b0ssyboots

[b0ssyboots]

Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader:3 Rough sex with Bimbo!Reader? In the woods maybe? With breeding kink, mean dom!daryl, and slight daddy/sir kink? Yes no maybe so..? Please I can’t find any good ones and I love ur writing! I was just thinking she does something stupid and he gets mad and fucks her against a tree or smth like that! Whatever you are comfortable with writing. Thank you:3

So sorry it took me a million years Anon, but I hope this is what you're looking for!

Pink Lips

Summary: Daryl's sick of hearing you run your airheaded mouth and getting into trouble, so he teaches you better.

Daryl Dixon x F!Bimbo!Reader, 2.5k words.

Era: Quarry-ish

TW: unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), mean dom!Daryl, DD/lg dynamics, slaps reader once (kinky way), fucking in the woods, breeding kink, degradation mixed with praising, attempted oral (male receiving), mentions of throat training.

Why you insist on wearing the most ridiculous outfits on the planet never ceases to baffle Daryl. Flesh-eating monsters are waiting to take a bite out of anything that moves, waiting around every corner, and yet you still prance around in your short skirts and cropped tops, reapplying that pretty pink lipgloss you seem to keep a never-ending stock of. 

Shane gets a kick out of it. Of course he does, he’s a horndog. He’d drool over a rock if it showed enough skin, and you… You show more than enough.

Tantalizing long legs, smooth and graceful. A waist perfect for wrapping his hands around as he fucks what little thoughts you have right out of your head.

He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on the woods in front of him and your loud footsteps at his side.

Rick, for some reason, decided that Daryl needed backup for this hunt. And he picked you, in your stupid pink skirt and white cropped tank top. Dolled up to the nines like you’re going to the club and not searching for traps.

Every step you take in your bright pink heels crunches in the dry leaves coating the forest floor, alerting any animals of your presence and driving Daryl insane. His steps are near-silent, yet you sound like a pink, glittery elephant. Heels in the woods? Fucking really? 

As if that’s not bad enough, you haven’t stopped talking since the pair of you left camp. Not even about anything important; rambling on and on about bugs and the heat and how hungry you are. 

Daryl is debating strangling you right here, already planning how to explain away why you didn’t make it back.

She wandered off and got eaten by a walker- nothing I could do.

Y/N? Fell off a cliff. 

It’s wrong. He knows it is. Really, he should be relieved that someone in the group is still holding onto the way they used to be. Seeing you still being yourself despite the horror and gore that surrounds you all should be a breath of fresh air.

If only he could get you just to shut up. For just a second, to cease your incessant, airheaded chattering. You’re busy rambling on about a bird you saw, eyes on the blue sky peeking through the canopy of trees, and maybe that’s why you don’t notice the trap you’re about to step into. 

Daryl’s quicker and more observant, and scoops you up before you can step directly into the rusted bear trap, a strong arm spinning you and pinning you to a tree regardless of your squeal.

“Shut it,” Daryl growls, his free hand grabbing your chin tight enough to squish your cheeks and directing your attention to the poorly-concealed and rusted bear trap. Your eyes widen, and he feels an unfamiliar thrill in his gut. “Y’see that? Almost walked right into that shit ‘cause you can’t keep your head outta the fuckin’ clouds. Would’ve shedded your ankle like it’s nothing.”

“I didn’t see it,” you squeak, words muffled with how hard he’s squeezing your cheeks together. 

“I’m getting sick and tired of hearing y’run that fucking mouth,” Daryl snarls, so close his breath is fanning over your face. His hand stays glued to your face, the other keeping you pinned against the rough bark of the tree with his hand on your waist. That tempting, soft skin.

Your eyes are wide, startled, and a little fearful from the aggression rolling off of him in waves. His knees pressing between your thighs, that impractical pink skirt you’re wearing exposing you to the rough denim of his jeans.

A mewl slips free, but not from fear. Daryl pauses, watching you for several silent and tense moments. Something in Daryl’s eyes shifts, frustration and aggravation shifting to confusion, before settling into something darker. His knee shifts and grinds, putting pressure against your clit and reveling in the involuntary moan you let out.

“Don’t tell me you’re wet,” he huffs. “Y’like getting roughed up, do you, sweetheart? Does this get your pussy soaked?”

“Yes,” you nod, whining when he pulls away. “Yes, sir.”

Daryl shifts your body, pinning you up on his leg so your pink heels are barely scraping the ground beneath you. “Good girl. Catch on quick when you’re paying attention, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

There’s a clink of metal, and looking down reveals Daryl opening his belt with one hand. “If you’re telling me no, say it now. I ain’t stopping jus’ from a couple tears. Yes or no, princess?”

Fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.

You can’t deny how soaked the idea of Daryl fucking you against the tree is making you, your pussy wet and slick under your panties. Pink, just like everything else. You grind down on his leg, but he slaps your thigh hard enough to drag a cry from your chest. Heat blooms through the plush skin, but it only makes you want him more.

“Use your fucking words. Yes or no, brat. You haven’t shut up th’ whole day, don’t go quiet now.”

“Yes,” you sob, breaths hiccuping with need. “Yes, yes, yes, sir, yes, please.”

Daryl groans like he’s been shot, keeping you up with one hand while the other frees his cock from his briefs. “There’s a good slut, begging pretty for my cock.”

It’s not how you thought being with him would be.

Daryl hates talking. Any time he speaks, it’s either some witty, stinging comment or a grunt that’s nearly indecipherable unless you’re fluent in Daryl-speak. It makes sense to assume that’s how he’d be when fucking, not… not this dominant Sir you’re facing down, all dirty words and punishing hands.

It’s enough to make your head spin and your pussy drool all over his leg. “Good girl,” Daryl growls into your ear. “Gonna take it like a good slut, or do I need to prep you?”

“Can take it.” The whine in your voice isn’t on purpose. You can’t help it, the way he makes you feel so submissive and little under his hands. His big, rough, dirty hands, undoubtedly staining the clothes you wash so carefully, so they won’t get stained. The idea of one of his handprints permanently marking your waist, grit left on your throat from his hand… God. “Can take it, please, Daddy.”

He doesn’t give you time to prepare. The tiny scrap of soaking wet cotton is shoved away without a care, and he slams into you with one brutal thrust, forcing a ragged noise of pain and pleasure from your pink lips.

Your head thumps back against the bark with a choked sob, hair undoubtedly tangling from the friction of him fucking you against the tree. Bark scratches at the skin of your back with every rough and quick thrust. Your nails- pink, just like everything fucking else about you- claw at his shoulders in an attempt to hang on.

Daryl growls like an animal, predator teeth biting down on the crook of your neck until you’re crying. “Take it. Y’can fuckin’ take it, don’t cry like a- fuck… like a child now, girl. Daddy’s big girl, huh?”

When you whine instead of responding, trying to cope with the thick girth that’s intent on splitting you in half, Daryl squeezes your throat. Not quite hard enough to cut off your air entirely, but more than enough to get your attention. “Cock drunk already? Say it. Say you’re Daddy’s big girl. Wanna hear you moan it while I ruin this pussy for anyone else.”

“Da-” Your first attempt is cut off by a choked moan, struggling to focus around him, kissing your cervix with every relentless slap of his hips against yours, the sound cracking through the woods.

“Try again, slut,” he mutters, tightening his hand around your throat until you squeak. “‘Less you’re fucked stupid already.”

God, he’s so mean. So why are you so wet that every push and pull comes with a wet squelch, enough arousal pouring out to roll to the plushness of your ass?

“Daddy’s b-big… girl,” you eventually pant out, and are immediately rewarded with a full breath of air. Daryl’s hand strokes your throat one more time before slapping your cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to drive you even higher.

Fuck, are you gonna come already?

Daryl grins, all teeth like he’s finally caught his prey. “Good girl.”

The kiss is all teeth and aggression, his tongue lapping up your lipstick and invading your mouth like it’s his own. And maybe it is. If he asks you for anything in the world right now, you’d kill yourself trying to give it to him.

His angle shifts slightly when he readjusts you, and you nearly scream in pleasure as he grazes your G-spot. Daryl’s hips pause, letting you babble pleas for more.

“Please, don’t- don’t stop, Daddy, please, please,” you bawl. Your mascara is running down your face, sweat mixing with tears as you plead with him. “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be go-ood.”

He shushes you with an almost gentle peck to your lips, cooing. “Hush, girl. That’s the sweet spot, isn’t it? Like when Daddy hits right-”

Daryl batters against that perfect spot in you, and you burst into sobbing and moaning, nodding vigorously.

“Oh, look how pretty Baby cries,” he patronizes, your back jolting against the rough bark as he settles into a rapid rhythm, allowing no reprieve from his cock. “Isn’t that so sweet? A lot better when you’re moaning ‘stead of talking. Taking dick like a good girl. Makes me wonder how sweet you’ll cry with that pretty little belly swollen with my kid.” Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck.

