'Dog Days'

synopsis: he's abusive, but what else is there?

warnings: dead dove do not eat, psychological manipulation, bullying and sustained emotional abuse, physical harm and non-consensual physical contact, stalking behavior, non-consensual physical aggression, gaslighting, emotional distress, anxiety, dark psychological tension.

wc: 3.4k

The first thing you learn about the house is that it breathes.

Not literally. No one else seems to notice, but you feel it. In the walls, in the floorboards beneath your feet, in the way every morning resets like nothing ever happened. Like you never arrived.

Like you don’t matter yet.

Miss Peregrine tells you it’s for your safety. The bomb, the loop, the war pressing in just outside the edges of this strange, preserved day. Everyone nods like it’s normal.

You try to nod too.

You don’t know what you are.

That’s the problem.

Everyone else has something...floating, fire, strength, bees, dreams. Even the quiet ones have something tucked beneath their skin, something useful. Something that makes them belong.

You have nothing.

And Enoch notices.

...it starts small.

A look across the dining table. A curl of his lip when you speak. A muttered comment just quiet enough that no one else reacts.

“Waste of space,” he says one afternoon, stabbing at his food.

You freeze. No one else does.

Olive laughs at something Bronwyn says. Hugh hums. Claire swings her legs under the table.

No one heard him.

You swallow hard and keep eating.

It escalates.

A tug on your hair as you pass behind his chair...sharp, sudden, enough to sting your scalp.

You gasp, whipping around.

He doesn’t even look at you.

“Something wrong?” he asks mildly, glancing up a second later like he’s bored.

You look at the others.

Nothing. No reaction.

“I—no,” you whisper.

He smiles, just a little.

You start avoiding him.

It doesn’t work.

He’s always there. In the hallways, in the garden, in the corners of rooms where the light doesn’t quite reach. Watching.

Waiting.

You begin to feel it before it happens...the shift in the air when he’s close, the way your shoulders tense without meaning to.

One evening, in the kitchen, you reach for a fork.

His hand closes around your wrist.

Tight.

You suck in a breath. “Let go.”

“No,” he says softly.

The others are there. Milling, talking, unaware. Invisible to this moment.

He presses the fork—fresh from the stove, still warm—against the inside of your arm.

Not enough to blister.

You flinch, biting back a cry as heat blooms against your skin.

“There,” he murmurs, almost thoughtful. “Now you’ll remember.”

Your vision blurs. “Why are you doing this?”

His grip tightens for just a second before he lets go.

“Because I can.”

He walks away like nothing happened.

You stop asking.

Stop reacting.

That seems to amuse him less.

He wants something from you. A reaction. A break.

And you refuse to give it.

Days...loops...blur together. The same morning, the same meals, the same quiet cruelty that no one else sees. You start to wonder if maybe this is your peculiarity.

Being unseen.

Being hurt without proof.

It happens at night.

You’re not supposed to be out of your room after lights out. Miss Peregrine is very clear about that.

But the walls feel too close. The air too thin.

So you slip out.

The garden is silvered in moonlight, damp with the memory of rain that will fall again tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always the same.

You make it to the far edge, near the hedges, before it hits you.

Everything.

The confusion. The loneliness. The quiet, gnawing fear that you don’t belong here, that you never will, that maybe you don’t even deserve to.

Your chest caves in.

And you break.

A sound tears out of you...raw and ugly, nothing like the quiet composure you’ve been forcing. You drop to your knees in the grass, hands clutching at yourself like you can hold the pieces together.

You can’t.

“I don’t know what I am,” you sob into the dark. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be—”

Your voice cracks, dissolves.

“Why does he hate me?”

The question hangs there, unanswered.

For a moment, there’s only your crying. The wind. The distant echo of waves.

Then...

“You’re loud.”

You go still.

Slowly, you lift your head.

Enoch stands a few feet away, half-shadowed, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been there the whole time.

Watching.

“Go away,” you choke. “Please- just go away.”

He doesn’t move.

“I didn’t realize you’d break this easily,” he says, but it’s…off.

