A/N: Has it really been 7 years? Heh, oops.
Somehow I found myself back in these two again. Apologies for the disjointed writing style and narration in this chapter. Most of it was written back in 2016 and I tried my best to fill in the gaps where I could with what I could remember. I should have left myself better notes.
Post-Marnie AU.
Eric and Sookie give it a go.
Word count: 3909
iv
When she thinks to try this thing with Eric, it's on the wings of a fragile hope. They circle each other cautiously for weeks, licking their wounds behind a desperately erected façade of indifference, only to have it break down swiftly in the aftermath of Marnie's return. Bruised and bleeding, nearly meeting true death is what it takes before awkwardly, painfully, admitting the possibility of something more.
"I like being like this," he tells her one time, nuzzling her nose softly with his, head cradled in his large hands. And she doesn't know how to respond because it doesn't fit in the framework of what she knows him to be.
A left-over fragment from Other Eric peeking through, she reasons.
Then he kisses her. As though she is made to be kissed by him. As though he has waited a thousand years to do so.
And it's easy to allow herself to be swept away by the feel of his lips, the steady pressure of his fingers on her face.
Loving Eric is as natural as hearing the beat of her heart. Feeling it the most in the absence of everything else. It flows through her, leaving no part untouched with its warmth; a quiet pleasantness that buzzes underneath her skin when she is with him.
She can't deny what she wants, and what she wants is him.
This is the problem: Eric is as vampire as vampires get. Unashamedly. Joyfully.
All of it to her great consternation.
And she's not sure what that says about her.
She tries not to think about Lafayette in the dungeon. About the faceless others that have undoubtedly crossed his path.
She wears Eric's leather jacket, not out of some juvenile sense of boyfriend-girlfriend or vampire-human property rights, but some nights it's just easier having a flashing sign not to approach her. Vamps know better than to drop fang when she's entombed in their Sheriff's scent and the humans, even the thickest, realize the sleeves and length are not suited to her body.
Tonight she's been safely ensconced in the booth, waiting on Eric's meeting to end before finally venturing out into the thrumming mass of bodies.
Several things happen in rapid succession: the distant voids in Eric's office become clearer as they step into the bar. She moves in the direction of his office, flinching when a hand clamps down, hard, on her shoulder. For a moment, she's immobilized, the pressure keeping her in place. From the corner of her eye, Pam blinks out from the crowd and then, Sookie is no longer restrained. She whips back around, intent on running interference, knowing the owner of the hand has all but sealed his fate, but it's Eric, not Pam, holding the poor man's arm.
Slight panic quickens her heart. "Eric," she quietly pleads.
The man had a momentary alcohol-fuelled lapse of judgement, just wanted to say hello to the pretty lady everyone was whispering about – his thoughts blaring at her.
But Eric is Eric.
"Touch her again," he says softly, "and I won't be so lenient." With a quick twist of his wrist and a sharp cry of pain, the man crumbles to his knees.
Then.
She's ushered out the bar and into his car, his hand flat and solid on her back. The drive to the farmhouse is heavy with silence.
The image of the man's terror plays over again in her mind, has her feeling ill.
The world blurs and shifts around them and then, suddenly, they're in the living room, with her heart in her throat and nausea not far behind. She stumbles as she takes a step. "Don't," she warns as she brushes away his hands, hating when he moves like that, hating the way her stomach roils and the dizziness that comes with it. Humans were never meant for such speed, how many times has she told him this?
He zips in front of her, ready to catch her should she fall, but the movement is unexpected and she staggers backwards in surprise, snapping out, "Stop that." A look of hurt emerges on his face, but she swallows down any contrition when it's quickly replaced by a cool wall of indifference.
He steps back, giving her the room she's asked for, and goes to stand by the window.
That was unnecessary, and she tells him so.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. "Comes with the territory, being a vampire and all."
"I know what you are, Eric."
"Do you?" He gives her a sharp look.
His hand, ripping out a heart; his mouth, sucking dry the warm essence even as it convulses a last time in his hands; and his tongue, licking the red from his fingers.
Yes, Sookie knows exactly what he is.
She swallows hard, the fight knocked out of her in an instant, thinking about what the hell she's doing, and when she peers up at him again, he has an inscrutable expression, the features of his face set into hard lines, and eyes cold as diamonds.
She thinks perhaps this is the stupidest thing she's done.
In her bed he sheds himself, peels away his outer skin, humanity once again gracing the features of his face to lie in her arms, to taste her, move in her, joining their hands – an intricate embrace above their heads, and foreheads pressed so tight as though willing his entire self to flow into her skin, her heart, every crevice of her mind.
