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Chapter Text

The moon was full and bright, shining down on the forest like it was auditioning for a horror movie. Tara's sneakers crunched over twigs as she hustled down the path, clutching her phone like it was a crucifix. She was late for her first coven meeting—because of course, she'd joined a coven. What else was a girl supposed to do when her boyfriend started acting squirrelly every full moon? If you can't beat the supernatural, join 'em.

The bushes rustled, and Tara froze. "Okay, universe, I see you," she muttered, "but if this is a raccoon, I swear I'm not sharing my snacks."

A guttural growl rumbled from the shadows. Tara's eyes went wide. "Oh, HELL no." She spun on her heel, but her foot caught a rock and she toppled backward, landing flat on her ass. "Perfect. Just perfect. Death by forest floor. My obituary's gonna be a riot."

Then—glowing amber eyes. Big ones. And a white wolf, all muscle and menace, padded out of the bushes like he owned the place. Tara's heart did a somersault. "Not a raccoon. Not a raccoon at all."

She curled up, squeezing her eyes shut. "If you're gonna eat me, at least make it quick. And maybe avoid the face, I have plans this weekend."

Instead, the wolf started licking her ankle. Not biting. Licking. Tara cracked an eye open. The wolf's tail was wagging. Wagging.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." She sat up, wincing. "Good doggy. Please don't eat me, good doggy."

The wolf cocked his head, looking insulted. Tara, never one to miss a chance for sass, added, "Sorry, didn't mean to hurt your canine pride. You're clearly more 'Game of Thrones' than 'Old Yeller.'"

She dusted herself off and started to back away. "I'm just gonna go—"

"Wait, Tara..." came a voice. A very familiar, very naked voice.

She spun around. There was Alcide, standing in a patch of moonlight, bare as the day he was born, amber eyes still glowing. "Wait—baby, it's me..."

Tara stared, mouth open. "Alcide?! What the—are you—did you just—oh my GOD. You're a werewolf?!"

Alcide winced, running a hand through his hair. "I was gonna tell you. Eventually. Preferably with less nudity and more pizza."

She gaped. "So all those times you said you were 'going for a run'—you weren't just being one of those CrossFit weirdos?"

He shrugged, sheepish. "I mean, technically, I was running."

Tara crossed her arms, eyeing him up and down. "So, what do you hunt, wolfman? Please tell me it's not joggers. Or Girl Scouts. I like cookies."

Alcide grinned. "Mostly rabbits. Sometimes squirrels. Never people. I'm more 'National Geographic' than 'Dateline.' Promise."

Tara's eyes softened, then flicked down. "You know, you could've at least brought a towel. Or, I don't know, a pair of shorts? Not everyone wants to see your full moon."

He blushed, which was impressive for a man standing buck naked in the woods. "Sorry. Shifting back doesn't come with a wardrobe change."

She smirked. "Shift back. Right now. I want to pet you. And I'm not walking home with a naked man—someone's gonna call animal control, and I don't have bail money."

Alcide's eyes lit up. "You want me to shift? For real?"

"Don't make me say it twice, Lassie."

With a grin, Alcide shifted back into his wolf form. Tara ran her fingers through his fur, giggling as he licked her hand. "You're lucky you're cute. And soft. And not covered in ticks."

They walked home together, Tara's hand buried in his fur, her heart pounding with excitement—and not just because she'd joined a coven tonight. She had a werewolf boyfriend. And apparently, a thing for fluffy guys.

As soon as they got home, Alcide shifted back, and Tara started peeling off her clothes, tossing her shorts and tank top onto the floor. She swayed her hips, shooting him a look over her shoulder. "You gonna stand there drooling, or are you gonna help me out of these panties?"

Alcide's eyes darkened. "Careful, Tara. You keep talking like that, I might have to show you just how much wolf I've got left in me."

She laughed, sauntering into the bedroom. "Promises, promises."

He followed, and they tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Tara pressed her lips to his, fingers tracing the lines of his back. "So, what else are you hiding? Please don't say you're secretly a vampire. I can only handle one supernatural boyfriend at a time."

He grinned, nipping at her ear. "No vampires. Just a lot of pent-up energy."

She arched an eyebrow. "Prove it, wolfman."

He did, with enthusiasm.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathless and grinning. Alcide brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Tara rolled her eyes, smiling. "You think I'm mad because you're a werewolf? Alcide, I snuck out tonight to join a coven. We're a regular Addams Family, you and me."

He blinked. "A coven? Like, witches?"

She nodded, grinning. "Yep. All women. Very inclusive. If you ever need a love spell or a killer banana bread recipe, I got you."

He snorted. "Let me guess, you all wore black and talked about your feelings?"

She smacked his chest. "We also did a group hug and cursed my ex. It was very healing."

He laughed, pulling her close. "You're something else, Tara Thornton."

She kissed him, slow and deep. "And you're my big, bad wolf. Now, hush. I have plans for you, and they don't involve howling at the moon."

He growled, flipping her onto her back. "Yes, ma'am."

The next morning, Tara woke to find Alcide nuzzling her neck, sniffing like she was a bakery window. She giggled, pushing him away. "You know, for a guy who claims he doesn't hunt people, you sure sniff me like I'm fried chicken."

He grinned, trailing kisses down her shoulder. "Can you blame me? You smell like heaven."

She stretched, running a hand down his chest. "You're lucky you're cute. And that I'm into weirdos."

He rolled on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head. "I'm the luckiest man alive."

She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. "Damn right you are. Now, less talking, more wolfing."

He obliged, and the rest of the morning was a blur of laughter, kisses, and the occasional howl.

Later, as Tara slipped out to her next coven meeting, Alcide called after her, "Don't turn anyone into a frog!"

She winked. "Only if they deserve it, wolfman."

And with that, she disappeared into the morning, ready to conquer the world—one spell, and one sexy werewolf, at a time.

Chapter Text

Tara Thornton should've been ashamed of herself, but shame was a luxury she'd never had time for. Not in Bon Temps, not with her mama's drama, not with all the supernatural shit swirling around this town like mosquitoes in July. Still, even she had to admit she was getting a little obsessed. Every man who walked into Merlotte's tonight got measured up against Alcide Herveaux, and—surprise, surprise—none of them even came close.

She leaned against the sticky bar, eyeing the regulars. Hoyt was nursing his third beer, Arlene was fussing with the ketchup bottles, and Sam was giving her that "don't start nothing" look from the kitchen. Tara rolled her eyes. Please. The only thing she wanted to start tonight was a fantasy starring her man—the big, brooding, beautiful werewolf who'd ruined her for every other guy in Louisiana.