You laugh, wet and bitter. “You’ve been hurting me for days.”

“Everyone gets hurt,” he shrugs.

“Not like this.”

You drag your hand over your face, trying to wipe away the tears, but they keep coming. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up.

He’s watching you differently now. Not with that usual cold amusement, but something unsettled. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.

“Then why?” you whisper.

He hesitates.

It’s small, almost imperceptible. But it’s there.

“I thought…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “I thought if you had something, it would show by now.”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“Pain does that,” he says. “Pushes it out. Whatever makes you…you.”

You stare at him, horrified. “So you’ve just been...testing me?”

His eyes flicker.

For a second, he looks younger. Not the strange, hardened boy he pretends to be...but someone unsure. Someone who doesn’t quite understand the line he crossed.

“It usually works,” he mutters.

Your chest aches. “I’m not one of your experiments.”

“I know that,” he snaps...too fast.

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of damp earth and salt. You shiver, suddenly aware of how cold you are.

Enoch notices.

His gaze drops to your arms. The faint marks, the places he’s grabbed, burned, bruised.

Something in his expression twists.

“…I didn’t think you’d cry,” he says finally.

You let out a hollow laugh. “What did you think I’d do?”

“Fight back.”

“I don’t even know how.”

That lands. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t have something clever to say.

“I hate things that don’t make sense,” he admits, his voice dropped to something quieter. “Everyone here has a purpose. A function. Even if it’s strange.” His eyes flick back to you. “You don’t.”

The words sting, but not the way the fork did. Not the way his hands did.

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s the problem.”

Your voice breaks again, softer this time. Tired.

“I don’t belong here.”

Something in him flinches.

It’s subtle. But real.

“No,” he says, almost to himself. “That’s not…”

He stops. You watch him. You're confused and hurt...just waiting.

Enoch shifts his weight, restless. Like he wants to leave, but can’t.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, then cuts himself off, frustrated.

Another pause.

Then, awkwardly, stiffly, he shrugs off his coat and holds it out to you.

You blink at it.

At him.

“…What?”

“You’re cold,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “Take it.”

You don’t move at first.

This is the same boy who burned you. Who pulled your hair. Who made you feel small and invisible.

Now he’s standing there, arm outstretched, like he doesn’t know what else to do.

Cautiously, you take it.

It’s warm.

He looks…relieved. Just for a second.

Then his usual mask slips back into place, not quite as sharp as before.

“You should go back inside,” he says. “Miss Peregrine will notice.”

You nod, pulling the coat tighter around yourself.

You start to stand, legs shaky.

“Enoch?”

He stiffens at his name.

“…What?”

You hesitate.

“I still don’t understand why you did it,” you say softly. “But…please don’t do it again.”

The words aren’t angry.

That almost makes it worse.

He swallows.

“…Fine.”

It’s not an apology.

But it’s the closest thing he knows how to give.

You turn and walk back toward the house, the garden quiet behind you.

Enoch stays where he is...watching.

Long after you’re gone.

And for the first time since you arrived...

He doesn’t feel in control of it anymore.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The next morning resets like nothing ever happened.

The same light spills through the windows. The same breakfast waits on the table. The same voices fill the air, soft and familiar to everyone but you.

And him. You feel it before you even see him.

Enoch.

Your fingers tighten around your cup as he walks in, already watching you. Not openly...he never does...but it’s there. That awareness. That quiet sharp focus.

Last night lingers in your chest.

The garden. The crying. His coat.

The almost apology.

For a moment, something fragile in you hopes.

“Don’t look so hopeful,” he says under his breath as he passes behind you.

Your stomach drops.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he cuts in, low enough that no one else reacts. “It’s pathetic.”

The words hit harder than anything he’s done before.

Because for a second, you believed him.

It’s worse after that.

Not immediately.

At first, it’s subtle again, like he’s reminding himself how to do it. A brush of his shoulder too hard against yours. A whisper in your ear that makes your skin crawl.

“You thought one cry would fix it?”

You stop responding...that used to bore him.

Now it doesn’t. Now it just irritates him.

