Taking Over Me

I have to be with you to live, to breathe--
you're taking over me!

Slinking into the darkened alley like a criminal who doesn't want to be seen, he steps into the weak lamplight and leans against the crumbling brick wall. Waiting.

He is so very thirsty, something that still, bagged blood cannot satiate. He wants--needs--the warm lifeblood of a living donor. Somewhere, deep down, he realizes that he doesn't have to live like this, that he can refuse. But the craving, the sheer bloodlust is too strong. He will take her blood tonight.

He feels the sharp, gleaming fangs extend with the sound of her blood pounding in her delicious body. He has become more aware of her presence now that she has become his regular donor. He could pick her out of a crowd of a thousand beating hearts if it was wanted. He knows her body, her mind, her blood better than any one person's. Better than his best friend's.

His heart wrenches at this thought, but he is becoming more adept at ignoring those feelings, the guilt. If he wasn't so damn thirsty, he'd probably begin to cry, but the lust is too strong, and he pulls on her arm, drawing her closer.

"Snow," he breathes, before kissing her full on the mouth. He finds that kissing is an easier introduction than simply sinking his teeth deep into her neck. She responds back; he hears, smells, and feels her heartbeat increase. He cries out, for the pain of resisting is too much. He reaches her vein simply by familiarity, and--just before he bites--he kisses her gently, the sweetest kiss imaginable. Her heart races even faster, and she's breathing so sweetly…

"Oh!" she whispers. But he barely hears her through the delight of drinking her blood. Sweeter than any blood from any bag--AB negative, he guesses--and warmer and more full of life than anything he'd ever tasted. Every time he takes from her, it's a new experience. She's simply that delicious, that delectable. The monster inside of him roars in sheer happiness, and he bites deeper, hearing--not caring--that her once strong heartbeat is now a mere dull flicker.

Somewhere, deep down, he knows he should stop. He must. But the monster is in control now, and the boy who was Vladimir Tod has been shoved down to the deepest depths of his heart--away in a corner--watching as the beautiful, kind Goth girl is dying in his arms.

And the beast relishes it. Loves it. This is not the first time he's gone too far, but the first time that he cannot get back to himself. The fear is almost too much, and he nearly fades away, like the girl slumped in his arms. But he finds newfound strength, and he pushes his way in control. He withdraws his fangs from her neck, and licks the droplets of blood away from his lips.

"Snow!" he says again. However--this time--his voice is not quivering because of bloodlust, but in fear. And horror, that he could have done this. That he had. Her face--which normally would have been a shade of ivory, with a rosy blush--is ashen and grey. She looks awful. She looks dead.

He momentarily panics. He has killed her. A living human being, simply for the satiating satisfaction of her blood. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and a few sad droplets leak down his face, dripping onto her black Evanescence shirt.

After a few guilty seconds, he rights himself and realizes that her heartbeat still lingers, that she is still alive. He does not know what he would do if she was really dead. He doesn't want to know. She stirs in his arms, and he starts. Although she is still merely semi-conscious, she manages to speak.

"Vlad? Vlad, what…oh, God, what a headache." Her hand, pale and fluttering like a baby bird, goes to her temple. Then to her neck. "Ow."

Hardly daring to look, he sees a bruise. It is dark and purplish-black, easily noticeable on her pale neck. Without really noticing what he is doing, he brushes her hair back across her shoulders, covering the disfiguring mark.

He doesn't want to tell her what he has done as he sets her unsteadily on the ground. He doesn't want her to know his shame. But it seems she already knows as she stares up at him with knowing eyes.

"You went too far again, didn't you." It is not a question. She is smarter than she lets on.

"I'm so sorry, Snow," he begs, feeling his knees collapse on him. "I-I…Oh, God, I don't have an explanation." Because that is the truth. "I'm a monster," he whispers.

She kneels down next to him, getting her blue-and-black tights dirty in the old rainwater sitting in a puddle. "It's not your fault," she soothes. "I agreed to this. I should know the risks."

"But I should be more careful," he sobs. "God, I hate myself sometimes." He wishes there was some way he could go back to the old routine of bagged hospital blood. But the idea of the nearly-stale, unmoving liquid nearly sends him gagging.

"And you can't go back," she acknowledges. It is as if she is reading his mind.

He shakes his head furiously. He has buried his face in his arms, refusing to look at her. Because if he did, he'd still see the dark bruise that lingered on her neck, even if it was hidden behind curtains of hair. And then he feels angry. Irrationally so. His belly is full, his heart is aching, and his brain is telling him to run.

So he does.

"Don't follow me," he says hoarsely, knowing that without the direct order, she would. With one last bittersweet kiss, they part. He runs off, feeling the shame and the prickly beginnings of the monster hidden deep within his chest.

A/N: so.... how was it? i just had this idea after reading Tenth Grade Bleeds the other night, and it just wouldn't go away. the whole idea of him and snow, the donor/vampire relationship is intriguing to me... anyways, you know the drill. comments = blood-chip cookies. DELICIOUS!