when my mom was talking to me and i said “where’s rick? Dontttttt care” and she goes “who cares he’s too old for you anyways” OKAY BUT HOW did she who and know what i was talking about… clocked that was embarrassing lowkey i started sweating a lil i stay embarrassing myself on accident 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
Summary: During a crowded party at Deanna’s house, Constable Rick Grimes can’t stand watching you interact with Alexandria’s locals. Driven by jealousy and the pressure of pretending to fit into a civilized world, he follows you up to a dark study to remind you—behind locked doors—who you really belong to.
wc: 1,10k
────୨ৎ────
The classical music playing from the CD player in Deanna Monroe's living room sounded far too loud, almost jarring, for ears accustomed to the whisper of the wind through the trees and the metallic click of a trigger. The house smelled clean: furniture polish, expensive soap, and cinnamon. It was a perfect stage set, a mirage of civilization that the people of Alexandria savored with wine glasses in hand and rehearsed smiles.
You were standing by the improvised bar in the kitchen, toy with the edge of your glass. You were wearing clean, ironed clothes—something you hadn't experienced in over a year. A local resident, a guy with soft hands and an immaculate button-down shirt, was talking to you about the community's power grid and the tomato harvest. You listened out of sheer politeness, but your mind was three miles away, out in the dark of the road.
And then you felt it. That heavy, physical gaze that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up before your eyes even located him.
Rick Grimes was on the other side of the living room, standing by the window. The navy blue constable uniform Deanna had assigned him fit him ridiculously well: it marked the width of his shoulders and the straight line of his back. His hair was freshly cut, the thick road beard reduced to a clean two-day shadow, and the golden sheriff's badge gleamed under the warm light of the lamps. He looked like the picture of an exemplary citizen, the leader Alexandria wanted to see.
But his eyes... his blue eyes were still those of a wild animal cornered in a golden cage.
Rick held a glass of bourbon in his right hand, gripping the glass so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wasn't listening to Deanna, who was talking beside him. His gaze was locked on you, and more specifically, on the barely two-feet distance the guy in the clean shirt kept from you. There was a dull danger pulsing in his clenched jaw. To Rick, watching someone who didn't know how to hold a knife get close to you was an unforgivable provocation.
Needing a break from the party's falseness and the suffocating weight of that gaze, you excused yourself from your conversational partner and slipped toward the main foyer. You climbed the carpeted stairs to the upper floor, seeking the dim light of the guest room hallway.
The bathroom at the end was closed, so you pushed open the door to a small, dark study and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. The space smelled of old paper and leather. You leaned back against the wooden wall beside the desk, closing your eyes to let the silence of the top floor erase the murmur of the music below.
Not even ten seconds passed.
The firm, deliberate sound of heavy boots on the carpet announced his arrival. The study door burst open and shut with a dry, definitive click as Rick's hand turned the metal lock.
The darkness of the room was broken only by the silver moonlight filtering through the blinds, drawing lines of shadow over the constable's uniform. Rick stood two steps away from you. He was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling beneath the rigid fabric of the blue shirt.
—You looked like you were having a lot of fun down there—his voice sounded deep, raspy, loaded with a sarcasm that couldn't hide the harsh edge of jealousy.
—I was just trying to be polite, Rick—you replied in a whisper, trying to keep your composure as your heart began to hammer against your ribs.
—Polite?—Rick took a step forward, closing the distance until his presence occupied your entire field of vision. He brought with him the scent of bourbon, neutral soap, and that warm, familiar aroma of leather and skin that neither the uniform nor the hot bath could erase.—Those people don't have a damn clue who we are. They don't know what we've done to get here. And that idiot... he was looking at you like you're something he can claim just because he offers you a drink.
—Nobody is claiming me—you said, raising your chin slightly.
—Damn right—he muttered.
Before you could react, Rick's large hand slammed against the wall, right beside your head. He leaned over you, trapping you between his body and the wood. The metal buckle of his uniform belt brushed against the fabric of your pants, and the heat emanating from his body cut through the layers of clothing like a wildfire.
—Rick, we're in Deanna's house... there are twenty people downstairs...—you whispered, though your voice betrayed your sudden lack of air.
—I don't give a damn who's downstairs—he growled, bringing his face closer to yours until his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His hot breath sent a violent shiver down your spine.—I've been watching you all night wearing those clean clothes, pretending we belong in this place. But you know what's behind this uniform, don't you? You know what kind of man I am.
—I know exactly who you are—you gasped, hooking your fingers into the open collar of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle of his neck.
That small provocation snapped the last thread of restraint in the leader of Alexandria.
Rick swore under his breath, grabbed your hips with both hands, and lifted you off the ground in one fluid motion, sitting you hard on the edge of the oak desk. The papers and folders on the table scattered with a dull thud, but he didn't care. He immediately slotted himself between your legs, forcing your thighs open to fit his pelvis against yours.
The grip of his hands on your hips was brutal, possessive, marking your skin with the pressure of his fingers. His blue eyes burned in the dim light with a wild intensity, the same look he gave the walkers at the fence.
—Say it—he ordered in a raspy whisper, lowering his right hand to unbuckle the heavy leather uniform belt.—Say you don't want to be with any of them. Say you're mine.
—I'm yours, Rick. You know I've always been yours.
The belt hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Rick wasted no time on pleasantries. With a desperate urgency, his fingers pulled down the zipper of his constable pants, freeing his thick, hot length. At the same time, his hands slipped beneath your clothes, pushing your underwear aside with a needy clumsiness that made the desk shake slightly.
He locked eyes with you, his jaw tight and sweat beginning to glisten on his freshly shaved forehead.
