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Vagaries	By : viciousv Category: S through Z > True Blood Views: 2100 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own True Blood or any of its characters, and I profit in no way from this work. Blood play, violence

Chapter List
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Tara’s head swam. She’d tried to shut her mouth to the stream of blood, but she was too weak to close her jaw or turn her head. The gash he’d made in his own neck with his fingers was large. The thick dark ichor filled her mouth, ran into her nostrils and eyes, and snaked down her throat. It tasted of copper and meat, and before she knew what was happening, some power compelled her to raise her head and put her mouth to the wound.
“Yes,” he urged. “Drink me. Drink all of me.”
His snarling words were muffled through those prodigious fangs, and his voice had a odd sucking, choked quality about it. Some tiny part of her realized he’d ripped into his own vocal cords when he’d torn his neck open. But then, in what seemed like no time at all, the flow stopped, and she cried out in protest. He grasped the base of her throat with one hand and pinned her back against the hard ground. She tried to fight him, to reach the stream of blood still issuing from his jugular, but she was no match for his strength. Her heart, which had slowed to a crawl, was now beating so fast that it was causing spasms to chase through her body. She seized once, twice, like someone experiencing cardiac arrest.
Then it slowed. Then she breathed. Then she didn’t. She watched his face through a dull fog, dimly aware of the mingled concern and eagerness in his white face. He bent over her, put his lips over her heart, as though he was sipping away the last beat. She felt an emptiness inside her chest when it ceased altogether. She sank into viscous darkness.
She woke to the sharp scent of turned earth. Not only that, but the smell of insects, the scent of decay, and old leaves. A woody, vegetable smell that was the roots of a sapling, reaching towards her through the ground. She did not know how she was able to put a name to these scents, only that she could. Then, she realized, the soil was the weight against her skin. She swam upwards through the darkness, and felt the soft brush of cool air as one hand burst through the surface. She clawed her way out of the ground, into a night that was alive with croaking frogs, whining cicadas, the rustling of leaves. It was a cacophony, and it thundered in her ears. She looked around her, seeing the world in colours that were richer and sharper than they ought to be, piercing into her brain like a migraine headache. Then she turned, looked behind her, and screamed.
Franklin was waiting for her.
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“Get in the car.”
“No,” Tara said, hugging herself. Everything hurt. Sounds burned her skin. The sharp blades of the grass, their saturated colour, seemed to saw against her eardrums. Her veins ached, a deeply unpleasant feeling that was unlike anything she’d ever felt. She could feel each and every one of them. It felt like there were razor wires under her skin.
“I’m hungry,” she said, the words falling out of her mouth through the fangs that had descended the moment she’d felt that paralyzing rush of fear. They cut into her lip when she tried to speak around them. The cuts in her lip were not healing.
“I know you’re hungry,” Franklin was impatient. “Get in the car.”
“Fuck you.” She slurred. Her words were like mud in her mouth “You fucking killed me, you piece of shit.”
Franklin opened the passenger door of the old Chevelle and turned to her. “Tara, get in the fucking car or I will do it again.”
She didn’t want to get close to him, but her body seemed to act of its own accord, rising and staggering towards the car like a baby deer. As she passed him, she could feel a magnetic charge that seemed to pull her towards him. It was as though the sensation she had felt when she had still been human, the attraction that came from drinking his blood, had magnified a hundredfold. Still, she took care not touch him or brush him as she got into the car. The slamming of the door cracked through her skull. She bent over her knees and tried not to cry out.
“Stop being so dramatic,” he snapped, his voice a whip on her skin. “It’ll go away once you’ve eaten.”
“Why don’t you just give me some TruBlood?” she asked in a small voice, trying not to hear herself. Her own voice stabbed into her ear drums.
He rolled his eyes. “No baby vampire should start out on formula.”
She had to digest that. “Oh my god. You want me to kill someone.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”
She shuddered, feeling nauseated. “I don’t.”
“You will.”
They drove for what seemed like hours. Tara had no measure of time, and Franklin, normally loquacious, had fallen into a sulky silence. It was only when they crossed the Texas state line that Tara looked to him for an explanation.
“Where are we going?
“Roundheigh.”
Something dinged in her mind. She had heard of Roundheigh. “I thought that was just gossip.”
The rumour had been that the governor of Texas had struck up a bargain with the vampire king of that state to contract the vampire community to handle the executions of death row convicts at a processing facility. It had been denounced by the vampire rights coalition as being exploitative of both humans and vampires, and no contract was ever made.
Franklin drummed on the steering wheel. “Top secret. I helped negotiate the agreement.”
Tara took that to mean that he had glamoured, killed or bribed the right people.
