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asimaiyatTitle: "Survivalism"
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Lafayette/Eric, antagonistic
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexuality and disturbing themes. References to torture.
Summary: Lafayette can't get Eric out of his head, but that doesn't make him helpless.
AN: This is my first True Blood fic. It's... more or less like the show, in that it's kind of dark and raw and raunchy and uncomfortable. Feedback and con crit are welcome -- I mostly just really love Lafayette and did my best to capture his voice and attitude.
Title and cut text from NIN.
Lafayette just wants to fucking get off. That shouldn't be so much to ask, after what he's been through. He's in his fabulous living room with the beaded curtain and the overstuffed velvet love seat, he's wearing his favorite kimono-print silk bathrobe, and he just took a couple of the pills that his supplier told him would help him sleep. Lorazepam. Fantastic shit. So he's feeling sleepy and dopey and just all kinds of seven dwarves, and before he lets himself drift away he just wants to take some time to make himself feel good. Self-loving is important; nobody's going to love you if you don't love yourself, after all.
But the problem is, when he tries to get his head going in that direction, taking a first lazy pull on his semi-hard shaft and conjuring up a mental image of some perky-assed twink stripped down to his boxer briefs and ready to take it... it's like his train of thought just goes straight off the goddamn rails, and all he can think of is that tall-pale-and-scary blond vampire fucker, Eric Northman. This has been happening every last motherfucking time. At first he thought it was some kind of messed-up way his brain had figured out of processing trauma, and he'd just let himself go with it, actually kind of enjoying the image of Eric smirking down at him and folding him in half with that crazy super strength he had, playing with his balls and making him beg for what he needed. Eric is a gorgeous man, and Lafayette had been through some shit that would leave anyone feeling a little bit unglued, and maybe this fit some kind of deeply unfortunate definition of normal. But days have passed, and the pattern continues, and Lafayette isn't any kind of psychologist, but he's pretty sure this shit is not normal.
It has to be that whole psychic connection that the vamps can do. He knew at the time that accepting Eric's blood meant a kind of trade-off -- that Eric would be able to track him now, to feel what he was feeling. Lafayette wonders if Eric can feel this, as he rubs his thumb up under the crown of his cock, teasing the sensitive spot right below the head. He wonders if Eric's in the middle of something, delegating tasks to his brainwashed employees, or keeping people from engaging in public displays of fucking right in the middle of that sketchy-ass vampire bar, or, shit, killing somebody. Interrogating somebody. If he can feel Lafayette's hand squeezing hard on his dick, running up and down the shaft in strong, steady strokes, if it feels like it's coming from far away, or right there with him, in his own stone-cold body. If maybe he's fucking with Eric's head a little bit, too.
That thought makes everything go a little bit easier. Lafayette Reynolds isn't going to just sit back and let anybody make him feel helpless. He's just about done with fighting against his own brain just to try and whack off to thoughts of somebody who's actually alive. That's obviously a losing battle, one that inevitably ends with him just taking more pills to get himself to sleep and then dreaming of Eric spreading his thighs with those fucking massive hands just before lowering his head to open up his femoral artery. Pretty fucking pathetic. He's done with denying that this is a problem. But he's not going to give Eric what he wants, either. Not going to come crawling back to the sociopathic bastard who used and tortured him, who left him freaked-out and paranoid and fighting just to keep from self-destructing.
Instead he reaches back and runs his fingers across his own perineum, drags the tips of his cherry-red fingernails over his balls, thinking, can you feel that, you superhuman creep show? You sexy blue-eyed devil? He uses the bottle of lube beside the bed to slick his fingers before roughly pushing two of them into his ass, arching up off the bed to fuck himself on his fingers while his other hand forms a tight ring around his cock, stroking hard. He focuses on the sensation, filling his mind with it, sharpening it into a weapon. Is this what you want? He feels his lip curling with malice even as his eyes go vague and heavy, his cock twitching in his hand, alive with eagerness, his hips thrusting powerfully between his hands. Is this what you've been after, Mr. Northman?
He crooks his fingers to rub against his prostate and runs his thumb firmly up the vein of his dick, not taking care, the pleasure and lust urgent even through the haze of drugs, until he's having to hold back, slow down a little because he's about to come undone.
Yeah, is that so? Well, you're going to have to come and get it.