Alcide Herveaux. Lord, just thinking his name made her thighs clench. That man was handsome from the tips of his dark, wavy hair down to his boots. Square jaw, high cheekbones, arms like he'd been carved out of marble by a particularly horny Greek goddess. And the way he looked at her—like she was the only woman in the world. Like he could eat her up and still be hungry.

Alcide has ruined me, she thought, and not even mad about it.

She finished her shift, the smell of fried catfish and cheap beer clinging to her skin. Outside, the night air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and swamp water. The moon hung low and heavy, casting everything in silver and shadow. She walked home, the gravel crunching under her sneakers, every step bringing her closer to him. Her wolf.

She let herself into their little house on the edge of town, the screen door creaking like it was auditioning for a horror movie. Inside, it was quiet except for the hum of the old fridge and the distant croak of frogs. She padded down the hallway, peeling off her Merlotte's T-shirt and tossing it into the hamper. The bathroom was still steamy from her shower, the mirror fogged up, and she took her time braiding her hair, letting the hot water wash away the night.

When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she paused. There he was—her man, her wolf—sprawled out on their California King bed because, let's be real, anything smaller and his feet would be hanging off the end. Alcide looked like a damn angel when he slept, which was hilarious considering he could turn into a beast at the drop of a hat. His chest rose and fell, one arm draped over his stomach, the other tucked under his head. Even in sleep, he looked ready to leap into action. Tara just stood there, watching him, heart doing little flips.

How long was I in there? she wondered, biting her lip. Long enough to make him worry? Or just long enough to make him miss me?

She slipped into her favorite white nightgown, the silk cool against her skin, clinging to her curves in all the right places. She tiptoed over and pressed a kiss to his lips, savoring the taste of him—warm, a little wild, a little sweet.

"Take that sexy little thing off before I rip it off," Alcide growled, eyes still half-closed, voice rough as gravel. That beard tickled her cheek, and Tara shivered. She loved when he got bossy, loved the way his eyes darkened when he wanted her.

She grinned, biting her bottom lip. "You gonna pay for it if you rip it?" she teased, but she was already sliding the nightgown off, tossing it into the corner. She climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, and caught her reflection in the old mirror above the dresser. Damn, girl. You look good. Full breasts, nipples already tight, skin glowing. She let her hand drift down, fingers skimming over her panties, circling slow, just to tease herself. She liked watching herself like this—liked knowing that Alcide was watching, too.

"Take those sexy little panties off before I lose my damn mind," he growled, eyes now wide open and hungry.

She slipped them off, slow and deliberate, tossing them to join the nightgown. Alcide reached into the nightstand, pulling out a pair of fuzzy handcuffs. He grinned, all wolf and mischief. "Tara Mae Thornton, the baddest bartender in Bon Temps. Even the cops are scared of you. And here you are, letting me tie you up."

She rolled her eyes, but her heart was pounding. "Don't get cocky, wolfman. I can still kick your ass."

He just laughed, trailing his hands along her hips, his touch warm and sure. He always made her feel safe, even when he was being a little dangerous. She spread her legs, letting him see everything, loving the way his eyes went dark and wild.

"Alcide, please…" She didn't bother hiding the need in her voice.

But he was in no hurry. He teased her, hands everywhere but where she wanted them, mouth hot against her skin. Tara squirmed, desperate, but he just smirked, dragging it out, making her wetter, needier. When he finally touched her—fingers stroking her clit, mouth hot and rough—it was almost too much. She moaned, grinding against his hand, chasing the pleasure.

He smacked her ass, just hard enough to make her gasp. The sting sent a jolt of heat through her, and she whimpered, loving the way he could be gentle one minute and rough the next. "You smell good enough to eat, sexy girl," he growled, eyes flashing amber.

"Yes, eat me, devour me!" she gasped, her voice breathless and wild.

"If you're a good girl and cum for me, I'll give you my cock," he promised, voice thick with lust.

He worked her with his fingers, slow at first, then faster, curling just right to hit that spot inside her. His mouth was on her, tongue and lips and beard, and Tara was lost. She came hard, crying out his name, body shaking with the force of it.

"That's my girl," Alcide murmured, kissing her thigh.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he was on her, jeans shoved down, cock thick and hard and leaking for her. He pressed into her, slow and deep, and Tara moaned, wrapping her legs around him. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through her, their bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, of moans and gasps and whispered curses.

"You better not come yet," he warned, voice rough.

Tara clenched around him, so close she could taste it. "Don't tell me what to do," she shot back, but her voice was shaky, desperate.

He kissed her neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. "Good girl," he whispered, and that was it—she came again, harder than before, body arching off the bed.

Alcide followed, hips slamming into her, filling her up with a growl that sounded more wolf than man.

They lay tangled together, breathless and spent, the moonlight spilling across the bed. Alcide untied her wrists, kissing the red marks, and pulled her close. He carried her to the shower, washing her gently, hands soft and careful, then wrapped her in a towel and tucked her into bed.

Tara snuggled into his side, listening to the sounds of Bon Temps outside—the distant buzz of cicadas, the occasional howl from the woods, the world still spinning madly on. She smiled, pressing a kiss to Alcide's chest.

This is home, she thought. Me, my wolf, and a little bit of magic in the air.

And if anyone tried to mess with her happiness, well—she'd show them just how dangerous a girl from Bon Temps could be.

Chapter Text

My steps were as erratic as a cat in a bathtub—mirrors everywhere, lights hotter than a Louisiana summer, cameras pointed at the bed like paparazzi at a crime scene. I was about two seconds from bolting when the door creaked open. That's when she strolled in, all legs and attitude, like she owned the damn place.

She was wrapped in a one-piece teddy that looked like it was designed by a committee of sinners—straps, lace, mesh, and enough cutouts to make a preacher sweat. I clocked the back hooks and, hell, was that a G-string? Lord have mercy.

Her eyes went wide, hungry, and I caught the glint of mischief and lust. I work out, sure, but the way she looked at me made me feel like a steak at a wolf convention. When our gazes locked, she dropped hers, all shy and sweet. Damn, she was beautiful. My lips curled into a grin that was more wolf than man.

"I... I'm... Tara," she stammered, voice trembling like she'd just seen a ghost—or maybe just my abs. "I'm here to... for..."

She shut her eyes, took a breath, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. When she opened them, she managed, "I'll be your co-star today." The words tumbled out, all nerves and hope.

