Michonne Grimes THE WALKING DEAD 10.08 The World Before
Rick would have been so turned on seeing her like this 😅
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Michonne Grimes THE WALKING DEAD 10.08 The World Before
Rick would have been so turned on seeing her like this 😅
Michonne and Judith Grimes THE WALKING DEAD
Danai Gurira and Andrew Lincoln THE WALKING DEAD: The Return (2024)
They would market the hell out of a romcom
We're here, you can smile. We made it, we can make it. We Can.
Rick and Michonne Grimes THE WALKING DEAD
Take me back 😭
“Carlton. Abigail. Billie Joe and the one with no name come on and help us out. Got some food and I can't carry it all even though your Mama may think I can." Sinclair opened the back door of the car to find his Suzanne not too happy with him on the other side reaching for a bucket. "Her name is Ghost." "No child of mine is Boo." "Her name is Ghost. Not Boo." "Might as well be. That's how I think about it and feel about it." "You are terrible Sinclaire. You tell me to behave and stay inside, and yet you are out and about?" "Had to make sure he got enough food to feed a family and I wanted to tell you, I love you, Suzanne." "I love you." Rick was startled by what he just heard come out of Michonne's mouth as she grabbed a bucket of chicken from the back seat. She was looking directly at him when she said it.
What I wouldn’t give to read All I Need by Foxissofoxy for the first time again. This story is on my #Richonne Mount Rushmore.
If you were to pick your top 5 Richonne fics of all time, what would they be?
Michonne
This is fire!
Hello The Walking Dead fandom this is my first Tumblr post please let me in pleasee
Does anyone have romance book recommendations? As in, Richonne levels good... 😋
How about a Richonne romance book?
Also, can we just really take in the true excellence and impact of Michonne’s character.
She’s a black woman whose story isn’t defined by the hardship of being a black woman.
She’s given incredible emotional range. She’s absolutely badass and strong, but not stoic and stiff. She’s allowed to be as compassionate and nurturing as she is fierce. She expresses grief, loss, anger, pettiness and annoyance; she also expresses hope, love, devotion, loyalty, and bravery. She’s tough and hardcore, but also soft and feminine.
She’s not the sassy best friend. She’s not the magical negro. She’s not the stepping stone for the male MC to decide he doesn’t want. She’s not forgettable or disposable. She can challenge white characters (including the main man) without the writing trying to humble or punish her.
She’s pivotal (the ratings and fan engagement prove that). She’s desirable. She isn’t chasing after a man who barely considers her to own detriment. Her love interest loves her unconditionally. He respects her and wants her in EVERY way. He dreams of her. He can’t truly live without her.
THIS is an immaculate character, brought to life by an incredible actress who is valued in production, and backed by the narrative. THIS is what characters such as Bonnie Bennett and Abbie Mills (amongst others) deserved. THIS is what we want to see.
Guess the Fic
Tourniquet - blueprintofyourpast
When In Alexandria - restesdelune
Not The End - semul
Tourniquet by blueprintofyourpast
“Hey.”
His voice sounds like sandpaper: grained and heavy as it slogs along miles of indomitable land. It became her shelter when her body couldn’t deal with regular meals in the beginning, when she would grip the toilet seat like a lifeline whilst coughing up thick threads of spit and curdled spew. She would barge from one torturous loop of helpless convulsion to the next, and – out of pity, instinct or affection – Rick would crouch down beside her and hold back her hair, he would press his forehead against her shoulder blade with a sigh and macerate her pain with palliative words of consolation.
Afterwards, they would find refuge in one of their beds and he would pull her in. He would slip his hand under her top to let his palm rest against her belly, urging her to start their nightly ritual of asking each other questions about their former lives: what they liked to do on Sunday mornings, which generic pop songs they secretly listened to on repeat for hours, and who they thought would have won the next presidential election if the world hadn’t ended.
“Michonne?”
She turns around to take him in. Him and his wild hair, his bloodshot eyes, his rumpled clothes, and his stalwart boots. Commiseration tears at her brows. Despite getting a good amount of five to six hours of sleep each night, he always looks tired these days.
“Everything alright?”
“I’m here”, she mutters.
