Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 7
- 8
- 9
“London,” she had said, when he’d put the question to her. It had to be somewhere out of the country, somewhere they could hide while things calmed in the US. There was no guarantee that the death of the V dealer would be traced to him- such a man had many enemies. But it was not worth the risk. London would not have been his first choice, but his darling wanted it, so he would go. They could always travel to the continent from there. Besides, this time of year, the city was always rife with tourists. And tourists made excellent hunting.
The flight landed just a little after dark. They processed through customs, which was a chore. British vampires were also British citizens, so he’d had to produce his actual passport. For Tara, he’d merely explained that she was new and told the agent he’d better mind his own damn business if he wanted to keep his eyeballs. The agent, of course, immediately forgot this, but he looked anxiously around him as they left the kiosk.
“That was mean,” Tara said.
“Fucking tosser,” Franklin replied, putting his Englishness back on like a worn but comfortable coat. He liked America, where his natural exoticism tended to fade into the crazy quilt of types, but here, back in the empire, he felt more English than anywhere else. 467 years old, and he was still the subject of a queen whose ancestors and predecessors he’d served. Ah, tradition. But Tara was evidently fascinated by her surroundings. As though flocks of businessmen did not rush at such a clip to catch the train in her own country. Then he reminded himself that she was of rural stock, that Las Vegas was the biggest city she had ever seen in her short life.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. They’d had a TruBlood in the travel suite (Franklin had sprung, they’d earned it after all) but he could feel the hunger tugging at his insides. He offered his arm, and she took it absently.
They lit Buckingham palace up at night. Much to his delight, Tara declared it “kind of ugly” and turned instead to watch the crowd. Throngs of tourists milled about, and Franklin would show her how to make the most of it.
“Find the right ones. Do you know how?”
“They need to be from far away,” she said decidedly. “But...they can’t just be here for a few days.”
“So no guided tours. No short itineraries.”
Tara looked at him as she tapped her lower lip, a habit she had when she was thinking. “Tell me.”
Franklin turned her attention to the pair he had spied. They were young, ostentatiously wealthy in their casual walking clothes, and he easily identified Russian as the language of their argument.
“Why them?” Tara asked.
Franklin bent down and kissed her ear. “They’ve got money. They have a rental somewhere in the city. They will have paid in advance for it.”
Tara smiled as it dawned on her. “Ain’t nobody waiting on them.”
Ah, yes. She was coming along nicely.
They’d talked themselves easily into the townhouse. It was in a part of town where the neighbours delicately ignored each other, and no one would have cause to notice the lack of front door foot traffic for a week or so.
The first one they took together. Little girlfriend with her fake tits and bleached smile. Anoushka. She had squealed at first, then gasped, and finally was reduced to hyperventilating as they sank fangs into her neck, one to a side. Franklin cradled Tara’s head as she guzzled down the woman’s blood faster than he could keep up. She was dried and dead within minutes.
The man, a powerfully built Cossack named Ivan, was all for him.
“You look parched,” Tara had said. How generous she was. And how gorgeous with red smeared across her face, and over her breasts.
Ivan was more than enough of a meal for him. He left him to die on the carpet, his blood pulsing out of the wounds torn in his neck. He tried to cry out, but then Franklin reached down and tore open his voice box, and he quieted.
Tara kissed him, and he opened his mouth for her, letting her taste the Russian’s thick, citrusy blood. He wondered, as his tongue took a familiar circuit of her mouth, when she had turned on to him. Not just him, but to the beautiful nihilism that had carried him through so many centuries. He was no mainstreamer, and no Bill Compton to force his progeny to adhere to the silly dogma of the VLA, or the authority. Unbidden, he thought of Jessica, of the severed head. Then of his own, and the head she’d twisted off that unfortunate prostitute in Longview. Well, maybe it was a baby vampire thing. At least Tara had done the thing herself.
She pulled back from him and smiled a devious smile. Then she dropped down on to her knees, and gazed up at him, while he waited, mouth watering in anticipation. She turned her smooth brown cheek and nuzzled it against the front of his jeans. He was hard in an instant, his cock suffused with the blood he’d recently divested from its owner.
