Latest Posts by figsandpomegranates - Page 3

Seed Wolf is finished!

Well - the final two chapters are, anyway. I’m compiling all the pages at the moment, along with some sketches, artwork etc. I’ll let you guys know once it’s out - I’m more active on my Twitter (@yijipon), and I’ll update the Ao3 page too with the final two chapters and the link for the publishing site. I won’t be making any money from the sales of the books, but at least it’ll finally be finished!

I’ve gotten a lot of asks about the Seed Wolf universe too, which I will include in the book as book-only extras. If you’d like to ask any questions, or see doodles of your prompts, feel free to comment! I can’t promise to do them all, because I don’t want to delay the process any more, but fingers crossed I can finish this before Christmas!

Right now I’m struggling to come up with a cover idea, so any suggestions are also very much appreciated :’)

 yijitumbles said: Oh! Could I please maybe ask for a sketch request for something? I’m working on a Sterek fic and I’d love to have Stiles and Derek being fancily-dressed lords in Early Georgian-era clothes~ Also CONGRATS ON 2K FOLLOWERS BABE <3

After googleing and downloading The Duchess Yiji was adorable and just send me refs trough e-mail and that made everything so much easier! (This gets posted this way because of reasons ) I hope you don’t mind I just realized Derek doesn’t seem to have eyeballs omg I’m so sorry!

Where the Real Beasts Are by kaistrex // 109k

Crown Prince Stiles is gifted a direwolf on his eighteenth birthday by King Gerard I of Venatia. The only instruction? Never remove the collar.

Stiles never has been one to do as he’s told.

I did this stained glass window art three years ago when I first started posting the fic, and did plan to do one for each chapter. Ultimately, I’m no artist so it would have taken me way too long (seriously, this took me hooours) and I think the drawing bug just left me (and my confidence haha). Looking at it now, I’m actually kind of proud of it, and it makes me wonder what one for each of the other chapters would look like, but I can’t remember for the life of me the technique I used to make the glass texture, and I’m not in possession of my drawing tablet right now. So this is all there is!

(Also, I know Stiles’ mouth is impossibly floating, but no way that I put connecting lines in looked right so I just left it!)

wheezes into my coffee cup about THEM

tyler hoechlin in superman & lois: s03e01 ──★ ˙ ̟

hot take but the main reason "the wayne family has a secret evil legacy" storylines don't work for me is because they run counter to how the story frames the waynes deaths.

the reason the death of thomas and martha wayne matters more than its effect on a young bruce is that they were the last good family among the upper crust. thomas was a self sacrificing doctor and martha started and ran the charity foundation of their company. wayne enterprises treated its employees well and stayed out of shady business and the mob scene. they didn't die in that alley bc they were stupid, oblivious rich people fucking around, but because they had been working on meaningfully cleaning up that area and wanted their son to see and be among the people they were trying to help. they wanted their son to care about who they were helping. they walked down that street because gotham was their home and they loved it regardless of its faults -a mindset bruce does in fact inherit despite every reason to the contrary.

making the waynes have a "dark history" just takes away from the tragedy of actually good, caring people being killed for basically no reason in a city that really needed them.

WIP - I Like some of the shapes of this state so I thought I'd post it because I'm sure during the meat of this piece they will change

The video of the kids interrupting their dad in the middle of an interview, but it’s Tim and Damian fist-fighting in the background while Dick tries to separate them, while Bruce is in a conference for Wayne Enterprises.

Liam: I lied. No sex tonight. I’m going to explain to you the Battle of Gettysburg in very specific detail. Sit down.

Theo: *sighs*

We joke about Bruce and Jason having very similar body types since the pit

But what if Gotham citizens have NO idea who Batman is, but they are pretty sure Red Hood is Bruce Wayne.

Consensus is that Bruce snapped one day at the villains that try to dismantle everything he works towards, so he just started shooting.

Teen Wolf/Melvin Smarty AU

So post-Hale Fire Derek’s human dad takes custody of him and moves them to the outskirts of Reno. He grabs Peter as well who eventually heals and goes and a revenge fueled killing spree before settling down in France with Chris and Allison. He didn’t bite Scott. He didn’t become an alpha. Laura is alpha but she ran off to New York completely ignoring her duty to her pack or her lands. So Derek grows the rest of the way up with his disabled religious nut dad “Pops” ala the Melvin Smarty movie and goes by Rick Hershey as part of his dad trying to hide them from hunters. So all that happens in the Melvin Smarty movie goes down only difference being Derek/Ricky having some wolfsbane in his weed and liquor and him only pretending to be scared of the hitman cause what are the chances dude’s packing wolfsbane or mistletoe bullets?

A year or so after the movie Ricky and Sylvia are divorce because, come on, she slept with his best friend days before they eloped. She keeps sleeping around on him and he just can’t handle that hence divorce. He’s driving around the desert when his car has a blow out and his spare is bad. So he calls for a tow and out hops Stiles who’s around 22-23 tall, fit, and pretty.

They’re bullshitting in this little empty garage in the middle of nowhere. Comes out that they’re both for Beacon Hills. And they both know about the supernatural. Stiles even knows and has met Peter because Lydia’s banshee abilities manifested and Stiles and Allison were there to support her and through Allison Chris and through Chris Peter. Stiles actually successfully hid it from Scott and Lydia did so from Jackson.

Theo warning Stiles about the Dread Doctors is what finally sees the Sheriff sends Stiles to live with his aunt in the desert. Chris and Peter take Allison and Lydia to France to study physics and mathematics respectively. Peter pays for Stiles apprenticeship with another spark too.

So this and Derek being a werewolf all comes out and then Derek’s recent divorce comes out. And Stiles shares that he’s sleeping in the garage cause his landlord is tearing down the apartment he inherited from his aunt. So derek offers the pretty boy to come work at his garage and stay with him….

me when I am a teen wolf

Just here to share the Italian judo winner kissing her girlfriend after the match, in front of our fascist, homophobic, disgusting prime minister.

We won this one🏳️‍🌈

Credits to: @apriteilcervello on instagram

somehow in the month i was drawing potter prompts i also travelled in time back to 2011

commissions | twitter | tictail

romance peaked here

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

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.”

Gosh, I love this chartreuse jacket/coat with the feather sleeves… How it harks to the era Lestat’s from as well as to ‘70’s glam… and I love too how it’s gold-leaning tone immediately makes me think of Lestat’s robe from S1E1 & S2E8 too! Cannot wait to hear Carol Cutshall’s S3 outfit breakdown analysis already! I am ready for all the historical rock star photos! Also: the slashed-throat choker is everything. That’s definitely gotta be a design for The Night Market in S3, right?!🩸

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 2

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,441 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him. She says yes.

