A/N: Hi! So this is my first Richonne fic. My dash on tumblr went nuts after they became canon and I just had to see what all the commotion was about. I have no shame in admitting I'm officially Richonne now. This is just a little AU one shot inspired mostly by my inappropriate fascination with Rick.
Michonne got out of her black VW and grabbed her gray Prada bag from the backseat, annoyed at the way the summer heat was sticking her silk blouse to her. She sighed, growing more annoyed when she spotted the garbage can at the end of the driveway. She contemplated leaving it there until the morning but knew she would still have the same trouble pulling it uphill. She set her bag on the hood of her car then schlepped down the cobblestone driveway to pull the unbelievably cumbersome bin to the garage where it belonged. She cursed her soon to be ex-husband Tyrese for buying the heavy duty can that weighed what seemed like a ton as she tried to push it up the driveway the way he did with such smug ease. The thing barely budged. She cursed to herself, looking around for any of the neighborhood children who could help her haul the bin, and cursed even louder when she found none. It was nearly 9 at night and she guessed that they were all in for the night, probably gone to bed to be up at the crack of dawn making the devil's racket as they stormed around on their bikes and rollerblades and go-karts. She switched positions and tried pulling the can but found it even more reluctant to roll. Plastic wheels and cobblestones were apparently the least productive partners in transportation.
"Need some help?" A man's voice asked, surprising her. She turned around, squinting in the almost darkness at the man's tall muscular silhouette. She wondered who he was and why she'd never seen him before as he stepped closer, bathing himself in the street light's yellow light. She took note of his coffee-colored curls and muscular biceps, showcased beautifully in a denim shirt. She had never seen a pair of jeans love a man's thighs so much. She would have mocked anyone else for wearing beaten cowboy boots but on him they were the sexiest thing in the world.
Her face was hot as she squeaked, "Thank you. This thing weighs a fuckton."
"Fuckton? That's a new one," he replied with a laugh as he walked over and took the blue garbage bin by the handle. He easily pulled it up the driveway, Michonne trotting next to him to keep up with his large steps. She lingered a step or two behind to take a peek at his butt and was floored to find it deliciously muscular and hugged by the faded denim.
He wheeled the garbage bin into the open garage then pulled the door closed, making his back muscles flex magically. Michonne was ashamed to be drooling over him like a horny teenager, unaware that the stranger was looking over her as well. He took note of her shapely legs in her light gray trousers and found his eyes lingering on the peek of cleavage revealed by the undone buttons of her light blue blouse. He wanted to know what her long, dark locs smelled like, and what it would be like to kiss her luscious lips. He stood a few feet from her, smiling serenely, thinking that she had the biggest, brownest, most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Michonne wished Tyrese had gotten around to fixing the porch light so that she could have a better look at the tall man. But then, if Tyrese had fixed the porch light, he wouldn't have been living in an apartment in the city because they were going through a divorce, and she wouldn't have remembered the bubbly Michonne she was before him, so the broken light was a little bittersweet.
He finally stepped forward, his large right hand extended, and said, "I'm Rick Grimes. I live next door."
His drawling accent set off fireworks in her stomach. Michonne took hold of his hand, replying, "I'm Michonne Da—Mitchell. Michonne Mitchell."
She hadn't used her maiden name in so long that it almost felt foreign rolling off her tongue. She had never even wanted to be a Davis, but Tyrese had insisted to the point of wearing her nerves so thin she was a walking migraine. It had been an almost perverse rush to file the name change documents after filing for divorce.
"Your house is beautiful. We almost bought it," she told Rick. Rick's smile twitched when she said "we." Of course she was married. Why wouldn't someone so gorgeous be married? Michonne had been head over heels for Rick's house, but Tyrese had gone on and on about their house's "good bones," and he had developed the tendency to nag until she cracked. If she'd known Tyrese would only be in their house for three months, she'd have fought harder for the house she wanted. "How long have you been there?"
"About a month," he answered, thinking, Not long enough to notice someone so beautiful living so close. In the most casual voice he could manage, he asked, "How long have you and your husband lived here?"
"We moved in about six months ago," she answered then frowned, "but my husband—ex-husband, I should say—moved out about three months ago."
Rick frowned even though he was excited about the possibilities afforded by her marital status. "Sorry to hear that."
"Don't be too broken up about it. I kicked him out," she said matter-of-factly.
"Happens." He shrugged casually. Noticing her broken porch light, he asked, "How long's that light been out?"
"Since before we moved in. We bought the place as is." Michonne glanced at it, smirking at the wires hanging where Tyrese had taken the fixture off then moved on to another project. Intrigued by his accent, she asked, "Where are you from?"