“Tara,” he said, the word harsh as it ripped up from inside him. She didn’t waste time teasing, but opened his fly and drew him out. He gasped, a short, strangled gasp as she took him into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out, and her eyes still watching him. He watched back, shuddering as she took his length into her throat. Without the need to breathe, she could hold him that way indefinitely while the pleasure of it twisted in his belly. He slid a hand through his hair and worked his cock slowly in and out of her mouth. She moved with him, her tongue moving up to tease the head, dipping into his urethra in such a way that made his balls jerk, and before he could stop himself, he was fucking her throat in quick, hard strokes. When he pulled back into her mouth to come, she sealed her lips over the head and sucked it out so hard his knees almost buckled.
“Oh my god, fuck, Tara, you...so...good…”
Then she released him, and he did fall right on his knees, flopping back into the blood soaked carpet, writhing a little with the lingering pleasure of it. She crawled over top of him, and let out a yelp as he seized her by the thighs, placing his face directly between them so she was straddling his head. He ripped away her jeans and plunged his tongue into her cunt as far as it could reach. She let out a little “oh”, her back arching as he worked on her. He slid his fingers into her, two and then three, as his tongue swirled around her clit. When she started to come, he slowed, held her on the brink. She whined in protest and then groaned as he slipped his fangs slowly, and carefully into the soft wet flesh. She came, her moan mingled with a sob of pain, of pleasure, then a gasp as he rolled her off him, on to her stomach into the puddle of Ivan gore. Her angry little Tara whimper warmed him through as he slid his cock into her.
To see her want it, to watch himself as he pistoned in and out of her, it delighted him. Oh, the things he was going to do to her. So many nights.
“You’re so tight,” he informed her, his hand sliding up to the back of her neck. “When I’m fucking you this way a hundred years from now, it will still feel this good.”
She squirmed under him, as his cock pounded against her g spot. He could feel her wetness flooding around him. He put his hand around her throat and pulled her back so her torso was raised off the carpet, and buried his face in her hair. Her breasts, slick with blood, bounced as he laid into her. When she came it was wet, blood and fluid warm from their feasting. When she came it was for him. His name sounded best when in it was on her lips, best when she was begging for it. He wrapped his arms around her as he climaxed, his whole body describing a bent bow. When the tension broke, he went limp across her, and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction against her skin.
It was a short afterglow before she shoved him unceremoniously off her, and stood up. “I need a shower.”
Franklin got up and padded after her, peeling off his sticky black shirt. He had a dozen more like it stashed away in a flat down by the river, but he always felt a little mournful each time he lost one. Tara, on the other hand, had a very limited wardrobe and had the good sense to remove her good suede jacket and snake skin boots at the door.
She handed him a bottle of body wash and leaned into his hands as he soaped the blood off of her lithe brown body. It ran off her in creamy pink rivers and he kissed her skin. Dark chocolate. His Tara.
“You’re better at this than I thought you would be,” he said, letting his hands explore her, hefting the slight heaviness of her breasts in his palms.
“Better at what?”
“Being a vampire.” He considered for a moment. “Killing. Most 21st century vampires don’t take to it.”
“Everyone’s gotta die sometime,” she twanged, though he suspected she was toughening for his benefit.
“We don’t have to kill,” he reasoned. “It isn’t strictly necessary.”
“I think I’ve been wanting to,” she said, suddenly sober. “I’ve been wanting to kill someone for a long time. I know it’s wrong. I know I couldn’t...I couldn’t do it to just anyone.”
“What about them?” Franklin nodded towards the sitting room where the bodies lay.
“I ain’t sure. I just felt like…” she paused, water running down over her knit brows. “I don’t know.”
“Contempt,” Franklin said. “Spitefulness and luxury make a bitter combination. Tell me, Tara, how often do you meet someone you immediately dislike, and later change your mind about them?”
She thought about that. “Happens the other way lots of times. But I usually trust my first instinct. How can you ever be sure?”