He whispers rough, unintelligible words against her skin, a heady mantra she doesn't understand falling from his lips like drops of warm honey, trailing down her flesh until it pools in the place where they join together. When he moves it is achingly slow, deliberate in how he rolls and snaps his hips, a lazy smirk curving the edge of his mouth and one hand weaved tightly in her hair, the other clasped in her own, a solid weight keeping her tethered to this world.
Fingers curl behind his ears, into the blond of his hair, and he never removes his hooded gaze from her face and she knows he wants her to squirm, to beg, to have his name come tumbling from her mouth in gasps and moans until she's melting into something boneless, something weightless, and he's still moving above, lips searching for a kiss that is far too frantic for the way he unhurriedly presses into her.
Eric's mouth is made for kissing. Made to drive her wild with the way he slants his lips hard over hers; the way he sucks her tongue like he wants to consume her, devour her whole, probing the wet heat of her mouth until there's nothing left to hide.
Her body is slick with sweat, tiny, salty beads that trickle down her neck, finding their way between her breasts and his tongue is there to catch the drops – a cool, soft caress; like pressing her cheek against a chilled glass of iced tea on an unbearable summer day.
Then he kisses and licks and sucks hungrily across her flesh, mouthing as much of her breast as he can, tongue sweeping in broad strokes and teeth tugging on her nipple before letting go to rub the harshness of his stubbled cheeks on the protruding bit of skin. She gasps, arches her back, straining to get his mouth back on her chest.
He looks up and there's something in his eyes, something raw and exposed, that warms her in a way that has little to do with the activity at hand and everything to do with to whom they belong. Then he touches his hand under her breast, presses lightly, but it feels as though his fingers are sinking right in, through flesh and skin and bone, caressing, stroking something fragile inside her, all the sound punched right out of the room and still he moves as though they have the rest of time for this dance.
There's a depth of emotion laid bare in the way he looks at her, a boundless tenderness leaving her lungs short of breath, heart squeezing in a wonderful sort of ache, and that has words catch in her throat, breaking out in an unexpected stifled sob – tears at the corner of her eyes, she didn't even realize, but he seems to understand and pulls her up to straddle his lap, hands splayed on her ass and hers grasping the strong column of his neck, keeping her close, rocking into her with an unbreaking rhythm.
"Sookie." It's rough and unpolished and laden with the same awe gleaming in his eyes.
She can hear the want in his voice, the deliciously low pitch sending shudders down her spine, can feel the cords of his throat vibrate and thrum – alive – under her fingers. She uses her knees on his hips as leverage to slide along his length and his mouth drops open – just a little – enough to see the tips of his teeth and the soft pink flesh that lies within. She closes her eyes, stretching back, his neck an anchor to her hands, concentrating on the sensation of him moving inside her: that steady in and out; hip against hip; muscles clenching around firm, solid flesh.
Her mind numbs from the pleasure. He feels so. fucking. good.
"Look at me," he demands, voice gruff, bringing her back, and she opens her eyes to find his still on hers, pools of warm blue that produce an exquisite curl in her spine, that has her rubbing the smooth of her palm against the stubble of his jaw, until he's stretching up towards her, lashes grazing her cheeks as he snags his teeth on her lower lip, sucking gently.
She rises and falls against him, driving a faster pace to meet that building pressure, a tight hand fisting his hair, nails biting into the back of his neck. He doesn't stop looking at her, doesn't stop the staccato tempo of his hips – the slap of skin on skin pounding in time to her heart and she's sure it's no accident, her need for him pouring from her mouth in the form of his name and still his gaze is unwavering, unyielding, the pads of his fingers circling her clit, her skin damp with sweaty exertion, the rush of blood thundering between her ears –
The moment comes and it's his skin her nails dig into, under his heated eyes she has to close her own, and it's because of him she's being pulled apart at the seams.
She falls back, and he goes with her, spreading her legs and widening his stance to continue his conquest, nothing held back now so close to his own release.
When he breaks, she loves to watch his face, see the rapidly expanding abyss of his eyes, the hard clench of his jaw just before the peak; she loves to feel the muscles of his back knot under her fingertips as he bucks hard into her before finally rippling with pleasure, a shuddering roll stretching from stomach to shoulders that has him bruising the crook of her neck with teeth that are blunt and a groan that wretches itself free from his throat as he spills himself. And she loves that, too: the feel of his cock inside as he swells, and she squeezes his ass, wanting him closer – he complies, mumbling incoherently, pushing on his toes, trying to find space where there is none.
The only pants for breath are hers as he lays his head between her breasts.
In those moments in the darkness, when he is at his most human, she loves him the most.
And the guilt of that knowledge eats away at her.
