Title: The Seven Year Itch

Pairing: Pam/Tara

Rating: T

Synopsis: After seven years of domestic bliss, Pam's primal urges get the best of her.

Read me: This story exists in the same universe as all my previous snapshots and takes place after "What's A Year". Not sure where I'll go after this, but I'm always willing to take cues from your requests, thread comments, and reviews, which are very much appreciated. As were the kind words I received about my little buddy (who's doing well 11 days post-op). Thanks a million to everyone who took the time. No musical truck in this story, but I did attempt to set my monocle aside and throw in a little more…unf in this fic than usual for your general amusement.

Hands smoothing over the curves of her leather clad hips, Pam turned to scrutinize herself in the full-length mirror she'd received from her progeny seven years prior. The hand carved Namibian antique was merely the same age as she was and clashed with everything she placed it near, but the style conscious vampire loved it just the same.

"I wanted to give you something I knew you'd actually use" had been Tara's wry words when she presented her with the gift.

Taking one last look at herself in her new black lace and leather peplum dress, Pam grabbed a matching black clutch and headed for the sound of her partner's voice.

"Garlic? Really?" Tara spoke loudly. "This shit is so dumb."

"And yet you're still watchin'," Pam jibed quietly as she stepped into the sitting room where Tara was in the midst of watching one of the most ridiculous movies ever made.

A sigh escaped Pam's dramatically red lips as she took in the scene of her once adventurous lover gripping a bottle of vile tasting True Blood like it was mother's milk. Where did I go wrong, she wondered to herself.

It was Friday night. Vampires all across London were out for sex and blood and her own progeny was loafing around the house in sweats like an old mainstreamer. It wasn't enough that she worked for them, now she had to go and start acting like them.

"That's right, Rita, beat his ass," Tara called out to the TV as Angela Bassett's character in the movie flipped a badly disguised Eddie Murphy over a table.

Pam rolled her eyes mightily, wondering how she could have ended up with someone who considered "Vampire in Brooklyn" a cinematic masterpiece. After several heated debates over the satirical merits of now thirty four year old movie, she simply gave up trying to make sense of her partner's taste.

Eyes riveted by the HD holographic projection screen that Pam secretly wanted to smash into pieces, Tara seemed not to notice Pam's presence in the room. Hand on hip, the blonde tapped her six inch stiletto clad foot.

Nothing.

Stepping forward, she came to a stop directly in front of Tara's field of vision.

"Hey, this is the funniest part," Tara complained tetchily as the tall vampire blocked her view of the screen. Barely rising, she pulled Pam into her lap and out of the way.

"Antiquated stereotypes about our kind? Hilarious," Pam replied sarcastically.

"C'mon, it's comedy," Tara defended as her arms encircled Pam's waist.

Pam had grown to adore these little domestic moments with Tara, but tonight she needed more. And one way or another she was going to have it. She knew riling Tara up was petty, but their make-up sex was anything but.

"So was Amos n' Andy," Pam challenged.

Tara's hold on the pale vampire loosened as the racial comparison sank in. Seventeen years prior a comment like that would have set Tara off for sure, but a great deal had changed since then. In Pam, the once quick-tempered woman found the steadfast love she'd always dreamed of. And with that came a sense of serenity she never thought possible. Whether verbal or physical, all of Tara's battles were carefully chosen now.

"You know what? I'm not even gonna get into it with you right now," Tara remarked before turning her attention back to the movie.

"No surprise there," Pam lamented. It seemed nothing she said or did lately could incite her partner. It wasn't that they no longer had sex. To the contrary, the frequency and duration of their romps was still impressive by human and vampire standards alike. Still, she wanted more. There was a need deep within in her that never felt sated.

It would be easier, Pam supposed, if she took other lovers, if she wanted other lovers. But the curious fact was she didn't. She found the very notion of anyone else touching her thoroughly repulsive. While Pam had her fair share of fun toying with the humans she fed on, never would she allow them to attempt to please her. She didn't need to endure their clumsy efforts to know it would be for naught.

When it came to sex, Pam was something of a Stradivarius; many sought to possess her, few were fit to touch her, and fewer still had the talent to properly handle her. But when it came to her maker, Tara was nothing short of a virtuoso. Often, as their lovemaking reached a crescendo, Pam couldn't help but cry out in ways that still surprised her.

The thought alone was enough to make her shiver.

Feeling the slight tremble, Tara eyed Pam suspiciously. "You OK?" She asked in a stalwart southern accent that even years of living abroad couldn't change.

"Just peachy," Pam answered with a disingenuous smile before pushing off of Tara's lap.

For the first time Tara allowed her eyes to scan the length of the leggy vampire. Her dress was tight in all the right places, her spiked heels were dangerously sexy, her make-up was impeccable, and her blonde hair was neatly pulled back in an elegant ponytail.