“I don’t know. But then, I learned to kill at the age of twelve. Old vampires, we’ve learned caution. Some are indiscriminate in their choice of victim, some need a pretext or a justification, but if any vampire tells you they don’t shuffle the coil off the occasional mortal, they’re lying.”
She reached for the water and shut it off. “But you said we don’t always have to kill.”
“No.” He smiled. “But it’s more fun.”
In the interest of good habits, Franklin took the time to show her how best to dispose of the bodies. In pieces, in different places, mostly in skips and dumpsters near restaurants. Places where human parts were unlikely to be distinguished from butchered animal caracasses. Tedious, but necessary. Then they continued down to the flat- a small affair with one light tight bedroom, and some closet space. He had a bathroom but no kitchenette, and a small balcony that looked over the Themes.
“I don’t come here often,” he said as he pulled the sheets off his furniture. Most of it was trusty black leather, with a throw pillow here and there. He hadn’t really done much entertaining here, either. But now that Tara’s long, sleek form was adorning his sofa, he thought perhaps it might be worth sprucing the place up a little. He was accustomed to living on the road, and hadn’t given much thought to the idea of a home base, but he thought he might actually like to stay here a little while. Get to know his baby vampire a little better. There were so many things he still didn’t know about her.
“Do you miss him?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself.
Tara’s expression was one of confusion. “What?”
“Benedict Tally.”
Her face clouded with pain. “Eggs? How did you…?”
“I asked around Bon Temp, remember. It was still fresh news. Still a fresh wound for you.”
Tara sat up, and perched her elbows on her knees as she hunched. “I ain’t thought about him since...well, since this all happened. I think...I miss what I could have had with him. I never felt like that about anyone before. Ain’t nobody ever felt that way about me. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to die like that. He was a good man.”
Franklin considered. “You aren’t like me.”
“Why do you say that?” there was a touch of red at the corner of her eyes, but the tears stayed. God knows she had shed enough of them, he thought.
“Because you still have human sympathy, and when someone is sympathetic to you, you won’t want to hurt them.”
He could tell she was thinking of the whore she’d killed in Longview. “I guess.”
Franklin sat down across from her, resisting the urge to reach out to her. “I would have done things differently if...I should have done things differently.”
“Why?” she asked, and suddenly she was harsh again. “Do you think you could make me love you if you had killed me differently?”
He gave a helpless shrug. “I meant that I would have...that first night, you were in such despair.”
“You would have made me a vampire against my will then?”
He moved to sit by her. She did not shrink or pull away, merely fixed him with a skeptical expression.
“Would you go back?” he asked seriously. “If you could? Would you rather be human?”
She thought for a moment. “The only point in asking that question at all is so you can hear an answer that pleases you. It ain’t possible to go back, so why ask at all?”
He lifted a strand of her hair out of her face. “To hear an answer that pleases me.”
“You really are such a goddamn child.”
“Tell me you don’t like it.”
Her eyes moved over him. “You know I do. That’s not what you want to hear.”
He pursed his lips. “You’re not...indifferent to me, Tara?”
She weighed him with her dark, sharp eyes. “You ain’t acting the way you were at Russell’s house. It’s hard to know what it is with you. If it’s blood, or if it’s you being sweet on me because you’re in love with the idea of it.”
“It is different,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it. I was playing the fool before, but that was just a bad habit. After you rose...it’s different.”
“I think,” Tara reflected. “You ain’t been in real love or had any true regard for someone for so long that the best you can do is an impression of it.”
He drew back as though she had slapped him. Not because he was affronted, but because she, this baby, this infant, had cut through four centuries of narcissism and delusion to the heart of his deficiency.
“I can feel more than the destruction of life,” he said finally.
She arched a brow. “Can you? Or do you just want someone to feel it with?”
“Not just anyone,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “The fucking is good, the killing is good, but I also just like you, Tara. I like the sound of your voice. You make me laugh. I like that you aren’t afraid of me.”
“You tried to make me afraid of you,” she pointed out dryly. “You tried hard.”
Franklin sighed. “So I had some unrealistic ideas. I’ve overcome.”
Her smile was almost not there. “We’ll see.”
His smile wasn’t there at all, but he could feel a sudden hope breathe through him. She had not said no, or don’t bother, or there’s no chance.