She dreams of the night Marnie dies, of circles of magic in the backroom of a dusty old store, silent incantations giving life to shimmering golden shields, and Eric on his knees.
She doesn't know what compels her to do it. She buys it on an impulse and it lives under her bed for several weeks. Time to time she takes it out, smoothing her hands over the fabric repeatedly, pleasure and guilt weaving together in her.
What is she doing?
Something wakes her up. The last dregs of sleep still cling to her eyes as she sits up in bed.
The moonlight filters in through her windows, just enough to be able to make out the lines on Eric's face. He stands by the bedroom door, frowning down at something in his hands with furrowed brows. It's white and soft, perfect in its tiny proportions to fit a bundle of newborn baby.
Sookie's heart leaps to her throat.
Eric fingers the delicate onesie, before looking up to study her face, seemingly trying to choose his words carefully. It's a long moment before he speaks. "Do we need to talk?" His voice is as unreadable as his face.
Yes.
"No," she denies. Perhaps too quickly? Under the blanket, she crosses her fingers. Eric's eyesight is good, but not even he can see through something solid. "It's for a baby shower later this week." The hole she's digging deepens – her racing pulse can attest to that.
He doesn't look quite like he believes her either.
Sookie pulls her legs tighter to her chest, fingers curling in the sheets. Holds his gaze with hers in the stretched silence of the room.
She's never seen him look tired.
He gives a small nod. "Okay." Lays the piece of cloth on her dresser and makes his way over to his side of the bed, undressing along the way. When he climbs under the covers, it's to lie on his side, face to face with her own.
The distance between them has never seemed so vast.
His fingers reach out, crossing the divide easily to thread through her hair, followed by a press of his lips to her forehead. Sookie's eyes flutter close. "I love you," he whispers, and her heart twists painfully in her chest. "I will always love you."
"I love you, too," she whispers back.
It's true, but.
But.
She looks into adoption the next day. But no state wants to hand a vampire a free meal and Sookie finds she can hardly work up the indignation to blame them. She tosses the onesie into the trash.
One night, on the security of her couch, she perches on his lap in a rare moment of quiet, a cool hand splayed under her top in the curve of her back and another on her thigh, his eyes closed, enjoying the ministrations of fingers combing through his hair. It's stiff and slicked back, like he so often has it and the bones of his cheeks and the hard cut of his chin appear even more severe – every strand of hair is perfectly in place, and that, perhaps, annoys her the most.
She scratches her nails lightly over his scalp, Eric's pleasure rumbling against her chest as she works her way to the suppleness underneath, tugging tufts of hair every which way until its shaggy appearance emerges and falls loosely to the sides and across his forehead. His face – she worries her lip over what she's done – his face is softened immediately, back to the familiar tone from when he dragged muddy feet across her floor and every other word was an offering of reparation.
A deep pang resounds within her at the sight.
"Fuckin' tease." It's gruff, coloured with both his amusement and restraint, eyes still closed, but the ivory peaks between his lips betray the extent of his frustration. She graces his mouth then, with her own offerings of reparation – true remorse held at bay by memories from not so long ago.
It's a small price to pay, after all.
They break apart languid moments later, and he's looking a little pale, she thinks, remembering only then he has yet to feed. She moves to climb off his lap, ready to be the ever-hospitable host and warm up a bottled blood, but he knows her well, a firm grip on her hips staying her in her place. "Later," he mumbles, as soft as his eyes and face, pulling her back into another slow taste of her lips.
"Now," she nips at his chin, "before you have a happy accident."
He laughs quietly into her mouth, delighting at her play on words. "Would that be so bad?" And rubs his lips over hers a brief moment longer, but then lets her go to do her Southernly duty.
This is the part of him she doesn't allow herself to examine too close: his slouched posture, far more relaxed than she's ever seen; the lazy smile; the slow blink of his eyes – happiness and contentment manifesting itself in every inch of his body. She doesn't understand how this Eric can find such things in her, in them.
The shrill beep of the microwave brings her back.
She finds him peering at something on the mantle, angling his head left and right. Looking at his reflection, she realises.
Her heart dances nervously, and her arm suddenly feel achy and heavy with the bottled blood. His eyes find hers, unreadable, and he silently glides across the room to take the bottle from her hands, perfunctory in his actions as he empties it of its contents.
It's awkward now, but she's relieved from easing the tension when he presses a delicate kiss to her head, lips lingering in the strands of her hair, his hands grazing her sides. He breathes out a goodnight and then he's gone.
She tries not to think about what this means.
Days later, when next he shows on the doorstep of her home, always waiting first to be invited in now, Sookie nearly betrays herself in her surprise.
