She's beautiful in that primal way that pray appeals to predator. Alluring in it's unguarded state. All grace and careless ease in its ignorance. Even in her anger, banging utensils as she moves, she has a fluid sense of motion about her. He scents the salty aroma of tears on the air, caustic to her whittled strength, and finds that it unnerves him. A part of the beast, the human part, pushed down into the deep dark like a prisoner chained to a cold cobblestone wall, finds this very curious, considering the beasts intentions. Another aberration in a long line of anomalies. It's been too damn long since anyone's carried the weight of any interest for him. He already knows that this one is special.
But the beasts mind, such as it is in this moment, is a hurricane. Foggy and incoherent in all matters but one. He is screaming, all of him, his thoughts, his body, for what is stood before him and as a fresh wave of her strikes into his very being, he feels like a newborn again. That heady mix of mania and blind empowerment, the adrenalin. His muscles growling and tense with the ferocity of his need. His throat aches and his belly yearns, and never before has he felt so hollow. And all for the smell of her.
The world around her seems grainy, porous. Seeming to dissolve into a colorful haze of unreality under its own insignificance in the face of her. He had always known he would be here, in this moment, with her. Had known from the first moment that she was for him. With a scent such as hers what other purpose could she possibly have but to sustain him. Than to become his. And she would, he thought. Because that was the way these moments were meant to unfold. She was his prey, and for all the human body's complexity it would tear easily under his palms. Her physical strong hold easily breached if not her psychological one. He wants to hear her scream, strangled in pained desperation. He wants her struggling and sacrificial beneath him as he undoes her.
There's a tightness in the air as he feels her feel him. And her inch by inch about face in the birthing twilight is excruciating. He is before her, the beast bared all, and she is stumbling, all triple time breaths and trembling limbs, to equate what she sees with what her instinct tells her she should be seeing. He can only imagine how he seemed to her. The feral quality of his face, eyes wild and hungry, lips pulled back in a low snarl. But still somehow unnaturally beautiful, unnaturally alluring, and even now beneath the fear he can see that she's still unsure. He wants her to stay, to step towards him, to hold out her arms and crane her neck, but he wants her to run also because, and he didn't think he was alone here, they were so much more fun when they ran.
He is across the kitchen, silent against the wood, and has her by the hair far faster than time could have possibly allowed; and she thinks, for lack of anything else for the thinking, in her fear swept mindscape that that was her mistake. Time was never a fixed construct, and never anybodies friend.
Her skin is smooth under his nose, and her fear, he can't help but growl, oh her fear permeates everything and concentrates her already mouthwatering floral. Wave after maddeningly succulant wave he breathes her in, shocking his heightened sences. If he could remember anything at all through the static in his mind he doesn't think he'd ever remember wanting anything this much, ever remember being this out of control, but then he couldn't remember ever coming across a human that smelt this good. He decides that it dosn't matter.
Her mouth trembles at the corners and he likes that, licks each side like one might an ice-pop and moans from deep within his chest. Tears slide from beneath lids that have been clamped tightly shut, dripping to her flushed chest and he follows them with his nose. There is no distance between them anymore and he rips at her shirt and bra to keep it that way, following the path of a lone tear down the curve of her breast. Her strangely lopsided lips open and she inhales preparing a scream that won't ever come as he plants a hand over them probably, he suspects, with a little more force than necessary. Only a pathetic sob of desperation is ripped from her. He likes that too. He can feel the tiny veins in her lips. He notices, with a curious lick that the skin of her breasts is saltier that the skin of her face and wonders if her blood would taste different, worse maybe? Or better, if taken from there. He looks but can't find a suitable vein. She's trembling beneath him as he rises to full height, just as he wanted, and he violently grasps her wrists, pinning them behind her with one hand. He presses himself against her, leeching the heat from her body through his clothing and relishing the quick uneven pound of her heart. She struggles weakly, arching her back in effort to push away as he buries his face in her hair, but it only serves to brush her breasts against him in her efforts. He grasps the soft scented strands of her hair with his free hand and pulls, exposing the long, smooth expanse of her neck for his perusal. As he runs his tongue along the pale column the beasts bane (Edward, whoever that is) shouts from obscurity. Wants her to say something, do anything that might change the beasts mind.
"Edward?" She manages. A squeak, really. Weak even to her. It isn't enough. And as the beast fastens himself to her, with the small, inconsequential lot of thought afforded him, (Edward) is sad.
She whimpers in obvious pain, her every muscle seeming to tense. But it's lost to him as an arterial spray of her blood hits his palate. She tastes of supernova's, of sweet oblivion. The Beginning and End of all things. He grips her tighter in his ecstasy, groaning and moaning and grunting in turn like an animal. She is heat beyond the physical sensation of heat. There is nothing but the indescribable taste of her as her leg's buckle and gravity claims them. He is aware, vaguely, of a distant thud against boards and her form falling limp as he lands between her thighs and is swathed in her. Her scent surrounding him like morning mist. She is soft and hot and yielding beneath him and it only serves to strengthen the need as he pushes himself against her. She is everything all at once; a messiah, and the most inconsequential stranger. For seventy years he'd walked the earth, tortured with guilt unimaginable, and here he'd found the answer. Inside this tiny, little wisp of a thing. She was forgiveness, She was contentment. Her smell, her body, her face, her voice, her blood! He wanted it all! He wanted to take that beauty that heat, and drink it dry, to own it! Absorb this warm, wondrous creature into himself until she is deathly cold and he was alive again.
Then hands are grabbing him. Seemingly from nowhere. He tries to shrug them off because those things, those things that the hands are, are all things that he knows and he doesn't want them anymore. Hard, muscled arms wedge themselves between him and his meal and he is yanked back. He tries to reach her still, jaws snapping in frenzied panic but whatever has him won't stop backing away and the metres between himself and her blood feel like light-years. His vision tunnels, all else seeming to blur into the middle until the breathtaking, mouthwatering mess of her and he can only roar in indignant rage as sweatered arms lift her. She is his kill, her blood is his salvation and they can't have her! But they do, and as quick as the arms were there they are gone, her with them and with the slow, irregular thump of her heart softening in the distance, as the overwhelming air that is her dissipates from his senses, the hurricane subsides and the world rushes back.