RATING: M for language and adult themes.
SYNOPSIS: Poison. That's what they were to each other.
DISCLAIMER: True Blood and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: For those following Beautiful Stranger, I apologize for the lack of updates. Inspiration and muse for that story has all but been eviscerated by the debacle that was season 6. Now, every time I think of this couple, I can only come up with angst ridden scenarios. I'm hoping that my writing this will break some of that writer's block I've been having with my other fic. In the meantime, I hope this brings you some amusement.
That's what they were to each other.
Sweet, saccharine poison, smooth as whisky and just as good.
Until it burned a hole in your insides and eviscerated your organs.
That's what Pam was to Tara.
Pam did to Tara's heart what alcohol would do to a liver.
And yet, when she suddenly showed up on her doorstep, beautiful, broken, looking so utterly defeated, Tara reacted on instinct.
It was instinct that made her arm unfurl, instinct that had her wrapping midnight fingers around a pale wrist.
Instinct propelled her to pull Pam into her arms, caging her maker in an embrace that was equal parts agonizingly crushing and devastatingly tender.
It had been years since she had last seen Pam. The moon had waxed and waned more times that she cared to count ever since Pam decided to abandon her in search for her own maker.
He was yet another poison.
A poison that nurtured the festering wound between her and Pam, encouraging it to stain and spread like the plague it was.
Eric had been the final straw.
When Pam had made her decision, had fuckin' left her to fend for herself, she had told herself that she was done.
That she would never look back.
And yet, here they were again.
Locked in an embrace as though nothing had happened.
As though Pam had never left and Tara hadn't spent years nursing a grudge and harboring a blistering anger towards her maker.
Everything about them was poison.
But Pam was her poison, her tailor made drug.
Her maker had always been her undoing.
It wasn't the blood talking, not just the blood anyway. It was something more, something deep, something visceral, primal.
But people had evolved past their primal selves for a reason.
Nothing good ever came from thinking like an animal, giving in to every base desire and need.
Nothing good ever came from temptation.
But as Pam slanted her lips over hers, Tara couldn't find it in herself to pull away.
It is just as she remembers.
The way Pam's lips fit oh so perfectly against her own, that full bottom lip slipping so instinctively between the seam of her mouth, begging, just begging to be sucked.
So she does.
She nurses that sweet flesh between her own full lips, drawing from it, a taste she never though she would ever again explode like fireworks on her tongue.
And god, god does Pam taste good.
She loses herself in it, drowns in the taste of her maker, sucking on that full bottom lip as though her life depends on it.
Fuck, she's had dreams about this.
Pale hands find purchase on her hips, fingers curling around the juts of her hipbones, squeezing with unashamed possession.
She wants to bristle at the claim, wants to rip those hands from her body.
But she doesn't.
She lets Pam have her moment, let's her lay claim to her body.
Cool breath shatters onto her mouth as Pam pulls away to look at her, azure eyes chasing her own dark ones but she can't, she just can't look into those wintry depths.
Pam's eyes were her fuckin' kryptonite.
She lowers her head instead and begins suckling on the side of Pam's neck, trading hickeys and bites and kisses and licks.
And Pam throws back her head and moans. Her mane of flaxen hair cascades down her back, a waterfall of wavy silk, soft, smooth, flawless.
She drags her lips up the column of Pam's pale throat, takes a moment to observe just how vulnerable Pam's neck is to her now what with her head arched back and all.
All that beautiful, flawless, ivory skin.
She attacks it with kisses, charts a disastrous path up the underside of Pam's chin, across the delicate line of her jaw. She nips at an earlobe, teases a butterfly kiss to the hollow behind Pam's ear and watches, with no small amount of satisfaction as Pam shudders and grips her hips tighter.
She still remembers all of Pam's sensitive spots.
Pam's sighing her name now, breathy exhalations that spikes right through her chest and makes her heart bleed and damn it, she doesn't want that kind of reverence chained to her name.
Not when it is falling from Pam's lips.
So she kisses her maker to shut her up, realizes too late that whenever her lips touches Pam's, it burns.
She had almost forgotten.
But how could she forget really?
Nobody ever kissed her like Pam did.
Nobody kissed like Pam did.
