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The Pants Story

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The Famous Rick Grimes owns one pair of pants.

One pair of ratty, worn, ripped-up jeans that sag in weird places that Michonne knows they shouldn’t be sagging, sewn up on one leg with untidy stitches by Rick’s own hand. He’s had these terrible jeans since the prison, since Michonne first met him. She has a suspicion that they’re much, much older than that, though.

Clothes are not something they’re in short supply of. They can be washed and patched and reused, handed down and traded, scavenged from everywhere- department stores, houses, office buildings with changing rooms, even the dead if they’re particularly desperate. Hell, a couple of people at the Sanctuary have started making their own clothes and trading them in the marketplace. Just last week, Michonne gave them a bag of apples in exchange for some new shirts and pants for Judith, who’s rapidly outgrowing everything they find for her.

She’s tried. Oh, how she’s tried to get him to wear some new pants. She’s gone as far as to find the exact same brand and size as the ones he’s always wearing, albeit much less ruined. They sit unworn and lonesome in the bottom of the dresser in their bedroom.

“I don’t need more than I have. Really, it’s fine, Michonne. They’re practical, they’re comfortable.”

Men, she thinks. Completely hopeless. Honestly, she’s shocked the damned things haven’t split right down the middle with as much running around and climbing they do. How they’ve survived this long, she has no idea. Maybe that’s why he refuses to get new ones- these have some kind of magic to them that keep them from ripping at the seams whenever Rick scales a fence or climbs a shelf or gets into a brawl with some guy on the road. Though she’s not convinced that would stop him from wearing them again. He’d probably just sit on the couch in his boxers, sew them up, and be back out in them the next morning.

The only other pair of pants he owns are a pair of almost equally worn plaid pajama pants that he’ll wear whenever his jeans are being washed. She wishes she could say those pants never see the outside of their home, but she’d be lying.

The famous Rick Grimes, hero of Alexandria. Some of the newer folks that live in the Kingdom or the Sanctuary that haven’t met him yet would be dumbfounded to see the man, the myth, the legend puttering around the gardens in a plaid pajama pants.

There’s a part of that that she finds charming- he’s utterly unaffected by ego, especially when it comes to his newfound fame. He took down Negan, restored freedom to their communities, is known throughout the region, and he doesn’t care enough about how he looks to own more than one pair of jeans. It’s cute, in a way. It’s so utterly Rick, and she loves him for it.

But those damned jeans are so ugly, and she’s tired of looking at them.


“I have a present for you,” Michonne says with a sly, wily little smirk, and she can already see him getting wound up. She probably could have phrased that differently- the last time she had a present for him, wink wink, it had been a pair of strong leather handcuffs to replace the last flimsy pair that they’d broken.

“That right?” He smiles back, nuzzling a kiss against her neck, lips making their way up, up, up to her jaw and nipping. She loses herself in the affection for a moment, thinks about Rick on his back with his wrists cuffed to the headboard, face and chest all pink with arousal as she-

Focus, Michonne.

“Mm-hm,” she purrs, fingers laced through his as she leads him into their bedroom. She can already feel him getting hard against her hip, his hands roaming from her waist up to her breasts to cup her through the tank top she’s wearing.

“Got a little somethin’ for you, too,” he drawls in her ear, nudging his stiff cock against her ass and thumbing at her nipple through the thin cotton. She gives a breathy, wanting laugh and captures his lips in a teasing kiss before letting one of her hands slide over his firm chest and down to his crotch, where she cups him and squeezes just enough to make him groan and buck into her palm.

“Doesn’t feel so little to me.”

His laugh is a warm gust against her throat, and then he catches sight of the bed- or rather, the length of grey fabric lying out across the bed. He tips his head at her, eyes crinkled at the edges. “You got me sweatpants?”

The jig is up. “I did. Traded for them at the Hilltop. Some of Judith’s old shirts and things, stuff she’d outgrown. Nothing we’ll miss.”

“You didn’t need to do all that.” He seems almost amused by them. “I’ve got pants, Michonne.”

“One pair.”

“Two pairs,” he argues, all playful and cocky like they’re still flirting.

“One pair, plus pajamas. I’ve given up on the second pair of jeans, but really, Rick. You should own another pair of pants. Ones that are suitable to leave the house in.”

