Formidable Flower 🕯️🩸🖤🦇🥀
Tara Thornton’s Season 3 arc gets a fierce, fandom-defiant rewrite (back in 2011) in this sultry supernatural remix. When a tall, curly-haired British vampire with a taste for chaos crosses paths with Bon Temps’ baddest bartender, sparks fly, blood simmers, and boundaries blur. Franklin Mott may be unstable, but he’s also intoxicating—and in this version, he stalks Tara, not kidnaps her. No chains, no assault—just obsession, tension, and a whole lot of mind games.
This is the story where Tara doesn’t just survive—she seduces, slaps, and outsmarts. Glamour-proof and grief-hardened, she’s a formidable flower blooming in the middle of vampire madness. And Franklin? He’s about to learn that fixation cuts both ways.
Franklin didn't knock. He flew.🥀
One moment he was on the porch. The next, he was hovering above the roof, peering into windows like a ghost with a crush. Three windows over, he found her.
Tara.
The curtains were thin. The window cracked open. She was undressing.
He watched, shameless and transfixed.
She peeled off her halter top, jeans, and hot-pink lace panties with the kind of grace that made him forget centuries of restraint. Her body was poetry. Her silence, a dare.
She stepped into the shower, steam rising like a veil. Franklin didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just watched.
Inside, Tara let the water wash away the day—the bar, the vampire, the ache. But not the thoughts. Not Franklin. He lingered in her mind like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.
She dried off, slipped into a silk robe, and grabbed a bottle of lotion. At the window, she closed her eyes and let the breeze kiss her skin. Goosebumps bloomed. Franklin nearly groaned.
She sat by the window, legs crossed, robe parted just enough to tease. As she rubbed lotion into her arms, Franklin stepped into view like he was browsing produce at the grocery store.
"Taarraaaa," he crooned.
Tara screamed, dropped the lotion, and lunged for her phone. "That's it! I'm calling the damn police!"
She hated cops. One had killed Eggs. But Franklin didn't know that. He just watched her fake a call while the movie theater listings played in the background.
He smirked. Then pulled her panties from his pocket and waved them like a trophy.
"You left these."
Tara's cheeks flamed. "That's just wrong."
"I'll stay out here all night unless you invite me in."
She eyed him. He was crazy enough to do it. And she wasn't about to scrape grilled vampire off Sookie's roof.
"Just say what you came to say and get off the damn roof."
"May I come in and rub that lotion on you?"
"Asshole," she hissed.
Franklin sighed. Time for honesty.
"I need to know where Sookie is. I can't tell you why."
Tara's heart sank. Of course it was about Sookie. Again.
"What the hell do you want with her? Did Bill send you? Is this what vampires do—rotate fang-bangers like shifts?"
Franklin bristled. "I don't want Sookie. I want you. But my employer needs to find her. And no, it's not Bill Compton."
"Who's your employer?"
"If I told you, we'd both be in danger."
"Then why should I help you?"
"Because you care about Sookie. And because you trust me. A little."
Tara hesitated. If Sookie was in danger, she had to know. Even if it meant letting this vampire into her room.
"Fine. You can come in. Don't make me regret it."
Franklin climbed through the window, smug and silent. He picked up the lotion, eyes trailing her robe like it was a map.
"Why are you so guarded?" he asked. "Is it me, or are you like this with everyone?"
Tara crossed her arms. "I learned early not to expect much. People disappoint."
Her voice cracked. Franklin stepped closer, pulled her into a gentle embrace, and kissed her forehead.
"You deserve happiness," he whispered. "And I'll do whatever I can to make sure you feel it."
She leaned into him, surprised by the safety in his arms.
"I never thought I'd trust a vampire," she murmured. "But here we are."
She traced invisible shapes on his chest, then looked up. "Tell me what your employer wants with Sookie."
"I don't know. Maybe it's about Bill. Maybe it's politics. I don't care. It's just a job."
"So your boss is political?"
Franklin nodded. "You could say that."
"What do you do for him?"
"I'm a private investigator. I find truth. Been doing it for over a century."
He blurred across the room and dimmed the lights. Only the lamp glowed now.
"So… are you going to tell me where she is?"
"I don't know," Tara said. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you without knowing your boss's intentions."
Franklin respected that. Loyalty was rare.
He sat beside her on the bed, lotion in hand. She motioned for him to begin. He squeezed the bottle and rubbed the lavender into her feet, slow and firm. Her muscles melted.
They talked.
Franklin told her about his human life—his wife, his sons, the smallpox. About being turned against his will. Tortured. Rescued by Russell. About his vampire bride, a former slave who looked like Tara and loved adventure.
Tara listened. Then shared her own story. Her mother. The Maenad. Eggs. The funeral. The pain.
Franklin saw it then. The anger was armor. The sass, survival.
She was formidable. And he was falling.
Franklin watched her sleep, her breath slow, her brow finally smooth. She looked peaceful. Rare. He found a blanket draped over the chair and laid it gently across her body.
No kiss. Just a whisper.
"Goodnight, wildflower."
He slipped out of the room and padded downstairs, eyes scanning the Stackhouse living room like a detective in a crime scene. Newspaper clippings. Old photos. Nothing useful. Just small-town clutter and sentimental ghosts.
Sookie wasn't here. But someone else was.
Franklin smiled to himself, already plotting his next move.
If Tara was the storm, maybe her cousin held the lightning.
