"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Was I always this pale? It's not like I got a lot of sun before, but...no, I'm sure I was never this white. I turn my hands over in my lap, staring dumbly at the smooth, pallid flesh. They don't feel like they're a part of me any more. I don't think I'll ever be able to shake the feeling that they've been carved out of ice.

So, really, it's probably a good thing that these days, I only have a reflection when I need one.

"Chrissy? Did you hear me?"

Matt's voice makes me jump, a small gasp of surprise cutting through the silence. The bed shifts beneath me as he stirs anxiously, his dusky skin grey in the half-light of our bedroom. My eyes flick to the pack of scented candles in his hand; unopened, unused. We used to love the soft, dancing lights and warm perfumes, but...ever since what happened, I can't trust myself around even the smallest fire. Not yet, at least. The others say that I'll learn control, in time. It's not much of a comfort.

"Yea, yea, sorry, it's just..." I brush a lock of dark hair away from my eyes and give him a small, shy smile. "I kinda, still get distracted, sometimes. You know, when I see myself. It's...the changes are a lot to get used to."

"I know," he lies. Of course he doesn't know. I'm dead. I'm a vampire, for god's sake, even though it still feels absurd to think it. I still don't exactly know how it feels, so how could he? How can he understand what it's like to move around without feeling your heart beat, to realization that your lungs only work when you need to speak, or the monstrous rush of euphoria that comes with taking another creature's blood into your body? But despite everything he's trying, he's trying so hard, to keep what we have from falling apart. I love him so much for that. 

"If this is too soon - if it's still too, uh, weird, while you're getting used to things..."

He trails off and gestures helplessly. No matter how brave he acts, he's as lost as I am. His dark eyes gleam in the moonlight filtering through the window, the expression of worry strangely out of place of his strong, roguish face. He hasn't smiled much since I told him about what happened to me. I miss his smile.

I reach out and take his hand, savoring the warmth of his skin and the damp, nervous clamminess of his palm in mine. Concentrating, I can feel the deeper, distant pulse of his heartbeat thudding in his chest, its rhythmic pulses driven to a flutter by anticipation and anxiety alike as I run my fingers over the back of his hand, fingertips dancing in circular motions. We haven't touched one another, not properly, since he found out about my condition. I can feel - smell, sense, it's so hard to describe - the blood in his veins pulsing in time with that light contact, his body stirring in response despite his reassurances.

He's still talking, trying to calm himself more than me, I think, telling me again and again how we can take things slow, how he'll give me time and space I need, how he's happy to wait...even as he squirms in place, crossing his legs, trying to hide the growing bulge in his jeans. I lean into him, pushing my cold soft, cold lips against his, shushing his chatter by pushing my tongue into his mouth and letting it dance there. His legs part in surprise, his muffled cry drowning beneath a guilt-ridden groan as my long, slim fingers slip between his thighs and cup the solid, reassuring hardness they find there. Some things, at least, never change.

"Chrissy-" he forces out, the words strangled between kisses, my cool flesh warming in the heat of his mouth. My body doesn't react like it used to - no flushed skin, no fluttering heart - but the need, the hunger, deep and primal, remains, like the embers of a dying fire being re-stoked by the vital warmth of his body. "I don't - are you - "

"Shut up." The words come out low, husky, aggressive even as I cling to him with the desperate strength of a shipwrecked woman clinging to the detritus keeping her head above water. "I need - I want, god, I just want to feel normal. Can't we just...do that? For tonight? Pretend nothing happened? Pretend I'm still normal?" 

At last, finally, he begins to push back, his fingers pawing along the narrow lines of my body, his rough lips crushing against mine, our noses bumping as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in against his body. One of my hands worms its way under his shirt, my fingernails leaving pale tracks on his skin as they drag up his torso, feeling his abdominal muscles tense and flex deliciously under the sudden, sharp contact. 

"Yea," he mutters, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the bulge in his jeans throbbing wonderfully under my palm. "Yea, let's do that." I can hear the blood thundering around his body, his heart hammering like a lunatic's drumbeat. The sound bores into my skull and dances along my dead nerves, stoking that animal hunger even further. My fingers clench and my fangs itch, a low, atavistic growl slipping out of my throat as he kisses me harder. Our tongues dance, his teeth nipping and pulling at my lower lip as we undress one another. I lift my hands above my head and thrust my chest out as he peels my top away and tosses it across the room, batting my eyelashes coquettishly as he pushes my bra out of the way and cups my breasts. Pale skin glimmers in the soft moonlight as his fingers dig into the small, fleshy mounds, his hands large enough to engulf them completely. It feels...strange, not quite like how I remember it feeling the last time we made love. His fingers pluck and tweak at my nipples, working them almost to the point of pain before soothing them with the soft kiss of his lips, but the alternating sparks of discomfort and pleasure feel oddly muted, like a memory or an echo.