"Goin' somewhere?" Tara inquired absentmindedly as she took in the sight.

"Oh no, I just put on this quaint four thousand dollar ensemble to do a little light housework," Pam replied sweetly before leaning down to give her progeny a demure peck on the cheek. "Don't wait up," She purred in Tara's ear as she rose.

Looking both turned on and baffled, Tara watched intently as Pam sashayed out of the room. Setting her bottle of True Blood aside, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Was that standard bitch mode or passive aggressive bitch mode?

The front door slammed shut.

After nearly eighteen years with the prickly vampire, Tara was annoyed and embarrassed to discover she couldn't tell.

Generally if Pam had a problem with anything she came right out and said it, but lately Tara got the sense that there was something she wasn't being told. What it was, she had no idea. All she knew was that Pam seemed more sarcastic, which was no mean feat, and less satisfied with her.

Tara remembered how things were when she'd just returned from Namibia. Scarcely able to keep their hands off each other, they locked themselves away in their bedroom for days and vowed to never again part.

In those days Pam looked at Tara like she was a newly discovered world wonder. These days she looked at her like an untidy room she couldn't figure out how to sort.

What changed in those seven years?

Tara pulled off her sweats and gave herself the once over. Physically she hadn't changed. Her body was just as taut and well muscled. Her silky brown skin was just as smooth. Her breasts were just as full. And though she now kept it just below shoulder length, her hair was just as soft.

If anything, Tara thought she'd gotten better with age. Not only was she smarter and more sensible, she was happy. Her restlessness subsided and she finally felt settled.

…Settled.

The word stood out starkly in Tara's thoughts. Perhaps she had become too settled, too comfortable. Her brows creased as she suddenly considered the possibility that Pam was growing bored with her and their relationship.

She considered their sex life. Sure, it wasn't as feverish as it had once been. But the passion was still there. On the recent occasion that they brought a human into the mix they ended up ignoring her until she grabbed her clothes and walked out, fed on, fed up, and forgotten.

Tara was certain of Pam's love for her. What she didn't know was whether that love was enough to sustain them. Considering her options, she quickly realized losing the relationship she cherished above all else wasn't one of them.

Her battles may have been carefully chosen now, but Tara would go to war with the devil himself if it meant keeping Pam by her side.

Flicking the movie off, the newly incited vampire flew upstairs to get ready.

After taking approximately fifteen minutes to shower and dress, Tara ran back down the stairs wearing a flimsy white tank top, tight black pants, and an ancient pair of blue chucks that not so mysteriously kept landing in the rubbish bin. She stopped dead as she reached the front door. Lafayette's disembodied voice sounded in her head.

Seriously, hooka, this the best you could do?

Zipping back upstairs, she ran out of the Edwardian townhouse seconds later wearing the studded leather Balmain jacket she knew Pam adored her in.

It wasn't until Tara reached her two-wheeled ride that she realized she didn't know where the hell she was going. Inhaling deeply, she caught the subtle scent of her partner lingering in the damp evening air. Tara could smell Pam's blood, her vanilla bean scented shampoo, and the "fancy ass perfume" she only wore on special occasions.

Tara's mouth fell open as she considered the implications of Pam's perfume choice. Not wanting to waste another second, she hopped on her streamlined red motorcycle, revved up and sped off like a turbocharged bat out of hell.

Everyone of the determined vampire's preternatural instincts were working overtime as she weaved in and out of traffic at speeds that would have gotten her killed or arrested if she wasn't an immortal with a faster ride than anything the London Police Department possessed its aging fleet.

Cutting curbs and detouring down side streets, Tara drifted, hopped, and skidded around pedestrians, stray cats, vicious potholes, and distracted motorists in an effort to find her elusive partner.

As she drove deeper into the city, the combination of car exhaust, restaurants, pubs, and Friday night revelers made it increasingly difficult to track Pam. On more than one occasion Tara found herself speeding back down a street she'd just zoomed up.

Approaching a busy intersection, she debated whether to cut right or left. The decision came a split second too late and her bike got sideswiped by a turning van.

"Agh, fer fook sake! My wife's gonna fookin' slay me," The driver cried as he jumped out to survey the damage to his vehicle. He turned to Tara and her bent up motorcycle as an afterthought.

"Don't worry, I'm already dead," Tara reassured sarcastically.

One of the oldest and most exclusive members only vampire clubs in the city, the Underground catered to London's blood drinking elite. Unlike mainstream clubs where humans and vampires mingled as equals, the Underground was devoid of pretense. Humans were purely for enjoyment and consumption in the subterranean den of iniquity. An assortment of attractive escorts waited behind closed doors in the back rooms for VIP members while expensive bottled options were available upfront.