An innocent, soft face and soft hair greet her, along with Eric having fitted himself into a plain flannel shirt and light blue jeans – looking normal, looking human. Like Other Eric.
Some twisted part of her wants to see how far he's willing to go.
Pretty fucking far, it turns out.
She doesn't know who drags whom to the floor, but neither protest.
Afterwards, the very air is stifling.
Things deteriorate quickly after that.
She blows out a breath, not entirely sure this is the best of ideas. But Alcide's always been a friend – a good friend at that. They had commiserated over their beaus in Jackson, helped her track down Bill, and, then, Eric.
Right, he had been there for that fiasco as well, with Eric high as a kite, tempting fate in more ways than one.
Alcide is dependable, trustworthy, and it's not like she's in the position to be turning down any helping hands, having just the few to begin with.
"You good?" Alcide stands tall under the direct heat of the sun, skin a deep golden shade from a lifetime spent outside, and an easy smile on his face. "Sookie?" His eyes are warm, soft, and the heat of his fingers like little sparks as they brush her hair to the side. He probably shouldn't look at her like that. And a part of her shouldn't want to lean into it.
Maybe…in another life, there might have been something more…for them.
She pushes the thought aside. Plasters on a grin. "Sure, of course I'll help ya out."
Her side is worse than it looks, mottled purples and blacks from the hit Alcide was just a second too late to intercept. The reading he asked for had gone a little sideways, resulting in a tumble for Sookie. It wasn't his fault, but he was all apologies as he half carried her into the house hours ago.
Why, Eric growls, hours later, inside her home – pissed at her willingness to put herself in harm's way for a man not him.
There's a dull ache that settles behind her eyes.
"He wants you," Eric spits out. "Not even you can be so blind."
Her face flushes with – embarrassment? Guilt? Anger? It hardly matters. "Alcide is – it's not like that." The palms of her hands feel hot and clammy, her pulse racing wildly in her ears, and she doesn't understand the slimy, sick feeling churning in her stomach. Eric catches something in her, cocking his head imperceptibly, and in a blink his eyes go cold and hard, a dangerous glint igniting in them.
"Do you?" he asks icily.
"What?"
Eric takes a step forward. Her heart leaps to her throat and he catches that too. "Do you want to fuck him?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not!" she snaps back, anger finally taking root.
But Eric is a shark smelling blood in the water, circling closer. "Tell me," he says coolly in her face, and she knows the taunt behind his voice, the cruel smirk on his lips, the slant of his eyes; she knows to brace herself against what he's about to say. "When you fucked him, did he take you from behind like the dog he is?"
The sound of her palm hitting his cheek is deafening.
"Get out," she whispers. He growls around his fangs. "Leave. Now. Or, I swear to God, I'll rescind your invitation right here, right now, Eric."
There's a gust of wind, the door slamming, and then it's just her, wet cheeks and broken.
Logically she knows in the weeks of his absence Eric must be feeding somehow. It's just, it never occurs to her the blood might be coming from tall, dark brunettes and not from the bottom of a glass bottle.
A new thought makes her blood run cold.
Did they…? Would he…do anything more?
Feeling a fool for having crossed no man's land to his bar, she's quick to turn on her heel and drive back home, an endless loop in her brain of his defiant expression, mouth attached to a slim feminine wrist, the body flush against his on his lap, hair slicked once more.
She absolutely hates this part of him, the vampire that revels in getting his pound of flesh.
It seems so clear now.
Of course he's waiting for her when she pulls up in her rattling car, his figure imposing against the night sky.
Sookie sinks onto the front step, a miserable pit of dread in her stomach. Eric remains standing. The only sound for a while are the low croaks of frogs calling for their mates.
Eric's the first to break. "You're not happy," he says flatly and she doesn't bother holding back the bitter laugh that emerges.
"Are you?" she shoots back.
Silence is a familiar blanket now they both wear.
She rubs her eyes. Her voice is quiet. "Maybe we're fooling ourselves, Eric."
He stills. "What are you saying?"
"I don't think," she stops. Shakes her head. Starts again. "I don't think we work so good together."
The realization, now finally allowed life, breaks her heart.
When he doesn't disagree, she wonders if he feels relieved, no longer obliged to play a part that doesn't fit him. Tears gather in her eyes, and she inhales a shaky breath, sniffs a little, trying to hold herself together.
It comes as a surprise then, his fingers brushing against hers. "I will always love you, Sookie." A defeated whisper into the dark.
Sometimes love isn't enough.
A/N: Now, don't get your hopes up. The next (and last) chapter was more unfinished than this one. I'll have to figure out what the heck I was writing 7 years ago and see if I can actually manage to write.