Chapter Text
Rick doesn't think about the fact that he's not getting laid anymore.
Doesn’t think about it much, anyway. It's simply not a factor. He's busy. Lot to do, lot to plan and deal with and build. Structures to construct, fields to hoe and seed, runs to help organize, watch shifts, the storage and distribution of supplies. And even if he's starting to quietly slip onto the sidelines when it comes to a lot of that, making room for the newly established and so far successful experiment that is the council, it's still not like he's not involved. Besides, got kids to wrangle. Not like he's ever bored. Not like he's ever idle. Not like he doesn't sleep most of the nights through, heavily and deep, and though his dreams aren't exactly fun, they also aren't exactly the kinds of dreams that push your thoughts in the direction of your own dick.
The truth is that he's desperate for distractions. Desperate not to think at all. About it. About her. It's better. Put it away. Move on and keep moving. He likes to think she would want that.
Toys with his wedding ring sometimes and holy God, he needs to believe that she would want that.
Not like there's really anyone around who presents a possible opportunity for it, even if he was interested. Because okay, once or twice he's played around with the idea, just for the sake of thinking about the very real fact of a future, and he's come up empty. He knows the kind of shit Shane would give him if it was all those years ago and none of what happened since ever happened - there's pussy around, don’t have to make some kind of big commitment, don’t have to be scared, Christ, just find some piece of tail willing to spread her legs and go to town. Get your goddamn rocks off, you’ll feel better about everything.
He doesn't want to know that. He doesn't want to think about that. He wants to think about that basically least of all.
He doesn't want pussy.
What he wants is to be out in the new soft fields with that new soft soil on his hands, smell of it in the sun and everything it means, gripping a hoe and making it softer. Welcoming. Coaxing it open for him. Gentle warmth of an afternoon in early summer. Clouds rolling in, but that's fine, more than fine; rain is good. Rain is something they need to make this work, and he pauses and straightens up, smells the impending wet and the thin whiff of ozone, and it occurs to him that maybe he should get back inside, watching the others in the yard drifting toward the doors.
And then the sky opens up on him and it doesn't much matter anymore.
It doesn't begin softly. There's no gentle spatter and a gradually increasing intensity. There's nothing and then there's a torrent of great fat drops and he's soaked with it in seconds, hair plastered to his brow and temples and shirt stuck to his skin. No reason to run now. He stands for a moment and tilts his head back and lets it bathe his face and his body, wash his hands clean as he spreads them, a hundred warm fingertips tapping against him and gliding down him In trickles and rivers. Shaking himself a bit like a dog. Smiling at it. Feeling good.
Rubbing the water out of his eyes, and there she is.
She doesn't wear dresses much, Beth. He thinks he can probably count the number of times he's seen her wearing a dress on one hand. It's not so much that she might not be the kind of girl who wears dresses, but hardly anyone does. They're wildly impractical. Purposeless. You can't work effectively in one. You can't run as fast as you might need to. There's no reason to do it.
Except he knows, as he gazes at her standing there in a sleeveless knee-length sundress, all white and yellow flowers, that she never needs a reason for pretty things.
She's practical. But she also indulges herself.
The dress is pretty, yes. It's also soaked and clinging to her and he can't not see her and see everything that includes: her lean body, strong legs and arms, the small but full curve of her ass, those tiny little tits that Shane almost certainly would have scoffed at - which now he can't imagine doing. Graceful column of her neck, her head tipped back like how his was. Hair in dark gold tangles all around her shoulders and that lovely throat. Eyes closed, those long lashes - shit, even yards away he can see them. Her sweet mouth pulled into a smile as she luxuriates in the rain.
Rick doesn't think about the fact that he's not getting laid anymore. Except now that's all he's thinking about.
He's so fucking hard, so hard it hurts, jammed against his zipper with his mouth dry in the midst of a flood. She's not looking at him so he can stare all he wants - stare at those tits and imagine his hands on them, squeezing her so hard she wriggles and whimpers against him, mouth on the arch of her throat and scraping his teeth over her soft skin, gripping her waist, her hips, making her feel how hard she's made him. Seizing her hand and making her cup him, trace his length through his jeans. Biting her lips - he would be careful with her but she's so small and so delicate and he's never had anything like her, and she's right there.
Pussy.
She's a teenager. He's standing here in the rain, where anyone can see, and he's having an abrupt and borderline violently intense sexual fantasy about a goddamn teenager.
And it's not sweet and light, not like how she looks. How she is. It's as if something dark and thick has broken loose and surged up in him, something locked away for a long fucking time, and he stares at how she looks and how she is, and he wants to fuck her up. He wants to jerk her head back, muss her hair, make her sob. Hold her down, force her open and plumb the depths of her wet pussy. Show her how much she wants it. Take all that delicate prettiness and ruin it and, in the process, make her even prettier.