It’s a strange altercation of saying Hello or Good morning or Sorry that I unintentionally wriggled out of your embrace again, but it’s what they agreed on when she slipped away for the first time and saw nothing but muddy spills, dying trees, and grey bodies lurching, stumbling and staggering around her, swaying from left to right and bumping against one another like some untrained members of a poorly choreographed marching band.
The sensation of his index and middle finger pressing into the crook of her arm shakes her out of it again and she goes stiff under his touch, both angered and appalled by her inability to stay in the present – and of course he misreads her reaction as a sign of spurning dismissal. He shrinks back and raises his hands in gentle placation as if he’s trying to comfort a wounded animal, as if he’s trying to reassure her that he’s not the enemy.
She takes a sip of her drink before she sets the mug on the counter. She holds her hand out towards him, waiting for him to get the message, and fortunately, he does: after a long, frightful moment of badly cached disappointment and uneasy confusion rushing across his rugged features, he gifts her with a soft smile and closes the space between them.
His body has become her shelter, too. It’s stable and solid against her, it keeps her from running away too far without forcing her into a corner. His hands settle at her waist and she hums lightly as his chest expands against her forehead. This is still new to her. It feels strange and familiar at the exact same time, and for some reason, it doesn’t really scare her.
At some point – probably after Beth’s funeral – they were delusional in their collective urge to find a place to live, they were chocked off by silent shock and dehydration, and they would carve out a miserable existence in the grim and unforgiving dells of the wilderness, but she didn’t need him to hold her then, even if a small part of her wanted him to.
Another part of her – a much bigger one – wanted to hold him as well because the sheer sight of him – rough, exhausted, and dysfunctionally leery – would wear down her will to keep going. He was bursting at the seams and she couldn’t bear to look at him sometimes, so it never happened. They never held each other. Not until about a month ago, when he found her kneeling in a puddle of shredded guts and chopped off limbs.
“You need anything?”
His lips move against her auricle and she leans back to meet his questioning gaze.
“I’m good.”
“You sure about that?” he asks with a tilt of his head.
Damn him. She slips her hands under his elbows and a sudden pang of jealousy starts to stab and saw at her breastbone. He’s scheduled for a supply run today. He’s going with Glenn and Tara and he didn’t ask her to join them. He didn’t ask her to do anything so far.
“I need toothpaste”, she says because it’s the first thing that crosses her mind.
“Spearmint and baking soda”, a conspirative smirk follows the grey-streaked trails of his slightly overgrown scruff; it tugs at his lips, glides along his cheeks, and dissolves into tiny crinkles around the corners of his eyes, and she breathes out a sigh.
“You know it.”
His grin broadens. For the split of a second, he doesn’t look tired at all. He looks genuinely happy, like the prospect of doing something for her is enough to lift his spirits. And she’s happy for him, but she also wants to fucking scream at him, she wants to wrap herself around him, and she wants to tell him to stop caring so much because his constant need to be there for others almost destroyed him in the past.
Nonetheless, she’s willing to emulate his serene expression when his smile begins to falter and makes room for deep lines of worry – the exact same lines that clouded his face when he told her that he’s not ready to let her go beyond the walls, and she can tolerate his fears for now, she can tolerate the fears that beat through her own veins, too. They both know that they’ll have to talk about it again eventually, though. And it won’t be easy
If anyone has this complete fic downloaded somewhere kindly share it with me☺️
Guess the Fic
Tourniquet - blueprintofyourpast
When In Alexandria - restesdelune
Not The End - semul
Tourniquet by blueprintofyourpast
“Hey.”
His voice sounds like sandpaper: grained and heavy as it slogs along miles of indomitable land. It became her shelter when her body couldn’t deal with regular meals in the beginning, when she would grip the toilet seat like a lifeline whilst coughing up thick threads of spit and curdled spew. She would barge from one torturous loop of helpless convulsion to the next, and – out of pity, instinct or affection – Rick would crouch down beside her and hold back her hair, he would press his forehead against her shoulder blade with a sigh and macerate her pain with palliative words of consolation.
Afterwards, they would find refuge in one of their beds and he would pull her in. He would slip his hand under her top to let his palm rest against her belly, urging her to start their nightly ritual of asking each other questions about their former lives: what they liked to do on Sunday mornings, which generic pop songs they secretly listened to on repeat for hours, and who they thought would have won the next presidential election if the world hadn’t ended.
“Michonne?”
