AN: Written for the Bethyl Smut Weekend on tumblr. So, smut ahead, read at your own risk. I listened to the 50 Shades remix of Beyonce's Crazy in Love while writing this and you should too. She transcends pop music you guys. But seriously, enjoy. xx

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It's late when she finds herself banging on the door of Dixon Records. Nine o'clock late and if she didn't know that he'd be there, she wouldn't have bothered. Realistically, her phone can wait; she's opening the next morning and she'd be apart from it for not even twelve hours, if that.

She blames Tara, because only Tara would drag her from work to a dance aerobics class on a Friday night. Just like only Tara would convince her to wear booty shorts and a tank top, reasoning that if they're going to 'suck', then they may as well suck in style.

(Sidenote: they were horrible.)

Still, she reasons that she needs it. Runs through a multitude of excuses why, like how she likes face timing him before she goes to bed, likes the sound of the gruff timbre of his voice lulling her to sleep, his face being the last thing she sees.

So yeah, she's hopelessly smitten with this man.

"Beth?" he calls out, visibly confused, unlocking the shop door. She slips in wordlessly, flashing him a grateful smile, "You forget something?"

He looks confused and a bit nervous, locking the door behind her and trailing her as she brushes past him.

"Yeah," he replies, "I think I left it in your office."

She doesn't elaborate, doesn't explain what 'it' is. Simply digs around the papers on his desk, uncovering her phone with a triumphant 'aha!'

Her smile falters when she turns to see him frozen in the doorway, looking like he's seen a ghost.

"Are you okay, Daryl?"

"Yeah," he rubs a hand over his face, "just a case of fucked up déjà vu."

"What?" Beth queries, and he goes from sheet white to fire engine red in a matter of seconds. "Seriously, Daryl Dixon. What is it?"

"Just a dream I had."

"A dream?" her eyes narrow curiously, before the realisation dawns. She smiles coyly, hands on hips, head tilted to the side, "About me?"

He hums absently in acknowledgement, and she presses on, taking a couple of slow, cautious steps towards him.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"Beth." It's a warning in a growl, but it's a tone she knows so well, a tone that sends shivers down her spine and heat pooling between her legs. It's a tone that makes her bit her lip in anticipation.

"What was I wearing, in this dream?"

She right in front of him now, toe to toe, chin raised defiantly. His hands, previously clenched at his sides, shift up to trace along the hem of her crop top, barely ghosting over the exposed skin below.

"This."

Beth grins, as Daryl's hands move down to wrap along the expanse of her waist, fingers outstretched, the calloused pads of his fingertips rubbing roughly against her skin.

"Where did it take place?"

His hold tightens, and he pulls her flush against him.

"Here."

Here. Oh god. Her brain forces her mind to slow down. Here could be anywhere in the store, realistically, but it makes sense, the way his eyes keep darting around, lingering on the desk, on the floor, on her legs.

She pushes herself up on her tiptoes, and with only the barest brush of her lips on his, he lets go.

It's almost a torrent of passion, a build up against an already crumbling dam. She wonders how long he's been like this, always holding back, always keeping himself from getting too wild. She knows that there's some animal in him, knows he spent his formative years hiding in the woods, nature his teacher, his guardian.

She knows so much about him, but when he unleashes this part of himself, it takes everything she has to hang on.

"Oh god, Daryl," she whimpers, his lips trailing down her neck, sucking at her collar bone, nipping bruises into her pale skin that she'll spend twenty minutes trying to cover up before work the next day.

His lips find hers again, a clash of something raw and explosive. Her hands wind their way around his neck and when he grasps her thighs she takes that as her cue to jump and wrap her legs around his waist.

"Did I do this, in your dream?" she moans between kisses. He growls into her mouth, the vibrations travelling from her head to her toes and she lets out another loud, wanton, moan.

"Fuck, girl," with one hand holding securely onto her, he sweeps the papers and pens off the desk onto the floor.

Holy fuck.

"Daryl," she whines, grinding her hips against his, that sweet, wonderful pressure building in her core, demanding release. She knows she's wet; can feel it, can smell it and, by the way he's looking at her, eyes glinting with that hunger that makes her shake with anticipation, he can see it too.

"What did I say," she breathes, her voice catching, panting like a woman suffocating.

"I had to," he growls, "I needed to. Sometimes I feel that I'll die if I don't."

"Oh my god," she moans, his hands having trailed down to the band of her booty shorts, slipping inside and stroking her folds, "please, Daryl, please."

His fingers, his wonderful, thick, rough fingers find her clit, pressing down firmly and with that swift, simple movement, she finds herself quivering, her grip weakening.

It's alright though, because it's that moment that he deposits her onto the newly cleared desk.

She wriggles her hips, shucking off the tight shorts, taking her panties with them. In an instant, his lips are on her, parting her folds with his tongue and it takes everything she has to not fall apart right there.

"Gotta have you, girl," he grunts, looking up at her between her parted thighs, his eyes dark with want, "ever since you first wore those fucking shorts."

Said shorts are flung somewhere in the small office and his hands move up to her equally tight crop top. Her mind is a haze of desire and want, but she can recall, clear as day, the first time she wore them, that summer when her air conditioning broke and he fixed it that same day. The day she realised that this man was one of a kind, and she'd be some kind of fool not to chase him.

