#witchinghourarchives

Tara Thornton hadn't planned to end up in Shreveport under a fake name, working at a high-end strip club called Moonlight Lounge, but life had a way of flipping her the bird and handing her a pole.

She was damn good at it, too. Three weeks in, and she already had a fanbase—sugar daddies, bachelorettes, even a few moody vampires who liked her sass. But she wasn't doing it for attention. She liked the control. The spotlight. The way she could disappear into a persona with nothing but stilettos and glitter. Tara Thornton was dead. Now she was "Stormy," and Stormy didn't take shit from anyone.

That is, until he walked in.

Alcide Herveaux. Broad shoulders, five o'clock shadow, a smirk that could melt panties—and a walk that screamed alpha werewolf and full-time heartbreaker.

Tara had seen some wild things since becoming undead-adjacent, but nothing could've prepared her for this.

Because Alcide wasn't just there to watch.

He was on the damn flyer.

"FULL MOON FANTASY NIGHT — SHIFTERS STRIP TOO!"

"What the hell," Tara muttered into her vodka soda, nearly choking when she saw him take the stage in nothing but a flannel shirt and construction boots. The crowd roared.

She gawked.

He didn't recognize her—yet. But she sure as hell recognized him. Her ex-running buddy, brooding werewolf, backwoods Adonis. And now? Apparently the headliner in a Magic Mike knockoff show called "Lycans Unleashed."

By the time his hips started rolling to Ginuwine's "Pony", Tara was questioning everything—her fake name, her no-touch rule, and her ability to stay out of trouble.

After the show, they ran into each other backstage. Literally. She turned a corner and face-planted into a wall of bare, sweaty abs.

"Tara?" Alcide blinked, towel slung over his shoulder, still glistening.

"Don't you 'Tara?' me, Channing Tatum!" she snapped, eyes darting to the green sequin thong peeking out of his duffle. "I leave Bon Temps to find peace and a pole, and you're out here grinding like a damn were-stripper?"

He laughed. "I could say the same about you, Stormy."

Her jaw dropped. "You knew?!"

"Smelled you the second I walked in. You think perfume covers wolf blood, girl?"

Tara narrowed her eyes. "You still talk like a backwoods fortune cookie."

They bickered. They flirted. There was tequila. One too many games of truth or dare in the empty VIP room. And when she dared him to prove he still had "alpha stamina," he didn't back down.

Let's just say the champagne room saw some serious action that night.

The moon was full, the music was loud, and Tara remembered what it felt like to lose control—not in a bad way, but in that hair-pulling, toe-curling, "oh, so this is what I've been missing" kind of way.

By morning, they were tangled in silk sheets, clothes scattered like glitter, and Tara's no-touch policy was in shambles.

Alcide grinned at her, all smug and shirtless. "So... you think we should co-headline next week?"

She threw a pillow at him.

"Only if I get top billing."

Tara never expected to find Alcide reading a damn book backstage in the greenroom of a strip club, shirtless and wearing leather pants. But there he was, sprawled across a velvet couch like a centerfold for Brooding & Brawny Monthly, eyes narrowed on a tattered paperback.

"What the hell are you readin'?" she asked, towel draped around her neck, glitter still clinging to her thighs.

He held up the cover. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Tara blinked. "You're kidding. That's your pre-show ritual? Reading about string-bean Ichabod and ghost horses?"

Alcide gave a shrug, the movement making his abs do something distracting. "It's classic. And Ichabod gets a bad rap."

"Oh, does he?" she said, crossing her arms. "The same fool who ran off screaming into the woods over a pumpkin?"

Alcide grinned, slow and dangerous. "He might've been scared of ghosts, but he had guts when it came to women."

Tara raised an eyebrow. "Guts? The man was shaken every time a girl looked at him sideways."

He flipped a page, voice dropping into a soft imitation: "I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me, they have always been matters of riddle and admiration."

There was a pause.

Then Tara snorted. "Wow. So you're Ichabod now?"

"I'm just sayin'," Alcide said, standing up—all six feet and too many inches of him—"maybe he was awkward. But he had a soft heart. Foolish, maybe. But honest."

She rolled her eyes, but something about the way he looked at her—like she was that tempting morsel the book mentioned—made her forget what comeback she had loaded.