Pam's lips are flames, a smear of coals against her mouth, smoldering and burning and it hurts, it hurts so much that she can't help but gasp and screw her eyes shut and dive in for more.
She never feels more of a masochist then when she kisses Pam.
Because Pam's kisses burn.
They burn and they hurt and they scorch and she's completely helpless against the sensual assault.
She kisses her maker back, tries to use the natural coolness of their bodies to suppress some of the awful, delicious heat generating between their mouths but it backfires and rages into an inferno instead.
Defeated, she allows her tongue to tangle around Pam's, their mouths engaging in that delicate dance that rides a thin line between dominance and submission.
They had always complimented each other well.
She begins tugging Pam to the bedroom before she realizes that her feet have moved.
No. What the fuck is she doing?! This is a mistake. She knows it's a mistake.
So why are her feet still moving?
It's a bad idea. She knows it, knows that Pam knows it.
There's so much bad blood between them, so much left unresolved.
They needed to talk. They should talk.
But she knows that they won't.
They had always been fuckin' awful at communicating with each other.
Verbally that is.
But this? Fucking and screwing? This was what they always did well.
They reach the end of the hallway and he practically hauls Pam through the bedroom door, all but throws her onto the bed.
Pam doesn't retaliate, doesn't fight her for dominance.
She climbs in after her maker, lords over her and allows herself the luxury of glancing into those mesmerizing pools of steel gray and winter blue.
The connection of their eyes, the meeting of blue and black, lasts all but a second before Tara quickly lowers her gaze.
She can't look at Pam.
She just can't.
So she returns to kissing her instead.
The heat of Pam's mouth hurts far less than the desperation and pleading apology she glimpsed in her maker's eyes.
Pam wants to make amends.
She wants to tell her she's sorry.
It's too late for that.
It's been too late for years.
So why was she in bed with her?
She rips her mouth from Pam's, ignores the disapproving keen that trips out of those beautifully kiss-bruised lips and begins working her way down Pam's body, all the while avoiding that piercing blue-gray stare.
She doesn't protest when Pam sits up and removes her sweater and bra, is compliant when her maker seeks another blistering kiss.
She still refuses to look into her maker's eyes.
When Pam tosses her clothes onto the floor, she pushes her back down onto the mattress, chases an imaginary path down Pam's newly naked torso with her lips until she reaches the borders of her jeans.
She makes quick work of them, divesting Pam of her jeans, underwear and pumps, throwing them haphazardly, uncaring over the side of the bed.
The sudden scent of Pam's desire, unmuted by the barriers of her jeans threatens to send her tailspinning into unconsciousness and for a moment, she lies between pale legs, frozen, paralyzed.
Above her, Pam is swearing and moaning and begging for her to move. She wants her, makes no qualms about wanting, needing something from her. Anything.
Tongue, mouth, fingers.
A combination of the three.
When she still fails to move, Pam reaches down and tangles her fingers in her hair, tugging impatiently and suddenly she is animate again, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly jerked.
She surges forward without warning, diving wantonly into wet flesh.
God, oh god, oh god does Pam taste good.
Just like she remembers.
Sweet and tart.
Like wild strawberries ripe with juice and bursting with flavor.
She can't help but moan into Pam as she laps and sucks and licks, her maker's breathless keens and helpless whimpers egging her on.
Pam wants fingers, wants to feel her inside, wants her to delve into a place she never thought she would touch again.
She complies, pressing a lone finger into Pam's opening, eyes rolling into the back of her head as Pam immediately clenches around the intruding digit, drawing it deeper past her pulsating walls.
She feels so fuckin' good.
Hot. Wet. Tight.
Just like she remembers.
She begins a rhythmic thrusting, moving in time to Pam's rolling hips. She adds another finger, thrusts sharply and the resounding sound that spills out from Pam's mouth makes her own sex clench in sympathy.
The number of fingers she nudges inside of Pam is akin to plucking a different string on a guitar, hitting a different key on the piano.
One finger rewards her with a moan, breathless, needy, wanting.
Two fingers brings out from Pam a prolonged keen in the back of her throat that almost always tapers into a series of whimpers.
She slides in a third finger, ears immediately ringing with the sounds of Pam's surprised gasp and almost pained groans.