I watched her lips move, hypnotized. This woman was a whole damn meal. "Is this your first, Tara?" I asked, voice low and teasing, watching her shiver at the sound. Her nerves made my cock throb, not gonna lie. I reached out, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder, and corrected myself. "First movie, I mean?"

She looked like innocence personified—wide-eyed, delicate, a pixie with a secret. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to ruin her, just a little.

"Yes," she whispered, and I had to remind myself to keep my eyes on her face and not those perfect breasts.

"I'm Alcide. Folks call me Alpha. Don't be nervous," I said, flashing her my best wolfish grin. "I'll make you forget all about the cameras, promise." I nodded, and she actually smiled.

"Okay, Alcide... Alpha." Her gaze flicked down to my chest, then lower. My boxer briefs weren't hiding a damn thing.

"Yeah, okay," she said, a little more confident.

I moved to the bed, patting the mattress. "Come here, Tara." She strutted over, hips swaying like she was on a catwalk, and I swear I almost howled. The music in the background set the pace—slow, sultry, dangerous.

Her skin glowed under the lights, dark and flawless, and when she looked up, her eyes were storms—deep, brown, and impossible to escape.

"Oh, fuck," I muttered, finding her lace soaked through. I palmed her mound, heat radiating through that tiny G-string. Jesus. This girl was ready, nerves and all.

I pressed against her, feeling her tremble. She arched a brow, sass creeping in. "Touch me, Tara," I said, purposely vague, just to see what she'd do.

She hesitated, then her hands slid over my chest, down my abs, lingering just above my cock. Her fingers brushed me, and I groaned. She licked her lips, smiling—a wicked, knowing smile.

"You ready to start, Tara?" I needed her to say it.

She nodded, shy but steady.

Hell with the script. We could read lines later.

I dropped my shorts, letting my cock spring free. "Lay down," I said, and she obeyed, nerves melting away as she perched on the edge of the bed, legs parted. The lights made her glisten—an angel with a devil's grin.

"Want to taste me?" I asked.

She nodded, eyes glued to my cock. She licked her lips, and I nearly lost it as I traced my tip across her mouth.

"Oh, Tara," I growled.

She took me in, lips wrapping around me, slow and deliberate. My hands found her hair, guiding her, and I let my head fall back, savoring every damn second. She pulled away, sucking like she was savoring a lollipop.

"You like that?" I asked, voice rough.

She moaned, licking the head, and I almost came right then.

"Damn, Tara, I wonder if you taste as good as you look."

She smirked, falling back onto the bed, legs open, inviting. I took a moment to admire her, then dove in, tongue and lips working her until she was shaking, coming for me, again and again. This girl was magic.

"Alpha!" she cried, and I nearly lost it.

"You ready for me, beautiful?" I asked, lining up at her entrance.

She purred, "YES!" legs wide, fingers teasing her clit.

"Fucking gorgeous," I groaned, stroking myself, then rubbing her swollen button.

"Alpha, please!" she begged, grinding against me.

I couldn't hold back. In one thrust, I was inside her, buried deep. Electricity shot through me—her tight, wet heat clamped down, and I lost control, pounding into her, her cries spurring me on. She came hard, dragging me over the edge with her, and I came inside her, no pulling out, just pure, messy bliss.

We lay there, catching our breath, tangled up, sweaty and satisfied.

"I think you fell out of character," she giggled. "You were supposed to spank me, call me 'sex cat,' and finish on my tits."

I laughed, pulling her closer. "Guess I got distracted. You're too damn sexy—I had to have you. No regrets."

She laughed, the sound warm and bright. "Was that your first time?" I teased. "You seemed like a pro."

"It was my first sex tape," she admitted, "but I've played pretend before." She kissed me, sweet and slow. "Did I look nervous enough?"

"Hell yeah. You had that innocent librarian thing down—pouty lips, curls, the whole nine yards." I started to say more, but she cut me off with another kiss.

"I love you," she whispered, fingers tracing my jaw.

"I love you too, Tara," I murmured back. "Don't ever leave me—I'd be lost." She held me tighter, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Tonight was our tenth anniversary, halfway through our two-week vacation. I had BBQ, bourbon, and my woman. Hell yeah, I was a happy man.

Chapter Text

One weekend, my pack-brothers and I got a wild hair up our asses and decided to drive from Jackson, Mississippi, to Sam's Town Hotel and Casino in Shreveport, Louisiana. Friday night, no plan except for shits, giggles, and the slim hope of multiplying our meager funds at the poker table. We rolled in with the kind of swagger only broke twenty-somethings with nothing to lose can muster. Five years before I became Packmaster of Shreveport, one year before Grandpa Jackson bought the manufacturing plant. Back when I was still just Alcide Herveaux, the youngest Senior Machinist in company history, and cocky as hell about it.

Hoyt made a beeline for the slots—he always did love the sound of quarters clinking like a cheap symphony. Jacob and I prowled the floor, eyes peeled for the best spot to make our killing. That's when I saw her.

She didn't walk so much as glide, hips swaying in a way that made the world slow down, like watching honey pour from a jar. Even with the cacophony of bells, whistles, and the off-key singing from the lounge, I heard the jingle of her spurs. She wore a black Stetson with a rhinestone band, denim and lace bustier, ripped Daisy Dukes, and boots that looked like they'd kicked more than a few hearts to the curb.

"Goddamn," I said, not even bothering to keep it under my breath.

She moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish, stopping to chat here and there, leaving a trail of grins so wide I thought someone might dislocate a jaw. I caught her only from behind at first, but that was enough to set my imagination on fire. Curves for days, legs that went on forever. I was so busy staring, I barely registered Jacob elbowing me.

"She's smokin', isn't she?" Jake practically drooled, craning his neck for a better look.

"She is," I growled, "and she's mine."

Jake's eyebrows shot up. I didn't get possessive often, but when I did, my brothers knew better than to argue. He just grinned, nudging me. "Go get 'er then, Big Al."

I stood there like a damn fool, rooted to the spot, until she turned and I got my first look at her face. Bronze skin, high cheekbones, lips full and pouty, eyes so dark and deep I could drown in them. She was a goddess in a casino, and I was halfway to worshipping at her altar.

She caught me staring, mouth hanging open like a landed catfish, and sauntered over. She reached up, pressed a finger under my chin, and closed my mouth for me. Her touch was electric.

"See something you like, Big Boy?" Her voice was honey and heat, the kind of sound that could make a man forget his own name.

