Draickin und Phoenix (draickinphoenix) wrote in femme_fic,
Draickin und Phoenix

Huntress ~ True Blood ~ Pam/Eric ~ NC-17

Title: Huntress
Author: draickinphoenix
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Eric/Pam
Rating: NC-17
Ficathon: femme_fic
Prompt: A Day in the Life
Written for: voleuse
Summary: She only wants one thing, and she will have it.
Disclaimer: I own and make nothing with this. All characters and settings contained within is the property of Charlaine Harris & HBO Entertainment, and is used without permission.
Word Count: 3,935

I. Frenetic.

These restless moods are not often.

From the time she wakes to the time she rests, Pam never stops moving. Her feet are always going, expensive heels clicking across the laminate flooring of the club’s back room. She’s either on the phone, or checking email, or fighting with one of Fangtasia’s countless employees over something else some stupid human has bungled.

She gives orientation tours to the six new vamployees (as one of the less-creative members of Eric’s entourage calls them), checks and rechecks light and sound systems, fire alarms, door locks, security cameras, and time cards. She cannot stand still.

There is too much work to be done on such a short night. Her talents are required elsewhere. Damn Eric for leaving all the work to her while he lounges about like an oversexed alley cat. He should have been the one to greet the new DJ, sign the importation documents for the twelve cases of exotic wine, and hand over the termination slip for the clumsy human waitress that dropped a beer bottle cut three humans, causing a near blood-riot the previous night. And he should be the one having to listen to the insurance adjuster blather on about a pending lawsuit by one of the injured customers now. It would all make her head hurt if she still had blood pumping in her veins.

She takes it all in stride, moving through her management duties with grace and ease no human can match. Her face is serene, never betraying the furor beneath. She hungers, and she ignores it. There is too much yet to be done.

II. Vixen.

Nights like this make her thankful that she is no longer among the living. Particularly since the implementation of Eric’s precious floor-time rule…a rule she knows he has grown to despise as much as she. An understandable decree, but no less detestable.

Pam passes by several strategically placed mirrors as she leaves the back of the club, pausing to check her hair and makeup before stepping out onto the floor. Even after all these years, she’s still beautiful. Eric saw to that when he brought her over.

She pushes the heavy steel door open and steps out onto the dance floor. Around her, lights flash and flicker in time with the music, something exotic with a low, throbbing bass line that makes her hips sway of their own accord. She has never done anything like this before. She narrows her eyes and scans the room, taking in the surprised looks and lecherous stares of vampires and fangbangers alike as they spot her.

She is dressed head-to-toe in black vinyl, and her hair is teased and sprayed to an impossible height. The only splash of color is the deep crimson on her lips, which are split into a menacing snarl. Her fangs are extended slightly –an automatic reaction to the scent of so much aroused human blood. The kohl around her eyes is severe and frightening, but it doesn’t stop a few of the more brazen men from stepping into her path and making lewd offers.

They are brushed off with little more than a flick of her wrist as she crosses the center of the dance floor. She knows Eric demands all of his living-impaired employees remain approachable to all humans, but tonight she isn’t having it. She’s not interested in anything any human has to offer. She only wants one thing, and she will have it.

III. Possession.

The object of her desire sits on a chaise near the back wall of the club, his arms extended outward and his feet up on the nearby table. His blonde hair whispers around his face from the draft of the fans. He too wears vinyl – red, the color of her lipstick. Draped across his chest is a sheer silver thing, too nonexistent to truly be called a shirt of any kind. It accents the curves of his strong, ancient body and draws attention to the ripple of muscle trailing down behind the low-slung waistband of his pants. To his left sits a red-haired girl. She stares at him as if he is a god, stretching her neck toward him in silent invitation. Pam rolls her eyes when she spots the two small dots drawn on the girl’s throat.

Puncture wounds. How creative, she thinks. The girl talks and her golden god responds, disinterested as he is. His eyes have scanned the room from the moment he stepped onto the floor, Pam knows. He, too, is a predator – beautiful, wild, and dangerous. And tonight, he will belong not to Red, but to her. Those fierce, beautiful eyes focus on her as she thinks it and she has to work to suppress a shiver of delight. She sometimes forgets he has the ability to channel her feelings.

Red continues to goggle at him. Every movement of the girl’s body screams fuck me, but he pays no mind. He is as focused on Pam and she on him. She moves toward him with such fluid grace that his lips quirk up just the slightest bit. Red doesn’t see the movement for all her staring. Her eyes are not good enough to notice subtle changes in a vampire’s demeanor.