Unlike fangbanger haunts like Fangtasia, the Underground's décor was far from kitschy. With a clientele that included prominent vampires from Australia to Zimbabwe, everything in the well-appointed club was made with the finest materials from around the world. The mahogany paneling was sourced from Brazil and hand carved in England. The dark buttoned leather seats were fashioned in Italy. The chandeliers were French. The walnut bar had been salvaged from an antiques dealer in Chicago. Even the bottles of blood lining the walls were internationally sourced.

Blood was king in the Underground and True Blood was slop that wasn't fit to be sold, much less consumed. And that's why the venue was such a well-kept secret. Membership was more than most vampires could ever dream of affording. Thus, most vampires didn't even know it existed. And, as owner of the unlawful club, that's the way Pam preferred to keep it.

Sat in the corner of the modern vampire speakeasy, Pam kept a low profile. None of the patrons had any idea who she was. Even the staff was in the dark about the full extent of her ownership. With the amount of blood and money pumping into the Underground, the less people knew the better.

The last thing Pam wanted was to become the target of some ambitious thug or, even worse, the law. More importantly, she wanted to protect her progeny from becoming a target. While Tara knew Pam had long ago invested in a club, she knew little more than that.

A wave of guilt washed over the contemplative vampire as she thought of all she'd been keeping from the one with whom she was meant to share everything.

"I need a drink," She grumbled to herself.

To Pam's surprise a drink abruptly appeared, delivered by a handsome human waiter. "Compliments of the lady at the bar," The server spoke as he set a wine glass half full of thick, dark cherry colored fluid down on the table in front of her.

Dismissing the man with a curt look, she shifted her artic blue eyes to the bar. There she caught sight of a tawny skinned brunette staring fixedly at her. Having diligently kept an up to date file on each and every member, Pam immediately recognized the vampire as Xiomara Vargas.

A foster kid from Washington Heights, Xiomara spent the majority of her youth bouncing from home to home until she aged out of the system in the late nineteen nineties. After nearly a decade of getting locked up for petty offenses and blood whoring, she caught the eye of Liz Peña, the current queen of New York. Overnight Xiomara went from street hustler to kept vampire. But if recent rumors were to be believed, Liz was tired of footing the bill for her young progeny's high-end lifestyle.

With a subdued nod of her head, Pam acknowledged Xiomara. Her thoughts promptly returned to Tara. A gentle expression overtook Pam's normally inscrutable features as an image of her progeny sitting up in their bed with a book came to mind. Trailing a perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her wine glass, the blonde wondered how she could be so conflicted.

She'd left Tara at home because she was bored. Now, surrounded by cheap thrills, all she could do was daydream of Tara doing the humdrum things she always did.

"I can get you something else if you're not into it," A surprisingly endearing voice penetrated Pam's thoughts. Her brow quirked as she looked up into Xiomara Vargas' mischievous brown eyes.

"That won't be necessary," Pam answered in a sinuous English lilt. After years away from her adopted home of Louisiana, the native Londoner would deftly shift accents to suit whatever circumstance she happened to find herself in.

Sometimes Pam would employ Received Pronunciation to blend in at some classy gathering. Other times she used it to intimidate and deter people from asking more questions than she was willing to answer. And then there were instances when she cranked up her southern drawl and played the country bumpkin simply because most dropped their guard upon assuming she was a dumb American tourist.

Clearly undeterred by the posh accent, the brunette boldly took a seat opposite Pam.

"Ugh, I freakin' love the way you guys talk," Xiomara declared as she scooted into the booth. "Sexy as hell," She finished, nodding to emphasize her words.

Pam's eyes narrowed on the brash vampire, who looked even younger up close than she did from across the room. She was roughly Tara's age and height, but her ego towered over the southerner's.

"Sorry," Xiomara said in way that told Pam she hadn't an ounce of shame left to be sincerely apologetic about anything. "I'm a little tipsy right now. A little A plus goes, zzzip, straight to my head," She continued, gesticulating vaguely.

Pam glanced down at the untouched glass of A positive sitting in front of her.

"Was kinda hoping it'd have the same effect on you," Xiomara admitted with a roguish grin.

At least she was honest, Pam thought with a smile that didn't quite reach her lips.

"You always this chatty?" The cocky New Yorker questioned.

"Would you believe I've been rendered speechless by your charm?" Pam barbed smoothly, spurring Xiomara to sink back into her seat as if she'd been mortally wounded.

Descending glass stairs into the dimly lit lounge area of the Underground, Tara immediately picked up on the sound of her maker's voice. Hastily stepping foot into the bar for the first time, her eyes quickly found Pam's. Scarcely taking the time to read them, she approached and sat beside the dark-haired vampire she didn't at all recognize.

"There you are," Tara breathed exhaustedly before taking a swig of the glass of A positive on the table. It had always been her least favorite blood type, and she was reminded why as the bitter aftertaste struck her palate.

