#when these two are together my mind reverts to a primitive form | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

foryoumyheroes · 4 years

Note

hi! I dont know if you are still taking request, or even active but if you are, could you do a headcanon with todoroki having a s/o that loves drawing him ? they could be already on a relationship or not ur choice

Hi anon! If you're reading this I previously replied that I am sort of taking requests, but I was inactive until recent. In order to make that up to you I'll give you both a scenario fic and headcanons since I was struck by inspiration to write this! Hope you enjoy!! I kinda spiraled off topic asdfgh

Pls accept my word-vomit like I’m a cat giving you a dead rat.

The Campos

Todoroki x Artist!Reader

"How is it possible for anyone to be that handsome."

Even you were surprised by the words tumbling out of your own head, stopping your pencil in its place and as you froze like a still frame. It wasn’t long before you felt heat creep up your body, painting your cheeks all the way to your ears with a red like the sunset.

It was always like this.

There was nothing artistic from the way his image always flowed from your pencil in hurried lines and messy scribbles, and there was no beauty from how you always hunched over into the collar of your shirts whenever you felt the burning of your emotions. You wrote Todoroki [Name] and [Surname] Shouto in the margins of your notebook as if you had reverted back to primary school, doodled among little tiny hearts and sketches of his side profile.

Maybe your parents were right. You should’ve just gone to art school like they had said and fallen down the path of them and so many of your other relatives. But at fourteen you were just so caught up with wanting to be different. You had to be. You had to get off the beaten path and flow out of the frame you were confined in. You said that in this family you would never be the best artist, but you could become the best Hero that the [Surname]s had ever had. You were a Hero-in-training, but you knew that at heart you would always be an artist.

And now at sixteen you were at a loss. You were at a loss because whenever you looked over at the last window seat in 1-A, your talents always fell short. There was nothing you could draw that could bridge the distance you felt, to calm the foreign feelings in your body. Your drawing skills had not diminished while you practiced war, but you were backtracking now. Perhaps you really should’ve gone to art school instead.

Maybe then you would find a way to express how you truly felt.

Nothing you wrote or drew now could match up to the endless admiration you had for one Todoroki Shouto.

Everyone else was mere background noise to Todoroki when he set his gaze on you.

Although Bakugou and his group of friends were in the common room shouting and making a ruckus and Todoroki’s own friends were giggling at the back of him, tossing frosting, floating bowls of batter to Iida’s ire.

His eyes always sought you out.

It was difficult to explain why. Even now, with you in a baggy sweatshirt and loose jeans rolled at the ankles, Todoroki wondered why he was paying you so much attention. The world around you was spinning and you were at an impasse. You were only writing in your notebook, probably jotting down notes at a speed he couldn’t comprehend. Your head was always buried in that Campos notebook.

With a loud screech, Kirishima bumped his hip on the dining table, jostling both you and him from your standstill, pencils rolling across the wood. Your eyes immediately flashed up and met with his wide heterochromic ones. A deer in the headlights. The two of you turned away as quickly as it came, ignorant to the pink that bloomed on both of your cheeks while a spark flickered across his left cheek.

“Whatcha drawing there, [Name]?” Kirishima asked boisterously, pulling out the chair beside you while you heated up like a furnace, waving your arms around wildly and sputtered like a train engine. You couldn’t snatch it away fast enough and his dark eyes fell on your doodle-ridden pages with a soft, “Oh.” His lips formed a small O shape. His eyes carefully looked up at the hot-and-cold boy before dropping back down to your page. You carefully averted your eyes, fixing [e/c] orbs on some faraway wall until he carefully pulled your notebook toward him and quickly scribbling something down, pushing the pages back toward you.

When you snuck a peek at the drawing of a blond gremlin with spiky hair like a porcupine, and a crude drawing of a K and B underneath an umbrella, a loud laugh tumbled out of your mouth.

It was as if Todoroki didn’t exist anymore as you gave Kirishima your full attention, laughing to whatever jokes he made or witty one-liners.

He wasn’t a poet. He didn’t know the words.

Others could talk about how selfish he was for having his mother’s pretty face and his powerful Quirk; boys and girls have tried before, handing him letters in his locker and bouquets of flowers, but that never mattered to him. Only you have stayed on his mind. His attractive features and his Quirk only had stock to it if it helped him win over your affections.

