Support Stacie Auction Winner: Rachalann
Ficlet Topic: A personal encounter with the Viking – an exercise in 2nd person POV, because who doesn't want their own 'Eric moment'? Pre-SVM, not long after The Great Revelation – assume this is a completely alternate universe where the books do not exist.
Song Inspiration: "Glory Box" by Portishead (link to song in my profile).
Your hands beat the steering wheel, curses uttered beneath your breath as the engine sputters and mocks. You get barely enough coast from the infernal piece of machinery before it lurches to a stop to make it to the shoulder, crooked and smoking and refusing reprieve. It is another typical stress in a life already full of the normal and mundane; work, bills, family, broken down dishwashers and air conditioners and cars. Decisions and responsibilities – breaking into components of needs versus wants. Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Nothing unique.
It's just life.
You pop the hood, gagging on the burning rubber smelling smoke, and know you're fucked. Worse when the bars on the cell phone stubbornly refuse to engage. The Can-You-Hear-Me-Now-Guy is a liar.
A few cars whiz past, none bothering to stop for a stranger at this time of night. You might be a deranged axe murderer. A sociopath. A psycho who stalks these lesser traveled streets just waiting for someone to unleash your rage on. It is a rather appealing idea at the moment.
You resign yourself to the gas station walk of shame, cursing the four inch heels you're wearing from girls' night out. Another in the series of banal life practices, with its watered down, overpriced drinks and tortuously shallow conversation. You live comfortably in this rut of predictability and normalcy, but there is always that part beneath the surface – the part that craves some spark of... different.
You slam the hood, startled as a blinding pair of headlights are revealed pulling to a stop behind your dead vehicle. You squint, shielding your eyes in an attempt to discern whether there is someone neighborly left in the world, or if you've encountered your own sociopath. You strain to see through the darkness, making out the outline of a convertible, but unable to catch sight of the driver.
"May I be of some assistance?"
The voice is chocolate melting over gravel in your ear. Were it not for your hands planted firmly on the car hood, your knees would give out from the simultaneous shock of its sudden appearance and the liquid sensuality of its tone. If the body even remotely matched the voice...
But nothing could have prepared you for the sight of this Nordic God.
Your lips part in a gasp as intensely blue eyes fix their gaze upon yours. It is heaven. It is hell. It is raw and fierce and entirely dangerous. It calls to the part of you that craves... that covets... that begs for release. And you instinctively know...
... he is Vampire.
His gaze rakes slowly down your body, as if you were exposed... naked before him. You watch the subtle flare of his nostrils as he is, no doubt, inhaling the scent of your blood... and perhaps the warmth building at your center under the seductive manner of his wandering eyes.
Perhaps you should be afraid. Perhaps you should be running. Perhaps you should be screaming for help.
"You know what I am," he half-whispers in his honey voice.
You can only murmur an affirmative hum, for his eyes have rejoined yours; appreciative... desirous... hungry in their gaze. You shift your weight, the brush of your thighs against each other compelling an intake of breath. Fear is becoming the furthest thing from your mind.
The smirk that plays on his lips is all-knowing. He senses your desire... smells it... tastes it in the air.
But, the fire in his eyes... the subtle leaning in of his hips... the way he greedily takes in your scent... all tells you that you are not the only one falling into this spell. This magnificent creature... this insanely beautiful and perfect being wants you for much more than a meal.
His lips ghost a cool breath across your ear when he leans in, whispering, "Eric."
There is a rasp to your voice as you murmur your name in return.
His long, white finger toys with a lock of your hair, curling it idly. You are awash with his sheer presence, and fuck if it isn't overwhelming and intoxicating and hypnotic. But, he has not taken your free will... has not bent you to his through unnatural means.
He offers an answer to your craving. For the unusual. For the exciting. For the unique. For a million descriptions you do not have words for. You only have your own answer...
In seemingly no time at all he has parked the red convertible near a lake, sheltered beneath a canopy of willows. You barely remember getting in the car, focused entirely on the anticipation... the growing electricity drawing you to him and him to you.
The breeze is gentle, cool enough to ripple goosebumps across your exposed arms, the barely there clubbing dress providing little barrier against the night.
His fingertips brush along your arms with merely a whispered touch as his broad frame looms over you from behind, your eyes glazed over as you gaze out at the water.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and you shiver once more at his timbre.