---
Tara looked at the shining breast plate behind the glass, her eyes moving over the contours of the metal. It had been polished to a shine, and had hardly a mark on it to suggest it the person who had worn it had ever been in battle. Here, in the Tower’s collection, it looked like a prop.
“I bought it after I became a vampire,” Franklin said, eyeing the suit of armour. “More for show than anything. Most battles happen during the day, and there wasn’t a soldier alive that could touch me.”
“But all your scars,” Tara asked, thinking of the blows of the morningstar, the cuts from the swords.
“When I was alive, my armour was cheap,” he said with a shrug. “The Motts were landed, but plate is expensive.”
“I wish I could see what it was like back then,” Tara said.
He laughed. “You don’t. It was misery. People were filthy, plague ridden sacks of flesh looking for any excuse to collapse and die.”
“But…” she couldn’t believe how childish she felt. “Knights! And...jousting. And princesses.”
“Christ,” Franklin said, and then laughed. “Do you really want to know?”
Tara nodded, slipping her arm through his. “I do.”
Franklin laid his hand over hers, and they walked down the corridor. “There is a way. At least, I’ve heard of there being a way. I never had the opportunity to try it. You’re the only vampire I’ve made.”
“A way to what?”
“To share memories, using the blood.”
Tara was intrigued. “Oh. How?”
“You drink from me. I drink from you. I focus my will and open my mind to you.”
“Mmm,” she said, and her eyes lingered over the group of tourists. They were mostly young couples and families, and while she was tempted by the smell of their blood, they were harmless. In fact, she felt a little of their awe, and reflected that she was a tourist here, too. She didn’t want to hunt them. They were funny.
“Did you come here?” she asked abruptly, turning to her maker. “Before?”
“Twice,” Franklin said. “To witness at executions.”
Tara shivered a little. She wondered, given her own experience at beheading, that the idea of an execution bothered her. There was something about it as a procedure that still gave her the creeps. Franklin laughed softly, and pressed his lips to her temple.
“Okay,” she said resolutely. “I want to try.”
“Not here,” he said unnecessarily.
“Duh, Franklin.”
He rolled his eyes. “Duh, Tara.”
The flat was a short ride away, so they took the tube. Tara felt Franklin’s eyes on her as she watched the passengers, most of them hollow eyed city types coming home from a long day’s ride at their desks. None of them looked like they’d make a particularly good meal. Tara usually felt contempt for these office types, but now she just felt pity. Franklin’s hand moved to rest on her thigh, and she felt a tingling in her belly. It still amazed her how easily he could do that, turn her on with a glance or a touch. Sometimes, she thought it was the power of his blood, but more often she realized it was just him. She had something for him, something bad. He knew it, and he liked her to know that he knew it. The creep.
When they got in, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from giving him what he wanted, because she wanted it too. Tonight it was languid. He didn’t fuck her with ravenous abandon. He insinuated himself into her, his cock moving through her in long, slow strokes. He held her gathered to him, and she stared into his pale eyes. She felt her fangs descend, shuddered with pleasure as he dipped his head down and ran his tongue over them. When he lifted her head to his neck, it was almost a tender gesture. His skin gave under her teeth, and the thick dark blood that was by now familiar nectar burst into her mouth. She hissed against his skin as his fangs went into her own neck. Large fangs, a hardness in her flesh like the hardness of his cock inside her. All familiar now, but a familiar pleasure that would never give up its novelty. Just as hot showers, and brushing her hair would never stop being enjoyable. Only better. Because her mind, her thoughts, were wonderfully arrested by him and his wicked work. Tara craved the quiet, the peace, the blissful emptiness.
But now, with her maker’s blood circulating through her, her blood doing the same inside him, she was suddenly visited by a memory that was not her own.
The night was wind tossed. The rain spat rather than poured, and it made tapping music as it pelted his breast plate. It was just after dusk, though Sir Frankeleyn had taken advantage of the overcast evening and had risen a little earlier than was his custom. Here in the Tower there was some shelter, but not for the man who was so recently parted with his head. A young man, a Frenchman, whose name Frankeleyn couldn’t remember. His body, still skinny with youth, was draped over the block, while his head stared dumbly up, resting at a jaunty angle in the wet grass.