Not that I have time to notice. My mind dances on a current of unnatural hunger and mortal lust, the potent cocktail of desires old and new blotting out any grief I might have felt for the extremity of emotion I once felt. I'm dead, I think giddily; the fact that I can feel anything is something to be grateful for. I dig my fingers into my partner's t-shirt, nails easily tearing through the thin material and puncturing into the skin behind. He shudders and convulses, his powerful, muscular torso shaking against my lithe, whisper-thin frame as I pull my fingers down, shredding his clothes and filling the air with the rich, heady stink of blood as his dark skin puckers and yields before the unnatural strength bestowed by my condition. 

The wounds are far from deep, but the scent lashes my mind like a whip nonetheless. I crane forwards, tongue out, lapping at the crimson trails like a kitten, crying out in sheer, unadulterated joy as the taste of the coppery liquid flows into my mouth. Like a shot of adrenaline, like a tab of ecstasy upon the tongue, my mind bursts into sudden, terrible life. It's like every scent, every taste, every kiss and orgasm and everything, a sensory deluge that mercilessly sweeps away all rational thought. I hiss and growl like an animal, grinding myself in against Matt's body, his words of distress and confusion nothing more than distant bleating noises as I plunge my tongue deeper into the shallow cuts, blood smearing across my chin as I lick and lap. One of my hands slips down, trailing blood in its wake, clawing blindly at his belt-buckle as he writhes under the stinging touch of my tongue. A low, lustful crow of triumph cuts the air as it finally comes free, his erection springing up to slap against the back of my hand.

I follow it down, slithering into a sticky, bloodstained heap between his legs, staring wide-eyed at the cock that twitches before my eyes. I can hear - no, I can feel, the blood rushing into the swollen organ, like the vibrations from a stereo speaker shaking the air, a maddening siren song that worms it's way beneath my skin. I reach for him with shaking hands, wrapping cool fingers around his length, feeling the heat, the glorious hardness of that pillar of velvet skin. My hands begin to stroke him almost of their own accord, sliding up and down, gently drawing his foreskin back with each downwards movement, the bulging, cherry-red head of his cock dancing before my eyes.

Sense, slowly, begins to return. It was only a little blood I took, really, and it was quickly absorbed into my system, and with it the momentary bloodlust recedes. The yearning it leaves behind is almost worse, a craving worse than the comedown from any human narcotic. I shuffle forwards, wetting my lips with my tongue, pulling my lover's cock towards my waiting mouth, my fangs just visible as my tongue curls out to flicker, once, over the underside of his head. 

Was - was he always this hot? He lets out a sharp gasp as my tongue begins to explore his length, tracing up and down the underside of his shaft and lapping around the base of his swollen, throbbing cockhead. His every little twitch and shudder feels like it's magnified a thousandfold as I work him, moving from teasing him with my tongue to kissing him with the cool silk of my lips, leaving behind glistening trails as I feather the searing, turgid spire of flesh with kisses. It's only when I move back down to his base and begin to trace one of the pulsing veins that spiral his length with my eager mouth that it hits me.

Blood. It always comes back to blood, and his cock is full of it, rushing through the plump veins that dance beneath his skin. He's so...so vital, so alive. His body almost glows in the dim light of our room, like some great, burning beacon, radiating heat and life. Did I feel like that, once? I can't - I can't remember.  My heart doesn't beat, my lungs don't work unless I need to talk, and I just feel so cold. I risk a look up, wincing as Matt stares down at me, the tortured look of pain, uncertainty, and desperate, physical need on his face lancing through me like a sword. He was right, I think, it was too soon. I'm not in control of myself. 

But what am I supposed to do? Just give up, leave my partner with blue balls while I go cry in a corner? I shake the thoughts away with a low, irritable growl and a twitch of the head, wiping the blood away from my lips and doing my best to ignore the nerve-shredding itch coming from my fangs. "Normal," I mutter, leaning in and giving my lover's cock a gentle squeeze. He thrusts forwards in reply, the fat, read head bumping eagerly against my cold lips, the smear of precome helping to wash away the lingering aftertaste of his blood. "Think normal. Just think normal."

His scent washes over me, a thick and heady musk of pheromones and fresh sweat. My eyes close and just for a moment I drive all other thoughts out of my mind, letting his body heat wash over my dead skin, a small smile creasing my lips as as I wallow in his sheer, masculine presence. It's like an anchor, dragging me back to sanity, and as I finally part my lips and take his throbbing length into the wet, silken cavern of my mouth, my low, throaty groan  is as much one of relief as it is of pleasure. We rest there for a moment, his cock halfway into my mouth, relishing the shared feelings as I caress him with my tongue. Memories of our first, grubby sexual encounters spark back into life; the anxious flutter of my heart as I went down on him in the back rows of the cinema, guilty giggles making it difficult to keep him in my mouth for more than a few moments at a time. This time, the sound I make as I let him slip deeper into my mouth, inch after inch of hot, vital flesh creeping past my lips, is one of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

It's matched by a low gasp of satisfaction from above as Matt starts to relax, thrusting back and forth as I bob up and down upon his shaft. His hands wind their way through my hair, fingertips sending faint little tingles of pleasure shuddering through me as they stroke through the dark curls. I purr happily and open my eyes again, gazing up the tight, muscular length of his body, smiling as best I can and batting my eyelashes at him as our eyes meet. Sweat trickles down his body, outlining the shapes of his abdominals in shining, pink-red trail-

Wait.

