scuttling

[scuttling]

evan buckley + ADHD

[scuttling]

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 7

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 6,323 Tags: 18+, NSFW, D/s, Making out, fingering, dream sex, masturbation, assault, murder and blood (canon typical) Summary: Eric is on a mission.

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“So what’s tonight’s mission, boss?” Cam asks a few days later, as she approaches their table at an unopened Fangtasia, looking beautiful in nude heels and a slim black skirt, her cream colored blouse tastefully unbuttoned. She turns to Pam. “And why did you ask me to, and I quote, ‘dress like a lawyer?’”

Eric stands up and walks toward her.

“I am playing human tonight,” he explains, gesturing to the grey suit he wears; he rakes his gaze over her, her bare legs, bare throat, and then catches her eye. “And we’re crashing an office party for the employees of Morris, Morgan, and Moss.” Looking skeptical, she raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and crosses her arms in front of her. The look makes him note that she’s got kind of a librarian thing about her as well, which he finds more than a little intriguing. A thought for another time.

“The corporate law firm in Bossier City?” she asks, taking a step toward him. It always feels like cat and mouse, the way they gravitate toward each other, pull back, and he has to admit it’s part of the reason he always eagerly anticipates her arrival. He never knows exactly what she’ll do next. “Why?” 

At that, he reaches out to take one of her hands in his own, holding it in the space between them. She looks up at him expectantly, questioning, and he reaches the other hand into his jacket pocket and produces a compact, silver USB drive.

“Because I need to see their client records, and you’re going to get them for me,” he tells her, pressing the drive into her open palm and closing her fingers around it. Cam’s eyes cut to Pam, then down at her closed fist, and back up to Eric.

“I assume you’re talking about non-public material… in which case, that would be felony theft of confidential information, Eric, so no I am not.” Before he can protest, she sets the drive on the table beside them and sighs. “You could have just told me over the phone so I didn’t have to waste time getting ready,” she says, turning again to look at Pam. Pam shrugs. 

“I don’t know all the details of the top secret paranormal private investigator shit you two do,” she replies with a pretty, sarcastic smile. “How was I to know felonies were out of the question?”

“Felonies should always be out of the question! I may be a disgraced lawyer, but I’m still a damn lawyer,” Cam huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose and turning away from them. Eric can tell she’s frustrated, that he’s likely to lose the battle if he pushes, so he drums up a quick compromise.

“So we won’t copy the files. I’m really only looking for one, anyway; if we just take a peek, what’s the harm?” he asks, reaching for her so she’ll turn around to face him. He peers down at her and she sighs.

“The harm is hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines.”

“I can pay your fines,” he reminds her confidently—she knows money is no issue—but she closes her eyes for a long blink, like he’s testing her patience.

“The harm is I will go to prison,” she enunciates, like she’s talking to a child. Feeling suddenly very sincere, he holds her arm more tightly and looks into her eyes.

“I would never let you go to prison.”

The immediate thrill that he feels through their bond is new, delicious, and hard to ignore; apparently, she likes him serious. 

“Okay, the harm is I would be disbarred if anyone found out,” she says after a moment, trying to pretend that didn’t turn them both on. 

“So I’ll kill anyone who finds out.”

…and there’s that little thrill again. Outwardly, she exhales, like he’s worn her down, but inside...

“Just a peek,” she says sternly, as if she can tell his mind is wandering, too. “Your eyes, not mine—plausible deniability—but I’ll find someone who knows the password.”

He’s unable to hide a smirk of satisfaction.

“Excellent.”

“So why do we need these files, anyway? It’s a corporate law firm,” she says when they’re in his car, driving through the city. The stars are out, but impossible to enjoy, surrounded by so many tall, artificially lit buildings. 

“Yes, but they took one criminal case this year, pro bono, and that’s the file I'm looking for,” he explains as they finally pull up to a parking garage with vacancies. “Do you remember the first murder you helped me with, the werewolf who was bisected?”

“That one’s hard to forget,” she admits, and he thinks briefly back to that night, how well she’d handled the detective, the body. She’s always been able to amaze him, but that night she exceeded his expectations in every way.

“Of course,” he says eventually, pulling into a parking space. “Well, in working with the werewolf council, I learned that they have a suspect, and that he’s committed similar crimes before. Nothing so… grotesque, but he was on trial for assault with a deadly weapon, and Moss was able to get the charges dropped.”

“And you need a name? The council doesn’t know who he is?” 

“Apparently he’s an omega—packless, just passing through. They only have a nickname: Radar.”

The two of them exit the car, discussing their general plan as they make their way to the elevator and ascend to the eleventh floor. 

“And when we find out his real name, his location, what will you do?” she asks, in that self-righteous way he hates but can’t ignore. She looks up at him, waiting for his careful response.

“Turn him in to the council so he can be tried for his crimes, of course,” he says with just a hint of sarcasm, and she huffs a laugh. “If they decide to kill him, my hands are clean. Isn’t that what you want?” 

Cam seems almost taken aback by the question, her brow furrowed when she replies.

“You seem to have assigned some kind of… naive purity to me. I’ve never said anything about keeping your hands clean,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I get that your world is covered in blood, and that I’m a part of it, now. I know the way you handle things is different from the way humans handle things. If I ask about part of the plan, it’s because I’m interested in you—what you do as sheriff,” she clarifies. “Not so I can accuse you of something if your vampire conventions don’t align with my morals.” 

The bell dings to indicate they’ve reached their floor, but he presses the button to ignore that, to keep the door closed for another moment. He looms over her, already leaning into her space to reach the control panel, and hears her heart rate pick up, just slightly. 

“I admire a woman who lives in shades of gray,” he tells her. He feels a bit contrite about his misstep, but no way he’s going to admit to that; he probably doesn’t need to, anyway, now that they’re bonded by his blood. 

There’s a beat of silence between them, and he presses the button to open the door, straightens, and rests a hand on the small of her back. She exhales gently. 

“Speaking of shades of gray.”

They mingle, blend in easily at such a large firm, where one team barely recognizes the other after 12 hour days in cramped conference rooms, and where nearly everyone is already drunk. Getting a password is easier than she expected, and so is sneaking into the office occupied by Moss’s paralegal, who tells pretty funny stories when working on her fourth vodka cranberry. 

The office is at the end of an isolated corridor, which is great, but far from the exit, which poses a logistical problem. Eric insists she not worry, that he has everything under control, so she follows his lead and watches the door as he turns on a slim desktop computer and searches for the pro bono records.

Eric finds the file he needs, takes some screenshots with his phone—technically not ‘just a peek’, but she’s not going to argue at this point in the already very illegal scheme... And just in time, because she can hear Jennifer, the paralegal, making her way down the hallway toward her office.

“Hurry up and turn that off; we don’t have much time,” she warns, and Eric slides his phone into his pocket and forcibly shuts down the computer before walking around the desk to meet her at her side. She looks to him for a proposition. “There’s no way we’re going to get past her. I hope you have a plan."

He has a plan.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, reaching for her and turning her face toward him, and she does without hesitation, stretching up and meeting his mouth with hers. She tugs on the lapels of his suit jacket, and he presses her back against the desk, then pushes her on top of it, kisses her like it’s the first time—softly at first, then deeply, with tongue, his hands moving to her hair so he can guide her head. She hums into it, hazy sounds of pleasure he catches with his lips, until someone opens the door to the office and they spring apart, caught.

He’d been so wrapped up in her he almost forgot getting caught was all part of the plan.

“What the hell,” the woman says when the light from the hall shines on them and she can see their messy hair, their kiss-red mouths. Eric clears his throat and helps Cam off the desk, sets her on her feet just behind him. 

“Excuse us, ma’am, we were just… caught up in the moment,” he says in his best imitation of the local dialect, and he shoots the paralegal what he hopes is a sheepish, boyish smile. “We’ll go.”

“I think you’d better,” the woman says, and Eric takes Cam’s hand so they can flee the office. They try their best to blend in as they walk through the crowd of partying litigators, leaning on the fact that they had clearly been mid-makeout in the hopes that would prevent people from looking too closely at them.

When they finally reach the elevator, Cam leans back against the wall, and Eric stands in front of her, enthralled by her suddenly bright, breathless smile. “Okay, so," she begins, taking his lapels between her fingers again, "felonies are actually kind of exhilarating.”

“They certainly can be,” he agrees, leaning in, and before he knows it they’re kissing again. This time is different, because it’s not for anyone's benefit but their own, and her mouth is soft and sweet, her hands clinging to his clothes like she’s afraid to let go of him and break the spell they seem to be under. They break apart when they reach the lobby and the door opens, and he takes her hand to guide her out the front door when a sound down the hall stops him in his tracks. 

"What is it?" she whispers, and then she must hear the thoughts that follow, because she sobers up, the memory of their kiss suddenly distant. The uniformed men parading through the building have changed things. "Someone called the cops?"

"Apparently, we weren't as clever as we thought," he tells her, and he glances across the hall at a door, the only one without a keypad handle. "Over here."

It's little more than a janitor's closet, stacked with bottles of cleaning supplies, towels, paper products, but it will do while they hide out from the cavalry. It's cramped, though, clearly meant for no more than one person to occupy for any longer than a moment, and he presses up against her, close enough to feel the huff of her breath against his skin when she laughs.

"Is our evading capture funny for some reason?" he asks, reaching over her head to brace himself against the wall. She looks up at him and shakes her head.

“It’s just… big, strong, scary vampire hiding in a supply closet?” she says, teasing him, and while he admits it does paint an odd picture, that's not the part he focuses on.

“You think I’m scary?” he murmurs, dipping down to whisper the words in her ear. She says nothing, and he cracks a smile in the dark. “You like that I’m scary.”

“Well when you’re looking for a guard dog, you don’t pick a golden retriever,” she replies, shifting between the wire shelf and his body, and it does answer his question, in a way. “Do you think they’ll be much longer?”

He shifts with her, moving a hand to her lower back where the contents of the shelf appear to be digging in and causing her discomfort. 

“No way to know for sure,” he says, pressing against her. With one foot between hers, he’s about as close as he can possibly be, and she’s… she’s breathing heavily, but not because she is afraid. He brushes back a fallen lock of her hair and does his best not to smirk when he can hear her heart stutter. “But I promise, you’re safe with me.”

“And you’re not just saying that because we're hiding in a supply closet?” she asks, her voice light. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was unaffected by their proximity, but he can feel her, smell her, as easily as she can feel him. “Because I trust you at your word. If you say you’re going to be good to me,” she continues, and she rests her hand against his chest, warm and sure, before moving it down his stomach, “then I expect you to be good to me.”

It’s the glimmer in her eye that makes him think it’s a challenge, and he slides the hand from her back down to her ass, pressing their bodies together so the last inch of space between them is gone. There’s no doubt she can physically feel him even more easily than she could through the bond; if she doesn’t know he’s interested now, Eric thinks, well fuck, she never will. 

“I’ll be good to you,” he says after a long moment of quiet, delicious tension. Her heart is racing, her body responding to the thrill of the moment, and when he dips his head down she stretches up to meet his lips for a kiss. 

It escalates quickly, as all of their kisses do; her hands are all over him, and then she’s sliding her arms around his back to pull him closer, and he wraps his fingers around the wire shelf behind her, both arms caging her in. “Eric,” she pants during a brief moment when their mouths aren’t connected, and she grinds up against him, against his linen-covered hard-on, smelling of desire and hope and need. He presses his hips closer, so close he can almost imagine being inside her, the way he’s literally dreamed for weeks; Cam gasps into his kiss and moves a hand to his hair, kisses back deep and needy. 

Eric has never felt so thoroughly enraptured by a woman in his very long life—from her scent to her mind, her face, her body, her heart, he can’t bring himself to fight all the things she ignites in him. He’d tried, of course, but each time she came around, each time she showed up for him, he’d only become more lost in her atmosphere. Having her pressed to him is intoxicating, but he does worry that the moments are fleeting, that eventually their bond will weaken and she will no longer be so tied to him.

“Are they still out there?” she breathes eventually, her hands on his sides now, beneath his jacket but over his shirt. He has to focus a moment to answer her question, hears the men moving around about the lobby, and nods in confirmation while she takes a moment to catch her breath. The way her chest heaves beneath her blouse does nothing to quell Eric’s desire. 

They kiss again, and while she gropes at his arms and back he squeezes her ass hard, grinds against her and brings a hand up to carefully cover her throat. He presses down softly, earning a moan, then replaces his fingers with his mouth and lavishes her neck with attention.

The sounds she makes are sinful, he can feel them in his core, and he drops the hand on her ass a bit lower, to fumble for the hem of her skirt and lift it up, between her legs. He licks a line up the side of her neck, wants to groan when she shivers at the touch of his tongue; he does groan when he finds the wet patch of her panties, pushing his fingertips against it and earning a whimper from Cam's lips. 

"Eric," she breathes, and he rumbles against her throat and pushes the fabric aside, gliding his fingers over her hot, wet lips. He grows so hard just feeling her heat, the slipperiness of her, how easily he could slide these fingers in and... "Yes, please, yes," Cam says, running her hand through his hair and pressing him closer to her. It's his official invitation, in a manner of speaking, one he does not intend to decline.

"You sound beautiful when you beg," he whispers, and then he pushes two fingers inside her swiftly, sinking deep into her pussy like he belongs in it. His mouth moves to hers to keep her quiet, because she gasps at the feel of his thick fingers and they are technically still hiding from the police—though he is so far from caring about consequences when she throbs around him, slips her tongue inside his mouth. 

He is more gentle than he wants to be, because this is the first time she has asked him to touch her and he doesn't want it to be the last. He did promise to be good to her, after all, and he's nothing if not a man of his word.

They don't speak, simply exchanging hot, smacking kisses and murmurs as he thrusts up against her, his fingers deep. He slips the other hand into her panties as well, finds the spot that has her wrapping a leg around his hip and grinding against his palm.

"Breaking the law... getting finger fucked in a janitor's closet... naughty little thing, you are," he breathes against her ear, and she moans, pleased but quiet, and squeezes her thighs around him. It takes everything he has not to drop to his knees and taste her, drain her dry in more ways than one, but he focuses on making her come and ignores the aching pulse of his cock inside his pants. 

This one needs to be all about her. He wants it more than he ever thought possible. 

He doesn't need to command her, to tell her what he wants from her body—she knows, wants it too, pants faster and harder as her muscles tense with shivering orgasm, as she gushes and flutters around his fingers. She sighs her pleasure, her release, looks up at him with wide pupils and pink cheeks, and Eric swears he's never seen something so mouthwatering in any one of his years.

When he drops her off at home, this time, he kisses her softly, praises her for her work and her brilliance and her orgasm, and tucks her into bed.

The next morning, Cam wakes from another dream about Eric, but this time it’s cut off and she’s left unsatisfied, her limbs slow with sleep but her body revving with excitement beneath the skin. She groans, frustrated, then looks at her phone—it’s nearly noon, which means she’s been asleep for about five hours and could probably get up if she had to… 

But she has nowhere to be, she thinks quickly, and her favorite vibrator is right beside her in the drawer of the bedside table. She’s earned another good orgasm and a few more hours of sleep, she tells herself, and when she flicks the switch and feels the powerful buzz between her legs, she sighs something a little like contentment. 

Getting herself off is harder now than it’s ever been, possibly due to the impossible arousal she feels when she’s around Eric—something that has only doubled, maybe tripled since she drank his blood and created the tether between them. Her usual moves get her close, but after the previous night, the memory of his fingers so deep inside her, trying to climax is like grabbing for something just irritatingly out of reach. She nearly gives up once or twice and turns over to fall back asleep. 

It’s Eric, then, who saves her—her dream-Eric, now also daydream-Eric—by whispering in her ear that she needs to “Come for me. Give daddy what he wants.” His voice, raspy and low, makes her thighs press together involuntarily… but it’s the phantom feeling of hands on her knees, forcing her legs apart, of a palm pressing down against the head of the vibrator exactly where she needs the almost-too-much pleasurable pain that earns the rough, shaking, gasping orgasm she finally achieves. 

“Eric,” she breathes aloud, because that’s no more humiliating than not being able to come without his voice in her ear, “mmm. Thank you.” Sleepy, pleased smile on her face, she rests her arms comfortably over her head, and again she can almost feel the ghosts of his fingers sliding along her exposed wrists, the skin there over-sensitive and hot, before she drifts back to sleep.

Thursday, her regular shift at the bar listening to patron's thoughts is, for lack of a better word, dull. Eric feels it, and apparently Cam does too.

“It’s slow here tonight,” Cam says to him over a drink at the back of the bar. She’s correct, it has been uneventful, mostly regulars catching up, but he’d hardly noticed. He’s enjoying her company too much, has always enjoyed her too much. “Do you mind if I leave a little early and run over to Sookie’s? She wanted to borrow a pair of shoes from me, and I know tomorrow night will be busier.”

“Of course not,” he says, draining his drink. If she’s leaving, he’s headed for the back; no sense staying among the throng when he can get a little quiet. “I shouldn't have kept you so long.”

“I don’t mind being kept,” she says with the hint of a smile, and she stands up and leans into him, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek. It’s times like these he wants to challenge her, turn his head and kiss her like they’ve kissed before, but even if she kissed him back it wouldn’t be what he wants. It wouldn’t be enough. He knows that now.

“Can I drive you?”

“No need. I'll go right to Sookie's, I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she says, running her hand down his back. “Same time, same place.”

He murmurs his goodbyes, watches her walk out the front door, then heads to the back to bother Pam while she does paperwork. It’s not quite as enjoyable as spending time with Cam, but it’s something.

It’s a few hours to sunrise when a strange feeling hits him like an icy punch to the chest. 

Something’s wrong with Cam. He can’t hear things like she can, can’t see them either, but through their tether he can feel them, and she feels all wrong. Scared, lost, hurt, alone… it’s tearing a hole through him from the inside out, and he rushes out the back door of the club and gets in his car, calling her every other minute until he arrives in Bon Temps. He goes to Sookie’s house immediately, because that’s where she’s supposed to be, and pounds on the front door until Bill and Sookie open it, frowning.

“Where is she?” Eric asks, voice rough and so low Bill is the only one who can understand him.

“Where is who?” he questions, stepping in front of Sookie like he’s afraid of him and needs to protect her. Eric rolls his eyes.

“Camila. She was supposed to come over to drop something off to Sookie,” he explains, slower, for Sookie’s benefit. “She’s close by. She needs me and I can’t find her.”

“She needs you?” Sookie asks, pulling her robe tighter over her nightgown as the breeze picks up. Her tone is confrontational, and he doesn’t have time for this. He’s about to just walk away and look for her again himself. They’re no fucking help. 

“Yes, she needs me. She is under my protection and something is wrong. I can’t get a hold of her, and she was coming here. Do you know where she might be? Please,” he adds sincerely, and Sookie softens a little, sighs. 

“There’s a spot in the woods near here that Bill once said was like a dead zone — his senses were all messed up there. Maybe that’s where she is?” 

“Take me,” he says, on the edge of pleading, and without waiting for Bill, Sookie nods and heads in to grab a pair of shoes. “Save your self-righteous commentary for after I find her, and I’ll be happy to hear it,” he tells the other vampire, who is clearly judging him for coming here, for caring, for… he doesn’t know what. 