Pam turns her jaw toward the human, barely a flicker of movement as she takes slow, deliberate steps. He winks at her and turns to the girl, brushing his large, calloused fingers over her cheek. Red’s eyelashes flutter and she moans as he touches her, no doubt using his power over humans to turn her into the arms of the nearby Italian vampire, fresh off the plane from Rome. He turns his attention back to Pam, who is within feet of him now. His smile is predatory. His fangs are extended. The way his hips shift against the furniture taunts her.

Pam thinks hard about this room empty and his body pinned to the chaise beneath her, her fingers clasped tightly around his throat while she rides him. He picks up on not the image, but the timbre of the thought, and his body twitches. She smiles. He knows what she intends to do. He turns his hands palm up in invitation, a subtle way of retaining control over the situation. Not that it’s necessary – if he wants her to stop he can command it.

IV. Tease.

She pauses in her movement, mere inches from his feet and shakes her hair out, a mane of blonde silk flowing behind her. Each wave of her head shifts the muscles in her hips and back, making them tense and ripple beneath the vinyl encasement. Behind her, humans turn to stare. Much of the movement around her has ceased, all eyes watching with keen interest as this scene unfolds.

The object of her desire watches her, his eyes half-closed and his fangs bared. One hand now rests against his abdomen, the fingers there just touching the waistband of his pants. From her vantage point, it looks like he wants to begin without her. The muscles in his arm are tense beneath silken skin. His jaw is set in warning; not that she will go too far, but not far enough. Pam smiles again.

The music changes, slows. It seeps into her skin, slithering over her and pulling her body with its delicious rhythm. The air is charged as she begins to dance at his feet, a private show in the most public of places. Her hands travel over her body, across her hips and up her sides. Down one arm and up the other. Up her neck and into her hair. Down her face and across her breasts. Once more. Her lips part to reveal her fangs, sharp, tense, and ready to taste. Her knees bend and her body dips as she takes a step back toward her adoring fans. He continues to watch with heated interest, the tips of his fingers twitching against his belly with the rhythm of her movements.

She sees it then, the slightest change in his posture and the difference in the way the light reflects from the front of his pants. He is almost ready, but she has a duty to fulfill. The hand still draped across the chaise flickers, and he gives her a sign.

Two fingers fluttering. Two dances. Two drinks. She has to make contact with two humans before she makes contact with his cock. The delicious thrill of anticipation crawls up and down her back. She lets her appreciation show by licking her lips.

She treads backwards, the thin heels of her shoes clicking a delectable rhythm in time to the music. Her eyes flicker across the room, then back to him. He smiles and beneath the music she hears the appreciative rumble in his chest.

Pam turns her attention to her left and a blue-eyed human stranger. His mouth works over his tongue, and he reminds her of a fish out of water, gasping for air. No doubt the same effect as she gazes intently at him. She is well-practiced at this.

V. Predator.

A smile turns the corners of her lips up and she extends a hand to the boy – barely out of his teens she guesses by the clean, innocent scent of him. This is his first time in such a place. He is a virgin. Surprising, she thinks, because he is pretty. Nothing like the god among men watching her ass as she pulls the kid toward her, but suitable enough.
“Buy me a drink,” she whispers in his ear. His heart hammers in his chest, skips a beat, and speeds. “What’s your name?”

She doesn’t hear his name when he stammers it, nor does she pay attention to the string of compliments that tumble from his lips as he hands her a Type O. He tongue-ties himself, tripping over words while downing four shots of Jägermeister to her one bottle of blood. Her fingers trace the cuff of his ear lazily as he babbles.

She turns her gaze back on him and his brain shorts out. He stares at her with gaping jaw and wide eyes. Pam asks him to dance and he nods. From the chaise, he still watches as she pulls the boy to the floor and twines her arms around his neck.

Pam presses her body against his. His hands rest uncertainly on her hips. She writhes, and he gasps as the force of contact, even through his jeans. She is good at what she does.
Taking his hands, she turns in his grasp and pulls his arms around her. Her back is to his chest and his arms are around her waist. His face is against her ear and he murmurs things to her, disturbing, erotic things that only add to her sense of pleasure. As they dance, she feels his arousal straining against his jeans, pressing against the small of her back. She watches the chaise and the amused stare coming from it. It won’t be long now and the kid will be spent.

As she predicts, a few seconds more and the boy’s fingers tighten against her skin. His body tenses, he groans as she moves, and the pressure against her back pulses, then softens. She continues to watch the opposite corner of the room as he slumps against her, his breath thick and labored against her neck.