1 - 2 - 3

She finds herself at Fangtasia again a few days later—what else does she have to do, unemployed and ostracized as she is?—with another martini in her hand as she stares up at a surrealist painting hanging on the wall. It’s larger than life, with tigers and an elephant and a nude woman lounging in the sea, but she’s afraid she can make no emotional connection to it. Dali is weird.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Eric greets in a low, even tone as he seems to materialize beside her, his eyes also on the painting. This time he’s wearing a black v-neck sweater, and it makes the muscles of his arms look even better, if that’s possible.

“Teasing you?” she asks, looking up at him, and he turns to her and scans her body the way he seems to every time they meet. It would irritate her, if it were anyone else, but having Eric’s attention is hugely flattering, and she can’t bring herself to dismiss the way it makes her feel.

“Coming into my bar again… looking like that.” He says it like she’s a forbidden snack dangled in front of him, and she ponders it.

She is technically fully covered in a maroon turtleneck, black miniskirt, tights and boots, which doesn’t seem all that tempting… until she considers that he’s nearly fully covered too and has quite literally never been more attractive to her. He buzzes in her ear again—his mind, his aura, whatever the hell it is—and she finally remembers that he’s said something, wets her lips to speak.

“There’s no vampire bar in Bon Temps, or I’d probably be there,” she says with a sip of her drink. Okay, maybe not, she thinks as he leans into her space, tilting his body so that it’s him she’s looking up at instead of the art. No, either way she would probably find herself drawn here, to him.

“Why? Do you like vampire blood?” he asks seriously, almost like an interrogation, and she shakes her head, frowns.

“I don’t do drugs, and no vampire has ever offered it to me.” She wants to make sure she covers all her bases, is transparent in her knowledge of not only V as a commodity, but the ritual of bloodsharing that vampires sometimes perform with their companions. “Regardless, blood isn’t the reason I came.” 

“Did you come for me?” he asks, the tone of his voice the same but his expression more relaxed. She nods her head.

“Yes. I’ll do it – consult for you, work for you, whatever you want to call it.” It took her about two days to decide, then two more to get up the courage to come down to the bar and ask for what she believes she deserves—a problem she’s never had professionally before. Her answer earns her a change in posture, and Eric seems gratified by her response.

“You will? I’m pleased to hear that,” he says, and she nods her head, trying to ignore the way it warms her all over to know he’s happy with her choice.

“I have some stipulations,” she tells him directly, not intending to mince words, and he carefully takes the glass from her hand and sets it on a table behind them. The two middle aged humans who occupy it look absolutely thrilled at this sighting of a vampire in the wild, which makes Cam want to smile.

“I would expect no less. Let’s go into my office so we can be candid,” he suggests, gesturing toward the back of the bar, and he leads her through the crowd of bodies to the cluttered, unremarkable office with a hand hovering at her lower back.

“So what is it that you want from me? Explicitly,” she asks when he closes the door. “You know I’m a lawyer, so specific language is kind of my thing.” He pulls a chair out for her, then takes the seat on the other side of the desk and leans across it to speak.

“I would like to be able to call on you when I have a situation that could benefit from your gift—and I would like to be the only vampire who calls on you. That’s non-negotiable.” 

She’d expected the first part—not so much the second—but it’s nothing she’s unwilling to give.

“I can agree to exclusivity, but keep in mind that occasionally I will hear or see things whether I want to or not; if I come upon a vampire matter, I’ll inform you and let you decide how to proceed. If it’s not a vampire matter, I’ll provide the information to whomever I see fit.”

“Okay, yes,” Eric agrees easily, and then he backtracks for a moment, looking curious. “Hear or see?”

“Well, thoughts aren’t always just a string of words, you know? Often they include images, memories, even vague feelings. What I do, it’s kind of a mixture of all those things.”

“That’s… good to know,” he says, and he taps his fingers against the desk. “It’s also important to me that you make yourself available when I need you; as you know, I only do business between sunset and sunrise. If I’m calling upon you, I have deemed it important, and I expect to take priority over other things you may be doing—anything short of a life and death emergency.”

“That’s fair,” she says, though she wonders if they should take a moment to formally define life and death emergency in case it comes up in the future. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “See? No threats or manipulation necessary.” 

It’s playful, now, his tone of voice, and she answers it with a slightly skeptical smile.

“And what are you willing to give me in exchange?” 

“Anything,” he says, and it sounds earnest; he splays his arms wide like he’s gesturing not just to the room, but beyond it to the bar, the city, the world. “Anything. Money, blood, drugs, sex, protection, power—whatever you want.”

All of those things come with a hefty price tag, she thinks—and part of her has to wonder if her gift, as he called it, is actually worth it. The short list of demands she was fully prepared to fight for just an hour ago seems to pale in comparison to how important he thinks she will be.

“I would expect to be compensated in the event you come to me and I am involved in solving a problem, but I also need a retainer. Nothing outrageous, but if I’m going to be at your beck and call I won’t be able to commit to a regular job.”

“Of course,” he says easily, like the financials don’t matter to him in the slightest. She’s dealt with wealthy clients before, of course, even wealthy vampire clients, but his flippancy adds another layer of surrealism to the already surprising conversation. Should she ask for a luxury car, a yacht, season tickets to see the Saints? “What else?” 

She’d considered this next point, and then abruptly un-considered it, felt she was asking too much… but given his promise of anything, she feels bold again. Like she could actually have the upper hand.

“I want protection—your protection. If I’m in real danger, and I call for you, I want you to be the one who comes for me.”

Eric raises an eyebrow, looks over her face carefully. It’s like he’s regarding some part of her for the first time, his gaze lingering.

“Do you anticipate being in danger often?”

“No, but I made enemies in Chicago, and you know how word travels in those circles. There are certain groups who aren’t fond of what I’ve done—and it’s possible there will be people who don’t approve of my employment here. I’d just like to know I’ll be safe, if I’m going to make working for you my priority.” 

She exhales, feeling a bit less confident than when they started this, but Eric just makes a thoughtful sound and says, “It’s yours. Anything else?” he asks, and she considers that a win and stands up, feeling instantly intimidated when he stands too, tall and dark and strong. It’s so much easier to do business with him when they’re sitting down, when he’s on her level, or as close to her level as he will ever be.

“No, I think that’s it,” she says, and she sticks her hand out to shake, feeling oddly formal as she does. As a lawyer, she would have preferred the security of a contract, but that’s not the way most vampires operate and she knows better than to suggest it; that could be seen as an indication that she doesn’t find him trustworthy. A handshake, his word and hers, will have to do.

Looking into her eyes, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, shakes for a moment and then holds it there for just a beat too long before pulling away. She walks toward the door, and then, when the thought strikes her, she turns back to face him once more.

