you could have loved her (maybe) [original, vampires?, kind of weird]
And here's another 'wtf are you writing, Meredith' post for anyone who's looking. In my defense, I am horrible at writing in-character romance. Clearly, my only option was original fiction.
And vampires, at that.
Title: you could have loved her (maybe)
Challenge: prompt_in_a_box round 12, prompt 15: The hind that would be mated by the lion must die for love. - William Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, 1.1
Word Count: 489
Notes: I have no idea where this came from, am not likely to continue it. Second person narration is something I like, but difficult for me to write for fanfic; since this is original fiction, I feel more comfortable with it.
--
'I love you', she says, and this must be some twisted kind of cosmic joke, because it would be the first one who's actually willing that you would end up not attracted to. That the first person to bare their neck to you, to let you take from them their blood, their humanity, their everything, would be the first person you don't really want to take that from.
It's not even that you return her feelings, or don't want her to get hurt or anything. She's one of those nosy busybodies that gets into your business and pokes her head around where it's not wanted, until she gets in too deep and--well. Then this is supposed to happen, but against her will, not yours.
And you've barely known her three months, and she's saying that she loves you? Makes no sense. But there you have it. The reasons for love make no sense to those outside it, or something stupid like that.
But hey, if she's willing, accepting the consequences and whatnot, then why not? You'll get a bite. (which you haven't gotten in just the longest time and wouldn't that be nice? you know you've missed the feeling) She'll get an eternity to make you fall in love with her. Maybe. If she survives the changing. If not, well, she's accepted those consequences too, hasn't she?
With a sigh and a smile, you lean down and brush the stray hairs away from her neck. You wouldn't want to ruin that lovely color, and this could get messy. She trembles slightly under your touch, but pushes down her obvious fear when you pull back.
'I want this', she says, and how can you say no to that? So you lean in again, bite down. (and ooh, you were right, you have missed this--the warmth, the flow, how very alive everything is for this one, long moment--) She gasps, shudders, sighs.
After the one, long moment has passed, you pull back, admire your work. She is pale, breathing heavily, flushed. Pale yet flushed; it's a look that makes her almost beautiful, though it's a shame it won't last. No blood flow when you're dead. Or undead, as it happens. You watch as blood spills out of the two small puncture marks, and parallel red tracks run down her shoulder. You smile.
She's stopped moving, the flush to her cheeks long since vanished. You know what this means; her body didn't take the change. She's dead, no 'un-' to it, now or ever.
A shame, that. Now that you've had a taste of her, you think you could have loved her. Maybe.
Well, she would have had an eternity to make you. It probably would have happened, eventually.
You kiss her cheek before you leave, a second red lipstick ring to match the one on her neck. She gave her everything to you; you figure the least you can do is let the world know you're the one who took it.
--
And vampires, at that.
Title: you could have loved her (maybe)
Challenge: prompt_in_a_box round 12, prompt 15: The hind that would be mated by the lion must die for love. - William Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, 1.1
Word Count: 489
Notes: I have no idea where this came from, am not likely to continue it. Second person narration is something I like, but difficult for me to write for fanfic; since this is original fiction, I feel more comfortable with it.
--
'I love you', she says, and this must be some twisted kind of cosmic joke, because it would be the first one who's actually willing that you would end up not attracted to. That the first person to bare their neck to you, to let you take from them their blood, their humanity, their everything, would be the first person you don't really want to take that from.
It's not even that you return her feelings, or don't want her to get hurt or anything. She's one of those nosy busybodies that gets into your business and pokes her head around where it's not wanted, until she gets in too deep and--well. Then this is supposed to happen, but against her will, not yours.
And you've barely known her three months, and she's saying that she loves you? Makes no sense. But there you have it. The reasons for love make no sense to those outside it, or something stupid like that.
But hey, if she's willing, accepting the consequences and whatnot, then why not? You'll get a bite. (which you haven't gotten in just the longest time and wouldn't that be nice? you know you've missed the feeling) She'll get an eternity to make you fall in love with her. Maybe. If she survives the changing. If not, well, she's accepted those consequences too, hasn't she?
With a sigh and a smile, you lean down and brush the stray hairs away from her neck. You wouldn't want to ruin that lovely color, and this could get messy. She trembles slightly under your touch, but pushes down her obvious fear when you pull back.
'I want this', she says, and how can you say no to that? So you lean in again, bite down. (and ooh, you were right, you have missed this--the warmth, the flow, how very alive everything is for this one, long moment--) She gasps, shudders, sighs.
After the one, long moment has passed, you pull back, admire your work. She is pale, breathing heavily, flushed. Pale yet flushed; it's a look that makes her almost beautiful, though it's a shame it won't last. No blood flow when you're dead. Or undead, as it happens. You watch as blood spills out of the two small puncture marks, and parallel red tracks run down her shoulder. You smile.
She's stopped moving, the flush to her cheeks long since vanished. You know what this means; her body didn't take the change. She's dead, no 'un-' to it, now or ever.
A shame, that. Now that you've had a taste of her, you think you could have loved her. Maybe.
Well, she would have had an eternity to make you. It probably would have happened, eventually.
You kiss her cheek before you leave, a second red lipstick ring to match the one on her neck. She gave her everything to you; you figure the least you can do is let the world know you're the one who took it.
--