“Did Aaron complain to you about the plaid pants again?” Rick smirks and flops back onto the bed. “He says I look like a senile old man when I wear them out.”

“You do. And Carl doesn’t like you wearing them either. Something about embarrassing him in front of Enid.”

“At least I’m not goin’ out in boxers,” he points out, like that’s some kind of logical next step.

“I’m not going to let you get to that point,” she promises with a laugh, scooping up the pants and tossing them in his face. “Just try them on. They’re your size, they’re comfortable, they look less ridiculous than your grandpa pants.”

Rick makes a face. “They’re not…grandpa pants. I don’t look like a grandpa. Do I look like a grandpa?”

“No, baby,” Michonne reassures him, “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from dressing like one.”


As soon as he comes down the next morning, Michonne realizes that she’s made a colossal mistake.

He’s barefoot and bare-chested with Judith on one hip, her little arms locked tight around his neck. The sweatpants definitely fit him. Perhaps a bit too well, she notices, her eyes immediately dropping to his crotch where she can see the clear imprint of his dick through the gray material. The pants are low enough on his hips that she can tell he’s not wearing anything underneath- probably just rolled out of bed when he heard Judith in the next room.


“Mornin’,” Rick purrs into her ear in a rough, half-awake drawl that never fails to rile her up. He and Judith both plant a kiss on her cheek in greeting. “You already make breakfast?”

“I did, actually,” Carl pipes up from across the counter, his hair matted up in the back like a cat slept in it. Rick’s eyebrows raise comically, and Carl makes a playfully offended noise. “What? I can cook just as good as you. Better, even. I didn’t burn the toast.”

“I like mine well-done,” Rick mutters mutinously before releasing Judith, who immediately goes to her tiptoes to peer up at breakfast. “This looks good though, Carl. Soon enough we’ll be havin’ pancakes on Sunday mornings again.”

Carl grins. “Lumpy, just like you like ‘em, right?”

Rick chuckles. “Right. It’s nice to see you up so early,” he adds after a bite of jam-slathered toast.

“He’s got his reasons,” Michonne pipes in with a conspiratorial glance at her son, who goes pink in the cheeks.

“That so?”

“I’m meeting Enid for breakfast. Siddiq has her waking up early. So don’t eat all the strawberries!” he chastises, and Rick holds his hands up.

“I see. And here I thought you wanted to do somethin’ nice for us,” he teases.

“Nope!” Carl grins and begins packing away food into the little wicker basket they use whenever Judith wants to go for a family picnic. “I’ll be home in a bit and then I’ll help you with the weeding. Promise.”

Rick waves him off. “Go on. You two have a good time.” Carl practically sprints out the front door, and as soon as it slams closed behind him, he and Michonne share a conspiratorial grin.

“You weren’t gonna tell him about his hair?”

Rick shrugs. “He’ll figure it out. She’s seen him lookin’ rougher than that, anyway. You’d think after two years of dancin’ around each other he’d realize he doesn’t need to impress her.”

“Is that the Grimes method of seduction?” Michonne teases, bumping Rick’s hip with her own. “Don’t try to impress people?”

It’s with a winsome grin that Rick replies, “Sure is. Us Grimes men don’t have a flirtatious bone in our bodies. We just gotta lay it all out there and hope for the best.”

“Mm,” Michonne hums in agreement. “I’d criticize your methods, but it seems like it’s worked out pretty well for you so far.”

Rick leans into Michonne’s shoulder, his bare skin warm against her own, and she can’t help but smile. “I can’t complain. Although it seems my wife has some complaints about how I dress myself.”

Now that Michonne’s attention has been refocused on the pants, she has to take a moment to compose herself. He looks entirely too tempting like this, leaning against the countertop with his sweats riding so low on his hips that she can see the grooves of his Adonis belt. It would be far, far too easy to just sidle up behind him, press herself against that firm, muscled back, and slide a hand down the front.

“I’m surprised you’re actually wearing them. I was sure they’d end up shoved in the bottom of a drawer.”