“Where did you find him?” came a sudden voice. Not a voice Frankeleyn recognized, but he had a guess as to its owner. Francis Walsingham was of middling size, and his broad black doublet was spare, but there was something innately powerful about him. It was a feat for a mortal to impress him thus, Frankeleyn thought. But then, he was still a young man, well within his human lifetime.
“Calais,” he said, casting an eye back to the boy. “Boasting in his cups of his mission to rid Christendom of the heretic queen.”
Walsingham smoothed the sable of his lapels, which were sleek from rainwater. “You do not claim to have overtaken him in combat? That is usually the tale.”
Frankeleyn laughed at the idea of the contest. “No, my lord.”
“Well and good,” said Walsingham. “You are a listener, Sir Frankeleyn. It is listeners the queen needs, not gallant knight errants.”
“If I can serve,” Frankeleyn murmured, surprised at his own sincerity. Here he was, ten years a vampire, and yet his blood boiled at the thought of Gloriana overthrown for some foreign papist puppet.
“You can,” Walsingham said. “Creatures such as yourself are well adapted in matters such as these.”
Frankeleyn registered very little surprise, but still put the question to his new master. “Creatures such as I?”
Walsingham was steady. “You would not be the first to enter my employ, provided I may count on your discretion and your…”
“Decorum?” Frankeleyn suggested. “Does my lord think to present me at court?”
Walsingham’s mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile. “It pleases the queen to recognize her protectors. It provides her some peace of mind.”
Ah, Frankeleyn thought, but did not say. It pleases you to remind the queen that your service is of substance. He had heard that Elizabeth did not have many congenial words for her dog Walsingham, but she did not take him for granted. She was a shrewd politician with respect to her choice of counsellors.
“I assure you,” he said, looking at the fresh blood that splashed the grass, resisting the urge to go down on his knees and lick it up like a cat at a water dish. “I am well checked.”
As he left, heavy purse in hand, he thought about the boy. Once glamoured, he had not been unpleasant company on the journey from Calais. A brash youth, pious and full of piss and vinegar, he had shown a bravery that, while stupid, was still admirable. Jacques, that had been his name, now that Frankeleyn had troubled to remember it. Walsingham had racked him, of course, but there was nothing new for him to report. He was part of no conspiracy. He merely answered the call.
A year passed. He intercepted ten more papal daggers. These days Sir Francis sent him in among the Queen of Scots’ allies, to manipulate and glamour, and generally midwife the birth of a conspiracy. Tedious work, but Walsingham paid him well.
The whispers brushed Frankeleyn’s ears as they crossed the threshold into the great hall.
“She may not marry the Earl of Leicester but she will wear the widow’s weeds when he finally leaves us.”
“It is said that Mary of Scots is for the headsman’s block.”
“Enough gossip,” Walsingham ordered. The two young lords fell quiet as though he had threatened to strike them, but there was no note but of calm in his voice. Sir Frankeleyn could see he was not well, could hear the weakness in his chest. But he could also sense the respect and fear of the courtiers around them. Little loved though he was, Francis Walsingham had risen high and grown rich on the currency of their secrets, and they knew better than to oppose him.
It was a moderately sized hall, large enough to accommodate the queen’s retinue and courtiers. Together they danced in the middle of the hall, and Frankeleyn and Walsingham had to squeeze by in order to make their way up to the royal table. The hosting lord’s own tall seat had been proffered to Her Majesty, who was herself enjoying a cup of wine and half a roast pike. She was lively, with a great mane of red hair and a beautifully painted face. It could not disguise that she was an old woman, older than fifty. There was a light that was much older and more cunning in her dark eyes.
Frankeleyn thought Walsingham would go and join the table, but he stopped short and caught the queen’s eye. She signalled to him, then turned and offered some choice words of gratitude to her fellow diners before excusing herself.
“Again you come to prick us with this thorn, eh, Walsingham?” she said in a wry, harsh tone. She turned to Frankeleyn. “And you, sir, have you also come to feast on the Queen’s blood?”
