Fic: maybe you just missed the sun (RPF; Rose Byrne/Diane Kruger; PG-13)
maybe you just missed the sun [ AO3 ]
RPF (Vampire AU); Rose Byrne/Diane Kruger; PG-13. 1015 words.
Title is from Stars' "Look Up."
I started this fic a year ago and never finished it, until I got a WIP meme on Tumblr and remembered how fond I was of this, and finished it up today. I don't remember what inspired this fic - probably a photo, maybe a prompt - and it's a million times out of character, since other than a few interviews I've seen, I don't know anything about either of these actresses.
*
She’s known Diane for years, of course.
Years and years and years.
*
It’s Diane’s lips that catch her attention.
Bright red, curved in a smirk, and everything else pales in comparison.
It’s a breath of fresh air in this dark, musty bar.
“Come on,” Diane breathes, hand lingering on Rose’s hip, and Rose imagines those lips-well, elsewhere. “Let’s get out of here.”
Rose pushes away the stale peanuts, downs the last of her flat beer, and slides off the barstool.
*
The sky is dark and the air is cool.
Even at night, the field smells like the sun, and it brings back memories: of sun-kissed skin and loud, raucous laughter, of days spent playing hide-and-seek in the tall grass, of coming across the occasional stray during her childhood adventures.
Now, she stares overhead as an airplane makes its way across the sky, its blinking light giving away its position.
She’s momentarily startled when Diane’s arm finds its way across her waist and settles there, but then she moves into the touch, curling towards Diane. She links their fingers, pressing a gentle kiss to the two dark spots, already healing, on the other woman’s wrist.
*
“Tell me something about yourself.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
*
Once, Rose wakes in the middle of the day to find Diane staring at her.
Slivers of light filter in through the shuttered windows and pattern the ground at the foot of the bed.
“Can’t sleep?” Rose murmurs, still half-asleep.
Diane shakes her head.
“It’ll be night soon,” Rose yawns, turning over. “Try to get some rest.”
She feels the barest press of lips against her shoulder, and drifts off to the clip-clop of horseshoes against the cobblestone street outside.
*
She likes that Diane tells things the way they are.
She doesn’t embellish; nor does she say things just to get a laugh.
Her jokes - well, Rose assumes that’s what they are - fall flat most of the time, but she’s always under the impression that that has more to do with the fact that Diane can’t be bothered with them than anything else. As though she starts off with it, then halfway through decides it’s not worth the effort.
(Her laughter, though, is what Rose likes best.)
*
Clubs are a modern invention for which Rose is grateful.
She likes the thrill of drinking on the dance floor, out in the open.
There’s the steady thump thump thump of the bass and it’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of the music, in the throngs of people.
The first time she goes with Diane, she finds that she loves the rush she gets from the first gasp of surprise when her canines pierce into supple skin, the dizziness she feels from her first taste, warm and sticky and sweet on her tongue, and she gets drunk off of the way Diane presses even closer and groans, her breath hot against her ear, her cheek.
It’s a drug of its own, and no one’s the wiser.
After, Rose always laves her tongue over the wound and kisses her way up to a pliant mouth, tasting nothing but copper and smoke.
*
Sometimes, she wonders what the point of this all is.
To live century after century can be… rather tedious.
*
Violence turns her stomach.
She’s never had a taste for it, and doesn’t envy those who rip their victims apart. It’s undignified and a sure sign of a young or unstable individual.
But there’s something to be said for it, too.
Just once, maybe twice, she’d like to give into her carnal urges, to sink her teeth into warm flesh and drink to her heart’s content, relish in the taste of fear and the sound of a frantic heartbeat slowing to a standstill, consequences be damned.
*
It’s not so much an inability to be out in the sunlight as it is an aversion to it.
The light blinds her eyes, especially during the first days after her transformation, and she finds that she has to look away to stop the burning.
She’s foolish enough to step out into the daylight exactly once, when she’s eighty and doesn’t look any older than twenty-five. She’s out for less than five minutes before she’s itching all over, and hours later, she develops a rash: on her cheeks, her arms, any exposed skin.
“Oh, Rose,” Diane says when she finds her, condescension and concern dripping from each word. “My dear, silly girl. What have you done?”
Rose wants to bristle at her tone, hates the way she feels like such a child around Diane, but then Diane reaches over to stroke her hair. There’s tenderness in the gestures, and Rose leans into it, the initial protests she had dying at the tip of her tongue.
*
They rent a Vespa in the countryside.
Rose settles in behind Diane and then they’re off, the spring warmth caressing their cheeks and wind tousling their hair, gold mixing with umber in the dead of the night.
*
“I was born in a village,” Diane says on one of their first nights together, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, “in Northwestern Germany.”
She smiles then, almost predatory, and Rose suppresses a shiver.
Teeth sink into flesh, and she can feel it: the tug, tug, tug coursing through her veins, starting from her pit of her belly and ending at the base of her neck.
There’s a spot of red on her white tunic, but Rose doesn’t mind.
*
It’s not just Diane, of course, that she meets in alleyways, in the hidden corners of cafés, in dingy bookstores.
Of course it’s not just Diane.
But it’s always Diane she returns to, Diane she seeks out, again and again and again.
*
“Are there others like us, then,” Rose asks one Sunday evening over a glass of wine (dark, red), “where you’re from.”
Diane hums, lips ghosting over her cheek as she stands to leave.
“Oh, Schätzchen,” she says, clasping Rose’s elbow and looking at her like she’s missed the point altogether. “We’re the only ones that matter.”
