Kicking this off with the first prompt, because I like how orderly that is but also because it was finished. Thanks to sweetest Lisa for sharing her thoughts and to my dearest Posh for her help.

Disclaimer: SMeyer owns Twilight; I'm just diddling with her characters in my own words.

The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25 dot com
Prompt: 01 – Blood is thicker than water.
Pen Name: IcelandGirl812
Pairing/Character(s): Edward/Bella
Rating: T

01.

Her arm is draped through his, elbow-length gloves covering too much of her skin.

Her dress is tight, making her body appear far longer than it should.

Her hair falls halfway down her torso, filled with loose waves and careless curls. All of which is in direct opposition to the current fashions.

It's a pity her mind is so empty.

She might have been interesting to play with otherwise.

I wait while they head toward me, wait while he brushes off her murmured concerns of dark alleys.

He should have listened to her.

Again, pity.

Still, I wait until they're far enough in, until everything is dark and there's no turning back.

Not for them, and certainly not for me.

His scream is surprising, when it comes; it's even louder than hers.

I pause to inhale, to take him in, to breathe in the delicious scent of his fear. His blood pumps furiously. I can feel it against my hand where I hold him, can hear it as the wet sounds hit my ears.

Mostly, I can smell it.

Before my teeth can get close enough, something is on my back. Something warm.

I loosen my hold on him, perplexed as the woman clings onto my back and flails about, screeching and grunting and making all other kinds of odd noises.

She's not hurting me, not in the least. More of the damage is on her, feeble fingertips reddening where she's trying to scratch me, bruises no doubt on their way to forming where her soft skin collides with my stone body, hard shoulders and solid waist.

And there's no telling how ripped and ruined her dress has become.

I stand up and shake her off without effort, watching humorlessly as she lands on the ground, fragile human head hitting the concrete with a faint thud.

I'd planned on only one tonight, but she's forced me into changing that.

No matter.

I've got room.

Sparing only a glance at all the pale flesh of her now-exposed legs, I advance toward the man once again.

Fast is too easy, too boring. Too quick.

So my steps are slow, human speed.

It draws something out, something more. Because they know I'm not human, their bodies and their nature sense the monster of mine, react and revolt against it on instinct.

But I look human. I walk human.

The confusion amplifies their fear, their adrenaline, rushes their blood so fast I often wonder how they remain standing.

"No!" The woman has struggled upright, pushes herself in front of the man.

In front of me.

Her face is bleeding, blood dripping down one cheek, down her neck. Toward her breasts. The scent is so strong she must be bleeding elsewhere.

That scent...

It's the most potent, intoxicating, delectable thing I've ever known. It smells sweet and full, luscious and captivating, promising satisfaction and ecstasy.

I close my eyes and draw it in completely, luxuriating in the way it caresses all my senses, beyond anything I've ever encountered.

I can hear her heart pumping. More than that, I feel her blood calling me, tempting me, singing to me.

Yet I hear nothing else.

Nothing of her.

Generally, I don't intrude into the thoughts of my prey. I don't want to know what they're thinking in that moment, how they see me. It's worrisome, bothersome, takes away the fun.

But behind her, I listen to the man, who's a frightened ball of adrenaline and anxiety, jumbled chaos in his frazzled mind. In other words, normal.

Five stories up, I can hear a man debating over two women he wants, wondering if the tobacco he's inhaling will keep getting more and more expensive.

And still, nothing from her.

She must sense my hesitation, must see how I slow and stare at her.

"Please! Take me," she swallows, "and do whatever you want with me. Just don't hurt him."

I flick my eyes over her shoulder, note the age difference for the first time, the similar eyes, the same shape of mouth.

"Don't hurt him. Please."

I pause entirely, begin to think, to wonder.

Begin to devise.

"You'll... give yourself? In place of him?"

It doesn't escape my notice that it's the first time I've spoken. Judging by how her chest rises and falls at a more rapid pace—her heart pumping miraculously faster—she notices, too.

Though I can't hear her thought-process, she doesn't spend even an extra second before she's agreeing.

"Yes. Yes, as long as no harm comes to him."

She doesn't spare a glance at him, and I can't help but wonder if she can't bear to, if she'd lose her resolve and her bravery if she were to see him. If she were to watch him huddling against the wall like a spineless coward while his daughter traded herself for him.

I narrow my eyes, studying her more closely, annoyed at how intriguing I seem to find her. Her silent mind, her courage, her enticing scent. Her loyalty, however blind.

"Very well." I straighten from the predatory almost-crouch I'd been in, raise my eyebrows expectantly.

I'm curious as to how she thinks this will play out, as to how she sees me.

She hasn't bothered to wipe any blood off, and her trembling lip spreads a few drops as she turns away from me, turns to face the man slumped and crying against the brick.

"Bella..." is all her father manages to say before he passes out.

She moves as if to go to him, but I can hear—in my head and with my ears—the first sounds of a commotion starting up, not even a block away.

We've drawn attention; we're out of time. At least if I want a clean trail.

I grab her before she's made a single step, swing her up into my arms and dart farther into the alley. I have to get her home, have to stop her bleeding, have to figure something out.

Before I lose control.