He wants to fuck Beth Greene until she's screaming his name.
The lightning crashes over him and he's certain it's possessed him.
He's striding toward her before he can stop himself, ignoring his erection, ignoring worries of how visible it might be. She's lowering her head and pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes, blinking at him with that smile still curling her lips, opening her mouth to speak. He already hears that pretty voice - Rick, wow, we should go inside, shouldn't we - and she freezes.
He's close enough to touch her. Breathing hard. Her eyes slip from his face down his body and halt at his groin, and her lips tremble.
He's not going to make her do anything, God, no way is he ever doing that, but fuck.
She looks back up at him, eyes wide as her tongue sweeps across those quivering lips. He thinks about the delightful innocence of Good Girls. He thinks about Hershel. He thinks about how fucked up he is, and he thinks about how he had no real idea he was capable of this, and he thinks very briefly about how he doesn't at all care.
For a fraction of a second he's sure that she's going to turn tail and run.
Then she takes a deep breath and a step toward him, and she reaches down for his hand.
As with the rain, there's no transition. There's her fingers brushing his and another crash of lightning directly overhead and it's as if it spikes between them, a wild current, and then he's gripping her hand like a vise and they're sprinting toward the building, him practically dragging her - and not to the door. There's a place near it and around a corner, a blind spot where no one in a tower or standing in a doorway can see, and he slams her up against the wall and shoves his knee between her thighs. She chokes out a squeak and that's all she has time for before he seals his mouth over hers. She opens to him instantly, and wouldn't you know it, pretty little Beth Greene is grinding her crotch down onto his knee and sucking at his tongue with a low moan, and maybe what he has his hands on isn't quite so innocent after all.
Out of his damn mind.
Pinning her with his body, and she gasps in his air and arches when he closes his hand over her cute little scoffable tit, and the dress’s fabric is thin and in half a second he realizes that she's not wearing a bra, and he feels her peaked nipple nudging hard into the crease of his palm.
The wall might be hiding them but it's providing them no shelter and they're still getting drenched. But they're already drenched so whatever, and he pinches her jaw and jerks her head up and licks salty water off her skin as she twitches and moans again, her hips rolling in a steady rhythm. She stutters and whines when he twists her nipple, and he pushes her head firmly against the wall as he releases her tit and maneuvers his hand between them, hauls the image out of his fucked up brain and clenches his fingers around her wrist and presses her cupped palm against his cock.
She stiffens and releases a shuddering whimper, her eyes so wide again, and he allows himself to wonder dimly if she's actually new to this.
Not like he gives a shit, considering how fucked up he is.
In fact, not like he doesn't really like the idea.
“You feel that?” he hisses. She nods, teeth capturing her bottom lip, and he could eat her she's so adorable. “Squeeze me, honey. Squeeze me nice and hard.”
She does and he groans and rolls forward, humping at her hand - freshly aware of how she's still just about riding his knee. Not as much of a rhythm, nervous twitches of her hips, but panting as she does, and he stares down at her swollen, parted lips and her pink tongue, dilated pupils, edge of something like fear in her eyes that manages to not really be fear at all, and he's releasing her wrist and yanking up her skirt and lowering his knee as he thrusts his hand between her legs.
She spasms and a soft cry bursts out of her, and he bares his teeth and gives her another shove against the wall, forcing the breath out of her. “Shut the fuck up. You want someone to hear?” She shakes her head and he kisses her again, sucks hard at her lip, and when it pops free it's even darker and more swollen than before.
“Christ, you're so fucking pretty.” Nothing to lose here. At least not his sanity. Might as well simply say what's on his mind. “Get my fly open. Get your sweet little hand on my dick, girl.”
She's clumsily working his zipper down when he noses his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, and he has to swallow another cry when he parts the lips of her pussy and presses his thumb against her clit.
She's so wet. Christ, she's so fucking wet, so hot and slick, clit a fat nub beneath his teasing fingertips, and she spreads her legs even wider and gulps his name and fumbles at his shaft, draws it out and holds it loosely and awkwardly in her hand, and that's when he's positive: no, she's never done this.
Little slut’s a fucking virgin, he thinks, and then holy shit what the actual fuck is wrong with you, and then shut the fuck up and let me get off.
He laughs - rough, grating. Not sure he's ever laughed like that. He rocks against her hand, allows some impatience to slip into it, turns her head with his fingers digging into her cheeks and nips at the shell of her ear. “You want my fingers in you? Want me in your pussy? Make you come? Tell me.”