The idea of Daryl breeding you, knocking him up with his kid… it should make you pause. You should tell him to stop, to pull out. You’re not even together, he can’t just impregnate you with his baby.

So why are you cumming on his cock instead, wailing in ecstasy?

Your ears ring with how hard your back arches, nails undoubtedly clawing his biceps bloody as your eyes roll back and your legs tremble around his waist. All you can see, all you can feel is him. Him, him, him. “God, you’re gorgeous when y’cum,” Daryl presses rough kisses to your jawline, stubble scraping your skin. His hips don’t slow once as he fucks you through your orgasm. “Glowin’ like this now. Wait til I fill that womb with my seed, pretty girl. See how you glow when you’re carryin’ a little Dixon- fuck-”

Hot, sticky cum floods your womb, his hips losing their rhythm as he works to plant his seed as deep as it’ll go.”Feel your pussy fluttering? She’s hungry. ‘S okay, I’ll feed her.”

He shushes your overstimulated mewling with a growl against your lips, kissing you like it’s a claim. 

He’s all but licked your lipgloss clean off, the slippery barrier gone as he bites meanly at your bottom lip. Daryl grins when you cry at the slight pain and takes the opportunity to lap into your mouth. The kiss only breaks when you’re both panting for air, dizzy with post-orgasmic haze. 

“I’m not done with you,” Daryl pants into your ear, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin by your earring. He slides out of you with a dirty, slick pop, leaving your body empty and wanting for more. “Still gotta fix that mouth of yours. Y’chirp more than a fucking bird.” He lets you down on the ground, one hand pressing on your shoulder to shove you to your knees in leaves damp with the mix of your releases. Daryl smears the tip of his dick across your cheeks, dodging the tongue you unthinkingly stick out as he smudges what remains of your makeup and replacing it with his cum.

The sight of you on your knees, flushed and panting, eyes hazy with submission and face coated in him? It’s enough to make Daryl want round two, and three, and as many as he can get through before he collapses.

You look up to his face instinctively, submissive and needy even as he defiles the makeup you spent so long getting just right. When your tongue slips free in an attempt to taste him, a rough hand buries into your hair and yanks, painful but so delicious. Another moan slips out.

“Bad girl. Did I tell you you could taste?” Daryl’s voice comes out in a dark growl. He waits until you shake your head no before his hand eases, massaging your scalp. You hum happily, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten desperate for affection. “You’re gonna listen t’Daddy and suck my cock like the whore I know you are. Understand?” “Und’stand, Daddy,” you slur. He looks so fucking good. The blue of his irises look more like a thunderstorm, and the sheer dominance and control he’s radiating makes your thighs clench around the filth dripping out of you. 

“Dirty little girl. Bet you’ll cum just like this, won’t you? So fucking needy for my cock, huh? Open wide.”

“Ah,” you stick your tongue out, unfocused eyes glued to his face as he feeds you inch after slick inch. You gag before he’s even halfway down your throat, and to your surprise, pulls back to allow you a moment. Drool and the remainder of his cum connects your mouth to the red and angry head of his dick.

“Breathe through it,” he mutters, tapping his knuckle under your chin like a parent trying to cheer their kid up. “Through your nose, relax your throat. Do I need t’ throat-train you, baby?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head back and forth, despite the answer being the opposite. You’re by no means a virgin, but you’ve never given head for a man as… well-endowed as Daryl. “Just big, Daddy.”

That was clearly the right thing to say, judging by the smirk on his face. “Yeah? Too big for those pretty pink lips?”

You shake your head and go in for a second try. He gets a little further with you using his advice, but you still gag before you can get past the halfway mark. Tears of frustration burn in your eyes, and he coos patronizingly as he pats your sticky cheek. “Aww. Don’t cry, baby girl. Daddy will train you t’take it all the way if you’re good enough. You’re a quick learner, aren’t ya, princess?”

“Yes’ir,” you sniffle. “Wanna be good for Da-addy. Wanna- wanna help.”

He laughs, and it’s dark enough to make you shiver. How can this angry man be so cool and collected, so relaxed like this? It’s an entirely different side to Daryl, and you never want to stop seeing it.

“How’s about we get y’home, an’ cleaned up? Then we’ll see how good that soft throat of your can be when properly trained. I’ve got endless patience, baby,” He kneels, closer to your eye level. Daryl’s hand smooths sweaty hair back from your face, and he looks almost gentle like this. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you’re ruined.”

[b0ssyboots]

posted on tiktok finallyyyyy :)

[b0ssyboots]

"Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home."

[b0ssyboots]

Harry Potter!!

So I’d like to start writing for Harry Potter characters(back in that era) but I desperately need requests. If anyone has any ideas or requests for twd OR Harry Potter, please send them to me and I’ll write them out as quickly as possible!! Thank you<3

—love, Raven🎀

[b0ssyboots]

Ugh😩😩😩

⌞ 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. ➵ d. dixon. ⌝

⟢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: daryl dixon x fem! reader

⟢ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: stablished relationship, porn without plot, p in v sex, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, filthy dirty talk, lots of spit & slick, couch sex, praise kink, daryl being pussy-drunk, porn with feelings, oral (f. receiving), face-sitting-adjacent vibes, breeding kink if you squint. unprotected sex.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit sexual content, mdni, extremely graphic smut—borders in pornographic, messy oral, slight dom/sub tones. ooc daryl (?)

⟢ 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: no outbreak au. daryl's beat up trailer.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k of pure smut.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you stopped by to see your boyfriend, hoping for a quiet cuddle on his couch. but daryl had other plans—plans that started with his mouth on your pussy and ended with him balls-deep, panting, sweating, and stuffing you full.

Daryl shoved your shorts off like they were offending him, yanking them down your legs and tossing them somewhere on the trailer floor. He didn’t care where they landed, he just wanted to bury his face deep in that sweet little cunt he loved so much.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on his knees between your thights, hands spreading them wide to finally see the soft, pink treat that was waiting for him. His eyes were locked on your pussy like it owed him something.

“Goddamn...” he muttered, voice already fucked out. “So fuckin’ pretty like this... So wet f’ me already.”

His breath fanned hot across your soaked pussy, and he didn’t waste another single second before he buried his face in it, making you squeal.

“Jesus—fuck,” he moaned, tongue dragging up your slit in one long, heavy lick, his stubble scratching your thighs just right. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all goddamn day…”

You gasped, hips jerking as he drooled all over your pussy. His tongue darted out again in sloppy circles before he flattened it and licked a fat, wide stripe from your clenching hole to your clit. “D-Daryl—oh my god—”

His tongue lapped at your soaked pussy with long, hungry strokes. Spit mixing with slick. His nose bumping your clit every time he buried his face deep. You felt filthy, legs thrown over his shoulders, his fingers digging into your thighs like he was holding down a meal that might run away.

He groaned deep in his throat, loud, like he was enjoying this even more than you. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he slurred, breathless. “Shit—can’t get enough of ya.”

He spit—wet, heavy, loud—right on your clit and licked it up with a filthy groan. His jaw moved, tongue wide and flat, licking you from hole to clit again and again, like he was trying to drink you dry.

“S’fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbled against your core. “Ya hear how wet this shit is? Listen to that.”

And you could.

Wet. Squelching. Sloppy.

The sound of his tongue working your cunt echoed in the cramped trailer, obscene and loud, as he moaned into you like a goddamn addict.

He sucked your clit into his mouth—hard—and you cried out, legs trying to close on him, but he was relentless. Gripping your thighs, holding you open, mouth locked to your pussy like it was his last meal.

He was messy as fuck. Wet mouth, open kisses, tongue licking and slapping over your clit again and again. He licked you like he was trying to devour you—like he needed it to breathe.

And he was moaning. Constantly.

“Shit—Daryl, fuck—!” You whimpered, too overwhelmed by the desperate way he was eating you out.

You looked down and nearly came from the sight.

His face was soaked. Lips shiny, chin glistening with spit and slick. He shook his head as he licked, like he was trying to get more of you on his tonge. Like he couldn't stop.

Then he dove lower.

“Could fuckin’ stay down ‘ere all day” he breathed, panting into your cunt. “Don’t even need my dick, baby. Just wanna eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy. Lemme—lemme get my tongue in there—”

You gasped as he spread you open and pushed his tongue inside.

The hot, thick muscle breaching you, moving slow and deep, licking into your cunt like he was trying to fuck you with it. He grunted, spit pooling out of his mouth and dripping down his chin as he lapped inside you, licking up everything you gave him.

“Mmhh—fuck—yer fuckin’ leakin’ for me, baby—shit, it’s so good—”

He pulled out only to spit again, this time watching it drip right onto your clit before he went right back to sucking it—groaning loud as he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it into his mouth like candy.