“Actually, there is one more thing,” she says, and as he walks closer she can’t help flashing back to his offer of sex—thank god she’s the one with the power of telepathy and not the other way around. “Could you help me find a decent apartment somewhere between here and Bon Temps? Sookie’s a great roommate, but I can’t stand that drafty old house.” And all of its memories. 

“Consider it done,” he tells her, and she nods her head and leaves the bar, climbs into her car, and definitely doesn’t pump her fist in the air when she stops at the red light at the end of the block.

Two days later, a FedEx driver actually drops off an employment contract—it was silly of her to assume he wouldn’t also want their terms in writing—along with a slip of paper, upon which is written an address and a phone number, and a key.

The first night she spends in her new apartment—which is truly perfect, bright and white and airy, with tons of nearby green space and amenities—there is a knock at the door. When she opens it, Eric is on the other side, in a leather jacket and jeans, holding a bottle of wine with an expensive French label. She looks him over, and he does the same, making her feel a little self conscious in her bike shorts and oversized t-shirt, ponytail, bare feet.

“Eric—what a nice surprise,” she says, and it really is nice, and surprising. She never would have anticipated him coming to her without needing something—assuming he doesn’t need something now. The wine would be an odd touch, but as always with vampires, nothing’s out of the question.

“I just wanted to officially welcome you to the neighborhood,” he replies. 

Cam had been slightly suspicious when the very first listing he sent her was a mere five miles from his bar, but when she considered his request for her exclusive availability, she figured it made enough sense not to question him any further.

“You did that when you paid my rent. For a year,” she tacks on, her tone admonishing, because that was not part of the employment contract. A faint smile lifts his lips. 

“Consider it a sign-on bonus.” The air between them feels oddly charged, and then she tunes into it, realizes it’s that static that seems to follow him around. He shifts where he stands. “I brought you a bottle of wine. A housewarming gift,” he explains, handing it to her, and she wraps her fingers around the neck and pulls it close with a smile of her own.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in and have a glass with me?” 

It’s clear by the look on his face he hadn’t been expecting that—probably didn’t expect to be invited into her home unless it was absolutely necessary for her protection in the future—but he nods, and when she takes a step back he crosses the threshold, closes the door behind him, and follows her to the kitchen.

“Are you sure this one is okay? The neighbors are so… close together,” he remarks of her new townhouse, and she bends to sort through a box full of kitchen gadgets, pulling out the corkscrew after a few seconds of rummaging.

“Oh, trust me, it’s great. My apartment in Chicago was little more than a shoebox with windows, and there’s a pool here, and a park nearby. I really appreciate everything you did.” 

She opens the bottle, pulls two glasses down from the cabinet—the only cabinet she’d managed to fully unpack—and carries them over to the table, where Eric has already settled into a dining chair. He looks uncomfortable, tall and stiff and alert, like this is all a little too human for his taste.

“Still, it seems like you miss things there,” he says as she pours them each a serving, and she shrugs, then sinks down into the seat next to his with her leg tucked beneath her. 

“Things haven’t been very good there for the last couple years, so I’m actually happy to have a fresh start.” She takes a sip of her wine, full-bodied and earthy with a peppery finish, and can’t help the sigh of pleasure she expels. “My god, that’s good.” She says it with the hint of a smile, something he casually reciprocates. 

“I had a feeling you would like it,” is all he says, but when he takes a sip his eyes fall closed, and he seems to let it sit on his tongue a moment before continuing the conversation. 

“So what kinds of things do you anticipate calling on me for?” she asks later, as they are finishing their second glass. Eric takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and she thinks it’s because he’s choosing his words intentionally, for her benefit.

“Mostly to confirm my suspicions if I think a human is being deceptive; I have some human employees, and I make business deals with others. Sometimes I need to know if my patrons are lying—if they’re underage, or looking for V, or conspiring against us. As sheriff, sometimes vampires come to me with human problems as well—it would be easier to deal with them if I had you available to me.” 

“That sounds fair,” she says, appreciating his careful explanation. She shifts in her seat. “At my old firm they called me the human lie detector… they just didn’t know quite how close they were to the truth.” 

“It must be difficult, to hear all the things you hear,” he says, and she nods her head in agreement.

“It can be, but I’ve gotten fairly used to it over time. Taught myself to control it instead of letting it bother me.” Things are quiet for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to say something that’s been on her mind since he arrived. “I feel a little uneasy about asking for your protection the other day. I think I may have asked too much of you,” she says with a frown. “I know you’re busy with the bar, and as sheriff, that a lot of people rely on you, and I’m not sure it’s fair of me to make such an extravagant request.”

It takes some effort for her to be able to look up at him instead of focusing on her glass, but when she does he seems thoughtful, his eyes serious but gentle.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I thought it would disrupt my other obligations. No harm will come to you while you’re under my employ, I promise.” She nods, placated by his reassurances, and he taps a finger against the tabletop. “You said you’ve taught yourself how to control your gift. Can you… hear vampires?” 

His tone is reserved, but hopeful, and she grimaces.

“No offense, but vampire minds are kind of empty. My guess it has to do with electrical impulses, or lack thereof. Technically, I can hear you, but it’s like white noise, sometimes, or tinnitus. I don’t get any actual thoughts.” She ponders his question for a moment, wonders if that unique buzzing she picks up when he’s around is his mind, or something different. “Touching helps with humans, though. I can rewind a little bit, see memories instead of just what’s playing live, if that makes sense; maybe it would help me hear something from you?” 

Eric stretches his arm across the table, his bare hand palm up, and she slides hers over it after a cautious moment. She presses their skin together and lets her eyes glance over his face, listening carefully, searching. It feels like a very, very long time passes, and a lot of static, but eventually she finds a moment, a phrase or sentence among the near silence.

“Ӓr du död?” she murmurs, and while she can’t see anything, she can feel the heat of flames nearby. It warms her hand where it turns to ice against Eric’s. His brow furrows in recognition, and she exhales, blinks. “I don’t know the language. What does it mean?”

“It’s Swedish. ‘Are you death?’ It’s the first thing I said to Godric, my Maker, before he turned me,” he admits, his voice serious and somber. Cam inhales sharply at that knowledge.

“Wow. I can’t imagine I’ve ever gone back further than a few days that way, let alone…” 

“A thousand years, give or take.” He answers her unspoken question with a deeply curious expression. “That was among the last of my human memories, so I suppose it makes sense that you can see it.”

“I can feel it, too,” she says, and she wraps her fingers around his, searching for more, for a deeper connection. She closes her eyes this time, in hopes it strengthens the memory. “I can feel the heat from a fire. And I can feel that you’re dying. You’re cold inside, but your skin is warm.” 