Sookie comes out onto the porch, looks at Bill, and when he takes off Eric is right behind him, dodging branches and roots as they run through the forest. Bill stops right at the edge of a clearing, but Eric keeps rushing past, right into some kind of protective circle, a line that is trying its best to keep him from crossing it. 

But he is old, and strong, and though the thing confused him it won’t keep him out. Nothing will. 

“Camila?” he calls as he pushes through the uncomfortable feeling of nothing the circle provides. Then he hears a sound, like the clearing of a throat, and a thumping heartbeat. He smells blood.

“Eric?” she asks with a cough, and he could scream with the relief of hearing her voice after being so worried. At least she’s breathing, at least she’s talking.

“Camila!” He follows her coughing to the middle of the clearing, finds her laying on the ground, on her stomach with her hands tied behind her back, feet bound. He falls to a crouch and says her name again, brushes a hand over her hair so she knows he’s there, then flicks his eyes over her body to assess the damage.

The rope they’d used to bind her cuts into her wrists, leaving angry red welts he tries to avoid exacerbating when he tears through the makeshift handcuffs; it’s clear she’s been trying to do the same, as there are scratches around the welts from her own fingernails, and she’s loosened them a little already.

He unties her feet next, grateful she’s wearing pants so the ropes couldn't cut into her ankles. 

He’s dreamed of her bound, hurt by his hands and begging for more, but this is not that and he wants to release a growl of primal rage at the person who would bastardize this, leave her here, alone and vulnerable and scared. 

When she’s free she wraps her arms around him, presses her nose to his throat like she wants to crawl inside him for safety. It makes a strange wave of pride wash over him, knowing he brings her any kind of comfort. Despite the situation, it’s a feeling he enjoys.

“You’re alright,” he says, running a palm over her back, using the other hand to cradle her head. She coughs against his skin. “When I couldn’t find you, I feared the worst. I never should have let you come alone.” She pulls back, looks up at his face, and there’s blood on her lips, from coughing, maybe. He wipes it away with his sleeve. “Did they hurt you?

“I’m okay,” she says right away, and that’s her thing, he thinks, downplaying her injuries, her feelings, for everyone else around her. It’s bullshit, but he’ll get into that another time.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks again, fixing his eyes seriously on the ripped neck of her blouse that’s untucked at the waist. If they laid one dirty hand on her…

“Nothing’s broken,” she qualifies as she lifts up her blouse, showing blooming bruises over her ribs where they’d clearly kicked the shit out of her. Her coughing is internal bleeding.

Wordlessly—because all of his words are violent now, dripping red—he takes a small bite out of the flesh of his palm and offers her the wound. 

He’s reading into things, he knows, always does with her, but she takes his hand and it’s almost as if she drinks with reverence—her eyes don’t leave his, and there’s gratitude and more gleaming in her gaze.

He hears Bill's footsteps running up to them, then Sookie’s, slower and softer, and a hitch of breath when her human eyes must register the sight of her beloved cousin drinking a vampire’s blood like it’s water instead of very forbidden fruit.

“Eric,” Bill hisses low in warning; Cam pulls her mouth away, cautious, but Eric shakes his head and preens a little when she obeys him, continues to drink. He doesn’t turn to properly address Bill, can’t bring himself to take his eyes off of the girl.

“She is badly injured,” he says, though badly is an overreaction on his part. She is bruised but not broken, and she would have healed just fine, in time, due to his blood already in her system. “And this is not her first taste of me.”

His statement lingers in the air, and it’s charged but quiet while Cam finishes drinking, when Eric pulls her into his arms and stands, motions for Bill and Sookie to follow him back to the house.

“Why didn’t she call for me? We–we can hear each other, telepaths,” Sookie says sadly when they’re about half a mile from the house; Cam is all but asleep in his grasp. Sookie’s asking Bill, who is walking slowly beside her, his arm around her shoulders, but it’s Eric who answers.

“That would have required effort. With me, it’s automatic. She calls to me so easily, sometimes she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.” He thinks of all the things he’s felt, all the things she’s let him feel, consciously or not, and wonders how it can be that she really has no idea the power of her ability.

“Because you convinced her to drink your blood,” Bill says firmly, an accusation, but it doesn’t bother Eric because he knows the truth.

“Because she chose to.” He tightens his grip on her, feeling soft and fond, and grateful she’s okay, and glances over at the couple. “If you think I can convince this woman to do anything, you don’t know her at all.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Eric asks Cam later, as she’s sitting cross legged on one of Sookie’s guest beds. She finishes the glass of water Sookie brought her and sets it on the nightstand.

“I’m fine. Your blood is already working miracles,” she says with a soft, grateful smile, and he covers her hand with his own. “I think I’ll stay here with Sookie tonight, though. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay,” he decides after a moment. Bill will be there until Eric can return, and what he needs to do won’t take long. He runs his fingers tenderly over her wrist, now soft and smooth again. “I have an errand to run, but I’ll come back afterward if you want me to.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” she murmurs, looking up at him, but he can tell by the way their bond vibrates that she wants it very much. It makes him ache for her, and he reaches out to touch her face, caress her cheek.

“I promise you that you are safe now. The men who did this won’t bother you again.” His voice is solemn and low, and she presses against his hand and closes her eyes. 

“Are you going to find them, Eric?” 

He growls, a deep rumble in his chest she must be able to feel.

“Yes. I caught the scent in the woods.” Cam’s eyes open at that, lock on his, and they’re uncommonly fiery.

“Are you going to kill them?” she asks, heartbeat thundering in her chest, and he pushes her hair back behind her ear, cradles her jaw, nods his head.

“I am.”

“Good,” she says calmly, and he realizes that he really had misjudged her, before; her sense of justice may be strong, but she is vengeful too, like he is, full of simmering rage. Despite the dire situation earlier, it arouses him, this almost animalistic behavior he’s never seen from her before. She surprises him again by leaning in to press her soft lips to his cheek. “Thank you.” 

“Thank me tomorrow,” he counters, then leans in for his own gentle kiss before heading for the door.

It’s almost ridiculous how easy it is to find the men who abducted Cam. They’re not smart, calculating threats from her time in Chicago, thankfully, just small town bigots with nothing better to do on a Thursday night than get drunk enough to vomit on themselves before passing out on their own front lawn.

When Eric approaches, they are standing in an alley outside a cowboy bar, leaning against a rusty Ford pickup truck, bottles of beer in hand and smashed to shards on the pavement. He can smell her on them, the light perfume she wears, the scent of panic and fear still lingering on their clothes, and he instantly sees red at the corners of his eyes. The men are joking, laughing, talking about a blind date that ended poorly as if kidnapping is everyday business, not even worth discussing—and he steps into the beam of the streetlight so they can see his face.

“You lost, pretty boy?” the older man asks, flicking a cigarette onto the ground and crushing it with the heel of his dirty boot. “Gay bar’s on the other end of town, and that fang-fucker place won’t be around too much longer.”

“Oh really?” Eric asks, taking a step toward them. He towers over them, knows he looks intimidating when the old man’s heartbeat picks up. “And what makes you say that?” The young man chuckles and takes a swig of his cheap beer. 

“Someone’s stakin’ out the place–-haha, stake,” he repeats with an idiotic smile, and his partner laughs, then coughs, as Eric comes closer. “Findin’ all the sinful folks who go there to get their rocks off and scarin’ em away. Sendin’ a message.”

This one smells the most like Cam, was probably the one to grab her, tie her up, force her to the ground, and Eric’s anger threatens to boil over as he imagines the way she must have felt at the hands of this… loser.

“You won’t be doing that again, I can promise you that,” he says lowly, and the older man swallows audibly as Eric comes to a stop in front of him. “And I have a message of my own.”

Tearing out his heart makes Eric feel almost giddy, as does the look on the other man’s face when he does it. He pisses his pants, pathetic waste of space that he is, and with this one, Eric takes his time. Squeezing the man’s throat in one strong hand, pinning his back to the wall behind him, he breaks his fingers with the other, one after the next until all ten are little more than meat and a collection of crumbled bones. 

He chokes the man harder as he cries out through the pain, as his useless hands scrabble for purchase against Eric’s unmovable arms—hell, he even revels in it, knowing this man will die afraid and in agony, just the way he left Cam. 

“You are an insignificant, unpalatable sack of blood,” Eric tells him, fangs shifting to full length behind his lips, “not even worth the energy it would take to drain you dry. You never should have fucking touched her,” he says, leaning in to whisper in the man’s ear before twisting his wrist and severing the column of his spine.

“You’re back,” Bill says when Eric returns to Sookie’s house, striding through the front door. Bill hated that Cam had invited him inside, no doubt, and Eric could have knocked, but where’s the fun in that?

“Mmhmm. Had business to attend to. She’s asleep?” he asks, though he can hear for himself Cam’s steady, even breathing, and Sookie walks in from the other room with a cup of tea in her hands. She looks him over like she’s expecting… something, he can’t tell what, but she looks neither surprised nor disappointed when she doesn’t find it.

“Fell asleep about twenty minutes ago. Asked if we had anywhere you could stay when the sun rises.” 

The thought warms Eric, though he’s not sure he’d trust the pair of them enough to sleep under this roof either way. He heads for the stairs.

“That’s not necessary. I just wanted to make sure she was alright before heading back to the bar.” He’s halfway up the flight when he turns his head, glancing down at Sookie as she stares at his retreating form. “Thank you.”

She hesitates a moment before saying “you’re welcome,” and Eric moves on to Cam’s room, kneeling down beside the bed to look over her sleeping face. She looks soft, angelic in the light of the moon, and he presses his lips to her forehead and leaves her to peaceful sleep.

[scuttling]

the taste of iron

(buddie) (2.3k words) (8x01 alternate ending) so i made a joke the other day about what would have happened if buck hadn't pushed gerrard out of the way and then i kept thinking about it and then it wasn't a joke anymore and now we're here content warning: minor character death (but like. it's gerrard) (also blood related to said death)

Gerrard is so fucking loud. The vitriol, the bigotry, that’s what makes Buck angry, but it’s the volume that sets his teeth on edge. How it isn’t driving the rest of them insane, he’ll never understand.

The more he berates, the louder he gets. The construction, just feet away, adds to the cacophony. Buck can feel his eardrums vibrating with every spit-punctuated syllable that flies from Gerrard’s mouth. He needs it to stop, he needs it to—

All at once, three things happen. Gerrard’s hand comes up, finger pointed accusingly at the center of his chest. Buck takes an instinctive step back and stumbles, just enough to throw him off balance. The sound of the saw changes.

The split second it takes for Buck to steady himself is a split second too long.  The saw blade flies across the room and embeds itself in the engine, but not before slicing deep into the tissue of Gerrard’s throat. Arterial blood sprays itself across Buck’s face. For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then, it descends into chaos.

Distantly, Buck hears someone shout his name. A hand grabs his shoulder and—

Firefighter needs help, I repeat—

—spins him around.

“Buck!” It’s Eddie’s voice, but Eddie—

Are you hurt?

—Eddie’s hands are on him, on his face, on his chest. They come away red and slick with blood.

“You’re okay, Buck, look at me, you’re okay.”

Go! Go, go, go go!

Buck blinks. Swallows. He tastes—

Three minutes away, we’re so close.

Eddie’s hands find his face again. “Look at me,” he says, as if Buck could ever look away. “I need you to breathe.”

I need you to hang—I need you to hang on.

Buck takes a breath, then another. There’s blood on his face. Eddie’s hands are on his face. Eddie’s hands are covered in blood. It’s not Eddie’s blood. It’s not Eddie’s blood.

There’s a siren, but Eddie’s not in the engine. Eddie’s in front of him, still standing. Eddie—

“Just like that, there you go. With me. In… and out…” His voice is calm, steady, unlabored.

“You’re—” Buck croaks.

Eddie’s eyes are wide and brown and focused. “I’m right here, Buck, keep breathing with me.”

His hand rises of its own accord and finds Eddie’s shoulder. The fabric of his t-shirt is dry and undamaged. Eddie’s brows draw together and a moment later realization seems to dawn.

“I’m okay, Buck,” he says, painfully quiet. “I’m not hurt.”

All at once, the tension that’s been keeping him upright goes. He stumbles, and without Eddie’s steadying grip, he’d probably fall. Buck blinks a few times, and the blurry world around him and Eddie comes back into focus.

Eddie’s turned him away from the engine bay, away from what must be an ocean of blood behind him. Everything he can see looks normal, but it’s unnaturally quiet. Buck lets out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and it’s like shattering glass the way it breaks the silence.

Eddie’s face relaxes a fraction. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Buck lets Eddie pull him toward the locker room and guide him down onto the bench. He’s gentle, like Buck might break if he presses just a little bit too hard. He pulls at Buck’s shirt until it comes untucked, then carefully peels it off of him, leaving shivering gooseflesh in his wake.

“I’ll be right back,” Eddie says, “I promise.”

Buck nods numbly.

Eddie slips into the bathroom, and a moment later Buck hears the sound of running water. He comes back a few seconds later with clean hands and a damp towel.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He kneels and brings the towel to Buck’s cheek. It’s warm; Eddie must’ve waited for the water to heat before wetting it.

With one hand, Eddie drags the towel in soft, short strokes across Buck’s skin. The other cups the back of his head, steadying him. Buck’s eyes flutter closed, and Eddie takes the opportunity to carefully wipe at the blood that flecks his eyelids.

Finally, Buck hears the towel drop wetly to the floor and opens his eyes.

“With me?” Eddie asks. His eyes bore into Buck’s.

“Yeah,” he rasps.

Eddie squeezes his knee and stands. “Good,” he says, turning away just long enough to fish a sweatshirt from his locker and hand it to Buck.

“Thanks.” Buck pulls the sweatshirt on and is immediately enveloped by the smell of Eddie’s laundry detergent. It settles a little more of the anxiety that’s dug itself deep into his stomach.

Eddie settles next to him on the bench and brushes their shoulders together. “You want to talk about it?”

Buck shakes his head. He doesn’t. But—

“Is he dead?”

In his peripherals, Buck sees Eddie frown. “Probably,” he says after a long moment.

“Oh.” Buck feels less about that than he thought he might. He’s neither sad nor relieved, though he suspects the apathy will fade with the shock. “Can we go home?”

Eddie huffs a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh on another day. “Yeah. Pretty sure the 118’s not going back into service until B shift gets here.”

“Who’s going to deal with…” Buck trails off.

“Not us,” Eddie says decisively. He stands and grabs both of their bags from the lockers. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

“You hate driving,” Buck says quietly.

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticks up. “Which is why I owe you more rides than you’ll ever cash in on.”

Buck surprises himself with something close to a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Eddie all but manhandles him into the passenger seat of the truck, lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary, then jogs over to the driver’s side. He turns the key in the ignition and fiddles with the radio until it lands on a station playing something old and soft.

As far as Buck can tell, it’s not a song he’s heard before, but it’s warm and comfortable all the same. He relaxes into his seat and pulls the sleeves of Eddie’s sweatshirt over his knuckles. It’s loose on him, unlike the majority of Eddie’s clothing, and Buck wonders if he bought it with a day like this in mind.

Eddie taps his fingers on the wheel as he drives and glances over at Buck every time they hit a red light. He’s quiet, though, and Buck is too, grateful for the chance to gather himself in the near silence. By the time they pull into Eddie’s driveway, Buck’s starting to feel mostly like a person again.

He follows Eddie inside, and it’d probably feel like any other day if he wasn’t still wearing his uniform pants and boots.

“I’m just gonna…” Buck says, nodding toward Eddie’s bedroom as he toes out of his shoes.

Eddie steps around him and squeezes his elbow. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says, but it feels a little more like, ‘take all the time you need, I’ll still be here’.

Buck’s had a drawer at Eddie’s almost as long as he’s known him. He bypasses that drawer and goes straight for the one that houses Eddie’s most comfortable and threadbare pajamas. He changes into a pair of soft cutoffs, and with his uniform sheds the last of the tension in his shoulders.

He wanders into the kitchen and finds Eddie whisking eggs in a mixing bowl. Wordlessly, Buck sets the table and pours two glasses of orange juice. When he’s done, he sits, knowing exactly what Eddie will say if he offers to help with the food.

A few minutes later, Eddie carries two plates to the table. Breakfast is simple, just scrambled eggs and toast, but Eddie’s gotten good at this; the eggs are beautifully fluffy and the toast is a perfect golden brown.

“Hang on a sec,” Eddie says.

He goes over to the fridge and returns with a new, unopened jar of blueberry preserves, the kind you can only get at the farmer’s market. Buck swallows thickly, suddenly aware of just how many words are caught in his throat.

“Thanks,” he says, the only one of them he thinks will come out painlessly.

Eddie ghosts his hand along Buck’s shoulder then sits in the chair closest to his.

“Eat,” he says softly, and it’s only then that Buck realizes he hasn’t even picked up his fork.

Buck read somewhere, once, that the physical act of chewing was enough to meaningfully lower cortisol levels. He’s not actually sure if it’s true, but sitting here with Eddie, he thinks it might be. It makes sense – you don’t stop to eat until the danger has passed. You eat when you feel safe. Buck feels safe. He spreads blueberry preserves on his toast and eats.

When he’s done, Eddie grabs both of their plates and drops them in the sink. He returns to his chair.

“Do you want to talk or try to get some rest?” he asks after a long moment.

Rest sounds really good, actually, but—“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Buck admits.

“We can watch a movie,” Eddie says, offering him an out.

Buck smiles half-heartedly. “Not sure I can do that, either,” he says.

“Then tell me,” Eddie says, voice full of all the concern he hasn’t expressed yet.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Buck says, finding it to be true as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Eddie looks conflicted for a second, but then his expression steels. “When I got shot. That’s what it reminded you of, right?”

There’s a certain relief in not having to voice it himself. Buck nods.

“Okay,” Eddie says gently.

“For—for a second I wasn’t in the station anymore. It was—I know you don’t really remember anything about that day.” Buck shrugs helplessly.

“I do,” Eddie offers. “Not most of it, I mean, but…” Eddie lifts his hand to Buck’s face and brushes a thumb along the curve of his cheek.   

Something Buck doesn’t have a name for clenches in his stomach.

“I have this picture of you in my head; I was never quite sure whether or not I dreamed it.”

Buck’s breath catches in his chest.

“Guess not,” Eddie says ruefully, shaking his head.

“What, um—what do you—” Buck presses his lips together as the rest of the question refuses to form in his mouth.

Eddie sighs. “We never really talked about this, did we?”

Buck frowns. “We did,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “We talked about me, but you were there, too.”

“I didn’t get shot, Eddie.”

“And I didn’t get struck by lightning.”

Buck looks down at his hands and realizes they’re shaking.

“I know what it feels like to watch you die, Buck,” Eddie says seriously. “And you know how it feels to be covered in my blood.”

“I know how it tastes,” Buck corrects quietly. He glances up in time to see the stricken expression on Eddie’s face.

“What?” he breathes.

“It was the only thing I could taste for weeks.” Eddie’s hands find his. “And then today, I tasted it again.”

“Buck,” Eddie says roughly. Buck’s always liked the way his name sounds on Eddie’s lips. He says it like it means something.

All at once, Buck realizes that he’s been waiting years for permission to talk about this, permission Eddie’s finally given him, and it all comes pouring out.