You could barely breathe. You were soaked, twitching, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue like a drug.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

He just fucked you with his tongue, sucked your clit, rubbed his stubbly chin against your inner thighs as if he wanted to mark you with beard burn. His jaw moved fast, sloppy—no rhythm, just need and hunger.

You sobbed. “D-Daryl—! gonna cum—please—! baby, please—!”

“Yeah?” he panted, fingers gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. “Then cum, sweetheart. Right fuckin’ now. Give it to me. Want it all in my mouth.”

He flattened his tongue and shook his head, mouth wide open, tongue lashing your clit until the pressure exploded.

You came hard. Harder than you expected.

A full-body spasm, your thighs closing around his head, cunt pulsing, leaking all over his mouth.

And he moaned like a man possessed—loud, guttural, sucking through it like he needed every drop.

He didn’t stop.

He licked through your orgasm like he was drinking from a holy grail. Slurping, sucking, letting your slick run down his chin, all while he whispered, “So good, baby—fuckin’ perfect—gimme more.”

You were shaking. Crying. Legs twitching.

And he was still eating you out, tongue swirling slow now, lips soft, kisses damp and warm on your overstimulated clit.

When he finally looked up, his face was drenched. His mouth was open, his breath ragged. His pupils blown out and glassy.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and gave you the filthiest, most wrecked smile you’d ever seen as he licked it clean.

“We ain’t done” was the only thing he said before he stood up. The couch creaked beneath you as Daryl shoved his jeans down just far enough. You barely had time to recover before he was standing between your legs, pulling his cock out. Big. Thick. Hard as fuck. Veins bulging, tip flushed angry red, already leaking.

“Lemme in, baby,” Daryl rasped, cock fat and heavy in his hand as he lined it up with your dripping entrance. “Yer still so wet—fuck—ya need this, huh?”

You were still trembling from the way he’d eaten you out, cunt messy and open. Still sensitive, still slick. Pulsing from the orgasm he gave you with his tongue. Practically begging to be filled. “Please...”

He dragged it through your slit—slow and filthy—smearing your slick all over himself.

“See that?” he groaned. “See what ya did to me, sweetheart? Got me so fuckin’ hard I could bust just from smellin’ ya.”

You whimpered, reaching down to touch him, but he softly shoved your hand away with a grin. “Nah. This one’s mine.”

Then he pressed in.

One thick, slow and dizzying push, your pussy gripping him like you didn’t want to let go.

“Oh fuck—Daryl—”

Your cunt stretched wide, hot around him, sucking him in inch by inch until he bottomed out—deep. Balls flush to your ass, his hands pinning your thighs open as he held himself still, groaning like he was in pain.

“Goddamn, girl,” he groaned, voice breaking. His hips shuddered forward. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hissed. “Ya feel that? That fuckin’ tight grip—shit, sunshine—ya were made f’ me.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, hands scrambling at the couch cushions as he held himself still inside you—deep and pulsing, head dropped low to watch the way you swallowed him whole.

He leaned forward, spit dripping from his mouth as he kissed you—sloppy, open-mouthed, tongue licking into yours with a desperate moan. “So tight, baby. So fuckin’ wet.”

His hand left your thigh to move up your stomach and lift your shirt over your breasts, revealing those sweet, juicy tits to his eyes.

“Fuck, baby” He lowered himself down to give your nipple a long lick, then wrapped his lips around it and began to suck hard. His hand was kneading and squeezing softly the flesh of your boob, while his mouth worked on your nipple until it was swollen and raw.

His lips released the tiny bud with an audible “pop” and moved to lavish equal attention on the other. “Fuck...” He grunted. “Best pair’a tits I ever seen. Shit—they so soft... So fuckin’ sweet”.

He continued licking and sucking your nipples until you were trembling and squirming with need beneath him. “Ngh—! Daryl—please, move—! Fuck me already...”

He let out a low chuckle as he leaned down to press soft kisses all over your face, waiting a little longer for your body to get used to his size and for you to stop being so overstimulated by the previous orgasm.

When he felt your walls fluttering and clenching around him, he started to move.

Slow at first—long, thick drags of his cock, wet and obscene. You could hear it. Could feel it. The way your slick clung to him, every inch of him rubbing right up against that sweet spot inside you.

You whined, hips rocking up to meet him. “Faster—Daryl, please—!”

He snapped his hips forward. Hard.

The couch creaked. Your back arched. And then he started to rail you.

Rough. Deep. Fast.

His hips slammed into yours, his rhythm brutal and hungry. The couch shook beneath you both, the worn cushions squeaking with every hard, deep thrust. You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked you like he’d die without it.

“Y’like that, huh? Ya like that, sweetheart?” he panted, burying his face in your neck. “Like it when I fuck you dumb? Fuckin’ ruin you, baby—make a mess outta this pretty pussy.”

“Y-yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—!”

He growled, teeth grazing your skin as his thrusts got faster, rougher, hips smacking against yours with wet, heavy slaps. His cock dragged in and out of you with loud, slick noises, each stroke making your toes curl and your head spin.

“Fuckin’—so wet,” he grunted. “Ya hear that? Soakin’ my fuckin’ dick. That’s all for me, ain’t it?”

You were gasping, moaning, crying his name—completely gone. And he loved it.

“Yes—yesyesyes—” you cried, nails digging into his back. “It’s yours—yours, Daryl—”

His cock slammed into you again and again, the sound of skin against skin echoing with every stroke. Slap—slap—slap. Your cunt was a wet mess, juices leaking out, coating his cock in slick and spit and cum.

He leaned back, grabbing your thighs and pushing your knees up toward your chest. The angle made you scream, his cock hitting so deep it felt like he was in your stomach.

“Shit—look at that,” he breathed, watching his cock disappear inside you, the base glistening with your mess. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ deep. You feel that, baby? Feel me all the way up in there?”

You nodded fast, eyes rolling back. “I feel it—I feel you, Daryl—fuck—”

He moaned, sweat dripping from his temples as he pounded into you harder now, desperate and wild. He brought a thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent shocks through your whole body.

“Wanna see ya cum again,” he growled. “Cum on my cock. Wanna feel this tight fuckin’ pussy choke me, clamp around me—milk me dry.”

You sobbed, high-pitched and broken, every muscle tightening as the heat in your belly coiled tight. Your head was spinning, you were cockdrunk, brainless, completely fucked out.

“Cum for me, girl. C’mon—cum on it.” he panted. “Make a mess on my cock.”

You did.

With a scream. With your whole body.

Your cunt squeezed him like a fist, gushing slick down his shaft. He gasped—loud—and fucked you through it, chasing his own high.

You came with a cry, body locking up, pussy clenching hard around his cock as he groaned and threw his head back. “Fuck—fuck!—that’s it, baby, milk me—just like that—”

His thrusts got erratic, uneven, desperate. Then he slammed deep—hips grinding, balls tight against your ass—and let out a wrecked groan as his cock pulsed and throbbed inside you.

“Gonna fill ya,” he growled. “Gonna fuckin’ stuff ya full, baby—let it leak outta ya for hours.”

And then he buried himself deeper, cock twitching, spilling hot inside you—ropes and ropes of cum, thick and warm, leaking out the second his hips jerked back.

You could feel it—his cum leaking out as he held you there, buried to the hilt inside your fluttering, warm sex.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged against your lips, face flushed and wet with sweat and spit. But he didn’t pull out. No—his cock stayed deep, still hard, like he didn’t want to leave your body for a second.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, breathless. “Fuck—I wanna stay in you. Wanna keep it warm.”

You both laid there—sticky, soaked, ruined.

You kissed him, slow and messy, savoring the after-glow of the wild, passionate sex session you just had.

Then you broke the kiss slowly, gasping for air. “Love you...” you mumbled softly against his lips.

His heart melted instantly at your words, smiling softly at you in response as he reached up to caress your cheek. “Love ya too, sweetheart,” he finalized with a sweet, innocent kiss on your forehead.

a/n: this was in my drafts for over a month. i was feeling shy, okay? ˙◠˙ i blushed while reading this, btw. i can’t believe i wrote this, i swear HAHDHAH. i’m sure next time i go to church, i’ll burn.

dividers: by me ‹𝟹

[b0ssyboots]

LOVE AT FIRST SHOT CHAPTER 2

What do yall want for chapter two, more Ron, more Carl, or more plot. Like I could dive into the origin of reader(technically you) or I could write more situations with Ron/carl.

[b0ssyboots]

my gorgeous gorgeous princess

[b0ssyboots]

Yall please read this shit. Im Inlove and it’s fucking HILARIOUS.