Frankeleyn bowed deeply, trying to conceal his smile and failing. “I wouldn’t dream of it, madam.”
She sniffed. “Come outside, Sir Francis, and bring your creature.”
They followed their monarch out into the moonlit court yard. It was a full moon that night, and it picked out each and every one of the pearls sewn into the queen’s bodice. She was still fit for her advanced years, and her wit was as keen as ever, Frankeleyn could see. He had never truly given much thought to Elizabeth the woman. As a queen he assumed that she did as other queens did: followed the advice of their advisers, married the wrong princes and occasionally lost their heads. At a glance he could see that this was not the case. In the same glance he knew why he had been brought here.
“What is your name, creature?” she asked of him, looking faintly amused. “You certainly are a prouder and finer specimen than is usual for Walsingham’s menagerie.”
“I have the honour to be Sir Frankeleyn Mott, madam.”
“Do you indeed?” she queried dryly. “How honoured will you feel when you realize your master has led you here to take his beating?”
Frankeleyn glanced at Walsingham’s impassive face, and then back at Elizabeth’s. “If your Majesty intends to apply the rod with your own hand, I should be twice honoured. Otherwise... about the same.”
She chuckled, and then looked to Walsingham. “Very well, I know you have been anxious to speak to us of this matter. You compel us to participate in this murder because you say it is vital to the protection of our life, but we would have these words confirmed by someone other than your own person.”
Walsingham moved to open his mouth but fell silent when she gestured for silence. No man could gesture thus to Sir Francis, but with his queen, he grudgingly deferred.
She was brisk. “You, Sir Frankeleyn. We should like to hear your account. We would be intrigued to see if your master’s lies are sweeter from your lips.”
“Would that I lied, madam,” he said quietly. “I have intercepted many men, assassins and mercenaries, who intended harm to your person. This last aimed to do the same, but he was only a vassal of your enemies. I pretended to be his confidant and friend, and in return he told me he brought word of a papal bull issued in secret that promised help, arms and capital to any sovereign of Europe who cast you down. I saw the letter with my own eyes.”
She sighed. “And suppose it is our cousin Mary to whom this man reported? How tiresome.”
“The woman means to have you dead,” Walsingham interjected, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice.
“That is why we watch her, Walsingham,” the queen said, snapping her fingers at him, then turned to Frankeleyn. “If you speak true and such a bull has been issued in Rome, then I expect you shall be very well employed for the future.”
“Indeed, madam.” Frankeleyn bowed again, feeling quite charmed by her refusal to be charming.
She turned to leave, but then paused, looking down on his supplicating form. “Do not think that we are ungrateful, Sir Frankeleyn. We know of your ability and prowess. You, sir, might very well be the strongest barrier that stands between England and her enemies.”
She did not sugar this remark with any kind of sentiment, but left the courtyard and returned back to lighted hall.
Tara winced when his fangs came out of her neck. She felt saturated still in the world of his memory, and the blood that pulsed in her seemed to stroke the inside of her veins. She lifted her head from his throat, and looked up at him, his clouded face. He was still there, in that courtyard, with the venerable lady. It surprised Tara to see how short he had sold his place in history. Franklin (she had almost thought her Franklin, and blamed the drunkenness caused by his blood) was not one to demure when he had the opportunity to brag.
“You liked her a lot,” she said, quietly. “Even though she was just a human.”
“It was impossible not to,” he said, now contemplative. “Humans are still people, you know, and some people have strong character. Killing them would be unthinkable.”
“Is that how you decide?” She wondered, more to herself.
“You’ll learn,” he said, reaching down to stroke her hair, her face. “You were always well suited to this. You don’t go blindly into the night.”
She was comforted. She did not know why. She thought it might have something to do with the infusion of his blood. Or maybe it was her blood inside him, balancing him, giving him whatever it was he had lacked.
When the sun came, he fell asleep before she did. The effort of procuring the memory, she thought. She stroked his hair, black crow feathers, until she fell away into the darkness.
- 7
- 8
- 9
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Vagaries