Fic: Poisonous Wine
This fic was inspired by prompt 2: “Who were the vampire wannabes? Angel says that 'he's seen this type before.' Where?” These scenes show some of the wannabes and the willing vampire food we see later (but I hope close enough for the prompt!).
Title: Poisonous Wine
Characters: Fanged Four, historical individuals, a smattering of OCs, tiny hint of Dr Who crossover at one point…and the kitchen sink, if you look hard enough
Rating: PG-13, shading to R (for the fourth section only)
Medmenham, 1766:
“The Brotherhood of St Francis of Wycombe is convened. Welcome Brothers. Welcome Stranger.”
“Your welcome is appreciated, Dashwood, but I fear I’m too hungry for politeness just now. Who wants to be my first nibble? And where are the wenches?”
“This is a sacred moment for us, Stranger Angelus. No female eyes shall see it. The door is secured against all.”
“As you wish, though in my opinion it’s a poor orgy without womenfolk. Still, shall we begin?”
Young Brother Tom (the Hon. Thomas Winterton, to his family and his headstone) was called, and stepped up to the altar, removing his neck cloth. “If you please sir, I’m to be first. I deeply desire to experience the other-worldly ecstasy my brothers have already told me so…”
“Quite so, my lad. But I believe your brothers may have met a rather different class of vampire before. Your experience with me will be unsurpassed.”
Upon which, Angelus changed face, sank his fangs into the youth’s neck, and drank him dry.
“Other-worldly indeed, young Tom. I hope you enjoy those other worlds. Hell’s fire burns bright and withering, or so I’m told.
“Now, Mr Dashwood, I believe you said the door was secured?”
A few of the Brotherhood survived that night. But Francis Dashwood’s gentlemanly orgies never quite had the same attraction for his former acolytes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Spanish Steps, Rome, 1821:
“John, I cannot think it wise. You are so very weak already.”
“I must, Joseph. You cannot understand the thrill of release, the draining of frustration, that the bite induces. Besides, it’s little more than blood-letting, and you’ve let the leeches at me often enough. The new woman, believe me, is far more enticing than any leech.
“The bite, it brings clarity, brilliance, peace. I cannot write without it, as you have seen all too well these last months.”
“But your work! It is more, it must be more than the product of such evil.”
John smiles, but his head shakes slightly.
Darla enters, urgency personified, batting aside Joseph Severn without breaking stride. She kneels beside the bed, lifts John’s wrist, and sinks her fangs in almost as they emerge. Severn leaves, disgusted. John gasps, aroused and ecstatic. But he breaks her bite too soon to satisfy, and draws her head up to his throat.
Darla meets his eyes, half questioning. “Sweet boy, is it time?”
“Yes, past time I think. Humanity palls. I would die in glory.”
“But not join us?” Darla is almost sorrowful, if she could have such an emotion.
“If I am not I, I am nothing. Take me, and don‘t wake me again.”
John Keats died in February 1821, officially of tuberculosis. And he had indeed lost most of his blood before death, though not through pulmonary haemorrhage. Angelus took Darla back without bluster - he knew she loved poets, and tolerated her fancies. Now and again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kensington, London, 1927:
“Sweetie, the most amusing thing!”
“Livvie darling, not more cocaine? It‘s getting really quite tedious.”
“Don’t be horrid. I adore my little coca pot. But no, this time something quite divine. Sadly not illegal, but positively thrilling for all that!”
“Tell me more. It’s been months since I was thrilled legally. Too tragic.”
“Rollo took me to a sweet little club in Soho Square-”
“How simply too uncouth of him!”
“Shh, Sasha, let me tell. It’s a grubby little place, but too exciting, up in the garret there’s a madwoman who drinks your blood!”
“How Gothic! And quite foolish.”
“No, no, it’s the most rapturous feeling. You simply give yourself over to her bite, and lose all control. Much neater than fiddling around with syringes, and terribly cheap.
“I lost track of Rollo though. But I’m sure he had a fabulous time. You will come tonight, won’t you Sasha?”
It was hardly surprising Olivia Beauvoisin had lost track of Roland Herstmonceux. He was still in the garret during the conversation above, sitting with a doll on his lap, as Drusilla gazed lovingly into his cold, glassy eyes.
“Would you like some tea, poppet? It will make your hair curl. I love curly locks.”
Drusilla would eat another five bright young things, including Alexandra (Sasha) Fleming, before she had to move on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bethel Farm, Woodstock, 1968:
“Hey love, want some of what I’ve got?”