In crowded places and busy gatherings, when he stood in solidarity, when his hands hung by his sides and his eyes were left with nothing to see, he wondered what primitive part of him was always acting out. How his hands wanted to cut off all connection with the logic in his brain and reach out to grab yours. How he always silently watched you from faraway, physically unable to tear your visage away from his eyes. His body always acted without reason — the heavy palpitations against his rib cage, the rose against his skin, the sweat on his palms, the dilation of his pupils.

He wondered how he was in Heaven just by being near you.

He wondered what it would take to get you to look at him for once.

But your eyes would just be deep within the confines of your Campos notebook, impervious to his lingering thoughts of you.

Surprisingly it was Todoroki who offered to clean up after his friends while they went into the showers to wash away the flour and frosting that coated their hair and skin. The night had already been long by the time they turned in, heavy and drowsy after making several tins of uneven, ugly cupcakes. He had to do something with all of this energy, he thought, scrubbing away at stubborn stripes of sugar that painted the counter tops.

The lights were off and only the streaks of moonlight filtered through the large windows of the dorm room. You had left with Bakugou’s group several hours earlier, accepting Kirishima’s invitation to go to the nearest konbini for ice cream with an open hand.

Now it was just him.

Tossing the rag in the wash bin, he was about to make his way back to his room when his eyes fell upon the dining table and he found your notebook.

How could he not know it was yours. He had seen it within your hands more times than he could count, more obsessively than Midoriya’s Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13. He wondered if that was why he was so interested in you. Your dedication to your studies were admirable. Nearly twenty-four-seven.

Carefully, he crept closer to it, as if it was a bomb going to detonate before he picked it up.

The pages curled and crinkled in his hands, and he debated opening it.

It was just a school notebook, right? You probably only had notes and worksheets hidden inside of it.

Maybe he could get an answer to your time. He could discover the subjects that you were struggling at, or even find one that you were better than him at. You were a couple ranks below him in the class grades. When he returned your Campos to you he could ask to study with you.

He flipped it open and his heart stopped at the sight.

Shit, shit, shit! you thought, running down the stairs, taking two at a time. It was late enough that the elevators were locked for curfew and you cursed Aizawa-sensei for putting your room at the very top of the building. After you had gotten back from the konbini with your friends, cheeks hurting from how hard you were laughing at Kaminari’s antics and Sero’s sarcasm, you had completely forgotten that you left your notebook on the kitchen table. You only remembered when you dug through your bag only to scramble around when nothing came up. If anyone like Hagakure or god forbid — Mineta, found it, you would never live it down. You were lucky enough that Kirishima was a good sport about it. He knew how to keep his mouth shut, but everyone else?

You wondered if it was too late to transfer schools.

Your feet landed harshly on the carpeted ground after the final step, head snapping back and forth for your notebook, but froze at what you saw.

Even in the dim light of the moon and past the hand clamped over his face, you could see the heavy pink on his cheeks.

Your heart dropped.

“I — “ His hand fell to his side and you were given a full view of the strong flush on his face. “That’s my notebook... Todoroki-kun.”

When the Campos dropped to the floor and he dashed across the common room, hand around your waist and his lips on yours, you found that you didn’t need flowery words or an arsenal of artistic techniques to express how you felt.

Your hands wrapped around his neck, locking him deeper in the embrace, fingers cording through his soft red and white hair.

The instinct to be closer to him would be all you need to overcome the division between a desire for him and the stillness of your body.

Headcanons:

After you two get together and it becomes more obvious that you’re drawing him, he’ll coax you out of doing it in secret.

He’ll ask to take pictures of the drawings on the margins of your notebook or if you’re drawing it on scrap paper, he’ll ask to have it after you’re done with it.

He keeps it in a box uwu and he has to upgrade every year because it keeps on getting full.

Even if you’re not drawing him, you ask him to pose for you so you can take references for your other drawings. He’s just so proportionate!!

It makes him so happy every time he sees it!! He nearly catches on fire every time.

The fact that you’re expressing your affections in this special way makes him so soft??

He once tried to draw you in return but he has like zero to none art experience. Even had no experience in his childhood because all he wanted to draw was All Might and Endeavor wouldn’t allow that.