She shivers and rolls her eyes in his direction, shuts them tight and nods.
He flicks her clit and she bucks and squeaks again and he grins. “Say it.”
“I want…” She swallows hard and opens her eyes, and as he loosens his hold on her jaw she turns to face him and her eyes are blazing. She's struggling, but if he had any doubts about whether or not she truly does want this, she just killed them dead. “I want your fingers. In my.”
“In your pussy, honey.”
“In my pussy,” she whispers, and she throws her head back and locks another cry behind her clenched teeth as he drives his finger into her.
Virgin, you sick fuck, he thinks again, feels her muscles fluttering around his knuckle and doesn't bother with slow. He fucks her in fast thrusts of his hand and she grimaces as she does her best to muffle her sharp moans, her hand tensing around his cock, and he thrusts into her fist in time with his finger in her pussy, the drumming of the rain drowning out the squelch.
“Jerk me off.” Teeth on her earlobe, tugging it into his mouth, sucking briefly. “C’mon, sweetheart, you want me to make you come, you pay me back.”
She is even before he finishes the sentence, jerking him in slides of her hand just as awkward as the way she was holding him, and he fucks her fist to guide her. She yelps when he adds a second finger to the one already in her, and he feels her tighten and then stretch to accommodate him as he shuts her up with another rough kiss. She tastes indescribable, like nothing but what he thinks of as Beth, smells like sweat and wet grass, the scent he wanted to lose himself in. Somehow they've found a rhythm that works, their tongues working together and his dick throbbing in her hand and his fingers in her tight cunt, his other hand returned to her tit and kneading, her own free hand hanging on by his upper arm. He's got less than a minute, he can feel it burning up in him, and he grates her name and growls ah, fuck, yeah, get me off, you hot little bitch and now whatever part of him was sane enough to be horrified is lost under this ravenous monster he's become.
This ravenous monster snapping his hips against her and snarling as he shoots thick come all over her pretty hand and her pretty wrist and her pretty dress.
She makes a strangled noise into the hollow of his throat, surprise and something deep and helpless and soaked in need, and he only fucks her harder, rolling into her fist all slippery with his release, grinds his palm against her clit, and she stiffens and shudders in waves and comes so hard with another one of those loud, helpless sounds, pussy tight around his fingers like she's clutching at him. Like she doesn't want to let him go.
Lightning blindingly bright and throwing their combined shadows against the wall. They look like a single creature, a mutation. Like that ravenous monster he is. That she's made of him.
No. No, he really can't blame her for this at all. This is one hundred percent him.
She’s going limp, sagging into him and gasping air into her lungs. He's basically holding her up. And he can, he will with his fingers still inside her sopping pussy, panting and breathing the words into her wet hair.
Oh, Beth. Fuck. Fuck, Beth.
And then his fingers are sliding out of her - she stiffens again, hiccups as if she's been sobbing - and washing clean in the rain, clean like her hand as she lets him go and her arm dangles freely, and her head settles against his chest and he's not holding her up anymore.
He's just holding her. Stroking her hair.
Some time he can't measure. The lightning has died away, though the rain is falling harder than ever. She curls her arms around his waist - feels like more for stability than anything else - and tips her head back and gazes up at him. She looks dazed, stunned - but she's also smiling. Tiny smile, not much more than a hint, but it's there.
He cups her face, lifts strands of hair away from her eyes. “Y’alright?”
She nods shakily. When she returns her head to his chest, it no longer feels like she's just hugging him to keep herself upright.
“We should get inside,” he murmurs.
It no longer seems real, what just happened. The slick remnant of her juices lingers on his hand and his come has to be staining her dress - God, please let the rain either wash it out between here and the door or let it not be noticeable - and she's tousled and flushed and her lips are puffy from kissing, but it started as a fantasy and he's suddenly having a difficult time believing that it didn't remain one.
She nods, and he disentangles himself and steps back from her, tucking his dick back in his jeans and blinking water out of his eyes as she rearranges her skirt and lifts the fallen left strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. He catches a glimpse of white panties as soaked as the rest of her, the dark patch of her bush visible through the cotton, and with a fierce lance of heat he knows: this was not temporary insanity.
He's got a bigger problem on his hands.
Just get inside. Get her inside. Get away from her, dry off, focus on something else. Hand on her shoulder, gently herding her back toward the door like they simply came in from the field together - and that's what everyone will think, sure. Totally innocent, totally harmless. Rick Grimes is a widower and a father, a responsible family man, a pillar of this bizarre community. Rick Grimes does not finger teenage girls up against walls in the rain.
Rick Grimes sure as hell doesn't fuck them. And, well, yeah. He hasn't.
Yet.
Yes. This is definitely going to be a problem.