“I thought you were gonna die, Eds. I—I thought I was going to have the taste of your blood in my mouth for the rest of my life. And I—god, I blamed myself for—for not seeing it coming, or getting to you faster.”

Eddie’s hands tighten around his. “You got there fast enough. You saved me,” he says.

Buck laughs softly. “I know. In my head I know that, but—but it never feels like it.”

“Still?” Eddie asks.

In lieu of a response, Buck takes one of Eddie’s hands in his own and presses his fingers to the pulse point in his wrist. His heart beats strong and steady. Buck closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

He blinks them back open. His brow furrows. “For what?”

Eddie’s lips twist painfully. “We should have talked about this a long time ago. I should’ve asked.”

Buck shakes his head. “That’s not on you.”

“I think it might be,” Eddie says.

“You got shot,” Buck says. “You’re allowed to avoid the subject.”

Eddie huffs a soft breath. “I think…” he trails off.

Buck waits, counting every beat of Eddie’s pulse against his fingertips.

“I think I was afraid that if we talked about it, I’d remember.”

“And you didn’t want to,” Buck says. “I get that.”

“It’s all so blurry,” Eddie says, “but I remember the way it hurt. I remember being afraid. But I also—there was a moment, somewhere in all that, when I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Buck bites his lip and nods.

“And…” Eddie’s jaw tightens for a moment. “And when I think about that, I—that’s when I see you.”

Buck takes a sharp, aching breath.

Eddie watches him for a long moment until something minute shifts in his expression. “Oh,” he says softly.

“What?” Buck asks.

Eddie shakes his head. “I just—I remembered something else.”

“Do you want to…”

“I think I’m gonna need a minute with this one,” Eddie says. “But I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“You don’t have to,” Buck says.

The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticks up into a small smile. “I know.”

“Okay,” Buck says softly. He holds Eddie’s gaze for several seconds, but nothing in it scares him. It’s Eddie, warm, perceptive and sure. “I—I think I might be able to sleep.”

“Good,” Eddie says. He stands, pulling Buck up with him. “Come on.”

And just as he has every other time Eddie’s asked him to, Buck follows.

[scuttling]

just wanted to leave a comment because I've been on AO3 reading all of you Hotch stories and I just wanted to let you know how much I loved how you write him! everything feels so? idk? intimate but in a very real way and hes so flawed and true to character I die lol

Hi!! This is the sweetest thing, thank you for taking the time to comment. I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Hotch stories! I love writing him so much 🥰 he’s my guy forever

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Alexander Skarsgård as Eric Northman 01/??

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TRUE BLOOD | 3.03

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tbh chimney has some of the best friendships on 911.

chimney and eli? his mentor, the reason he became a paramedic, the person he leaned on in boston?

chimney and tommy? his coworker who tells him point blank he wouldnt like him if he ever spared him a thought? and then chimney fucking risks his life to save him? and then they become besties who nerd out about movies together? i need chimtommy bestieism in s8 is2g.

chimney and hen? THE friendship of the whole show btw. dont challenge me i will fight u.

chimney and kevin aka his brother? rip kevin lee i wish we saw more of him 😔 chimney and albert aka his bio brother who is practically a stranger he meets when albert is already 20 but chimney welcomes him into his home anyway?

chimney and buck? chimney and bobby? chimney and karen? he even stepped between sal and bobby to stop the dumbass from doing something (even) dumb(er).

chimney han is simply a sweetie pie. irresistible to all around him. everyone loves him. everyone goes above and beyond for him. and they're not wrong for that because he deserves the whole world 🥰

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I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 6

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 6,247 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dream sex, Masturbation, D/s situations, Knife play, Blood sharing Summary: Eric and Cam return to Melanie's, and on the way back, something changes between them.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

She knows she’s dreaming, because Eric is beneath her, and since she’s known him he’s always been towering over her, covering her, leaning into her space.

Her knees are spread around his waist and sinking into the fluffy comforter they’re on top of, his hands high on her thighs as he helps her bounce and grind on his cock. She feels the ghost of him inside her, knows pleasure in this dream, but it’s nothing like the real thing, doesn’t compare to even the real life press of his palm against her lower back. 

“I need more. So close, so close,” she chants, whimpering while his broad hands slide up to her breasts to squeeze them roughly, to close around her throat and make her face heat with the pressure. 

“I’m right here,” dream-Eric comforts, brushing his thumbs over her bottom lip. “Daddy’s right here, just give in. Please just give in, baby.” 

Her hairline prickles with sweat in this dream, the room warm and almost stifling around them as she works to bring herself off using his strong, gorgeous body. She drops a hand to her clit, rubs furiously until she’s coming and squeezing hard around his cock, crying out with the blissful feeling of release, of his hands, now on her hips so tight they must bruise.

She collapses on top of him, catching her breath against his chest, his hands moving soothingly up and down her back, over the sore spots on her skin. He praises her, perfect, Camila, good girl, makes her drift so far into another world she can’t remember anything but the sound of his voice in her ear.

She wakes up with no marks on her body, but one sticky hand between her thighs. 

Cam receives a text the next night - I’m hiring a new bartender. Will you come by and help me vet him? Pam will pick you up.

Eric is looking unfairly handsome when she arrives, especially after that goddamn dream of hers. He’s got a low cut tank on, baring his chest and throat, with a leather jacket thrown over the top—she almost feels underdressed in her turtleneck and jeans, but it’s still early evening and the club is closed, so she doesn’t think it makes a difference to anyone but her. 

“Camila, welcome,” Eric says, standing and walking toward her. He takes her handbag and shows her to the table where the prospective employee, Darren, is seated. The man stands when she approaches, and he’s good-looking too, with dark hair and blue eyes, a killer smile he unleashes the moment she takes his hand. 

“Hi, I’m Darren,” he greets, and Eric hands Cam’s bag to Pam and pulls out a chair for her. She smiles back and introduces herself, then sits down and waits for Eric to push her chair back in. Darren sits too, drums his fingers on the table between them. “I’m, uh, 29, used to bartend at The Regal before the manager ‘went in a different direction’—girls in low cut tops,” he explains. “I’ve been doing it for about five years, and I think I’d fit in well here. I’m definitely pro-vamp, you know, and I’ve hung out here with my friends a few times. Love the vibes,” he says, looking to Eric, who appears bored by the conversation.

Cam listens in to the things he’s not saying, like that he actually got fired for hooking up with the manager’s girlfriend, one of the aforementioned girls in low cut tops. She doesn’t think that’s a deal breaker for Eric, gives him a gentle smile. 

“Well that’s great to hear. Fangtasia gets all kinds, so having someone charismatic and open minded at the front of the house is important to us. It makes all of our guests feel at ease.” She lets a bit of flirtatiousness seep into her tone, a test, and he grins. 

“Well I’m all about making everyone feel at ease. They come here to have a good time, you know?” She nods, probes his mind again—just some low grade horny stuff, typical human thoughts, and he’s thirsty. She stands from the table and crosses over to the bar, grabbing a pitcher of water and a glass, then fills it and takes it back to him. When she sets it down, he thanks her, lets his fingers brush hers as he lifts the glass. “Do you come here to have a good time? Or are you strictly business?” 

“That’s not exactly relevant,” Eric speaks for the first time, leaning forward in his seat. Cam instinctively moves her chair a little closer and sits down beside him, clears her throat. 

“How are you with cash?” she asks Darren, whose smile has dimmed a little at Eric’s comment. He takes a sip of water and nods. 

“All good, I have a business degree and I’m great at math, so I always balance. And I tend to make pretty good tips.” 

She doesn’t doubt that, with his toned arms and charming smile; they talk a bit longer, and his thoughts corroborate what he says, no red flags or reason for concern she can pick up on. 

After the makeshift interview, they all rise and Cam shakes his hand, tells him they’ll be in touch. Though Pam already has his contact information and resume, he jots down his phone number on a napkin and hands it to her personally, “in case you have any more questions for me.” 

Eric doesn’t shake his hand, but he does pull the napkin from her grasp and crumple it up into a ball when he’s gone. 

“Hey,” she says lightly, following his long strides as he walks toward the trash can behind the bar and sinks a basket. “What if I had more questions for him?” 

“That wasn’t an offer for another interview, and you know it,” he replies, pouring a glass of water and handing it to her with an expressionless look on his face. “He wants to sleep with you.” 

“He wants to sleep with pretty much every girl he sees,” she counters, taking a grateful sip. “Including his previous manager’s girlfriend, which is the real reason he’s seeking work at your fine establishment.”

“I don’t know if he’s right for us.” Cam arches a brow, but Eric makes no effort to explain himself, so she’s left trying to figure it out on her own. 

“Because he cheated? I feel like that’s the least of your worries. He didn’t skim, he has no criminal background, he’s never gotten into an altercation with a customer. He’s not part of any anti-vampire groups,” she ticks off with her fingers. Pam’s initial research was very thorough, and Cam was actually kind of impressed. “He makes drinks and looks hot, which is really all you need.” 

She’s surprised when he moves closer, because even though that’s part of his usual MO, this time is different. His steps are slower, more purposeful; she’d think he was trying to intimidate her, if she didn’t know better. Or maybe turn her on? She can’t help that things like that cross the wires in her brain, how sometimes he’s even more attractive when he’s angry with someone or roughing them up.

“Is it all you need?” he asks when he’s in front of her, his voice sultry and low. “Or do you need more?” She exhales softly at his words, strangely similar to the words she’d uttered in her dream, and he brings a hand up to rest at the base of her throat, pressing his fingertips into her flesh. 

She does need more, wants more, from him—as good-looking as Darren was, she can’t imagine getting what she needs from anyone but Eric now. He is the man of her fantasies, the one who knows more than she does about her own desires, but she knows she can’t have all the things she wants, even if he’s willing to play along when they’re alone. 

And suddenly they aren’t alone, as Pam walks back into the room and clears her throat. 

Eric steps back, takes his hand off of her, and after a long moment of continued eye contact, she grabs her bag from behind the bar and heads for the door. 

“Just hire him,” Cam calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

She doesn’t hear from Eric for three days, until he shows up at her door just after the sun has set. He’s wearing a suit, all black, the first couple buttons of his shirt undone, and he both looks and smells absolutely mouthwatering. Whatever expensive cologne he’s got on is really working for him. 

“There’s another party at Melanie’s, and she was so impressed with you last time that she’s asked for your services again. Are you willing?” She nods, takes a step back to invite him into the apartment. 

“What does she want to know?” she asks, closing the door behind him.

“She and her pet have found another couple they’d like to play with,” he says, following her to her bedroom, where she tugs open the closet doors to inspect her options. “The dominant partner is human and Melanie would like you to get a read on him.” 

She nods, flipping past hanger after hanger because nothing feels quite right for a party like Melanie’s; she stops when Eric moves closer with a soft hum of interest and pulls out a clingy little black dress with short ruffled sleeves and hem. It’s not what she would have selected, a little too cute, and she turns to him and says so. 

“Won’t they expect me to look… I don’t know, sexy?” He holds the dress up to her, adjusts the neckline.

“They’ll expect you to look exactly the way your dominant wants you to look,” he says without making direct eye contact. “You’re free to choose, of course, but I think this one is perfect.”

When he does look at her face, he seems… Thoughtful, serious, almost smoldering as the silence between them evolves from a few seconds to a long, charged moment. They’re both breathing, but that’s all, eyes locked, bodies still, until she takes a step back and pulls her sweater over her head, tosses it onto the bed behind him. She’s not wearing a bra—though he can only see her from the back, now—but the dress doesn’t allow for one anyway, so that’s just one less step as far as she’s concerned.

Cam takes the hanger from his hands, slips the dress on, then unbuttons her pants and kicks them off, leaving them on the floor where they land. She tugs her hair out of the ponytail it’s been in all day, combs her fingers through it and then pulls it over one shoulder, exposing her back to him. 

“Will you zip me up?” she asks, and he runs a hand over her hair, wraps his fingers around her arm, and pulls up the zipper slowly, purposefully, until it’s secure. Fixing her hair, she thanks him with a soft smile, then grabs a pair of shoes and sits down on the bed to buckle them up.

The drive to Melanie’s is strangely tense, and she can’t stop herself from looking over at him, at his silhouette in the dark. She can’t see his eyes, but her gaze lingers over his jaw, his chin, his Adam's apple, his lips… She’s not sure if it’s because of their stolen moment at the bar the other day, or the dreams she’s been having about him, but just looking at him turns her on and she only manages to look away when he turns his head and catches her. 

His stoic expression cracks into a smile, but she doesn’t think too much into it, knows that her want just makes him enjoy their little game all the more.

This party of Melanie’s is a bit more private than the first, with seven couples in attendance, including Eric and Cam. A few of them she knows from the last get-together, a few she’s never met—including the reason she’s there, the couple Melanie wants her to check out before she commits to a date with them.

“That’s the one,” Eric says into her ear when they first walk into the room, and Cam spots the man he’s referring to right away. He looks to be in his fifties, wealthy, handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and a beautiful blonde vampire who appears to absolutely adore him. She is wearing a single strand of pearls and a wine-colored dress, hanging on his arm and his every word. 

“I can see why Melanie’s interested,” she whispers back, and Eric puts his arm around her waist, maneuvers her in front of him as if guiding her from behind. It feels nice to be taken care of by him, and it’s what their fellow partygoers expect, so she goes with the flow, let’s him lead her where he wants, to Melanie and her pet at the bar. 

“Eric, Camila. You two look positively gorgeous,” she says with a toothy smile, looking both of them up and down languidly. Her dark hair is in bountiful ringlets, and she wears a navy blue suit, which pairs nicely with her pet’s silky pink mini dress and silver heels. She wears her collar, of course, which tonight is connected to a matching silver leash that Melanie holds carefully between her fingers. 

“And the both of you are beautiful, as always,” Eric says, removing one of his hands from her body to take Melanie’s and kiss it. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“You’re always welcome here,” she says, and her eyes rake over Cam again, to her surprise. Why she’s looking at Cam when she has Eric’s attention is beyond her. “It’s a shame you aren’t the type to share, but I do love seeing you nonetheless.” 

Cam knows better than to indicate her confusion, to look like she’s questioning him here, so she holds her tongue for the rest of their brief conversation. 

After they grab drinks, Eric walks her to an armchair on one side of the room and sits down, his legs spread just enough that she understands it’s an invitation perch on his lap. That’s new, and it makes her shiver, but she figures it’s just practical—they can’t talk here without whispering, and it won’t look as suspicious if she’s sitting in his lap and murmuring in his ear.

“What was that about?” she asks as she settles on his lap, his thigh firm and cool beneath her. She wraps her arms around him, one behind his shoulders and the other slung over his waist, and he keeps her close, rests his hand on the bare skin of her leg.

“With Melanie? Nothing.” 

“You promised you wouldn’t lie to me, Eric,” she reminds him with an edge to her voice, because she’ll call an Uber and leave this party if he insists on keeping information from her, she has no hesitations about that. 

He sighs, then moves her hair away from her neck and brushes his lips along her throat. 

“I told you they were looking for another couple to play with,” he whispers in her ear. “She asked me first—if you and I would be interested. Obviously, I declined.”

She hums her understanding—certainly not because of the way his mouth trails along her neck, his hand resting between her thighs. She wants to be mad at him, because he’s obviously trying to soften her up, distract her, and cover up their conversation all at once… and because it’s working. Then she thinks, screw it, because he’s never going to stop teasing her this way, playing his game, and in that case, she might as well enjoy it.

“That explains why she’s looking over here like she’s starved for a meal.” Eric nods against her skin, runs his hand up and down her leg, and Melanie’s attention is even more targeted, her stare unyielding. Cam’s not looking directly, but she can feel her eyes on them and wants to make sure there is no doubt about their commitment this time. “You should kiss me,” she says quietly, and when he pulls back to look at her she meets his gaze. 

Whatever he sees there, that’s all it takes for him to comply; his mouth is on hers in an instant, his hand moving from her legs to her face and cradling it as they kiss. She can feel her body warming up, and his, as he grows hard against her ass, and she brings a hand up to his shirt, rubs at the bare skin exposed by the undone buttons.

“Mmm, daddy.” Her voice is breathy when she says it, but he groans and breaks the kiss, looks at her with eyes so dark it’s hard to tell they’re blue. She licks her bottom lip, and he leans back in to kiss her again, rougher this time, his hand deliciously tight on her jaw. 

When they part, she assumes it’s because of something Eric hears, because he seems reluctant to stop kissing but does it anyway. He runs his thumb over her lips, then slides his hand between her thighs again, but doesn't bother straightening his rumpled collar—which she finds out of character, and which she enjoys all the more for it. 

A few minutes later, Melanie brings over her prospective partners and introduces them as Joel and Amanda before slipping away to tend to other guests. They curl up on the sofa beside Eric and Cam, talk a little about themselves, what they do for work, for pleasure, listen intently when Eric talks about the bar and what it’s like to be a sheriff, and Cam. He talks a lot about Cam, how they met, how smart and capable and beautiful she is, and she knows it’s for show but lets herself be warmed by his praise anyway. 

Melanie and her pet—who Cam now knows is called Catherine—join the conversation soon after, snuggling up to Amanda and flirting with Joel, making the both of them laugh happily. Eric sips his drink, offers Cam hers, and because she feels strange just sitting silently in his lap she cards a hand through his hair, toys with the open buttons of his shirt between her fingers. He relaxes into her touch almost immediately, tilts his head just slightly like he’s enjoying it and wants more, and she leans in to whisper in his ear. 

“All good so far. He’s genuine. And horny,” she adds, though it feels obvious. “He’s enjoying the thought of dominating two vampires, if that’s something Melanie’s up for, but overall he’s pretty mild. He isn’t even thinking about the blood.”

Eric doesn’t respond, and she doesn’t expect him to, just continues to rub his hand up and down her thigh. She figures she deserves that for teasing him too, and slips back into conversation easily, continues filtering Joel’s thoughts for anything untoward.

It’s early morning when they leave, and Cam needs Eric’s guidance—more because she feels a pleasant humming in her mind, her thoughts hazy from all of the kissing, the touching, all of Eric’s attention, than because they’d been drinking. The friendlier Melanie and Catherine became with Joel and Amanda, the more physically comfortable, and when they would pause the conversation to kiss or pet a little, Eric would keep them busy by making out with her slowly, drawing patterns against her skin with his fingertips. By the time they make it to the car, she’s aching with want, and she knows Eric can feel it, smell it, see it. 

She spends the first half of the ride squeezing her legs together, trying not to think of his breath on her neck, his teeth at her ear, and then he reaches his hand toward her across the console, palm up like he wants her to take it. 

She takes it, and he squeezes softly, eyes never leaving the road. 

“You may touch yourself,” he says, low, and though she immediately flushes with embarrassment, the reaction is short lived. “Come in your panties like a good girl. You were so good for me tonight,” he praises, his voice like honey. “You always are.”

“Thank you,” she says almost automatically, and she runs her hand over her own thigh, a ghost of his previous touch. Her skin feels like it’s on fire, and she moans softly, earning Eric’s gaze. 

“Camila,” he murmurs, and she closes her eyes, eager but nervous, so horny it hurts her. He’s watching, but if she’s not watching him watch her, she’ll be less self-conscious, and more… uninhibited. She’ll let herself feel good because he’s given her permission to, clearly wants her to, and god, does she want to please him. 