Instead you offer to teach him the basics on how to draw and you two continue bonding that way!! You sit on his lap because that’s the best spot to be close enough to guide him and show him how to draw while you drone on and on about shadows, anatomy, perspective, and he’s just nodding along without a single word going to his brain because he’s just staring at you the entire time.

[“Shouto-chan, did you get that?”

“Yeah...boxes?”]

If you draw him complete pictures he keeps it on his wall, and eventually his dorm room looks like he’s about to string red yarn around it because it’s blanketed with paper all over like he’s uncovering a murder conspiracy.

A/N: The picture that I used for the page breaks is Anselm Feuerbach’s “Peonies” and I actually saw it in real life at the Neue Pinakothek!! It’s one of my favorites and I even got a mousepad of it bc I’m a dork asdfg

The Kirishima and [Name] scene is inspired by this comic by marbitss and I was inspired to write a lot of prose after reading Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love!

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jahaanofmenaphos · 4 years

Photo

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 10: CHILDREN OF MAH

QUEST SUMMARY:

The Mahjarrat are dying, and they want answers as to why. To get them, they must journey back to Freneskae at the behest of Zaros, who promises them freedom from their Rituals once and for all. When Zamorak gets wind of his intentions, it leads to the two deities meeting for the first time since the great betrayal…

CHAPTER 2 - SOMETHING IS WRONG

It seemed that Wahisietel was the first one to arrive. Staring across at the haunting, snow-covered Ritual Marker brought back less than pleasant memories for him. He wondered how an inanimate object could be so ominous, could strike so much fear right into his core, fear all of his kin shared but would never confess to.

He’d been left with no choice, and frankly, he was surprised his kin hadn’t beaten him to it, hadn’t arrived here and summoned the rest of their kind days ago. Perhaps everyone was just as reluctant to accept what was happening to them as Wahisietel was.

Edging closer to the Ritual Marker, Wahisietel exhaled deeply, tentatively making his way across the plateau. The Marker wouldn’t bite, or strike out lightning - at least, that’s what he thought - yet he couldn’t help feel humbled by its terrifying aura. It was the Marker that meant death to the unfortunate members of his race, after all.

Wahisietel also knew that, as soon as he touched the Marker, his fellow Mahjarrat would know. In the few instances they have needed to gather outside of a Ritual, this was how they would alert one another. If they’d been reduced to the same skeletal fate Wahisietel had, no doubt a lot of them would arrive in search of a sacrifice. All would search for knowledge, at least, wanting to know why the last Ritual had not sustained them.

Would Sliske join them? Wahisietel found himself wondering. He wanted answers from his half-brother, wanted to know why he was so determined to dig a shallow grave for himself. But if he came to the Ritual, and if indeed a sacrifice was chosen, Wahisietel knew that the unilateral decision would almost certainly be to sacrifice Sliske. He’d burnt every bridge he’d ever made; Wahisietel didn’t even know if Azzanadra would side with him any longer. By Zaros, Wahisietel didn’t even know if he could stand with his half-brother after everything he had done.

Sliske was a powerful Mahjarrat. Even without Azzanadra’s protection of him, he was usually safe from the Marker. Thanks to the joint protection of Sliske and Azzanadra, Wahisietel too had been safe from the Marker for all these centuries. He was never as strong as his half-brother, never adept in shadow magicks to a near mastery level like Sliske was. But now, if Azzanadra turned against Sliske, and if indeed every other Mahjarrat ganged up against him, Sliske wouldn’t stand a chance. Yes, he had the Stone of Jas and the Staff of Armadyl, but so did Lucien. Lucien even had support from the other Zamorakian Mahjarrat. What few Zarosians were left wouldn’t side with Sliske, Wahisietel bitterly concluded. His half-brother would be overpowered, and he would be gone.

If he came to the Ritual at all. Perhaps the Stone of Jas has slowed his withering? It didn’t do so for Lucien, but that was after five hundred years of degrading. This was a peculiar scenario, one that perhaps Sliske would be immune from.

Wahisietel didn’t know. He hated not knowing. He hated not knowing what Sliske’s endgame was in all this, why he had to turn his back on Zaros, Azzanadra and himself. Why did he nearly slaughter the World Guardian he seemed so very fond of?

If Sliske came to the Ritual Site, Wahisietel would get answers. But then he’d also lose the only family he had left.