"Ichabod bent, but never broke," he added with a playful edge. "Kinda like me."

"Oh lord." She backed up, bumping into the dressing table. "You quoting 19th-century lit at me to get laid?"

"Is it working?" he asked.

She tried not to grin. "You smell like baby oil and sawdust."

"You still smell like vanilla and trouble."

Tara hated how her pulse kicked up when he closed the space between them, how she had to tilt her chin to look him in the eye. "You know I can kick your ass, right?"

He smiled, slow and wolfish. "You can try."

Their mouths collided in a kiss that started sweet and teasing, but quickly lost its manners. Tara grabbed the waistband of his ridiculous stripper pants. He lifted her onto the counter without breaking contact.

She pulled back, breathless. "Alcide. Seriously. If anyone walks in, we're gonna end up on a banned list."

He smirked. "Then let's give 'em a story."

His lips found her neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

And Ichabod Crane was very far from her mind.

Tara lay tangled in silky sheets, limbs pleasantly sore, with Alcide flat on his back beside her like a centerfold for Feral Gentlemen Quarterly. The air still smelled like sex and sandalwood.

She was staring at the ceiling fan, one leg hooked over his. "You quote one more line of dusty-ass Ichabod Crane and I swear to God I'll smother you with this pillow."

Alcide chuckled, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "You didn't mind it when I said that line about tempting morsels."

"That's because you said it while you were between my thighs, Romeo."

He gave her that lopsided grin that made her stomach do flips. "I like this side of you."

She looked at him sidelong. "Which side is that?"

"The one that isn't throwing bottles or threatening to stab somebody."

Tara raised a brow. "Give it time, wolfboy. You've seen what happens when I'm around Sookie."

He laughed. "Oh, I've seen. Hell, Sookie can't even go grocery shopping without getting half the town possessed or catching feelings for some moody immortal."

"Oh, don't get me started on her vampire throuple era," Tara muttered, sitting up and grabbing a grape from the minibar fruit tray. "Like girl, pick a bloodsucker and commit."

Alcide leaned on one elbow, watching her with open amusement. "And don't forget Sam. Remember when he shifted into a dog just to watch her sleep?"

Tara gagged. "Creepy-ass Scooby Doo stalker vibes. And I was the one everyone thought needed therapy."

Alcide reached over and stole a grape from her hand. "You're not wrong. Honestly, out of everyone we knew, you and I might be the sanest. Which is a low bar, considering Lafayette used to talk to ghosts and make gumbo at the same time."

"He was fabulous, though," Tara said fondly. "Rest his sparkly soul."

A comfortable silence settled between them for a beat.

Alcide trailed a finger down her thigh. "You ever think we just missed our moment?"

She looked at him, serious now. "Maybe. Or maybe this is our moment."

He nodded, his smile softened. "I'm good with that."

She lay back down, resting her head on his chest. "So... what now? We become the supernatural version of Channing and Amber Heard from Magic Mike XXL?"

"I don't think she was in—"

"Don't correct me on Magic Mike trivia when we literally just had sex in a dressing room called 'The Fang Bang Boudoir.'"

He shut up.

After a minute, she sighed. "Maybe I'll stay awhile. Make some cash. Watch you awkwardly hump the air to Usher songs."

"I don't hump," Alcide muttered. "I gyrate. Like a professional."

She smirked. "You hump. Majestically. Like a werewolf doing community service at a bachelorette party."

He groaned and rolled on top of her, nuzzling her neck. "You keep talking like that and I'm gonna hump you into next Tuesday."

"Promises, promises."

Before he was the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia crossed paths with a woman no bard ever dared to name - the first goddess, life‑bearer, and the planet's oldest force. One night with her shatters everything he believes about magic, destiny, and himself. When she vanishes through a portal and visions of their unborn child haunt him at dawn, Geralt sets out to uncover the truth… and learns that some fates begin long before a Witcher ever draws his first blade.

🪄🔮

Fangtasia After Hours

Eric watched Tara as she nursed a strawberry martini, her eyes wide and her brows drawn together like she was plotting a heist.

Was she thinking about me?

If so, was it in a "take me now, Viking daddy" way or a "how do I stake a thousand-year-old pain in my ass" way?

He grinned to himself. Not long ago, that sexy white dress she wore was a crumpled casualty at his feet.