𖥔 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐒 𖥔

𐔌 Merle's asscheeks incident 𐦯

[ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 + 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞 ]

𖥔 pairing : 「 daryl dixon x fem!reader 」 + merle dixon .ᐟ

𖥔 contains : pre-apocalypse, modern au. humor, crack vibes. chaotic siblings dynamics. porn magazines. suggestive jokes. merle being merle. daryl being exasperated boyfriend material.

𖥔 warnings & triggers : merle (enough to be a warning. embarrassing situations. strong language. crude jokes and references. implied sexual content (non-explicit, no smut, all jokes). suggestive content. porn magazines.

𖥔 setting : small town in georgia—this is the second part of the spicy pork rinds one shot, but it can be read as a stand alone work.

𖥔 word count : 3.6k

summary : after last week’s “spicy pork rind emergency,” you'd think life with the Dixons might calm down for at least one damn second. But of course, when Daryl steps out to grab groceries, Merle decides to stir the pot by bringing up the mysterious “magazines under Daryl's bed.” One thing leads to another, and suddenly you and Merle are crawling under the bed, discovering a horrifying stash—only to get caught red-handed when Daryl comes home early.

main masterlist. | series masterlist. ➵ previous part.

It had been a week since the whole Spicy Pork Rinds Emergency—a week since you, Daryl, and Merle went on that humiliating wild goose chase across town like a bunch of redneck cartoon characters.

And somehow, for a fleeting moment of delusion, you thought things with the Dixon brothers might finally calm down a bit.

Well, you were wrong.

You’d come over to the trailer with pure, romantic intentions. You just wanted to cuddle with Daryl, watch a movie, sneak a few kissses, and maybe fall asleep tangled up in his arms like a sleepy burrito of love.

Just typical romantic couple stuff. A soft little dream. Domestic fluff.

But of course, fate had other plans. And they were covered in beer, dust and southern chaos.

Daryl had insisted on eating real, decent food while you were around. The last few times you’d visited, the kitchen —or the depressing excuse of it— was a tragic combo of half-empty canned goods, expired chips, and questionable squirrel jerky. It was Feral Cuisine™.

But Daryl refused to let his girl eat like a raccoon anymore—not in his watch. He didn’t care if he had to survive off raw squirrel cheeks and pickles—you were going to have a fulfilling, healthy and delicious plate. He had said it himself: “I don’t care if I eat squirrel tail stew, but yer gettin a proper meal, sunshine.”

So, with love (and mild panic), he set out to grab groceries and snacks to cook something simple but tasty—something with that distinct Daryl Dixon Seasoning™ that somehow made everything taste like safety and grilled testosterone.

And naively he left you alone in the trailer. With the worst possible company.

Merle.

He said he’d be back in fifteen minutes.

That was forty minutes ago.

Now you were slowly melting into Daryl’s busted old couch, aimlessly flipping through static-filled channels on the world’s worst TV, each one more cursed than the last. Boredom clung to you like humidity in a swamp.

Across from you, Merle sat in a stained armchair like a corpse, eyes blank, cradling a half-warm beer like it was the last thing tethering him to Earth.

You yawned.

He yawned right after.

You blinked slowly. He scratched his belly like a caveman in a coma— Wait, this doesn’t even make sense.

The point is, you looked half-dead.

This boredom was dangerous. It was about to unlock something feran in one of you. Probably him.

Merle sturned to look at you, his expression dead and flat as a pancake. You were both being devoured by this, and that cpuld only mean one thing.

Merle was going to start talking.

“Hey, dollfac—”

“No. Don’t even think about it." You cut him off without looking at him, voice sharp and final. “I swear to God, Merle, I’m not getting dragged into another one of your circus-level situations.”

He huffed, visibly offended. “I was jus’—”

“Nope. It may not look like it, but I’m very busy.”

You were lying. You were rotting like a sad potato on the couch. But still. Boundaries.

Merle gave an over-dramatic huff and crossed his arms like a kid told he couldn’t have candy. But you saw the glint in his eye. The gears in his greasy brain began to turn.

And then—he got that look. The I’m-about-to-start-some-shit look. He stood up and clapped once like he’d just solved a murder, as if congratulating himself for the horror he was about to unleash.

He shifted, putting on his serious face—like he was about to deliver a TED Talk on chaos—and plopped down beside you.

You didn’t flinch. You just yawned again. Which made him yawn again.

Then he leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to confess war crimes. “Dollface… we need t’ have a serious talk.”

You stared at him through half-lidded eyes. “Is it stupid?”

“With all the gravity of the universe… no.”

You sighed like a woman who had lived too many lives and prepared yourself for the dumbest sentence known to mankind. “Go ahead.”

He inched closer, voice low. “Remember that lil’ chat we had ‘bout Daryl’s… magazines? Back when I came home cravin’ pork rinds and y’all were suckin’ face like a couple o’ horny possums?”

Your sleep evaporated isntantly as you sat upright like you’d been tasered. “What. Are. You. Talking. About?”

“The educational materials. The adult literature. The entertainment of the self-service variety. The ‘I’ll be in my room for ten minutes, don’t knock’ stash... Nudie mags, sugar.”

You blinked in horror.

He nodded solemnly. “Under baby brother’s bed.”

Your head slowly turned forward, like a haunted doll coming to life, trying to remember that absurd conversation.

“Oh my god… I think I remember now.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Were you serious about that, or just being an asshole like always?”

Merle clutched his chest like you’d just accused him of murder. “Me? An asshole? How dare ya.”

“Yes, an asshole.”

“Well. Fair.” He sighted, defeated. “But I ain’t lyin’ ‘bout this. Man’s got a whole museum under there. Mountains of ‘em. A porn-stash Smithsonian.”

You gasped, covering your mouth. “You’re lying.”

“Do I look like someone who’d lie to his baby sis-in-law?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. But this is sacred truth. Lil’ brother’s got a vault of skin mags for his alone time.”

Your eyes bulged. “Alone time?! As in—like—that kind of alone time?!”

“Mhmm. Gets all cozy with a beer and some lotion, I reckon.”

“OH MY GOD, MERLE.” You recoiled violently. “Don’t say shit like that out loud!”

Merle shrugged, looking far too casual, like this was a weather report. “Hey, I ain’t judgin’. I just thought you oughta know the kind of depraved filth you’re dealin’ with.”

You gasped dramatically. “That’s a crime! Why does he even need that?! I’m right here!”

Merle just sipped his beer. “Even gourmet restaurants keep snacks in the back, darlin’. Man needs variety.”

You gagged. “MERLE!”

“Hey, don’t knock it. Brother’s got alone time needs. Stress relief. You think huntin’ squirrels don’t build up tension? How else ya think he unwinds after that?”

You jumped to your feet, pacing like you were giving a courtroom closing argument. “No. No, no. This isn’t happening. He’s… he’s normal! He’s sweet! He’s—”

“Boring?” Merle offered helpfully.

“I never said that.” You turned around, scandalized. “So normal in bed, okay? I would’ve never imagined he was some secret perv with a magazine shrine!”

Merle tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Y’know, it’s always the quiet ones. Shy, quiet, emotionally constipated? Classic pervert profile. You think they’re gonna just hold your hand, but noooo. Turns out they’ve got subscriptions.” He cackled.

“You think Mr. Broody-Woodsman never gets freaky? Hell, he’s probably inventin’ new kinks in there.”

You spun on your heel, pointing an accusing finger. “This is why I don’t talk to you.”

“C’mon now,” he grinned. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just the concerned big brother tryna keep you from fallin’ into a pit of filth.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “This can’t be happening, okay?! He’s awalys been so… vanilla! This...! This is impossible!”

You dropped back into the couch like a brick. “Oh god. Maybe it’s true what they say. The timid ones are the worst.”

“Oh, sweetheart... how naïve you are,” Merle said dramatically, hand to his forehead like a Southern belle. “I’m tellin’ ya from experience.”

Your face twisted. “What do you mean by experience?”

He laid a hand on your shoulder like he was breaking bad news.

“I was the shy boy.”

You recoiled like he’d slapped you. “YOU?! SHY?! That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard—and one time you told me squirrels were government drones!”

“It’s true,” he said gravely. “I was a squirmy lil’ shit for like… a week. Back in ‘86. Very dark time.”

You stared at him. “Jesus Christ on a bicycle.”

“I lied. I was never shy.”

“OH MY GOD, I’M LEAVING.”

You stood up, absolutely done, ready to march out and tell Daryl his brother needed to be lobotomized.

“Wait! Wait, sugar! I’m serious now, swear on my left nut,” Merle pleaded, grabbing your wrist.

“You just admitted you lied!”

“I meant the me part was a lie. The Daryl part is real! I was tryin’ to say that Daryl is the shy boy now. And shy boys are the dirtiest. Remember the panties incident?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Oh god. Yeah. But what does that have to do with—”

Merle pointed accusingly, like a crazy man with a corkboard. “It all lines up. The silence. The brooding. The panties. The mags. The unresolved issues. He’s a perv, darlin’. I’m tellin’ ya. It’s all connected. It’s a perversion cocktail, sweetheart! Science!”