And chase she did, until she caught him. And she wasn't letting him go.

"What have you done to me?" she gasps, his hand reaching under the hem of the small top, palming her breasts, the pads of his thumbs tracing circles over her nipples. She bucks her hips involuntarily and he stands, leaning over her slight form, taking her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down until she's seeing stars. She swears she used to be a good girl once, all yes ma'am, no sir, say your prayers and smile at strangers. She swears she used to give herself to nice boys, with pressed shirts, and no nonsense hair cuts. Not men more than ten years her senior, who smirk rather than smile, who know exactly what to do with their hands, their mouth, their tongue. She's never mistaken his cautiousness with hesitation, not when it was so clear that his self-control was hanging by a thread. Not when he'd given her the scissors to cut it whenever she damn well liked.

She tastes blood when he trails his tongue down her neck, down the valley of her breasts. She can only imagine what she must taste like; the floral perfume she applied before she left the house this morning, the salty sweat from her work out. He laps at her like a man dying of thirst, teasing her nipples, always alternating, always giving each equal attention. And god, she is so worked up she feels as if she's crawling out of her skin. She feels like she's on fire, and only he can smother the flames.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she pants, sitting up, reaching for his belt buckle. His eyes widen at this, at her swift and sudden and well-practiced movement. And if she had to warrant a guess, she'd guess that maybe this was part of his dream.

And if it is, she's going to do everything she can to make the reality even better.

"What do you want me to do?" she whispers, palming him through his underwear, already hard, already wanting.

"Fuck, Beth," he hisses. And sure, it's a reaction, not an answer, but it will do. She can work with that.

"Sit on the chair," she murmurs, nibbling at his ear. His eagerness almost makes her laugh; like lightning he's in his chair, flushed, clad in only a black button down and his underwear. Slowly, surely, so aware of the fact that she's completely naked, she moves closer to him. Maybe there's an extra bounce to her step, a purposeful sway of her hips. Maybe her eyes are wide and she has her bottom lip between her teeth.

Maybe it's all on purpose. Maybe she just knows exactly what her man likes.

Her man. And that has it's own extra thrill, one that she feels deep in her cunt, one that makes her wetter and warmer than she was before. And when she straddles him, right there on that chair, his breath hitches, and she knows she has him right where she wants him. Right where he wants to be, his cock pressed against her stomach, her hands in his hair.

"This good, baby?" she hums, lifting her hips, grinding down against him. Her hands trail down his shoulders to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she goes. He's quick to shuck his shirt and she's even quicker to trace her hands over the taut definition, over the tattoo he has there, sinking lower until she's got him in her hands.

"This is better," he hisses and this time she's the one smirking, she's the one that has him right on the edge.

And then she finds herself on her knees, hands finding the hem of his underwear, sliding it slowly over his hips, down his thighs, all the while never breaking eye contact, his gaze looking as heavy as hers feels. With her hands on his knees, she shimmies her way up his body, settling once again in his lap, licking a line up her palm before taking him in her hand. She pumps him once, twice, grinding against his thigh, throwing her head back and moaning. His lips find her pulse point, sucking lightly, but come morning she'll have that telltale bruise, and he'll wear a smirk until it fades.

"Daryl," his name falls from her lips like prayer, like she's the one at his mercy, not the other way around. Because he could take her, he could grab her by the waist at any moment and she would happily let him. But this is his dream, his fantasy, and it's so clear that he wants this to be a reality. That he wants to see her take control and fall apart.

"Oh God, Beth."

And that's as good as a cue as any, to leverage herself against his shoulders, to lower herself down onto his cock until she feels him so deep, so hard inside her, throbbing and biting his lip to keep it together.

It doesn't help when she rolls her hips, clearly, when his hands grip her waist, digging sharply into her skin. And it definitely doesn't help when she lifts herself off him, slamming back down with a twist of her hips.

And god, he's practically panting, and in that moment she feels positively triumphant. That this better than any late night face time, than any dream she might have had herself, when the lights go out and she can still hear the roughness in his voice as he whispers to her all the things he wants to do her, all the things he will do to her, next time they are alone.

She just didn't imagine it would be in his small office, riding him until he loses all semblance of control.

There's a rhythm, a sweet, deep, rhythm, and she doesn't need to keep her eyes open to keep it going. Not when she can feel him filling her and stretching her and when she shifts her hips just so he hits a spot within her that leaves her seeing stars. And when her breath hitches, when her rhythm falters, it's only because he's no longer a passive player in this fantasy, he's got his thumb on her clit, rubbing fast, hard circles, whispering gruffly into her ear.

"Come on, baby, fucking come on."

That's all it takes, his thumb, a flick of her hips and she's convulsing around his cock, her walls pulsating, setting off a domino effect that has him crashing down and letting go, with a long drawn out moan of her name.

And she feels so full, so full of him, so full of her own warmth, that she wants to hold onto this feeling, hold onto this moment. Wants to remember the feel of the muscled planes of his chest beneath her fingertips, the weight of his head on her shoulder, the warmth of his breath on her neck.

"You sure you're real, girl?" he pants and she gives him a sweet, lazy smile.

"The realest."

And the smile he gives her is blinding.

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