“Tell me more,” he says, his voice barely there. He tightens his grip on her hand.

“There’s a man there, a very young man, and you’re not happy with him… but you aren’t afraid of him, either. He has a strangely calming presence; you’re not sure if he’s an angel or the devil.”

“Godric.” His Maker. He looks strangely young for a vampire, vulnerable, and though he’s short, he towers over Eric in his memory, eyes deep and dark and full of possibility.

“Through your eyes, he looks larger than life,” she says softly, and his fingers flex. Even if she hadn’t known Godric was his Maker, the way this man makes him feel is as clear as any emotion she’s felt herself. He is death and life, the end and the beginning. 

“He is,” Eric says—not was, she takes note of that—and when he starts to pull back she releases his hand and lets hers drop to the tabletop. She feels tapped out after that, exhausted, and Eric nods his head once in her direction. “That is a remarkable gift you have.”

“It’s something,” she says casually, as if she didn’t just travel over a thousand years in her mind and pull out his last memory of human life, as if she didn’t feel like she was inside him, a part of him, his heart, his head, his hands. She sits there, speechless for a moment, and then Eric takes a deep, exaggerated breath.

“Well, I should get back to Fangtasia—I’m happy to see you’re settling in,” he tells her, and when he stands she stands, walks him to the door. It closes behind him, and she feels both strangely invigorated by his presence, and deeply conflicted by his departure.

At Fangtasia, Pam waits for Eric at the front door. 

“Where have you been?” she asks, her heels clicking on the floor as she follows him back to the office. The crowd naturally parts for them, and though Eric probably attributes it to his aura—he’s been acting strangely woo-woo lately, talking about witches and energy and vibrations and the like—it’s more likely his huge, hulking frame and the fact that his expression alone would kill, if such a thing were possible. “You know I find it distasteful to be left alone with the humans for so long.” 

“I had an errand to run,” he says, but he smells like wine and the girl, there’s no mistaking it. Errands, her perky ass. 

“How is she?” she asks as he slides into the chair behind the desk, stretching back so he can hook his ankles over the edge of the desk. It’s even worse than manspreading. He looks up at her like he’s not sure what she means, and she crosses her arms over her chest and blinks. “Our new employee. Camila. That’s who you were with, isn’t it?” 

“You don’t care how she is,” is all he says in response, and she leans over and smacks his boots so his feet fall to the floor. Pam knows that only happened because he let it, and she bites back a fond smile.

“No, I don’t, but apparently you do. I thought you were obsessed with Sookie when she came along, but this girl has you… buying apartment buildings, and promising your protection, and you’ve barely known her for a week.” 

She hopes he doesn’t take her tone for jealousy, because it’s not, not really; she’s just never seen him this infatuated, and it’s freaking her out a little, if she’s being honest. Like it or not, her life, her comfort, relies very heavily on Eric and his… happiness isn’t quite the right word, but when he is content, her nights tend to be much smoother, more enjoyable all around. She gets to drink from an endless supply of young, willing, rich-blooded partygoers instead of traipsing around the woods and ruining her favorite pumps, or trapping moronic anti-vampers and using them to set an example for their friends.

“You have no idea how important she is going to be. No idea,” he repeats, and his voice has that strangely mystical quality about it again, a faint undertone of magic that hovers around its edges. He’s been to see a witch, she thinks, or had his fortune told, something that’s led him to believe this girl and her gift are crucial to whatever he has planned. It sends a chill down her spine that she’s unable to fight. “Her gift is going to make us unconquerable.”

After a long pause, he pulls out his laptop from the top drawer, opens it, which she knows is equivalent to dismissing her, and she sighs softly and makes her way back out to the floor. 

“I cannot believe you’re working for Eric,” Sookie says as she hangs a handful of pressed skirts in Cam’s bedroom closet. Her typical uniform is very different from Sookie’s, the blonde notices. Across the room, Cam carefully arranges gold jewelry in a tiered acrylic box with satin lined drawers.

“It’s as close as I can get to my old job for now, and I’m not really in a position to be picky, or I wouldn’t have come back to Louisiana at all—no offense,” she throws over her shoulder. Sookie tuts and waves her hand.

“None taken. I know where my heart is,” she assures her cousin. Like all small town girls, Sookie sometimes kicks herself for never leaving Bon Temps, but more often than not she loves her hometown, its history, her family’s legacy. 

Gran’s, at least.

She grabs a pile of folded sweaters in cashmere and various knits, stacks them in the space above the closet rod. “Aren’t you at all worried he’s going to use you to hurt people?” 

Behind her, Cam takes a long, careful breath and turns to face Sookie.

“One thing you have to understand—especially if you and Bill are in it for the long haul—is that vampire justice is different. I know it shouldn’t be, but until now they've been non-existent in terms of conventional law. They have their own systems in place—hierarchies, rules, punishments—and we can’t step in and tell them how to behave overnight just because we think we know better.” 

Sookie shoots her a look—as pro-vamp as she is, she admits she’s not comfortable accepting their more violent tendencies, especially where humans are involved. Cam only shrugs. 

“I’m going to defer to Eric’s expertise as sheriff, but I’ll call it like I see it. If he’s being unnecessarily cruel or unjust, I’m not afraid to discuss it with him. If his actions seem to be aligned with the usual nature of his business, I’ll excuse myself.” She walks toward the bed, picks up a pile of panties, mostly black, and places them into the top drawer of a light-colored dresser. When she turns back to Sookie, it’s clear that Cam can read the expression on her face, one of thinly-veiled awe. “What?” she asks, and Sookie smiles, shakes her head. 

“I don't know, I guess… Just, when did you get so confident? So smart, so sure of yourself?” Cam had always been the leader, strong where Sookie was soft, sure where Tara was uncertain, and though Sookie feels like they’ve all come into their own in recent years, she is so pleasantly surprised at the absolute stunner her cousin has become—physically and intellectually. She feels as proud as Cam’s mom would if she were around, Sookie’s sure.

“It’s been a long ten years, Sookie,” is all Cam says, and though she can tell there is more to that statement, she can also sense that now isn’t the time to get into that. Later, someday. 

“Yeah, it has. I just wish I was half as comfortable as you in this new world… sometimes I think I stick out like a sore thumb,” Sookie admits, lifting a stack of shoe boxes and lining them up on the floor of the closet. Cam steps over to join her, adds a couple pairs of boots, and puts her hand on Sookie’s shoulder.

“You’re like a sunflower growing among dead grass. It’s not a bad thing to stick out,” she promises with a smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes, and Sookie pats her hand in gratitude continues to help her settle in.

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. 

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 2

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,441 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him. She says yes.

