Dillie60fso

This is my very important reminder to PLEASE support our black writers. We’ve been marginalized enough. We love to share with the world, but it’s hard when writers like these take from us without giving any kind of consideration and recognition.

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1. LaMorenaReina

2. FoxIsSoFoxy

3. Twriter12

4. BluePrintOfYourPast

My Richonne Spotify Playlist

It was my goal to spread these rec posts out so folks could explore or revisit these wonderful writers and their stories at a leisurely pace—but now I feel pressed for time, with my days off winding down and the work emails already beginning to trickle in (received notice of my instructional schedule today).

Sighs.

This next author is not one I’ve seen much buzz about in my excavation of the Richonne Internet annals, but they absolutely merit a shout‑out of San Diego Comic Con junket proportions.

Before I continue, I need to lay out a bit of background:

1. I first learned of this author while digging elbow‑deep through the Richonne Just Desserts Tumblr page.

2. This author states multiple times throughout their notes that English is not their native tongue—but I call bullshit, because their writing is far superior to many a native English speaker I’ve known. And I say that with the utmost authority both as an educator and as someone whose first language was NOT English, despite having been born and raised on the mainland United States.

3. The links to this author’s stories on FF.NET no longer exist. Look, I respect that an author has the right to remove their works from the internet at their discretion. I’ve learned some authors have removed stories for a variety of reasons: plots re‑worked for legit publications (more on that in another post); mental health; entire story re‑hauls; loss of interest in the fandom, etc.

But if I may indulge in a tiny petulant FOMO tantrum: clears throat “That’s so fucking unfair! I’m only JUST finding these stories, and I feel like I’m being punished or cheated because my ass had other shit going on in 2014, 15, 16…”

Stomps, then clears throat while straightening my worn Buc‑ee’s hoodie.

That’s alright though.

Y’all don’t know what a neurodivergent puertorriqueña with a single‑minded purpose can unearth. Government agencies ain’t got shit on my resourcefulness and determination.

Basically… I used the FICHUB workaround. If that hadn’t worked, I would’ve gone straight to the Deleted Fic subreddit.

Sheepish grin. Apologies for the minor tangent.

I was able to find an author profile with the same handle on AO3 under the German phrase “befehlvonganzunten (blueprintofyourpast)". I can’t confirm they’re one and the same author, but I suspect they may be — even though none of the Richonne stories are posted under that profile and I have no way of contacting them directly to ask.

Well, now that I’ve laid all that groundwork, the author whose praises I will sing in this post is the one who goes/went by “blueprintofyourpast.”

Y’all.

Again — y’all.

I only found a handful of stories by this author on RJD and believe me when I say I’ve been combing through the internet like one of Lord Helmet’s Spaceballs and still came up empty‑handed. So, I’ll highlight what I was able to procure.

Oh yes — as per usual: mild spoilers, HUGE feels, meandering thoughts, and all that jazz.

Yous been warned.

I’ll start off with the Wonder Twin pair—Tremor and Tourniquet.

Tremor (Rick’s Ying)

This fic? This fic is a panic attack in prose. This fic is jagged, breathless, claustrophobic—and that’s exactly why it works. The entire story is built around Rick’s unraveling grief and blueprintofyourpast writes that grief with a kind of raw, unfiltered immediacy that feels almost intrusive. Like you’re reading something you shouldn’t be reading, like you’ve cracked open Rick Grimes’ skull and are just sitting there in the dark with his panic. He’s grieving Michonne so hard he’s practically vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

Her Rick POV is feral, obsessive, and heartbreakingly human. She writes him true to canon but stripped of the show’s restraint—no sheriff stoicism, no quiet brooding. This Rick is volcanic. His guilt over losing Michonne is molten. His fixation on her is tender, desperate, and so intimate it feels like you’re eavesdropping on his soul.

There’s a line early on that punched me in the chest:

“He needs something else. He needs to stop feeling like his skin is about to cave in.”

It’s giving grief as a bodily event, not just a feeling. She illustrates longing as a physical force. Rick’s grief isn’t sadness—it’s a full‑body experience. His panic attacks, his hallucinations, his obsessive memories… they’re written with feverish clarity. You feel trapped inside his head, pacing the same emotional corridors he’s pacing, breathing the same thin air.

It’s sweaty, it’s feral, it’s emotionally unhinged—and it’s beautiful.

The kiss scene is devastating. Not romantic fluff—no soft lighting, no swelling music. It’s grief, guilt, and need colliding in a moment of delusion. Cos, y’all—Rick kisses the memory of Michonne, knowing she’s gone, knowing he failed her.

It’s brutal and beautiful in that way blueprint excels at: intimacy sharpened into a blade.

The writing is atmospheric and musical. She uses rhythm like a weapon. Repetition, short sentences, sensory overload—it creates a tremor‑like effect (ahhh see it now?). You feel the instability. You feel the shaking. You feel Rick’s world vibrating at the edge of collapse.