The memory of her—smooth, honeyed skin, perfect curves, those gorgeous dark breasts pressed against his pale chest—was enough to make him forget his own name. He could still taste her on his lips. And yet, here he was, completely transfixed by her just sitting on a barstool, fully clothed.

What the hell was happening to him?

He let out an irritated sigh.

Was he... obsessed?

No, that was too human.

Infatuated? Please. He was Eric Northman, Sheriff of Area Five, not some lovesick puppy.

But he couldn't shake her. Tara Thornton wasn't just another notch on his bedpost—she was a goddamn earthquake.

Their eyes met across the room. Her gaze was deep, sultry, and just a little dangerous. He felt her looking right through his ancient, undead soul. Another sigh. If he kept this up, he'd need a therapist.

He wrapped up his conversation with his business associate and slouched back on his throne, fingers steepled like he was plotting world domination. When he looked up again, Tara's soul-searching gaze had morphed into a dark, hungry stare.

And just like that—pop—his fangs dropped, uninvited.

Great. Now his body was betraying him too.

Tara caught the show, snorted into her martini, downed the last of it, and strutted toward the stage like she owned the place. Every eye in the bar followed her—hell, half the vampires looked ready to risk the True Death for a taste.

"I didn't summon you," Eric said, trying for cool but failing thanks to the tent in his jeans.

Tara cocked an eyebrow. "Tell that to your fangs and the hard-on you're sporting, Sheriff."

He leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. "Don't mistake my lack of control for weakness. I'm not tamed, and I'm definitely not safe."

She slid onto the seat next to him, all sass and curves. "Was there a point to this little speech, or are you just trying to scare me into bed again?"

He smirked. "I'm known as the Terror from the North, a thousand-year-old killer, bringer of pain and violence. Nothing will ever change that. Not even you."

Tara rolled her eyes. "That's what worries me. I have zero issue with how evil your ass is, and that makes me wonder if I'm just as fucked up as you." She shook her head, laughing darkly.

Eric reached over, trailing two cool fingers down her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip. "Min mörkhyade skönhet," he murmured, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. "You're no more fucked up than any other human—or vampire. You're clever, resourceful, and brutally honest. You'd burn the world to protect the people you love."

She looked up at him through her lashes, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. "And you, Eric Northman, Terror from the North... you're clever, loyal, and you actually give a damn about your responsibilities. Who knew?"

For a split second, Eric swore his dead heart tried to beat. Tara giggled, soft and sweet, and the sound made him want to drag her off to the nearest dark corner.

"Seems like we've both got good and evil swirling around inside us," she said.

Eric's eyes softened, his expression suddenly open and vulnerable. He leaned in, kissing her slow and deep, tasting the last hint of strawberry on her lips.

"Maybe we balance each other," he whispered against her mouth.

Tara purred, shivering at the feel of his cool lips and heated words.

"Maybe we do," she breathed, her voice thick with want.

"You're beautiful, Tara Mea," he crooned, sliding his hand up her thigh. His touch was ice and fire all at once, making her shiver in all the best ways.

She kissed him, slow and teasing. "Go on, Northman. I like it when you talk dirty."

He grinned, fangs flashing. "The way I feel when I look at you, touch you—I want you in my company. Always."

A jolt of heat shot through Tara, and suddenly the air between them was thick with anticipation. She could feel every eye in the bar glued to them, the lust and envy practically radiating off the crowd.

Eric noticed too. He stood, towering over everyone, and swept his icy gaze across the room. "It is rude to stare," he called out, voice like thunder. "Go back to your drinks and your sad, pathetic lives."

And then, in a blur of vampire speed, he scooped Tara into his arms. She squealed, clutching his shoulders as he carried her out of Fangtasia, past the gawking patrons, and into the cool night.

Cradled against his chest, Tara laughed breathlessly. "You know, Northman, you're not half as scary as you think you are."

Eric grinned, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. "That's because you haven't seen what I can do yet."

She smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Oh, I plan to. All night long."

And with that, he vanished into the night, Tara in his arms and the rest of Bon Temps left wondering how the hell that girl managed to tame the Terror from the North.

🩸🩸🩸

BLOOD AND BOURBON ✨

It was their misguided attempt to restore “normalcy,” Caroline corrals Stefan, Damon, and Bonnie into a Mystic Grill double date.

