Lafayette wakes up on the couch—fell asleep with the TV on again, he thinks hazily, last thing he remembers is some fucked-up white folks on Jerry Springer claiming Jesus was a vampire—and then he registers that the TV's off, that something woke him up, that he can't hear anything but his own breathing in the dark.
He turns his head, and Eric is sitting in the chair across the room.
He sits up too fast, blood rushing to his head—don't think about blood, bitch—and rasps, "What the fuck are you doing here? I didn't fucking invite you in."
Eric tsks, disappointed noise like something out of old movies, studied and foreign. "You know better than that, Lafayette," he says. "You let me in, and I saved your life." He leans forward in the chair, elbows on his knees. The room is almost dark—handful of candles still lit on an end table—but the dim red glow of the nativity lights accentuates the sharply-defined muscles in Eric's bare arms and paints the narrow curve of his mouth like lipstick, like blood.
"I'll uninvite you," Lafayette threatens, but it sounds weak even to him.
"You won't." He hates Eric's smug certainty almost as much as he hates the casual, mouth-watering sprawl of his mile-long legs.
"I—" Rescind my fucking invitation is on the tip of his tongue, but he can't say it, can't even get the motherfucker out of his own damn house, can't—
"You owe me, Lafayette," Eric murmurs. "I gave you a gift, and nothing in my world is free." He quirks one eyebrow, the barest hint of an expression on his enigmatic face. "You should respect that, as a capitalist."
Lafayette breathes in, fighting off the downward spiral—capitalist, okay, the motherfucker is speaking his language. "Your thousand-year-old blood, I fucking know, I didn't ask you—"
"Yes," Eric says sharply, "my blood, which is worth so much more than you could possibly imagine. Now don't you think you should return the favor?"
For just a second he's back at Fangtasia, Eric and Pam and Chow bending over him, crazed and predatory, everything he'd expected vampires to be, back before Eddie's pathetic normalcy, before Sook's Bill and his weird-ass old-fashioned courtesy. He can feel himself shuddering, feel the stabbing pain of their teeth cutting into him, like he weren't no more than lunch.
Eric's voice cuts silkily through the memory, "Not quite like that."
"Then what?" He's still shaking, but he can't focus on the memory anymore, can only focus on Eric, outlined in red light—not quite a glamor, just—Eric. Eric's blood still hums under his skin.
"More like this," Eric says, and before Lafayette can even open his mouth to ask what he means—vampire, fuck, he thinks distantly, he's got moves—Eric is in front of him, shoving the table out of the way and leaning down, tilting his face up with one big hand, and kissing him. It starts slow, which is so far from what Lafayette expects that it takes him a minute to catch up. Eric's lips are cool and soft, and they slide smoothly against his closed mouth with a light, teasing pressure, almost chaste until there's a flicker of tongue parting his lips, and he's suddenly in the middle of a kiss. He doesn't—but fuck, the scary hotass vampire ain't exactly the time to start saying no.
He opens his mouth to Eric's tongue, and Eric licks his way in, cold and wet and possessive. Eddie was always tentative—eager, but Lafayette took the lead; Eric is so far from Eddie he might as well be a whole different damn species of the motherfucking supernatural. Lafayette chases the strange, dark, alien taste of him back into his mouth, but it isn't until he sinks his teeth into the smooth curve of Eric's lower lip that he can feel Eric's mouth twist into a smirk, and there's the sudden snick of his fangs coming out.
He pulls back abruptly, but he's already pressed up against the back of the couch as far as he can go. Eric straightens, looming above him in the shadows, and then he slides to his knees, parting Lafayette's thighs to kneel between them. Lafayette blinks, almost too startled to be afraid—terrifying badass vampire on his knees—but the couch is low, and like this they're almost eye-to-eye. Eric's hands are implacable on his thighs. Lafayette tries to look up, away, anywhere but at Eric's mouth.
"You've fucked vampires before," Eric says idly. His fangs gleam in the near-darkness. "Did they bite you?"
"Not—no," Lafayette says.
Eric smiles, his lips twisting around the sharp points of his fangs, and Lafayette can't tell whether his heart is beating too fast from terror or arousal. "I'm told it can be very pleasurable."
"Not—fucking—interested—bitch—" Lafayette grits out, last desperate bravado, but they both know it's a lie.
Eric's smile widens, and he leans in, bends his head to graze the tips of his fangs down the side of Lafayette's neck. "I thought you wanted to be a vampire," he murmurs into the thin skin behind Lafayette's ear. "Think of this as the first step." He bites down—lightly, barely breaking the skin—and Lafayette can't help tilting his head back against the couch to bare his neck. Eric slides his tongue over the bite, and then sits back. "Take off your clothes."