She pushes her skirt up, knows he can see the purple lace panties she’s wearing, the ones she guides to the side so she can run her fingers over bare flesh. She’s wet, that’s no surprise, and she knows this is going to be quick, quicker because Eric is rumbling desire beside her and she wishes it were his fingers slipping through her slick. 

“Mmm. Ooh,” she sighs as she slides her hand over her pussy, her lips easily spread and warm beneath her touch. She arches her back a little and rubs harder, a little faster, to feel that electric shock through her body. “Oh, god.” 

“That’s it,” Eric encourages, squeezing her unoccupied hand, and her legs open wider almost instinctively, her hips tilting off the seat so she can press open her heat and ease one finger inside. “You’re fucking perfect,” he all but growls, and it vibrates through her, makes her buck her hips like she had in her dream, taking him in deeply, completely. “Another finger.”

She complies, sinks another finger inside; her hand is barely moving, it’s her rocking body that’s doing all the work, and part of her feels shameless and dirty, but the other part knows Eric wants this, is proud of her, maybe even worked her up on purpose so he could get her to do this in front of him. Either way, it’s a task she’s happy to perform, and when she comes on her own fingers she can hear the hitch of his breath, the wet snick of his fangs dropping.

The sound is almost enough to get her going again, but she’s exhausted and blissful, so she just hums her contentment before withdrawing her fingers and resting her hand on her thigh. 

They’re parked on the side of the road, she realizes when she opens her eyes, in a remote area that looks kind of familiar. She blinks through her lashes, then turns her head to look at Eric, who… god, how could he even get hotter? But he is, his eyes blue like sizzling fire, his lips parted; neither of them speak, but he takes her other hand and wipes her fingers clean using the inside of her dress before they have a chance to make her uncomfortable. With a gentle touch, he fixes her crumpled panties, then leans in to brush his lips over hers again and again and again.

Eric gets her home, gets her cleaned up and into bed, and she reaches for him, wants him near. He understands why, and he knows he shouldn’t have pushed her that far in the car, that it was a selfish idea, even if it was spur of the moment; still, it happened, and he is as responsible for taking care of her now as he is for her previous arousal. He stays as long as he can before the sun threatens, laying in her bed and holding her until her breathing evens out in sleep.

That morning when Eric dreams of Cam, she is covered in blood: it’s a mixture of his blood and hers, leaking sluggishly from wounds he’s created with his fangs, with a sharp knife, its handle made of bone. Her wrists are above her head, tied together with a cord of leather and fastened to the post of her bed, and she writhes and whimpers as he thrusts his fingers into her soaked pussy, as he sucks at the juicy artery of her inner thigh.

“Please, please,” she repeats like a prayer, her eyes squeezed shut and then open and nearly rolling back in her head. “God, Eric, please.” 

“You’ll take what I give you,” he says, leaning up, letting blood dribble from his mouth onto the soft flesh of her stomach as he kisses it, and she gasps, nods her head. 

“Yes, daddy,” she corrects, though she shifts her hips up for more contact like a greedy girl indeed. “Whatever you give me, I’ll–I’ll take it.” 

“Yes you will. Good girl,” he praises, licking at the spilled blood, and then swiftly flips her over, imagining the gorgeous smears of crimson she’ll leave on the fresh white sheets. 

He pushes into her from behind, presses forward on his palms until he’s fully sheathed inside her tight, fluttering heat, then clamps a hand down on the back of her neck, rough and possessive. 

“Take it, sweetheart, that’s right,” he mumbles as he fucks her, enveloped in the pleasure of her body, of the sweet sounds she makes for him, ones he’s actually heard firsthand; he’s craved domination since she first kissed him, maybe sooner, and he knows if she gives herself to him like this in reality, during the night, he will be lost. “Camila,” he pants, then leans in so he can press his cheek to hers. “Camila.” 

“Eric,” she moans as he pounds against her, as his fingers twist into her hair and pull, undoubtedly making her roots ache. “Eric.”

“Camila. Camila. Camila.”

It’s barely night when Cam all but bursts through the front door of Fangtasia, wearing a pair of black pants and a white tank top, her hair loose in flowing waves. She looks serious, concerned, beautiful. “Hey. Pam called, came to pick me up—what’s going on?” 

He knows he must look taken aback, because he didn’t have time to prepare his expression for that kind of questioning. He barely had time to register her presence.

“Nothing, I—Pam called you?” he verifies, and then Pam walks in the door, hovers behind Cam, though she doesn’t try to explain herself to him. Cam just nods and moves closer.

“Yeah. She said you needed me, that it was urgent,” she says, her eyes flicking over his face, his body, the line between her brows worried. This is so different from their last interaction, and he has difficulty wrapping his head around it.

“And you came.” He says it flatly, is able to conceal his… what is it, wonder, that she could care about him so much? As if she can tell anyway—and she probably can—she reaches for him, rests her hand on his forearm.

“Of course. Are you alright? Do you need me?” 

“I think you should drink my blood,” he says before he has half a second to even think about the implications of it. Cam clearly feels the whiplash of his statement, blinks slowly a couple of times as if processing it.

“Sorry, what? I must have missed some of the conversation,” she tells him, and Pam perks up over Cam’s shoulder, nodding rapidly. 

She’ll have to wait, because Cam is looking at him like he’s growing a second head.

“I think you should drink my blood. It would further strengthen our bond—you’d feel me if I were in distress, as I feel you. And I would be able to find you, if something went wrong. It’s more reliable than other forms of communication.” 

He thinks briefly about the ways they already feel each other and wonders absentmindedly if this will be the thing that actually pushes him over the edge of sanity. Cam considers him seriously and eventually nods.

“Okay. I should—I mean, we should do that, right?” she asks, looking up at him for confirmation. It makes him feel… special, to know his opinion matters this much to her. “Are there any side effects I should know about? I know your blood can heal, and I just consider that a perk.” 

Eric nods, and sighs, hopes what he tells her won’t put her off the whole idea.

“You may feel some physical changes for a while after you drink, like stronger senses, a bit more speed and agility. Mentally, you might find that I cross your mind more often. It’s part of the enhanced emotional tether we’d share. We’ll be even more attuned to each other’s state of being than we are now.”

She sets her bag down on the bar, but doesn’t appear phased by his admission.

“That’s good. It will help with the… stuff. The work, and the protection, mostly. So how do I—I mean, do you cut yourself, or bite yourself, or do I have to bite you?” she asks, gesturing to his neck. “I’m not sure I can bite that hard.” 

“I would cut or bite myself to bleed for you,” he assures, his throat nearly closing up as he says the words. Five minutes ago this wasn’t an option, and now they’re discussing the specifics like it’s about to become reality. He’s surprised to find himself overwhelmed. “It is a very strong bond, Camila,” he says as a final disclaimer, giving her time to think this over if that’s what she needs. “Very strong, but breakable, in time.”

“I’m not worried about that,” she says more quickly than she probably should. Part of him wishes she would worry—that he’s bad for her, that he’s pushed her this far already, that he wants her like he’s never wanted in his existence—but her tone is determined and sure. “Can we do it tonight?” 

“Yes,” Pam answers for him, walking up beside her. Cam drops her hand where she’d been touching Eric and takes a half-step away from him. “You can go do it now, in the office. It’s nothing ceremonial, just a quick nip and you’re on your way,” she says with a saccharine smile. Cam looks at her, tilts her head, and eventually looks back at Eric. 

“She’s being way too nice. Does she gain anything from this? Commission, or something?” Cam asks, half-joking, and it does lighten the mood and bring a huff of a laugh to Eric’s lips. He shakes his head.

“No, she’s just nice sometimes; I know it can be unsettling.” He puts his hand on her shoulder, walking toward the back of the bar and bringing her along beside him.

“Very,” Cam says as she glances over her shoulder at Pam before walking through the office door. 

Eric closes it and pauses, taking a deep, unnecessary but very needed breath.

“I know this is sudden, and what I’m asking of you is no small thing. If you need time to think it over…” Eric begins, his gaze soft on Cam’s face. Cam shakes her head.

“I know, and the same goes for you. I’m sure you’ve been thinking about this, weighing your options, and I want you to know I understand that it’s important to you, sharing your blood like this. I don’t take it for granted.” 

It takes him a moment to let that sink in, she thinks, can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.

“I appreciate you saying that. It’s not something I do every day, but I am sure, if you are.” 

He steps closer to her, gently touches her face, and she flashes back to that night at Melanie’s, the ride home after. Her throat constricts and her heart pounds in her chest. 

That’s not what this is, she reminds herself. This isn’t dedication to each other, or something done out of lust or love. It will benefit them both, and Eric has decided the reward outweighs the risk. That’s all it is. 

Still.

“I’m sure.”

With that, he nods and steps backward toward the desk, then leans against it and tugs up the sleeve of his v neck sweater, displaying thick, pale forearm and smooth, unmarked wrist. His eyes, darker than usual—probably due to the dimness of the office—linger over her lips, then meet her own gaze, and he lets his fangs fall without the usual fanfare. 

She steps toward him and takes his hand, an acknowledgment of the seriousness of this, of the preciousness of this thing he’s offering; when he lifts his wrist to his mouth, their fingers are wrapped together. 

He punctures his own skin like he would a human’s, two small wounds welling up with blood—and the way he looks at her as he does it, like they’re already tethered, like he’s seeing into every corner of her… it makes her heart race, her face flush. She does what feels natural—and maybe that’s taking it a step too far, but she can’t help herself—and sinks to her knees, bringing their hands to about thigh level before catching the slowly falling drops with her tongue. 

At first, she sucks in a way that feels graceless and a little humiliating, so unfamiliar with this action in this context, but when Eric moans at the pressure of her mouth it becomes pure hunger. She takes his offering for the gift that it is, bunching the fingers of her other hand into the fabric of his sweater just over his stomach, and she drinks, and drinks, and drinks. 

It has to be more than enough, she thinks around a moan of her own—it’s less about the taste for her and more about the feel of it, slick on her lips and warmer than she would have expected—but when his free palm falls to the top of her head, pushing her hair back from the curve of her face, all she knows for certain is that she never wants it to end. 

It does, though, like all good things, and then Eric guides her to her feet and leans in for a deep, long, kiss that she feels with her entire body. He easily shifts their positions, so she’s the one propped against the desk, and then he pushes her onto it, curls his fingers around the back of her neck and keeps kissing. 

They trade groans as their mouths move, frenzied, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, his careful but possessive on her face and throat. Her legs are parted, and she wants to wrap them around his body, pull him in closer and closer until they’re as tightly pressed as she needs them to be, but he slows his kiss and ultimately, unfortunately, backs away. 

Icy blue eyes peer into hers as he moves fingers to her chin, tipping her face up so she’s locked in his gaze. Her chest heaves, and her body trembles like there’s something inside that wants to burst out of her skin and present itself to him, though she’s not sure what that may be.

“You will feel me, now,” he says, back to business as if he hadn’t just kissed her until she was lightheaded and thrumming with desire, as if he’s not hard in his pants, from the blood sucking or the kiss, she’s not sure. “I will find you, wherever you are.” 

“And I’ll find you,” she confirms, wetting her lips; she’s almost surprised to taste his blood there, metallic but sweet, even more surprised when he swipes his thumb through it and brings it to his own mouth. 

“All you need to do is call for me, and I promise I will come.”

“Why did you call her?” Eric asks Pam later, after Cam is long gone and the bar is closing up. Pam rolls her eyes and counts a stack of cash.

“Because I’ve had enough. You were moaning her name in your sleep,” she says, with an unsubtle hint that she finds the thought nauseating. She pauses her counting and flicks her eyes up to his. “I don’t normally like mixing business with pleasure, but I still think things would be better if the two of you just fucked already. And now that you’ve shared blood—” she begins, but he stops her with a look.

“She drank mine. I still haven’t tasted hers.” 

For some reason, that lights her eyes up, puts a smirk on her merlot-painted lips.

“Really?” she asks in a lilting tone. “I would have figured you’d taken a sip during one of your, ‘investigations.’”

It’s Eric’s turn to roll his eyes, and he walks away, but unfortunately, Pam follows.

“Why would she want me to? Why would she want someone like me? With the desires I have for her?”

“She’s not exactly an angel herself,” Pam tells him, and he turns abruptly on his heel, knows she must see fury in his eyes. She raises her hands in apology. “Easy. All I mean is, I’ve seen the two of you together. She knows you, darkness and all, and she still wants you. She’s practically shown her belly trying to submit to you—either that or she deserves a good damn Academy Award.”

“That doesn’t mean I should take advantage—”

“Eric, come on, you love taking advantage,” she says sternly, hands moving to her hips. She looks like a teenager, and he finds that agitating.

“Not like this,” he says, pointing a finger at her, ending the conversation effectively with just that gesture and a few final words. “Not of her.”

He doesn’t dream of Cam that night, doesn’t need to: he can practically feel the slip of cotton over her skin as she changes into pajamas, the softness of the pillow when she lays down her head.

[scuttling]

imagine going to break up with ur boyfriend and he looks like this.......that is so embarrassing for you...

[scuttling]

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 5

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 5,408 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Masturbation, D/s situations Summary: Supernatural snooping or nearly dating? You decide!

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Her employment is uneventful in comparison for the next few weeks, and her skills are mostly utilized to flush out undesirable customers from the bar. Part of her thinks this is on purpose, because of the accidental escalation of her last project, but she doubts the small misstep was enough to worry Eric in any real way.

When he invites her to a vampire gathering, at the request of one of his friends, she’s happy to jump at the opportunity. Too many of her nights have been spent smelling stale beer and listening to repetitive, pulsing trance music played too loud for comfort. Pam had rolled her eyes when she noticed Cam wearing earplugs, but she could still hear thoughts just fine.

“I’d like you to mingle with the companions and let me know if something seems off. Melanie fears her pet has been hiding something from her,” Eric says as they walk into the foyer of a grand house about forty-five minutes from Cam’s apartment. Cam, clad in tight black pants and a lace top—the perfect accompaniment to Eric’s black v-neck sweater and jeans—lifts a brow, confused.

“Melanie’s… pet.” Cam trails off when she follows Eric’s gaze; she spots a dark haired vampire looping a finger through the O-ring of a woman’s collar necklace and pulling her in for a kiss, and everything makes a lot more sense. “Right. You got it. Listening for anything unusual, shady, secret related from the pet,” she clarifies. Eric looks down at her, seems concerned.

“Does their partnership make you uncomfortable? I should have asked.” Cam shakes her head, unsure if he’s inquiring because they’re both female or because one is clearly submissive toward the other. Either way, it’s not a problem for her.

“No, not at all. I was just… With vampires, you know, you guys use some different words that aren’t always natural for me: Maker, Sire, child,” she explains. She gestures, a small, private wave of her hand, at Melanie and her pet. “This relationship seems like something I actually understand.” There’s a long beat of silence between them before she continues, curious. “Do vampires ever enjoy being submissive?” 

That earns a soft laugh from Eric, and he guides her over to a staffed bar and orders drinks for each of them.

“Our tastes vary just as humans do,” he tells her as they wait. His eyes linger over her lips, and it makes her stomach feel pleasantly hollow. “What do you enjoy?” he asks, his voice low, and when the bartender places the martini glass in front of her she takes it, shakes her head as she sips.

“Oh no, I haven’t had nearly enough to drink to go there with you,” she says, patting him on the chest. “You go chat with the vampire daddies, I’ll keep my third ear open.” 

“And I’ll keep an eye on you,” he promises in a way that makes her body feel warm. She turns and walks away from him, not looking back but hoping like hell he’s watching her as she goes.  For an hour or so, Cam makes her way around the room, introducing herself to so many interesting people, professors and artists and scientists all entwined in one type of kinky relationship or another. Some are partnered, some are looking, some are poly, so partnered and looking; when Eric presses his palm to her back and she turns to face him, she exhales deeply, relieved that for a moment she doesn’t have to keep all the names and preferences and dynamics straight.

With vampires, but especially with Eric, her mind is always perfectly at ease.

“How are you doing?” he leans in to ask her, but he’s not looking at her; his gaze is locked on someone behind her, over her head. She turns to try to figure out who he’s staring at.

“So far so good — nothing but adoration from Melanie’s pet over there. That guy looks unhappy,” she says when she spots the offender who’s got Eric’s attention, a large, burly, bearded man who is scowling at Eric just as hard as he’s scowling back. She turns back to Eric, and he finally looks down at her, his eyes softening.

“It’s nothing,” he says at first, but one impatient sigh has him backtracking, remembering their agreement to be more transparent with one another, no doubt. “His name is Randolph. He’s not pleased with me,” Eric admits, and Cam moves closer, her voice quiet.

“Why, what have you done?” It’s clear by his expression that he doesn’t want to tell her, but he presses on anyway.

“He wonders why I haven’t claimed you yet,” he murmurs, leaning in. “He believes I don’t belong here, that I’m trying to force my way in for political reasons, and I think he doubts my cover story.” 

“That I’m a hot little thing you picked up at Fangtasia and I’m glamoured and enamored like a schoolgirl with a crush?” Cam teases, because she’s been reduced to that stereotype countless times, as someone who does business with vampires. Eric sighs.

“That you’re my…  I don’t like pet,” he says, and realization washes over her. Slowly, she nods her head.

“Oh. Vampire daddy thinks you’re my vampire daddy.” She’s embarrassed to admit that saying that sends a thrill through her, that being anything of Eric’s sounds like something she could be interested in. His eyes flash back to Randolph.

“Yes. He thinks I’m courting you, but I’ll bet he propositions you before the night is over, to test your loyalty to me.” 

Instantly, Cam is not happy with that projected schedule of events. It’s not even about loyalty, it’s… she doesn’t like the thought of flirting with anyone but Eric, here, though she can’t quite decide when that became something she even bothered to contemplate. She’s enjoying their closeness, in a back-burner kind of way, and she can’t imagine being this close to Randolph—or anyone—without being uncomfortable.

“Can you stop him from doing that without making a scene?” she asks, pressing closer, suddenly feeling uncertain for the first time at this otherwise very enjoyable party. Eric groans a little.

“I don’t think so. He’s not a sheriff, but he is powerful,” he admits. “Do you want him?” he murmurs, like he’d sacrifice his reputation and let her go off with this Randolph if that’s what she'd actually prefer. Without second thought, she shakes her head.

“I do not, no.” 

“Then perhaps I should get you out of here and we can give Melanie our regrets at a later time.” He looks down at her like he’s waiting for her input, and she remembers Melanie, who was so sweet to her when she introduced herself, so kind to invite them, and exhales. 

“Give me five more minutes, okay? I just want to touch the pet so I can be totally sure of her motivations.” 

“Okay,” he says, sounding like he would have preferred she ask for anything but, and she pats him on the arm and heads across the room to read the memories of Melanie’s significant other.

As she’d expected, the pet is deeply devoted to and in love with Melanie, although she did uncover a secret that should put the vampire at ease. She makes her way around the room, dodging Randolph, and she smiles to herself when she spots Eric’s broad back standing near the bar.

“Hey, so we’re good,” Cam begins as she walks up to him, until he turns and she clocks the look of concern on his face. She can feel it, too, and it makes her stomach turn. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, but I think we should go before I’m forced to use my words,” he says, pulling her closer. Cam takes that as a cue, winds her arms around him in an embrace to avoid looking like they don’t belong.

