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rainbowfic2020-10-31 09:04 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-10-31 09:04 pm
Ecru #6, Snow White #2 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Prey
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Ecru #6 (submit); Snow White #2 (Poison apple)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Graffiti (October Spooky Challenges – Werewolves: transformations)
Word Count: 997
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Vampires, so dub-con blood-drinking. Implied unhappy endings/death.
Notes: Vampire AU from the giant list. March 1944; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves.
Summary: Edward has a very strange evening.
***
The Northern Line train rattles as it passes along the track and warm air blows in through the window open at the end of the carriage. Edward holds onto the rail, too hot in his uniform; finding it hard to keep awake. There have been too many nights of sirens and bombs already this week.
He stares, half unseeing, at the woman in the seat opposite him. She glances away to the side, her blonde hair pulled back in a red net, and an elderly fur coat draped loosely around her shoulders. Under it, he glimpses a duck-blue dress. For one moment, the light sputters and dies and he thinks he sees her look at him, her gaze sudden and sharp, her eyes glinting silver. Her dress is red, not blue. His heart beats faster.
When the light brightens, she’s still looking away, wearing blue. He blinks and can only think that he most have dozed off and imagined the change. He rubs his forehead, glad to leave at the next stop.
It’s not the right one. He realises that only at the top of the stairs, face to face with the name. He must be more tired than he thought. Damn. It’s better to walk on from here than go back down and wait for the next train, so he walks out of the station and into the night.
He pulls out his torch, ready to make his way down the unlit streets. It’s cold out, especially after the warmth of the underground train. He doesn’t recognise the road he’s walking along, too many familiar landmarks destroyed in the bombing. There’s a fog creeping round him that wasn’t forecast.
“Lost?”
Edward jumps and turns his head to see the blonde woman from the train standing at his shoulder. He opens his mouth to try and explain, but the siren sounds yet again, drowning out anything he might have said.
“This way,” she says, catching hold of his wrist and leading him down the street, away from the obvious shelter of the tube station. Her fingernails dig into his skin and all thought of questioning her deserts him. The fog’s growing steadily thicker.
She leads him along the street (how far along? He doesn’t know), and down steps. He sees the uncertain silhouettes of a ruined house and thinks he should protest, but no words come. There’s a cellar here, he realises.
When they reach the bottom, there’s a door, which they pass through. She shuts it behind them. There’s nobody else here. It’s not a proper shelter, official or unofficial. Edward should feel alarmed, but he’s too exhausted. It’ll do.
The woman slides her fingers down to squeeze his hand. “The bombs won’t hurt you here.”
Edward sits cautiously on a box while she perches on an old chaise longue. She looks over at him, from her vantage point, and laughs. He glances up and is caught by her gaze, which seems silver again. She tilts her head and holds out her hand. Somehow, the next thing he knows, he’s sitting beside her.
She puts her hand to his jacket. “You must be very tired,” she murmurs and rubs her chin against his shoulder. The weight of a week’s lost sleep drags him down, an irresistible wave of exhaustion. He’s almost drunk with it, his head so heavy, that he leans against her, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“Yes, that’s right,” she says, tugging him closer. “Poor thing.”
He slumps against her as she runs her fingers through his hair. Her touch is cool, but it scatters his few remaining thoughts and leaves fire in its wake. She catches at his collar to position his more conveniently and kisses his cheek. He feels the pinpricks of something sharp, but he’s gone past caring; his body too heavy to move and his mind light, only the vaguest wisps of lucidity left to him.
She undoes the top bottoms of his tunic. “Good,” she says, and then, “Shh,” when he tries to move, to speak, but fails. Her fingers are sharp, there’s blood in her caress. She’s a wolf with her prey. From somewhere a thousand miles away he knows that, but can’t begin to care.
She shifts her position, bending in to lower her lips to his neck. He’s holding his breath in anticipation, his heart beating fast. She puts on hand to his face and slides it back to grip his hair tightly – too tightly. Something’s wrong – he thinks of the wolf again, of silver eyes flecked with scarlet.
She kisses the nape of his neck and he groans, then she traces fingers along the line of his jugular. She draws back, and bites. The pain cuts through the fog in his head for long enough for him to cry out, before the haze of desire envelopes him, and all he knows is the exquisite pleasure of it until that, too, fades into oblivion.
He wakes in the gloom, the morning barely having penetrated the cellar, and finds himself lying on an old chaise longue, alone. He’s heavy with sleep and he can’t remember how he got here – where here is – why. He sits up slowly and his coat, draped over him as a blanket, falls onto the floor with a soft rustle. He frowns, trying to clear his head and bring it back, but nothing comes. All he can remember are the dreams he’s just woken from – feverish, forbidden dreams of a woman with unreal scarlet-flecked silver eyes. His face heats, and he pushes the thought of them away.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, and suddenly that seems quite reasonable. He was very tired yesterday. It’s understandable that he was in such a haze that he can’t even remember what brought him down here. Perfectly reasonable. (His hand goes to his neck and rubs it. It’s sore from a new wound.) As for his dreams, well, dreams are only dreams, aren’t they?
