#musegavegrace

Before he was the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia crossed paths with a woman no bard ever dared to name - the first goddess, life‑bearer, and the planet's oldest force. One night with her shatters everything he believes about magic, destiny, and himself. When she vanishes through a portal and visions of their unborn child haunt him at dawn, Geralt sets out to uncover the truth… and learns that some fates begin long before a Witcher ever draws his first blade.

🪄🔮

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.

A Richonne x Ichabbie Crossover 🕯️👻

The estate was older than memory—its walls steeped in secrets, its chandeliers trembling with stories no one dared retell. Michonne stood in the grand parlor, adjusting the skeletal elf perched atop the black Christmas tree. Crimson candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting shadows that danced like spirits.

Abbie Mills entered from the hallway, arms full of vintage stockings and a box of antique ornaments shaped like skulls and broken hearts.

“You sure this place isn’t actually haunted?” she asked, setting the box down with a thud.

Michonne didn’t look up. “Haunted is the point. We’re reclaiming the aesthetic. Besides, if it is haunted, it’ll have to get in line behind my trauma.”

Abbie smirked. “Fair.”

They worked in silence for a moment—two women bound by grief, grit, and the kind of emotional intelligence that made ghosts nervous.

Michonne broke the quiet. “You ever throw a party to forget something, only to remember everything?”

Abbie paused, fingers brushing a cracked ornament. “Only every Founders Day.”

The front door creaked open.

Rick stepped in first—jeans, boots, flannel, and a punch bowl that looked suspiciously like the one from Michonne’s Thanksgiving. His eyes scanned the room, landing on her with a softness that made the candles flicker.

Behind him, Ichabod Crane entered like a man walking into a battlefield—cravat immaculate, coat dusted with snow, eyes sharp and searching. He paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping the room like he was reading a map of emotional fault lines.

Rick nodded at Ichabod. “You the historian?”

Ichabod tilted his head. “You the sheriff?”

“Used to be,” Rick said, setting the punch bowl down. “Now I just show up where Michonne tells me.”

Ichabod’s gaze flicked to Abbie, who was watching him with a mix of fondness and suspicion. “And you, Lieutenant Mills?”

Abbie crossed her arms. “Still the lieutenant. Still the one keeping you from getting possessed.”

Michonne raised an eyebrow. “You two good?”

Abbie shrugged. “We’re fine. Just… ghosts.”

Rick looked at Michonne. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just… ghosts.”

Ichabod stepped closer to the tree, eyes narrowing at the ornaments. “This estate was built on a burial ground. The architecture is colonial, but the energy is older. Something here remembers.”

Rick frowned. “You saying this place is haunted?”

Ichabod’s voice was quiet. “I’m saying grief leaves footprints. And some houses never stop echoing.”

The lights flickered.

Michonne and Abbie exchanged a look.

The punch bowl bubbled.

And somewhere upstairs, a mirror cracked.

The mirror in the upstairs hallway had been covered with a velvet cloth since the estate changed hands. No one knew why. No one asked. But tonight, the cloth had slipped—just slightly—revealing a sliver of glass that shimmered like water disturbed by memory.

Michonne stood at the base of the stairs, staring up at it. Something in her chest tightened.

Abbie joined her, holding a tray of ghost-shaped cookies. “You feel that?”

Michonne nodded. “Like something’s watching.”

Rick and Ichabod were in the parlor, sipping cider and debating the architectural integrity of the estate. Rick leaned against the fireplace, eyes on Michonne. Ichabod stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, gaze flicking between the tree and the shadows.

“Ichabod,” Rick said, voice low. “You said this place remembers. What does that mean?”

Ichabod turned slowly. “It means the veil is thin. And tonight, with the solstice and the emotional weight in this room… it may show us what we’ve forgotten. Or what we’ve refused to see.”

Rick’s jaw clenched. “I’ve seen enough ghosts.”

Ichabod’s eyes softened. “Not all ghosts wear chains. Some wear choices.”

Upstairs, Michonne reached for the velvet cloth. Abbie touched her wrist.

“You sure?”

Michonne’s voice was steady. “I need to know what it wants.”

She pulled the cloth away.

The mirror shimmered—and then fractured.

Not with cracks, but with visions.

Michonne🪞

She sees herself in the kitchen, years ago, laughing with her husband. The light is warm. The air smells like cinnamon. Then the scene shifts—Rick at prom, watching her from across the room, his eyes full of something he never said. She sees herself walking away. She sees the moment she could’ve stayed.

Rick🪞

He sees Lori. The fights. The silence. The way he buried his feelings for Michonne under duty and guilt. He sees prom night—her eyes, her touch, the way she looked at him like he was more than the golden boy. He sees himself choosing silence. He sees himself now, choosing her.

Abbie 🪞

She sees her mother’s warnings. Her own fear of vulnerability. She sees Ichabod bleeding in battle, calling her name. She sees herself walking away from him, again and again, afraid of what it means to stay.