Exhaling a frosty breath, Wahisietel knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Placing his hand upon the Marker’s surface, a chill ran through his body.

Now, he waited.

But not for long.

Khazard and Enakhra teleported in first, a wry grin slashed across the former’s skeletal face as soon as he locked eyes with Wahisietel. “Ah, I see the sacrifice is already here. Nice of you to show up early, Wahisietel.”

“This is going to be the most unanimous vote since we said goodbye to dear Lamistard,” Enakhra remarked, sniffing a laugh that rattled the bones in her jaw. “Unless Sliske turns up soon, that is. You might last another few years if that’s the case.”

Almost immediately afterwards, Akthanakos joined the fray, standing beside Wahisietel as the divide between the Mahjarrat factions formed at either side of the Marker. “I see it did not take long for you to descend into petty insults.”

“I would keep your voice down if I were you, Akthanakos,” Hazeel was next to arrive. “You are so feeble you have completely reverted to your skeletal form already.”

Gulping, Akthanakos looked down at himself in horror. “I… I have? Surely not so soon…”

“Something is affecting all of us,” Azzanadra graced the circle with his presence. Of all of them, he had degraded the least, though the skin was thin and taught around his features. “We can’t descend into quarrels before we uncover what that is.”

“For once, I agree with you, Azzanadra,” Bilrach arrived on the plateau, the Zarosian Mahjarrat taken aback by his presence.

Akthanakos voiced those feelings, “I thought you dead, Bilrach!”

A smile on Bilrach’s face stretched the sparse layers of skin around his jaw, a haunting picture of decay. “Not so easily."

“I feel as if I haven’t seen you in a milenia, Bilrach,” Azzanadra’s tone was not one of someone glad to be reacquainted with an old friend. “It is odd to see the lapdog without his master.”

To his credit, Bilrach’s tone had the same edge of subtle disdain, but he held back from snapping at the petty insult. “Last I saw you, we’d made a prison out of your pyramid, hmm. Hibernate, did we? I had hoped you’d expired in your tomb.”

“You traitors took many years from me, but you did not take my life,” Azzanadra replied through gritted teeth. “But what of you, Bilrach. I haven’t seen you since Lamistard was sacrificed. Why didn’t you attend the last Ritual?”

“I didn’t need to attend,” Bilrach’s lips danced around a dark smile. “Tell me… you felt the power that rippled across the world’s surface, yes?”

Eyes wide for a fraction of a second, Azzanadra inhaled sharply. “You… sacrificed someone. How? Whom?”

“It’s not important,” Wahisietel interjected. While he too was curious at Bilrach’s tale, they had more pressing matters at hand. “What’s important is that we find out what’s happening to us, why Lucien’s sacrifice didn’t sustain us. Now, any suggestions?”

It was like throwing meat to starving wolves.

The bickering continued for far too long, featuring a squabble between Akthanakos and Khazard that nearly came to blows before Hazeel calmed them down.

Out of all the Zamorakians, Wahisietel found Hazeel the most tolerable. The former Mahserrat always had a head on his shoulders.

“Perhaps it was because the Mahjarrat Ritual was interfered with by outsiders?” Hazeel suggested. “The dragonkin struck the killing blow after all, not a Mahjarrat.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference - he was on the Marker,” Akthanakos replied.

“But every sacrifice has always been at the hands of fellow Mahjarrat,” Hazeel maintained. “Maybe the dragonkin absorbed the power, or it went back into the Stone, or-”

“Now you’re just guessing. We have no time for silly theories.”

“Stop! Please!” Wahisietel implored, feeling the coarseness of his skinless fingers fubbing into his temple, “Let us not try to hide the fact that this is no normal Ritual. Clearly something strange is happening to us.”

“Why should we listen to anything you say?” Enakhra spat, heatedly. “We know it was you Zarosian scum who killed Zemouregal! Murdering your kin outside of a Ritual… how dare you?!”

“That’s why Wahisietel should be the next sacrifice!” Khazard declared. “Vengeance for Zemouregal!”

“Enough, Khazard,” Azzanadra stepped in, his voice measured. “Our power is draining at an alarming rate. We are not due another Ritual for hundreds of years. We need to understand what is happening to us.”