I tried to answer, but my tongue had apparently gone on strike. I cleared my throat twice. "Yes, ma'am, I do."

She laughed, a sound like wind chimes on a summer night. "And what would that be, Big Boy?"

"You, ma'am." I managed a smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace.

"Aren't you sweet..." She traced my jaw with a fingertip, sending shivers down my spine. "Not really, ma'am," I said, finally finding my footing. "But I could be, for you."

She grinned, eyes dancing. "Well, Big Boy, are you here to enjoy what Sam's Casino has to offer, or are you just gonna stand here and be the circle?"

"The circle?" I blinked, confused.

She gestured around us. "You're standing in the middle of a crowded casino, traffic swirling around you like a roundabout. You're the circle, sugar."

"Oh." It took a second for my brain to catch up. "Oh, shit." I blushed, ducking my head under my hat. She giggled, and I swear even her laughter was sexy.

"Let's get you out of the way and get you something to drink." Before I could protest, she grabbed my hand—small but strong, nails painted a deep, wicked red—and led me to a dimly lit lounge off the main floor. She pushed me down onto a red leather couch and, to my utter shock and delight, straddled my lap.

"Are you alright, Big Boy?" she asked, concern flickering in those velvet eyes.

I grunted, shifting uncomfortably. "Fine, it's just, uh..." I glanced down, mortified by the tent in my jeans.

She followed my gaze and grinned. "That's a common enough reaction around here, sugar. No need to be ashamed. Now, what'll you have? Whiskey? Brandy?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. I don't drink alcohol."

She cocked her head. "Not even beer?"

"No, ma'am." I shook my head, feeling about twelve years old.

"That's a first. Alright, water it is. What's your name, Big Boy?"

"I... I'm...Al...Alcide." Her fingers traced my cheek, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

"Pleased to meet you, Alcide." She leaned in, lips brushing my ear. "Around here, I'm known as The Stallion. But you can call me Tara. I'll be right back with your water."

Watching her walk away was the best kind of torture. I would've paid good money for a replay button.

I slouched down, closed my eyes, and tried to get myself under control. What the hell was wrong with me? Oh, right. I was a 22-year-old virgin who could talk a good game but had never actually played. Until now, I'd never been tongue-tied around a woman. Tara had me twisted up like a pretzel.

The couch dipped on either side of me, and then—pain. Blinding, searing pain. I doubled over, clutching myself. When I opened one eye, I saw Jake on my right and Hoyt on my left, both grinning like idiots.

Before I could curse them out, security swooped in and hauled them away. Tara reappeared, water in one hand, martini in the other.

"You okay?" she asked, kneeling in front of me.

"W-what the fuck just happened?" I snarled, my eyes flashing gold.

"Your buddies thought it'd be funny to give you a sack-tap. Security's bounced them for the night. That's a yearlong ban, by the way."

I managed a weak laugh. "Those are my pack-brothers. They like to bust my balls—literally. This is the first time they've done it in stereo, though."

She shook her head, eyes soft with sympathy. "Sorry, that's not cool."

"Not your fault, Miss Stallion. They're both bastards, in every sense."

She arched a perfect eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yes, ma'am." I started to elaborate, but she pressed a finger to my lips.

"No need to air your dirty laundry in a casino lounge. How about we find you a quieter spot? I'll get my friend, who's a doctor, to check you out."

I nodded, grateful. She called over a couple of bouncers, who helped me hobble to a private room off the lounge. I curled up on the couch, groaning. Tara ducked out and returned a few minutes later, now in skin-tight jeans and a white sweater that hugged every curve. She handed me a bottle of water and an ice pack.

"Dr. Ludwig will be here soon. In the meantime, ice up and try to relax."

I took the ice pack, pressing it to my aching groin. Bliss.

Tara sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me. "How many brothers do you have, Big Boy?"

"Please, call me Alcide. I grew up in a wolf pack in Jackson. Twelve pack brothers, plus a little sister, Janice."

Her eyes widened with each name. "What about you, Tara? Any siblings?"

She looked away, blushing. "Damn, Alcide, no one ever asks about me. It's always about the client."

"And what is your line of work, Tara?"

She smiled, a little sad. "Hostess, concierge. I wander the casino, make sure everyone's happy."

"So, I'm just a job then?" I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"At first, yeah. But then I saw the gold in your eyes, and when you blushed over your, uh, situation, you made my heart race."

"You had me the moment you walked by. The view from behind should be the eighth wonder of the world." She blushed, lowering her eyes.

The door opened, and an older man strode in, gruff and no-nonsense. "I hear you're the unfortunate victim of a testicle assault?"

I nodded, wary.

"I'm Dr. Patrick Ludwig. Drop your trousers, wolf-man."

It wasn't easy, but I managed. He poked, prodded, and pronounced me bruised but not broken. "Ice it, take Ibuprofen, and you'll live. Bruising'll last a few days, swelling should go down by morning."

He left as abruptly as he'd arrived. Before I could recover, Tara's lips were on mine—soft, gentle, but hungry. I pulled her closer, fingers tangling in her hair. The kiss deepened, slow and cautious, but electric.

The door banged open, and I jerked away, grimacing in pain. Tara sprang to her feet, facing the intruder.

"What the hell, Terry! Ever heard of knocking?"

"Aren't you supposed to be taking care of the client, Miss Stallion?"

"I thought I was, Terry." She shot me an apologetic look.

"Terry Bellefleur?" I asked, recognizing the voice.

He looked over, surprised. "Alcide Herveaux?"

I grinned through the pain. "It's me. Been what, seven, eight years?"

"Since the pack split," he said.

Tara looked between us. "How do you two know each other?"

"We grew up together in Jackson," Terry explained. "Lived next door till high school. Our moms are best friends. The last time I saw Alcide was at graduation."

Tara settled back on the couch, placing my head in her lap, fingers combing through my hair. I closed my eyes, sighing in pleasure.

Terry continued, "Since Alcide's out of commission, why don't I take you both to dinner later? We can catch up."

I nodded, Tara's nails sending shivers down my spine. "I'd like that, T-Dog."

"Al, what size are you? I'll send in some loose pants. Which pack-brother sacked you?"

"Thanks, man. 34x36. Jake and Hoyt."

Terry chuckled. "Sonofabitch. I'll get you sorted."

He left, and Tara leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. "You okay, Big Boy?"

"Better now," I murmured, turning to kiss her again.

She laughed, low and throaty. "You're trouble, Alcide Herveaux."