—Not a sound—he commanded authoritatively, placing the thumb of his left hand over your lower lip, pressing lightly.—If I hear anyone coming up those stairs, I won't be held responsible.
Without further delay, Rick lined himself up and buried himself inside you in a single, firm, deep thrust, filling you completely.
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. You grabbed the lapels of his uniform shirt, wrinkling the perfect fabric with your nails as your head fell back. The feeling of stretch and immediate fullness took your breath away. Rick let out a low growl against your neck, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds as he savored how tight you were around him.
—God Almighty...—he cursed through his teeth, clenching his jaw until the veins in his neck stood out like cables.
He began to move. The pace he set was heavy, rhythmic, and devastatingly deep. There was nothing of the party's delicateness below in the way Rick Grimes took you on the oak desk. It was the brute force of the road, the instinct of a man who needed to prove you were alive, real, and belonged to him amidst the chaos.
Every stroke lifted your body off the oak furniture, making the wood creak subtly. Rick placed his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, while his other hand went down to your thigh, hooking your leg up to drive himself even deeper against you.
—Look at me—he growled in your ear, his voice broken by effort and pleasure.—Look me in the face.
You opened your eyes, hazy with pleasure, to meet his gaze. The gold badge on his chest gleamed right in front of you, cool against your fingers while Rick's body burned. The mix of the uniform's authority with the animal ferocity with which he drove into you pushed you to the edge with every second.
The sound of the music from below arrived muffled through the walls, a distant echo of laughter and clinking glasses that contrasted sharply with Rick's ragged breathing, the rustle of clothes, and the dull impact of his hips against yours.
—You're perfect... so tight for me—he whispered, pulling his hand back from your mouth just to devour your lips in a hungry, dirty kiss, tasting of alcohol and possession. His tongue dominated yours with the same violence he used to set the pace from below.
Rick picked up the speed. His thrusts became faster, shorter, and more desperate. You felt the tension building at the base of your spine, an electric knot tightening with every strike of his pelvis.
—Rick... I'm going to fall...—you gasped against his mouth, feeling the desk shift.
—I've got you. I'm never letting you fall—he promised in that firm leader's voice that left no room for doubt, wrapping both arms around your waist to support your entire weight as he increased the power of his thrusts.
The orgasm hit you head-on, a violent spasm that arched your back and drove your nails into the fabric of his uniform. You bit your lower lip so hard you nearly tasted blood, holding back a scream that would have alerted the entire Monroe household. Your inner walls contracted rhythmically around him, trapping him.
That pressure was the final trigger for Rick.
Feeling your climax, he let out a gut-wrenching growl, buried his face in the crook of your neck, and drove himself in one last time to the hilt, coming inside you with a brutal shudder that made his entire muscular body shake. He stayed there, motionless, buried deep, while his heart hammered wildly against your chest like a war drum.
For several minutes, the only sound in the dark study was your ragged breathing, trying to regain a normal rhythm. Rick didn't pull out right away. He kept his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, letting his hand stroke your back under your clothes with an unexpected gentleness—a quiet tenderness he reserved strictly for you in private.
—Are you okay?—he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.
—Better than ever, Constable—you smiled breathlessly.
Rick let out a short, deep laugh, that rare chuckle that brightened his tired face. He kissed your lips once more, softly this time, before slowly sliding out of you.
He adjusted his underwear and his pants' zipper with practiced speed. He picked up his leather belt from the floor, fastening it around his waist and clicking the heavy buckle into place. He ran his fingers through his freshly cut hair, smoothed the lapels of his blue shirt, and straightened the gold badge over his chest.
In less than thirty seconds, the wild Rick from the desk was back in the armor of Alexandria's flawless leader. Only his eyes, a little brighter and darker than usual, betrayed what had just taken place on the oak desk.
He stepped toward you—you had already straightened your clothes—and ran the pad of his thumb across your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
—Come downstairs in five minutes—he said in an authoritative yet warm whisper.—And don't you dare smile at that idiot in the kitchen again.
—Yes, sir Constable—you replied with a sly smirk.
Rick made his way to the door, unlocked it silently, and took one last glance down the empty hallway before stepping out. You watched him walk away toward the stairs with the firm, confident stride of a man who knew exactly which side of the walls the real danger lived on, leaving you alone in the dim light with the heat still throbbing between your thighs and the certainty that Alexandria could never change what you were to each other.
Guys, I was thinking about our parents Rick and Michonne Grimes. They are absolutely crazy about each other. After they became canon, all it took was a sideways glance or a bump of the shoulder and they were already making out in any available corner.
But the reproductive math here just doesn't add up. How come our diva didn't get pregnant much sooner?
The Calendar Method? In the middle of a zombie apocalypse, with sky-high stress, malnutrition, and irregular cycles, trying to calculate fertile days would be almost contraceptive suicide.
The famous coitus interruptus? Rick Grimes is a man of focus, commitment, and determination, but in the folds of that Alexandria duvet, did he really have the self-control to pull out in time every time?
The "grooming" tactic? Did they spend half the time just on foreplay and "love without penetration" to avoid unforeseen problems?
A Pill Stockpile in Alexandria? If she was taking birth control, where did she get so much of that supply? Did Denise find an entire pharmacy just for combined pills and nobody told her? Or did you have a batch with a miraculous expiration date stored in Deanna's safe?
Seriously, how come R.J. wasn't born two years earlier? Alexandria should have the best family planning in the world and nobody showed it in the episodes.
being friends with me means i get right to the point. what i mean is: hi, nice to meet you! i want to be fucked raw and dumb by rick grimes. which fictional character do you obsess over?