The writing is jagged and breathless, like blueprint handed you a live wire and said “hold this.”

The ending is cathartic. It doesn’t feel cheap. It doesn’t feel like a twist. It feels earned—like the world finally stops shaking, like the tremor (there it is again) finally settles.

All this and claiming English isn’t her first language.

Gurl, be serious.

This is Pulitzer‑level emotional architecture or the literary equivalent of clutching your chest and whispering “ay bendito.”

Tourniquet (To Michonne’s Yang)

This sequel is quieter, more psychological, more internal—and honestly, even stronger in some ways. If Tremor is Rick’s breakdown, Tourniquet is Michonne’s.

And baby… Michonne’s trauma is LOUD. The fic literally opens with: “Her dreams are so fucking loud.”

That’s the thesis of the entire fic.

Michonne’s trauma is noise—intrusive, overwhelming, impossible to silence—and blueprint writes them with such lyrical brutality that you feel every echo.

Look. Her Rick stream of consciousness is uncanny. Her Michonne POV—extraordinary.

It’s fragile, haunted, hyper‑sensory, and deeply introspective. She writes trauma with a kind of lyrical brutality—not melodramatic, not exaggerated, but felt.

This is Michonne trying to relearn safety, relearn sleep, relearn touch. It’s domestic Richonne but with the volume cranked up to 11. Rick is a needy octopus at night (which we can all agree is canon behavior), Michonne is dissociating in the kitchen, and Alexandria is written like a haunted house with HOA fees (sucks teeth, don’t even get me started).

The trauma depiction is startling good. Michonne’s dissociation, her intrusive memories, her guilt over André, her fear of sleep—all written with nuance and emotional intelligence.

And the intimacy?

Soft.

Strange.

Quietly erotic.

Tender in that “we survived hell and now we’re trying to remember how to be human” way. Not flashy. Not performative. Just two people clinging to each other because the world is too loud. Rick’s “needy octopus” predilection again.

Their relationship is mature. They’re not just lovers. They’re two damaged people learning how to exist in safety again.

It’s unfinished, but what exists is gorgeous and still a story worth recommending.

The Trickster

This is the fluff piece, y’all. The palate cleanser. The “Rick Grimes is down bad in the morning” fic.

Rick sees Michonne come down the stairs in her lavender robe and immediately forgets how to speak English. The man is short‑circuiting like a busted iPhone charger.

It’s domestic, it’s sweet, it’s horny in a soft‑focus way, and it has that blueprint signature: Rick being so in love he’s practically apologizing to the air for existing.

Also? She’s pregnant.

He’s obsessed.

Daryl and Carl are clowning him at breakfast.

Judith is eating cornflakes like a tiny queen.

It’s the Richonne sitcom episode we deserved.

The Warmest Colour

Now THIS… this is where blueprint said “what if I wrote a sci‑fi AU with political world‑building, extraterrestrial arrivals, climate catastrophe, and soulmate energy?” and then just DID IT.

This story feels like reading a fever dream wrapped in velvet. It’s giving Hades and Persephone but make it Richonne. It’s giving Blade Runner meets Greek tragedy. It’s giving Rick Grimes wandering through the underworld with a torch and a prayer.

It’s cinematic.

It’s ambitious.

It’s Arrival meets District 9 meets Richonne slow burn.

It’s also fucking unfinished (Hiatus is what the status said). Hisses.

The world is freezing over, aliens are dropping out of the sky like confused Sims, and Rick Grimes is a government supervisor who hates his job but cannot stop thinking about the newcomer named—yes— Michonne.

The prose is lush—like, “I need to read this out loud in a dimly lit room with incense burning” lush. It’s the kind of writing that makes you pause mid‑sentence and whisper “daaaaaayuuuuuumn” like you’re reacting to a plot twist on House of the Dragon.

Rick in this fic? He’s not just down bad—he’s down mythological. He’s down “I would fight a pantheon for this woman.” He’s down “I saw her once and now I’m rearranging my entire worldview.”

(Apologies for all the mythological metaphors. I’ve had season 1 of Percy Jackson and the Olympians on in the background as I’ve been working on this post. Oh shit. I’ve been writing for three hours.)

The prologue? Rick is bruised, stitched, half‑dead, and Michonne casually says:

“They tried to kill you and I stopped them.”

Excusez moi? Madamoiselle Michonne. What do you MEAN you stopped them?

It’s bold. It’s dramatic. It’s instantly gripping. She writes the scene like a cold open in a prestige sci‑fi series. And she does it with humor, too—the conspiracy theorists, the absurd regulations, the GM food jokes.

It’s textured. The world building is legitimately good. The writing is atmospheric and melancholy, like every scene is lit by cold blue neon. The soulmate energy is subtle but undeniable—they orbit each other like two planets that haven’t realized they’re on a collision course.