Ichabod 🪞

He sees Grace Dixon. He sees Abbie in every century, every echo. He sees himself writing letters he never sent. He sees her smile, her strength, her refusal to be anyone’s tether. And he sees the moment he knew he loved her—when she didn’t need him, but chose him anyway.

The mirror pulses once, then goes still.

Downstairs, the punch bowl bubbles violently. The candles flicker. The skeletal elf falls from the tree.

Rick rushes to Michonne. “You okay?”

She nods, eyes wet but clear. “I saw it. I saw what I buried.”

Abbie turns to Ichabod. “This place isn’t haunted. We are.”

Ichabod steps closer. “Then let us be the ones to break the curse.”

🪞For those who want the ghosts to kiss, cause haunted girls deserve soft endings too. Click here to read what happened... 😏🎃

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 trio pulled up to Fangtasia a little after 10:30 PM.

The line outside was long but moved quickly. At the door, Willa Burrell stood looking sleek in a micro-short lace black dress and lace-up high heels, her stance both inviting and authoritative.

"Hi, Lafayette!" she beamed the moment she saw him.

"Hi there—" Lafayette started, but before he could finish, Sookie all but shoved past him.

"Hi, Willow! I'm Sookie, remember me?" she asked, her voice dripping with expectation.

She didn't even notice she'd said the wrong name. But one thing Sookie was sure of—Eric must have mentioned her to his new progeny.

Willa didn't correct her. Instead, she simply smiled, nodding in recognition. "Welcome. Tell Ginger you have VIP service." She handed Lafayette a sleek black card with 'VIP' embossed in bold red.

Lafayette grinned, feeling somewhat reassured. "Thank you, honey." He winked at the brunette before asking, "Tara in there?"

A flicker of something passed over Willa's face before she answered. "She's here… go on in."

That was all Lafayette needed. He sashayed inside, James and Sookie close behind.

The newly renovated Fangtasia was stunning. A sprawling dance floor, golden cages with writhing dancers, a bar gleaming with brass and mirrored glass. Even the floors sparkled with embedded gold flecks.

But Lafayette's sharp eyes went straight to the stage—where Pam sat like a damn queen.

Draped in a crimson off-shoulder ruched blouse, skin-tight black leggings, and knee-high red boots, the blonde exuded power.

Lafayette let out a low whistle. "Lawd, the Ice Queen still serving looks."Pam was literally dressed to kill.

And yet… There was still no sign of Tara.

"That looks like the VIP area," James said loudly over the pulsing bassline of the club's music. He gestured toward a sleek door on the right side of the dance floor.

Sookie barely heard him. The moment she stepped inside the newly renovated nightclub, her breath hitched. Towering, sultry images of Tara, Willa, Eric, and Pam adorned the walls, their gazes smoldering even in still form. But it was Tara's picture that made Sookie's stomach twist.

Tara, her childhood best friend, had always been rough around the edges—jeans, sneakers, and a permanent scowl at the ready. The Tara in these pictures, though? A full-blown femme fatale. Dark, piercing eyes, glossy lips, and a body wrapped in midnight leather like she owned the world. Sookie swallowed hard, a heat creeping up her neck.

It wasn't jealousy, of course. No, of course not. She was just... surprised. That was all. Tara had never cared about this kind of thing before. Why the hell did she look like she belonged on the cover of a vampire fashion magazine now?

Before she could process it, her gaze snapped upward. A big, red neon sign glowed over a guarded door.

Sookie clenched her jaw. Tara had a whole damn club named after her...?

A hulking man in a black tracksuit loomed in front of the entrance, arms crossed like he was daring someone to start trouble.

"I think we supposed to give this to you, big bear," Lafayette cooed, batting his lashes at the bouncer. If he was intimidated, he sure as hell didn't show it.

The man didn't speak—just took the cards and stepped aside, letting them through.

The VIP lounge was dimly lit and luxurious, with swanky tables and plush chairs arranged for optimal indulgence. A massive one-way mirror stretched across the room, giving them a full view of the club without being seen. The music from outside trickled in softly, just enough to feel like a heartbeat.

Not a moment later, Ginger teetered in to take their drink orders.

"Damn, this ditzy bitch still here lettin' random vampires chew on her narrow ass," Lafayette mused the second she left, shaking his head. "You see all them bite marks on her?"

James chuckled, leaning back with ease. "It's a lifestyle for some humans."

"Mm-hmm. I just hope her dumb ass gets our orders right. That hussy dumber than a box of hair."

James laughed, shooting his lover an affectionate glance. "Right on, lover. A positive is the only type for me."

Lafayette smirked, pleased, and the two shared a look that needed no words.

Meanwhile, Sookie sat stiffly, barely hearing them.

"You awfully quiet, sweetheart. What's on yo' mind?" Lafayette asked, eyes sharp despite his easy demeanor.

Sookie startled. "Oh, nothin'. Just takin' it all in," she lied smoothly, forcing a smile.

The truth was, she felt like an outsider in a place that used to feel familiar. She had pictured Eric lounging on his throne, watching her with that unreadable expression, ready to summon her over so she could finally tell him—and Tara—about her new life.

