Author's Note: This is my first crack at something a bit more sordid as it's not exactly in my wheelhouse. But, that said, I've always imagined Rick and Michonne find each other's weapons more than slightly appealing.

Sword Play

Rick didn't know what possessed him to bring it up. Maybe it was because she was running off again on one of her quests to find the Governor, and he wanted to make sure had proper protection. Or maybe it was just plain old curiosity—

"Noticed you never carry a gun," he said as he eyed Michonne's body, seeing no sign of a holster on her thigh or hip.

"I have my sword," she said, sliding more provisions into a backpack.

"Yeah, I know, but you should carry a gun."

Michonne stopped packing and turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest slowly. "Why? Think I can't take care of myself?"

Rick snorted. "I never said that." He sighed. "I just think that you use a sword—and that isn't exactly a gun." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Ever seen Indiana Jones?"

Rick paused after the words came out of his mouth. The scene where the man floundered around with his sword only to get shot might not be the best example. Rick couldn't imagine Michonne flourishing her katana in figure eights in front of an armed bandit—unless she intended to dazzle him to death.

"But I am better with my sword than most are with a gun," Michonne said with a tilt of her head, as though reading his thoughts. "I have more control—and I'm quick."

Rick shrugged. "Quick as you are, a sword just ain't gonna to best a gun in a fair fight."

Michonne tilted her chin up. "I could beat you on the draw."

Rick couldn't help but laugh under his breath, shaking his head at her pluck—and bristling at the challenge. Rick's hand went to the grip of his Colt Python at his hip.

"I doubt that," he said with a smile.

"Let's see."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Afraid, cowboy?"

Rick huffed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He didn't want to humiliate Michonne. He admired her confidence—and he wanted her to hold onto that confidence as long as possible.

But he had his pride to consider—and she'd just challenged his shooting skills.

"On the count of three then," he said, grateful they were alone in her cell. If the others saw the two of them about to engage in some juvenile pissing contest, they'd never hear the end of it.

Without saying a word, Michonne raised her right hand, poised to seize the grip of her katana and brandish it from the scabbard across her back.

"One."

Michonne's shoulders tensed. Rick's fingers twitched.

"Two."

Rick almost felt bad about how mortified he was going to make her in a second.

"Thr—"

A solid arc of silver flashed through the space between them. Quick as he could, Rick reached for the grip of his Colt Python—and froze.

The steel curve of Michonne's katana was an inch from his neck, catching light on its fine, razor-edge. As he eyed the blade all the way up Michonne's arms, Rick felt his fingers go numb.

His gun hadn't even cleared its holster.

She had outdrawn him. With a damn sword. He didn't know if it was a testament to her skill—or just a blundering of his own.

Michonne raised her eyebrows in a way that silently said, "Told you so." Rick's cheeks burned.

"Not fair," he said through his teeth. Every half-second mattered in a test of speed. "I hadn't finished—"

Michonne pressed the katana against his neck, and Rick gulped down the rest of his objection.

Drawing shallow breaths through his nose, Rick wondered if Michonne's coy smile was just a really good mask covering some hidden rage. While her eyes were hard with focus, she didn't seem angry, but he didn't know why else her sword was at his throat.

"Michonne," he said, very carefully. "What are you—"

Michonne brushed the blade's edge up the side of his neck. Rick gasped, shivering at the tantalizing feeling of the cold steel moving across his skin.

Instinct was telling him that a sharp edge dancing just a hair above vital arteries was about as bad as it gets. His heart rioted in protest, banging against his ribs, but he didn't do a thing to stop it.

Maybe he didn't move because it was obvious the blade wasn't cutting him. It was barely skimming him. There was no pain at all. In fact, the sensation of the blade wasn't even uncomfortable.

It felt good. It felt really good.

Even though Michonne applied the blade with feather-light pressure, his skin tingled at its touch, prickling with goosebumps. It was as though the slender edge of her sword could tease all the sensations of a nerve—and he was loath to end it.

The sword trailed down his jawline, hissing against his stubble. It stopped at his chin and twisted upward, caressing his bottom lip with its pointed tip.

"That's how I knew I'd beat you," Michonne said. "I don't fight fair."

A wave of sensation rippled Rick's spine—and made him very conscious of the crushing snugness of his jeans. Rick groaned. He was hard. Distressingly hard.