Her Michonne is just mesmerizing in this AU. She’s alien but not alienated. She’s powerful, but not monstrous. She’s curious, observant, emotionally layered. She’s written like a deity who accidentally wandered into the mortal realm and is trying to pretend she’s not making the air vibrate. There’s a quiet, eerie dignity to her—something ancient, something wounded, something luminous.

And Rick feels it immediately.

And the tension between them? It’s not romantic tension, it’s cosmic tension. It’s “the universe is holding its breath because these two are in the same room.”

This fic reads like blueprintofyourpast cracked open a bottle of literary ambrosia (y’all, they’re killing it with the music in Percy Jackson and the Olympians) and said, “Let me just drizzle this over every paragraph.”

It’s haunting, it’s gorgeous, it’s the kind of story that makes you want to go outside and stare dramatically into the middle distance like you’re in a Terrence Malick film.

It’s unfinished—yes. But what exists? Chef’s kiss. Peak Richonne mythmaking. The kind of writing that makes you want to grab people by the shoulders and say, “READ THIS, I BEG.”

Ay, que dolor that we’ll never see the ending.

Where Men Can’t Live, Gods Fare No Better

And now, mi gente… her pièce de résistance. The crown jewel. The “I had to put the laptop down and stare at the wall like I was in an A24 movie”…

Oh. Oh. Oh.

This one is actually finished!

Completed.

Whole.

A FULL meal.

A literary entrée with no missing chapters.

A blessing.

Runs around the church pews.

Look. I feel it’s pertinent to share that I come by my humor honestly. After some truly unstable years in my youth, my mother had a spiritual encounter (but that’s her story to tell, not mine), and I was then raised in the Church. Our family was one of two Hispanic families attending an all‑Black Pentecostal congregation—most of whom were Jamaican.

Oh, yes. I have stories. And damn did I eat good on Sundays.

But I digress.

This story is blueprintofyourpast’s take on Cormac McCarthy’s The Road—and when I tell you she nailed that tone? I mean she nailed it like she was submitting this to a graduate seminar on American post‑apocalyptic literature.

And again—AGAIN—this woman repeatedly said English is not her first language. I’m sorry, but ¿cómo carajo? How is she out here writing McCarthy‑level bleakness with the precision of someone who has a Pulitzer tucked in their back pocket?

I’ve taught English AND Spanish. I’ve graded essays. I’ve seen native speakers commit war crimes against syntax. Meanwhile this expletive is out here writing:

sparse, brutal prose

atmospheric dread

moral ambiguity

landscapes so desolate you can taste the ash

…in a language she claims isn’t even her mother tongue?

AGAIN—Gurl, be serious.

Be for real.

You’re writing like the ghost of Cormac McCarthy whispered in your ear and handed you his typewriter.

This fic is harsh. It’s unforgiving. It’s quiet in that way that hurts.

Rick and Michonne aren’t mythic here—they’re human in the most devastating way. Two people walking through a world that has already ended, clinging to each other not because love will save them, but because love is the only thing left that still feels real.

It’s the closest thing I’ve ever read to a Richonne version of The Road—not derivative, not imitative, but in conversation with McCarthy’s style. Blueprint understood the homework assignment and then turned it into a dissertation.

And again—English is not her first language.

I’m sorry, but that’s witchcraft. That’s El Gran Combo level brujería. That’s talent so raw it makes you want to throw your own laptop out the window.

And unlike Tourniquet or The Warmest Colour, (which remain heartbreakingly unfinished), GROWLS, this one is complete—a full, devastating, beautifully crafted journey from beginning to end.

A masterclass. A study in tone. A reminder that fanfiction can be literature. A reminder that some writers disappear from the internet but leave behind work that still punches you in the chest years later.

Mujer. BluePrintOfYourPast, wherever you are now—all I can think to say is—gracias.

Tremor @ FF.NET

Tourniquet @ FF.NET

The Trickster @ FF.NET

The Warmest Colour @ FF.NET

Where Men Can't Live, Gods Fare No Better @ FF.NET

To comment is to appreciate, period!

#Richonne

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#Nashuri

Look.

You Richonne authors are gonna have me catching a case if you keep playing with my emotions with these deleting/reposting fits.

Here I am sitting at Starbucks — fucking STARBUCKS — the only place open at the ass crack of dawn with free WiFi, while I wait for my kiddo to finish her week at camp.

So picture me: in this brick‑ass cold Starbucks, where I’ve been waiting 20. TWENTY. minutes for a hot chocolate; laptop powered on; fresh Word doc open, ready to draft my next Rec post — and I cannot locate a single one of the author’s works.

Matter of fact, I couldn’t find the author in any of the fanfiction archives.

Really?

Fortunately, I tapped into those inherent Latina Superpowers of Detection and found what I was looking for. Shoutout to @dillie60, @sunkissedbutterfly99/@ririchonne — their pages led me to the links that let me recover the material I needed to begin my next love letter.

But seriously. This madness has gots to stop, y’all.

winks and goes back to writing