1 - 2 - 3

She finds herself at Fangtasia again a few days later—what else does she have to do, unemployed and ostracized as she is?—with another martini in her hand as she stares up at a surrealist painting hanging on the wall. It’s larger than life, with tigers and an elephant and a nude woman lounging in the sea, but she’s afraid she can make no emotional connection to it. Dali is weird.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Eric greets in a low, even tone as he seems to materialize beside her, his eyes also on the painting. This time he’s wearing a black v-neck sweater, and it makes the muscles of his arms look even better, if that’s possible.

“Teasing you?” she asks, looking up at him, and he turns to her and scans her body the way he seems to every time they meet. It would irritate her, if it were anyone else, but having Eric’s attention is hugely flattering, and she can’t bring herself to dismiss the way it makes her feel.

“Coming into my bar again… looking like that.” He says it like she’s a forbidden snack dangled in front of him, and she ponders it.

She is technically fully covered in a maroon turtleneck, black miniskirt, tights and boots, which doesn’t seem all that tempting… until she considers that he’s nearly fully covered too and has quite literally never been more attractive to her. He buzzes in her ear again—his mind, his aura, whatever the hell it is—and she finally remembers that he’s said something, wets her lips to speak.

“There’s no vampire bar in Bon Temps, or I’d probably be there,” she says with a sip of her drink. Okay, maybe not, she thinks as he leans into her space, tilting his body so that it’s him she’s looking up at instead of the art. No, either way she would probably find herself drawn here, to him.

“Why? Do you like vampire blood?” he asks seriously, almost like an interrogation, and she shakes her head, frowns.

“I don’t do drugs, and no vampire has ever offered it to me.” She wants to make sure she covers all her bases, is transparent in her knowledge of not only V as a commodity, but the ritual of bloodsharing that vampires sometimes perform with their companions. “Regardless, blood isn’t the reason I came.” 

“Did you come for me?” he asks, the tone of his voice the same but his expression more relaxed. She nods her head.

“Yes. I’ll do it – consult for you, work for you, whatever you want to call it.” It took her about two days to decide, then two more to get up the courage to come down to the bar and ask for what she believes she deserves—a problem she’s never had professionally before. Her answer earns her a change in posture, and Eric seems gratified by her response.

“You will? I’m pleased to hear that,” he says, and she nods her head, trying to ignore the way it warms her all over to know he’s happy with her choice.

“I have some stipulations,” she tells him directly, not intending to mince words, and he carefully takes the glass from her hand and sets it on a table behind them. The two middle aged humans who occupy it look absolutely thrilled at this sighting of a vampire in the wild, which makes Cam want to smile.

“I would expect no less. Let’s go into my office so we can be candid,” he suggests, gesturing toward the back of the bar, and he leads her through the crowd of bodies to the cluttered, unremarkable office with a hand hovering at her lower back.

“So what is it that you want from me? Explicitly,” she asks when he closes the door. “You know I’m a lawyer, so specific language is kind of my thing.” He pulls a chair out for her, then takes the seat on the other side of the desk and leans across it to speak.

“I would like to be able to call on you when I have a situation that could benefit from your gift—and I would like to be the only vampire who calls on you. That’s non-negotiable.” 

She’d expected the first part—not so much the second—but it’s nothing she’s unwilling to give.

“I can agree to exclusivity, but keep in mind that occasionally I will hear or see things whether I want to or not; if I come upon a vampire matter, I’ll inform you and let you decide how to proceed. If it’s not a vampire matter, I’ll provide the information to whomever I see fit.”

“Okay, yes,” Eric agrees easily, and then he backtracks for a moment, looking curious. “Hear or see?”

“Well, thoughts aren’t always just a string of words, you know? Often they include images, memories, even vague feelings. What I do, it’s kind of a mixture of all those things.”

“That’s… good to know,” he says, and he taps his fingers against the desk. “It’s also important to me that you make yourself available when I need you; as you know, I only do business between sunset and sunrise. If I’m calling upon you, I have deemed it important, and I expect to take priority over other things you may be doing—anything short of a life and death emergency.”

“That’s fair,” she says, though she wonders if they should take a moment to formally define life and death emergency in case it comes up in the future. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “See? No threats or manipulation necessary.” 

It’s playful, now, his tone of voice, and she answers it with a slightly skeptical smile.

“And what are you willing to give me in exchange?” 

“Anything,” he says, and it sounds earnest; he splays his arms wide like he’s gesturing not just to the room, but beyond it to the bar, the city, the world. “Anything. Money, blood, drugs, sex, protection, power—whatever you want.”

All of those things come with a hefty price tag, she thinks—and part of her has to wonder if her gift, as he called it, is actually worth it. The short list of demands she was fully prepared to fight for just an hour ago seems to pale in comparison to how important he thinks she will be.

“I would expect to be compensated in the event you come to me and I am involved in solving a problem, but I also need a retainer. Nothing outrageous, but if I’m going to be at your beck and call I won’t be able to commit to a regular job.”

“Of course,” he says easily, like the financials don’t matter to him in the slightest. She’s dealt with wealthy clients before, of course, even wealthy vampire clients, but his flippancy adds another layer of surrealism to the already surprising conversation. Should she ask for a luxury car, a yacht, season tickets to see the Saints? “What else?” 

She’d considered this next point, and then abruptly un-considered it, felt she was asking too much… but given his promise of anything, she feels bold again. Like she could actually have the upper hand.

“I want protection—your protection. If I’m in real danger, and I call for you, I want you to be the one who comes for me.”

Eric raises an eyebrow, looks over her face carefully. It’s like he’s regarding some part of her for the first time, his gaze lingering.

“Do you anticipate being in danger often?”

“No, but I made enemies in Chicago, and you know how word travels in those circles. There are certain groups who aren’t fond of what I’ve done—and it’s possible there will be people who don’t approve of my employment here. I’d just like to know I’ll be safe, if I’m going to make working for you my priority.” 

She exhales, feeling a bit less confident than when they started this, but Eric just makes a thoughtful sound and says, “It’s yours. Anything else?” he asks, and she considers that a win and stands up, feeling instantly intimidated when he stands too, tall and dark and strong. It’s so much easier to do business with him when they’re sitting down, when he’s on her level, or as close to her level as he will ever be.

“No, I think that’s it,” she says, and she sticks her hand out to shake, feeling oddly formal as she does. As a lawyer, she would have preferred the security of a contract, but that’s not the way most vampires operate and she knows better than to suggest it; that could be seen as an indication that she doesn’t find him trustworthy. A handshake, his word and hers, will have to do.

Looking into her eyes, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, shakes for a moment and then holds it there for just a beat too long before pulling away. She walks toward the door, and then, when the thought strikes her, she turns back to face him once more.

