Death Becomes Us

Strange Blood

Hi! I know there are a couple of you reading this and I love you for sticking around!  This is the final chapter, but as you'll be able to see, it leaves a lot of room for more stories.  I would love to do another True Blood au.  Hope you enjoy this!

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"I have dreams about you too, you know," Eddie said softly from the edge of the bed. Shirtless and quickly healing after the bullets were removed, he used both hands to pull his hair into a ponytail, and then released it.

Your face began to sweat and all you could do was swallow thickly, spinning on your heel to head for the hallway.

"I'm sorry if what I said was too much," you babbled in a rush. "We can just forget—"

Eddie hopped up to snatch your hand. "Hey wait—don't," he heard the harsh desperation in his voice and then softened it to a whisper. "Please."

You stopped in your tracks and let him tug you backwards slowly, step by step.

Before he could put his arm around your waist, you turned on a dime, sliding fingers along the cool ripples of his ribs, watching his parted lips, the way his breath hitched in surprise. It felt like there was no time and no distance in between his mouth and yours; suddenly they clashed together and your hand made a fist in his hair.

He wasn't expecting it, but neither were you, and it was a breathless, awkward meeting of teeth for a moment. Stumbling back so that his legs hit the back of the bed frame, Eddie toppled to the mattress, taking you with him.

You weren't sure if it was the tension that had been building between the two of you, or the adrenaline from the recent vampire massacre that happened right outside your door, but you devoured each other like it was the last day of immortality.

For as much of a prick as he could be out in the real world, Eddie was gentle and eager, taking your clothes off with trembling hands so that he didn't rip them before he tasted you from face to hip, kissing down the jagged scar on your sternum while you clung to his head and writhed. It was more than foreplay to him, his attention was a form of worship, as if his mouth had finally found its purpose.

You clawed at his belted black jeans and he smiled against your kiss. "So, does this mean you like me?"

Your eyes locked while you helped to push his denim jeans down to his hips, your heart in your throat. "You need me to say it?"

"You don't have to, but I'll say it," he lifted up on his forearms, his hair tickling your cheeks from the way he hovered over you, one dimple popping up from his crooked smile. "I really really dig you."

"Show me," you whispered, lifting to slide your nose along his, making a shiver run through him.

"As you wish, m'lady," he chuckled, pushing his jeans all the way off and kicking them to the side with such force that they hit the wall.

He had no right to be so gorgeous, you thought, running hungry hands down the icy, tattooed flesh of his stomach where the bullet holes had already healed. A single whisper of, "I wanted this for so long," came out in a breathy whisper when he intertwined his fingers with yours.

Being pressed up against your skin made him feel like he was standing too close to a raging bonfire, like maybe his body hairs would get singed. He wanted to beg you to leave a mark on him; the branding iron of your touch to claim his animated corpse.

He made you come with his mouth first, growling into you as you shook and fluttered on his tongue. His skill level suggested that it was not his first rodeo by far, but you could tell he was listening and learning about the things that felt best to you, the right speed and pressure that made you cry out his name and claw at his skin. He wanted to please you—more than that, Christ—he wanted to be the only one.