Oh, no. 

He's still bleeding.

Just the sight of it is enough to set me off. The urge to bite - to dig my fangs into hot, hard flesh, to tear skin and gorge on the crimson banquet I can feel pulsing between my lips - hits me like a sledgehammer. It washes everything away - the taste of his pre building in my mouth, the heat where my lips wrap around his thick cock, even the faint memories dancing on the edge of consciousness. I let out a low whimper and thrust my head forwards, swallowing madly as the tip of his cock pokes against the back of my throat. His shaft sits between my fangs, the long, sharp teeth stroking the sides of his length even as my tongue washes over the underside. Did he notice? The idea of looking up and seeing that expression of fear on his face sends a bolt of terror through me. No, I think. No, just - just keep going. It's been a while for him, it can't be long before he finishes.

"I didn't know you could deepthroat." Matt's voice drifts down, cutting through the haze of bloodlust and terror. I pull my head back, his cock slithering from my mouth with a wet pop, trails of saliva and precome dripping from the tip in long, glistening strings.

"Yea!" I say, cringing inside at the manic tone of anxiety in my voice. "Well, I mean, I couldn't, but, uh." I shrug and grin up at him. "Benefits of not needing to breathe, right?"

He laughs warmly, knotting his fingers through my hair and tugging me insistently towards his waiting organ. "Hey, you know, silver linings and all that."

I laugh with him, quickly taking sucking him back into my mouth and looking away from the bloody tracks on his body, shame and desperate, hungry desire pulsing through me in equal measure. There's no subtlety now, no gentle, teasing kisses; I devour him, sucking his cock into the cool velvet of my throat, angling my head so he can slip his burning shaft deeper into me. But all I can think of is - I could call it an accident! Get the angle wrong, nick him with one of my fangs! Just one little slip, one tiny graze to tear open one of the thick veins that spiral the length of his shaft and I could feed properly. The thought sends a shudder of pleasure rocking through my body, a ghostly echo of the rapture that tasting the bloody cuts on his chest had brought about. 

Part of me wants to cry. This is awful - I love this man, I've loved him for years, all the more so now that he's agreed to try and stay with me even though I'm a dead, blood-bloated parasite, and it's all I can do not to emasculate him. My throat swallows again and again, the silken flesh of my gullet rippling and massaging the thick, burning length of cockmeat stuffed down it, as I press my nose deeper into the base of his crotch and try to drown the monstrous urges in the scent of his body. Maybe if I had some other stimulation - maybe if he was working me as well, if I had something else to concentrate on other than the feeling of having my face fucked - 

"Oh, shit." He grunts, clutching at my hair hard enough to hurt. "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna, come."

I almost want to cry, such is the wave of relief that floods through me. We're done, we're almost done, if I can just hold out a little longer. But it's hard, my fangs screaming like dentist's drills, bestial, alien urges surging through my body where there should only have been the warm glow of human arousal. I screw my eyes shut and let out a low, fluid gurgle as Matt's cock begins to twitch in the depths of my throat, his length rippling and balls contracting, until suddenly - he lets out one last, shuddering groan and pulls my face in tight against him and climaxes. I can feel every pulse of liquid heat as it spills into my throat and makes it's way down into my belly, but the satisfaction - the joy of having brought such pleasure to my partner - isn't there. All I can think of is how much it feels like feeding; the searing, vital fluid, the taste of salt, the warmth that spreads through my body as it pools inside.

Alike, and yet not. It brings no satisfaction to me. If anything, the urge to bite and rip into the softening flesh in my mouth reaches it's fever pitch, as if possessed of their own will and angered by the poor offering of Matt's seed. I jerk my head backwards, the action eerily silent without the sudden intake of breath that a living woman would need, as he flops down upon the bed, his cock slapping against his bare belly as I collapse onto my backside. 

"Pillow." I rasp. "Gimme a pillow, now, now!"

"Chrissy? What's-"

I don't give him time to finish. "Gotta bite." I choke the words out in a mad rush. "Gotta bite gotta bite gotta bite."

His eyes go wide for a moment, but he leaps to obey, grabbing one of the pillows at the head of our bed and tossing it to me. I snatch it out of mid-air and, growling like an animal, bite into it as hard as I can. Bite, and chew, worrying at it like a dog, like something devoid of the merest traces of humanity, hissing and growling as the material rips and tears, feathers falling in a white rain around me.

Eventually, the urges pass. The pillow falls from my hands, leaving me sitting, half-naked, my face still smeared with saliva and chest decorated with my lover's dried blood, wallowing in guilt and shame. Matt stares at me, the silence horrifyingly thick.

"So, uh." He says. "I guess normal's out?"

I spit out a few feathers, unable to bring myself to look at him. "Yea." I whisper. "Looks like."