“Actually, there is one more thing,” she says, and as he walks closer she can’t help flashing back to his offer of sex—thank god she’s the one with the power of telepathy and not the other way around. “Could you help me find a decent apartment somewhere between here and Bon Temps? Sookie’s a great roommate, but I can’t stand that drafty old house.” And all of its memories. 

“Consider it done,” he tells her, and she nods her head and leaves the bar, climbs into her car, and definitely doesn’t pump her fist in the air when she stops at the red light at the end of the block.

Two days later, a FedEx driver actually drops off an employment contract—it was silly of her to assume he wouldn’t also want their terms in writing—along with a slip of paper, upon which is written an address and a phone number, and a key.

The first night she spends in her new apartment—which is truly perfect, bright and white and airy, with tons of nearby green space and amenities—there is a knock at the door. When she opens it, Eric is on the other side, in a leather jacket and jeans, holding a bottle of wine with an expensive French label. She looks him over, and he does the same, making her feel a little self conscious in her bike shorts and oversized t-shirt, ponytail, bare feet.

“Eric—what a nice surprise,” she says, and it really is nice, and surprising. She never would have anticipated him coming to her without needing something—assuming he doesn’t need something now. The wine would be an odd touch, but as always with vampires, nothing’s out of the question.

“I just wanted to officially welcome you to the neighborhood,” he replies. 

Cam had been slightly suspicious when the very first listing he sent her was a mere five miles from his bar, but when she considered his request for her exclusive availability, she figured it made enough sense not to question him any further.

“You did that when you paid my rent. For a year,” she tacks on, her tone admonishing, because that was not part of the employment contract. A faint smile lifts his lips. 

“Consider it a sign-on bonus.” The air between them feels oddly charged, and then she tunes into it, realizes it’s that static that seems to follow him around. He shifts where he stands. “I brought you a bottle of wine. A housewarming gift,” he explains, handing it to her, and she wraps her fingers around the neck and pulls it close with a smile of her own.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in and have a glass with me?” 

It’s clear by the look on his face he hadn’t been expecting that—probably didn’t expect to be invited into her home unless it was absolutely necessary for her protection in the future—but he nods, and when she takes a step back he crosses the threshold, closes the door behind him, and follows her to the kitchen.

“Are you sure this one is okay? The neighbors are so… close together,” he remarks of her new townhouse, and she bends to sort through a box full of kitchen gadgets, pulling out the corkscrew after a few seconds of rummaging.

“Oh, trust me, it’s great. My apartment in Chicago was little more than a shoebox with windows, and there’s a pool here, and a park nearby. I really appreciate everything you did.” 

She opens the bottle, pulls two glasses down from the cabinet—the only cabinet she’d managed to fully unpack—and carries them over to the table, where Eric has already settled into a dining chair. He looks uncomfortable, tall and stiff and alert, like this is all a little too human for his taste.

“Still, it seems like you miss things there,” he says as she pours them each a serving, and she shrugs, then sinks down into the seat next to his with her leg tucked beneath her. 

“Things haven’t been very good there for the last couple years, so I’m actually happy to have a fresh start.” She takes a sip of her wine, full-bodied and earthy with a peppery finish, and can’t help the sigh of pleasure she expels. “My god, that’s good.” She says it with the hint of a smile, something he casually reciprocates. 

“I had a feeling you would like it,” is all he says, but when he takes a sip his eyes fall closed, and he seems to let it sit on his tongue a moment before continuing the conversation. 

“So what kinds of things do you anticipate calling on me for?” she asks later, as they are finishing their second glass. Eric takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and she thinks it’s because he’s choosing his words intentionally, for her benefit.

“Mostly to confirm my suspicions if I think a human is being deceptive; I have some human employees, and I make business deals with others. Sometimes I need to know if my patrons are lying—if they’re underage, or looking for V, or conspiring against us. As sheriff, sometimes vampires come to me with human problems as well—it would be easier to deal with them if I had you available to me.” 

“That sounds fair,” she says, appreciating his careful explanation. She shifts in her seat. “At my old firm they called me the human lie detector… they just didn’t know quite how close they were to the truth.” 

“It must be difficult, to hear all the things you hear,” he says, and she nods her head in agreement.

“It can be, but I’ve gotten fairly used to it over time. Taught myself to control it instead of letting it bother me.” Things are quiet for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to say something that’s been on her mind since he arrived. “I feel a little uneasy about asking for your protection the other day. I think I may have asked too much of you,” she says with a frown. “I know you’re busy with the bar, and as sheriff, that a lot of people rely on you, and I’m not sure it’s fair of me to make such an extravagant request.”

It takes some effort for her to be able to look up at him instead of focusing on her glass, but when she does he seems thoughtful, his eyes serious but gentle.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I thought it would disrupt my other obligations. No harm will come to you while you’re under my employ, I promise.” She nods, placated by his reassurances, and he taps a finger against the tabletop. “You said you’ve taught yourself how to control your gift. Can you… hear vampires?” 

His tone is reserved, but hopeful, and she grimaces.

“No offense, but vampire minds are kind of empty. My guess it has to do with electrical impulses, or lack thereof. Technically, I can hear you, but it’s like white noise, sometimes, or tinnitus. I don’t get any actual thoughts.” She ponders his question for a moment, wonders if that unique buzzing she picks up when he’s around is his mind, or something different. “Touching helps with humans, though. I can rewind a little bit, see memories instead of just what’s playing live, if that makes sense; maybe it would help me hear something from you?” 

Eric stretches his arm across the table, his bare hand palm up, and she slides hers over it after a cautious moment. She presses their skin together and lets her eyes glance over his face, listening carefully, searching. It feels like a very, very long time passes, and a lot of static, but eventually she finds a moment, a phrase or sentence among the near silence.

“Ӓr du död?” she murmurs, and while she can’t see anything, she can feel the heat of flames nearby. It warms her hand where it turns to ice against Eric’s. His brow furrows in recognition, and she exhales, blinks. “I don’t know the language. What does it mean?”

“It’s Swedish. ‘Are you death?’ It’s the first thing I said to Godric, my Maker, before he turned me,” he admits, his voice serious and somber. Cam inhales sharply at that knowledge.

“Wow. I can’t imagine I’ve ever gone back further than a few days that way, let alone…” 

“A thousand years, give or take.” He answers her unspoken question with a deeply curious expression. “That was among the last of my human memories, so I suppose it makes sense that you can see it.”

“I can feel it, too,” she says, and she wraps her fingers around his, searching for more, for a deeper connection. She closes her eyes this time, in hopes it strengthens the memory. “I can feel the heat from a fire. And I can feel that you’re dying. You’re cold inside, but your skin is warm.” 

“Tell me more,” he says, his voice barely there. He tightens his grip on her hand.