Her plan? Distract Damon and Bonnie from their increasingly steamy magical bond. Good luck sis. 🍀

What starts as Founders Day trivia spirals into chaos when a misfired love spell body-swaps them mid-argument.

🧙🏽‍♀️Now Damon’s stuck in Bonnie’s body—magic flaring, heels wobbling, and ego bruised.

🧛‍♂️Bonnie’s trapped in Damon’s—leather-clad, bloodthirsty, and overwhelmed by vampire instincts.

🩸As they fumble through each other’s habits (and wardrobes), they uncover shared memories from a past life—one that hints their bond has always been fiery… and possibly fated.

The fluorescent lights of the Mystic Grill flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the scene of a magical disaster. The air still crackled with the faint scent of ozone and something akin to a burnt sugar factory. Caroline Forbes, ever the pragmatist in a crisis, had abandoned her trivia cards in favor of a frantic, one-sided conversation with her phone.

"No, Mom, it wasn't a party! It was a team-building exercise! Yes, with a purpose! Ugh, fine, a body-swapping catastrophe! Can you just get a witch on the phone who's not on the dark side of the moon?" she hissed, her voice a low, frantic whisper.

Stefan, meanwhile, had his head in his hands, brooding a gesture of weary resignation he'd perfected over a century and a half.

Across from them, a new, surreal drama was unfolding.

Damon Salvatore, cocky-confident, swaggering vampire, was trapped. And not in a fun, dungeon-with-a-lady kind of way. He was trapped in the confines of a human body, a body that felt impossibly small and frail. His own long, muscular legs were gone, replaced by Bonnie's slender, toned ones. He stood up, and the world seemed to drop three inches. Shit...He wobbled, unused to the different center of gravity, and a sudden, intense wave of motion sickness hit him. He grabbed the back of the booth.

He looked down at his feet, now encased in sensible, low-heeled black ankle boots. He felt a wave of visceral disgust. "What are these?" he growled, the soft, lilting timbre of Bonnie's voice a bizarre echo of his own fury. "They're practical," Bonnie's voice came from his own mouth, now belonging to her. "They're a personal affront to the concept of style," Damon shot back, tugging at the hem of her cardigan. The fabric was soft, annoyingly so. He felt a phantom craving for leather, for something solid and dangerous.

Suddenly, a waitress with a plate of sizzling fries bumped past him. Damon-in-Bonnie's vampire senses, now muted and replaced with a human's, failed to warn him. He stumbled, catching himself with a wild, flailing motion that sent his hand slamming onto the table. The flimsy wooden tabletop groaned under his touch, and he felt a strange, tingling sensation in his fingertips. It wasn't the bone-crushing strength he was used to, but a different kind of power, a humming, electric energy. He pulled his hand back as if burned.

"What was that?" he muttered to himself, but before he could process it, another patron, a burly man with a baseball cap, clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart, you okay?"

Damon's blood ran cold. He froze, a flicker of pure, unadulterated rage bubbling up inside him. No one, and he meant no one, called him sweetheart. He was about to turn and rip the man's throat out—a thought that felt disturbingly foreign and impossible—when he realized he was still in Bonnie's body. The instinct was there, a deep, primal anger, but the physical means were gone. He tried to force the man to leave with a glare and a subtle command, the way he would with a vampire compulsion. The man just laughed. "Don't worry, hon. Happens to the best of us."

Humiliation, hot and sharp, coursed through him. He couldn't compel him. He couldn't hurt him. He couldn't even intimidate him. He was powerless. He was... a human.

In a fit of frustration, he slammed his hand down on the table again, a simple, futile gesture. But the humming energy flared, and in a brilliant flash of purple light, the glass of water in front of him exploded into a thousand glittering shards. The plates on the table, a stack of them waiting to be cleared, lifted into the air and crashed to the floor, a cacophony of shattered ceramic. The bar went silent.

Damon-in-Bonnie stared at his hands, his knuckles now bruised and bleeding. He had done that. He had wielded Bonnie's magic, a raw, uncontrolled burst of it, with no intent but pure, unfiltered rage. The power was terrifying in its unpredictability, a volatile force that felt less like a weapon and more like a live grenade.