“Hah! You fear for your own life as your numbers dwindle, Zar-”

This time, it was Hazeel’s turn to interject. “Quiet, Khazard. The time for bravado has passed. How long would another Ritual sustain us? Months? Weeks? If our power continues to drain at this rate we will ALL be dead within the year.”

Azzanadra nodded. “Agreed. It is imperative that we push for a solution.”

“Perhaps it is time we outgrow these primitive Rituals,” Wahisietel suggested, the hope and despair in his voice blending together seamlessly. “There must be another way!”

“Preposterous!” Enakhra spat. “There is no other way!”

Akthanakos pointed out, “Clearly Sliske thinks there is. He hasn’t even bothered to turn up.”

“Probably because he knows of the target on his back,” Khazard sniffed a dark laugh. “Him being the sacrifice? Now THAT would be unanimous.”

The responses that followed indicated that all agreed with Khazard, except for Wahisietel, who clenched his fist and bit his tongue. Sliske was smart enough to know what battles to pick. Perhaps the Stone was holding him together after all and he didn’t need to attend? Perhaps he’d found another alternative, like Bilrach? Perhaps he was scared of being sacrificed, so had decided to take his chances at not getting rejuivated?

Looking up at Azzanadra, Wahisietel noted that the Mahjarrat was avoiding his glance, his eyes turned downwards.

Wahisietel despondently realised that his suspicions were confirmed, his heart weighing him down as he tore his gaze from Azzanadra.

Swallowing hard, Azzanadra eventually spoke, “If there is an alternative then I am not aware of it. We need to find out what is draining our power. A traditional Ritual is our last resort.”

Suddenly, the air darkened slightly, a low rumble stirring around the Ritual Site.

It was then that Zaros appeared before them.

Instantly, the surprised Azzandra bowed low. Had it not been for the precarious company he was keeping, he would have dropped to his knees. “My lord. You honour us by gracing us with your presence.”

Wahisietel and Akthanakos bowed too, having not seen Zaros since his return to Gielinor. They knew of Zaros’ movements from Azzanadra, but had not yet been summoned to confer with Zaros. Such distance grated at the two Zarosian Mahjarrat, Wahisietel especially, who hated being kept out of the loop.

It didn’t show in Wahisietel’s voice though; raising his head, he said, “My lord, I am heartened to see you return. It has been too long.”

The Zamorakian Mahjarrat, on the other hand, weren’t much pleased with the reunion.

Gulping, Khazard took a tentative step back, slightly behind Hazeel. His eyes were locked on Zaros’ form as he mumbled, “Please Zamorak… save us…”

“Be still,” Zaros commanded, the gravitas of his voice knowing no bounds. “You need not fear me. I have come to earn back the trust you once placed in me.”

Azzanadra, naturally, was the first to reply, “You have always had my trust, my lord, and the trust of the loyalists that stand beside me.”

“Your loyalty has never been called into question, Azzanadra. But there are those here that conspired toward my downfall.”

Instead of allowing himself to be scared, Hazeel took a bold step forward, challenging the deity. “Zamorak will know you are here. Do you wish to re-enact that downfall?”

If Zaros had conventional eyes, he would no doubt roll them at such an attempt. “Such vitriol, Hazeel. Zamorak does not concern me. I reiterate: I wish you no harm.”

Khazard challenged, “Then why have you come here?”

Looking at each of the gathered Mahjarrat in turn, Zaros declared, “I know what is happening to you all. I know why you are gathered here.”

Azzanadra was relieved by this, hopeful once more. “I pray you bring good news, my lord. We fear for the future of our race.”

“Good news?” Enakhra laughed sharply and with incredulation. “He is probably the cause of our troubles!”

“Enakhra, I will tell you only once - do not insult me,” Zaros warned, clear enough for the female Mahjarrat to step back. “Unfortunately, you are right to fear for your race. Your power is being drained so rapidly that you will all likely wither and die without a solution.”

Akthanakos shook his head in despair. “This cannot be…”

“Zaros, if you truly have nothing to do with this, then why have you come here?” Hazeel demanded, though he didn’t have the accusational tone of his Zamorakian brethren. “To witness our demise?”

“As I said, Hazeel, I wish to earn back your trust. Hope is not lost. I wish to make good on a promise I made to all of you long ago. Before the god wars... before the empire. If you accept, I offer you salvation. I offer you freedom from your Rituals.”