It happens in the workshop.

You shouldn’t be there. Everyone knows that. It’s his space...dark, cluttered, filled with things that twitch when they shouldn’t.

But you’re looking for something. Anything to make yourself useful. To be something.

You don’t hear him come in. You only feel the door slam shut behind you.

Your whole body goes rigid.

“Still don’t know when to stay out of places you don’t belong,” he says.

You turn slowly. “I was just—”

“Existing?” he mocks. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

You flinch.

That flicker of hurt...and he sees it.

And something in him snaps back into place.

Cruel and controlled.

“Come here.”

You don’t move.

His jaw tightens. “I said—”

“I heard you.”

The defiance surprises both of you.

The room goes very still.

Enoch steps closer, slow, deliberate. “You don’t get to choose when to listen.”

“I’m not one of your...your things,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t get to—”

His hand lashes out, grabbing your chin, forcing your face up.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, dangerously. “Finish that sentence.”

Your breath stutters.

His grip isn’t hard enough to bruise.

It doesn’t have to be.

“You think last night changed something?” he continues, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to prove a point to you or himself, you can’t tell. “You think I suddenly care?”

Your silence answers for you.

His expression twists.

“Wrong.”

He shoves you back.

You stumble into the worktable, something metal clattering to the floor.

“I was curious,” he snaps. “That’s all. You broke, I observed, and now we’re done.”

The words are clinical like you imagined everything else.

But he doesn’t stop.

If it was just cruelty, it would be simple. You could hate him. You should hate him. But now there’s something messy under it.

One moment, he’s worse than before.

The next, he hesitates.

You start noticing it in the smallest ways. The way his hand lingers in the air a second too long before grabbing you. The way his insults come sharper, like he’s trying to drown something out. The way he watches you when you don’t see him.

Or when he thinks you don’t.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Days pass...loops pass.

You stop keeping track. And then it happens again....you’re in the garden.

Not crying this time. Just…sitting.

The night air is cool, the same as always. The same wind, the same distant sea. It should feel repetitive but it doesn't.

You don’t hear him approach.

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Sulking.”

“I’m sitting.”

“Same thing.”

Silence stretches but he doesn’t leave.

That’s new.

After a moment, you speak, softer. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, it’s quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

“I wanted to see if you’d cry again.”

Your chest tightens.

“…I’m not going to give you that.”

“I know.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking at you...not like before. Not like prey, or a puzzle.

Like something he doesn’t understand.

Something that’s gotten under his skin.

“You’re still here,” he says.

The words are strange. Flat. Almost confused.

“So are you.”

His mouth presses into a thin line.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

No answer.

You shake your head, looking away again. “You’re cruel for no reason.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then give me one.”

“I don’t like things I can’t figure out,” he says.

Your brows knit together. “So you hurt them?”

“Yes.”

It’s so immediate. It knocks the breath out of you.

“…That’s not normal.”

“I never said it was.”

You let out a shaky exhale, hugging his coat tighter around yourself. You haven’t given it back. He hasn’t asked.

“I’m not something for you to figure out,” you whisper.

His gaze flicks to the coat then back to your face.

“I know.”

But he doesn’t sound convinced.

The relapse comes the next day.

He’s trying to erase everything that’s been building.

It’s in the hallway this time... it's empty and quiet...no one around. He corners you before you can slip past.

“You’re getting comfortable,” he says.

“I’m not—”

His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back.

A sharp cry escapes you before you can stop it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, almost relieved. “I was wondering where that went.”

Your hands grip his wrist. “Stop—!”

“Why?” he snaps suddenly, something cracking through his voice. “So you can sit out there and look at me like I’m something broken?”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

His grip tightens.

And then it falters...just for a second.

You feel it. Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger. Not cruelty. But fear...and it’s gone just as quickly.

He shoves you away like he’s burned.

“Stay out of my way,” he says, voice flat again. “I mean it.”

He turns and walks off before you can say anything.

Before he can say anything else.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

That night, you don’t go to the garden.

You stay in your room.

Curled in on yourself, staring at nothing.