Bluebell Moonshine (nee Brenda Kravitz) eyed the skinny beckoning guy a little dubiously. She’d been groped over-vigorously by a passing rocker that morning, and wasn’t entirely sure the free love slogan was working out for her. Peace and love? Yep, but not fingers in your panties while on your way to the john. Eeeuuw. And he had reeked.
This guy, though, was relatively fresh-looking, had a warm grin, and a wink that went just far enough to be exciting without being tacky. He maybe looked a little hazy, pupils hugely dilated, but that was practically a uniform at the festival.
“Whatcha got?” Bluebell approached his dim little tent with renewed interest.
“Peace, sweetheart. Perfect peace. Come on in and taste the love.”
The tent, somehow bigger on the inside, already held a young couple embracing deeply. The girl’s dark hair straggled across the man’s face, as she kissed his exposed neck with all her might.
Bluebell looked at…? “I’m Sweet William,” he introduced, right on cue. “Welcome to our feast.”
He looked at the other couple, apparently concerned: “Dru, darling, love and peace, remember? Leave some for later.”
The dark girl looked up, her face shadowed and invisible: “My William, whatever are you thinking? Death and hate, that’s our way.”
Bluebell knew a bad scene when she’d stumbled on one. Death and hate? Couple crisis? Time to skedaddle.
But Sweet, Sweet William was gripping her hand, staring down as though he’d never seen such a remarkable appendage.
“Dru, sweetheart, I told you. Not here. Here is a special place. Now is a special time. Hands are veeeeery special. I can watch them for hours. Here we feed and love in peace.”
He held Bluebell’s wrist to his mouth, and bit. She began to scream, but had barely voiced it before she was flooded with a thrill, halfway to orgasm in half a second. The pair dropped to the tent floor, Bluebell just conscious of how William’s body covered hers, each writhing against the other for greater satisfaction. His cock was hard against her, just on the sweet spot where she needed the pressure.
But both were far more focussed on their point of connection, where he suckled at Bluebell’s ulnar veins; contented, sensuous, swallows, lasting long minutes till they pulled apart, sated.
Bluebell left quietly, after an hour or so. She never met another vampire, and lives just outside Seattle these days. Her second son has William as a middle name, though she‘s never told anyone why.
Title: Poisonous Wine
Characters: Fanged Four, historical individuals, a smattering of OCs, tiny hint of Dr Who crossover at one point…and the kitchen sink, if you look hard enough
Rating: PG-13, shading to R (for the fourth section only)
Medmenham, 1766:
“The Brotherhood of St Francis of Wycombe is convened. Welcome Brothers. Welcome Stranger.”
“Your welcome is appreciated, Dashwood, but I fear I’m too hungry for politeness just now. Who wants to be my first nibble? And where are the wenches?”
“This is a sacred moment for us, Stranger Angelus. No female eyes shall see it. The door is secured against all.”
“As you wish, though in my opinion it’s a poor orgy without womenfolk. Still, shall we begin?”
Young Brother Tom (the Hon. Thomas Winterton, to his family and his headstone) was called, and stepped up to the altar, removing his neck cloth. “If you please sir, I’m to be first. I deeply desire to experience the other-worldly ecstasy my brothers have already told me so…”
“Quite so, my lad. But I believe your brothers may have met a rather different class of vampire before. Your experience with me will be unsurpassed.”
Upon which, Angelus changed face, sank his fangs into the youth’s neck, and drank him dry.
“Other-worldly indeed, young Tom. I hope you enjoy those other worlds. Hell’s fire burns bright and withering, or so I’m told.
“Now, Mr Dashwood, I believe you said the door was secured?”
A few of the Brotherhood survived that night. But Francis Dashwood’s gentlemanly orgies never quite had the same attraction for his former acolytes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Spanish Steps, Rome, 1821:
“John, I cannot think it wise. You are so very weak already.”
“I must, Joseph. You cannot understand the thrill of release, the draining of frustration, that the bite induces. Besides, it’s little more than blood-letting, and you’ve let the leeches at me often enough. The new woman, believe me, is far more enticing than any leech.
“The bite, it brings clarity, brilliance, peace. I cannot write without it, as you have seen all too well these last months.”
“But your work! It is more, it must be more than the product of such evil.”
John smiles, but his head shakes slightly.
