Feels so good bein' bad,
There's no way I'm turnin' back.
Know the pain is my pleasure,
'Cause nothing could measure.
Love is great, love is fine,
Out the box, outta line.
The affliction of the feelin' leaves me wantin' more.

Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from 'S&M' by Rihanna. ©

It was like an addiction, an obsession, a craving, a fixation, a longing, a complex, a compulsion, an infatuation, a desire, a yearning, a need...

She needed it, and she needed it desperately.

So it was only relieving when the patio doors leading out onto her personal bedroom balcony were clicked open from the outside and pulled outward – leaving the silhouette of the only man that could satisfy her longing.

His dark, curly hair forming an ironic halo around his head, his long trench coat fanning out around him like a cape, his smart, formal suit straightening out his long, lean legs as he slowly steps towards her, his usually haughty features now smoothed into an impossibly simple expression, with only his eyelids drooping downwards to give a sense of life in him.

But there was no life left. None at all.

And she knew that there would be none in her, either, after this night.

But it was her addiction, her obsession... her craving. She would satisfy her longing even if it meant with her own mortality.

As the figure slowly stepped forward, seemingly to gracefully sweep across the floor towards her, she backed away, step by step, keeping the same distance away from him as he stepped forwards and she stepped back.

In her head, she was terrified; truly and deeply terrified. But in her heart, she was contented; truly and deeply contented. For she was about to fulfil her addiction for the very last time – to be satisfied into her death bed.

The room was completely black, with only the moonlight pouring in from the open window as a source of light. The breeze had picked up that night, so the floaty white curtains were blowing behind him, making the dark shadows silhouetting his sharp frame even more pronounced.

It was so dark in there that she hadn't even realised she had backed enough away until her back hit the wall and she was pinned. Nowhere to run – nowhere to hide. This was it. This was death. This was satisfaction.

He stepped closer still, until they were only inches apart, his tall, thin body towering frighteningly over her small frame. And as he lowered his head to reach hers, the moonlight from the window caught onto his features and she gasped in horror at what she saw.

His skin was so pale; it was as though he had stepped directly out of a black-and-white movie. It was eerily white, death-white – tinged an almost blue. The only colour on him was in his irises. Their usual ice-blue was gone, replaced with a blood-curdling shade of red. So red it wasn't really red... It was like fire in his eyes – like a burning rage continuously building up inside him, hungry to be released.

Just like she was.

And when she felt his leather-gloved hands caress her cheeks, the two puncture marks in her neck began to burn at the recognition of their creator.

Her breath hitched in her throat as his already-too-close face lowered even more until his nose was hovering above the two marks he had created no less than two days beforehand. His hands suddenly became firm on her face and now, instead of caressing them, he forced them sideways so he had a perfect view of her neck.

This was not unusual. He was usually rough with her – it was something that comforted her about him. He needed it too; it was just one small thing that made him human enough to love.

And then she decided – right then at that moment – that she loved him. She did. She loved him uncontrollably and inexplicably. It was something she'd never thought of before; how could she love him? Someone she barely knew; he was just her nightly visitor, a man to whom she owed her addiction to. Like she was the heroin addict and he was the dealer.

Because, basically, that's what it was – an addiction. An infatuation; nothing more.

But something stirred inside her that told her it was love. Like a heroin addict would love the heroin – she loved the man her addiction was based upon. She wasn't even sure what it was that she was addicted to... But whatever it was it was good.

She looked away into the darkness as his thin, blue-tinted lips parted and revealed a set of pearly-white teeth. But the more he opened his mouth, the wider his eyes went – and the longer his canines grew.

Longer and longer, sharper and sharper until they just touched his bottom lip, puncturing his own skin there. As the droplets of the stolen blood quickly surfaced, he ferociously sunk his fangs into the marks previously made directly on her jugular.

And then it hit her – the overflowing urge to scream out, the white-hot searing pain radiating throughout her limbs. But she uncontrollably bit down hard onto her bottom lip so the scream wouldn't come out, and she kept the raging fire deep inside, closing her eyes tight as her irises scorched beneath their lids.

This was it – this was what she was addicted to. Not the metallic smell of the blood trailing from the corners of his mouth, not the sound of the slurping as he gulped down the blood in pints, not the closeness of it all as he kept her pinned to the wall with his cold stone body, so much so that her feet barely touched the floor anymore, and it was not the satisfaction of the need slowly leaving her as she got her release.

But it was the pain. She was addicted to the pain. Nothing else.

For it was the pain that kept it sane – kept it real.If there was no pain then how could she be sure if it was a dream or not? If there was no pain there would be nothing to hold onto, nothing to grasp in the darkness, nothing to cling to as if her life depended on it.

But her life did depend on it. That's what made it an addiction.

She groaned in content as her longing was satisfied, relaxing in his strong arms as the fire slowly began to die out. She felt her irises cool and she was able to open her eyes lazily. She was exhausted, just as she always was after one of these experiences; that was what probably contributed to the fact that she had to always prove to herself that this wasn't a dream. Because in the morning she wakes up in her own bed and he is gone and there is no proof of the truth except the slightly pink marks on her neck. It is the very pain that keeps the experience alive.

But he didn't stop like she had expected him to. He didn't stop like he had done the two nights before. He just kept going, he kept slurping and tearing at her artery until the fire raged inside her again. Except this time, the fire was so hot that she couldn't close her eyes. If she closed her eyes her eyelids would scorch and she would scream. But she couldn't scream... She wouldn't allow herself to scream...

But... so much... pain. The fire... raging fire... Stop. Please.

"Stop!" She yelled, realising that this was truly her demise, just like she'd always thought. "Stop! Please! Please stop!"

But he kept going. He kept tearing and slurping until the two little puncture marks were now gaping great holes in her neck and the blood seeped through freely all over her white nightgown and his pale lips.

His grip was so firm against the wall she was finding it difficult to breath – but how could she focus on breathing when the fire was burning like this? It was scorching, blistering the whites of her eyes. She could no longer see; everything blurred and tinted red.

"No!" She screamed as she tried in evident vain to push him from her. "No! NO!" This wasn't how she was supposed to die... Where was the satisfaction? Where was the ending need? Why wasn't she contented with her release? Why did it burn more than before?

She was supposed to die in content that the yearning was satisfied, but she knew now that her longing would never be satisfied – not even in death.

Her nails clawed deeply into his marble skin flesh and at his face until her hands dropped limply by her sides as all life left her with one last blood-curdling shriek of agony.

A/N: Uhh... Yeah, a little long for a prologue. Anyway, earlier today I looked back onto my work with my Tom/Hermione fanfiction where he fantasises about licking the blood from an open wound and so I thought I'd give this a go. I'm just playing around to see if I'm any good at horror. What do you think? Yay or nay?

Also, I've been obsessing over Christopher Lee (awh.. YUM!) and so I've been watching and re-watching old videos of Dracula my grandma has lying around. He is SO AWESOME!

Reviews = love! Share the love!

Kelly xxx