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Lafayette/Eric, antagonistic
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexuality and disturbing themes. References to torture.
Summary: Lafayette can't get Eric out of his head, but that doesn't make him helpless.
AN: This is my first True Blood fic. It's... more or less like the show, in that it's kind of dark and raw and raunchy and uncomfortable. Feedback and con crit are welcome -- I mostly just really love Lafayette and did my best to capture his voice and attitude.
Title and cut text from NIN.
Lafayette just wants to fucking get off. That shouldn't be so much to ask, after what he's been through. He's in his fabulous living room with the beaded curtain and the overstuffed velvet love seat, he's wearing his favorite kimono-print silk bathrobe, and he just took a couple of the pills that his supplier told him would help him sleep. Lorazepam. Fantastic shit. So he's feeling sleepy and dopey and just all kinds of seven dwarves, and before he lets himself drift away he just wants to take some time to make himself feel good. Self-loving is important; nobody's going to love you if you don't love yourself, after all.
But the problem is, when he tries to get his head going in that direction, taking a first lazy pull on his semi-hard shaft and conjuring up a mental image of some perky-assed twink stripped down to his boxer briefs and ready to take it... it's like his train of thought just goes straight off the goddamn rails, and all he can think of is that tall-pale-and-scary blond vampire fucker, Eric Northman. This has been happening every last motherfucking time. At first he thought it was some kind of messed-up way his brain had figured out of processing trauma, and he'd just let himself go with it, actually kind of enjoying the image of Eric smirking down at him and folding him in half with that crazy super strength he had, playing with his balls and making him beg for what he needed. Eric is a gorgeous man, and Lafayette had been through some shit that would leave anyone feeling a little bit unglued, and maybe this fit some kind of deeply unfortunate definition of normal. But days have passed, and the pattern continues, and Lafayette isn't any kind of psychologist, but he's pretty sure this shit is not normal.
It has to be that whole psychic connection that the vamps can do. He knew at the time that accepting Eric's blood meant a kind of trade-off -- that Eric would be able to track him now, to feel what he was feeling. Lafayette wonders if Eric can feel this, as he rubs his thumb up under the crown of his cock, teasing the sensitive spot right below the head. He wonders if Eric's in the middle of something, delegating tasks to his brainwashed employees, or keeping people from engaging in public displays of fucking right in the middle of that sketchy-ass vampire bar, or, shit, killing somebody. Interrogating somebody. If he can feel Lafayette's hand squeezing hard on his dick, running up and down the shaft in strong, steady strokes, if it feels like it's coming from far away, or right there with him, in his own stone-cold body. If maybe he's fucking with Eric's head a little bit, too.
That thought makes everything go a little bit easier. Lafayette Reynolds isn't going to just sit back and let anybody make him feel helpless. He's just about done with fighting against his own brain just to try and whack off to thoughts of somebody who's actually alive. That's obviously a losing battle, one that inevitably ends with him just taking more pills to get himself to sleep and then dreaming of Eric spreading his thighs with those fucking massive hands just before lowering his head to open up his femoral artery. Pretty fucking pathetic. He's done with denying that this is a problem. But he's not going to give Eric what he wants, either. Not going to come crawling back to the sociopathic bastard who used and tortured him, who left him freaked-out and paranoid and fighting just to keep from self-destructing.
Instead he reaches back and runs his fingers across his own perineum, drags the tips of his cherry-red fingernails over his balls, thinking, can you feel that, you superhuman creep show? You sexy blue-eyed devil? He uses the bottle of lube beside the bed to slick his fingers before roughly pushing two of them into his ass, arching up off the bed to fuck himself on his fingers while his other hand forms a tight ring around his cock, stroking hard. He focuses on the sensation, filling his mind with it, sharpening it into a weapon. Is this what you want? He feels his lip curling with malice even as his eyes go vague and heavy, his cock twitching in his hand, alive with eagerness, his hips thrusting powerfully between his hands. Is this what you've been after, Mr. Northman?
He crooks his fingers to rub against his prostate and runs his thumb firmly up the vein of his dick, not taking care, the pleasure and lust urgent even through the haze of drugs, until he's having to hold back, slow down a little because he's about to come undone.
Yeah, is that so? Well, you're going to have to come and get it.