“He’s suspicious of us?” she asks, tipping her head to look up at him, and Eric’s mouth is set in a grim line. She doesn’t love the expression.

“He doubts our commitment,” he explains tensely, “and he thinks I’m neglecting you by not giving you what you so obviously need.” Cam frowns at that—Eric has given her so much already, including levels of confidence and security she hadn’t felt in a long time—and then, suddenly, realizes there’s only one thing they can do to prevent causing a big scene.

Cause a little scene.

“Let’s show him how wrong he is,” Cam murmurs, stretching up on her toes, and Eric meets her in the middle without hesitation. He’s firm but soft under her lips, her fingertips, and he quickly takes control of the kiss, pulling her closer, making a show of sliding a broad hand up to gently but possessively cover her throat. 

She moans softly at that, can’t help the way that singular action takes her level of attraction to him from a low, consistent simmer to boiling over rapidly in one weak breath. He squeezes just once, lightly, then slips her his tongue before pulling back to peer down at her; she knows she must look aroused, can feel her whole body flushing with want and heat and a little bit of shame at how quickly one kiss got away from her.

Eric takes her hand, and with a few hasty goodbyes they leave the party—though now it probably looks like they’re going to fuck in the back of his car instead of avoiding confrontation as originally planned. She thinks they might, for a moment, when he presses her back against the car door instead of opening it for her, panting like he’s catching his breath in a way she knows he doesn’t really need. 

She’s breathing heavily too, caged in by his big body as she is, and just when she thinks they’ve both calmed down Eric surges forward and kisses her again. Both of his hands come up to caress her face, and she gets her arms around him and holds him close as their mouths move. He’s pressed fully against her, his thighs on hers, his hips delicious and distracting, and when the kiss slows her mouth feels tingly, her body eager for more. She breathes against his lips, wets her own.

“Melanie’s pet found the engagement ring she’s hiding in her panty drawer,” she says quickly, before either of them can make another move. As much as she enjoyed that kiss—both of those kisses—she feels guilty now, like she’s taken advantage of a situation and she needs to find her way out of it. “So she’s been a little dodgy, and Melanie noticed. I’m thinking she’ll be glad to know that’s all it is, but maybe a little sour her surprise has been spoiled.”

Eric blinks a few times, frowns like he’s having trouble processing that information, then clears his throat, steps back to put space between them. 

“Oh. Good. Melanie will be pleased, then.” He glances up at the house, as if wondering if he should go back in and tell her the good news; before he makes a move, though, he turns again and looks at Cam with a somewhat softer, yet equally puzzling expression. “You did very well. Good girl.” 

His words hit like a punch to the stomach, like a plummeting rollercoaster, in the very best way; she squeezes her legs together, hoping he won’t pick up on the motion, then watches him lick his lips. 

“Thank you,” she replies, sounding breathless and shaky to her own ears. She can hear the blood rushing to them, feel the buzz of his mind, and something like contentment that she doesn’t have a name for but it obviously coming from him. It’s… distracting. He’s distracting.

Fuck, he’s good looking. Like a Swedish god, all brooding and chiseled and tall; like the Devil himself, she thinks, here to make her think of nothing but sin when she’s in his goddamn presence. What started as a working relationship has become so blurred in her mind, and now that they’ve kissed, she’s actually scared of what it may have awakened in her.

“I’ll call Melanie tomorrow,” Eric says, breaking her out of her thoughts and into the silence. He reaches behind her to unlock the door, and she hopes he doesn’t hear the hitch in her breath when he gets so close before pulling away. “Right now, I should probably get you home.”  Early that morning as he tries to sleep, images run through his mind at breakneck speed: Camila with a collar like Melanie’s pet, or on her knees in front of him, or spread on a bed with her hands bound and her legs open. He thinks he could drain her, choke her, make her see stars when she comes, maybe even make love to her…

He’s not sure exactly what he wants yet, only knows that he wants it with her.

His hands move of their own accord, and before he can process it he’s touching himself, fucking into his fist and thinking of her skin, silk soft and caramel colored, beneath his fangs. She smells like heaven, sun-kissed and tropical, and she’s in his nose all the time now: the floral bouquet of her shampoo, the delicate pulse of blood when she flushes near him. Her scent has soaked into his office, into his car, the walls of Fangtasia, and when his orgasm overtakes him his fangs extend, dreaming of sinking into the flesh of her throat or thigh and taking her in every way he can. As a vampire and a man.

He’s absolutely screwed, he thinks as he drifts blissfully to sleep, because now that he’s had a taste of her kiss, it will no doubt be the thing that consumes him. “You said you’d worked with shifters before,” Eric mentions the next time he sees Cam. He’d shown up at her house days after that kiss—that kiss, god—with another potential job for her, caught her just as she was getting out of the shower; as he sits across from her in the living room, he can smell soap and arousal on her, and he wonders if she touched herself in that shower, if she’s been thinking of him the way he’s been thinking of her. 

Her hair is wet and wavy, and she pulls it over her shoulder and nods. 

“Yeah, I have some experience with them. And, well, Sam is one,” she adds. Eric tries and fails to recall a shifter named Sam, and it must show on his face; Cam huffs a laugh. “Sam Merlotte, Sookie’s boss, owner of Merlotte’s Bar and Grill? The place we met,” she reminds him, like he could ever forget that night. “Did you not know?”

“I don’t even think I registered his existence,” he says honestly. It happens more often than he should admit. “But that’s good to know. I try to keep tabs on lone shifters in the area. Can you hear them?” he asks, which guides them back in the direction of the reason he’d come.

“Yes, but it’s not effortless the way it is with humans. Emotions are easier, they wear them on their sleeves, but for actual thoughts I need to focus.” Eric nods his head, steeples his fingers in front of him. 

“And what about skinwalkers? Have you worked with those?” Cam’s posture changes instantly, stiffens, but she shrugs in a way that gives the completely opposite effect—or it would, if he couldn’t feel her as clearly as he does. 

He can tell that this is an uncomfortable topic for her, and the last thing he wants is to pull her into something that will be difficult for her, but this task is important, will open doors for them in neighboring areas, maybe out of state. He needs more information before he decides.

“I know of them. They’re a bastardized version of shifters, they can mimic other people,  aren’t held to the same constraints as regular shifters,” she says with another lifted shoulder. “I’ve never met one, though, that I know of.”

“Do you know what makes them different? How they become skinwalkers? It isn’t passed down,” he tells her, and she nods at that, her expression shifting to something unreadable. 

“They’re killers,” she says, and it’s without judgment, to his surprise. “They gain the ability when they kill someone in their family. It would make prosecuting them pretty straightforward,” she says with a smile, though it’s not as bright as it usually is, doesn’t touch her eyes, “but shifters aren’t ‘out’ yet, not like you guys, so it’s kind of a moot point.” 

“You know more than I expected. I should be used to underestimating you by now,” he says, and she laughs at that, more like herself now. 

“Yeah, maybe you could quit doing that soon. I’ve been pretty helpful so far, knowledgeable, right?” she asks—and of course she has. She has no idea how much she’s already changed in him. 

“You have… which is why I’m asking about skinwalkers,” he says, shifting to look into her eyes. “If you aren’t comfortable doing what I’m going to ask, you need to tell me, but please know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she replies, and she’s giving him more credit than he thinks he deserves, but it makes him feel good all the same. “So what’s the job, boss?”  The job is transporting a teenage skinwalker from one area to another, where he’s going to be punished for impersonating a vampire—a trait Cam did not know they possessed. Those involved in the transport are Cam, obviously, and the skinwalker in question, as well as Eric and a witch he introduced as Lorna, who practically radiates power and energy. There’s a joke to be said there, about four different supernatural beings in one car—if a telepath can be considered one—but it’s not the time, so she holds her tongue. 

Eric is the one with the connections, and he knows where they’re headed, so he drives. The skinwalker sits behind him, bound by some invisible magic Lorna, who sits beside him, possesses. Cam feels mostly useless, because she’s sitting in the passenger’s seat with her eyes closed, her brain working hard to focus on the skinwalker’s thoughts. 

“The sheriff wants to know his motivations for impersonating a vampire, in the event it’s a larger conspiracy,” Eric told her on the way to pick up the pair in the back seat, and since they entered the car she has been channeling all of her strength and willpower into sifting through the shifter’s mind. 

It’s an ugly place, and she can tell without even touching him that some of that was nature, some was nurture, and some was just a kid left to his own devices. He doesn’t know she’s listening, probably didn’t know that was possible, so his thoughts go from one extreme to another: violent, pornographic, frightened, greedy, childish, terrifying. 

He thinks about the person he killed to become a skinwalker—his little brother—and she’s pretty certain he’s a psychopath who just happens to possess the ability to turn into a black bear. There’s no larger plot in the works here, no conspiracy, just a wreck of a kid with no conscience and more power than someone his age should possess. The kid can’t drink, can’t buy a pack of cigarettes, but he can shift into anyone he sees at will, and that actually blows Cam’s mind.

And her mind is aching by the time they cross the border into Mississippi, because once she started listening, a sort of sick fascination kept her there, like rubberneckers at a car accident. Three and a half hours after their departure, the sheriff of Jackson has the shifter in custody, and Lorna at his side to keep the kid bound until sentencing. She’ll be escorted home by a different vampire the next day, Cam’s pretty sure she heard someone say in the background of her brain. 

“Are you alright?” Eric asks when they’re alone in the car, his eyes on her face. “Should we stop to rest, for food?” She looks at him, but the words won’t come at first, and he reaches over to press his cool hand to her overheated cheek. 

It’s like bliss, and she sighs, pressing into his hand comfortably. She could fall asleep like this, with him propping her up, she muses briefly, but that would be strange and she’d have no way to explain that weirdness away. 

Instead, she blinks slowly and nods her head. “I’m okay. I have water, and snacks,” she reminds him, thinking of the bag of all-night rest stop goodies at her feet. “Probably best if we just head home. I’ll rest on the way, if that’s okay.” 

His touch is exceedingly gentle in response, and he pushes her hair back behind her ear, runs a thumb over her jaw, then puts the car in drive.

When they pull up to Cam’s apartment, she’s completely wiped, and despite her assurances that she can make it herself, Eric carries her inside and puts her into bed. Her eyelids flutter and she yawns, fighting sleep, but with hours until sunrise, Eric is in no hurry. He just sits beside her on the bed, speaking grateful words of praise for her assistance and running his fingers through her hair. The soft scrape of his fingers soothes her aching head, and she can tell it’s not long before she falls deeply asleep. Cam is invited to a party at Merlotte’s—an engagement party for the redheaded waitress, if she remembers correctly—and the text invite says that plus ones are welcome. That’s fortunate, Cam thinks, because she never goes anywhere without a vampire escort these days.

“Bill and Sookie aren’t happy I’m here,” Eric says suddenly in her ear, handing her a bottle of beer over her shoulder. She turns to see that a TruBlood rests in his own hand, type O+, just like her own blood.

“And you like it,” she accuses with a wink and a grateful sip of the beer. He narrows his eyes but laughs softly. 

“A little. It’s fun to watch that wrinkle on Bill’s forehead gradually become more furrowed. It’s like a shapeshifter,” he says casually, earning a double take from Sam who passes by with a tray laden with fried food. “I’m not sure if it’s a coincidence, but he’s always unhappy when I’m around.”

“Sure, a coincidence. You’re pure evil,” Cam teases, leaning back against the table, “psychologically torturing the poor man.” Eric turns toward her like she’s the only thing in the room worth watching, tips his hand and the bottle in it. He’s wearing all black—jacket, t-shirt, jeans, boots—and his eyes look bluer because of it, captivating her in a way she hopes isn’t completely obvious. She’s losing resolve when it comes to him, especially after the tenderness on her bed, the taste of his kiss.

“Ah, but it was you who invited me, so maybe you like it too. Maybe you’re not as good as you seem,” he says like a challenge, his lips turned up in a smirk, and she leans closer to him and takes another sip of her drink.

“I invited you because I knew you wouldn’t let me come alone,” she says, but truth be told, she’d invited him because she wanted to spend more time with him. Supernatural shenanigans aside, he’s usually busy when she hangs around the bar, and she craves his presence like never before. 

Eric takes a sip of his TruBlood, licks a drop from his lips, and watches her eyes as they track the movement. 

“Such a curious little thing you are: lawful and kind-hearted, but far from vanilla. I’m never quite sure what to expect from you,” he says, voice low. 

She resists swallowing at the implication of that statement, that word, pushes all thoughts of their intense kisses away and does her best not to let him see her stumble.

“So what you’re saying is I’m a lot to handle,” she teases instead, but he leans in closely just like he always does, pressing the fingers of his free hand against the tabletop so his arm is outstretched behind her. 

“I’m simply saying it would take someone powerful to handle you,” he clarifies, and she can’t help it, she shifts toward him at the thought of being handled. Her heart beats quickly in her chest, and he buzzes in her brain, anticipation like a cat waiting to strike its unsuspecting prey. It’s like a game to him, she thinks, this push and pull, making her want him, and she’s not so sure it’s one she’s prepared to play. 

She’s saved by Sookie, who steps up beside them and informs them that Bill wants to have a word with Eric—something about werewolves giving them shit a few days ago. Eric leaves her with a tip of his head, and Sookie leans back against the table beside her, her blonde ponytail flipping when she whips her head to face Cam.

“So I noticed you invited Eric,” she says cryptically, as if this is news to her, like he wasn’t literally standing in front of her just a moment ago. Cam takes a sip of her beer to hide a chuckle at that and swallows.

“Well, he’s hard not to notice,” Cam responds, eyeing the way Eric towers nearly six inches over Bill where they stand, across the room. Sookie follows her gaze, then smiles—sappy, the way she always does when she sees Bill—and follows it with a concerned frown.

“Is he giving you trouble?” 

“No more trouble than my last job. He runs his organization fairly, utilizes my skills in a way that’s comfortable for me. I have no complaints.” 

“Bill worries about you,” Sookie murmurs, bumping their arms together, and the thought is sweet, but a little maddening.

“He shouldn’t. I’m just saying,” she continues when her cousin gives her an unhappy look, “he wanted Eric to leave you alone, and he got that. I didn’t do it for the sake of your relationship, but it’s an inadvertent perk, so why worry?” Sookie sighs and brings her hand up, spends too much time staring at her own nails.

“Eric’s not like Bill, that’s all. He’s bloodthirsty. He doesn’t care the same way Bill does.” 

They’d been through this already, Cam thinks, but it is comforting to know they’re looking out for her, despite the suffocating way they choose to show it. Cam nods. 

“And I understand that. I accept it. I’ve worked with all kinds of vampires; some are warm and fuzzy, some aren’t, just like humans. I wouldn’t date a guy who doesn’t care whether I live or die, but I don’t mind working for one. I know I’m a valuable asset to him and that he’ll protect me because of that. That’s our agreement.”

“I don’t think Bill’s worried he’d let you die,” Sookie says, looking over at the men again. They’re looking over at the girls, and she averts her gaze quickly. “I think he’s worried that he wants you—and I am too, with the way he gets so close to you. He looks at you like a dog looks at meat.”

Cam can’t cover her laugh then, but she makes it quick and just shrugs as Sookie stares at her, the line between her eyebrows wrinkled and tense. 

“Harder to protect me from across the room, I guess,” she replies, even though she does feel a thrill at the thought that Eric could want her, for real. Sookie presses her lips together—and for a moment Cam swears she looks just like Gran—and nods her head.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” she says, taking a sip of the drink in her hand, and when Eric walks back over to Cam, Sookie passes him without looking up or saying a word. Cam has a few drinks, and before she can ask, Eric takes her car keys and guides her to the passenger’s seat, opens the door for her. 

“I could stay at Sookie’s,” she says when he leans down to make sure she’s comfortable before closing the door. She looks up at him with deep, wide eyes that sparkle a little in the moonlight. “You don’t have to drive me.” 

“I want to drive you,” he tells her, and he tucks her leg in and shuts the door. He walks around the car and gets into the driver’s seat; when he looks over at her, she’s staring at him… fondly, maybe? He can’t quite tell, but it’s a warm feeling, one he enjoys. 

“As long as you’re sure we have enough time before sunrise. I don’t want it to cook you,” she says, and when he reaches up to put the key in the ignition, she rests her hand on his arm. “I like you too much for it to cook you. Okay?”

Eric feels his own rush of affection at her confession, at her touch, and he puts his hand on hers and leans in, looks seriously into her eyes. 

“I promise, we’ll be home before sunrise,” he assures. She exhales softly at that, nods her head a little, and they part, shifting into their own respective seats. 

The ride back to her apartment is quiet, though she keeps looking over at him for reasons he can’t decipher. Her gaze moves to the window when he catches her looking, and he finds that really… cute.

He used to be terrifying. He used to be formidable. Now he’s a designated driver with a crush, a glorified bodyguard to the girl he’s absolutely enamored of. How far the mighty fall.

He walks her to her door, proper escort that he is, and when she invites him in, he considers it. He’d considered it last time, too, when she was wearing tight running clothes, smelling like heaven, but nothing good would come of it then, and nothing good would come of it now. He declines, and she takes it in stride, but lingers in the doorway, the silence between them shifting from companionable to weighted. He looks her over, in her jeans and tank top, hair falling over her shoulder, and his mind… wanders. It’s unfair how beautiful she is, how close and yet still so very far away from him.

“Is there something else?” he asks eventually, taking a step closer to her, and as if she’s made up her mind, she nods resolutely. 

“Yes. I’m waiting for you to kiss me goodnight.”

Eric doesn’t need to be told twice. Slowly but purposefully, he climbs the stairs, and she’s watching him, looking at him like she wants him. 

He has to admit, he’s surprised by her forwardness—even drunk, he never would have expected her to admit to wanting anything to do with him, let alone to ask for it.

This kiss is gentler than the one they shared at the party, the one that went from purely a distraction to somewhat of an awakening for Eric. He’d been almost astounded that after all these centuries he was even capable of being surprised by his own desires. He holds her around the waist, brings a hand up to brush her jaw, and she makes a low, contented noise and wraps her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

The hand on her face moves to caress her throat—the throat he thinks about more often than he should, the one he imagines licking and biting and squeezing at all hours of the night—and she sighs happily at his touch, presses into it like her body is asking for all the things her mind won’t let her say. 

It’s his hope that one day she will say them, that he’ll be worthy of the attention she gives him, the kindness, but he knows that kind of thinking can only lead to madness. 

He steps back to break the kiss, because if it were up to him they’d never stop kissing, but she didn’t ask for that; her mouth is kiss-red when they part, and she runs her tongue over it like she’s savoring him before nodding her head and reaching back for the door handle. 

“Thank you,” she says, and though his brain is buzzing with her, he just nods, keeps his cool, exhales. 

“You’re welcome.”  She’s glad he doesn’t linger this time, because she dreams of him.

[scuttling]

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 4

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,797 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, Flirting, Brief assault Summary: Cam believes she's being followed, and Eric intends to be the one to keep her safe.

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Cam goes for a run just after dark, when the sun has finally set and the stifling heat is a little more manageable. Her neighborhood is perfect for it, the streetlamps glowing soft yellow as she passes, the soles of her shoes hitting the sidewalk, then the pavement when she crosses the street. A few other locals walk their dogs, or take an after-dinner stroll, or sit on the porch with a nightcap, the blinking of fireflies illuminating their faces for a brief second. 