And for the first time, he notices your absence.

He doesn’t come to you, not just yet. He just paces.

He's restless and irritated. Unsettled in a way he can’t fix. Because hurting you didn’t make it go away. It made it worse.

That look on your face...

It was…tired. And the feeling lingered, the look on your face had been replaying inside his head.

And for someone like Enoch...that’s unbearable.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

He tells himself he’ll stop, be doesn’t...not immediately.

Change doesn’t come clean. It comes ugly. With far more damage in between.

But something has shifted now. Something he can’t quite put back where it was. And the next time he reaches for you...

He hesitates.

Not long....and eventually...

It will cost him everything if he doesn’t figure out what to do with it.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The house is never truly quiet.

Even in the loops, especially in the loops, there is always something breathing under the surface of it. A creak in the walls, a distant shifting of wood that remembers every version of itself. You’ve started sleeping lightly, not because you want to but because you have to. Something in you expects it now. The pressure of being watched. The feeling that if you close your eyes too long, you’ll miss the moment it starts again.

You dream anyway, not peaceful ones, never peaceful.

The first thing you notice is the cold.

It seeps into your room like a mistake in reality, like the house has briefly forgotten how to hold warmth. Your eyes flutter open into darkness, into stillness, and then into a shape at the foot of your bed.

Your body locks before your mind catches up.

“Don’t scream,” a voice says softly.

You do anyway.

You scramble backward, hitting the headboard hard enough to sting. Your breath tears out of you in sharp, panicked bursts as your eyes adjust and you see him more clearly.

Enoch.

Sitting there like he belongs. Like this is normal.

“What are you doing in here?” you choke out.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re something he left unfinished.

“I wanted to see if you sleep the same,” he says at last.

Your stomach twists. “Get out.”

“No.”

That single word is calm. Final.

You reach for the lamp beside your bed, fumbling, hands shaking. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches.

The light clicks on.

And there he is, fully visible now. Pale in the yellow glow. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair slightly disheveled like he hasn’t been sleeping either, like he’s been doing this more than once.

Your throat tightens. “How did you even—Miss Peregrine—”

“She doesn’t check your window,” he interrupts mildly.

Something cold settles in your chest.

“You’ve been coming here,” you whisper.

He shrugs. Not a denial, not an admission either. Just indifference.

You press yourself further back. “Why?”

A pause. Long enough that it starts to feel like he’s not going to answer at all.

Then, “Because you change when you’re asleep.”

Your breath stutters. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.”

He leans forward slightly, and you flinch instantly.

That reaction, your fear, makes something flicker in his expression. Not satisfaction. Not cruelty. Focus. Like he’s collecting data. Like you’re not a person in front of him, but a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

“I don’t do anything,” you say quickly. “I’m just asleep.”

“That’s what I thought,” he replies.

The way he says it makes your skin crawl.

Like he’s already decided you’re wrong.

You swing.

It’s not graceful. It’s not calculated. It’s pure panic.

Your palm connects with his face, sharp and loud in the small room. The sound cracks through the air.

He turns his head slightly with the force of it, then stills. Everything in the room seems to pause with him.

Your hand is still raised, shaking.

“I told you to get out,” you whisper, voice breaking.

He touches his cheek slowly, not reacting like someone hurt, but like someone recalibrating.

Then he looks back at you.

For the first time, there’s something unstable in his expression. Not anger. Not even irritation. Something worse.

Confusion.

“…You hit me,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” you snap, tears burning your eyes now. “Because you’re in my room.”

Silence.

He stares at you for a long moment, then leans back slightly as if reconsidering the entire situation, like he didn’t expect that variable.

“I didn’t think you would wake up,” he says finally.

That makes your blood run colder than anything else.

“What?”

His eyes flick to your face again, steady, clinical, wrong in a way you can’t name fast enough.

“I thought it would be easier to see you like this,” he adds.

Your voice comes out small. “Like what?”

“Real.”

The word hangs there, heavy and uncomfortable, like it doesn’t belong in your room. Like it doesn’t belong in you.

You don’t notice when he stands. Only that he does.