"Only the good kind," I promised.

She stroked my cheek, eyes softening. "You ever been in love, Alcide?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "I think I am right now."

She smiled, radiant. "Me too."

We sat there, tangled together, the sounds of the casino fading into the background. For the first time in a long time, I felt whole.

Later, after dinner with Terry—where we swapped stories, laughed until our sides hurt, and Tara charmed everyone in the room—I walked her back to her suite. The night was warm, the air thick with the promise of rain.

She turned to me at her door, eyes shining. "You want to come in, Big Boy?"

I grinned, heart pounding. "Hell yes."

Inside, she pressed me against the wall, her mouth hot and demanding. Clothes hit the floor in a flurry—her jeans, my borrowed sweatpants, her sweater, my shirt. She wore nothing underneath, skin warm and soft under my hands.

"Goddamn, Tara," I whispered, tracing the curve of her hip.

She smirked, eyes glinting. "You gonna stand there gawking, or you gonna show me what that wolf stamina's all about?"

I growled, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me down on top of her. Our mouths met, hungry and desperate, hands roaming, bodies pressed close.

"Touch me," she whispered, guiding my hand between her thighs.

I did, marveling at how wet she was, how ready. She arched into my touch, gasping my name.

"Are you sure?" I asked, voice rough.

She nodded, eyes locked on mine. "I want you, Alcide. All of you."

I slid inside her, slow and deep, and we both moaned at the sensation. She was tight, hot, perfect. I moved slow at first, savoring every inch, every gasp, every whispered curse.

"Harder," she demanded, nails digging into my back.

I obliged, thrusting harder, faster, until we were both lost in the rhythm, sweat slicking our bodies. She came first, crying out my name, and I followed, shuddering as I spilled inside her.

Afterward, we lay tangled together, catching our breath. She traced lazy circles on my chest, smiling.

"You're not so innocent after all, Big Boy."

I grinned, kissing her forehead. "Guess I had a good teacher."

She laughed, snuggling closer. "Happy anniversary, Alcide."

I blinked, surprised. "Anniversary?"

She nodded. "First night we met. I keep track of the important things."

I kissed her, slow and sweet. "Here's to many more."

She smiled, eyes shining. "As long as you promise not to let your pack-brothers anywhere near my casino ever again."

I laughed, holding her close. "Deal."

Outside, thunder rumbled, the promise of a storm. But inside, in Tara's arms, I was home.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

The next evening, Tara and Alcide decided to do something totally un-supernatural: eat an actual meal, in public, fully clothed.

They picked a low-key steakhouse just off the Shreveport strip, one of those wood-paneled joints where the lights were dim and the beer was cold. Alcide wore jeans that definitely didn't fit by accident, and Tara was rocking a red leather jacket and the kind of confidence that made grown men walk into tables.

She stabbed her fork into her mashed potatoes. "This is so much better than blood smoothies and half-naked bartenders."

Alcide smirked. "You're not still mad about that time Arlene gave you a pink drink and called it a 'True Tart,' are you?"

"I'm mad she served it with a goddamn crazy straw."

They were halfway through the meal, laughing about Pam's leather budget and Eric's centuries-long "I'm not jealous" phase, when Alcide froze mid-bite.

Tara followed his gaze—and groaned.

"Aw, hell."

Jason Stackhouse had just walked in, looking exactly like someone who accidentally fell into a Bass Pro Shops, got distracted by a squirrel, and walked out with a camo jacket and zero thoughts in his head.

"TARA?" he beamed, like a golden retriever who just found an old tennis ball. "Holy crap! Girl, you're alive!"

She deadpanned. "Technically. Let's not get philosophical."

Jason spotted Alcide. "Wait... is that you? Alcide Herveaux?"

Alcide sighed. "Hey, Jason."

Jason's eyes widened. "Man, I just saw a flyer at the gas station for some show called Lycans Unleashed. There was this dude in construction boots and no shirt who looked exactly like you."

Tara didn't even blink. "What a crazy coincidence."

Jason blinked. "Wait. It was you, huh?"

Alcide looked like he wanted to shift into a wolf and sprint through the walls.

Jason dropped into the booth uninvited, eyes wide. "You're a stripper now?! That's badass! You got theme songs and everything?"

Tara couldn't help it—she burst out laughing.

Alcide sighed, resigned. "Yeah, man. It's… complicated."

Jason leaned in, dead serious. "Do you think they'd let me try out? I've been practicing my body rolls to that 'Pony' song. You know—the one with all the grinding."

Tara wiped tears from her eyes. "You? On a pole?"

"I could do it!" Jason insisted. "I got moves. I once got banned from Merlotte's line dancing night for excessive thrusting."

Alcide choked on his beer.

Jason looked between them, then frowned. "Wait… are y'all together now?"

Tara glanced at Alcide. He shrugged, like it might as well be.

She smirked at Jason. "You jealous?"

Jason leaned back, all offended. "Pshh. No. I mean—maybe a little. You look hot, Tara. And Alcide, no offense, but you could probably crush me like a toothpick."

Alcide raised a brow. "I get that a lot."

Jason stood up, still beaming. "Well, I'm happy for y'all. Just don't forget the little people when y'all open your own strip club-slash-steakhouse. I got name ideas. Meat & Greet.Or The Full Moon Buffet."

He gave them both finger guns, winked, and walked straight into a coat rack on his way out.

Tara stared after him. "I swear, every time I think this world can't get weirder…"

Alcide leaned back, arm around her. "You hungry for dessert?"

"You mean like cheesecake or something else?"

He smirked. "Depends if we get it to go."

She grinned, kissed him slowly and deeply, then tossed a twenty on the table.

"Let's roll, Magic Mike."

It started, as most bad ideas did, with Jason Stackhouse.

"You guys gotta do the Couples Night audition at Lycans Unleashed," he said, munching fries like he was fueling up for a NASCAR pit stop. "It's two-for-one amateur night. You could win a thousand in cash and this big-ass bottle of body oil with glitter in it."

Tara blinked. "That's... horrifying."

Alcide rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Jason, we're not—"

"I'm just sayin'," Jason cut in, grinning. "Y'all are hot, you got chemistry, and Alcide already has tear-away pants. You're halfway there."

Somehow, that was the line that sold it.

Lycans Unleashed – 9:47 PM

The room reeked of cologne, fog machine fluid, and nervous testosterone. Couples were stretching, oiled, and glistening. Someone was applying rhinestones to a Speedo.