It would be enjoyable, except she feels like someone’s watching her.

She already knows never to take the same path twice, something she adopted in Chicago as not just a woman alone, but one with a target on her back. Her preferred route would be down Wildwood, across to Poplar, and around a cul-de-sac of newly constructed homes, but that backs her up against a wall with nowhere to go if she’s cornered, so she nixes the thought immediately. 

The path she ultimately takes makes no sense, and that’s intentional; if someone’s still watching her, or worse, following her, she’ll be able to pick them out relatively simply, if she listens to their mind. She takes a left where the sidewalk is considerably bumpier, something she would typically avoid, a right where a tow-truck is taking up much of the alley.

Tuning into her surroundings, she can pinpoint the thoughts of the man walking the German Shepherd across the street, the older couple on the porch swing a few houses down. She can also catch brief flashes of thought, people too far out of range to really hone in on, but that’s about all. 

Unsatisfied, she decides to wrap up her exercise for the night, and she heads back in the direction of home; the closer she gets, the more at ease she feels, but she’s still alert and on the defensive in case she needs to be.

She’s almost half a block from her front door when her phone rings, and Pam’s name is announced through her headphones. She answers the call, breathing heavily. 

“Hey, Pam,” she greets, but Pam nearly cuts her off, quick to get to the point. 

“Eric asked me to check on you. He said he could… feel that something was wrong. Are you okay?” She slowly drawls that word, feeeeel, and Cam frowns, her pace slowing. 

“Yeah, I’m okay… well, I felt like someone was following me a few minutes ago,” she says as an afterthought. “I’m out jogging and I felt that sensation of eyes on me, you know?” 

“Are you getting that sensation now? How far are you from the bar?” Pam asks, her tone calm and even. Cam can barely hear her over the din of background noise usually associated with the club.

“No, I’m walking up to my front door now,” she tells her, pulling her keys from the pocket of her leggings. Before she inserts the key into the lock, she glances up in thought. “Do you want me to get in the car and drive over?”

“I think Eric would prefer it. I’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” she says, and then the line goes dead. Cam sighs.

“Okay, goodbye to you too,” she mutters to herself as she crosses the porch and goes down the stairs, making her way to the car.

Pam is waiting when she arrives, and she strides across the parking lot in sparkly red stilettos and a black dress as Cam gets out of the car. She pauses while Cam closes and locks the door behind her, then pivots on her heel when Cam walks toward the club.

“Ooh, do I get a bodyguard, now?” Cam teases when Pam falls into step beside her, their arms nearly brushing. Pam tosses her hair over her shoulder and huffs. 

“I consider it more like babysitting,” she replies coolly, and when security opens the door for them, she lets Cam step over the threshold first. “But Eric is concerned, and until his worries are alleviated, I’m stuck with you.” She heads for the bar and asks for a glass of water, Pam on her heels.

“Well in that case, we should really get to know each other. I like piña coladas, getting caught in the rain,” Cam lists satirically, then takes a long glug of water. She turns, hoping Pam is wearing an expression of exasperation or something equally entertaining, but it’s Eric behind her now, and he looks incredibly serious. 

“Someone was following you?” he asks, his eyes flicking over her face, her neck and shoulders where they’re exposed by the sports bra she wears. Cam shrugs and finishes her water. 

“I can’t say for sure—I listened closely, but I couldn’t hear anyone, so if there was someone there, they weren’t human.” That darkens his eyes more than she thought possible, and he steps closer to her, crowding her against the barstool at her back. 

“I don’t want you running alone at night anymore,” he says, his gaze on hers like he’s wishing his glamour worked on telepaths. “And stick to well-lit areas during the day. Ask Sookie to join you,” he suggests, and Cam nearly barks a laugh.

“Sookie, run? Only if something’s chasing her,” she says good-naturedly, but when she thinks about it, the hypothetical seems to hit a little too close to home. She shakes her head to clear the thought. “But I’ll ask Tara, or go to the gym, if that would be better.” 

“That would be better,” Eric answers, voice softer, pleased that she didn’t fight him on the rule. “When you first asked for my protection, you said that you’d made enemies. Did you have a bodyguard in Chicago?”

“Nothing quite so formal,” she says, though she wants to laugh at the thought of being important enough for a bodyguard, especially when she just teased Pam about that very thing. “But I had clients who respected me who would keep an ear out, let me know if anyone was planning something that may jeopardize my safety.” Eric nods his head, and during that moment of silence, she steps a few inches closer to him. Her turn to ask questions. “How did you know I was uncomfortable?”

He hesitates, looks behind her, at the bartenders, and then puts his hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the front of the room and toward the office. The desire for privacy is fair, she supposes, but when he closes the door and offers her a seat, she refuses, crossing her arms. 

“No thank you. I just want to know how you knew something might be wrong. How you felt it,” she says, recalling Pam’s words. With a deep exhale, Eric takes his seat even though she won’t take hers. 

“A few weeks before you came to town, I consulted with a witch. I know,” he adds with a smirk, “many vampires fear witches, but I’m very progressive. She told me I would meet someone who would help me grow my power, my business, and that all I had to do was be receptive to it. She didn’t mention it would be a human, or a woman, or someone with psychic ability, just that I would know it when I felt it.”

“And you felt it with me?” she asks, taking a step forward and then sinking into the chair opposite him. Any resistance she had to meeting him on his level for this conversation has been swiftly replaced with curiosity. 

“The first night we met,” he answers. “I was drawn to Bon Temps that night, but not for Bill, or Sookie: I was drawn there to meet you.” Cam swallows, her head spinning at the implication, and he continues. “And the more I learned about you, how intelligent you are, how powerful, it became more than mere intuition. I needed you working at my side.” 

It takes a moment for her to form words, but when she does, she tries to make them sound less irritated than she feels. 

“You could have told me that.” Eric drags a hand over his hair, looking more unsure of himself than she’s ever seen him. 

“I didn’t want to scare you away. I wanted to prove myself trustworthy… and I think I have. I think that’s why I was able to feel you like that today.” 

It makes sense to Cam—her path to his mind, that buzzing she hears, has been open, but hers had been closed until… Well, she’s not sure when, exactly, but now that it’s open, that tingle, that tugging in her head, it must go both ways. Maybe it’s not just his presence she can feel. 

“I do trust you, but going forward we should have the expectation of transparency. If you’re talking to a witch about my future, I deserve to know,” she tells him, no nonsense. He nods in agreement, eyes on hers, and she deflates a bit, sighs. “So, does this change things in any way, now that you’ve told me? My contract or anything?”

Eric stands, so she does too, though he towers over her even with the desk between them, like he’s leaning into her space, whether consciously or not.

“I don’t believe so. If you can forgive my misstep, and accept my promise to be honest with you in the future, I would like it if you would continue to work with me as discussed.” After a moment, he holds out his hand for a shake, and she takes it firmly.

“Okay. If you promise to be honest—and know I’ll call you out if I think you’re bullshitting me or hiding things.” The contact breaks, and Eric nods.

“I have no doubts. Do you plan to stay a while?” he asks, looking over her again, but her sweat has been cooling on her skin, and she needs a shower and a change of clothes more than anything.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go back home,” she says, and he nods his head once in agreement.

“That’s no problem. I’ll escort you back to your apartment,” he says, walking toward the door and opening it. “One of us will escort you home every night, just to be safe, until we find out if someone is indeed watching you.” Her first instinct is to refuse, because she can take care of herself, but she is still a little shaken from the danger earlier, whether perceived or otherwise, so she simply nods her head and lets herself be guided out the door. She did ask for his protection, after all, and he did promise it. 

Eric walks her to her front door, his expression tight as he listens or smells or does whatever vampires do when they’re trying to solve a mystery. Cam stands in the doorway and watches him, smiles gently when he looks back to her face.

“Would you like to come in?” she asks, thinking about what she could offer him in the way of refreshments, good Southern hostess that she is… but she comes up with nothing. She should grab some TruBlood to have on hand, just in case, or more of the wine he’d gifted to her when she moved in.

“No, that’s okay, thank you. You interrupted your evening off when I asked you to; I do not want to take up any more of your time.” It’s really thoughtful of him to say, but when she shifts to say goodbye, she feels the sweaty funk on her skin, and she's instantly embarrassed, sure he must be able to smell it.

“Oh god, it’s because I stink, right? I’m sorry, I came right from jogging—” she begins; she can’t imagine how strong that kind of thing must be to vampires and their superior senses. Before she can finish, Eric leans in extremely close, his nose brushing over the bare line of her neck. He balances his hand on the door frame beside her and breathes her in.

“You smell delicious,” he murmurs, “all of the time,” and after another deep breath, he pulls back to give her space. She manages not to whimper at the loss, even though she kind of wants to, just clears her throat, and the corner of Eric’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. “Good night, Camila.”

“Yeah, good night,” she calls as he turns to walk away, her brain still a half-step behind reality. Eric disappears into the night, and, feeling a sudden chill, she heads inside to shower, double locking the door behind her.

Eric feels her, sees her, and smells her all at once. She’s back at Fangtasia, but tonight she wears a short black dress with ruffled sleeves, her legs looking long in a pair of strappy sandals. It would be mouthwatering, if he allowed himself to think of her that way. 

Looking at her, yes that’s fine—it’s impossible not to—but feeling things is wholly out of the equation. 

He waits for her to approach him, can tell by the look on her face she means business tonight, and when she’s within human earshot, he moves toward her. “Camila, what a pleasure.” His eyes linger on her bare legs at his own mention of pleasure. “Did we call on you tonight?” 

“No, I’m doing a little of my own detective work,” she admits, glancing around the bar. “A former client of mine heard about a potential attack on a vampire nest not far from here, thought I might want to check it out. And I knew you’d want to know.” 

Eric presses his hand to the small of her back and they walk toward the back of the club for a little more privacy. 

“Which nest?” he asks, running through recent updates from all of the neighboring sheriffs and wondering which he should inform of her tip. She pulls out her phone and flicks open a text message. “And why do they wish to harm them?” 

“The… Densmore coven,” she says, reading over it, “and he says there’s one vampire in particular they’re after, someone named Flynn. Do you know him?” 

The look on his face when she glances up must say it all, because her expression changes completely.

“Yes, I know him. He’s always made trouble for our kind.” 

“What kind of trouble? Eating kids trouble, stealing wives trouble, graffiti-ing bloody fangs on a monument of some racist old lawmaker trouble?” she offers, texting her contact back. Eric huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

“Nothing like—well, the stealing wives thing, maybe. He enjoys seducing women, likes being their first vampire, if you know what I mean.” Cam looks up at him and exhales, nods.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. You never forget your first vampire,” she recites, and that is intriguing… even though he wishes it wasn’t. 

“I take it you remember your first vampire?” he asks despite himself, leaning in more closely like being near her is the easiest thing in the world. Like it doesn’t make him want things he knows he can never have.

She ignores him with a playful roll of the eyes, holding up her phone again.

“Has anyone heard of a man asking weird questions around the bar? Trying to get a vampire to take him home, to their home? My friend thinks they might be doing recon.” 

It’s actually a good thing, he thinks, if they’re trying to schmooze someone at the bar: it means they’re amateurs, probably stupid, and not enough of a threat to write to the Queen about. 

“I’ll find out,” Eric says, and he’s gone in a swift rush of air, making the rounds and speaking to all of his staff members. When he returns, she’s already zeroed in on suspect number one. Clever girl.

“Gray button up shirt, trucker hat?” Cam whispers, and Eric shifts to press himself against her back. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him,” she says, and it makes him wonder what she’s getting from him, if she can feel his uncertainty the way he could feel her paranoia when she was out for a run the other day. “Is there somewhere I can take him to get him alone—somewhere you could meet me, terrify him, do your thing?” 

He murmurs an address into her ear, a house just down the block that Pam sometimes uses for entertaining. “I’ll be right behind you—and be careful,” he adds sternly before leaving as quickly as he’d gone before. 

“You’re going to let her leave with that thing?” Pam says when he almost collides with her behind the bar. He watches Cam as she approaches the man, as she slips into a flirtatious smile and lets him put his hands on her hips as they sway to the music.

“He’s harmless; I’ll be watching her the whole time,” he assures, wondering when Pam became fond enough of Cam to be concerned for her wellbeing. Maybe putting her on babysitting duty for a few weeks had been a better idea than he realized.

Getting Trucker Hat alone is easy: Cam flirts a little, dances, tells him that her vampire said she could invite a third and that she wanted him in all of his redneck glory. His clear interest morphs into a shit-eating grin when she mentions that her vampire said they should go back to his place and get started, that he would be along soon to join them. 

“Will you show me where he sleeps?” Trucker Hat asks with a squeeze of her ass as they cross the street just outside the house. Cam slips on a salacious smile and tugs him up onto the porch, turns her back to the front door to give him a very obvious full-body once over. 

“He has a secret spot under the floorboards,” she whispers, in the event no visible coffin is present. If there is one, she can brush it off as a roleplay prop. “I’ll even let you fuck me on top of it.” 

“Hell yeah,” the man drawls, pressing closer to her to grope at her breasts. He's not bad looking, has all of the suntanned, frat boy charm she expected upon first glance, but his hands on her make her want to take a scalding shower and kick him in the balls—though not in that order. She opens the door and leads him inside, steps back to watch him take in the admittedly luxurious decor. 

The foyer is grand and open, leading into a dark and moody sitting room. There are bookshelves built into all of the walls, electric candelabras conveniently lit, and Trucker Hat drops down into the middle of a purple velvet couch, his arms stretched out on either side like a king on his throne. 

“You look so good like that,” she tells him, punctuating it with a bite of her bottom lip. He pulls her into his lap—not what she’d been hoping for, but not altogether unexpected—and hikes up her skirt, so she can feel his erection beneath her, his hands on the thighs spread around him. 

“And you look good on top of me.” He pulls her down for a kiss, but she shifts, gives him a face full of cleavage instead, which earns both a grunt of surprise and a groan of arousal. “Fuck, honey. Want ‘em bouncin’ in my face while you ride my pole.” 

Cam rolls her eyes because she knows he can’t see them—the thing about being alone with a man is that she doesn’t even need to listen to their thoughts. They all spout off at the mouth and just say whatever stupid thing is on their mind anyway—then dips down to meet his gaze. 

“Mmm. Let me give you a massage first,” she counters, running a hand down his chest and stopping at his belt. He swallows hard and nods, then takes her hand and presses it down against his cock. 

“I know you’ve gotta be good at rubbin’,” he says with a wink, and she grins playfully and slides out of his lap, strutting slowly around the sofa until she ends up behind him. 

“I’m good at all kinds of things,” she says, leaning down to purr in his ear. She rests her hands on his shoulders, digs her thumbs into them in a way that she knows has to hurt a little. He exhales sharply, then covers it with a moan as she glides her fingers down to his chest, flipping open his top button, then another. “Have you ever shared a girl with a vampire?” 

His thoughts change then, flash to a pretty blonde woman, then the short, stocky, muscular vampire she now knows to be Flynn—fuck that vamp, man, and that fuckin’ fangbangin’ whore he stole from me. Slut for vampire blood and dick, stupid bitch.

“I don't share,” he says suddenly, angrily, and he reaches back to get a hand in her hair, uses it to pull her closer so that her feet are almost off the ground. He takes a hard kiss that is clearly not meant to bring her pleasure, and she reaches for his face, jamming her fingers into his eyes and earning a howl of pain. It’s then that Eric joins them, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her away from the man’s unkind grasp. 

“Neither do I,” he growls, and when the man stands quickly, surprised, Eric fists a hand in his shirt and yanks him over the back of the couch, depositing him on the floor at their feet. “I heard you plan to take down a vampire nest—you don’t look quite that stupid, but now I can see exactly how small your brain is.” 

Trucker Hat flounders, trips over his own tongue between a series of desperate apologies and outright pleading for his life. Eric maneuvers Cam behind himself, then steps closer to the man, hovering over him as if intending to crush him beneath his shoe. 

“If you harm one of us, you’re dead. If you try to take out a whole nest, I’ll make a snack out of you until you’re begging me for death.” He glances back at Cam, who smooths her skirt, brushes a hand through her hair to regain a semblance of dignity after his halted attack, and then back at the man. “And if you ever so much as look at her again, I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever cared about in front of you and then skin you alive. Do you understand?” When the man can’t manage to get a word out, Eric reaches down and grabs him by the lapels of his shirt—and he pauses for a few seconds because shoving him toward the door. “Leave.” 

Trucker Hat scrambles for the front door and out of the room, and when she can no longer hear his chaotic, frightened mind, Cam releases a long breath she’d been holding in. Eric turns to her and runs his palm tenderly over the crown of her head.

“I’m sorry. I did not expect him to be violent,” he says, sounding regretful as he looks down into her eyes. She shakes her head, both accepting the apology and dismissing the need for one.

“It’s okay, neither did I,” she tells him truthfully.

She’d underestimated the man’s rage, something she’ll be certain never to do again. 

After a moment of silence between them, she looks up and says, “You let him live… to send a message?”

Eric clears his throat, slowly shakes his head.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve if I ate his heart.” She knows he means it, his face deadly serious, but she can’t help it, a laugh escapes her at that—probably one of those trauma laughs that bubble up at all the worst times. Eric actually cracks a smile at her outburst, and his eyes soften. “Can I take you home?”

“My car’s at the club, I’m okay to drive,” she assures him, and though he scrutinizes her face, he seems to agree with her estimation. 

“Alright, but I’m going to ride along,” he finally decides. They walk back to the parking lot together, and when Cam hesitates, Eric takes the driver’s seat. Without a second thought, she hands over her keys and enjoys the feeling of being taken care of by someone—anyone—for a change.

The next morning, far too early, a knock on the door wakes Cam from a dead sleep. She pads from the bedroom to the hall and checks the peephole before unlatching the deadbolt and pulling open the door. 

“Sookie, what the hell—”

“Bill heard all about what happened to you last night,” Sookie says, brushing past her and walking into her apartment. She stalks into the kitchen and pulls down a box of tea and Cam’s kettle, which she fills with water. “I told you nothin’ good would come of working with Eric, now didn’t I?”

“I don’t… what do you mean?” Cam asks, blinking away the haze of sleep. She glances at the kettle curiously; if anything, after barely three hours sleep, she wants coffee. “Nothing happened to me last night.” 

Like her words flipped a switch inside her, Sookie spins around and faces her, crosses her arms over the baby blue peplum top she wears. 

“So you didn’t go on some dumb undercover mission and get assaulted by some creep? Bill just made that up?” she demands, and Cam raises her hands in mock defense, takes a step back.

“Okay, no, he didn’t make that up, but that’s an exaggeration. I lured this jerk to a safe house so Eric could deal with him. The guy grabbed me, but I jabbed him in the eye sockets and then Eric pulled me away. I wasn’t in any danger,” she assures her, even though she had been afraid when the man’s thoughts switched so abruptly to anger and violence. But Eric was coming, she knew that, and he was there before she could do much more than instinctively react, anyway. Sookie huffs in disbelief and opens the cabinet over her head, pulling down two white ceramic mugs.