Winking at her prey, she turns in his grip once more and looks up at him. His eyelids are heavy when he smiles down at her. She kisses his lips softly.

“Go home now,” she whispers, “and dream of me.”

Dazed and happy, the boy stumbles out of the club and Pam turns her eyes back to her target. His hand has moved lower, resting against his hip now. The angle of light on his pants has changed again. From across the room she can see that her show has accomplished everything she set out to do.

He is ready for her. He wants her now, but he can’t have her. They both know this, and with the darkest of glances, she turns and leans against the bar. He will have to wait until she finishes out the sentence he imposed. Even from across the room she can hear as he curses himself quietly.

Her smiles is still there, her hair still perfect. Beneath the black vinyl, her nipples are hard and straining.

VI. Victim.

Every man in the club stares at her. She acts like she doesn’t care, which pulls them closer. The bravest of the lot steps up to her, offering not to buy her a drink or dance with her, but to take her out behind the club and fuck her.

“I’ll even let you bite me, if that’s what gets you off,” he growled, weaving a hand around her waist. Revulsion tears through her with frightening speed. She knows his intentions are less than honorable. She can smell danger on him and she knows he’s a hunter. His goal is to drain her dry and leave her for dead.

Her smile falters, but only for a fraction of a second.

The air in the club changes. All vampires are on alert now, watching this man. She glances to the couch. Arousal and anticipation are gone from his face now. He sits up, motioning for one of the others to call the police. Pam reads the lines of his features clearly, gives the barest of nods, and turns a brilliant smile to her companion.

“Buy me a drink first,” she breathes, leaning closer to him. The man’s face tenses in disgust, but he nods.

“One for the lady,” he says to the bartender over her head. “To go.”

Damn. He isn’t buying the distraction. Pam knows timing is everything with poachers, and if she allows him to take her outside too soon, she could be dead before the police arrive. The air is thick with anticipation as the man hands her the bottle of blood and guides her toward the side door of the club.

Thirty-five paces to the door. She knows it because she has walked it more than once. One evening, for no real reason, she counted her steps.

She knows what he is, and she has to pretend. It’s hard to feign a smile and hold the façade. She wants to scream; to claw his eyes and run, but there is nowhere to turn. If she expects to help get this type of person off the streets, she has to play along.

His hand rides low on her hip, toying with the flesh of her upper thigh, his fingers sneaking into the creases and folds as she walks. She wants to throw up even as she leans over close to his ear and whispers dirty things to him.

Intrigue and disgust battle for dominance on his face and he pauses to look at her. Pam can see that he’s considering the alternative to an immediate bleed-out. The animalistic, male part of his psyche seeks some other form of satiation. A slow, sleazy smile crawls up onto his lips and he nods.

“As you wish, Kitten,” he replies, and she has to suppress a shudder. His breath smells of stale beer and vampire blood. If she struggles, he will be strong. She doesn’t want to kill him, but as they move toward the exit, she can see no other alternative. She casts one final, pleading look back to the lazy figure on the chaise before the door falls closed and the safety of her world slips from sight.

In the dark alley, his hands are everywhere at once. He plans to have his way with her, and then drain her. Maybe he intends to do both at the same time. Pam swallows the last of the synthetic blood and drops the bottle. It falls to the pavement and shatters with a tinkling crash. This distracts her attacker momentarily, breaking his tongue from the skin of her neck. She shifts, another slight movement only recognizable by vampires, but he picks up on it.

It all happens in a blur of frantic motion.

VII. Attack.

The door crashes open and out flies Eric with three of his cronies. A siren wails.
The poacher springs, crashing Pam’s head against the wall in his attempt to put distance between himself and the four raging male vampires. He whistles.

From the shadows, three of his own appear, all stinking of sweat, beer, and blood not their own. Their eyes sparkle with madness.
Pam crumbles to her knees.

The siren grows louder. Eric opens his mouth in a snarl, fingers tangling in the fabric of the leader’s shirt and springs, lifting the cretin to the roof of his club. The man screams. Then there is silence.

Eric lifts Pam’s head and asks her if she’s okay as blue and red lights turn the corner. The siren echoes off the alley walls, deafening. The leader’s cronies cower, panicking. There is nowhere to run. She nods.

Eric stands and greets the officers. His help melts away into the shadows, and distantly, Pam hears the door close behind her. She stands and straightens her clothes. Her hair is a mess after the struggle. Warmth trickles in a fine line down her forehead, but the wound is already healed. It will be little more than a red streak by the time she gets inside.
She knows the police will never find her attacker.

