TITLE: Control
RATING: M
PAIRING: Pam/Tara
SYNOPSIS: An extension of the Beach Scene that occurred in 6x01. Pam needed control. Tara gave it to her.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own True Blood. It does not belong to me. If it did, I would rename it to the Pam and Tara show.
A/N – Well that was some season premiere. Nothing like a little bit terror and tension and an off-screen sex scene (not too happy about this) to get one's angst on. Speaking of angst, my mind has decided to deal with that little upset in the only way it knows how: with a story of my own imaginings.
Control
An arm unfurled, creeping slowly, tentatively across bunched shoulders that were rigid with tension. Ebony fingers alighted, draping themselves over a pale shoulder that visibly stiffened at the unexpected touch.
For a wild moment Tara thought Pam was going to throw her off, the blonde's lithe frame practically vibrating with animosity.
Then, to the young vampire's utter surprise, Pam turned into her, her maker's body slowly but surely falling to rest against her own.
The act was slow, excruciatingly so, as though Pam were fighting the descent with every last iota of her being.
But, she went, gravity aiding her fall into pair a strong arms that were calm and steadfast.
An inaudible sigh drifted out from Tara's parted lips when Pam finally rested her cool cheek against her chest, the young vampire's body instinctively turning slightly to receive her maker into the cage of her arms.
A pale hand alighted on her thigh, long fingers of alabaster gripping at the flesh beneath her pants as though its owner needed something physical, something tangible to hold onto lest she unravel at the seams.
Tara scooted closer in response, an infinitesimal gesture that was barely discernible given the close proximity of their bodies.
Midnight-kissed fingers tangled around long fingers of snow as Pam reached up to cover the hand Tara had settled on her shoulder.
Neither woman spoke. Silence was their only companion, hovering around them like a fretful ghost, attempting to offer respite, reprieve. Beyond maker and progeny, gently lapping waves interrupted the brief solace with a staccato of splashes and slurps but it was a soft enough sound to swaddle the pair in temporary comfort.
Pam didn't utter a sound, choosing instead to release her grief through shoulders that heaved occasionally and a cheek that would nuzzle periodically against the soft, dark skin it rested on.
Tara simply held her maker, allowing the blonde to her sorrow. She didn't move from where she sat, the arm around Pam's shoulders neither loosening nor tightening when her maker's body would tremble slightly.
She simply sat.
Which was why, when Pam suddenly sat up and pushed at her shoulders, instinctive indignation and surprise had her resisting the forceful act.
One look into grief-stricken eyes, rimmed with fresh crimson and Tara understood.
Control.
Pam thrived on it, lived for it, derived pleasure from it.
And lately, control had been but a distant dream, a mere memory, one that had slowly crumbled like dust from aged parchment crushed in a steely grip.
The witches. Eric. Elijah. The Authority.
And Tara.
Pam's progeny was, by no stretch of the imagination, submissive. She had too much of a warrior's spirit in her, had grown up scrapping and fighting for what was hers. Confrontation ran through her veins, as surely as Pam's blood did.
Backing down had never been an option.
Giving in was something only a fool would concede to.
But Pam needed control. She needed to feel in control.
Even for a moment.
Even if it was over Tara.
So, when a second, more insistent nudge at her shoulders was initiated, Tara allowed the pressure of her maker's palm to push her down onto the cool sand.
She allowed Pam to straddle her, to lord over her.
She did nothing, said nothing, when Pam looked down at her with that beautifully broken expression of hers, her azure blue eyes electric with grief, her cheeks dotted with blood-tears that clung to pale cheeks like rubies.
And when her maker bent down and kissed her, Tara let her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not tender or sweet. It did not speak of love, did not wax poetry.
It was nothing like the kiss they shared back at the Authority.
What it was, was birthed from the cradle of desperation.
There was a terrifying violence behind Pam's kiss, a need to exert dominance. She kissed Tara with all the fury of a thunderstorm, projecting onto her progeny's lips and into her mouth, a raw, primal need to take, to claim, to possess, to control.
And Tara let her. Tara let her have control.