He does not seem the type for false flattery, and your heartbeat picks up at the mere notion he does, indeed, find you attractive. Your back arches slightly of its own accord, your head lying back against his chest.
One cool hand slips the strap of your dress down your shoulder while the other slides around your waist, resting low on your stomach, fingers splayed out with a gentle caress. Your breaths come shallow, fervid... wanton.
"Yield to me, lover."
His words send you over the edge, dragging you beneath the waves of lust, engulfing you into a torrent of frenzied need.
You spin, tangling your fingers harshly into his golden mane of hair. You catch a flash of hunger in his eyes that mirrors your own before his lips are upon yours, possessing your mouth with abandon. Though fierce and demanding, their touch remains supple and perfectly molded against yours, synchronous in your every movement, and every massage of his tongue.
You are lost in him, and he in you, in this seeming fantasy. Yet, this is no dream, and the sparks and fire that seem to erupt in the wake of his caress along your bare flesh are beyond anything your imagination is capable of conjuring.
His hands grip firmly at your ass as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he splays you out on the hood of the convertible. You stare unashamedly as he strips his clothes, his pale skin nearly glowing in the moonlight, chiseled and muscled to perfection.
His cock is magnificent.
The feel of his weight as he covers your body with his causes a deep moan from your throat. His eyes bore into yours... commanding... dominant... fierce. You are in his control, but have placed it with him of your own will. Even if you tried to deny wanting this, your writhing beneath him would betray your words.
And why deny it? The moment his voice dripped along your ears, you were done for. As if your fantasies and dark cravings you'd whisper only to the night were plucked straight from your mind; this Vampire who hovered above you, his fingers snapping the last vestiges of your clothing from your body to expose the wetness pooling there, had awakened the depths of the woman you truly are.
There was no going back, nor would you wish to.
His lithe fingers slowly part your lips, revealing your aching, throbbing clit to the cool air. You arch severely beneath him, crying desperately for his touch.
"So responsive... so beautiful in your need..." he murmurs into your ear.
You claw at his neck, grappling in attempt to bring him closer. Never have you felt so vehement in your need to be filled... to be taken... to be thoroughly fucked beyond all sense of reason.
Yet he toys with you... and the torture is delicious.
He slips two fingers inside you, driving in a steady, but slow rhythm. His other hand presses against your forehead, encouraging the arch of your spine further and further. You begin to pant, growl even, as his pace is only enough to keep the coil in your stomach taut, but denying release.
"Yes, lover... that's it... ride with it..."
Your legs hang wide across the hood of the car, muscles shaking with every deliberate thrust of his fingers. Though you are desperate to buck down against him to force an increase in pace, his voice holds sway over you, keeping you focused on allowing him full control to play your body.
In one graceful move he has brought himself opposite you, his knees on either side of your head, the tip of his gorgeous cock pressed against your lips. You do not hesitate for a taste of heaven...
... and you are immediately rewarded.
His tongue is like ice against the fire in your clit, lapping and sucking while his fingers continue their assault.
On the hood of this Corvette, in the dead of night, your mouth engulfs his cock as he drinks deeply of your pussy. And, as the explosion rips through your body, you cry out in praise and worship of whatever higher power might have smiled upon you this night.
You gasp for air, your body still quaking with after shocks, but this Vampire allows you no moment of rest to come down from your first high. Nor do you want it.
He catches both your wrists with one hand, pinning them to the windshield.
"Tell me how much you want this," he demands, grinding his length against you.
Your legs hitch around his waist, holding as tight as you can, and you let loose a string of obscenities. You want to be fucked. You need to be fucked. By him. Only by him. Forever.
His eyes are so intense in their gaze at this moment and from your words that you cease to breathe.
"What are you? Who are you?" he growls, his tone somewhere between anger and hunger.
He thrusts inside of you with no hesitation, filling you so completely you nearly cry with the ecstasy of him. In turn, his throat erupts with a furious bellow...
And, as you heave and rock and drive into each other; dizzy and high and drunk on the lust and passion and desperation, climbing together toward heights never imagined... you know he is right.
You have been claimed.
You are his.
A/N: This ficlet was written as part of the Support Stacie auction, in which fanfic authors offered stories written to the winning bidder's personal specifications. The auction raised over $25,000 in total to help support a fellow author battling cancer. To learn more about this cause and about future auctions, please visit:
supportstacie (DOT) net
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or stories from the Southern Vampire Mysteries – they belong solely to Charlaine Harris. No infringement is intended.