In that moment, Rick wouldn't have minded if Michonne sliced open one of his vital arteries. It would spare him the mortification. How could he be aroused by this? By a blade he'd seen kill a man with his own eyes tracing patterns across his skin? It was perverse. It was crazy.

But pleasure rarely obeyed reason.

The katana slid from his chin to the front of his throat. Michonne's tongue curled out of the corner of her mouth as she guided the sword over his Adam's apple.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a bit faint as more blood rushed straight to his cock. He tried to think of things that would staunch the excitement. Dead puppies and kittens. Dead puppies and kittens—

The blade skated down to his collarbone, melting what little resolve he'd recovered, reducing what spare thoughts he had to filth. His mind clouded with vulgarities and half-baked, violent fantasies—of wanting to be flayed alive, stabbed through the middle, sliced into ribbons. They weren't wholesome thoughts, but arousal brought with it the most lurid kind of stupidity.

Then, quick as it came, the sharp touch was gone.

It was over.

Rick opened his eyes, feeling as though he was crawling forth from some dark, forbidden cave filled with all manner of shame.

To his surprise, Michonne didn't look particularly smug or scandalized as she sheathed the katana. Not at all like she knew he was flush with arousal. She appeared in good humor. Guileless. Innocent.

But then Michonne probably didn't assume he would get hard over her sword stroking his skin. What sane person would.

Still, he felt under attack. Like the butt of some joke. His cheeks were flushed, his dick was throbbing, and he wanted some answer as to why this cruelty had to happen to him.

"What?" he said, daring her to say something. He shifted his weight to try and ease the tension in his jeans, but only succeeded in making his situation worse. He grit his teeth to stifle a whimper.

Michonne grinned, eyes alight with humor, gazing at his chin. "Not bad for a close shave."

Confused, Rick scrubbed his jaw. His fingertips grazed over one long bald patch in his beard.

"Though you might want to touch it up," she added.

She'd given him a close shave. Literally.

This had been a game. Some harmless display of her skill and a crack about his facial hair.

Rick swallowed back a shout.

Michonne stared at him like she was expecting some kind of witty retort—and growing more concerned by his complete silence. Rick cleared his throat.

"You're pretty good with that thing," he said, wincing as his voice cracked from the strain of all his choked-back curses.

Her smile returned. "Good enough to handle myself?"

"I'd say so."

"If I see any, I'll be sure to grab some aftershave for the burn," Michonne said, unable to hold back one last barb, sure feeling pleased with herself. She slung her backpack over her shoulder.

"When you get back," Rick said, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. "You're going to learn how to shoot."

She put a hand to her hip. "How do you know I don't already know how to shoot?"

"I guess we'll see just how good you think you are. If it's anything like your sword play, maybe you can teach me a few things."

Michonne raised her eyebrows, turning on her heel to leave. Rick's eyes lingered on the white leather scabbard of the katana on her back as she walked out of her cell.

Rick made his way back to his own cell, each step uncomfortable and stiff. Once he was alone, he collapsed onto his bed, taking in deep breaths—debating whether to indulge his ill-gotten erection or suffer for it. He traced over the lines Michonne had made with the sword on his face, stifling a groan.

This world had left him a freak. Had things gotten so bad he was thirsty for death? Was that was this was? Some sick kind of suicidal impulse employing lust as a means to an end?

Rick closed his eyes, picturing other people pressing knives, swords, machetes against his throat. The images left icy, syrupy disgust in their wake. A cold shower wouldn't have been as sobering.

Maybe it was his nerves short-circuiting. It had been so long since he'd been touched. By anything. His nerves were just craving any sort of contact—even from a lethal blade.

But still. Something didn't sit right with that simple an explanation. Frowning, Rick returned to the memories of what happened a moment ago. He pictured the sword in Michonne's hands, remembering the wet curl of her tongue as she maneuvered the sharp edge around his throat with more care and skill than it would've taken to end his life.

His dick twitched up against his jeans, swelling harder than before.

"Dammit," Rick said under his breath.

At least this wasn't the byproduct of some lustful death wish—but, in that moment, Rick wondered if it would be better if it was.

End Note: ... All I can say is the next part will be called "Gun Play". Michonne has to come back eventually - and Rick is definitely going to give her some shooting lessons.