The space between you shifts immediately, too close again even without him touching you. You flinch harder this time. He notices that too, and something tightens in his jaw.

“You should lock your window,” he says abruptly.

Your laugh comes out broken. “You think that fixes this?”

“No,” he admits.

A beat.

Then, quieter, “But it makes it harder.”

He turns toward the window, stops, and looks back at you one last time. Not soft, not kind, just staring like he’s memorizing something he shouldn’t care about.

Then he leaves the way he came.

Like he was never there. The unsettling feeling stays though, and so does the certainty that whatever this is, it’s getting worse. Not better.

again

⚠️ SMUT ALERT ⚠️ PWP ⚠️ SCROLL A LITTLE WAYS DOWN FOR SMUT, START HERE FOR PLOT ⚠️

Summary: He’s going to turn you into a brainwashed, desperate, cumdrunk version of yourself that begs for his cock, and you’re going to thank him for it. If he’s good enough, he might even convince you that it was your doing. 

Pairing: Dal x femreader Word Count: 11862 CW/TW:  loss of virginity/virginity kink, corruption kink, unprotected pnv, dom/sub, squirting, degradation kink, established relationship, size kink, size difference, overstimulation, dacryphilia, innocence kink, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie

A/N: i decided to combine 2 requests/asks bc they were overlapping in nature and i hope i don’t disappoint. thank you anon for the request and @pinkbabydollblythe for the prompt! I love this trope :,) I know it’s long. I'm so sorry! I was influenced by both that Noah Cyrus song ‘Again’ and that ‘HAHAHA AGAIN’ Trolls meme audio bc im chronically online and brainrotted to hell 🥴🤦‍♀️ Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

Dallas Winston overwhelms you in nearly every aspect. 

In both physicality and energy, he dwarfs you and nearly everyone else surrounding him. He’s a vicious, undomesticated, erratic, burning star of vitality, fiercely dedicated to making himself as loud as possible in a world already filled with jarring noise. 

Where you are quiet, he is loud; a firecracker that substitutes stars without even trying and determined to be acknowledged by anyone with eyes and ears. His brazenness runs almost polar to your shyness, and you often hesitate in situations where he lunges. 

You aren’t necessarily insecure - you’re just less experienced in life and less comfortable in loud, overbearing spaces with unfamiliar, questionable people who exhibit matching qualities. Such traits are why people were incredibly surprised when you and Tulsa’s local lawbreaker started going steady, because Dallas and his lifestyle run almost opposite to yours even if you’ve both grown up in the same circles. Everyone knows how contrary your habits are.

He’s an incredibly imposing person; ‘intimidating’ doesn’t even begin to describe him. Aside from the domineering attitude, devastatingly good looks, stature and sharp wit, Dallas is vastly more knowledgeable than you are in many walks of life and exceptionally quick on the uptake. 

This isn’t to say that you’re stupid or slow; you just like to think things through a little more carefully and take your time before deciding on a course of action, often unsure about receiving unwanted criticism. Juxtaposed to that, Dallas operates at warp speed, never second-guessing himself even if he frequently makes mistakes in both candor and judgment. 

So when you say that he overwhelms you, you mean it literally - even after a month has gone by and you’ve started getting a little more used to him. And as far as you’re concerned, you’ve done a pretty swell job of accustoming yourself to his personality and lifestyle thus far, with the possible exception of a few select things - the most apparent of which is his physical size.

He likes to tease you about how small you are in comparison to him, but no matter how many times he calls you cute little pet names that poke at your size, they never feel like they’re in true jest. And despite years of being taunted over your relative height compared to those around you, you…like it. 

You like when he points out the size difference, both advertently and inadvertently. You like it when he manhandles you around. You like it when he takes you under his arm and dwarfs you, shielding your body from anything and anyone around you both. You like it when you’re sitting in his lap and melt into the space his warmth provides, able to curl and relax to your heart’s content while he carries on whatever conversation is happening. You like it when you can’t reach something, require brute strength, or are otherwise in his way, and he’ll pilot you with one large hand on your waist and just enough of a squeeze to make you shiver before he helps you. 

