This is something I wrote a long time ago, immediately after Twilight came out and the craze was starting. My story never went anywhere and it's been in some remote folder on my computer collecting cyber-dust. Before it disappeared into oblivion, I thought I would at least post it here...
He bit into her flesh. He no longer needed to feed, but more than sustenance, the act itself had become necessary. For being undead, he felt remarkably dead most of the time. One hundred and sixty three years and counting and the only thing to which he had not yet succumbed was the one to assuage his loneliness. The solitude was everpresent, and the years had only allowed for a strange co-existence with it; his one and only enemy other than himself. Not tangible enough to fight, yet insidious and tormenting. The only times that he felt alive were when he fed; the anticipation and the bizarre disgust that he felt combining into a frenzy. And of course, he could be a vain creature, taking his pleasure from the gently arched neck of an aroused maiden, something he allowed himself only rarely. He had become an expert at loathing himself, but even that feeling was starting to fade, alarmingly, incrementally lessening because it hadn't felt an opposition for so long; he had had nothing to cherish in an unbearably long time. The greatest curse of his ilk, as far as he could tell, was that he was damned by his own company. He now often wondered if he had a conscience, because he was finding that apathy did not leave room for much. It was like a black hole, a darkness that crept over him from regions unknown, and he was powerless to fight it. If he had a sense of humor - any semblance of it should have evolved into a caustic bite by now - he would have found himself to be the most masochistic vampire he knew. But maybe his victims disagreed.
He did not like blood; did not like its sight, its smell, its taste. It seemed to go against his natural law, how could he dislike the one thing he needed for survival; he was an anomaly in that regard. Alas, as humans often said, life was not fair, and apparently neither was death; or undeath rather, as the case might be with him. There was no justice for vampires and there was no one to feel pity for him. Did he need any of it though? What rules governed him, he did not know. For being a creature that was notably more evolved than humans, at least physically, his overall existence felt somewhat anticlimactic. Because, unlike those humans who were made into vampires, he was born one. This was the only way he knew how to live, how to feel, how to not feel' everything else was hearsay. He figured it only fitting that he took the things he didn't require, but abhor the only thing he needed for survival. Blood, he hated; the warmth of human flesh he did not mind. He hated his incurable coldness; he wanted to feel insufferably hot, burn to a cinder even. He knew that Vampire senses were stronger than humans'; his own had threatened to crush him in its stranglehold at least a dozen times in his early years. But now, even that had dulled. He did not feel alive; merely hungry on occasion, unblissfully numb at times, and perpetually unsatisfied.
She touched him just then and jerked him out of his reverie. The blood had started to trickle down her neck. She was writhing, whether in agony or desire he couldn't tell. Was she beautiful? He did not remember. He felt an unfamiliar surge of tenderness, but before he could savor it, the feeling passed. It was like a dream that swirled out of focus upon waking, substance quickly dissolving into a wisp of smoke that eluded grasp. He looked at her and realized his folly. He had only punctured the surface with one fang; the blood was merely a series of red pearls, dotting her skin. He licked it, hating its taste, but liking the warm saltiness of her neck. She was not in pain, he could now tell, but looking at her neck he suddenly lost the urge to feed. As he started to pull away, she held on. Her eyes, which had been closed until then, opened,
"Why did you stop?" She asked.
He did not answer her. Staring into her eyes was enough for the moment. He generally preferred not to say much. His conversations started and ended mostly in his mind; spoken language had always been somewhat of a nuisance.
"Why didn't you bite me?"
The only indication that he was disturbed was an almost imperceptible arching of an eyebrow. He continued to hold her gaze.
She leaned up and towards his ears, "I want you to feed."
He did not want to know how she knew. In the end, it wouldn't matter.
Instead he lowered her neck and leaned down close, "It will hurt."
She closed her eyes, "I know'" She was silent for a moment before adding, "Will it be quick?"
He had never been asked that. He answered as he knew, "For me, but maybe not for you'"
"Hmm'" was all she said before she put her head down.
He waited her out, for once enjoying the feel of a human without being diverted by thoughts of discovery or hunger. Not that he feared being found out, but he did not like them to fight him. Or look into their eyes in those last moments when his reflection was clearer than any mirror.
She was quiet for a long time, long enough that he dreaded the moment she spoke again, when he would be forced to let go of her warmth. Instead she looked up at him and tugged on a loose curl of his hair.
Had he kissed her? He didn't remember. Seduction, he allowed himself rarely. And looking down at her, he thought that it was a pity he did not recall.
He started to loosen his arms, but once again she would not let him. "Just a little longer' please'"
"I won't feed now." He thought it only fair to warn her.
"Why not?" she seemed puzzled.
"Don't want to anymore'"
"I thought your kind couldn't resist blood."
"Can you never resist food?"
"Hmm' so you fed already today?"
"No"
"Then you must be hungry."
"Yes,"
"A vampire of few words'"
His lips almost widened at that, almost, and he did not resist adding, "Do you know any other kind?"
She didn't speak, merely put her head down and turned away. He was content to watch her again, this time taking care to notice the details. What was it about women that made them' appealing? He did not know if that was the right word; maybe it was'. There was a draw there, nothing he could not resist, but nevertheless there' And he was not even thinking about blood. Their bodies were so different from his own, the softness, the curves, the delicate pulse, and most of all, the warmth' he looked at her profile in repose, at the arch of her eyebrows, the upturned mouth, the underside of her jaw, the little dip under her ears, the angle of her neck, the curve of her shoulder' all denied to him in ways that really mattered. He ran the back of his index finger down her throat. She arched and shivered simultaneously. He was so infernally cold, he hated it. He wanted her heat, he wanted to absorb it into his own body. No matter how much he drank or how long he fed, the cold was always there.
She closed her eyes and sighed.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up a few strands of her hair and rubbed it between his hands.
She grabbed his hands then and waited until he looked at her. This time she didn't say anything, just stared at him. She learned fast, he thought.
"I will go." He finally said and made to raise himself up.
"You know, I can almost feel my body heat spreading over you. I like that feeling. You are like an ice-box, how do you stand it?"
He suddenly removed his shirt and hugged her as tightly as he could, practically crushing her. She winced, but didn't let go. "Tightly" he said. "Hold me as tightly as you can."
Her arms went around him, but her hold on him remained the same. "You are doing it so hard, I can't move anymore." He loosened a bit, enough to feel her hold tighten. "Run your hands all over my back." She did. "Run your lips over my neck." She obeyed that command as well. In their slow ascend, her lips stopped near his ear and murmured, "Is it helping? Do you feel warm?"
He didn't answer her, but he continued to make sure every inch of his exposed skin was touching hers. She continued to be warm, while he remained cold. Yet, the warmth was now coating the cold and he felt a moment of borrowed reprieve.
"Too much?" he asked her. She looked up puzzled. "My coldness" he attempted to elaborate.
"I don't mind. I have never felt something quite hard, soft, and cold all at the same time. It's strange."
He lay in her embrace for a time without moving; he could have remained longer if she had not reached up to his ear to whisper, "I feel strange in my belly."
He looked down into her face then. She lowered her eyes and added, "It's like something is clutching my insides and I can't draw in enough air."
He stared at her lowered eyes for a moment before he leaned into her. Her breath hitched immediately, but she did not look up.
"Would it help if I let you go?"
She nodded gradually. Even so, when he started to pull away, she resisted, but then gave in and let go.
"I ripped your dress."