She returned the kiss but hers came engineered with compliance, with understanding. She didn't try for gentleness, didn't try to be tender for she knew it wouldn't be well received.
Or understood.
Pam pressed Tara into the sand, assaulted her progeny with her mouth, teeth and tongue. She bit at Tara's lips, pushed into the tepid cavern of Tara's mouth with forceful flicks of her tongue. She canvassed the warm, tepid environment, her tongue a velvet tool she used to leave her mark on every nook and crevice.
And when that wasn't enough, Pam snapped down her fangs, pulling two jagged lacerations down either side of Tara's plump lower lip.
They wept scarlet, the broken skin starbursting with notes of pain but Tara remained plaint under her maker, swallowed the gasp of pain that threatened to rip itself from the confines of her throat.
She made not a sound.
She didn't whimper, didn't moan, didn't buck up into Pam when her maker latched onto her lower lip, that sinful mouth latching onto the bleeding flesh, siphoning from it, the blood running rivulets down her chin.
She didn't jerk, didn't pull away when Pam opened a new wound, brutalizing the flesh of her lips with a vicious sideways tug that drew a crimson horizontal line across her mouth.
Blood and saliva mingled, Pam ravaging her mouth in a manner that was borderline violent and primitive.
She took and then she took some more, taking long pulls of Tara's blood into her mouth and down her throat.
Tara let her.
It didn't take long for Pam to want to find new territory on her progeny's body to claim and conquer and Tara was helpless against the way her fangs dropped with a subtle click as Pam's hand closed over her left breast, squeezing roughly.
"Mine."
"Yes."
"Surrender."
"Yes."
Pam manhandled the plump flesh in her hand, feeling Tara's stiff nipple nudging at her palm. She bent, used her unoccupied hand to yank Tara's head sideways, exposing her throat. She tore her fangs into the side of her progeny's neck, feeling a dark stain of satisfaction settle over her as she heard that subtle pop before sweet, warm blood gushed over her tongue.
Control.
It was a heady rush, almost as sweet as the blood spilling into her mouth.
It made her feel powerful.
Tara closed her eyes, fighting against the impulse to move, to fight her maker for dominance as Pam squeezed at her breast, her mouth suctioned like a leech to the side of her neck.
Such submissiveness from her was completely against her nature and she was fighting tooth and nail not to retaliate in some way, to yank at Pam's hair, rake her nails down her back or sink her own aching fangs into snow-kissed flesh.
She kept still.
When the sound of fabric ripping screamed through the air, Tara made her one and only move.
"Don't."
One word. Softly spoken. Carefully constructed into a plea rather than a demand.
The young vampire pressed a hand against Pam's shoulder when Tara felt the fragile material of her tank top give way a little under the insistent tug of her maker's grip. She dug her fingers slightly into her maker's corset when Pam snarled and looked up from where she had been buried in Tara's neck, cheeks and chin smeared with crimson.
"Pam."
Her maker growled at her, displeasure etched in the sound and Tara suppressed a shudder.
Pam looked just this side of feral, her sapphire-tinged eyes blown with equal parts arousal and rage at the interruption Tara dared impose on her. Her hair was a mess, the wind carding impish fingers through the loosening curls until they lay in a tangled disarray about her head. Her teeth was bared, stained with blood, her lips glistening with crimson, making the snarl she had graven onto her face even more menacing.
She had never looked more beautiful to Tara then.
"Want. You." Choppy words, barely intelligible over the low growls that spilled in rapidly succession from bee-stung lips as Pam glared down at her progeny, daring defiance from her prey.
"Take me," Tara whispered, gazing unflinchingly up into blue eyes that were colder and more dangerous than the Arctic sea. "Just go easy on the wardrobe, yeah?"
When Pam snarled at her again, Tara just had to wonder how far gone her maker was in the throes of her baser desires. She could feel the blonde's body shaking above her, as though she were barely containing some primitive instinct to do whatever necessary to ensure Tara's complete surrender.
"Pam."
She tried her maker's name again, injected it with a fusion of calm.