“You did not keep that promise last time you made it,” Enakhra pointed out, sneering. “Your empire was built on empty promises.”

“Know your place, you ungrateful whelp,” Azzanadra snapped, rounding on Enakhra.

“Mmm, yes, a good point has been made,” Bilrach mused. “What makes you think we should believe you this time?”

Zaros simply replied, “I have not come here to beg. I once promised you something I did not know how to give. I return to you now with knowledge I did not possess before. I wish to bestow upon you a gift that will make amends for my past missteps. All you need to do is return to Freneskae, the origins of your species. I implore each and every one of you, accept my offering.”

Lowering his head, Wahisietel said, “Of course, Zaros. We would follow you to the ends of the cosmos.”

Naturally, Khazard audaciously cut in, “Pah! Speak for yourself, you-”

“Enough,” Zaros’ firm tone was rock-solid, hiding the exasperation that even the most powerful of deities could feel. “You have heard what I came here to say. I will await you at the Ritual of Rejuvenation site on Freneskae. Go through the World Gate and meet me there, or conduct your Rituals until the last of you breathes your final sigh of regret.”

With those chilling words, Zaros teleported away.

After the air had stilled, Azzanadra announced, “Well, my opinion should be clear. We must go to Freneskae.”

Enakhra rolled her eyes. “Surprise, surprise. Zaros clicks his fingers and Azzanadra comes running.”

“Stop sulking, Enakhra. I see no other option but to hear Zaros out.” Hazeel contributed, rubbing his hairless chin in frustrated contemplation.

Clicking her tongue, Enakhra crossed her arms over her chest. “Before we make any decisions, I would like us to recall the last time Zaros made us the very same promise. We did the dirty work building his empire on the false pretence that he would save us from extinction. He turned his back on us time and time again, until we entered his throne room beside Zamorak and made that arrogance his downfall.”

“And Zaros still had the good grace not to strike you down the moment he saw you!” Azzanadra spat back. “You heard what Zaros said. He wishes to save us.”

“He does not! It is just as before… an empty promise with no intention of delivering upon it.”

“Enough!” Wahisietel interrupted, a headache forming thanks to the bickering from both parties. “The way I see it, we have no choice but to hear Zaros out. Regardless of your allegiance to our lord, he seems to have an understanding as to why our power is draining as it is. I am going to the World Gate and crossing through to Freneskae. I hope to see you all there, lest I never see you again.”

There was a thick, contemplative silence that followed Wahisitel’s departure. Hazeel was the first to break it. “Perhaps Wahisietel is right. Our impending doom is not something we can ignore.”

“So we should just play right into Zaros' hands?” Khazard continued to protest, but his resolve had lessened. Perhaps the weightlessness of his receding flesh had finally gotten to him.

Even Enakhra was starting to come around, begrudgingly. “Unfortunately, it would seem we have no other choice. Zamorak will watch over us on our journey, of that I am sure.”

“At least some of you are able to see reason,” Azzanadra remarked with a sniff of a chuckle. “There may yet be hope for us.”

“Hope for these Zamorakians? Unlikely,” Akthanakos maintained with a haughty raise of his chin. “The only reason I will set foot on Freneskae is because I cannot perform a Ritual on my own.”

Hazeel replied, “We may yet get a sacrifice, Akthanakos. But unless we go to Freneskae, I fear our fate is sealed.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#runescape #children of mah #two chapters cos I haven't posted in about eighteen months

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avintagekiss24 · 7 years

Text

Prompt #55 : Things you said under your breath

For: @straight-to-county

Rick rocks into Michonne with a great need; pushing himself deeper and deeper into her abyss just because he needs to. Sweat springs up on their skin as he thrusts into her in the back of the old van. They should be looking for supplies, but she looked so damn good today. He kisses her feverishly as she wraps her legs around his waist, linking her ankles together as her heels dig into his lower back. She gasps suddenly, grasping at his hair and pulling harshly as he strokes that deep spot. He leans back, just to watch her. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open as she pants, her beautiful breasts bouncing with his movements. Sweat beads in the valley between her breasts and he licks her clean, grunting as the sweet saltiness of her invades his mouth.