Pam's always, always been responsive.
Her maker's the most responsive lover she's ever had.
Vocal too, but not in the obnoxious, pretentious way that kills the mood.
No. Pam's moans, the way she gasps and keens and mewls and shutters, it's instinctual, subliminal, little codes that tell her exactly where she is in the coming department, what's good for her, and what she wants more of.
She's made a mental catalogue of these sounds.
She returns her mind to the present, to the task at hand.
The task of fucking Pam into oblivion.
Her maker's so tight now, so goddamn wet that her fingers are soaked, Pam's inner muscles clenching and contracting around her buried fingers until it almost hurts.
She scissors them, pulls them out until only the tips remain then pushes them back in with a sharp, forceful thrust.
Pam chokes out something that resembles her name and her hands fumble from their temporary residence on either side of Tara's head. Fingers dig into her scalp, tugging and pulling at her hair as she begins fucking her at vamp speed, her lips wrapped around Pam's erect bundle of nerves, sucking and nipping.
Her maker is close, she can tell.
She could always tell.
The way the lines of Pam's hips begin to blur as she moves in time with her preternatural thrusts. The manner in which Pam would fist her hair in unrelenting grips, the fashion in which her thighs would tremble on either side of her head.
She twists the fingers she has buried inside Pam, reseats them then fucks her with everything she has.
Two more thrusts later and Pam shatters beneath her, her name lost in a scream of ecstasy as her body throws her against the unwavering, undulating waves of a powerful, fierce orgasm.
Watching Pam climax was always akin to witnessing a miracle.
The way she would writhe about on the sheets, her tossing head shaking locks of mused blonde hair to splay across the pillow, her lithe frame ebbing and flowing, her delicately toned stomach rippling and quivering under the throes of her ecstasy, her legs tensing and stretching out, toes curling.
She knows that she will never have the privilege to see a more arresting sight.
It takes what seems like minutes for Pam to come down from her blissed out high, staggered breaths tripping from her parted lips between sporadic gasps and the occasional low keen.
But when she does, when she finally recovers, she sits up and reaches for her, drawing her into her shaking arms.
She allows it, allows Pam to indulge in her need for her progeny's comfort.
It's all fine and dandy until Pam starts whispering her name like some pious prayer into her ear.
There is an apology in every utterance of her name and it threatens to break her, to splinter what's left of her broken, bleeding heart.
So she does what she can in this fucked up situation she let herself get into.
She silences Pam with a bruising kiss, grabs a pale hand and brings it unashamedly between her legs.
Pam immediately cups her and she shucks her shirt, doesn't bother unclasping her bra but let Pam to roll her onto her back.
When Pam's hand slips beneath the waistband of her underwear, she tries once again to say her name.
She immediately busies her maker's mouth with another scorching kiss that threatens to set them both aflame.
She doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want her name tumbling from those sinful lips, doesn't want to hear the sincere apology Pam seems hellbent on chaining to every letter of her name.
She just wants to seize the moment and feel Pam's fingers inside of her.
And she does.
She's almost surprised, certainly stunned by how wet she is for her maker.
Practically dripping, embarrassingly so.
There is little resistance as Pam slips two fingers inside of her and begins a gentle thrusting.
Her maker's being sweet, tender. She's trying to make love to her.
She's doesn't want that.
So, she pistons her hips forcefully against Pam's fingers, forces her maker to keep up with her frenzied thrusts and the way she would grind down sloppily onto those intruding digits.
Pam's lips are on the side of her neck now. They are worshipful, soft, achingly sweet.
She arches away, unsuccessfully for the act only exposed more of her throat and Pam takes full advantage, nipping and licking at the newfound skin.
God, please, please just let her come and be done with this madness.
She needs to stop drinking the Kool-Aid.
She's spiraling back into an insanity she swore she put behind her, running blind down an avenue she thought she had successful barricaded.
Clearly not because those goddamn talented fingers are currently buried deep inside of her, brushing up against that spot that is making stars fandango in front of her eyes.
Her stomach quivers as she feels her orgasm creep up on her, hot, potent and spreading through her stomach like wildfire.