Darla enters, urgency personified, batting aside Joseph Severn without breaking stride. She kneels beside the bed, lifts John’s wrist, and sinks her fangs in almost as they emerge. Severn leaves, disgusted. John gasps, aroused and ecstatic. But he breaks her bite too soon to satisfy, and draws her head up to his throat.
Darla meets his eyes, half questioning. “Sweet boy, is it time?”
“Yes, past time I think. Humanity palls. I would die in glory.”
“But not join us?” Darla is almost sorrowful, if she could have such an emotion.
“If I am not I, I am nothing. Take me, and don‘t wake me again.”
John Keats died in February 1821, officially of tuberculosis. And he had indeed lost most of his blood before death, though not through pulmonary haemorrhage. Angelus took Darla back without bluster - he knew she loved poets, and tolerated her fancies. Now and again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kensington, London, 1927:
“Sweetie, the most amusing thing!”
“Livvie darling, not more cocaine? It‘s getting really quite tedious.”
“Don’t be horrid. I adore my little coca pot. But no, this time something quite divine. Sadly not illegal, but positively thrilling for all that!”
“Tell me more. It’s been months since I was thrilled legally. Too tragic.”
“Rollo took me to a sweet little club in Soho Square-”
“How simply too uncouth of him!”
“Shh, Sasha, let me tell. It’s a grubby little place, but too exciting, up in the garret there’s a madwoman who drinks your blood!”
“How Gothic! And quite foolish.”
“No, no, it’s the most rapturous feeling. You simply give yourself over to her bite, and lose all control. Much neater than fiddling around with syringes, and terribly cheap.
“I lost track of Rollo though. But I’m sure he had a fabulous time. You will come tonight, won’t you Sasha?”
It was hardly surprising Olivia Beauvoisin had lost track of Roland Herstmonceux. He was still in the garret during the conversation above, sitting with a doll on his lap, as Drusilla gazed lovingly into his cold, glassy eyes.
“Would you like some tea, poppet? It will make your hair curl. I love curly locks.”
Drusilla would eat another five bright young things, including Alexandra (Sasha) Fleming, before she had to move on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bethel Farm, Woodstock, 1968:
“Hey love, want some of what I’ve got?”
Bluebell Moonshine (nee Brenda Kravitz) eyed the skinny beckoning guy a little dubiously. She’d been groped over-vigorously by a passing rocker that morning, and wasn’t entirely sure the free love slogan was working out for her. Peace and love? Yep, but not fingers in your panties while on your way to the john. Eeeuuw. And he had reeked.
This guy, though, was relatively fresh-looking, had a warm grin, and a wink that went just far enough to be exciting without being tacky. He maybe looked a little hazy, pupils hugely dilated, but that was practically a uniform at the festival.
“Whatcha got?” Bluebell approached his dim little tent with renewed interest.
“Peace, sweetheart. Perfect peace. Come on in and taste the love.”
The tent, somehow bigger on the inside, already held a young couple embracing deeply. The girl’s dark hair straggled across the man’s face, as she kissed his exposed neck with all her might.
Bluebell looked at…? “I’m Sweet William,” he introduced, right on cue. “Welcome to our feast.”
He looked at the other couple, apparently concerned: “Dru, darling, love and peace, remember? Leave some for later.”
The dark girl looked up, her face shadowed and invisible: “My William, whatever are you thinking? Death and hate, that’s our way.”
Bluebell knew a bad scene when she’d stumbled on one. Death and hate? Couple crisis? Time to skedaddle.
But Sweet, Sweet William was gripping her hand, staring down as though he’d never seen such a remarkable appendage.
“Dru, sweetheart, I told you. Not here. Here is a special place. Now is a special time. Hands are veeeeery special. I can watch them for hours. Here we feed and love in peace.”
He held Bluebell’s wrist to his mouth, and bit. She began to scream, but had barely voiced it before she was flooded with a thrill, halfway to orgasm in half a second. The pair dropped to the tent floor, Bluebell just conscious of how William’s body covered hers, each writhing against the other for greater satisfaction. His cock was hard against her, just on the sweet spot where she needed the pressure.
But both were far more focussed on their point of connection, where he suckled at Bluebell’s ulnar veins; contented, sensuous, swallows, lasting long minutes till they pulled apart, sated.
Bluebell left quietly, after an hour or so. She never met another vampire, and lives just outside Seattle these days. Her second son has William as a middle name, though she‘s never told anyone why.