*
RPF (Vampire AU); Rose Byrne/Diane Kruger; PG-13. 1015 words.
Title is from Stars' "Look Up."
I started this fic a year ago and never finished it, until I got a WIP meme on Tumblr and remembered how fond I was of this, and finished it up today. I don't remember what inspired this fic - probably a photo, maybe a prompt - and it's a million times out of character, since other than a few interviews I've seen, I don't know anything about either of these actresses.
*
She’s known Diane for years, of course.
Years and years and years.
*
It’s Diane’s lips that catch her attention.
Bright red, curved in a smirk, and everything else pales in comparison.
It’s a breath of fresh air in this dark, musty bar.
“Come on,” Diane breathes, hand lingering on Rose’s hip, and Rose imagines those lips-well, elsewhere. “Let’s get out of here.”
Rose pushes away the stale peanuts, downs the last of her flat beer, and slides off the barstool.
*
The sky is dark and the air is cool.
Even at night, the field smells like the sun, and it brings back memories: of sun-kissed skin and loud, raucous laughter, of days spent playing hide-and-seek in the tall grass, of coming across the occasional stray during her childhood adventures.
Now, she stares overhead as an airplane makes its way across the sky, its blinking light giving away its position.
She’s momentarily startled when Diane’s arm finds its way across her waist and settles there, but then she moves into the touch, curling towards Diane. She links their fingers, pressing a gentle kiss to the two dark spots, already healing, on the other woman’s wrist.
*
“Tell me something about yourself.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
*
Once, Rose wakes in the middle of the day to find Diane staring at her.
Slivers of light filter in through the shuttered windows and pattern the ground at the foot of the bed.
“Can’t sleep?” Rose murmurs, still half-asleep.
Diane shakes her head.
“It’ll be night soon,” Rose yawns, turning over. “Try to get some rest.”
She feels the barest press of lips against her shoulder, and drifts off to the clip-clop of horseshoes against the cobblestone street outside.
*
She likes that Diane tells things the way they are.
She doesn’t embellish; nor does she say things just to get a laugh.
Her jokes - well, Rose assumes that’s what they are - fall flat most of the time, but she’s always under the impression that that has more to do with the fact that Diane can’t be bothered with them than anything else. As though she starts off with it, then halfway through decides it’s not worth the effort.
(Her laughter, though, is what Rose likes best.)
*
Clubs are a modern invention for which Rose is grateful.
She likes the thrill of drinking on the dance floor, out in the open.
There’s the steady thump thump thump of the bass and it’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of the music, in the throngs of people.
The first time she goes with Diane, she finds that she loves the rush she gets from the first gasp of surprise when her canines pierce into supple skin, the dizziness she feels from her first taste, warm and sticky and sweet on her tongue, and she gets drunk off of the way Diane presses even closer and groans, her breath hot against her ear, her cheek.
It’s a drug of its own, and no one’s the wiser.
After, Rose always laves her tongue over the wound and kisses her way up to a pliant mouth, tasting nothing but copper and smoke.
*
Sometimes, she wonders what the point of this all is.
To live century after century can be… rather tedious.
*
Violence turns her stomach.
She’s never had a taste for it, and doesn’t envy those who rip their victims apart. It’s undignified and a sure sign of a young or unstable individual.
But there’s something to be said for it, too.
Just once, maybe twice, she’d like to give into her carnal urges, to sink her teeth into warm flesh and drink to her heart’s content, relish in the taste of fear and the sound of a frantic heartbeat slowing to a standstill, consequences be damned.
*
It’s not so much an inability to be out in the sunlight as it is an aversion to it.
The light blinds her eyes, especially during the first days after her transformation, and she finds that she has to look away to stop the burning.
She’s foolish enough to step out into the daylight exactly once, when she’s eighty and doesn’t look any older than twenty-five. She’s out for less than five minutes before she’s itching all over, and hours later, she develops a rash: on her cheeks, her arms, any exposed skin.
“Oh, Rose,” Diane says when she finds her, condescension and concern dripping from each word. “My dear, silly girl. What have you done?”
Rose wants to bristle at her tone, hates the way she feels like such a child around Diane, but then Diane reaches over to stroke her hair. There’s tenderness in the gestures, and Rose leans into it, the initial protests she had dying at the tip of her tongue.
*
They rent a Vespa in the countryside.
Rose settles in behind Diane and then they’re off, the spring warmth caressing their cheeks and wind tousling their hair, gold mixing with umber in the dead of the night.
*
“I was born in a village,” Diane says on one of their first nights together, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, “in Northwestern Germany.”
She smiles then, almost predatory, and Rose suppresses a shiver.
Teeth sink into flesh, and she can feel it: the tug, tug, tug coursing through her veins, starting from her pit of her belly and ending at the base of her neck.
There’s a spot of red on her white tunic, but Rose doesn’t mind.
*
It’s not just Diane, of course, that she meets in alleyways, in the hidden corners of cafés, in dingy bookstores.
Of course it’s not just Diane.
But it’s always Diane she returns to, Diane she seeks out, again and again and again.
*
“Are there others like us, then,” Rose asks one Sunday evening over a glass of wine (dark, red), “where you’re from.”
Diane hums, lips ghosting over her cheek as she stands to leave.
“Oh, Schätzchen,” she says, clasping Rose’s elbow and looking at her like she’s missed the point altogether. “We’re the only ones that matter.”
*