“Not in danger, sure. You were just alone with a wanna be vampire killer—who could have had a weapon, by the way!” she adds, turning to face Cam. Cam just blinks, still not caught up from being in a deep sleep just minutes ago, and Sookie waves a sleeve of tea bags in front of her face. “Everyone thinks I’m stupid, but you don’t see me luring men out into the dark, now do you?” 

Cam takes a deep breath and moves closer to Sookie, gently taking the tea from her hands. She sets it on the counter, then wraps her arms around her cousin in a hug; the embrace lasts nearly thirty seconds, and when she pulls back, Sookie’s eyes are wet with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” Cam says immediately, placing her hands on Sookie’s shoulders. “I wasn’t thinking about how it could affect you, me coming back so suddenly and then putting myself in harm’s way. How it might get you thinking about everything you’ve lost.” Sookie sniffles and tilts her head to the side. 

“Don’t listen to my thoughts,” she murmurs, pouting, but then she laughs, something soft and delicate. Cam mirrors it. 

“I don’t need to listen to know that I’ve upset you, Sook. I really am sorry. I promise that if I’m involved in any dangerous vampire hijinks in the future, I’ll let you know right away so you don’t hear it from someone else. I can’t promise not to get involved in things,” she clarifies, “you know that’s not in my nature, but I can promise to be the one who tells you about them.” 

Sookie turns her head and looks at her, takes a soft breath before nodding her head. 

“Okay. I’m sorry I barged in here like I’m your mom—or god, like Gran,” she says with an exasperated smile that Cam duplicates. “But I worry about you. I know you can take care of yourself, you always could, but this is a new world, Cam, and it can be scary sometimes.” At that, Cam takes Sookie’s hands and holds them softly.

“I know it can be scary, but this world isn’t new for me,” she reminds her gently. “All I can promise is that I’ll be smart, I’ll be careful, and I’ll be honest with you. If I do that, are we good?” she asks her cousin, so like a sister to her it hurts her heart, and Sookie nods. 

“Yeah, we’re good,” she says with a sad smile, and then Cam playfully nudges her out of the way and reaches up into the cupboard for a bag of breakfast blend. 

“In that case, do you want to stay for breakfast?” she asks, and Sookie grins and gets to work pulling eggs and tomatoes from the refrigerator while Cam brews a fresh pot of coffee.

[scuttling]

Aisha, Oliver, and Jade, 7.25.24

[scuttling]

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 3

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,323 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty, Canon blood and gore Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

A week later, she gets her first call from Fangtasia—but it’s Eric's colleague Pam, not Eric, who makes the call. She says it’s urgent, but that she can’t give any details, so Cam throws on a pair of jeans and boots, a black high-neck tank, and drives to the bar. When she gets out of her car, Eric is standing there, waiting in the parking lot. 

“Camila. Come with me,” he murmurs, taking her arm; instead of guiding her toward the front door, his long legs head for the sidewalk, and he walks her down the block—away from the bar and, she guesses, prying vampire ears.

“What’s going on?” she whispers, curious, and he moves his hand to her back casually, like he’s hoping they’ll look more like any couple walking down the street and less like he’s abducted her or something. He leans in so she can hear him better.

“There is a group of nomads visiting from Florida, and they passed through another area on the way here. The sheriff of that area has reason to believe they’re holding a human against his will.”

Cam nods. Kidnapping a human is not a mortal offense in most areas, but it is frowned upon by those who wish to assimilate, live semi-normal lives. It’s certainly punishable here, if they can prove it.

“And if they are—what will you do?” Her eyes flick up to his face, and he appears bored by her question, maybe even a little irritated.

“We will glamour the human and send him home, then arrange for the sheriff to come and collect his prisoners. You can drive the human personally, if that would make you feel better,” he says, looking down at her; his tone borders on condescending, and she rolls her eyes.

“I just wanted to make sure justice will be served for the crime. You’ll have to get used to my inquisitive nature, if you plan to utilize my gift,” she reminds him, and he exhales slowly. He turns them around and they head down the street, back toward the bar. 

“In time, you’ll find I’m a very effective sheriff. You don’t have to be worried about whether or not I punish those who deserve it.”

Despite her previous question, she has no doubts about that—but she remembers from experience that vampires tend to leave humans in the dark by default, and she needs to know what she’s getting into if she’s going to be such a powerful sheriff’s pawn.

“Who will I be listening to?” she asks, because he already knows vampires are pretty much a no-go, but he clearly thinks she’s going to be up to this challenge.

“There is an entourage made up of vampires and human companions alike. I’m hoping the humans will give it away.”

“And how will I let you know if I discover something? We haven’t discussed that part, and I like to be prepared,” she tells him, trying to keep up with his steps. It feels like they’re on The West Wing, or something dramatic like that. “Code word? Text message?”

“Let’s say text message, for now,” he decides. She can see the neon lights of the club as they approach the parking lot, and Eric removes his hand from her back and looks down at her. “I’m going to be walking around, so if you sense danger…” 

“I’ll let you know. Telepath’s honor,” she says with a satirical tip of her head, and he opens the door, his expression unchanging. She walks a few feet inside the club, past bouncers who already know her as some kind of employee, and when she turns back to thank him for the briefing, Eric is gone.

Unconcerned by his swift and mysterious disappearance, she makes her way to the bar and orders a drink, perching on a stool as she waits for it. After the bartender slides it toward her, she makes a show of sipping it, tipping her head back so her throat is exposed, and a vampire beside her growls low. He’s got a shaved head and soft, pillowy lips, and if she were here for pleasure, she’d seriously consider it.  

Since she’s not, she stands and heads toward the back of the bar, where Pam is playing hostess to the group of nomads. She takes stock of them—three men, two women, all supernaturally gorgeous—and infers from the way they’re watching over a group of half-naked, dancing humans that those are the companions she’s expected to listen to. She weaves her way into the crowd and sidles up to a young man with soft looking brown hair and clear green eyes, then hip-checks him. It’s not hard, but it gets him to look back, and she smiles apologetically. 

“Sorry, hon!” she says, and he mouths no problem and reaches a hand out to her. She takes it, letting him spin her around, and when he releases his hold she leans in, her voice slightly raised so he can hear her over the music. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new in town?” He smiles and shakes his head. 

“Not from here, just passing through. I’m Shane.” 

“Cam,” she replies, and she glances around at the others, raises her eyebrows. “These your friends?”

“More like family,” he says, and his smile grows wide, fond. “We travel together, you know? We’re the family we chose.” 

“That sounds awesome, actually,” she replies, adding a bit of wistfulness to her voice. “I’ve always been jealous of people like you—people who are brave enough to lay their own path, make their own choices.” Shane ducks his head like he’s embarrassed about what he plans to share next. 

“It wasn’t easy. I had to completely cut ties with my homophobic parents, work two, sometimes three shit jobs to make enough money just to live. I was exhausted, depressed… and then I met Clive, and everything just kind of fell into place.” His gaze drifts to one of the vampires, a short, blond man with warm brown eyes, and the devotion he has for him is clear. And real, no glamouring or threatening or fear poisoning Shane’s thoughts. 

“I can tell you really love him,” she says aloud. She scans the minds of the other humans surrounding him, and none of them are glamoured, either. They think a lot about blood and sex, but they’re here of their own free will, hedonism aside. More than that, they’re happy, well taken care of. Content.

“Yeah,” Shane says, something like yearning in his voice, and then he looks back at her, his eyes soft. “Do you want to come with us? We’re heading to Tennessee next. There’s always room for one more, and you seem really nice.” Surprised, she looks away from the group and tilts her head, shows him a gentle smile. 

“No, I don’t think so, but it’s kind of you to offer. There might be more for me here than I think.” Cam reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it, just to be sure—and everything he’s said is true, from the pain to the pleasure. As she sifts through his memories more carefully, she’s hit with a warm rush of pride for this man she barely even knows. “Take care of yourself, Shane.”

“You too, Cam—good luck!” he calls out as she walks away.

She makes it to the bar, orders another drink, but she doesn't have a chance to pull out her phone to text Eric: he just shows up, arms folded in front of him, leaning against the stool beside her.

“You think the human wants to be here? That he’s… in love?” he asks, looking out over the crowd, at the visiting clan. Cam turns toward him, nods softly.

“Yeah, seems like it. I didn’t talk to that one directly, but from what I gathered, it’s his ex who's causing trouble with the sheriff. She wasn’t being kind to him, and the vampire in the red dress?” She takes a sip of her drink and gestures to a statuesque brunette, standing with a dark haired man she knows to be the human in question. “She convinced him to leave, to join them. It’s been six months, and he’s never been happier.”

“Interesting,” Eric murmurs, almost under his breath. “Humans never cease to surprise me, even after all this time.”

“What do you mean?” He looks over at her for the first time, and she raises her eyebrow, puzzled. “You didn’t think humans were capable of loving vampires?” He clears his throat.

“I knew they claimed it, but I assumed it had more to do with the high, the pleasure, than anything else. The way you describe it, their feelings seem deeper. Genuine.” 

She’s not sure what he’s getting at—does he think humans are inferior, incapable of such emotion, or that vampires are simply unworthy of receiving it? Rather than start that kind of debate, with her employer, in a packed nightclub, she takes a deep breath and exhales long.

“That’s what I felt when I read their minds, and I’ve read love before. I know when it’s genuine.” She takes another sip of her martini, and slowly, like he’s carefully considering her words, Eric nods. 

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks, and again, not really a topic she wants to discuss with anyone, but especially not him… 

So she’s not quite sure why she answers. “In hindsight, I’d have to say no. It’s not that I haven’t had relationships—I have, and I’ve been… infatuated, lustful, frenzied… but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.” He looks into her eyes, almost through them, like he’s trying to determine if she’s being honest with him—and she is, she really is. “Have you ever been in love?” she asks in return, but Eric straightens then, rests his hand on the bar, and looks back at the crowd.

“You did very well tonight. Thank you,” he says with just a glance in her direction before he strides over to the group of nomads. Because she can take a hint, she finishes her drink, pays her tab, and goes home. 

When she checks her banking app the next morning, there is a $500 transfer from the Fangtasia account. 

Not too bad for an hour of her time.

Cam goes to see Tara at work later in the week, sidling up to the bar in a leather jacket and jeans, a contented smile on her face. Even though Merlotte’s wasn’t around the last time she lived in Bon Temps, it still provides nostalgic, homey comfort somewhere in her mind. Sam nods at her and smiles.

“Well hey there, Cam. What can I get ya?” he asks, tossing a bar towel over his flannel-clad shoulder. Tara doesn’t turn at his greeting, because she’s concentrating on pouring a line of even shots, so Cam slides onto a stool and sets her phone down on the bar.

“Hi, Sam. I’ll take a Stella, please, and that hot bartender’s phone number.” 

Her teasing tone finally gets Tara to look at her over her shoulder, her answering grin bright. 

“I hear you over there, you little creature of the night,” Tara jokes back, “and if Sam would take these over to table four for me, I can get that beer for one of my best friends in the world, who I missed very much.” 

She lays it on thick, clearly trying to guilt trip him, and Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice, just chuckles and takes the tray of shots from her hands. There’s a little bit of lingering eye contact there that Cam doesn’t think she’s imagining—and she’s definitely not imagining the way Tara checks out his ass as he goes. 

Cam clears her throat.

“So, Cami Reyes, as I live and breathe,” Tara says when that moment is broken and her gaze returns to Cam’s. If she noticed Cam watching her, she doesn’t say. “You finally get a break from all that vampire business?”

“This week has been pretty light, actually. I took care of some daytime administrative stuff for the club, listened to a few minds, the usual,” she says with a smile. Tara grabs a glass and pours her a golden lager from the tap, capped off with a thick, white head of foam. Cam takes the glass appreciatively and sips it long and slow. “Mmm. Thank you. Have you been busy here?” she asks, looking around at the booming bar. 

“Busier than I’d like to be, some nights,” Tara says with a sigh of exasperation. “We’re still lookin' for another bartender to cover Thursdays and Fridays—I’ve been workin' overtime as a favor to Sam.” Tara looks over at her boss, her eyes tracking him as he wipes his hands on a towel and walks back into the office area. Cam hums.

“That’s good of you. He seems like a great guy,” she says lightly, leading, and takes another sip of her beer. Tara purses her lips like she’s trying to hold back a smirk. 

“Yeah, he’s real nice. Good guy to work for,” she responds; Cam narrows her eyes at her, and after a moment, Tara narrows hers back. “What, are you readin’ my mind or somethin’?” Cam’s palms go up instinctively.

“You know I would never… but asking me that question means there’s something in your mind to read.” She lowers her hands and raises her eyebrows, takes another drink. “Just saying.”

“Just sayin’ nothin’, Cami. I’m allowed to have secrets too; I mean, I’m not the one who up and left Louisiana and didn’t come back for ten whole years,” she says, hands moving to her hips. Her tone is wounded, and a little accusatory, and Cam sighs, guilt climbing up her throat.

“I know, and I’m sorry, Tara. I missed it here, I really did—but work got crazy, and I got sucked into some shit, and I’m finally out of it. I’m here now,” she reminds her, tone lightening, and she reaches out her hands to take one of Tara’s. Thankfully, her friend doesn’t pull away. “And I’m not leaving Louisiana any time soon, I promise.” 

It hurts Cam to say it, even though she has no intentions of leaving the area again—enough people have failed Tara, disappointed her, and the last thing she wants is to be added to that list. She couldn’t bear it. 

Tara nods slowly, then puts her other hand on top of Cam’s and squeezes. 

“I’m not mad, I’m just glad you’re back, is all. It wasn’t the same without you. Charlie’s Angels with only two just isn’t right,” she adds, calling back to the old nickname Gran used for the three of them. Cam fondly remembers the summers when they’d get up at dawn and run around town all day together, eating penny candy and popsicles from the ice cream truck until their teeth were sore and their tongues were blue. 

Tara squeezes her hands again, then releases them and grabs a bowl of potato chips, places it next to Cam’s glass.

“So… vampire rights attorney,” Tara drawls as Cam plucks a couple of chips from the bowl, crunching on them. Cam raises her brow, chews, and Tara shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, I think Bill’s okay and all, but do you really think they need our help? They can snap anyone’s neck they feel like; maybe you should be lookin’ out for the little guy.” 

“Oh, I do that too,” Cam assures her, washing the salt down with another sip of beer. “But you might be surprised at how often vampires are falsely accused of crimes—then again, maybe you wouldn’t be,” she says pointedly, and Tara sighs, nodding like she gets it. Cam continues on. “They’re people too, and they need someone looking out for them. Not many of us are willing to stick out our necks—no pun intended,” she adds with a grin. Tara rolls her eyes, but it’s all in good fun, and then Cam’s phone buzzes on the table beside her. 

“I know you don’t have a boyfriend, or I’d be hearin’ about him, so… vampire business?” Tara asks as Cam reaches for the phone. Her eyes flick over the screen.

“Vampire business,” she confirms as she reads over the text—it’s a set of coordinates, and clicking the link automatically opens her Maps app, its pin located in what appears to be the middle of the woods not far from Sam’s bar. She finishes the last glug of her beer and stands up, pulls a $20 bill from her pocket and lays it on the counter. Tara opens her mouth to protest, but Cam just raises a finger. “You’re the best bartender in the world, you deserve it—and you can use it to take me to dinner next week, somewhere you don’t work.” 

“Alright, alright, it’s a date. But you better get goin',” Tara replies, waving a hand in her friend’s direction. “I’ll text you my schedule. Don’t get yourself eaten!” 

Cam waves back and slips out the front door, holding her phone up in front of her so she can follow the app’s projected path. Her eyes quickly adjust to the dark, the soles of her boots making soft sounds against damp earth and foliage, but she stops in surprise about a mile in, when she sees a bright white beam of light, and then the repetitive flashing of police blue-and-reds. 

Eric appears next to her, like always, and she grabs the sleeve of his jacket. “What are we doing here?” she hisses under her breath as she scans the area, clocks at least 10 officials who actually belong at what is clearly an active crime scene. Eric places his palm against the middle of her back and slowly guides her toward a plain-clothes cop. 

“Detective Graham and I have an agreement. When he comes across an unusual death, he calls me.” As they approach the detective, a man in his fifties with sandy hair and late-night stubble, Cam notices a white sheet draped over an oddly shaped mound—a vaguely human-shaped mound, which leaves bright red splotches that soak and bleed into the sheet near the bottom hem. “Camila,” Eric says suddenly, which causes her to look up from the unknown mass like a spell broken, “I have to warn you: the victim here has been cut in half, and the police have only located the top half of her body. If you think you can’t handle it–”

“I can handle it,” she responds, her voice soft but sure, and he nods and reaches out his hand when he’s close enough to shake the detective’s. 

“Mr. Northman, pleasure,” Detective Graham greets roughly, though he doesn’t sound as if he means it. His eyes move from Eric’s to Cam’s, and he scrutinizes her face. “This your psychic?” 

“She is,” Eric replies coolly. “Her name is Camila Reyes… And, unfortunately, with the victim in this state, I’m afraid she’s going to need to touch the body.”

The detective heaves a deep, unhappy breath. 

“You gotta know how this looks to the rest of the guys already, me bringin' in a vampire and a psychic,” Graham says, shaking his head. “But sure, why not. Let’s tamper with evidence while we’re at it.” 

“I don’t intend to alter the scene in any way, Detective,” Cam assures, stepping forward and letting her eyes roam over the clearing, “and I assume your techs have already taken fingerprints, trace samples, if they found any.” Her gaze flicks over to a small group of tired looking officers wearing Crime Scene jackets and sipping coffee from a thermos; they clearly have nothing better to do at the moment, which means all that can be done has been completed already. “You can take mine to rule me out, if you’d like.”

“You a cop?” Graham asks gruffly, watching her as she appraises the scene, the unsettled earth around the body, the trail of blood that tells them she was cut in half elsewhere and dragged to this spot. Cam shakes her head, then crouches down and lifts a corner of the sheet to look at their victim’s face.

“Lawyer,” she answers, and she does her best to school her expression; the dead woman looks to be in her forties, white, with jet black hair and a set of golden eyes that are wide and unmoving. She’s naked, and her body is shredded at the torso—not a clean incision like she’d expect from a serial killer, someone with practice severing limbs. There are no marks on her face or arms, just ragged cuts along her weeping, empty midsection. “Imprecise, savage bisection, teeth marks, organs have been removed,” she notes, and she looks up at Eric, wondering if he’ll attribute this to the same killer she’s picturing. 

“Werewolf,” he answers seriously, and she nods once, glad they’re on the same page. Graham splutters. 

“I’m sorry, werewolf?” he asks, incredulous. “Don’t tell me those things are real too.” Cam just shrugs—she’s been on this end of many a supernatural revelation before, nothing you can say really helps—and presses her hand to the cold skin of the victim’s arm. 

Memories flash through her mind, some older, though the more recent ones are what she’s looking for. A man frequents those, someone tall and tan with copper-colored hair and a sweet smile, but he dissolves quickly into feelings of rage and sadness, loss, heartbreak. There is vindication, elation, and then abruptly, nothing. Cam pulls her hand away, covers the woman’s face, and stands. 

“Her mate was killed, and she went after the pack for revenge. It seems like she killed one of theirs and they returned the favor. You’re going to want to rule this an accident,” she tells the detective as she walks toward them, and he crosses his arms in front of him, his expression closed off and irritated.