Tara eyed the competition. "We are too sober for this."

Alcide handed her a flask. "I planned ahead."

Jason waved from the DJ booth like a proud toddler at a talent show. "I told 'em y'all are goin' up last, so you can bring the heat."

"Jason," Tara muttered, "if you put 'Pony' on, I swear I'll kill you."

He cued up Pony.

Alcide gave her a crooked smile. "You ready?"

She stared at him, already flushed from the tequila. "You are literally wearing a firefighter hat and breakaway pants."

"I aim to please."

Tara bit back a grin. "Let's burn the place down, baby."

They took the stage like two predators who'd just realized foreplay could pay rent. Alcide started the dance slowly, hips rolling like a man who knew every beat of this song. The crowd lost their minds.

Tara followed, strutting in red leather and smirking like she ran the underworld. When she spun into Alcide's arms and straddled his lap for a reverse-grind, someone in the audience fainted.

Jason screamed, "THAT'S MY FRIEND!"

Tara and Alcide nailed the final move—a dip, a body roll, a kiss that was not acting—and left the stage to thunderous applause.

They won the contest. They got the cash and the glitter oil. They took it and ran.

Later That Night – Tara's Apartment

Alcide pressed her up against the kitchen counter before she could finish laughing.

"You were amazing," he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw. "You were... perfect."

Tara sighed, her hands slipping beneath his shirt. "You mean ridiculous."

"I mean electric."

He lifted her onto the counter like she weighed nothing, crowding her hips with his. "You want more?"

"I want everything," she whispered.

Their mouths met, desperate and deep. Clothes came off between rooms. She tugged at his waistband, and he nipped at her collarbone. They tumbled into bed like something hungry, wild, and finally safe.

Tara arched beneath him, her fingers tangled in his hair. "You really gonna use the glitter oil?"

Alcide grinned against her skin. "Only if you beg."

"I don't beg, wolfboy."

"Then I'll make you want to."

And he did.

The room filled with soft moans and golden laughter, moonlight striping the sheets. For once, there were no vampires, no fangs, no danger at the door.

Just two broken, beautiful souls tangled together—finally choosing each other, over and over again.

Chapter Text

The place smelled like baby oil, dollar bills, and broken dreams.

Lycans Unleashed was nestled between a bait shop and a vape lounge on the outskirts of Shreveport, pulsing with neon and regret. Outside, a flickering sign promised "Full Moon Frenzy: Couples Amateur Night – Win $1,000 and Eternal Humiliation!"

Tara looked up at it, arms crossed. "You know, when I was a little girl dreaming of supernatural stardom, this wasn't exactly what I pictured."

Alcide adjusted the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, which held his "costume"—read: a button-down shirt with buttons pre-snapped for easy removal, black jeans that looked too tight to be legal, and enough cologne to clear a room of lesser vamps.

"You wanna bail?" he asked, jaw tense.

Tara took a slow look around—at the drunk bridesmaids teetering inside, the werewolf bouncer scratching his chin with claws out, and the vampire pole-dancer casually hovering six feet off the ground while spinning upside down.

Then she smirked. "Hell no. I came to win some glitter oil and dignity's not payin' the bills."

They walked in like a couple of bad decisions wrapped in leather and low expectations.

The MC was a gremlin-shifter in a rhinestone jumpsuit, already several shots deep into a bottle of something neon. "Let's hear it for our next couple: Big Bad Alcide and his Vixen of Voodoo!"

Tara choked. "Vixen of—he did not just—"

Alcide was already halfway to the stage, tugging off his shirt with a sigh of defeat. "You better hex me a backup career after this."

Tara climbed up behind him, eyes flashing red for just a second. "I gotchu, wolfman."

Their music cue?

"Pony." Obviously.

As the beat dropped, Alcide rolled his hips in a way that made three bachelorette parties scream in unison and someone throw a bra shaped like bat wings. Tara grabbed the mic stand, spun it like a staff, and did a full split that had one goblin bartender whisper, "Holy Mary of Merlotte's."

At one point, Alcide picked her up like she weighed nothing and flipped her onto his shoulder, growling low enough that half the club trembled. "Tara responded by smacking his ass—hard—and a mischievous, golden light danced around her fingertips as the crowd howled."

By the end of their routine, glitter was everywhere, someone had passed out from excitement (or a poorly timed glamor), and Tara was laughing so hard her boob nearly popped out.

They didn't win.

(First place went to a banshee and her minotaur boyfriend who did an interpretive dance to Celine Dion.)

But as Alcide and Tara stumbled offstage, breathless and giddy, he leaned in, forehead against hers.

"Next time, we just go bowling."

Tara grinned. "Only if you wear the tear-away pants."

He kissed her like a man who had absolutely no regrets.

And she kissed him back like a woman who finally knew exactly what kind of magic she wanted.

🐺🧙🏽‍♀️🪄💗

Tara woke up on Alcide's couch, one leg over his, both of them tangled in a blanket that smelled like sandalwood and bad decisions. Her thighs were sore, her arms were sore, and her ego was sore.

"You movin'?" Alcide mumbled into her shoulder.

"Nope," she groaned. "If I move, the glitter activates again."

"You look like a disco ball exploded on you."

She squinted at him. "You say that like it's not sexy."

He grinned. "I didn't say it wasn't."

They lay there a moment longer, the silence filled with the faint hum of local radio and the occasional squirrel thumping across the roof.

Then Tara sat up like she'd been shot. "We're broke."

Alcide blinked at her. "Well, yeah."

"No, like really broke. Like...one-month-left-of-rent broke. I got spell supplies to buy, herbs to grow, and my boss ain't exactly paying me PTO for my time as a walking public service announcement."

Alcide scratched his chest. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

Tara looked at him sideways. "That we sell your bathwater to supernatural fetish forums?"

He blinked. "...Okay, no, but now I am."

She snorted. "We need a hustle."

And so, the 'Grift era began.

🪄🧙🏽‍♀️🐺💗

The first hustle: Howlin' Hearts Tarot Readings (Live from the Truck Bed)

Tara set up a milk crate table, draped a purple cloth over it, and started doing readings outside Merlotte's from the bed of Alcide's beat-up pickup. The humid Shreveport air clung to them, thick with the scent of magnolias and questionable decisions.

Alcide stood shirtless next to her, flexing a bicep as he held a hand-painted sign that declared: "WOLF VIBES INCLUDED – Inquire Within (or Just Stare)."