When she finally, thankfully comes, Pam's lips have found their way back to her own, her maker swallowing her cry as she comes hard around those long, pale fingers. She gasps against Pam's mouth, brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut.
"Look at me."
She can't. She's can't look at her.
The gentle plea threatens to unravel her. She turns her head away, reaches down and removes Pam's hand from between her legs. Her entire body is still shaking like a leaf in the wind, her knees all but knocking together but somehow, she finds the will to twist away from Pam.
She evades Pam's reaching hands, climbs shakily to her feet, buttons up her jeans and reaches down for her discarded shirt.
She tenses at the sound of her maker's voice, spine ramrod stiff.
God, this was a mistake. What the fuck was she thinking?
She gives herself a moment, buttoning back up her shirt with deliberate slowness. Then, unable to face the inevitable, she braces herself for the impact that Pam's eyes always brought on.
To see them glistening with the beginnings of blood tears makes her cinch her jaw and dig her nails into her palms.
She's never seen Pam so broken.
It almost breaks her resolve.
But no. No. She won't break. She can't break.
She's going to pretend that seeing Pam wrapped in her sheets, her naked shoulders trembling, her face vulnerable, confused, frightened, isn't going to affect her as much as it currently feels.
She's not going to break.
She takes deliberate steps towards her maker, drops to a knee before Pam, one last act of subservience.
"I want you, Pam."
She doesn't sugarcoat it, doesn't even attempt to try.
The suddenly flare of hopefulness that lights up in Pam's ice blue eyes almost kills her.
"But I also want to feel the sun on my face again. I want to get blind drunk on cheap beer, eat a greasy hamburger. I want a lot of things that I either can't have or are fuckin' bad for my health."
She steels herself as Pam shrinks back from her, that brief flare of hope dimming from her eyes, a candle extinguished before it reached fruition.
Yup. She doesn't sugarcoat it. Time for a gentle unveiling is long over. It was time to rip off the band aid.
"You can have me." Pam's voice is desperate, her tone breaking under her emotions. "I'm here. I came back."
"Only because Eric's either dead or you can't find him."
Pam reacts to the accusation as though it were a physical blow. She shrinks further away, wraps the sheet tighter around her body. The only armor she has.
"No. I've paid my dues and you made your choice when you left me all those years ago."
She risks a chance by looking straight into her maker's eyes, azure eyes that are brimming over with tears.
What she sees almost makes her recoil.
Broken. So utterly broken.
She immediately looks away then readjusts her gaze to rest just on the lines of Pam's lower eyelashes.
"Will you do something for me, Pamela?"
Pam gulps, her throat bobbing visibly. She blinks, scattering blood tears like rubies down her pale cheeks.
She knows. Oh, she knows alright.
"Don't ask that of me. Please. Please." Her voice breaks on the last word and she's tempted to drop the subject right now.
But she can't. She won't.
Pam chokes out a sob and shakes her head. "No. No. Please. Please, Tara. It's all I have left of you." She lurches forward, grabs for her hand and squeezes. "You want me to go, fine. But let me have this."
She brings their clasped hands to the spot above her left breast, where the bond that connected them hummed softly.
"Please, Tara. Please."
She's begging. She's never begged her before. Not like this.
She hates herself for lowering Pam to this level.
But she can't undo the past. She can't say it's all water under the bridge.
Two words. She sees them act like twin spikes to Pam's heart, sucking any and all hope from those blood-rimmed eyes.
They're done. In every imaginable way possible.
Pam hitches out another sob, shoulders now trembling so hard, she's afraid she's going to shatter before her eyes.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she draws in a shuddering, needless breath then shuffles towards her.
She doesn't move as her maker approaches, shuffling slowly, painfully, like the broken creature she really is.
She doesn't flinch, doesn't tense when Pam reached out and palms her cheek.
She sees the resignation in her maker's eyes, can practically taste the bitter defeat leeching from her pores.
Which is why, when Pam leans in for final, goodbye kiss, she allows it. She doesn't return it, doesn't reciprocate but neither does she pull away.
She'll give Pam one last memory.
"As your maker," Pam begins in a voice so shaky she's barely articulate.
But she soldiers on because she knows she has to let her go. Her maker knows that she wants her to let her go.
She owes her that much.
"As your maker, I release you."