Lafayette is starting to get whiplash. "Ain't you gonna—"
"Take off your clothes," Eric repeats. Lafayette starts to tug off his shirt, but Eric abruptly loses patience, and they're both naked before Lafayette can take a breath. He looks down at the long, too-pale lines of Eric's chest, his sloping shoulders and sharp collarbones, the spare, gorgeous curves of his hips—and fuck, Lafayette thinks, suddenly dizzy, because the motherfucker is a thousand years old. Lafayette has seen some fine fucking asses in his time (and a lot that weren't so fine; he's a part-time hooker, drug-dealing, short order cook of poor moral character in Bon Temps, his standards ain't high), but Eric—Eric's extremely fine fucking ass is so far beyond any kind of ordinary human perception, alien and ancient and dead. What the fuck are any of them thinking, getting mixed up with vampires?
Eric presses up against him, skin smooth and cold as marble, and scrapes his fangs down the center of Lafayette's chest, stopping to bite his nipples. His bites are sharper than human bites, but still light.
"Fuck—" Lafayette gasps. Eric's mouth is moving down, teeth grazing his belly button, dragging along the bone of his hip. He shivers under Eric's mouth; each bite hurts, but he's starting to have trouble telling the difference between pleasure and pain. It was never like this with Eddie, but he wonders absently if it's like this for Sookie. Unflagging erections are one thing, but this—
The tips of Eric's fangs slide along the juncture of his thigh and hip, and Lafayette is suddenly desperately aware of how hard he is, cock straining wetly against his belly. "Oh, fuck," he says again, "fuck, fuck."
Eric laughs—freaky shit, hearing that laugh without feeling any exhalation on his skin—and moves one hand in from its hold on Lafayette's thigh to wrap around the base of his cock.
"Motherfucker," Lafayette yells, hips jerking up into Eric's hand. His grip is just the right side of too hard, more devastating than any handjob has any right to be, and maybe there's something to be said for a thousand fucking years.
Eric jerks him once, twice, and then lifts his head to regard Lafayette with a steady, inscrutable gaze. Lafayette tries to avoid his eyes, tries to look at anything but the sharp red bow of his mouth. "None of that, Lafayette," Eric says gently, stilling his hand. Lafayette moans involuntarily, and drags his eyes back to Eric's face. "I'm not going to kill you today. Now pay attention, sweetheart," he adds. "You're going to remember this."
He bends his head again, twists his hand, and trails the points of his fangs up the underside of Lafayette's cock. "Jesus Christ," Lafayette shouts—how do you tell a fucking vampire to cover his teeth?—but then Eric does it again, and Lafayette chokes on a moan. "You bastard," he gasps, as Eric slides his mouth over the head of his cock, fangs like pinpricks, chased by the almost-unbearable swirl of his tongue. He fists his hands in the fabric of the couch and tries to hang on to something, anything—sanity, language—as Eric works him over. He loses track of time, can't tell what he's yelling until he's so close to coming that he gasps, "Please,"—please, finish it—and Eric pulls off his cock.
"Yes?" Eric murmurs. "What was that?"
Eric smiles, slow, and jacks Lafayette's cock, and then he bites down hard on the inside of his thigh, at that precise, too-sensitive spot where his leg meets his groin. It hurts, and then it doesn't hurt, and then Eric sucks, and Lafayette comes harder than he can ever remember coming before, long and sudden and shuddering. Eric strokes him through the aftershocks, still sucking, and when Lafayette is loose and spent and sprawled half-off the couch, he licks over the bite, and lifts his head again.
Above him, in the almost-dark, Eric's mouth is red with Lafayette's blood. Lafayette's inner thigh is warm and wet, and his cock twitches, trying impossibly to get hard again. Eric's mouth is what will stay with him, what will leave him cowering in corners, what will shake him up, and turn him inside out, and get him harder faster than almost anything else—just the memory of the taste of Eric's blood, and the sight of his blood painted on Eric's fangs.
The worst thing about the dreams is Eric's mouth.
And just like that—dreams, Lafayette thinks, and opens his eyes. He's on the couch—fell asleep with the TV on again, must have muted it first. There's a candle flickering down on the table in front of the couch, and the glaring red letters of the clock read 2:47. Still a long while 'till dawn. He's alone, hand down his pants and come drying stickily on his stomach.
"I hates that motherfucker," he tells his empty house.
It doesn't help, so he drags himself to his feet and goes to the sideboard to pour himself a shot of vodka. He chases the vodka with a valium, and then another shot, and then goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and clean himself up. He can't quite meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror.
Almost worse than Eric's mouth—red and wet and deadly, always waiting when he closes his eyes—is the reality. He hates Eric even in the dreams, no matter how freaky and fantastic the sex gets, no matter how much he wants it in the claustrophobic sensuality of the moment. But that's—lying to everybody else is one thing, but he ain't never lied to himself. He doesn't stop wanting it, awake. That's Satan in a motherfucking Sunday hat.
He turns off the bathroom light and goes into his bedroom. His bed is comfortable, familiar, safer than the couch; he draws the blankets up over his head and closes his eyes. Ain't no way out of this but through.