Instead, Pam sat there, cool and detached, as if Sookie's presence barely registered.

And Tara?

Nowhere to be seen.

Sookie's fingers curled into her lap. She wasn't jealous. Nope. Not one bit.

She just really, really needed a drink.

"Geez," she sighed, plastering on another smile. "I could really use a drink right now."

Not a second later, Ginger strolled back in with a tray full of cocktails. "Pam said the first round is on her," the platinum blonde chirped gleefully, her red lips stretched into a wide grin.

Sookie and Lafayette were momentarily shocked into silence.

"Please tell Pam we appreciate her generous hospitality," James said smoothly, handing Ginger a twenty-dollar tip.

"Well, this is new," Lafayette drawled, tilting his head. "Vampire Barbie is playin' nice for a change. I ain't even mad—what she want, though?" He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Thirty-five minutes and two strawberry daiquiris later, Sookie had grown restless. By the third apple martini, Lafayette's dirty jokes had everyone in the VIP room cackling. With each drink, he became more animated, much to James' delight. At one point, he got up and did a dramatic reenactment of Ginger's famous scream, complete with flailing arms and a slow-motion collapse onto James' lap.

"Baby, I swear to God, she gotta be part banshee," Lafayette declared, sipping dramatically from his martini.

"Or part Chihuahua," James mused, biting back laughter.

"You mean full-blooded Chihuahua," Lafayette corrected. "High-strung, shaky, and will hump any leg in sight."

The room erupted in laughter, except for Sookie, who had checked out of the conversation entirely. She drummed her fingers against her thigh before standing abruptly.

"I'm gonna excuse myself to the ladies' room," she announced, but no one was paying attention. James and Lafayette had already launched into a full-blown debate about whether vampires could get seasonal depression.

Sookie pushed her way through the crowd and made it to the restroom, where she handled her business, washed her hands, and reapplied her rouge lip color. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror and nodded approvingly.

Still got it.

But instead of heading back to the VIP room, she took a right—toward Eric's office.

A tiny voice in her head told her this was a bad idea. A much louder voice told the tiny voice to shut the hell up.

Without knocking, she twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.

And instantly regretted every decision she had made in life.

Her breath hitched, her doe eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in horror.

There, in all their undead glory, were Tara and Eric.

Tara—completely naked—was straddled over Eric's equally nude, muscular form, moving in a way that left no room for interpretation. Her toned back glistened under the soft glow of the office light, and her long curls bounced with every roll of her hips.

Meanwhile, Eric—her Eric—had his head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping Tara's waist like she was the last meal on Earth.

Sookie made a strangled noise. Something between a gasp and a hiccup.

"Eric! Tara! Oh My—Tara!" she croaked, barely recognizing her own voice. She wasn't even sure she had spoken aloud until—

"WHAT?" Tara snapped, not even bothering to pause her movements. Then, as if registering the voice, she turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the blonde gaping at them from the doorway.

"Oh. Hey, Sook." Her tone was so casual, that she might as well have been answering a FaceTime call. "What are you doin' here?"

Sookie blinked. Once. Twice.

Then bolted.

She shoved past a group of vampires near the dance floor, nearly sent a waitress flying, and burst through the doors of Fangtasia like she was fleeing a burning building. The cool night air hit her face, but it wasn't enough to wash away the image seared into her brain.

Tara? And Eric?

What the hell were they thinking?

Scratch that—were they even thinking?

Inside the office, Tara huffed and gave a halfhearted attempt at looking guilty. It lasted all of three seconds before she shrugged and resumed exactly what she was doing.

Because, honestly? She wasn't sorry at all.

"Is you gonna tell me why you sittin' here lookin' like you just seen a ghost?"

Lafayette huffed, rushing toward Sookie. He had seen her storm out of Fangtasia like a bat out of hell and figured she'd either drunk too much or had one of her patented dramatic meltdowns.

She didn't respond. In fact, she was just sitting there, arms crossed, lips pursed, staring straight ahead like someone had told her they were out of sweet tea at Merlotte's.

Lafayette's eyes narrowed.

"Sook, you plan on parkin'-lot-pimpin' all night, or you got a damn point?"

Sookie shuddered, her entire body twitching with disgust. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't unsee it—Tara and Eric, all entangled like some supernatural porno. Her face twisted like she'd just smelled a dead possum.

"I'm ready to go home."

She clipped, shaking her head. She still refused to make eye contact, probably because she knew if she did, she'd pop a blood vessel from sheer irritation.

Lafayette cocked his head. "What you mean, you ready to go home? We just got here. Besides, Tara wanna see you."

Sookie's eye twitched.

"Tara...! Tara...!" she practically growled through clenched teeth.

Lafayette instinctively took a step back. Homegirl was lookin' straight-up cray-cray.

"Yes, Tara. You know, the reason we came here in the first place?" He gave her a once-over, watching her face go beet red. "Damn, Sookie, you look like you one deep breath away from throwin' yourself onto the hood of James's car and faintin' like a plantation wife."

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.