Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is what happens when fandom ticks me off. I get even. This is my first bethyl fic and it is really just shameless porn and was written in less than a day, so, yeah. This fic is meant to fit in during Daryl and Beth's stay at the caretaker's house beside the cemetery – so consider it an AU where there is no dog or walkers that interrupt what could have been a full night stay there.

Warnings: Contains season four spoilers, age difference pairing, coffin!sex, sexual situations, sexual imagery, oral sex, mild exhibitionism, rough sex, mature language and mature content.

Center Stage (But the audience might want a refund)

She woke up to the sound of snoring, loud and obnoxiously endearing against her ear. It took her a moment to orient herself – to take in the fact that she seemed to be shoved into a very small space and was somehow without apparel before the memories of the night before came flooding back. And for a long moment she kept her eyes closed, savoring it.

The rational part of her wondered how in the lord's name she'd managed to – well – you know, mentally cataloging the throb in her center and the slight ache that seemed to have spread through every muscle she didn't even know she had in the first place.

He'd certainly put her through the paces, that much was for certain.

Meanwhile, the not so rational part of her preened, stretchin' contently like a barn cat in a sunbeam. Heck, if she was sure she could move without falling over – or more specifically out of the silly coffin they'd fallen asleep in, she might have even done a strut to celebrate.

She'd gone and had Daryl Dixon.

How many people this side of the apocalypse could say that?

She opened her eyes reluctantly, a smug grin tugging at the corners of her lips as her toes tangled with the tassel-edged pillow shoved down by their feet. She yawned; mildly surprised to find it was still mostly dark out.

She held back a giggle as a particularly loud rasp echoed into the still. She had to bite down on the inside of her cheek as a soft snuffling issued. The sound not unlike that of baby calf nosing for his mother's udder as the man shifted behind her, burying his face into the tangle of her hair before the soft snores resumed.

She must have worn him out.

There were still a few candles burning, shrouding the caretaker's cottage in layer upon layer of comforting shadow. She settled back into her side of the coffin with a sigh, a pleased rumble eliciting from somewhere under her right armpit as one of Daryl's hands curled – possessive – around the arc of her hip.

She blinked, trying to remember exactly how they'd gotten to this point as a few wisps of her hair tickled across her cheek, caught in the cross-breeze as Daryl's breathing gradually deepened. She couldn't help but wriggle back, reveling in the way he was pressed tight against her, plastered across the curve of her naked back. It was almost as if he was-

Oh, right.

Her cheeks heated as she recalled how she'd stopped playing, watching him watch her. Noticing as she did, that his lids were slung low - a compelling half-mast that seemed to match his loose-limbed sprawl, layin' down in that coffin like he never intended to leave. She'd gotten to her feet without even thinking about it, palms sweaty as she wiped them across her filthy jeans.

She didn't know if it was adrenaline or desperation, the allure of a full belly and a safe place or something more, but when he'd arched his brow, leveling her with that same dark-eyed stare, the one that always seemed to goad her in just the right way, she'd already been beyond the realm of stepping back.

The quirk of his lips had said 'dare 'ya' and, god help her, she hadn't been able to resist.

One of the candles spat, hissing and spluttering as it hit the tail end of the wick, misting a feather-fine covering of wax across the window sill as she watched the shadows dance and lengthen.

The empty chairs set up around the coffin seemed telling somehow – anticipatory - like they were waiting on an audience that'd bought tickets, but somehow ended up missing the main show.

The audience might want a refund, she mused, humming idly, low enough that it wouldn't wake him. Because if the walkers got their way, there sure as hell wouldn't be any curtain call.

She twirled a messy curl around her index finger as she let her thoughts reel out, encompassing the memories from the night before with an indulgent stretch. It'd been good, different, but good. Pretty much the exact opposite of anything she'd shared with Jimmy and Zach. He'd been gentle, right up until the point where he hadn't. Where he'd pulled her on top of him, shunting her up until his face had been level with the tuft of dirty blonde curl at her center and made her sing high enough that his hand had slapped across her mouth in mid-scream.

She'd bitten down on the inside of his palm when she'd peaked, tasting the bitter warm of salt and iron, able to smell herself as the scent of her release rose, wafting, musky and thick as he'd emerged from between her thighs.

She remembered hiccuping in surprise when he'd moved, pushing her down till she was straddling his chest, both of them breathing hard as the sheen of her juices flashed in the low light, smeared across his chin and stubble as he licked his lips, chasing her taste like he just couldn't get enough.

The man had a devil tongue, there was no mistaking.

Her eyes were drawn back to the rows of chairs as she considered the idea that they really were all but center stage. It'd been her dream after all, after she did a few years at college to please daddy. She figured that with a guitar in hand she might be able to croon her way into something like the big time. It wasn't the glitz and glam that had appealed to her.

She'd just wanted to sing.

She supposed, in a round-about way, she'd actually gotten her wish.

She startled, nearly falling right over the coffin's edge when Daryl stirred, prick firm and interested against her ass. His breath was warm as he leaned in, sleepy and rough in all the ways she didn't know she found appealing until that very moment.

"Christ, girl, it isn't even sun up. Leave the mornin' regrets for after breakfast, eh?"

"You think too loud," he added after a beat, voice raspy and low with sleep as he chewed on a hangnail, eyes still mostly closed.

"But what if I don't regret it?" she chirped, unsure of where the boldness had come from, but pleased as pie when he stilled, cracking a lid and glaring over at her like she was something he'd scraped off his shoe coming in from outside.

But she wasn't fooled. Not anymore.

"No heavy thoughts till after breakfast," he grunted, somehow managing to make it sound like a decree as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his palm, chest bare, pock-marked with tattoos, bruises and half-mended scars.

She knew because she'd counted, hushing the scars with gentle whorls of her thumbs. Just like she'd traced the outline of the tattoos with her tongue and wrestled the soreness out of his shoulder's until he'd been putty in her hands. She'd taken care of him. She'd drawn it out – relishing in it as she learned what he liked, what he didn't.

And in return, he'd given her the stage.

He'd whispered in her ear as she'd ridden him, voice gravelly and almost vicious as he'd asked her how she liked it. How she'd like it if all those chairs were full – watching as her breasts bounced, hair wild around her face as she braced herself against his chest and rocked.

Her clit throbbed, as if in reminder, the sensation bringing her solidly back into the present as Daryl shifted again, throwing an arm over his eyes as crooked toes hung over the coffin's edge, calloused and dirty.

"Com'on then, times a wastin'. I'm buying," she joked, making like she was planning to climb out of the coffin and wander off in search of food before Daryl caught her by the waist and reeled her back in.

He was all stale morning breath and unbrushed teeth as they traded slow, syrupy kisses as dawn crept in through the gaps in the blinds.

"Jesus, Beth. Ever heard of a lie in?" he growled, nipping on her lower lip as she shoved at him playfully, muffling an indignant shriek as he cupped her breast, tweaking a nipple hungrily as she reached back and stroked his length.

She couldn't help but giggle aloud this time when Daryl yanked her on top of him, not seeming to care when they thumped back against the lid, sending an entire section of candles flying as they tried to navigate limb and torsos in the tiny space.

But like a particularly difficult jig-saw puzzle, just like they had the night before, they eventually figured it out.

Maggie was never going to believe this.

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Look ma, no regrets. I actually enjoyed myself immensely writing this, it was a good way to purge fandom frustrations!