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Ecru #6 (submit); Snow White #2 (Poison apple)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Graffiti (October Spooky Challenges – Werewolves: transformations)
Word Count: 997
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Vampires, so dub-con blood-drinking. Implied unhappy endings/death.
Notes: Vampire AU from the giant list. March 1944; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves.
Summary: Edward has a very strange evening.
***
The Northern Line train rattles as it passes along the track and warm air blows in through the window open at the end of the carriage. Edward holds onto the rail, too hot in his uniform; finding it hard to keep awake. There have been too many nights of sirens and bombs already this week.
He stares, half unseeing, at the woman in the seat opposite him. She glances away to the side, her blonde hair pulled back in a red net, and an elderly fur coat draped loosely around her shoulders. Under it, he glimpses a duck-blue dress. For one moment, the light sputters and dies and he thinks he sees her look at him, her gaze sudden and sharp, her eyes glinting silver. Her dress is red, not blue. His heart beats faster.
When the light brightens, she’s still looking away, wearing blue. He blinks and can only think that he most have dozed off and imagined the change. He rubs his forehead, glad to leave at the next stop.
It’s not the right one. He realises that only at the top of the stairs, face to face with the name. He must be more tired than he thought. Damn. It’s better to walk on from here than go back down and wait for the next train, so he walks out of the station and into the night.
He pulls out his torch, ready to make his way down the unlit streets. It’s cold out, especially after the warmth of the underground train. He doesn’t recognise the road he’s walking along, too many familiar landmarks destroyed in the bombing. There’s a fog creeping round him that wasn’t forecast.
“Lost?”
Edward jumps and turns his head to see the blonde woman from the train standing at his shoulder. He opens his mouth to try and explain, but the siren sounds yet again, drowning out anything he might have said.
“This way,” she says, catching hold of his wrist and leading him down the street, away from the obvious shelter of the tube station. Her fingernails dig into his skin and all thought of questioning her deserts him. The fog’s growing steadily thicker.
She leads him along the street (how far along? He doesn’t know), and down steps. He sees the uncertain silhouettes of a ruined house and thinks he should protest, but no words come. There’s a cellar here, he realises.
When they reach the bottom, there’s a door, which they pass through. She shuts it behind them. There’s nobody else here. It’s not a proper shelter, official or unofficial. Edward should feel alarmed, but he’s too exhausted. It’ll do.
The woman slides her fingers down to squeeze his hand. “The bombs won’t hurt you here.”
Edward sits cautiously on a box while she perches on an old chaise longue. She looks over at him, from her vantage point, and laughs. He glances up and is caught by her gaze, which seems silver again. She tilts her head and holds out her hand. Somehow, the next thing he knows, he’s sitting beside her.
She puts her hand to his jacket. “You must be very tired,” she murmurs and rubs her chin against his shoulder. The weight of a week’s lost sleep drags him down, an irresistible wave of exhaustion. He’s almost drunk with it, his head so heavy, that he leans against her, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“Yes, that’s right,” she says, tugging him closer. “Poor thing.”
He slumps against her as she runs her fingers through his hair. Her touch is cool, but it scatters his few remaining thoughts and leaves fire in its wake. She catches at his collar to position his more conveniently and kisses his cheek. He feels the pinpricks of something sharp, but he’s gone past caring; his body too heavy to move and his mind light, only the vaguest wisps of lucidity left to him.
She undoes the top bottoms of his tunic. “Good,” she says, and then, “Shh,” when he tries to move, to speak, but fails. Her fingers are sharp, there’s blood in her caress. She’s a wolf with her prey. From somewhere a thousand miles away he knows that, but can’t begin to care.
She shifts her position, bending in to lower her lips to his neck. He’s holding his breath in anticipation, his heart beating fast. She puts on hand to his face and slides it back to grip his hair tightly – too tightly. Something’s wrong – he thinks of the wolf again, of silver eyes flecked with scarlet.
She kisses the nape of his neck and he groans, then she traces fingers along the line of his jugular. She draws back, and bites. The pain cuts through the fog in his head for long enough for him to cry out, before the haze of desire envelopes him, and all he knows is the exquisite pleasure of it until that, too, fades into oblivion.
He wakes in the gloom, the morning barely having penetrated the cellar, and finds himself lying on an old chaise longue, alone. He’s heavy with sleep and he can’t remember how he got here – where here is – why. He sits up slowly and his coat, draped over him as a blanket, falls onto the floor with a soft rustle. He frowns, trying to clear his head and bring it back, but nothing comes. All he can remember are the dreams he’s just woken from – feverish, forbidden dreams of a woman with unreal scarlet-flecked silver eyes. His face heats, and he pushes the thought of them away.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, and suddenly that seems quite reasonable. He was very tired yesterday. It’s understandable that he was in such a haze that he can’t even remember what brought him down here. Perfectly reasonable. (His hand goes to his neck and rubs it. It’s sore from a new wound.) As for his dreams, well, dreams are only dreams, aren’t they?
***
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1. http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0g7cdJCp91r6aoq4o1_500.gif
2. "I got soul, but I'm not a soldier." - All These Things That I've Done, the Killers