“There’s a man there, a very young man, and you’re not happy with him… but you aren’t afraid of him, either. He has a strangely calming presence; you’re not sure if he’s an angel or the devil.”

“Godric.” His Maker. He looks strangely young for a vampire, vulnerable, and though he’s short, he towers over Eric in his memory, eyes deep and dark and full of possibility.

“Through your eyes, he looks larger than life,” she says softly, and his fingers flex. Even if she hadn’t known Godric was his Maker, the way this man makes him feel is as clear as any emotion she’s felt herself. He is death and life, the end and the beginning. 

“He is,” Eric says—not was, she takes note of that—and when he starts to pull back she releases his hand and lets hers drop to the tabletop. She feels tapped out after that, exhausted, and Eric nods his head once in her direction. “That is a remarkable gift you have.”

“It’s something,” she says casually, as if she didn’t just travel over a thousand years in her mind and pull out his last memory of human life, as if she didn’t feel like she was inside him, a part of him, his heart, his head, his hands. She sits there, speechless for a moment, and then Eric takes a deep, exaggerated breath.

“Well, I should get back to Fangtasia—I’m happy to see you’re settling in,” he tells her, and when he stands she stands, walks him to the door. It closes behind him, and she feels both strangely invigorated by his presence, and deeply conflicted by his departure.

At Fangtasia, Pam waits for Eric at the front door. 

“Where have you been?” she asks, her heels clicking on the floor as she follows him back to the office. The crowd naturally parts for them, and though Eric probably attributes it to his aura—he’s been acting strangely woo-woo lately, talking about witches and energy and vibrations and the like—it’s more likely his huge, hulking frame and the fact that his expression alone would kill, if such a thing were possible. “You know I find it distasteful to be left alone with the humans for so long.” 

“I had an errand to run,” he says, but he smells like wine and the girl, there’s no mistaking it. Errands, her perky ass. 

“How is she?” she asks as he slides into the chair behind the desk, stretching back so he can hook his ankles over the edge of the desk. It’s even worse than manspreading. He looks up at her like he’s not sure what she means, and she crosses her arms over her chest and blinks. “Our new employee. Camila. That’s who you were with, isn’t it?” 

“You don’t care how she is,” is all he says in response, and she leans over and smacks his boots so his feet fall to the floor. Pam knows that only happened because he let it, and she bites back a fond smile.

“No, I don’t, but apparently you do. I thought you were obsessed with Sookie when she came along, but this girl has you… buying apartment buildings, and promising your protection, and you’ve barely known her for a week.” 

She hopes he doesn’t take her tone for jealousy, because it’s not, not really; she’s just never seen him this infatuated, and it’s freaking her out a little, if she’s being honest. Like it or not, her life, her comfort, relies very heavily on Eric and his… happiness isn’t quite the right word, but when he is content, her nights tend to be much smoother, more enjoyable all around. She gets to drink from an endless supply of young, willing, rich-blooded partygoers instead of traipsing around the woods and ruining her favorite pumps, or trapping moronic anti-vampers and using them to set an example for their friends.

“You have no idea how important she is going to be. No idea,” he repeats, and his voice has that strangely mystical quality about it again, a faint undertone of magic that hovers around its edges. He’s been to see a witch, she thinks, or had his fortune told, something that’s led him to believe this girl and her gift are crucial to whatever he has planned. It sends a chill down her spine that she’s unable to fight. “Her gift is going to make us unconquerable.”

After a long pause, he pulls out his laptop from the top drawer, opens it, which she knows is equivalent to dismissing her, and she sighs softly and makes her way back out to the floor. 

“I cannot believe you’re working for Eric,” Sookie says as she hangs a handful of pressed skirts in Cam’s bedroom closet. Her typical uniform is very different from Sookie’s, the blonde notices. Across the room, Cam carefully arranges gold jewelry in a tiered acrylic box with satin lined drawers.

“It’s as close as I can get to my old job for now, and I’m not really in a position to be picky, or I wouldn’t have come back to Louisiana at all—no offense,” she throws over her shoulder. Sookie tuts and waves her hand.

“None taken. I know where my heart is,” she assures her cousin. Like all small town girls, Sookie sometimes kicks herself for never leaving Bon Temps, but more often than not she loves her hometown, its history, her family’s legacy. 

Gran’s, at least.

She grabs a pile of folded sweaters in cashmere and various knits, stacks them in the space above the closet rod. “Aren’t you at all worried he’s going to use you to hurt people?” 

Behind her, Cam takes a long, careful breath and turns to face Sookie.

“One thing you have to understand—especially if you and Bill are in it for the long haul—is that vampire justice is different. I know it shouldn’t be, but until now they've been non-existent in terms of conventional law. They have their own systems in place—hierarchies, rules, punishments—and we can’t step in and tell them how to behave overnight just because we think we know better.” 

Sookie shoots her a look—as pro-vamp as she is, she admits she’s not comfortable accepting their more violent tendencies, especially where humans are involved. Cam only shrugs. 

“I’m going to defer to Eric’s expertise as sheriff, but I’ll call it like I see it. If he’s being unnecessarily cruel or unjust, I’m not afraid to discuss it with him. If his actions seem to be aligned with the usual nature of his business, I’ll excuse myself.” She walks toward the bed, picks up a pile of panties, mostly black, and places them into the top drawer of a light-colored dresser. When she turns back to Sookie, it’s clear that Cam can read the expression on her face, one of thinly-veiled awe. “What?” she asks, and Sookie smiles, shakes her head. 

“I don't know, I guess… Just, when did you get so confident? So smart, so sure of yourself?” Cam had always been the leader, strong where Sookie was soft, sure where Tara was uncertain, and though Sookie feels like they’ve all come into their own in recent years, she is so pleasantly surprised at the absolute stunner her cousin has become—physically and intellectually. She feels as proud as Cam’s mom would if she were around, Sookie’s sure.

“It’s been a long ten years, Sookie,” is all Cam says, and though she can tell there is more to that statement, she can also sense that now isn’t the time to get into that. Later, someday. 

“Yeah, it has. I just wish I was half as comfortable as you in this new world… sometimes I think I stick out like a sore thumb,” Sookie admits, lifting a stack of shoe boxes and lining them up on the floor of the closet. Cam steps over to join her, adds a couple pairs of boots, and puts her hand on Sookie’s shoulder.

“You’re like a sunflower growing among dead grass. It’s not a bad thing to stick out,” she promises with a smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes, and Sookie pats her hand in gratitude continues to help her settle in.

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.

They had to stop interviewing the vampire because his wife had one of those moments

Headcanon: Vikings and their scars

On request, how would the vikings act about their scars if their significant other wakes up aside them and runs her finger over the scars they have. 