"Georgia," he answered with a nostalgic smile, like the city belonged to him in another place and time. "You?"
"Seattle," she replied with a smile. "Your accent's cute."
"You're cute." He normally wouldn't have been so forward, but she was so beautiful that he couldn't stop himself. Her smile made his heart hammer. Michonne grinned, happy that the darkness cloaked her blushing. He nodded at the light. "I can fix that light for you if you'd like, ma'am."
Michonne blushed even harder at his politeness. "You don't have to. I don't wanna bother you."
"No trouble." Looking at his smile, she knew he meant it.
"When do you want to fix it?"
"I can come by tomorrow. I get off work at 5."
"Five works." She smiled softly at him, her mind already drifting to what she would wear.
He smiled and nodded, slipping his hands in his pockets. "I'll see you then."
"Goodnight." She stayed where she was, watching him as he walked across the yard to his own house.
She smiled when he turned back to grin at her. "Were you checking me out?"
"Just making sure you actually lived here," she lied.
"Whatever you say, Ms. Mitchell." He went into his house and Michonne went inside hers. Upstairs in her bedroom, she looked out her window, fortuitously facing Rick's house and her eyebrows raised at the sight of him standing before his own window. He unbuttoned his shirt and Michonne knew she needed to walk away from the window, but she was compelled to stay and watch. She watched as he tossed the shirt into a hamper then stepped out of his jeans, turning his back to the window. His muscles flexed as he folded them and tossed them over the back of a chair then walked away and headed into what she assumed was his bathroom.
Michonne finally moved away from the window, going to sit on her bed. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Five o'clock wouldn't arrive fast enough.
XXXXX
Michonne could almost laugh at herself for touching up her makeup in preparation for Rick's arrival. She gently touched up her blush and put on a little more lipstick, NARS's Jungle Red, her man-catching weapon. She pulled her dreads up, piled them atop her head in a beautiful twist and spritzed soft DKNY perfume behind her ears. She smiled as the scent wafted into her nose. It was her favorite perfume, with a soft feminine scent that beckoned men closer. She turned slightly, examined her outfit in the mirror. She had gotten dressed with that morning with the evening in mind, wanting to look effortlessly alluring. She wore her favorite sleeveless chiffon blouse, a soft flowy garment that subtly highlighted her cleavage and the arms she sweated through kickboxing for three times a week. And her pants, her killer dark skinny jeans that she had to lie down to slide into but never failed to turn heads in.
The doorbell gave its tuneless bleat at exactly five o'clock, and Michonne sprung off the couch, stopping to check her appearance one last time before she opened the door. Rick stood on the other side, grinning nervously as he clutched a bouquet of purple daisies.
"Hi." Michonne knew her smile was too large, too toothy, but she couldn't pull it back.
"Hi." He stuck one hand in the pocket of his jeans, a different pair than the ones she'd watched him change out of, but no less snug on his muscular thighs. He thrust the bouquet out to her. "A guy was selling these on the highway off-ramp on my way home, and these were the prettiest bunch he had."
"Thank you. They're beautiful. I know exactly where I'll put them." Michonne smiled as she took them. She stepped back out of the doorway. "Please come in."
He stepped inside and looked around the yellow living room. "Nice place."
"Thanks. I just redecorated," she replied. "Do you want a beer?"
"Sure." He took a seat on her soft mint green couch and watched as she walked to the kitchen. Rick wondered where on earth she got such tight jeans, and who taught her to walk that way in them. She reappeared a moment later with two bottles and Rick smirked as he read the label on the bottle she handed him. "Red's Apple Ale? That's not beer."
She smiled at him, wrinkling her nose. "What do you consider proper beer?"
"Coors. I'll take Miller or Budweiser in a pinch. Hell, even a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon will do. This," he pointed a long finger at the bottle, "is just apple juice with hops in it."
Michonne laughed. "I refuse to take condescension from a man who holds Pabst Blue Ribbon in high regards."
Rick shrugged then sipped the beer. "It's not the worst thing I've ever had, but please don't tell anyone else this is beer. Just call it a drink. Save them the embarrassment."
She laughed again, nudging him with her elbow. "Fine. Tomorrow night, you can buy me the best beer in your opinion."
Rick looked at her with a shy smile. "What are we doing tomorrow night?"
Michonne blushed, not having meant to inadvertently ask him out. "Well tonight you're doing manual labor, and I'm watching you do manual labor, so maybe we should try something fun."