You paused. He… had a point. A deeply stupid, mostly invalid point. But a point nonetheless.

Still, you narrowed your eyes. “…You make a compelling argument. But I still don’t believe you.” You said firmly as you freed yourself from his grip and turned around to leave.

Merle smirked like the Joker, devilish. “Wanna go see for yourself?”

You froze. “You mean… look under his bed?”

He nodded. “Investigative journalism, dollface. We owe it to the truth. And I gotta protect ya from my brother’s nastiness.”

You sighed. You knew you shouldn’t. But against all logic, all reason, and all instinct—you caved.

“Fine. But only to prove you’re full of shit.”

Merle clapped, eyes sparkling with chaos. “Let’s dig for gold, baby.”

A moment later, you were both sneaking into Daryl's room like two raccoons raiding a trash can at 3AM, tiptoeing with the stealth of two idiots on a mission that had absolutely no business existing.

The bed loomed ahead like the final boss of some cursed video game. Like it was some kind of weird artifact—like the Ark of the Covenant, but hornier.

Merle dropped to his stomach with the speed and elegance of a sack of potatoes and motioned you forward like a war general under enemy fire.

“Cover me,” he whispered with the gravity of a man about to storm Normandy.

“There’s no one here but us, idiot,” you hissed, but still got down on your knees like this was a sacred ritual. Half your body slithered under Daryl’s dusty crypt of a bed, inhaling years of dirt, lint, and testosterone. It seemed like you were on a National Geographic mission to locate the wild and elusive pervertus magazinus.

“I can’t see anything!” you whisper-yelled, blinking through spiderwebs and what was probably a mummified stinky sock.

“Me neither…” Merle muttered, squinting into the abyss. “Ya gotta go grab a lamp.”

“Why me?! You should go! You’re supposed to be a gentleman!” you shot back indignantly.

“Darlin’... ain’t tryna be rude, but are ya stupid?” he asked, genuinely offended. “I ain’t no gentleman. Never been. I’m wild, ‘kay? A damn creature. Now go.”

You gasped, wounded in your soul. “You are so full of shit,” you grumbled, crawling out and stomping off with a muttered, “Prick.”

Merle just giggled like a drunk sorority girl on spring break.

Exactly one minute later, you returned with a flashlight and slid back under like James Bond in a mission.

Click.

The light flicked on

And then—

Your jaw dropped.

There were hundreds. Thousands. Billions of porn magazines.

Glossy covers, folded edges, centerfolds so wrinkled they looked like old road maps. Women in latex, in bunny ears, in poses that defied both logic and human anatomy. You felt your soul leave your body. It did a cartwheel and filed for emotional damages.

It was a goddamn pornocalypse.

It was like uncovering a lost vault of horny knowledge—The Forbidden Library of Dick-Son.

“Oh… oh my god…” you whispered in horror.

Merle’s expression shifted from dumb curiosity to over-the-top horror. “Holy hell! This ain’t a stash—it’s a damn porn cave! Baby brother’s a freakin’ pervert! I’m proud… but also deeply disgusted!”

Your trembling hand reached for one of the magazines. On the cover, a woman in nothing but a cowboy hat was straddling a cactus. A cactus.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” you wheezed.

Merle fake-gagged, grabbing one himself. “Lord almighty, this is disgustin’! Look at this one—pages folded like they’ve been through war! This one’s seen things. This one’s survived.”

You flailed your arms dramatically, yelling at the empty air like you were on stage in a Shakespearean tragedy. "WHAT THE HELL, DARYL?! WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU NEED THIS WHEN YOU HAVE ME?!"

“Men are pigs, darlin’,” Merle said solemnly, flipping through a mag with alarming focus. “Oink oink, motherfucker.” He giggled as he admired a woman posing on a bed like she was auditioning for America’s Next Top Orgasm. “Some drink. Some gamble. Daryl? He addicted to naked women.”

He flipped a page and giggled.

“Stop enjoying this!!” you screeched.

You snatched it from his hands and flipped through it like you were searching for tax fraud. “Why naked women?! Why not just me?! WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?!” You practically foamed at the mouth with unhinged disbelief.

Merle tutted dramatically and waved another magazine at you like he was casting a spell. “Ain’t no loyalty left in this world. Look at this—LOOK AT IT!” he literally yelled like a madman.

You nearly screamed. “O-oh my— I can’t— this is— THIS IS TREASON! THIS IS MARITAL BETRAYAL!”

And with that, you dove into the stacks like a raccoon on crack, rifling through magazine after magazine, unearthing centerfolds and conspiracies as if you were on My Strange Addiction: Porn Purge Edition.

Merle, meanwhile, was flipping through another one and laughing like an idiot. “Oh shit... ‘ere is my favourite.”

Your head snapped toward him like a horror movie jump scare. “What did you say?”

Merle paused, then smirked. “Oh, nothin’. Just sayin’ this is his favorite one. See them folded pages? He real attached to this one. Probably sniffs it before bed.”

“WHAT?!” You lunged, practically tackling him as you ripped the magazine from his hands and flipped through it in horror, looking for a hidden love letter or a crime scene.

And then—

The door creaked.

You both froze.

Daryl’s heavy boots thudded against the floor as he kicked the door closed. “Hey, baby, I’m back! Brought ya a cinnamon roll!” he called out sweetly.

You both froze in terror.

"Shitshitshitshitshit—!" you whisper-shrieked as you yanked yourself backwards, crashing into the nightstand and knocking over an ancient beer can. It rolled dramatically like it was part of a dramatic movie scene.

Merle, however, wasn’t so lucky.

He was not built for stealth. He was built like a jacked-up couch. He got stuck—midway under the bed—ass-up like Winnie-the-Pooh in a honey jar. His giant butt was wedged like a cork in a bottle, halfway under the bed.

“Help me out! HELP! HELP ME!” Merle shrieked, thrashing like a worm on a hook. “I’M STUCK! THE PORN’S PULLIN’ ME IN!” he screamed as he was being sucked into another dimension.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” You hooked your fingers in his belt loops and yanked. “MOVE, YOU GODDAMN BEAR!”

“I AM MOVIN’, WOMAN! DON’T YANK SO HARD! I’M DELICATE!” Merle kicked and flailed like a beached walrus. “HELP! HELP! I SEE THE LIGHT!”

Daryl, still in the kitchen unpacking groceries, paused and muttered under his breath, “the hell’s goin’ on here?”

You were seconds away from leaving Merle to die there.

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING I EVER DID! I KNOW I BEEN BAD, BUT I’M SORRY!” Merle wailed dramatically. “I DON’T WANNA DIE UNDER MY BROTHER’S BED!”

"STOP SCREAMING LIKE YOU'RE DYING ALONE! I'M HELPING, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!"

You yanked again —harder— and suddenly his belt snapped clean off. You stumbled back as his pants came crashing down, revealing his bony, pale ass in all its shameful glory.

You screamed so loud the neighbors probably called an exorcist. “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE FLAT!” You bolted from the room like the house was on fire.

"NOOO! DON’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!" Merle shrieked, ass still in the air, kicking his legs in the most humiliating display of white-trash distress you had ever witnessed.

“DARYL! DARYL!” you shrieked as you burst into the kitchen. “HELP! MERLE’S STUCK! HE’S HALF-NAKED! HE’S HAUNTING ME!”

Daryl, calmly placing down a bag, sighed like a man who’d just been informed his dog shit in the blender. “Under the truck? Again? I told him his dumb fat ass cheeks were too big to fit—”

“No! he’s stuck under your bed!”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL—”

He stormed down the hallway like a man possessed, burst into the room and found Merle in the most humiliating position imaginable: face-down, pants at his knees, ass up like some tragic monument to bad choices screaming like a haunted kettle.

“WHAT IN THE SEVEN FRESH HELLS ARE YA DOIN’?!” Daryl roared.

“HELP! HELP!” Merle wailed. “IT WASN’T ME! SHE FORCED ME UNDER HERE! WANTED TO KNOW YOUR FILTHY SECRETS! I’M A VICTIM!”

“WHAT?!” you screamed from the doorway. “YOU LIAR! IT’S YOUR FAULT, YOU SAID IT WAS FOR SCIENCE!”

Daryl nearly ripped his own hair out. "GET OUT FROM UNDER MY BED, YA NASTY BASTARD!"

He grabbed Merle’s foot and you grabbed his other ankle, —careful with not touching any unfortunate bits—, and together you both yanked until Merle finally popped out like a cork from a wine bottle.

You stumbled back traumatized as you gagged. “PUT SOME DAMN CLOTHES ON!”