The facility itself was small, far out into the woods and might have been mistaken for some kind of utility station, except that the gate was guarded by armed and uniformed vampires. It was isolated enough that anyone driving along the main highway would never guess its existence unless they happened to turn on to the unmarked dirt road.
They parked. Franklin, seemingly concerned that she might try to bolt, took her hand and led her into the building. It was harshly lit inside, and the fluorescent lights vibrated against her temples in a headachy staccato. The featureless hallway led to an almost featureless room, though she did notice the floor was tiled, and there was a drain. The prisoner was stringy man with the look of a crystal meth addict. He contentedly in a chair and stared amiably at the white wall opposite him with the air of someone glamoured.
As soon as they were inside the room, Tara was immediately seized by the smell of his flesh. He was rawboned and covered in swastika tattoos, but underneath the stale jerky cigarette smell she could sense the pulse of his blood as it made its journey through his vascular system. Her mouth watered. His blood smelled different than Franklin’s. She smelled cloves, and butter and something alcoholic that was oily and acidic. He looked at her with mild indifference, and she felt the leaden fog that sat over his brain and prevented him from resisting.
“This is Joe,” Franklin said, as though introducing them over tea and scones. “Joe. Meet Tara.”
“Hello, Tara,” he said in a voice that was thick, like the words had been artificially slowed down.
“Tell Tara what you did,” Franklin instructed.
“Kilt my auntie. Shot her dead. Shot her poodle, too. Took her wallet. Bought some drugs and some potato chips.”
“Why is it,” Tara sighed, half to herself. “That evil people are always so goddamn stupid.”
Franklin said, smiling his jack-o-lantern smile. “Lack of practice. Most people don’t live that long.”
Tara glanced at him, and he nodded his chin and crossed his arms, waiting.
She turned to Joe. His head had lolled to the side, his skin taut over the place where his jugular throbbed. As she moved closer, the strange little muscles in her upper mandible contracted. Her human teeth retracted, and her fangs descended. They ached, but unlike every other physical sensation she had experienced tonight, it was a good ache.
She put her mouth on the skin of Joe’s neck, and her instinct took over, driven by the maddening smell of hot blood. They slid easily into his neck, and the blood gushed into her mouth. At once, it filled her mouth. It coursed down into her, touched the pain and dissolved it. She was flying, human blood singing through her veins and warming her from head to foot. Her skin tingled, and she closed her eyes, letting the warmth soak into her body. It was like bubble baths, chocolate truffles, and full body orgasm. She hummed against Joe’s neck, a low moan of pleasure.
She was suddenly aware of Franklin’s touch, his fingers on her cheek. She was too distracted by her meal to reach to push him away, and even so, she felt something coiled in her tighten at his proximity. She could feel his breath as he bent down to whisper in her ear.
“Slowly. Feel the heart beat. Don’t go too fast, or you’ll have to work harder to suck it out. Let the heart do the work for you. Let it bring you the blood.”
His voice was sensual, soft, and it seemed to crawl over her skin. She felt her body relax, and sipped almost gently at the ragged puncture wounds her abnormally long fangs had made. She lapped, and sucked, feeling the slow thrum of his heart as it struggled to circulate the blood. Struggled as hers had struggled when Franklin had opened her throat. Only she had been terrified. Her pounding heart had delivered her blood into his mouth as though wanted to be there.
Suddenly, she pulled away from Joe. He was drooping, but there was still blood left in him. She turned his face and looked at him. The fuzziness that seemed to encircle his head was not difficult to tap into. She pulled it into herself, aware that Franklin was watching her with fascination, perhaps even pride.
“Joe,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re gonna die now, and I know inside you ain’t at peace with that. You know it, too, don’t you?”
“I don’t-” his eyes went wide, and suddenly his whole body went rigid as the glamour evaporated. He tried to get up, but he was cuffed to the chair. “Oh my god. Get away from-”
She was on him. Faster than he could breathe, she ripped open his neck. His heart jackhammered. His blood, dark heart’s blood, sprayed into her mouth like a jet. He cried out, strangled and incomprehensible. Suffused with terror and adrenaline, his blood was intoxicating, and Tara’s tongue licked frantically to get the last of it, delving into the ragged hole. Finally, his body completely drained, his heart silent, Joe flopped over, and slid to the floor. He was chalk white, and his skin had taken on a shriveled quality.
Tara was still for a moment, lost in the glow. When she raised her head, Franklin was watching her. Without the pain of starvation, she could focus now, could see him with her vampire vision. The blackness of his hair and his clothes seemed to suck the light in around them and swallow it. His fangs were down, and his lips were parted. His pale eyes were watching her with an unblinking hunger.
Tara licked her lips. “Franklin.”
“Tara.”
“Take me to a motel room, and fuck me.”
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Vagaries