"Well there's a real drive-in on the other side of town. Does that sound fun?"
Michonne smiled, and asked, "You drive a pickup truck, don't you?"
Rick laughed, wondering how she'd guessed. "Yes ma'am. And I've got an air mattress we can put in the back. A few blanket, some pillows, some real beer, maybe some burgers. I think it'll be nice."
"Sounds like it." She knew her grin was too toothy again, but again she couldn't help it.
They chatted and finished their beers before Rick went onto the porch to inspect the porchlight. "Okay, so I've just gotta put the light up. Do you have it?"
Michonne went into the hall closet and retrieved the light, still in the box, then brought it to him. "Do you need any tools?"
"Just a screwdriver and a step stool," he answered.
Michonne disappeared again and returned with what he needed then took a seat on her rarely used porch swing. "I think this is the first time I've ever used this swing."
Rick looked away from his work to her stretching out on the swing. "I use mine every night. It's nice to have a beer and listen to a little Rascal Flatts. It really takes the edge off the day."
"What's Rascal Flatts?"
At this question, he stopped screwing in the light and looked at her. "They're a country band. Haven't you ever heard "Bless The Broken Road'?"
Michonne shook her head. "I'm not really a country music person."
He blinked. "How can you say that in Louisiana?"
She shrugged. "I'm from Seattle. Country's not that big in the northwest."
"How'd you end up down here?" He went back to his work.
"Ty and I fell in love in college, and he's always wanted to live in the south. He's crazy about houses with porches and long summers and stuff. So after graduation, we moved to New Orleans, and then we wanted to start a family so we moved out here. Then things went to shit so he moved back to the city."
Rick nodded, turning the information over in his mind. "I lived in the Midwest for a while. Construction's crazy big out there. Then my dad got sick and I came back here to put everything in order. He didn't last long. Soon as I took him to the hospital they told us he was dying and they couldn't do much but make him comfortable. Took him three days to go. I sold the house and bought mine and that's that."
"I'm sorry about your father," she replied.
Rick nodded. "I'm sorry about your marriage."
They settled into a comfortable silence. Rick went about his work, quickly fixing the light and smiling triumphantly when it lit up. He leaned again the porch railing and frowned when it leaned with him. He turned around and gave it a shake frowning deeper when it wobbled. "That can't stay like that. Twister'll rip it clean off."
Michonne walked over and examined it, his scent of soap and detergent blowing into her nose. "What should I do?
He squatted and looked at the railing's attachment to the porch. "Well it's about shot to hell. I can patch it but you're gonna have to have it replaced soon. Just get me a hammer and nails."
She went back to the closet and retrieved Tyrese's toolbox then brought it to him along with two more beers. She settled back on the porch, watching his back flex beneath his brown t-shirt.
"She was raised up in Jersey/ I said 'Oh Lord, have mercy'/ Never seen a one light town 'til she moved down here/ She said 'I'm so bored out of my mind'/ 'Need a Starbucks and wifi'/ 'Or a jet airliner to fly me anywhere…'" Michonne wasn't sure what to make of him singing, his deep voice warming her insides.
"Is that Rascal Flatts?" she asked, interrupting the song.
Rick shook his head. "That's Jason Aldean."
"So you're all-in with country music?"
"Yes ma'am." He nodded. "I said 'Do you wanna take a drive in my truck?'/ 'Don't pay no mind to that twelve-point buck/ Laid across my hood'/ You ever been to Rome, Georgia/ Picked peaches off the trees/ Climbed a water tower/ In Paris, Tennessee/ Been to Florence, Alabama/ Drank muscadine wine/ Just give me a chance to change your mind/ So before you go and fly away girl/ Let me show you 'round a country boy's world…"
xxxxx
After he fixed the porch railing, Michonne invited Rick in for pizza, insisting on feeding him after making him work so hard. He watched as she took the pizza from its delivery box and put it in the oven to reheat. She went to the cabinet and got plates for them, setting them on the counter. Rick rushed to her side when she let out a yelp. "What's the matter?"
"Just a splinter." She glared at the wooden counter as Rick took hold of her hand, examining the splinter protruding from her index finger. She had never been so embarrassed as her eyes glassed with tears at the throbbing pain of her finger.
Rick frowned as he held her little hand. "Don't cry darlin'. We'll fix it."
He left the kitchen and quickly found her bathroom, digging through a drawer on the counter until he found tweezers among her makeup brushes. He took her first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. He quickly returned to the kitchen. "Don't cry, Chonne. I'm gonna fix it in just a minute. Please stop crying. Come on. I'll buy you ice cream."