Her feminine moans and gasps and grunts drive him wild as he pounds into her. His need for her is animalistic. He reverts to the most primitive part of himself when he fucks her. He has no other priority, no other responsibility. He is single minded. His mind on one track when it comes to her. To make her quiver and squirm underneath him. To make her want to crawl out of her skin as she calls his name into the universe. To bring her pure, unadulterated, sweet, pleasure. His only duty is to make her banks flood with desire and quake with sweet eruptions. She deserves it. All of it. Every ounce of it. And he's going to give it to her. Whenever he can; whenever she wants it.

Rick lifts her some from the floor of the van and throws her arms over his shoulders, encouraging her to wrap her fingers around his neck. He pushes his knees into the backs of her thighs and she starts to move with him, crashing down on him as his hips push to meet hers. She crushes her breasts and nipples into his slick chest as he leans them into a proper sitting position. She rests her elbows on his shoulders as she cocoons his head with her forearms and hands, her hair falling around them. Rick nuzzles his face into her neck as he squeezes her to him, reveling in the feeling of her hard, thick nipples sliding against his sticky chest.

Michonne throws her head back as she tightens her vaginal muscles around him, smirking devilishly as she feels him shudder from the pressure, "Fuckin' shit baby," He mumbles in a slur, his hot breath sticking to her sweaty skin.

She knows he loves fucking her but it's her pleasure to fuck him all the same. His body is beautiful. Riddled with scars, old and new, telling stories of his heroics over the past two years. One old bullet wound, just under his shoulder, reminding him always of his time as a sheriff, as Lori's husband, as Shane's best friend. His scars are a map of a tough, gritty, emotional, loving, strong man; and her need for it, for his body, for his love, his attention, consumes every fiber of her. She loves it; the need. Never, has she ever had this feeling before. Not after the end of the world, and certainly not before it. He is the love of her life.

He drills into her relentlessly now, strong, hard, fast, and all she can do is hold on for dear life, "Ugh, God I love you." She mutters under her breath, not entirely realizing what she's said.

Her words are jumbled together, almost as if she has a mouth full of peanut butter but his ears pick her words apart with a great ease. He's wanted to hear them for so long, but the devil deep inside of him tells him he doesn’t deserve them. But his body defies his devil as another tense shudder racks through him as the words stick to his skin. A grunt scratches at the back of his throat, sounding like a deep growl from a territorial, threatened lion defending what's his. He bites down on her shoulder roughly and she squeals from the pleasurable pain that rips through her incredibly sensitive body. He dips his hand down to her thighs and pushes his fingers between her wet lips, finding her clit instantly. He rubs quick circles against her, adding to her lust, as he continues to thrust deep into her.

"Say it again." He commands gruffly, his voice low and gritty, "Tell me you love me baby."

She can't even think, let alone form a sentence. She's so close that he can taste it. She plasters her forehead to his as she bounces on top of him, each stroke pushing her closer and closer to the edge of her impending orgasm, "Tell me baby," He whispers in her ear, his words washing over her like a waterfall, "Tell me you love me."

"I love you." The words are harsh and rushed as her hips begin to falter against his. She can't take it anymore. But he still doesn’t hear her, not like the angel on his shoulder needs to. They were muttered and jumbled and slurred from ecstasy. He wants them loud and proud, heavy and full. Even though you don’t deserve them, his devil growls.

"Again."

"I love you. God Rick! I love you, I love you." She screams as his last thrust proves to be her undoing. She comes all around him, tightening her walls on him, coaxing him into his own release. His seed is hot, mixing with her own internal heat and the external rays from the sun, thrusting their temperatures to a stifling degree. Their breath is ragged as they release and then relax against one another. Her dark skin sticks to his, their sweat glinting in the sun as their hips involuntarily move slowly against one another. Rick lets his head rest against her breasts, pecking at her skin with sloppy, wet kisses as her chest rises and falls.

He raises his head, those bright blue eyes scanning her dark ones. He looks so beautiful in this natural light. His pink lips thick and swollen with passion, his dark, curly hair in his face as sweat drips from the ends, "I love you girl." He mumbles under his breath, suddenly shy to say it out loud as the animal inside of him recedes back into the depths. His devil will not win today.