"I pulled Death reversed," she told one drunk client, a woman whose mascara was halfway down her cheeks. "For the third time today."

"What does that mean?" the woman slurred, leaning in so close Tara could smell cheap whiskey and desperation.

"It means your situationship is trash," Tara deadpanned, flicking a stray glitter speck off the tarot card, "and you should block him on all planes of existence. And maybe burn some sage."

The client nodded solemnly, pulling out a crumpled twenty. "That tracks. You got any of that sage on you?"

"Honey, I got sage everywhere," Tara murmured, already shuffling for the next mark.

The next one was: Alcide's Personalized 'Growl Grams'

The sign quickly changed: "WOLF WHISPERS & GROWL GRAMS! $50 per growl. $75 if shirtless. $100 if shirtless and mad (negotiable for full moon rates)."

Tara took the calls, her phone buzzing with increasingly bizarre requests. Alcide, surprisingly, excelled at the deliveries. One bachelorette party requested him to bust into their Airbnb yelling, "WHO TOUCHED MY MATE?" and then, with a perfectly straight face, offer a handmade flower crown. The squeals were deafening, the tips astronomical.

The best one yet: Protection Charms and Body Butter Bundles:

Tara's entrepreneurial spirit truly blossomed. She started selling "Hex Ya Ex" charm bags—tiny black sachets filled with graveyard dirt and broken promises—alongside "Bless Your Booty" shea butter, which shimmered with iridescent glitter. They moved fast, especially after one particularly potent charm accidentally made someone's cheating boyfriend break out in hives every time he lied. The poor man couldn't even order a coffee without a fresh rash appearing.

Alcide, wiping sweat from his brow, called that one "unintentional quality control."

By the end of the week, they were $327 richer, sunburned, half-viral on WitchTok (a video of Alcide trying to explain the complexities of werewolf pack dynamics to a confused tourist had amassed thousands of views), and more entangled than either of them expected.

They were still sleeping on couches, still fighting off the weird ache of the past—Lafayette, Debbie, the lingering scent of stale blood and heartbreak—but something was shifting. Alcide caught himself making two coffees in the morning without thinking.

Tara caught herself humming a blues tune while folding his shockingly large collection of plaid shirts. And when he brought her a peach smoothie during a heatwave and she kissed his cheek instead of cussing him out for dripping on her spellbook?

He grinned for like twenty minutes, a big, wolfy, delighted grin.

That night, while counting tip money on the floor of their dingy motel room, surrounded by empty soda cans and a faint aura of forgotten incense...

"You know we still gotta pay taxes on this, right?" Alcide said, his voice a low rumble.

Tara groaned, burying her face in a pile of singles. "Can we please just enjoy our illegal hustle era without the IRS energy, wolfman? I'm trying to manifest some financial freedom, not an audit."

He leaned back against the peeling wallpaper, watching her with those intense, golden eyes. "We're a pretty good team, you know." The words were soft, almost a whisper.

She glanced at him, one perfectly arched brow raised. "Who knew a werewolf with a fear of commitment and a hoodoo dropout with an impulse control problem could make capitalism their bitch?"

Alcide shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "Stranger things have happened in this state. Hell, Sookie dated a vampire."

She paused, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. "You ever think...we could do more than just hustle? Like...build somethin'?" The words hung in the air, heavier than the Louisiana humidity.

His voice dropped, becoming a rough velvet. "You mean like a business? Or like...a life?"

Tara met his gaze. Didn't blink. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the motel's ancient AC. "Maybe both."

Alcide leaned in, brushing a stray braid off her shoulder, his fingers lingering for a beat too long. The air between them crackled. "Then let's start tomorrow."

She smiled, a hint of genuine hope in her eyes. "You're paying for breakfast, then."

"Fine," he said, a mock growl rumbling in his chest. "But you're wearin' the glitter oil. And no grumbling."

Chapter Text

The sun, bright and unforgiving, was already slanting through Alcide's living room window when Tara finally untangled herself from his arms. She stretched, groaning as her muscles protested.

 She felt... different. 

Not just the residual glow of last night's successful (if legally dubious) hustle, but a hum under her skin, a quiet click into place. Alcide was still mostly asleep, a low rumble in his chest, his golden fur-dusted arm heavy around her waist.

She nudged him with her foot. "Breakfast, wolfman. You promised."

He mumbled something that sounded like "five more minutes of Tara-scented blanket."

"Five more minutes of not eatin' is what it is," she countered, already heading for the kitchen. "And I ain't wearin' no glitter oil. That stuff's still in my hair."

A moment later, he followed her, shirtless and yawning, leaning against the doorframe as she rummaged through his meager pantry. "So, 'buildin' somethin''," he said, his voice raspy. "You got a plan, witch?"

Tara pulled out a box of stale cereal and a half-empty carton of milk. "Always got a plan. We got the muscle, we got the magic. 

People got problems. 

Supernatural problems, mostly. 

We put 'em together. We solve 'em. We get paid." She poured the cereal. "Think 'supernatural concierge service,' but with more growling and less polite smiles. We'll be 'Mystic & Muscle: Supernatural Solutions.' Catchy, right? You're the 'Muscle,' obviously. I'm the 'Mystic.' We'll charge by the hour, plus hazardous material fees for anything involving demon slime or residual glamour."

Alcide straightened, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "You mean like... for real? Ghost bustin'? Hex breakin'?"

"Exactly! We'll make a flyer. You can flex for the picture."

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Flex for the... Right. So, what's our first big case, Mystic? Besides me gettin' breakfast." He walked over, plucked the cereal box from her hand, and started pouring it directly into his mouth.

Their first foray into "Supernatural Solutions" was less a grand case and more a street-level shakedown. They were in Shreveport, Tara trying to pawn off some "blessed" (read: mildly sparkly) crystals at a flea market, when they spotted him: a greasy-haired man selling "Genuine Sasquatch Hair Lucky Charms."

"Alcide, look!" Tara hissed, pulling him by the arm. "He's peddlin' garbage! We can do better than that!"

Alcide squinted. "That's probably just cat hair."

"Exactly! And people are PAYIN' for it!" Tara's eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. "Okay, new plan. You go over there, look really disappointed. Say your charm didn't work. And then I come in with the 'real' solution."

Alcide grumbled, but ambled over. "Excuse me, pal," he drawled, holding up a pathetic, matted tuft of "Sasquatch" hair. "This here 'Lucky Charm' you sold me? Didn't work. My truck still broke down. My ex still won't call." He made his voice sound truly heartbroken.