"I'm lactose intolerant," she whimpered, finally looking up at him with a smile.
"But you're not crying anymore so it's good either way," he replied, smiling at her. He set her on the counter and pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe her eyes. He lifted her hand up and clamped onto the splinter with the tweezers. "This is gonna hurt, okay?"
She nodded and Rick gave the splinter a firm tug, glad it came out on the first try. Michonne winced at the pain. Rick quickly wiped away the little blob of blood that sprung up on her finger. He put a little band-aid on her fingertip then gave it a gentle kiss. "There. All better now, right?"
Michonne wiped her face and sniffed. "I can't believe I'm crying over a splinter. I didn't even cry when I broke my arm last year."
"Don't fret about it," he replied, giving her a gentle smile.
She sniffed then pushed back the errant curl in the center of his forehead, shyly lifting her eyes to meet his. Her fingertips trailed over the downy hair on the curve of his jaw, her eyes wide as she stared at him. He stepped closer, his hips connecting with her knees.
"I like you," she admitted quietly.
He smiled. "I like you too."
Her hands found his shoulders and she parted her knees so he could step closer. Rick planted a gentle kiss on her lips and Michonne found her fingertips clutching the soft fabric of his t-shirt. The next few minutes were a flurry of sighs and discarded clothes that left them clad in the underwear and panting as they writhed against the counter. Michonne murmured, "We should get off this counter before we have another splinter incident."
Rick nodded and quickly moved her to the table. He sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of her throat. "Talk to me, baby."
"Mmm," she moaned, winding her fingers in his hair.
"No, no," he commanded. "Talk to me. Tell me what you want."
"Keep biting me. It's driving me crazy," she moaned.
He groaned against her slick flesh as he took off her deep purple bra, quacking wrapping his lips around her right nipple. He remembered her request and gently bit her, delighted when her back arched. His hand found its way between her legs, delighted at the hot, damp fabric of her silk panties.
"Take them off," she hissed and Rick quickly obliged, ridding himself of his dark blue boxers as he did.
She pulled her legs back and stretched them upward, letting her ankles rest on his shoulders. Her eyes were heavily lidded as she watched him fist his impressive length. She tried to take him all in at once: the downy soft hair on his chest, his toned stomach, his muscular hips and thighs. But her eyes kept drifting back to his hands. She desperately craved those hands, sitting up a little to reach for them and pull them to her waist. Rick stared at her face as he pushed inside her, his mouth falling open in a throaty groan as he experienced what he was sure was Nirvana.
Michonne pulled his face down to capture his lips in a searing kiss, swallowing his groans and feeding him her own as her tongue massaged his. She kissed his chin, nipped his Adam's apple. "Fuck me hard."
Rick growled as he did what he was told, taking hold of her hips to drive his hips into hers, only faltering when he hit a spot and she let out a breathless "ah!". He liked that noise. He wanted more of that noise. So he set a driving rhythm, focused on that spot and clamping his lips onto her nipples, delighted at driving her crazy. He slowed to an almost glacial pace, rotating his hips in a way that made her shake beneath him as she tugged on his hair.
"Fuck, Chonne," he groaned against her neck, feeling his own climax building as she pulsed around him. "You like that? Are you gonna cum for me? Cum for me."
He reached between their bodies, pressing her firm nub of nerves with his thumb. Michonne's eyes rolled back as she clung to him, her whole body shaking with a climax. "Fuck…fuck…Rick!"
"That's it. Say my name." He kissed her neck, her chin, her lips, anything he could reach with his mouth. "Keep saying my name."
"Rick…Rick…Rick…Rick…" Each capitulation earned her another kiss and a deeper thrust. She could feel him pressed as deep as he could, pulsing inside her. Soon their cries crescendoed into the harmony of a climax, Rick collapsing atop her, his hips still performing a slow merciful grind, as she writhed beneath him. They held each other, breathing softly as they basked in the afterglow of their climax. Rick resumed kissing her anywhere he could reach, still moving inside her, mostly for emotional satisfaction, but also because she felt like heaven.
"Do you snore?" she asked, surprising him.
"Hmm?" he replied, not really understanding.
"I asked if you snore. You can't spend the night if you do." He almost thought she was serious until he looked up and saw her grin.
He kissed her jaw. "I do, loudly. But I'll make you breakfast."
She continued smiling, finger-combing his hair. "You should make me dinner instead. That pizza's probably burned to shit."
He almost untangled their limbs to check, but couldn't leave her warmth. "We'll get to it, darlin'."
A/N: I hope y'all enjoyed this. Please review! XOXOXO