Daryl collapsed on the bed, wiping sweat from his brow. “I can’t believe this shit...” he said completely done with life. “Why… why were y’all even under there?!”

You pointed accusingly at Merle. "HE TOLD ME YOU HAD PORN! I WANTED TO SEE IF IT WAS TRUE!"

Merle rolled over, cackling, and pulled his pants up with zero shame. “It was... Baby brother's got a whole Smithsonian-level exhibit under there. Should charge admission.”

You turned on Daryl like you were ready to throw hands. “YES! WHY THE HELL DO YOU GOT ALL THOSE PORN MAGS UNDER YOUR BED, HUH?! IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK OF ME?!”

Daryl looked like you just accused him of war crimes. “WHAT MAGAZINES?! I DON’T GOT NO FUCKIN’ MAGAZINES!”

“YES, YOU HAVE! THEY'RE UNDER YOUR BED!”

“THEY AIN’T MI-”

"NAH! YOU DON’T GET TO TALK”

Merle just started howling with laughter again. “Best day of my fuckin’ life.”

“SHUT UP, MERLE!” you and Daryl screamed in unison.

Finally, after nearly an hour of arguing and half the trailer being destroyed in the process—two broken picture frames, a flipped chair, one tragic casualty in the form of Daryl’s favorite ashtray and Daryl’s hunting bow being used as a pointer stick for your conspiracy theories—, the trailer looked like a raccoon fight had broken out.

Merle, meanwhile, sat his happy ass on the couch, calm as a damn monk, munching on a bag of spicy pork rinds like he hadn’t just traumatized the entire household.

You and Daryl stood, red-faced and exhausted, ready to either strangle each other or cry.

Merle, completely unfazed by the emotional devastation and broken household decor, lounged back on the couch like a redneck Caesar, pork rinds in one hand, the remote in the other.

Between obnoxiously loud crunches, he finally said, “Y’all done yappin’? ‘Cause those damn mags are mine, alright? Been stashin’ ‘em under Daryl’s bed for safe keepin’.”

You blinked at him like your soul left your body.

Daryl just stared at the ceiling in exhausted silence.

“What the hell do you mean they’re yours?” you shrieked.

Merle licked spicy dust off his thumb. “I figured—who the hell would ever look under Daryl’s bed, huh? That man hides emotional trauma under there, not tittie rags.”

Daryl groaned deep in his chest like a man dying of secondhand embarrassment. “Jesus Christ, Merle…”

Then Merle snorted, grin spreading. “Ain’t my fault y’all went full telenovela over some crusty-ass Playboys. Coulda just asked.”

“YOU WERE THE ONE WHO SAID THEY WERE HIS!” you screamed, pointing at him like you were in court and he was on trial for war crimes.

Merle just giggled. Giggled. Like a middle school girl who just swapped her friend’s shampoo with glue.

He slapped his thigh and said, “Yeah, but it was funny.”

Daryl dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Yer the devil, Merle.”

You turned to Daryl, shrill with righteous fury. “He said you were all shy ‘n private ‘n horny like some secret pervert—he said you named them, Daryl! He said you called them your ladies! I thought you were cheating on me with laminated women in wigs!”

Merle doubled over laughing, choking on his pork rind. “Ladies—oh hell, I’m funny as shit.”

Daryl yanked you into his lap before you could grab the frying pan.

Merle held up a pork rind like it was a trophy. “You two was so riled up, didn’t wanna ruin the show. Figured y’all needed the foreplay. Nothin’ like a little betrayal fantasy to spice things up, huh?”

You lunged at him but Daryl restrained you.

“Let me at him, Daryl! He said foreplay—HE SAID FOREPLAY—”

Daryl pressed his forehead to yours, groaning, clearly on the edge of a mental breakdown. “I swear, next time… we lock him in the damn shed.”

You nodded furiously. “Next time… we set the shed on fire.”

Merle crunched loudly, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “Y’all gonna thank me one day. I’m like a damn relationship counselor. With pork rinds.”

a/n: this was requested by a lovely person (˶◜ᵕ◝˶) thank you so much for your idea, i enjoyed every second of writing this! ‹𝟹 i hope this is what you were looking for and that you liked it. i’ll post the second part of your request in the following days.

[b0ssyboots]

Born to ride or wtv Lana said

[b0ssyboots]

Rick and Daryl (Carl too). That's all i'm going to say

[b0ssyboots]

[b0ssyboots]

Love at first shot

Chapter 1

Carl x ron x reader !AU!

warnings; Carl and Ron are mean, you’re kind of mean. I think that’s about it uhhh this is chapter one of the series I told you all about so just give it time, you’ll all warm up to eachother, but for now you hate eachother. Also, I’ll provide more plot in future chapters.

It had been a week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours, give or take, of the same stifling air, the same gnawing hunger, and the same two insufferable voices bickering just a few feet ahead of you. 

Alexandria was a ghost now, a broken promise of safety swallowed by the screaming dead. 

You only knew the exact timeline because you’d been counting, each second a reminder of how long you’d been trapped with Carl and Ron.

You didn’t hate them. Hate was too strong, too much energy to expend when every calorie counted. 

But you definitely disliked Carl more than Ron. 

Ron was spiteful and rude, a constant low-level static of resentment, but Carl… Carl was a different breed. 

Cold. Aggressive. His lips were sealed tight in a tight scowl, like he’d just smelt a particularly foul fart.

His eyes, even now, were haunted and sharp, like he was constantly scanning for an ambush, or just looking for something to punch. 

He smelled perpetually of stale cigarettes and a deep, churning regret you could almost taste. 

Ron, somehow, always smelled like weed, a faint, sweet-sickly scent that clung to him like a second skin. 

You, on the other hand, just smelled like dirt and desperation, a grim, earthy aroma that was all your own.

They walked in front, a united front of sneering distrust, leaving you to fall into your usual position at the rear, your machete a familiar weight against your hip, your eyes scanning the tree line, the broken asphalt, anything but their backs.

“Hey, dumbass!” Ron’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, barely turning his head. 

You’d tripped over a rock once, a minor stumble, and that had been your name ever since. 

Fucking dicks.

“What, Ron?” you grumbled, pulling your gaze from the cracked pavement to his back.

“Keep up. Don’t wanna get separated.” His tone was flat, bored, but the underlying threat was clear. 

Getting separated meant facing the world alone, facing the dead alone. And for all their faults, Carl and Ron were, at the very least, a shield.

You sighed, a gust of stale air, but sped up your pace, closing the distance, staying close behind them, but not too close. 

Just enough that you could hear their incessant bickering, the low rumble of Carl’s voice punctuated by Ron’s sharper retorts.

“I’m telling you, Carl, that direction is a dead end. We’ll just run into more of them.” Ron’s voice was laced with a familiar whine.

“And your brilliant idea is what? Circle back? Go through the woods?” Carl scoffed, exhaling a plume of smoke from the cigarette permanently wedged between his lips. “We stick to the road. Faster. Less chance of getting lost.”

“Lost where, exactly? The middle of nowhere? Ohh, wait! Thats exactly where we are, dumbdick.” Ron muttered, kicking at a loose stone. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know enough to get us out of a death trap,” Carl retorted, the aggression simmering just beneath the surface, as it always did. “Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. ‘Let’s just sit and wait for them to find us’.”

The argument continued, a muffled stream of animosity that you tried to tune out, but couldn’t.

It was like you all couldn’t say anything to each other without carving out a piece of flesh. Politeness was a luxury long since dead.

The endless road unspooled, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. 

Just when your legs began to ache, a low, guttural murmur from Carl broke the pattern. “Gas station. Up ahead.”

Your head snapped up. There it was, a skeletal remains of a building, its sign twisted and faded, but unmistakably a gas station. 

The three of you moved with practiced caution, machete held ready, Ron’s hand instinctively hovering near his hip where the pistol sat. 

Carl took point, his eyes narrowed, scanning the perimeter. He posted himself by the shattered glass doors, a human gargoyle, grim and watchful. 

“You two,” he barked, not even looking at you. “Check inside. Front to back. Don’t miss anything. And for God’s sake, don’t make any noise.”

You grunted an acknowledgement, pushing past the broken frame, the smell of dust and decay thick in the air. 

Ron followed, his footsteps surprisingly light for someone so constantly angry. 

The interior was ransacked, shelves overturned, debris strewn everywhere.

You moved methodically, scanning each aisle, your eyes trained for anything that wasn’t trash. 

Canned goods. Water. Anything that meant survival. 

Your fingers brushed against a dusty can of peaches, then a few bottles of water, all still sealed. A small victory. You carefully packed them into your worn backpack, the weight a comfort.

A few aisles over, you heard Ron. Not the rustle of searching, but a rhythmic flick-flick-flick. 