"Blech, I hope you weren't plannin' on drinkin' that nasty shit," Tara exclaimed with disgust, addressing the brunette at the table for the first time.

"Who the fuck are you?" Xiomara asked, her brows furrowing menacingly.

"Tara Mae Thornton," Tara introduced herself in a friendly, down home sort of way. "Who the fuck are you?" She queried back with a condescending smirk that made Pam smile in kind.

Interpreting this as a challenge, Xiomara uncovered her unusually large fangs.

"Put your fangs away, bitch, this ain't Animal Planet," Tara instructed calmly before shifting her attention to Pam. "Come home with me," She questioned and demanded at the same time. Although Tara's tone was confident, her expression was anything but.

She said a silent thank you when Pam rose and quickly strode toward the exit.

"Thanks for the drank," were Tara's parting words to the fuming brunette as she slipped out of the booth to follow Pam's lead.

Emerging from the club's secret alleyway entrance, the duo was immediately confronted with a bloody mess. Recognizing the goo to be the remains of Earl, one of the Underground's oldest and burliest bouncers, Pam shot Tara an accusatory look.

Without a word Tara stepped over the gooey puddle formerly known as Earl. Turning back, she nimbly lifted Pam up by her waist, transported her over the blood, and set her down within kissing distance.

"He started it," Tara defended childishly, unwittingly shattering what little was left of Pam's reserve. Her back collided roughly with a brick wall as she was suddenly and vigorously kissed.

Overwhelmed with need for the younger vampire, Pam ended the kiss as quickly as she initiated it. "What?" Tara asked hazily, peering at her with eyes that looked as though they were fashioned out of obsidian. In lieu of a response, Pam took Tara's hand and shamelessly guided it beneath her dress to cup the evidence of her desire.

Tara couldn't help but moan as she realized her typically selective partner needed her so badly she was ready to be taken in what was perhaps the filthiest alley in all of London. As hot as that was, she wasn't about to fuck the woman she loved amidst the smell of piss and undead biohazard.

"Let me take you home," Tara offered in a way that made Pam feel like she was a living jewel.

I can wait another twenty minutes, the usually self-possessed vampire told herself as she nodded deferentially against Tara's forehead.

It was a blatant lie.

From the moment they boarded the black cab, the women were all over each other. Their scandalized driver considered pulling over and politely asking them to stop or get out altogether. That is until she caught a glimpse of their pearly white fangs.

Resigned to her fate, the hack drove along as if two bloodthirsty creatures weren't fucking like mad in the back of her car. With the amount passion-fueled profanity, pants, and moans that sounded from the fangers, it was no easy task. At a stoplight, the driver hazarded a look behind her. What she found made her go beet red.

Her tawdry excuse for a dress pooling around her waist, the fair one was riding the swarthy one like it was an Olympic sport and she was determined to win gold.

With wide eyes, the hack snapped her attention back to road. Before long, curiosity got the best of her and she stole one last glimpse at the couple through her rearview mirror.

They were kissing so fervently now it looked as though they were getting stoned off each other's lips. The blonde suddenly went rigid. Surely she'd been kissed to death.

Shaking her head, the beleaguered driver would spend the rest of the ride trying to comprehend how a kiss could look more lascivious than a shag.

"What happened to your bike?" Pam murmured as she settled back down to Earth.

"Wrecked it," Tara answered casually while slowly returning her fingers to soft, slick refuge they'd partially withdrawn from a second earlier. "What happened to your panties?" She asked with a knowing grin, burrowing deeper.

"I wanted to..." Pam breathed, barely able to keep her train of thought.

"Beg pardon?" Tara asked facetiously, clearly enjoying herself.

"To make things easier for you," Pam continued with a moan.

"Just me?" Tara prodded gently.

"Always," Pam confirmed sincerely as she slowly undulated against her partner. Even in the aftermath of her climax, she couldn't help but want more. Pam's craving for Tara was like an itch that could never be fully scratched.

Neither of the vampires made any attempt to rise when the taxi slowed to a stop in front of their house. The driver noisily cleared her throat and flipped on her cabin lights, that she now wished were ultraviolet, to spur them out of her cab.

Extricating herself from Tara, Pam adjusted her wrinkled dress with as much dignity possible given the circumstances and climbed out of the car.

"Appreciate it," Tara thanked the driver as she adroitly scanned her credit card on the way out of the taxi.

"Slags," the hack muttered to herself the instant the back door slammed shut.

Pam took Tara's hand and led her to their home as the taxi pulled off into the night.

"I paused the movie for you," Tara lied convincingly as Pam unlocked the front door and stepped inside the darkened foyer.

"You're so lucky I love you," The annoyed blonde laughed despite herself. The laughter quickly died as Pam's body collided with Tara's in the dark.

"I know," Tara whispered seriously before ushering them toward the nearest surface to continue what could never truly be finished between them.