A/N: A Christmas present for the grown and gifted. A/U Richonne — All lemons, no chaser. King County’s Halloween-loving queen Michonne is tasked with hosting the county’s first haunted Christmas bash. Sheriff Rick Grimes? He’s the naughty Santa with a costume kink and a thing for Mrs. Claus. This is explicit, consensual, and unapologetically Richonne. If you thought it was Shane or Negan—bless your heart.

🎃Happy Halloween, and Merry XXX-Mas 🎄

A late-night silence, thick with the scent of cinnamon and dust, settled around Michonne. The glow from her ten-foot black Christmas tree—adorned with skulls and deep crimson candles—cast long, dancing shadows across the room. She was the queen of Halloween-meets-Christmas, and tonight, she was finalizing the county’s annual party, a spooky-elegant masterpiece.

She dipped a finger into the steaming, frothy “Ghoul Nog,” the concoction's subtle spice hitting her tongue as she adjusted a life-sized "GingerDead" house that leered from the entryway, its black icing piping unnerving and perfect. The air was a heavy mix of mulled cider, black hot chocolate, and the faint, sweet perfume of red velvet. An eerie, flickering orange glow from the string lights played across her face as she smoothed the collar of a skeletal elf in a Santa hat. Every sense was alive with the macabre holiday spirit, a world away from the Sheriff's office where Rick still hadn't called.

She brushed a hand against a vintage stocking, filled with ghostly surprises, her worry a growing chill that no amount of roasted chestnuts could warm. It wasn't like him, especially on Christmas Eve, to miss their final planning. As the unsettling quiet stretched toward midnight, the thought of his absent presence became a heavier weight than the wide black belt of the risqué Mrs. Claus dress he’d bought her. The party was perfect, an unforgettable scene of dark elegance—all it lacked was its Sheriff.

It was late, and Michonne had waited for Rick as long as she could. Christmas Eve had turned quiet; her haunted holiday party plans half-assembled and her mood flickering like the eerie orange lights she'd strung across the mantle. She finally gave up and went to bed, too sleepy to keep holding out.

Rick had promised to help finalize the details of her first Halloween-themed Christmas party—a concept he'd suggested with a wink and a wicked grin. He'd even gifted her a Mrs. Claus dress so scandalous it could've been banned in three counties.

She'd tried it on for him earlier that week. Within minutes, they were tangled on the couch, heat rising, until Carol knocked with the borrowed punch bowl and Rick had fled like a man escaping temptation. Michonne had laughed then. But now, with no call and no sign of him, she was just…irked.

She had just started to nod off when the mattress dipped.

The scent hit her first—cedar, bourbon, and something distinctly Rick. Her body hummed in recognition.

"Mmm… you're finally here," she murmured sleepily.

"Shh," came the low, unmistakable voice of Rick Grimes—King County's naughtiest Santa.

She pouted. "But I want to hold you."

Instead of a response, her nightie was pulled up around her waist, and her panties edged down her legs. His tongue began licking the seam where her ass met her thighs, and she wriggled approvingly.

"Mmm, Rick, that feels good," she hummed.

The oral attention froze momentarily, then redoubled—frantic licks, teasing nips, and a growl that vibrated against her skin.

Michonne gasped, now wide awake and quivering. She tried to roll over, but a firm hand pressed her lower back, keeping her grounded. Then the pressure lifted, and a familiar silk scarf was wrapped gently around her eyes.

She smirked. "So that's the game tonight?"

"Mmm hmm," Rick murmured, voice velvet and heat.

"Okay, Santa. I've been a naughty girl this year… maybe you need to punish me a little."

The responding growl was pure Rick—possessive, reverent, and hungry.

A large hand gave her bare ass a light spank.

"Oooh, Santa," she moaned.

Tara Thornton’s Season 3 arc gets a fierce, fandom-defiant rewrite (back in 2011) in this sultry supernatural remix. When a tall, curly-haired British vampire with a taste for chaos crosses paths with Bon Temps’ baddest bartender, sparks fly, blood simmers, and boundaries blur. Franklin Mott may be unstable, but he’s also intoxicating—and in this version, he stalks Tara, not kidnaps her. No chains, no assault—just obsession, tension, and a whole lot of mind games.

This is the story where Tara doesn’t just survive—she seduces, slaps, and outsmarts. Glamour-proof and grief-hardened, she’s a formidable flower blooming in the middle of vampire madness. And Franklin? He’s about to learn that fixation cuts both ways.

Franklin didn't knock. He flew.🥀

One moment he was on the porch. The next, he was hovering above the roof, peering into windows like a ghost with a crush. Three windows over, he found her.

Tara.

The curtains were thin. The window cracked open. She was undressing.

He watched, shameless and transfixed.

She peeled off her halter top, jeans, and hot-pink lace panties with the kind of grace that made him forget centuries of restraint. Her body was poetry. Her silence, a dare.