Across the table, Bonnie Bennett was having an entirely different, but equally disorienting, experience. She was in Damon's body, a vessel of unimaginable strength and speed. His leather jacket felt heavy and confining, and his clothes, a size too big for her now, felt like an ill-fitting costume. The scent of bourbon and pine, of something old and dark, was overwhelming. She could feel the low thrum of the jukebox in her bones, hear the whispered gossip of a couple in the far corner, and smell the metallic tang of blood from a cut on a bartender's hand. Every sensory input was a scream.

The world was a cacophony, a jumbled mess of sounds and smells that had her head spinning. She pressed her hands to her temples, a futile gesture against the sheer volume of it all. It was too much. The world was too loud, too bright, too vibrant. The instincts of Damon's body were a constant, low-level hum in the background—a desire for blood, a need to move faster, a readiness for violence.

Then, a new, more horrifying sensation. A waitress came by to clear the broken plates, and the scent of the fresh cut on her finger hit Bonnie with the force of a tidal wave. It wasn't just a smell. It was a craving. A deep, primal, and utterly repulsive hunger. She had to fight it, to shove it down with every ounce of her will. She felt a phantom hunger gnawing at the pit of her stomach, a desperate thirst that was not her own.

To distract herself, she reached for a napkin and, without thinking, crumpled it into a ball. Only, her hand didn't just crumple it. It tore it into a dozen tiny shreds. She looked at her hands, Damon's hands, with a mix of horror and morbid fascination. The sheer, effortless power was intoxicating and terrifying. She reached for the heavy wooden table, a thick, sturdy piece of furniture that would have taken two men to lift. She wanted to steady herself. Her fingers brushed the edge, and the entire table, with all the drinks and plates, lifted a full six inches off the ground.

Her eyes widened in horror. She put it down quickly, the thud of the wood on the floor a testament to her newfound strength. The power was there, a well of it just under the surface, but she had no idea how to control it. The thought of what she could do, what Damon could do, with this body, made her skin crawl.

"Look at this," she muttered to Damon-in-Bonnie, holding up a mangled napkin. "I just... I ripped it. Without even trying. And I can hear everyone's thoughts."

"Their thoughts?" Damon-in-Bonnie asked, his frustration temporarily forgotten.

"Their conversations," she corrected, her voice still an unfamiliar growl. "I can hear every single one. That guy over there thinks his wife is having an affair, and that woman is furious about the price of the meatloaf." She shuddered. "It's a nightmare."

Before the two of them could fully process their new bodies, a new wave of chaos swept through the Grill. The doors burst open with a crash, and a figure stood silhouetted against the night sky. It was a man in a long, dark coat, his face obscured by a low-brimmed hat. He was no ordinary man, though. The air around him shimmered with a dark, twisted energy, and a low, guttural growl echoed in the space.

Stefan, ever the protective one, was on his feet in an instant. "Who are you?"

"The one who's here to collect," the figure snarled, his voice a gravelly echo. "The spell you two cast... it woke something up. Something that wants its due."

He lunged forward, not at Stefan, but at Damon and Bonnie. Stefan was fast, but the newcomer was faster. He sent a bolt of dark energy towards them, a swirling vortex of black magic that would have, in any other situation, obliterated a human and only inconvenienced a vampire.

But this was no ordinary situation.

Damon-in-Bonnie saw the magic coming. His first instinct was to run, to use the speed and strength of his own body to get to safety. But his body was gone. In a moment of sheer desperation, he reached out with his hands, a desperate, wild, and uncontrolled burst of power. The air around him shimmered, and a brilliant, protective shield of green magic flared to life, a testament to Bonnie's raw power. The dark energy slammed into it, and the two forces met with a shriek of clashing power.

Simultaneously, Bonnie-in-Damon, seeing Stefan go down under the stranger's attack, felt a new, unfamiliar surge of anger. The protective instincts of a vampire, the desire to protect her 'pack,' took over. She moved with a speed and grace she didn't know she possessed, a blur of motion that had her in front of Stefan in a heartbeat. Her hand lashed out, not with a spell, but with a punch. The force was staggering. The man in the coat flew backward, crashing into a table with a splintering crack.

They were forced to cooperate. The humor of the situation, the annoyance of their new bodies, was gone, replaced with a stark, terrifying reality. They had to use each other's powers, the very things they couldn't control, to survive.