You rounded the corner and found him hunched over a display of long-forgotten magazines, a lighter dancing in his hand. He wasn’t looking for supplies. 

He was looking for distraction.

“...Do I wanna country cook or live a girl world?” he muttered to himself, flipping through a tattered copy of something called ‘Girl’s World’. 

He was actually reading it.

You scoffed, the sound rough and low in your throat. Really, Ron?” you grumbled, your voice thick with disgust.

He looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it settled back into his usual sneer. 

He held up a page, pointing to a brightly colored illustration of a girl in a ridiculously pink room, surrounded by an explosion of more pink. “Is this what it’s like to be a girl?”

You just stared back at him, your own reality a stark contrast to the saccharine image. 

The blood on your cheek, the stiffness of your clothes, the constant dull ache in your lower abdomen. 

“No, Ron,” you said, your voice flat, empty of inflection. “It’s not.”

You turned away, ignoring him, resuming your search, your eyes now specifically trained for the aisle you hoped would hold what you needed. 

Pads. Tampons. Anything to stem the grim, unceasing flow that had started two days ago and made every step a misery. 

You knew, logically, that you were probably wasting precious time, but the desperate need for some small semblance of dignity, some relief from the constant discomfort, was overwhelming.

“Hey! That’s a girl thing! You’re living a girls world.” Ron’s voice, annoyingly cheerful for him, echoed behind you.

You looked up, just in time to catch Carl’s glare from the mouth of an aisle further down, his one eye a dark, burning coal. 

He looked between you and Ron, a silent warning passing between them, before he ducked into a section you knew held dusty cereals and a few cans of pudding. 

What a weirdo. 

Pudding? In this godforsaken world? But then, who were you to judge? Your own priorities were currently focused on finding a box of cotton and plastic.

You eventually found a half-empty box of tampons behind some overturned shampoo bottles. 

A small, but significant victory. You tucked them deep into your pack, a private treasure. 

Ron, meanwhile, had managed to unearth a few more ancient magazines, a lighter that actually worked, and, strangely, a dusty box of expired candy bars. 

Carl emerged from the pudding aisle with three small cups, his expression utterly blank.

“Nothing else,” he grunted, holding out one of the pudding cups to Ron, who snatched it without a word. He didn’t offer one to you. 

Of course not.

The gas station, as it turned out, was mostly empty, a scavenged husk. 

As the sun began to dip, painting the sky in sickly oranges and purples, Carl decided you all wouldn’t push on. 

“We stay here,” he announced, his voice clipped. “Less chance of running into anything. Find a secure place.”

They ended up hunkering down in a small, windowless storage room in the back, the air thick with the smell of old cardboard and a faint, sweet decay. 

Carl wedged a rusted filing cabinet against the flimsy door, more for psychological comfort than actual security. 

Ron immediately slumped against the wall, pulling out his ancient joint and lighting it with a practiced flick of his new lighter. The sweet, acrid smell of burning weed filled the cramped space. 

Carl, predictably, pulled out a cigarette, the tiny ember a stark defiance in the gloom.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your machete laid across your lap, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. 

The conversation, if you could call it that, began almost immediately.

“This is bullshit,” Ron muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Could’ve made more ground. Could’ve found somewhere decent.”

Carl took a long drag. “Don’t start, Ron. We stick together.”

“Why?” Ron scoffed. “So you can keep barking orders? You’re not Rick, Carl. Your dad’s dead, just like mine is. Everyone’s dead. We’re dead.”

The air crackled. Carl’s head snapped up, the cigarette glowing. “My dad’s not dead,” he said, his voice dangerously low. 

“And we’re not dead. You don’t know anything.”

Ron just laughed, a dry, humorless sound. 

“Right. He’s just out there, waiting for you to find him. While you’re stuck with us, the leftovers.” He took another drag, the weed smell intensifying. “Face it, Carl. You’re alone. Just like the rest of us.”

You watched Carl’s jaw clench, his knuckles white around the cigarette. 

He wanted to rage, to lash out, but something held him back.

Maybe a sliver of the old Carl, the one before the world broke him entirely. 

Or maybe just sheer exhaustion.

“Shut up, Ron,” Carl finally bit out, his voice sharp as broken glass. “Just shut up.”

Ron just smirked, blowing a slow smoke ring toward the ceiling. 

You could feel the tension radiating off them, a palpable heat in the small room. 

You kept your gaze fixed on the filing cabinet, tracing the rust patterns with your eyes. You didn’t want to be involved. 

You never wanted to be involved, but you were.

leave recommendations for future chapters!! It rlly helps because my mind is blank. Like I’m so excited for future chapters where you all warm up to eachother but idk how to drag out the anger and frustration swirling around you all.

@cranberrysaucebath HELPED ME ALOT BTW

[b0ssyboots]

He's just like me for real

Nine Inch Nails | Promo from The Guardian (1999)

[b0ssyboots]

MY BABY CHANDIE

are they doing a beatles cosplay

[b0ssyboots]

Learn.

Max broussard x reader

Warnings: smut, fingering, masterbation, praise, max is a lil liar, uhh yeah idk what else, enjoy!!

NO I do not support his actions in the movie, but I love Austin and no matter what character he’s portraying I’ll forever love him🤗

You’d arrived an hour ago, bags under your eyes from a particularly brutal week, convinced by Max’s persistent, charming texts that a “super chill movie night” was exactly what you needed.

He had even sent a picture of his perfectly curated snack spread; gourmet popcorn, imported chocolates, and two bottles of your favorite sparkling cider.

Rosehill’s golden boy knew how to be convincing, even when you suspected, deep down, that his intentions always stretched beyond the surface.

You remember the casual way he’d suggested, “Why don’t you just kick back right here?” as he gestured to the plush, oversized armchair in the corner of his room, the one usually reserved for late-night study sessions or brooding alone with a book.

You’d settled in, still dressed in your comfortable jeans and a soft, worn t-shirt, while he busied himself with the tv, the movie – something you’d vaguely agreed on – flickering silently on the far wall.

The lights were low, the mood set.

Too perfect.

Then he’d moved. Not to the couch beside you, not to the floor with a pillow, but directly to you.

Your heart had done a funny little flutter when he’d taken your hand, pulling you gently from the chair.

“Too far,” he’d purred, his pretty smile, the one that made grown women swoon and trust funds melt, plastered on his face. “Come here.”

And like a moth to his perfectly tailored flame, you’d gone.

He’d guided you onto his lap, his body already radiating heat against your back even through your clothes.

That’s when the first alarm bells had started to ring.

The movie was forgotten, the snacks untouched.

His hands had been on your waist, then slowly, deliberately, his fingers had worked their way under the hem of your shirt. You’d shivered, a nervous giggle escaping your lips, but he’d just leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“You’re tense,” he’d whispered, his voice a low rumble. “Let me help.”

He’d started to talk then, sweet nothings, compliments that felt too intimate for a supposed movie night.

One by one, your buttons were undone, your zipper lowered.

You hadn’t protested, caught in the strange, intoxicating current of his attention.

The jeans had pooled around your ankles, kicked off with a gentle prod from his foot. Your t-shirt had followed, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He’d helped you slip into one of his oversized tees then, the soft cotton falling to mid-thigh, a flimsy shield against the growing awareness of what was truly happening.

You’d registered, dimly, that he was bare underneath you, the distinct, firm press of his erection against your inner thigh.

You’d swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry, the sweet, innocent movie night a distant, laughable memory.

“C’mon baby, pay attention.” His voice, a low, guttural purr right next to your ear, jolted you back to the present.

You were still on his lap, nestled deep in the chair, the plush velvet digging into your thighs.

All you had to cover yourself was one of his impossibly soft band t-shirts, the fabric clinging to your skin, a stark contrast to the completely bare flesh of Max’s body beneath you.

His cock, thick and hot, was nestled perfectly between your legs, the slick head rubbing against your slit, sending a jolt of pleasure and frantic anticipation through you that made you shiver uncontrollably.

“‘M gonna show you just how I like it.” The words were a promise, a command, a delicious threat.

One of his hands, large and surprisingly gentle, wrapped around your throat, his thumb resting on your pulse point, a silent declaration of ownership.

The other was already wrapped around his own shaft, a long, elegant finger tracing the length down to his balls, his movements deliberate, unhurried, agonizing.

Slowly, almost impossibly slowly, he slid his hand up the shaft, his thumb brushing over his tip with an exquisite tenderness that made a shaky moan leave his own lips.

You whimpered, a low, helpless sound escaping you.

The sight, the sound, the unbearable closeness, made your legs want to clench together, to press yourself harder against him, to simply take what he was offering.

But just as they stuttered, a warning squeeze to your throat, a feather-light pressure that nonetheless commanded immediate obedience, made you immediately remain spread for him.