Björn Ironside

Would be very detailed and proud

He would smirk when you run your finger over his scars, laying all snuggled up aside him he would take his time to tell you each and every story. He wouldn’t hesitate in telling about it because he is way to proud of the scars that run over his chest. He would touch his own scars in telling, until the edge of dead in his stories, he wouldn’t mind your scared look. Björn loves to see his own scars, for you to look at them because they are a signal of how he become a man and a leader.

‘Those without scars don’t deserve to be called men.’ He reacted on your finger light touch. ‘Not every man fights in the front lines of armies.’ You whispered, not even looking up from the slightly pink edges around his scar. ‘Every man fights for something, if it isn’t for his home it is for love, power or a claim.’ His voice went a little deeper, still husky from just waking up. ‘Where do you fight for?’ You asked, looking up to him. He smiled, caressing your cheek. ‘All four.’ And he kissed you lightly on the lips.

Ubbe Ragnarsson

Would turn every scar about you

Ubbe is all about family and honor. Because you are probably the most important thing in his life everything he fights for is for you. Every battle he will think of you, every scar he would take for you. You would be constant in his mind. So when you lay aside him, running your fingers over his scars he would caress your hair, tell you how much better he fought because of you. He probably would catch your fingers in the act, reassuring you in every possible way. Deep inside he is proud of the scars he has but he isn’t bragging about it, he knows how lucky he is to still lying there beside you.

‘See it as a symbol of love, I conquered all of that for you.’ He smiled, leading your fingers away from the uneven skin on his chest. ‘Not everything can be for love. There are among them that where before there was a you and me.’ You looked up to him and he tilted his head before he pushed you over on your back. You laid your finger on the scar slight crossing his face. ‘I would bare a hundred scars for you my love.’ He promised.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson

Would comfort you over them

We all know Hvitserk is all about sex and food but when it comes to scars he doesn’t know how to handle it. If he sees you looking at them he probably would reassure you it doesn’t present much, or it wasn’t that bad while when he is among his brothers he would joke or brag about it. Especially his love for you reminds him he could lose you pretty easily and for that you would see a lot of things in his eyes while running your finger over it. He doesn’t want to make a fuss about it around you, just to keep you safe, to not make you scared in the next time he goes raiding. He would answer the questions when you ask them but he leaves the details behind.

‘I’m not scared, not in the moment. But when I look down to them I remember how much times I could lost you, don’t have touched you.’ He was open and you tenderly looked up to him. ‘It makes me scared of loosing you. A little. But they are heroic.’ You agreed. He cupped your face and you lost the contact with his skin. ‘No wound or god can seperate me from you.’ ‘So this represents the fights you had with the gods?’ You asked him. A playful smile jumped on his face. ‘Something like that.’ He chuckled.

Sigurd Snake in the Eye

Wouldn’t want you to touch them

For him scars are marks of battles he couldn’t won. He got injured and for that he isn’t a real viking, not as untouchable as he thought he would be as a son of Ragnar. For that Sigurd doesn’t like to talk about it, he would even be a little snappy at the beginning, pushing you away. In that way his sensitivity come above what, not caring and caring at the same time. In the end he would probably let you, but he wouldn’t love it to much because he things he isn’t worthy, he wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t like his father.

‘I don’t give about the scars, the only thing they do is bringing up the past.’ He muttered, shifting his weight a little. You pushed your fingers shortly up before you laid them back on one of those scars. ‘They make you a man.’ ‘A man that can’t fight properly.’ He reacted rather short. You looked up to him and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Not every man needs to be the best fighter Sigurd.’ You comforted him.

Ivar The Boneless

Would act with mixed feelings

Ivar is on opposite sides of a coin. The one moment he would brag about them, tell everybody how he slayed his demons and won yet another fight. Everybody could see his scars, he would be proud, dominant over them. But when he is alone with you and your so softly scout your fingers over his chest he would be mixed about it. Not knowing what to say or how to act. He has a lot more scars, because of his legs, and you know more than anything that aren’t only body scars. He probably would shut down, leave you on comforting him, kiss them, love them because they are part of who he is and he should be proud about it.

‘They are my conquering, not my love, my proud, they are just a mark of what I won.’ He didn’t snap but you felt like he didn’t know what to say else about it. You pressed your lips on the mark just under his nipple and looked up to him. ‘They are symbolic to the king you are Ivar.’ ‘Hardly.’ He muttered. ‘So you say that without them you would be king either way?’ You asked him a little amused. ‘I’m saying they do only half the job, you do the other part.’ He said, grabbing you around your waist. ‘They suit you.’ ‘Shut up now.’ He commanded.

Harald Finehair

Would love you to touch them

Harald is a king, he knows what he wants and isn’t shy on taking or asking. Just as Björn he wouldn’t hold back on the details. He probably would swing an imaginary sword just to show you how it all came down. There would be that smile on his lips when your fingers touch them, he would probably ask you to kiss them to. He would take a scar for power, gold and even for you, he isn’t scared about adding one to his … ‘collection’ because that is what it is for him, a way of showing the word how much he already won.

‘A king needs his scars, only then he can become a king.’ He replied on the touch of your fingers, the thoughts through your head. ‘You are a fine king.’ You replied while nodding. ‘Offcourse, don’t you see that.’ He grinned, looking down to the way you touched his scars. ‘They are almost as beautiful as you are.’ He followed. You knew you needed to take that as a compliment, because his scars meant a great deal, just as you did.

Halfdan The Black

Wouldn’t talk much about how they got there

Halfdan isn’t much of a talker, certainly not about things that are behind him. Yes he treasures each and every single one of those scars but it wouldn’t mean much for him. For that he would probably distract you in things that are far more in the presents, like you laying next to him. But if you push through he would tell you about how dramatically he fought to come back to you. He would take it a little as a joke only because it doesn’t matter much and doesn’t want you to worry about it. To avoid that he would take advantage of your weaknesses, your love for him. What he totally wouldn’t accept is you having scars in any way of protecting or fighting for him, that would be not even a subject.

‘Let me bare all the scars, as long as your skin is smooth and you’re around it doesn’t matter how far they run.’ He whispered, dragging his fingers over your naked back, making you shiver. ‘So I can’t wear one?’ You asked as he clenched his fingers into your as, pressing his lips against your ear. ‘The only scar you can have is one of child birth.’ He answer, dragging his teeth along your neck. ‘You are avoiding the subject.’ ‘I know.’ He murmured. Not that you could stick to it when he touched you there.

Top 20 True Blood Characters voted by the fandom: 

      #16 - Nora Gainesborough: Eric loves you, you know? The only reason he never told you he had a sister inside the authority is because that knowledge could have gotten you killed but I knew of you. He spoke of you often and fondly. You’re what he’s most proud of.