prompted by anonymous via askbox. you can visit my tumblr (highgaarden) and prompt me things too, if you want :)

an equation heaven sent

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...

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There is a girl on the train.

Blue dress, hair in curls, shoes polished bright enough to hide the minute scuffs on the toes of them. The world rushes past her; she is protected from the scream and the screech and the bright, scorching colours of it by that single sheet of glass.

He asks if the seat across from her is taken.

—

There is a girl on the train.

Golden hair, bright ocean eyes, a smile that is not a smile as much as it is a prelude to loud, pealing laughter. She has long slender fingers that he suspects has bruised skin as easily as they weave crowns from flowers, the way they toy with the book in her lap, its spine still uncracked.

Those fingers flutter towards him as she says, "My name is Caroline. Caroline Forbes."

He takes her hand and lowers his head to it. Grazes his nose up the blue veins in her lily white wrist. Inhales deeply.

Lovely.

He turns his eyes back to hers and is delighted when her eyebrows knit together.

—

There is a girl on the train.

What gave me away? she asks. She's sweet as a summer rose, and she smells of fresh rain.

Her wrist is still trapped in his fingers; she hasn't pulled away yet.

He leans closer.

That colour looks exquisite on you, he says. Her lips, full and red, her lower lip flushed where her teeth worry and bite.

They're almost as red as his.

Her eyes flick down to his lips and he smiles. She doesn't return it. He idly wonders if her lips taste as red and as cross as they look, but lets go of her wrist and leans back in his seat instead. He is no child. He doesn't have to give in to his urges. "You have much to learn, baby vampire."

—

There is a girl on the train.

She's studying him as the world whizzes by, the mimosa furls of her hair catching the sunlight that streams into their carriage. He's forgotten his stop – he's pretty sure it's left him behind – but no matter. He's not in a rush.

In fact, he tells her, he has all the time in the world.

"People these days, always rushing about, getting themselves in a tizzy. I say, unless you're planning on overthrowing kings or seducing queens…" He lets his eyes run down her blooming cheeks, her graceful neck – she keeps her gaze level, "…there's no point in it. You have to taste life, sweet Caroline."

"Klaus," she says, his name a tentative bloom across her tongue.

"Klaus," she says again, decidedly. His name is known to injure and to bruise, to inspire fear, but she sits there with her too-red lips and her newly-bought book and looks at him as if she's figured out the sums of his parts.

He waits for her to finish her sentence, but she just sits back and looks satisfied.

After a moment, he realizes why. He's frowning.

—

There is a girl on the train.

She keeps checking her wrist watch as though already tiring of him; her legs swing to and fro and threaten to brush against his shins, but they never do.

He wants to tell her of the kingdoms he's burned down, the pyramids he'd raised from the ground and consequently reduced to sand and dust, just because he could. He wants to tell her of the cities which lights spell out his name, the army he's built waiting for him at the end of this train ride, the doppelganger he'd hunted down for five centuries finally ready to die, swathed in robes fit for the occasion.

They round a bend and the wheels screech and spark against gunmetal steel, and he wants to tell her, I am much more powerful than any other man you've ever met in your life.

Her eyes rove lazily to his and she raises her eyebrows, as though daring him.

—

There is a girl on the train.

There is a girl on the train, and she looks hungry. Her eyes keep darting to the silhouettes passing by like ships in the night, a bob here and a sway there before blinking out of sight.

"You don't happen to have a spare blood bag tucked away in your coat, do you?" she asks after hours of mostly ignoring him. Not that he's noticed.

He smirks. "I don't do blood bags."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course you don't, Mr Pretentious himself. What do you do when you're out in public and you're like, starving?"

"I just feed," he says obviously, giving her a look. "Nothing quite like an afternoon snack, blood streaming hot from the vein. The smell is something else, rich and potent. It's enough to drive you mad with want."

She swallows. His grin widens. "And the screaming. The running, people forget where they are when they think there's a predator amongst them. They run and they kick and they plead, and it's something else, the thrill of the hunt."

That breaks her out of her trance. "You're disgusting. You're an animal."

"So are you, beautiful as you may be." He leans forward and turns his wrist towards her. "Tell me you don't want this, to know how the first vampire created in all of existence tastes."

Her blue eyes are round and wide, trained on the bonework of his wrist, the invisible network of veins he knows she's seeing, the pump of blood that's probably rushing to her head at the moment.

"Go on," he urges quietly. "You're hungry, are you not? The world is yours. Take a bite."

A sharp intake of breath; she gives him a quick and uncertain glance as though seeking permission that he's already given. He smiles invitingly and she pretends the tremor that passes through her isn't a shudder of excitement.

It takes only a second longer of her thinking, thinking head before the animal desire in her blood takes over, sinking her teeth into his wrist. The urgency of it all is enough to make him give the smallest of gasps, dark capillaries appearing around her eyes, a strange sort of beauty.

She pulls in deep and he hums his approval, her voracious little tongue working at his broken skin, catching any blood before it drops onto her delicate lace skirt. Her slender fingers do indeed bruise as they grip him tighter, bringing him closer. They're both on the edge of their seats, Her knee between his, her forehead brushing the grain of his stubble. He's close enough to press a kiss to her crown if he wanted.

There is a smudge of red on her nose. She doesn't notice. She breathes a small sigh of pleasure, eyes closing, and he finds his free hand reaching out to steady her, easy now, love – no need to rush. She ignores him as expected: she almost falls out of her seat and stumbles a little, catching herself with a hand on his thigh.

—

There is a girl on the train.

Her lips are so soft it's as if she's kissing his wrist, peppering his skin with little kisses to soothe the stinging bite of her teeth. She's growing sloppy as her body becomes heavy, intoxicated by his blood. A trickle of blood runs down his arm but this time she doesn't catch it – it will stain her dress if she's not careful.

He leans down and catches it, the familiar iron of his own blood warm against the tip of his tongue. He licks up his arm until his nose bumps against hers, and then she's not drinking from his wrist anymore, but straight from his mouth. His hand finds the nape of her neck as her tongue meets his, tasting the curious mix of blood and greed with a muffled moan. The kiss is slow, her exploring and he letting her, and she tilts her head to deepen it, until—

Her eyes snap open and she comes up with a gasp, backing away. There is red on her lips, so much red, staining the corners of her mouth. He must look the same, an animal backed into a corner, the way his breathing is heavy and his own eyes, heady.

She reaches for her lips with a shaking hand and her fingers come away bloody. She stares down at them.

"Surprised yourself, sweetheart?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, licks up the rest of the mess. He thumbs the blood away from her chin but leaves her lips as they are.

They're as red as his.