ll try. You’ll try to be good for her. For the semester, you decide, at least. 

“No more.” She demands. Almost as if she hears your true reluctance. “Can you do that for me?” 

No. 

You nod anyway. 

“Good girl.” You genuinely almost start levitating. 

The air between you vibrates like a live wire. You can smell something metallic underneath her perfume, and something else you’re not brave enough to believe to be true.  

She smooths the skin of your razor-carved arm with slow, deliberate strokes. Eying them with thinly veined hatred.  

Or maybe it’s hunger. You’re not sure when the passion of Rosalie Hale all burns the same. 

Then, soft and coupled with a harsh squeeze, “Now. Try on those clothes.” The light catches the blood at the corner of her mouth again. Her eyes flash wild for a split second—blood and viscera splattered all over her shirt and dripping down her chin. 

You blink again, and it’s gone. Your professor still looking at you expectantly with an arched brow. 

And not for the first time since meeting Dr. Rosalie Hale, you wonder what the fuck just happened.

Your body carries you out of the boutique like it belongs to someone else. You can still feel her thumb pressed into the bite on your shoulder.  

Your nerves are buzzing, skin thrumming, and the phantom sound of her calling you good girl won’t leave your skull. 

The rain let up by the time you both checked out at the register, and she takes you back to your car on campus without further incident. 

When you make it home, you try everything.  

Music. Scrolling. Coffee. Cigarettes. None of it quiets the static. And none of it makes you forget the two women you saw together earlier that day.  

You cave. 

You dig your phone out from under your sheets. The screen lights your face in pale blue. Your thumb scrolls through names you haven’t thought about in months. 

Daenerys. 

You hover. You bite your lip, hesitating right before you hit call. 

It rings once. Twice. Three times. 

And every time, you’re met with nothing but her voicemail. 

You wait anyway, phone pressed to your ear like it might bring warmth back into your body if you just hold on long enough. But the line doesn’t change. 

We’re sorry, but the person—

We’re sorry, but the person you’re trying— 

We’re sorry, but the person you’re trying to reach—

The last time you call, you’re met with the dial tone. 

You finally pull the phone away. Your screen is dark. You didn’t hang up. It just went black on its own. 

You’re not sure what’s worse—Rosalie telling you you don’t get to question her, or the silence that follows when you reach for anyone else.