As the fight intensified, the man in the dark coat lunged again, a dagger now in his hand. Damon-in-Bonnie and Bonnie-in-Damon stood side-by-side, a bizarre pair. Damon, wielding magic with the grace of a clumsy child, and Bonnie, fighting with the savage intensity of a vampire.

But as the man's dagger came for Bonnie-in-Damon, the world went fuzzy. A new memory, a vivid, overwhelming flash, hit them both at the same time.

He was in a speakeasy. Not the Mystic Grill, but a place dripping with velvet and smoke. He was at a piano, his long fingers flying over the keys. He felt a different kind of anger, a younger, more reckless rage. A woman, a beautiful witch with a mischievous glint in her eyes, was standing over him, a martini in her hand. "Still sulking, Damon?" she'd teased. "The world is on fire, and all you care about is your own misery." He had lunged for her, a blur of fury, but she'd flung the martini in his face, her laughter echoing through the smoky room. The sting of the gin had been nothing compared to the sting of her words. And then... she'd kissed him. A fierce, desperate, soul-shattering kiss that had felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

She was there too, in the speakeasy. But she wasn't a witch. She was... her. But a different version of her, with a different name, a different life. She remembered the fierce argument, the way his fingers had flown over the piano keys. She remembered her own recklessness, the way she'd taunted him. She remembered the feeling of being trapped, of being in a world that wasn't hers. She remembered the desperate kiss, a plea and a confession, a moment of pure, unadulterated connection that had burned itself into her very soul. She had hated him. And she had loved him. Both with a fierce, burning intensity.

The memory ended as abruptly as it had begun. The man's dagger was a hair's breadth from Bonnie's throat. But the memory had lingered, a low, buzzing hum of recognition. They weren't just two people who had a single shared moment. They were two people with a shared history, a past that stretched back a century. They had been rivals, lovers, and everything in between.

The dagger stopped, held in mid-air by an unseen force. The man in the coat looked up, his eyes widening. "You... you're connected to the source," he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and terror. "The ancient witches... they spoke of this."

Damon-in-Bonnie, still holding the shield, felt a new surge of power. It wasn't just magic. It was memory. It was their combined strength, their shared history. He willed the man back with a silent command, and a powerful wave of green magic sent him crashing through the front window of the Grill, the sound of shattered glass echoing in the stunned silence.

The spell, the one the young witches had said would wear off in an hour, had been a lie. The connection, the force that had swapped their bodies, was far more powerful, far more ancient, than they could have imagined. As the dust settled and the patrons began to stir, Damon-in-Bonnie and Bonnie-in-Damon looked at each other. The annoyance, the frustration, the pure chaos of it all was still there. But so was something new. A deep, unsettling, and undeniable sense of understanding.

Caroline, who had spent the entire time on the phone, finally hung up, her face pale. "The witches I called... they said they can't reverse it. Not yet. The spell is too strong."

"How long?" Stefan asked, his voice low and weary.

"They don't know," Caroline whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "It's tied to their past-life bond. It could be days. Weeks. They said it'll wear off when the bond is... resolved."

Bonnie-in-Damon folded her arms, a gesture of defiance that was eerily familiar on Damon's face. "What does that even mean?"

Damon-in-Bonnie just stared at her, a silent, knowing look in his eyes. He had no idea. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was just the beginning. The past was not just a memory. It was a living, breathing thing, and it had just been unleashed.

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.

The trio pulled up to Fangtasia a little after 10:30 PM.

The line outside was long but moved quickly. At the door, Willa Burrell stood looking sleek in a micro-short lace black dress and lace-up high heels, her stance both inviting and authoritative.

"Hi, Lafayette!" she beamed the moment she saw him.

"Hi there—" Lafayette started, but before he could finish, Sookie all but shoved past him.

"Hi, Willow! I'm Sookie, remember me?" she asked, her voice dripping with expectation.

She didn't even notice she'd said the wrong name. But one thing Sookie was sure of—Eric must have mentioned her to his new progeny.

Willa didn't correct her. Instead, she simply smiled, nodding in recognition. "Welcome. Tell Ginger you have VIP service." She handed Lafayette a sleek black card with 'VIP' embossed in bold red.