Pam growled again, the sound frighteningly inhuman but the fingers she had curled over the hem of Tara's tank top eventually slackened and her progeny sighed.
Tara went back to being pliant as Pam returned her mouth to the side of her neck, licking and lapping at the awful smudge of red that she had painted on dark skin after sinking her teeth into her progeny's flesh.
A pale hand wandered under Tara's tank top, running over defined abdominal muscles that ebbed and flowed under her touch, Tara's need to breath a habit she had yet to break.
Tara flinched slightly when Pam used manicured fingernails to pull five welts down her stomach. They immediately prickled with dots of blood before closing and Pam stroked at the newly healed skin in an almost apologetic manner before moving further south.
Tara bit down hard on her lip as Pam popped open the button of her pants. Of all the scenarios and fantasies she had conjured in her head about their first time, a fast and brutal fuck on the beach with their friends just a shout away was not on the list.
But Pam needed her.
Tara's hips jerked and her fangs cut into her bloodied lip as Pam drove three fingers into her without warning.
There was no foreplay, no preparation, no indication of a forthcoming penetration.
Pam simply took.
And it hurt.
But it hurt so good and Tara bit down harder on the ravaged flesh of her lip as her maker began a rough series of thrusts, driving those long fingers so deep into her that she felt each stroke to the core.
Pam was lost in a sea of sensation. Tara was so wet, so tight around her fingers that it bordered on painful. She licked the dark flesh beneath her mouth, the puncture wounds she had inflicted on her progeny's neck long closed.
Beneath her Tara was unerringly still. Only her fingers moved, clenching at the sand beneath her palm, finding respite in the way the coarse granules would embed themselves under her fingernails and dig into her skin.
Pam looked up, looked into midnight-kissed eyes housed in a face that were pinched in concentration, fangs digging into a bloody lower lip.
"Tara."
Tara shivered at the guttural utterance of her name. It was almost savage, the way Pam pronounced her name, as though she sought not only to control her body but everything else that was in Tara's possession.
Including her name.
"I'm here."
Two words. Simple words.
They shattered something in Pam and blood-tears sluiced over blue eyes that were turbulent with a miasma of emotions Pam couldn't begin to name.
She leaned down and kissed Tara, softer this time. Gentler. She sighed into Tara's mouth when the younger vampire reciprocated.
"Come for me," she murmured into that sweet cocoa mouth. She scissored the fingers she had buried in her progeny, reseated them then thrust sharply upwards. "Come."
And Tara came. She came because Pam commanded her to, because Pam asked it of her.
Because Pam needed control.
Tara's orgasm was almost cataclysmic, splintering her from the inside out. Pam had pushed her to a place where only sensation existed.
Then she pushed her past it.
Color splashed across her vision, lightning turned the blood her veins molten and Pam's fingers suddenly driving into her at vamp speed tore a loud keen from the deep confines of her throat.
She broke. There, lying on the cool sand with the waves lapping up the beach, her body tore her apart with an orgasm so wild and raw and fierce that her vision blurred and her mind went blank.
Pam stared at Tara coming undone, like she had never seen such a sight. She moved off her progeny to the side, allowing Tara to recover. She watched as her progeny convulsed helplessly on the sand, mouth working as silent whatnots tripped out of her mouth, her hands clenching and unclenching into tight fists on either side of her body.
And then, it was over.
Tara sat up shakily, body still trembling lightly, her hair askew and her clothes a disarray.
Pam regarded her, her expression unreadable save for an ember of gratitude that glowed in the deep blue of her eyes.
There were still a lot of things she had yet to learn about Tara. But in the short time they had known each other, the one thing they both shared and coveted with equal almost fanatic passion was control.
So Pam knew, she knew and understood the depth of the gift Tara had just bestowed upon her. Knew how much strength, how much will it must have taken for her progeny to submit to her in such fashion.
She knew.
And she was grateful for the reprieve.
Tara felt her maker's gaze on her, penetrating, unwavering. She looked up, just in time to see a pale arm stretching towards her but before Pam could pull her into an embrace, raised voices from the pier compelled maker and progeny to their feet and off the beach towards the sound of the commotion.
FIN