She smiles and lowers her lips to his, savoring the sweet kiss. She soon giggles against his mouth, letting him eat up the heavenly sound. She hums sweetly, swaying them back and forth slowly as the sunlight beats down on them in the back of that old rickety van. She knows it was hard for him to say it and that it might be hard for him to hear it after all of this. After the passion and lust is gone, after his animal is caged once again, and his devil is set free. When it's just him and her, Rick and Michonne, it’ll be hard for him to hear it. When Negan looms over them, now that their hunger has been satisfied. It’ll be hard for him to hear it. He's damaged. But that's okay. She'll love him anyway.

Why do you deny yourself heaven? Why do you consider yourself undeserving? Why are you afraid of love? You think it's not possible for someone like you. But you are the love of my life. You are the love of my life.

You are the love of my life.

#Richonne #Richonne fanfic #richonne fanfiction #richonne fic #Rick Grimes #Michonne #prompt requests #answered

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ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

[RF] The Taker

"Your name?"

“Margarete."

“Last name as well ma’am."

"Excuse me. Margarete Bjornson."

“Mhm, Occupation?"

“Birther."

“Valiant occupation ma’am. Just valiant."

“Yes, it was."

“Date of birth."

“01/12/2195."

“Ok good. Then we will proceed."

“Aren’t you going to ask for my consent?"

“Oh Margarete, of course you know you gave us your consent when you signed your pledge. Everyone did. Myself included."

Margarete's eyes went dim. Her mind delving through her memory to the moment, proud parents to either side, she signed her Pledge to Community form that was apart of her work assignment ceremony. “How certain I was the future was so far away. Don’t believe that deception for a second. You hear me?” Her eyes now focused on the second nurse with the IV in her hand.

Without a reply and eyes darting down, the associate nurse slid the IV into Margarete’s left forearm.

The lead nurse, recognizing doubt being introduced into the room quickly intercepted the moment. “Ok, are you ready Margarete?"

Margarete nodded without lifting her head up again. The lead nurse shot a glance to his associate who in turn flipped a large red dial on the machine connected to Margarete’s IV. Two vials, one green, one blue flowed into the singular tube leading to her arm.

“Thank you for your service, Margarete."

“Here to serve. For benefit of all."

“And this community forever.”

At once, her body became rigid, as if suddenly filled to capacity with air and just as quickly went limp, silent, still.

“Hmm.”

“That’s a new reaction.”

“We may have to report that to the Board.”

The lead nurse checked for a pulse on Margarete’s wrist.

“Didn’t change the result, however. Another successful release Sam.”

“Another mouth we don’t need to support you mean.”

“You know that is not what this is about."

“Tell that to the Principle."

“You are going to get yourself released with statements like that.”

“Pft, well let’s see. Would that qualify as a pro-social action?" Sam, now thinking back to her own Pledge to Community that she signed.

“Enough, that is enough. Did you take your emotion suppressor today?"

“As always."

“Maybe you need to up your dose."

“Maybe."

“You know emotion leads to confusion, confusion to delusion, delusion to chaos, and what comes after chaos?”

“Destruction. I know. I know. Just a weird day I guess.”

“Mhmm. Best not have many more of those.”

“What was her occupation again?”

“Birther."

“Valiant occupation."

“Mhm."

The two nurses opened the hatch that led to nowhere and pushed the bed where the now released laid. The front of the bed, clearing the hatch, gave way. The released slid and was gone.

“Another successful release."

Sam, muttered under her breath, “God help us.”

“What was that?”

“Another successful release, I agree. I agree.”

“Mhm.”

Hunter, opening the door to the room adjacent theirs, announced loudly.

“NEXT.”

The Principle, pausing the video and turning to the board announced somewhat hurriedly, “This is exactly why we need to introduce a sedative before release. Look how this birther introduced subversive thoughts into the mind of our Dear Sam. Chaos. CHAOS is what these ideas lead to. Get an action plan on my desk by the end of the week on how we will limit exposure to conversation between our nurses and the soon-to-be-released. End of life, it’s a makes people revert back to our… primitive ways.”

“Yes ma’am. We will begin immed—“

“And release Sam. We do not need this doubt to spread. And find out for the love of community where she heard the word, God.”

"Also, before I forget, let's all give Hunter a round of applause for bringing this to the attention of the board and myself."

"Here to serve. For benefit of all." Hunter recited proudly.

"And this community forever." All together they responded.

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