She stepped into the shower, steam rising like a veil. Franklin didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just watched.

Inside, Tara let the water wash away the day—the bar, the vampire, the ache. But not the thoughts. Not Franklin. He lingered in her mind like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.

She dried off, slipped into a silk robe, and grabbed a bottle of lotion. At the window, she closed her eyes and let the breeze kiss her skin. Goosebumps bloomed. Franklin nearly groaned.

She sat by the window, legs crossed, robe parted just enough to tease. As she rubbed lotion into her arms, Franklin stepped into view like he was browsing produce at the grocery store.

"Taarraaaa," he crooned.

Tara screamed, dropped the lotion, and lunged for her phone. "That's it! I'm calling the damn police!"

She hated cops. One had killed Eggs. But Franklin didn't know that. He just watched her fake a call while the movie theater listings played in the background.

He smirked. Then pulled her panties from his pocket and waved them like a trophy.

"You left these."

Tara's cheeks flamed. "That's just wrong."

"I'll stay out here all night unless you invite me in."

She eyed him. He was crazy enough to do it. And she wasn't about to scrape grilled vampire off Sookie's roof.

"Just say what you came to say and get off the damn roof."

"May I come in and rub that lotion on you?"

"Asshole," she hissed.

Franklin sighed. Time for honesty.

"I need to know where Sookie is. I can't tell you why."

Tara's heart sank. Of course it was about Sookie. Again.

"What the hell do you want with her? Did Bill send you? Is this what vampires do—rotate fang-bangers like shifts?"

Franklin bristled. "I don't want Sookie. I want you. But my employer needs to find her. And no, it's not Bill Compton."

"Who's your employer?"

"If I told you, we'd both be in danger."

"Then why should I help you?"

"Because you care about Sookie. And because you trust me. A little."

Tara hesitated. If Sookie was in danger, she had to know. Even if it meant letting this vampire into her room.

"Fine. You can come in. Don't make me regret it."

Franklin climbed through the window, smug and silent. He picked up the lotion, eyes trailing her robe like it was a map.

"Why are you so guarded?" he asked. "Is it me, or are you like this with everyone?"

Tara crossed her arms. "I learned early not to expect much. People disappoint."

Her voice cracked. Franklin stepped closer, pulled her into a gentle embrace, and kissed her forehead.

"You deserve happiness," he whispered. "And I'll do whatever I can to make sure you feel it."

She leaned into him, surprised by the safety in his arms.

"I never thought I'd trust a vampire," she murmured. "But here we are."

She traced invisible shapes on his chest, then looked up. "Tell me what your employer wants with Sookie."

"I don't know. Maybe it's about Bill. Maybe it's politics. I don't care. It's just a job."

"So your boss is political?"

Franklin nodded. "You could say that."

"What do you do for him?"

"I'm a private investigator. I find truth. Been doing it for over a century."

He blurred across the room and dimmed the lights. Only the lamp glowed now.

"So… are you going to tell me where she is?"

"I don't know," Tara said. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you without knowing your boss's intentions."

Franklin respected that. Loyalty was rare.

He sat beside her on the bed, lotion in hand. She motioned for him to begin. He squeezed the bottle and rubbed the lavender into her feet, slow and firm. Her muscles melted.

They talked.

Franklin told her about his human life—his wife, his sons, the smallpox. About being turned against his will. Tortured. Rescued by Russell. About his vampire bride, a former slave who looked like Tara and loved adventure.

Tara listened. Then shared her own story. Her mother. The Maenad. Eggs. The funeral. The pain.

Franklin saw it then. The anger was armor. The sass, survival.

She was formidable. And he was falling.

Franklin watched her sleep, her breath slow, her brow finally smooth. She looked peaceful. Rare. He found a blanket draped over the chair and laid it gently across her body.

No kiss. Just a whisper.

"Goodnight, wildflower."

He slipped out of the room and padded downstairs, eyes scanning the Stackhouse living room like a detective in a crime scene. Newspaper clippings. Old photos. Nothing useful. Just small-town clutter and sentimental ghosts.

Sookie wasn't here. But someone else was.

Franklin smiled to himself, already plotting his next move.

If Tara was the storm, maybe her cousin held the lightning.

The archive is humming, and the velvet rope is drawn. If you’re here for resonance—not reaction—step inside.

🔮 Bamon: Body-swapped chaos, speakeasy flashbacks, and magic that remembers. 🪞 Richonne x Ichabbie: Haunted estates, cracked mirrors, and ghosts that wear choices. 🧛🏾‍♀️ True Blood Resurrection: Southern gothic, campy decadence, and Tara Thornton in full vampire glory. And more!

This isn’t a drop. It’s a séance. We’re conjuring legacy-coded intimacy, emotionally literate chaos, and ensemble tenderness that bites.