Lafayette grinned, feeling somewhat reassured. "Thank you, honey." He winked at the brunette before asking, "Tara in there?"

A flicker of something passed over Willa's face before she answered. "She's here… go on in."

That was all Lafayette needed. He sashayed inside, James and Sookie close behind.

The newly renovated Fangtasia was stunning. A sprawling dance floor, golden cages with writhing dancers, a bar gleaming with brass and mirrored glass. Even the floors sparkled with embedded gold flecks.

But Lafayette's sharp eyes went straight to the stage—where Pam sat like a damn queen.

Draped in a crimson off-shoulder ruched blouse, skin-tight black leggings, and knee-high red boots, the blonde exuded power.

Lafayette let out a low whistle. "Lawd, the Ice Queen still serving looks."Pam was literally dressed to kill.

And yet… There was still no sign of Tara.

"That looks like the VIP area," James said loudly over the pulsing bassline of the club's music. He gestured toward a sleek door on the right side of the dance floor.

Sookie barely heard him. The moment she stepped inside the newly renovated nightclub, her breath hitched. Towering, sultry images of Tara, Willa, Eric, and Pam adorned the walls, their gazes smoldering even in still form. But it was Tara's picture that made Sookie's stomach twist.

Tara, her childhood best friend, had always been rough around the edges—jeans, sneakers, and a permanent scowl at the ready. The Tara in these pictures, though? A full-blown femme fatale. Dark, piercing eyes, glossy lips, and a body wrapped in midnight leather like she owned the world. Sookie swallowed hard, a heat creeping up her neck.

It wasn't jealousy, of course. No, of course not. She was just... surprised. That was all. Tara had never cared about this kind of thing before. Why the hell did she look like she belonged on the cover of a vampire fashion magazine now?

Before she could process it, her gaze snapped upward. A big, red neon sign glowed over a guarded door.

Sookie clenched her jaw. Tara had a whole damn club named after her...?

A hulking man in a black tracksuit loomed in front of the entrance, arms crossed like he was daring someone to start trouble.

"I think we supposed to give this to you, big bear," Lafayette cooed, batting his lashes at the bouncer. If he was intimidated, he sure as hell didn't show it.

The man didn't speak—just took the cards and stepped aside, letting them through.

The VIP lounge was dimly lit and luxurious, with swanky tables and plush chairs arranged for optimal indulgence. A massive one-way mirror stretched across the room, giving them a full view of the club without being seen. The music from outside trickled in softly, just enough to feel like a heartbeat.

Not a moment later, Ginger teetered in to take their drink orders.

"Damn, this ditzy bitch still here lettin' random vampires chew on her narrow ass," Lafayette mused the second she left, shaking his head. "You see all them bite marks on her?"

James chuckled, leaning back with ease. "It's a lifestyle for some humans."

"Mm-hmm. I just hope her dumb ass gets our orders right. That hussy dumber than a box of hair."

James laughed, shooting his lover an affectionate glance. "Right on, lover. A positive is the only type for me."

Lafayette smirked, pleased, and the two shared a look that needed no words.

Meanwhile, Sookie sat stiffly, barely hearing them.

"You awfully quiet, sweetheart. What's on yo' mind?" Lafayette asked, eyes sharp despite his easy demeanor.

Sookie startled. "Oh, nothin'. Just takin' it all in," she lied smoothly, forcing a smile.

The truth was, she felt like an outsider in a place that used to feel familiar. She had pictured Eric lounging on his throne, watching her with that unreadable expression, ready to summon her over so she could finally tell him—and Tara—about her new life.

Instead, Pam sat there, cool and detached, as if Sookie's presence barely registered.

And Tara?

Nowhere to be seen.

Sookie's fingers curled into her lap. She wasn't jealous. Nope. Not one bit.

She just really, really needed a drink.

"Geez," she sighed, plastering on another smile. "I could really use a drink right now."

Not a second later, Ginger strolled back in with a tray full of cocktails. "Pam said the first round is on her," the platinum blonde chirped gleefully, her red lips stretched into a wide grin.

Sookie and Lafayette were momentarily shocked into silence.

"Please tell Pam we appreciate her generous hospitality," James said smoothly, handing Ginger a twenty-dollar tip.