“I like them,” he admits sheepishly. “I never was much one for sweats, but…they’re comfy. Still don’t see how these are any better than the grandpa pants-”

“They’re better,” Michonne assures him- perhaps a little too firmly, because he quirks an eyebrow at her over his mug of coffee. “They fit you…well.”

Rick looks torn between being pleased and embarrassed, the tips of his ears going pink. “That so?” He looks down at himself and then back up at her, a devilish smile playing on his full lips. “This is really doin’ it for you?”

“Shut up,” she mutters, “and do the dishes when you’re finished eating. I made you coffee.”

Rick starts the dishes while Michonne walks hand-in-hand with Judith over to Tara and Rosita’s for the afternoon. She and Rick’s plans for the day include a visit to the Hilltop, and while Judith’s been asking to see Aunt Maggie and baby Hershel for ages, Rick still isn’t quite ready to take her so far beyond the safety of Alexandria’s walls.

Unfortunately for them both, Carl used a lot of pans and bowls in order to make breakfast- an occupational hazard of not really knowing much about cooking- so when Michonne returns just a few minutes later, Rick’s still elbow-deep in soapy dishwater.

He’s also got his back to Michonne, the lines and planes inviting her to follow them with her eyes. He has the most ridiculously attractive twin dimples at the base of his spine, and she finds herself behind him with her hands settling warmly on his hips without ever consciously deciding to walk there.

“Mm,” Rick hums contentedly while Michonne’s soft, full lips trail kisses up his shoulders to the slope of his neck. “Feels nice.”

“You look nice,” she returns, smirking into his shoulder when a quick tweak to one nipple makes his breath hitch and hips jerk. “And you’re not wearing those out of the house.”

“I thought that was the whole point of me having another pair,” Rick protests.

“I…miscalculated.” Her fingers stray down his belly to the coarse hair just below his navel.

“Miscalculated what?” Rick’s voice, she notices, sounds strained.

Lips to his ear, Michonne whispers, “how fucking sexy you’d look in them.” Rick splutters wordlessly, and Michonne knows that if she could see his face, he’d be blushing.

“I don’t-” he begins, but the rest of his words are subsumed in a sharp inhale when Michonne’s wily hand does what it’s been itching to do all morning and slides beneath Rick’s waistband, fingers raking through short curls and then going straight for his cock, which she finds, to her delight, is already half-hard. “Michonne.”

“I could see you through them, you know,” she murmurs low, her thumb rubbing just beneath the head, teasing him to full mast. Rick’s hips rut forward, seeking more. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you did it on purpose.”

“I- ah- I already said I didn’t know how to flirt.”

“I wouldn’t call that flirting. I’d call walking downstairs half-dressed and clearly going commando under these more along the lines of putting it all out there. Literally.”

Because Rick is endlessly smart-mouthed, she knows he’s probably doing his best to string together a retort, but it’s then that she chooses to take him fully in her fist and begin stroking him in earnest, and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet. His shoulders are beginning to turn pink, his breaths grow more desperate and ragged with every stroke, and he bucks helplessly into her talented hand, precome dripping down the length of his shaft and making the glide that much smoother.

“How- ‘r you- so damn- good at this?” he grunts out, fucking into her hand like his very life depends on him getting off.

“Maybe it’s just because I like seeing you get this worked up,” she teases, and he groans, head drooping, sweat beading at his hairline. She feels his cock throb and twitch in her hand and feels herself growing wetter and wetter in response.

“’Chonne- I can’t- I’m about to-” he moans, the sound hitching toward the end, a full-body shudder wracking his solid frame while he comes. Michonne keeps working him in her fist while he spills, only stopping when she feels him begin to go soft and come down. When she draws her hand back out, the evidence of his orgasm is coating her fingers, and she can’t help but lick them clean.

“Christ,” Rick breathes, turning to face her and pulling her into a scorching, open-mouthed kiss. He cringes when they press closer together and then looks down between them. “Guess I won’t be wearin’ these out today after all.”

Michonne laughs and kisses him back. “Good.” Heat is still radiating through her, and she rakes her fingers through his short hair. “You still hungry?” she purrs, the insinuation clear in her tone, and Rick’s lust-hazy eyes twinkle. In one smooth motion, she sweeps her up and carries her the couple feet to the kitchen table before setting her down on the edge and sinking to his knees between her open thighs.