“Like hell—we have trace evidence.”

“And I can tell you exactly what your lab will find when they process it: no fingerprints, no fibers,” she lists, ticking off her fingers as she goes. “Saliva will be canine, hair will be canine. You won’t be able to match a weapon to the wounds, and either the DA will drop your case right there, or,” she adds, pausing for effect, “if you flip a coin and decide to go the dental impression route, the teeth will be canine, too. The ME will consult the Department of Wildlife and determine that your attacker is something larger than the local coyote population, but slightly smaller than a black bear.”

“We could interview her known acquaintances, find someone with a motive,” Graham counters, and though Eric looks like he’s about to step in, Cam continues, her tone more sympathetic.

“No offense, Detective, but you didn’t know werewolves existed five minutes ago. How do you plan to locate a pack, infiltrate it, and arrest whoever is responsible? And even if you did find the pack, any good defense attorney would destroy you in court if all you have is evidence of an animal attack.” She doesn’t need to use her ability to know that his resolve is waning, so she does decide to pull Eric in for backup, and she gestures to him. “Eric has power here, as sheriff. He can appeal to the werewolf council, provide them with the evidence. If they determine a crime has been committed, they’ll punish the offending parties themselves.”

“If they determine a crime has been committed?” the detective asks, pointing to the half a body. “I think it’s pretty goddamn clear that’s what happened here.”

“Werewolf law is more eye-for-an-eye than human justice,” Eric explains. “If they can defend the killing because she eliminated one of their own, everyone involved just moves on.”

“And as for getting answers for her family,” Cam adds, stepping back in, “believe me, they already know. I’d guess they already found the other half of her body, and they’ll take it up with the council too.”

Graham exhales, raises his eyes to the sky, and then drops them back to Cam’s face.

“You know a lot about werewolves for a big-city lawyer,” he says eventually, and then he looks to Eric and back to the victim. “I’m going to run those samples, and if you’re right, we’ll rule it an animal attack. I’ll keep you updated, Mr. Northman,” he says, reaching out a hand, and the two of them shake before parting. “And I appreciate your expertise, Ms. Reyes, even if I’m not too fond of the outcome.” He reaches a hand out for her as well, and she shakes it before watching him walk back to the bank of squad cars across the clearing. 

Eric reaches out to touch Cam’s shoulder, and they turn, start walking back the way she came. 

“Well done,” he tells her as they traipse through the underbrush. She looks up at him through the corner of her eye. 

“Thanks… although, I know you were testing me,” she says. Eric hums, a thoughtful noise, and nods his head. 

“I figured you’d catch on to that. I need to know I can count on you,” he admits, reaching out to lift a low-hanging branch so it doesn’t smack her in the face. “And because it seems that this area is in the middle of some kind of lycanthropic territory dispute, I wanted to see what you knew about creatures other than vampires.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” she acquiesces, taking the path in front of them. “For the record, I’ve dealt with vampires, werewolves, witches, shifters, druids, fairies… anything else we run across, you’ll have to give me the CliffsNotes version.” 

Eric pauses and looks over at her, and she stops too, nearly holding in her breath; having his full attention on her, even in the dark, makes her head buzz and her stomach flip. She wets her lips.

“I’m not familiar with Cliff,” he says after a moment of scrutinizing her face, “but I am happy to give you anything you need.”

[scuttling]

So they both had a hot boy summer over their hiatus it seems 👀👀🥵 I do hope the show lets them both keep their hair for season 8.

[scuttling]

And in the end, I'd do it all again

Fandom: 9-1-1 Pairings: Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz Word Count: 3314 Tags: First kiss, Canon violence/injury, Little bit of panic, Episode related: 4x14 Survivors Summary: It should have been Buck.

It should have been me. 

It’s all Buck can think and he lays in the street, his best friend’s blood splattered across his face, dripping down the bridge of his nose. It wets his eyelashes, stains his shoes, the striped shirt he’s wearing. 

Huh. Factor in a quick change of clothes, and it could have been him. 

He’s pressing his palms so hard into the pavement that pebbles imbed themselves in his hands, and he can faintly feel the sting, but he can’t worry about that now. He has a second, half a second, to decide what to do next. 

If he stays down, stays hidden, that’s smart. But it’s not what he wants to do.

If he runs out to grab Eddie, that’s what he wants to do. But it’s not smart. 

If he hides under the truck and pulls Eddie beneath it too, that’s smart. And it’s what he wants to do. Mostly. 

(He’d like to say he doesn’t waste a millisecond flashing back to being trapped under that engine, his leg snapping beneath its weight, the agony of those long minutes when he waited to be rescued, but he does, and it makes him uneasy.

But that’s bravery, right? Be afraid, but do it anyway?)

What he does next is roll under the truck, and scream for Eddie.

“Stay down, I’m coming! I got you!” he says, because he can’t see that Eddie looks half dead already. He army-crawls across the length of the truck, doing his best to keep from smacking his head off of automotive parts that are inconveniently low; when he can see light, he reaches out his arm, grabs Eddie’s wrist, and pulls. “I got you—I got you!” 

Eddie is, almost literally, dead weight, and the angle is bad, but Buck pulls because that’s all he can do, the only way he can keep him out of harm’s way.

(He thinks that it’s probably what he’d do for anyone, but this is Eddie… beyond the limits of his bravery, his kindness, his compassion, are all the things he would do for Eddie.)

“Almost there, almost there,” he pants, gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the pale lack of expression on Eddie’s face. He’s not dead, can’t be dead, because Buck hasn’t even—because he doesn’t know what he means to Buck. What he means to the world. 

He grunts, using all of the strength he can gather, the memory of every repetition in the weight room leading up to this moment—because he needs to use this strength to take care of his best friend. In this moment, it's all that he has.

He drags Eddie away from where he’d fallen, too much blood leaving a heavy trail behind his body—behind him—and when Buck pulls him out from under the truck Eddie cries out in pain. It’s the best goddamn sound he’s heard in his life, because it means he’s not dead, not yet, that there’s still time for everything. 

Buck stands, lifts Eddie up as easily as he’d lift Christopher and hands him to the paramedic that boarded the rig ahead of him. Buck’s climbing in, Mehta behind him when another shot rings out, but it only shatters the window, covering them in sparkling shards of glass. It doesn’t matter—Eddie. 

“Go go go,” he calls to whoever is in the driver’s seat, and another bullet hits the truck, this time the windshield. The door is still wide open behind him, and everyone is screaming, and then tires are screeching and there’s fire whooshing past them like they’re approaching Hell’s gates, but he leans down and puts his hand behind Eddie’s head, resting it gently on the floor of the cabin. 

He rips open Eddie’s shirt, tacky with blood, and when the paramedic hands him a compress he tears it open with his teeth, his hands shaking. “I got you, it’s okay,” he breathes, pressing it against the gaping wound splitting Eddie’s skin, and Eddie gasps soundlessly, tries to wet his cracked lips. “Don’t say anything, Eddie, just stay with me,” Buck pleads, but Eddie’s eyes are wide as he rakes them over Buck for the first time. 

“Are you hurt?” he rasps, voice sandy and raw, and Buck aches in that moment as he wonders at Eddie's caring mind, his loving heart, even now. Tears prick at his eyes and he frowns, shakes his head. 

“No, no, I’m good, buddy. I’m okay. Just stay with me. Eddie!” he begs as Eddie’s eyes roll back, his head lolling to one side like he’s lost the strength to hold it up. “Come on, come on,” he says to the driver, the paramedic, anyone who will listen, and he reaches down and holds Eddie’s face in his hands, shushing the soft gurgle that rises to his lips. “We’re almost there, Eddie, please. We’re so close, please.” 

The paramedic tries to put an oxygen mask over Eddie’s mouth and nose, but Buck takes it from him, holds the plastic for him so he can breathe, then leans in to press his lips to Eddie’s slick forehead—just in case it’s the last time he gets to do it. The only time.

From the very moment they arrive at the hospital, it’s mayhem, firefighters shouting, medical personnel brushing past him in scrubs of green and blue and purple. They lay Eddie back on a stretcher and push him away, their white sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as they roll him to an operating room, and Buck can do nothing but stand there, frozen in his desperation, his confusion. Mehta puts a hand on his shoulder, but he can’t feel it, says something, but he can’t hear it. 

Some time passes, and he is scrubbed by a nice nurse whose face he can’t remember; someone brings him a new shirt, and he pulls it over his head, his formerly blood-drenched hair wet and clean, his hands red and raw. He drinks a glass of water, tries to give a detective a statement, but the panic of the unknown rises from his lungs to his throat and he’s sorry, but he really needs air.

When he steps outside the glass doors of the ER, he’s met with the last person he expects to see. 

“No comment, Taylor,” he says as she pushes past the barricade and hurries toward him. How can he give her a sound bite when his voice is as hollow as he’s ever heard it, when his chest may as well be ripped open too? 

“That’s not why I’m here, Buck,” she says, reaching for him, and when he turns, her eyes are soft and kind. “I heard that a firefighter was shot, and you weren’t answering my calls. I got worried.” 

He blinks, frowns, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone like it’s a foreign object he’d forgotten he’d been carrying. “Sorry… I wasn’t checking my phone,” he explains, his eyes barely registering the black screen, and when she looks down at the device in his hand, her eyes grow wide. 

“Is that blood?” she asks, and he glances down at his pants—he hadn’t thought to ask for new pants—and back up at her face. He nods, feels like a bobble-head when he does it, like his brain is no longer even attached to his body, like it’s a balloon floating above him where he stands on the sidewalk.

“Uh, yeah, but it’s not mine, it’s–it’s Eddie’s.” 

At that, her expression changes from worried to heartbroken, on his behalf. She rests a hand on his arm and tilts her head, and her clear blue eyes cloud with moisture and sadness. 

“Eddie’s the one who got shot? Buck, I’m so sorry. I know what he means to you,” she murmurs, and she actually does. She’s the only one who does. She wasn’t even mad when Buck told her, because she had a feeling about that already. Apparently he’s unsubtle, and Eddie is as stubborn as an ox, or something, he forgets the metaphor. 

“Yeah, I–I need to talk to Christopher,” he says, swallowing back a sob at the thought of telling him that his dad’s been mortally wounded and might not make it home, that he wasn’t caught in a fire but targeted standing in broad daylight in the middle of the street. That Buck was right there and he couldn’t stop it. 

Taylor brings her hand to his face, soft and gentle, like something Maddie would do to comfort him, and when she speaks, the tone of her voice is even and so calm.

“I know, but you can’t talk to him like this.” Whether she means the bloody pants or the shaking hands or the feeling that he’s been run down by a freight train that’s backing up and coming for him again, he’s not sure, but she’s probably right. He takes a deep breath and nods, presses his lips together and nods again like he’s fortifying himself. 

“Yeah, yeah. I should go home first,” he says, because it makes sense and it’s what she wants to hear, and she shoots him a concerned smile and reaches into her pocket for her keys. 

“I’ll drive.”

The weight of the bulletproof vest he’s required to wear is nothing compared to the heaviness he feels when he walks into Eddie’s house and Eddie isn’t there. The heaviness he feels when he eats frozen pizza across from Christopher and has to tell him again that he can’t talk to his dad on the phone. Carla’s presence helps, her warmth, her positivity, but each day that goes by without Eddie is a chisel to Buck’s chest, threatening to crack it open irreparably. He wants to hear his voice, he wants him to come home, but mostly he just wants him to wake up. 

Buck wakes with a start from another nightmare, one where the light bled out of Eddie’s eyes the instant he hit the ground, and no amount of strength or surgery could bring him back; one where Christopher has nobody. Where he has nobody. 

He eats Cheerios across from Christopher and laughs good-naturedly when he calls him out for snoring, like the action doesn’t claw at his throat from the inside. He hasn’t laughed since Eddie got shot, but he has to, for Christopher. Christopher, who understands pain, understands death, far younger than he should have to. Who has shown so much resilience and bravery since Eddie’s been in the hospital.

Climbing up the crane is not bravery. It’s selfishness, it’s guilt, it’s anger. He makes himself a target, a bullseye in the sky, ready for the sniping, because it should have been him and he knows it. He’s not important like Eddie, doesn’t have a child, a home, a legacy of doing what’s right despite the cost. Climbing up the crane isn’t doing what’s right; it’s doing what’s easy. It’s making himself a martyr and letting the poison of Eddie’s near-death seep into his bones and make a home there. Buck couldn’t protect Eddie, so he’ll lay down his life to protect the others, if that’s what it takes. 

(It all makes sense, in his reckless, self-righteous, big, stupid head.)

It all makes sense when he gets the call that Eddie is awake. 

Eddie’s smile is… the most beautiful thing Buck has ever seen. He can’t even see Ana, and he knows that’s messed up, but once Eddie says his name it’s game over, it’s a wrap: no one exists but him. He’s so worn down, so tired, but he looks so alive, and Buck gets choked up when he looks at him.

“Do you think he’s doing okay?” Eddie asks of Christopher after the Zoom call. Buck shifts in his seat.

“Better than me,” he says with a sad, self-deprecating smile. He tilts his head, feels embarrassment rush over him; it’s better than the guilt, for a change. “Uh… I kind of lost it, when I told him you got shot. I’m sorry—I–I should have held it together.” 

He’s barely doing that now, as warm tears flood his eyes, as his words catch in his throat. Eddie shakes his head, a slight, weak motion. 

“Nah, you were there for him when I couldn’t be.” His eyes find Buck’s, and Buck sees wetness there too. “That’s what matters.” 

Buck nods even though he doesn’t agree, wrings his hands where they rest in his lap. 

“Still. I think it would have been better for him if I was the one who got shot,” he says, hating how the words sound the second they come out of his mouth; he’s not looking for pity, or to make this about him, he’s just… so, so sorry this happened to Eddie, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Eddie huffs a rough breath, and Buck shoots up from his chair, alarmed. He looks over Eddie carefully, but there’s no gasping or wheezing or wince of pain that follows, just a look, a softness in his eyes Buck’s not sure he’s seen before. 

“I’ll call the nurse,” he says, just in case, but Eddie reaches out a hand and places it carefully on Buck’s forearm. He sighs and shakes his head. 

“It’s not me. It’s you, you idiot.” 

Buck blinks, and then the corners of his mouth turn down and his brow wrinkles. 

“Did–did you just call me an idiot?” Despite the circumstances, the Eddie gives him the ghost of a smile. 

“Yes, I did. You really think—” he begins, but he’s interrupted by the rapping of knuckles against the metal frame of the door. They both turn to look and see a nurse with gray hair, in her sixties, maybe, with a stern look on her face. 

“Visiting hours are over, and he needs his rest,” the nurse tells them, and when she sees that Buck is already standing, she comes over and gently takes his arm, guides him toward the door. “You can come back and see him tomorrow—he should be discharged then, if everything looks good.”

“But I…” Buck starts, glancing back toward Eddie where he lays in the bed; his eyes are closed, but he waves his hand in Buck’s direction. 

“It’s okay, go home. She’s right, I should sleep.” 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Buck promises, as the nurse reaches around him to pull the door closed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, but it’s already shut and all he sees is a door number and Diaz written in blue dry-erase marker.

He doesn’t go home. Or, he does, but it’s Eddie’s home. Christopher wakes after Carla leaves, and they share a pop-tart before Buck tucks him back into bed. 

Eddie is discharged the next day, and because Buck is already planning to be at his house, he offers to drive him home. They’re sitting on the uncomfortable rollaway bed, the plastic-covered mattress crinkling beneath them, while they wait for his meds; Eddie clears his throat, and it brings Buck’s gaze up from his hands to Eddie’s eyes. They look concerned, maybe… conflicted. He can’t be sure.

“Hey, since we got a minute,” Eddie begins, and Buck takes a deep, careful breath. 

“Is everything all right?” He wonders off-hand if Eddie will thank him for taking care of Christopher but tell him they’ll need their space, or if he’ll want his first night back home to be with Ana, and not him. Both of those would be fair conversations to have. 

Eddie nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just… I've been meaning to talk to you about something.” It’s his turn to look down at his hands—or, arm. The one in the sling. “So, you might have noticed I almost died. Again,” he adds, and Buck exhales, moves closer to him. The last thing he should be thinking about is death, when they’re actually on the other side of this, when he gets to go home.

“Eddie,” Buck starts, but Eddie makes eye contact again, and Buck can see tenderness there, and struggle. Like it’s hard enough to get the words out without Buck interrupting him. He pauses, nods, and Eddie swallows and faces forward.

“After the last time, when that well collapsed on top of me, it got me thinking—you know, what would happen to Christopher if I did die?” Buck doesn’t even want to think about it, has had almost as many nightmares about the well as he has about the bullet. Eddie continues. “So, I went to my attorney and changed my will. So, someday, if I, uh... didn’t make it,” he decides with a solemn nod, “Christopher would be taken care of. By you.”

Those two words knock the wind out of him, and he wets his lips, confused.

“What?” Buck asks, just in case he didn’t hear him right. Eddie looks him in the eye. 

“It's in my will that, if I die, you become Christopher's legal guardian,” he explains, and he is so sure about it… Buck’s head fills with questions that he can’t help but ask, rapid-fire.

“I mean, wow. How does that even work? Don't–don't you need my consent? He has grandparents, other family; if it came to that, wouldn’t they fight for him?” 

Eddie chuckles softly and shrugs his shoulders. 

“My attorney said you could refuse, but I knew you wouldn’t,” he says, and again, he’s so sure, his eyes so deep and dark and determined. “And they’d probably fight for him,” he adds, and then he reaches across his body with his good hand to cover Buck’s where it rests on the bed. His fingertips are soft as they curl around his. “But no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you, and that is what I want for him. You are what I want for him.”

“Why are you just telling me now?” Buck asks, and his voice feels barely there; to hear him say that Buck is who he wants to care for Christopher in the event he can’t, it’s… it’s the most highly anyone has ever regarded him, the most incredible responsibility that’s ever been given to him, and he just can’t figure out how he could have ever become such a dependable person in Eddie’s eyes. Like Eddie knows this, he laughs softly and squeezes his hand.

“Because, Evan,” he says, and it’s affectionately sarcastic, makes him smile, “you came in here the other day and you said you thought it would have been better if it had been you who was shot. You act like you're expendable. But you're wrong,” he tells him, and he says it with so much conviction, such certainty, that it scares Buck a little. He’s afraid he’ll never be able to live up to the version of himself Eddie sees, that he’ll never be the man Eddie would feel comfortable leaving his child to. He’s afraid of how much it would hurt to lose them now, if he made the wrong move, how a foolish misstep could cost him this family.

(But that’s bravery, right? Be afraid, but do it anyway?)

Buck leans in, looks from Eddie’s eyes to his lips, and when Eddie doesn’t move away, he kisses him, sweet and slow and easy. The press of their mouths together is gentle, almost chaste, but Buck is overtaken by emotion, and he brings his hand up to cradle Eddie’s face the way he did in the cabin of the truck. Eddie tilts his head into it, kisses Buck once, twice, and when he pulls back Buck can feel that his cheeks are flushed and his eyelids have grown heavy. He opens them, and Eddie looks reverent. His lips are pink.

“Idiot,” he teases softly, and he initiates a kiss that doesn’t end until the nurse brings in his medicine.