“Wait your turn. You’ll get your fun, but I’ve gotta show you, baby.” His voice was stern now, laced with an undeniable authority that made your breath catch in your throat.

His hand continued its slow, languid descent, then began to pump up and down, a practiced, confident motion.

He wasn’t just pleasuring himself, you realized with a burning flush that started from your toes and spread upwards; he was teaching you.

He was demonstrating.

Every movement of his hand was a lesson, every flex of his muscles underneath you, every subtle shift of his hips.

You committed the motion to memory, the exact pressure, the caress of his palm, the firm stroke of his fingers.

Your mind screamed at you to be good, to follow his unspoken rules, to wait for him to tell you that you could touch him, pleasure yourself, or hell, even fuck yourself on him.

The ache in your core was a living, breathing thing, an unbearable hunger that grew stronger, more insistent, with every passing second.

But this wasn’t about you, not yet. This was about him and his pleasure, a meticulous, unhurried display of his desires.

“Promise I’ll take good care of you,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on your face, reading your every flicker of emotion, your every swallowed groan.

“You just gotta be patient, learn how to take care of me, yea?”

You nodded frantically, your head bobbing against his chest, a desperate, silent plea for him to just break and impale yourself on his cock, to end the delicious torture.

But he merely smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips, satisfied with your compliance.

He stroked it faster now, the methodical rhythm picking up pace, becoming more urgent, more demanding.

You made sure to note that as well, the quickening tempo, the subtle deepening of the strokes.

His breathing picked up, ragged gasps filling the air around you, his chest heaving under your head.

His head tipped back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and his grip on your throat tightened, not painful, but undeniably firm, a reminder of who was in control.

“Make sure you’re fuck— fucking watching,” he groaned, the words raw, strained, pushing past the exquisite sensations consuming him.

Just as he reached his peak, his hand slid from your throat, a swift, practiced motion, to between your legs, tangling between your folds and finding your clit.

He rubbed it at the near same furious pace as he stroked himself, a dual assault on your senses that shattered your composure.

A guttural moan ripped from your throat, no longer containable.

You clenched around nothing, your internal muscles spasming in desperate anticipation, while you laid your head back entirely on his chest, tilting your head up to bite at his neck, a primal need to mark him, to taste him, to release some of the unbearable tension building inside you.

His climax was a magnificent, messy thing.

His body arched, muscles coiling and flexing, his head thrown back, a strained, shuddering groan tearing from his lungs.

He came hard, his hand still stroking your clit with a frantic energy that mirrored his release, his hips bucking underneath you.

You felt the warm, wet spray against your inner thighs, a visceral testament to his pleasure, your own body quivering in sympathy.

The scent of him, raw and musky, filled your nostrils, intoxicating and overwhelming.

For a long moment, he was still, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body heavy and spent beneath you.

The grip on your clit slowly, exquisitely, softened, but didn’t leave.

His thumb continued to gently trace lazy circles, a tender aftershock that kept your senses humming.

You could feel his heart still hammering against your ear, a frantic drumbeat that slowly, slowly began to steady.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his voice still thick with release, almost unrecognizable from the polished Rosehill charmer.

He leaned his head forward, burying his face in your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “See? I told you I’d take care of you.”

His hand finally left your clit, and a whimper of protest escaped you before you could stop it.

But then his fingers tangled in the damp curls between your legs, finding your still-throbbing clit again, this time with a focused, deliberate touch that promised something more.

He shifted beneath you, his body still heavy, but his movements now aimed entirely at your pleasure.

“Now, your turn,” he whispered, a new note of possessive triumph in his voice. He shifted you slightly, lifting your hips just enough to give his hand better access.

His thumb pressed down firmly, then began to circle, slow at first, then building in speed.

Every nerve ending in your body screamed to life. The long, agonizing wait had primed you, made you an open wound of desire.

“Tell me what you like, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your earlobe, then tracing a path down your neck.

He was no longer demonstrating; he was exploring, learning you.

His fingers moved with an intuitive grace, finding every sensitive spot, every hidden peak of pleasure.

He stroked, he teased, he pressed, watching your face intently, his eyes, usually so calculating, now dark and clouded with a raw, almost desperate tenderness.

“Faster,” you gasped, your voice a ragged plea. “Please, Max, faster.”

He obliged, his hand a blur against you, his thumb working in a blistering rhythm. Your hips began to buck, unconsciously mirroring the thrusts he’d shown you just moments before.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the build-up intensified, sharp and sweet.

The chair, once a symbol of casual relaxation, was now an anchor in a raging storm of sensation.

“That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl, his own breathing picking up again as he fed off your rising arousal. “Let go. Come apart for me.”

You felt the tension coil tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its absolute limit.

Your back arched, your head thrown back against his chest, your body trembling uncontrollably. His name was a broken plea on your lips, repeated over and over.

And then, you shattered.

The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, washing over you in pulsating waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles clenching, a long, drawn-out moan escaping your throat that you barely recognized as your own.

He held you tightly through it, his hand continuing its frantic work until the last shiver had passed, until your body finally slumped against his, exhausted and utterly sated.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull away.

You lay mangled on his lap, the soft fabric of his t-shirt a comforting embrace, the humid warmth of his skin against yours.

Your breath hitched, then slowly, steadily, evened out. His fingers moved from your clit, tracing lazy circles on your inner thigh, a possessive, tender touch.

“See?” he whispered again, his voice softer now, almost… vulnerable. “I told you. I always take care of you.”

You finally lifted your head, your eyes heavy-lidded, meeting his.

The golden boy smile was back, but it was different now.

Not just charming, not just manipulative, but laced with a hint of genuine affection, a shared intimacy that went deeper than any casual flirtation he might have performed for the rest of Rosehill.

His eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, held a warmth, a satisfaction that was purely for you.

“You lied about the movie night,” you mumbled, a small, tired smile playing on your lips.

He chuckled, a rich, full sound that vibrated through your chest. “Did I?” he asked, pulling you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Because I think this was a much better show, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away, just nestled deeper into his embrace, feeling the soft thrum of his heart against your back.

He had planned this, every carefully orchestrated step, from the casual invitation to the specific instructions.

He had wanted you, wanted you to see him, to understand him, to need him in a way no one else did.

And you, against all better judgment, had been a willing, eager participant.

The movie, if it had ever been turned on, was long forgotten.

@cranberrysaucebath

[b0ssyboots]

I need a fic like this.

Am I the only one who thinks Daryl could be so sweet but also Satan himself during sex??

A/n - just a Drabble because I see a lot of sub Daryl so I had to bring this out. Daryl wouldn’t submit to anyone, maybe he’d give you a few chances though.

Like of course your baby doll he’s petting your hair out of ur face calling you beautiful while he fucking tears your cunt out like it needs reconstruction, the soft kisses the whispers the pleasure and sweetness the “tha’s okay baby girl?” Every few minutes to make sure your taking his dick well and your okay. The same Daryl to choose missionary because he wants to look into your beautiful eyes while he bonds your bodies together. I love the idea of soft Daryl.. I mean Daryl wouldn’t submit to anyone he’s known so far, maybe he’d let you top him sometime but eventually you’d be to sloppy or to slow and he’d flip it back over with the “it’s al’right I got you”

But dom daryl. gulp.

Attitude, an eye roll, a scoff, a mean stare, a eyebrow raise, the way you put your coffee mug down a little hard Daryl dosent like his sweet baby being all bratty or rough. The way at any small damn inconvenience you throw ur hands up and argue if a limb from a tree is a stick or a twig, but it’s not because your childish.. it’s just you fucking LIVE to feel how he manhandles you. You press all the right mechanics on him and now he’s ball deep inside of your cunt, your hair in his fist knotted up in doggy style. “Yeah? You like tha’? yeah fuckin course ya’ do.. such a fucking dirty whore for me ain’t’ ya’.”

Daryl who would have a daddy kink and land a hard SMACK on your ass everytime you forgot to call him it, the way you’d cry and plead for forgiveness how you’d be a good girl. (No the fuck you wouldnt, Daryl knew this I mean you’ve said that what.. like 100 punish fucks ago) the way he’d bite and slap and pinch and fuck you to oblivion til you obey him, til you learn your just a lil girl in his big world. When he’s finished inside you and still hasn’t let you cum, shoving your panties back on you and pulling you in for a rough passionate kiss. Tears streaming from your glossy eyes bringing a smirk to his mouth. Of course he’s got darcyphilia, and why wouldn’t he? Seeing you all messy hair, crying whimpering because you want his cock, and he’s all control of what you get. Daryl fucking loves it, Telling you to keep his cum in until he says so and maybe he will let you cum tomorrow, or in a week. He’s bad at decisions, you’ll cum sometime though, probably because even if he’s rough your still his princess even in the apocalypse.

[b0ssyboots]

•Norman’s nipple . Com•