"Well, this is new," Lafayette drawled, tilting his head. "Vampire Barbie is playin' nice for a change. I ain't even mad—what she want, though?" He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Thirty-five minutes and two strawberry daiquiris later, Sookie had grown restless. By the third apple martini, Lafayette's dirty jokes had everyone in the VIP room cackling. With each drink, he became more animated, much to James' delight. At one point, he got up and did a dramatic reenactment of Ginger's famous scream, complete with flailing arms and a slow-motion collapse onto James' lap.

"Baby, I swear to God, she gotta be part banshee," Lafayette declared, sipping dramatically from his martini.

"Or part Chihuahua," James mused, biting back laughter.

"You mean full-blooded Chihuahua," Lafayette corrected. "High-strung, shaky, and will hump any leg in sight."

The room erupted in laughter, except for Sookie, who had checked out of the conversation entirely. She drummed her fingers against her thigh before standing abruptly.

"I'm gonna excuse myself to the ladies' room," she announced, but no one was paying attention. James and Lafayette had already launched into a full-blown debate about whether vampires could get seasonal depression.

Sookie pushed her way through the crowd and made it to the restroom, where she handled her business, washed her hands, and reapplied her rouge lip color. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror and nodded approvingly.

Still got it.

But instead of heading back to the VIP room, she took a right—toward Eric's office.

A tiny voice in her head told her this was a bad idea. A much louder voice told the tiny voice to shut the hell up.

Without knocking, she twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.

And instantly regretted every decision she had made in life.

Her breath hitched, her doe eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in horror.

There, in all their undead glory, were Tara and Eric.

Tara—completely naked—was straddled over Eric's equally nude, muscular form, moving in a way that left no room for interpretation. Her toned back glistened under the soft glow of the office light, and her long curls bounced with every roll of her hips.

Meanwhile, Eric—her Eric—had his head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping Tara's waist like she was the last meal on Earth.

Sookie made a strangled noise. Something between a gasp and a hiccup.

"Eric! Tara! Oh My—Tara!" she croaked, barely recognizing her own voice. She wasn't even sure she had spoken aloud until—

"WHAT?" Tara snapped, not even bothering to pause her movements. Then, as if registering the voice, she turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the blonde gaping at them from the doorway.

"Oh. Hey, Sook." Her tone was so casual, that she might as well have been answering a FaceTime call. "What are you doin' here?"

Sookie blinked. Once. Twice.

Then bolted.

She shoved past a group of vampires near the dance floor, nearly sent a waitress flying, and burst through the doors of Fangtasia like she was fleeing a burning building. The cool night air hit her face, but it wasn't enough to wash away the image seared into her brain.

Tara? And Eric?

What the hell were they thinking?

Scratch that—were they even thinking?

Inside the office, Tara huffed and gave a halfhearted attempt at looking guilty. It lasted all of three seconds before she shrugged and resumed exactly what she was doing.

Because, honestly? She wasn't sorry at all.

"Is you gonna tell me why you sittin' here lookin' like you just seen a ghost?"

Lafayette huffed, rushing toward Sookie. He had seen her storm out of Fangtasia like a bat out of hell and figured she'd either drunk too much or had one of her patented dramatic meltdowns.

She didn't respond. In fact, she was just sitting there, arms crossed, lips pursed, staring straight ahead like someone had told her they were out of sweet tea at Merlotte's.

Lafayette's eyes narrowed.

"Sook, you plan on parkin'-lot-pimpin' all night, or you got a damn point?"

Sookie shuddered, her entire body twitching with disgust. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't unsee it—Tara and Eric, all entangled like some supernatural porno. Her face twisted like she'd just smelled a dead possum.

"I'm ready to go home."

She clipped, shaking her head. She still refused to make eye contact, probably because she knew if she did, she'd pop a blood vessel from sheer irritation.

Lafayette cocked his head. "What you mean, you ready to go home? We just got here. Besides, Tara wanna see you."

Sookie's eye twitched.

"Tara...! Tara...!" she practically growled through clenched teeth.

Lafayette instinctively took a step back. Homegirl was lookin' straight-up cray-cray.

"Yes, Tara. You know, the reason we came here in the first place?" He gave her a once-over, watching her face go beet red. "Damn, Sookie, you look like you one deep breath away from throwin' yourself onto the hood of James's car and faintin' like a plantation wife."