I decided to try a slightly different writing style with this one.
Warnings: Dark. Sex. Bloodplay.
I can't feed my hunger.
Your youth makes me younger.
I'll hurt you, desert you,
Turn your dreams to nightmares.
I'll cheat you, I'll eat you.
I'll maim you, I'll drain you.
Come to me, come to me,
To the dark side where love sleeps.
~ "Vampyre Erotica" by Inkubus Sukkubus
Shadows coil and play within dark corners. Dim light illuminates a bed that is seldom used, yet tonight it is occupied by two entangled figures.
Her warm, youthful body writhes beneath him, each movement stoking the fire ever higher. He kisses her forehead, cheeks, before moving to her throat and placing his lips against the rapid tattoo of her pulse. One bite is all it would take . . .
No. He has other plans.
She's panting, moaning, begging for him to just shag her already, and something in him chuckles darkly.
Oh, he will—whenever and wherever he wants. Just not quite yet.
"Patience," he whispers to his human lover before kissing her collarbone, then the valley between her breasts.
The slightest nip at the soft skin draws dark red blood. She gasps, arching off the bed, her hips colliding sharply with his, and he nearly groans aloud.
It's taking every ounce of control he has not to give in and eat her, drain her of her youth and all that makes her his Rose.
He moves lower, trailing bruising kisses on her scalding flesh. Then he's nudging her thighs apart, easing one, two, three fingers into her slick heat and stretching her, preparing her.
His mouth joins his fingers, first pressing against her folds, her clit, and then spearing her deep inside. A moan spills from him as her taste floods his senses.
She keens, her hips bucking upward, her hands closing into fists on the sheets as if that will keep her grounded.
It won't.
She's close, so, so close—he can feel it in the way her inner muscles clench around his fingers and tongue—and he withdraws instantly, ignoring her cry of disappointment and protest.
Seeing her like this only fuels his darkest desires.
When he finally enters her, there's a brief respite from the hunger clawing at him.
He's wordless yet nowhere near silent as he crests, her name in his native Gallifreyan repeating over and over in his mind.
After she cleanses herself of blood and sweat, rinses the smell of sex from her body, she comes to him again.
Rassilon, he loves her, needs her.
In the end, it will be that which destroys her.