Just then, Tara, in a dramatic swoosh of a cheap velvet shawl, appeared beside him. "Oh, dear sir!" she exclaimed, a hand pressed to her chest. "I sense a deep... blockage in your aura! This poor man," she gestured dramatically at Alcide, "has been sold a counterfeit charm! Its energies are misaligned!"

The vendor looked alarmed. "Hey, lady, what're you talkin' about?"

"I'm talkin' about the truth!" Tara declared. "Your 'Sasquatch' hair has been tainted by... negative vibrations! But fear not! For a small fee, I, Tara Mae, Mystic Extraordinaire, can perform a complete aura recalibration and imbue a truly powerful charm with positive energy!" She pulled out a small, unusually shiny pebble from her pocket.

Alcide, trying not to laugh, managed a woeful nod. "Sounds about right. My luck's been somethin' fierce."

The vendor, clearly intimidated by Alcide's looming presence and Tara's theatricality, quickly offered a refund and scurried away. Tara pocketed the money, giving Alcide a triumphant wink.

"See? Cleaned up that mess," she whispered. "And we got our first bit of capital. We just gotta lean into the performance, wolfman."

Their first official case came via a crumpled napkin left under a rock outside Merlotte's. It read, in shaky handwriting: "Help! My antique dolls are possessed! They're singin' opera and movin' their eyes! Ask for Maeve – The Rusty Relic Emporium."

"Opera-singing dolls," Alcide muttered, steering his pickup down a dusty back road. "This is officially weirder than the strip club."

"No such thing as too weird when you're broke," Tara shot back, clutching a bag filled with sage, salt, and what looked suspiciously like a rubber chicken. "Besides, if it's real poltergeist activity, that's good money. If it's just some old lady losin' her marbles, we still charge for the house call. It's called a 'diagnostic fee.'"

🔥🐺👏🏽🧙🏽‍♀️

The Rusty Relic Emporium lived up to its name. It was a ramshackle building overflowing with dusty furniture, tarnished silver, and an unsettling number of porcelain dolls. The air inside was thick with the smell of mothballs and something else... something faintly electric, like ozone before a storm.

Maeve, a tiny woman with a perpetually surprised expression and a hairnet, wrung her hands. "They started last night! Always the 'Queen of the Night' aria! And then Agnes, the one with the blue dress, winked at me!"

Tara eyed the doll collection, a shiver running down her spine. "Alright, Alcide, keep an eye out for anything... moving. And try not to sniff the dust too much. I'm gonna scope the energy." She pulled out a small crystal on a chain, letting it swing.

As Tara moved through the aisles, muttering incantations and waving her crystal, Alcide leaned down, peering at a doll with particularly vacant eyes. Suddenly, a tiny, almost inaudible giggle echoed through the store. He froze, his ears twitching.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered to Tara.

"Hear what?" she said, then gasped. Her crystal was spinning wildly, pointing directly at a display case filled with miniature fairy figurines. "Hold on... this ain't no poltergeist. This feels... fey."

Just then, a small, glittering blue blur zipped past Alcide's ear. He instinctively swatted at it, missing. "Fey? You mean, like, little sparkly annoyances that steal your socks?"

"Exactly!" Tara snapped. "And it feels like there's a whole damn swarm of 'em! Probably attracted to all this old energy and decided to prank Maeve's dolls. They love messin' with humans. Especially the ones with hairnets." She quickly pulled out her rubber chicken. "Distraction spell! Brace yourself!"

Before Alcide could ask, Tara flung the rubber chicken at the nearest doll case. It hit with a comical thwack, and suddenly, the air was filled with a cacophony of tiny, furious squeaks and a flurry of iridescent wings. Dozens of miniature, brightly colored sprites—not fairies, but tiny, mischievous air elementals—flashed into view, indignant at the poultry projectile.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Alcide growled, as one of the sprites zipped down and pulled a handful of hair from his arm. "They bite! And they're pullin'!"

"Don't let 'em get to your fur! It'll itch for weeks! And try not to eat 'em!" Tara yelled, already trying to cast a banishing spell. But her magic, still a little unwieldy, seemed to just make them angrier. The sprites began zipping around faster, knocking over vases, sending antique spoons clattering, and even attempting to untie Maeve's hairnet.

"We need to herd them out!" Alcide roared, transforming his hands into furry, clawed paws, though he kept his full shift contained. He began stomping lightly, clapping his hands together, acting like a giant, grumpy sheepdog. The sprites, surprised by the sudden, loud werewolf, scattered.

Tara, seeing his tactic, adjusted her spell. Instead of banishing them, she focused on guiding them. She chanted, her voice rising, waving her hands in sweeping motions, creating currents of warm, inviting air towards the open front door.

Together, Alcide growling and clapping, Tara coaxing with her nascent wind magic, they managed to shoo the furious little elementals out of The Rusty Relic Emporium and into the afternoon sun, where they zipped off towards a nearby patch of dandelions.

Maeve, pale but relieved, handed them a wad of bills. "Thank you, thank you! They stopped singin'! And Agnes ain't winkin' no more!"

As they walked back to the truck, Alcide picked a stray bit of glitter—left over from the sprites—from his shoulder. "Well, that was... something. You owe me an itch cream."

"It's just glitter, wolfman, builds character!" Tara was grinning, a wild, exhilarated look on her face. "We did it! First real job, done! And it only involved minimal property damage and no permanent hexes!"

"Minimal is a strong word," he muttered, but then his eyes met hers. "Alright, what's next? Any other haunted appliances? My nose says that old fridge at Merlotte's needs an 'ectoplasmic cleansing.'"

Tara laughed, a bright, unburdened sound. "Funny you should mention it. Got a call about a toaster oven in Bon Temps that keeps incinerating Pop-Tarts and humming the theme song to  General Hospital. Might be a minor electrical gremlin, might be a bored demon. Either way, we charge for the 'exorcism.' Think you can wrestle a possessed toaster?"

He looked at her, his golden eyes warm. "You're somethin' else, Tara Mae."

She bumped his arm. "And you're a big, furry problem-solver. Who knew? We actually make a damn good team, wolfman."

He nodded slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah. Who knew?" He reached out, taking her hand, his large, rough fingers wrapping around hers. "So, next time, maybe we get an actual contract? And a hazmat suit? For the demon slime."

Tara squeezed his hand. "Details, details. As long as we're doin' it together. And maybe we invest in some better bait than a rubber chicken."

"Or less bitey fae," Alcide added, still scratching his arm.