She turns around to take him in. Him and his wild hair, his bloodshot eyes, his rumpled clothes, and his stalwart boots. Commiseration tears at her brows. Despite getting a good amount of five to six hours of sleep each night, he always looks tired these days.
“Everything alright?”
“I’m here”, she mutters.
It’s a strange altercation of saying Hello or Good morning or Sorry that I unintentionally wriggled out of your embrace again, but it’s what they agreed on when she slipped away for the first time and saw nothing but muddy spills, dying trees, and grey bodies lurching, stumbling and staggering around her, swaying from left to right and bumping against one another like some untrained members of a poorly choreographed marching band.
The sensation of his index and middle finger pressing into the crook of her arm shakes her out of it again and she goes stiff under his touch, both angered and appalled by her inability to stay in the present – and of course he misreads her reaction as a sign of spurning dismissal. He shrinks back and raises his hands in gentle placation as if he’s trying to comfort a wounded animal, as if he’s trying to reassure her that he’s not the enemy.
She takes a sip of her drink before she sets the mug on the counter. She holds her hand out towards him, waiting for him to get the message, and fortunately, he does: after a long, frightful moment of badly cached disappointment and uneasy confusion rushing across his rugged features, he gifts her with a soft smile and closes the space between them.
His body has become her shelter, too. It’s stable and solid against her, it keeps her from running away too far without forcing her into a corner. His hands settle at her waist and she hums lightly as his chest expands against her forehead. This is still new to her. It feels strange and familiar at the exact same time, and for some reason, it doesn’t really scare her.
At some point – probably after Beth’s funeral – they were delusional in their collective urge to find a place to live, they were chocked off by silent shock and dehydration, and they would carve out a miserable existence in the grim and unforgiving dells of the wilderness, but she didn’t need him to hold her then, even if a small part of her wanted him to.
Another part of her – a much bigger one – wanted to hold him as well because the sheer sight of him – rough, exhausted, and dysfunctionally leery – would wear down her will to keep going. He was bursting at the seams and she couldn’t bear to look at him sometimes, so it never happened. They never held each other. Not until about a month ago, when he found her kneeling in a puddle of shredded guts and chopped off limbs.
“You need anything?”
His lips move against her auricle and she leans back to meet his questioning gaze.
“I’m good.”
“You sure about that?” he asks with a tilt of his head.
Damn him. She slips her hands under his elbows and a sudden pang of jealousy starts to stab and saw at her breastbone. He’s scheduled for a supply run today. He’s going with Glenn and Tara and he didn’t ask her to join them. He didn’t ask her to do anything so far.
“I need toothpaste”, she says because it’s the first thing that crosses her mind.
“Spearmint and baking soda”, a conspirative smirk follows the grey-streaked trails of his slightly overgrown scruff; it tugs at his lips, glides along his cheeks, and dissolves into tiny crinkles around the corners of his eyes, and she breathes out a sigh.
“You know it.”
His grin broadens. For the split of a second, he doesn’t look tired at all. He looks genuinely happy, like the prospect of doing something for her is enough to lift his spirits. And she’s happy for him, but she also wants to fucking scream at him, she wants to wrap herself around him, and she wants to tell him to stop caring so much because his constant need to be there for others almost destroyed him in the past.
Nonetheless, she’s willing to emulate his serene expression when his smile begins to falter and makes room for deep lines of worry – the exact same lines that clouded his face when he told her that he’s not ready to let her go beyond the walls, and she can tolerate his fears for now, she can tolerate the fears that beat through her own veins, too. They both know that they’ll have to talk about it again eventually, though. And it won’t be easy
Happy Love Day to True Lovers ❤️🔥
rare twd post
I love this so much 🥹❤️🔥
my wife
new longfic! (prison/termins era, slow burn)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
hi guys! this is a new longfic set in the prison/terminus era. its rated e for now, but it is slow burn so that will apply to the later chapters. i am inspired by rick and his snarly face because he reminds me of a wild animal and its so cute ☺️ richonne centric of course, but i wanted to try and do the whole loss of humanity thing in a few different ways and add that to their dynamic. multi pov starting next chapter
i hope u enjoy!! so sorry this took so long. so much love to you guys 💗🥰 as always
Long fic, slow burn 🔥
He even has to support that head sometimes 😂
…All in the midst of chaos and turmoil. Those are the best Michonne moments I can name. – Danai Gurira