VIII. Return.

The police are finished with her only moments after they arrive. She goes inside to leave the official business to Eric. She is in no mood to deal with it. Too much of her time has been wasted, and there is still much to do. She has a brief, wild thought – will he consider that enough human contact?

Pam laughs out loud, clutching the edge of the desk when she doubles over. The joke isn’t funny; she’s only releasing stress. The night and the moment are ruined. She doesn’t know when she’ll have the chance to taunt him again. It could have been perfect if only she hadn’t been so inviting. But if she wasn’t so inviting, her game wouldn’t be so easy to play.

Frustrated, she goes into the employee lounge and locks the door. She passes through to the attached restroom and strips off the vinyl. She feels violated; dirty. She can only think of being clean.

The warm shower feels good on her skin. The volume of her hair melts under the steady downpour and takes with it the grime of the kid’s orgasm and the poacher’s less than honorable intentions. It takes the stress of a long night and frustration of an incomplete task. The fire still burns low in her belly, and only one thing will stop it. As she turns the shower off, she decides to try again.

Pam dresses, foregoing undergarments. There is no point, and they only get in the way. She chooses a knee-length red dress to match her lipstick. It sticks to her damp skin as she closes the zipper. She reapplies her makeup, wipes away the bruise on her forehead, and dries her hair. She leaves it plain, with just the lightest hint of curl at the ends. She slips on the black vinyl knee-boots and turns out the light.

Pam’s feet follow the familiar path down the hall, but turn into his office instead. The lamps in the corner cast a warm glow across the desk. There is nothing on it but a telephone. The wall on the clock tells her it is after three. The club is closing.

Two and a half hours until sunrise. Plenty of time to accomplish any goal.

She bends at the waist and the palms of her hands press against the cool wood. It is quiet here, and easy to get lost in her thoughts. She does not feel fatigue. Being dead has its advantages. All she feels is a deep longing coupled with frustration. She will not return to the dance floor.

Nor does she have to.

IX. Climax

Strong, cool hands brush her hips. She did not hear him enter the room or come to stand behind her. It doesn’t matter.

Her head falls forward, hair obscuring anything but the desk from sight as he bunches the hem of her dress around her hips. The slow burn in her belly turns to a blaze. He traces the curve of her hips with his fingers, chuckling with satisfaction. One hand slides low over her belly and he pulls her toward him.

Her fingers dig into the wood as he slides in. Her knees feel weak. He supports her with one hand, the other guiding her toward him. He thrusts, hard and fast, and she cries out. He groans.

He leaves her, and she screams in frustration. In a second, he lifts and deposits her onto the desk, kicking her legs apart as he steps between him. He takes her by the knees; pulls her roughly to the edge of the desk and onto his cock. She moans, and somewhere in the sound his name is lost.

Fingers slide over her thighs and hips, gathering the dress as they go. He moves slowly inside her, maddeningly. With no patience for the zipper, he tears the dress. Her fingers dig into his back and she hooks her leg over his hip, pulling him forward, urging him on.
He tortures her with pleasure, and she is a willing victim.

She lays back across the desk. He growls and pulls her toward him again, the force of his thrust threatening pain. She moans, and her back arches.

He fucks her. She gasps and cries out against the push-pull of his movements. Every muscle in her body quivers. Tightening, tightening into a knot of pleasure. She unravels, screaming his name as she does.

X. Denouement

He sprawls in his chair, naked. She lies in his lap and he holds her like a child. They do not sweat, or breathe heavily. Their hearts do not race. Their skin is cool and soft. Her body still jerks as the last waves of pleasure leave her. He chuckles.

They have an hour and a half until sunrise. Pam feels the pull in her blood. And in her mind, she turns circles. She has much work to do, but she can’t bear to move.

“Let the humans handle it in the morning,” he says in response to her thought. The hand across her hip tightens, preparing to hold her down should she decide to move. She has no intention of moving until she absolutely has to. In his arms she feels small and safe. The horrors of the evening are forgotten as her forehead presses against his throat. He strokes her hair and back lazily. She senses that he wants to tell her something.

He was afraid he’d lost her tonight. Fear overrode every other emotion he’d felt. He is relieved to know she’s safe. In his own selfish way, he loves her. All of these things he tells her in the movement of his body, from the greedy coupling to the gentle caresses. The muscles in his belly twitch.

She turns in his arms and draws him inside. His eyes roll back and he groans. His mouth falls open as she moves. His hands tighten on her hips and when he looks at her she sees that kind words have escaped him.

But he doesn’t have to say it. She already knows.

Tags: author: draickinphoenix, fandom: true blood, genre: het

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