It’s a little dizzying, but you like it. 

To be honest, the size difference is a whole half of the reason why you’ve been a little intimidated to do anything more than heavy petting with him, and he knows it. You can read it in his smug, lording expression every time as he watches you freeze like a deer in headlights, comically wide-eyed at the feel of his hard length underneath you and the reactions he effortlessly coaxes from your body. 

Everything about him is big in comparison to you, a point he’s currently and unknowingly emphasizing as he teases you from his spot on your fluffy throw blanket where he lounges and smokes. Even if your bed is a twin and functionally able to fit two people with room to spare, he manages to occupy a majority of the space when he sprawls on it. 

You sneak a careful, wanton glance at him from where you’re pretending to tidy up when he ashes out your open window, scrutinizing the full wingspan of his reach. One of your pet peeves is his smoking inside, but he’s making an effort not to let the smell linger and the candle on your dresser helps dilute the scent. 

If you were any other girl in any other scenario, the setup here would spell out disaster. Your single father has gone off to visit family one town over for the weekend, the gang is off doing random separate things, and you’ve run out of chores. You’re alone, with only Dallas to keep you company, in a neighborhood where no one will respond to a noise complaint. 

And therein lies the other half of the reason why you’ve been so intimidated and reluctant to move any further in bed with him: your virginity. 

It’s not a secret, and you’re not ashamed to admit it even though you’d rather it not be shouted from the rooftops or made glaringly obvious to everyone. Despite not growing up with a mother for half of your life, your father has done an excellent job raising you to be confident in your own bodily autonomy, and you know you have the power of choice. 

That being said…there’s something about the way Dallas speaks to you when the subject of your innocence is addressed that makes you tingle something fierce. He’s patronizing, provocative, teasing, mirthlessly sensual and entirely shocking to your inexperienced self. 

You remember the first time he tested the waters on Darry’s porch one night, the cacophony of Pony’s nineteenth birthday celebrations still echoing behind you both. 

Dallas had regarded you hungrily around a cigarette, “You ever even been kissed, sweetcheeks?” 

Taken aback and unsure of how to respond, you’d simply looked up at him and blinked owlishly before shaking your head. At that time, you had no idea the kind of shark infested waters you’d wandered into. 

“Course not,” he’d snickered quietly to himself as he surveyed you the way a TV producer would naive new talent, “goddamn angel, ain’tcha.” 

Your mouth had opened to defend yourself, almost indignant at his baseless accusation, but he’d cut you off before you could even start. 

“So no one’s popped your lil cherry yet, huh?” 

Part of your brain had sent out warning signals as you blushed and stammered, firmly aware that such manner of speaking was crude and indecent, but the rest of your nervous system melted at his words - and his mischievous grin told you that he’d spotted that involuntary reaction right away. 

The way he spoke to you that day and continues to speak to you almost makes you wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you, because the kinetic rush of unmistakable enjoyment you get from being talked down to by him must be a disorder of some kind.

And because he knows you like it, he’s been doing this the entire time you’ve been together; little comments dropped here and there amongst standard flirtation and heady touches that make your head spin, totally discombobulating your senses. You can say with confidence that this is the first time you’ve ever truly wanted someone to the point that you’re actually interested in hopping into bed with them, even if you don’t know how to go about doing so. 

(You’re lucky you don’t have to, because Dallas can read you like a book and is exceptionally well-versed in this subject.)

You can no longer avoid the nameless warmth in your lower belly or the odd tug you feel whenever he looks at you with those half-hooded eyes and blown pupils. He can sense your curiosity and concupiscent eagerness like a bloodhound, and he’s just about reached his boiling point for sexual patience. 

“Sure y’don’t wanna clean the rest of the house, dollface?” Your boyfriend purrs at you from his spot on your bed where he lounges, a knowing little smile gracing his features.

His goading tone is warm, overly sweet and amused by your mindless fidgeting. 

You all-but squirm and abandon the reorganization of your desk, long-forgotten after a lack of schoolwork to pile on top of it. It’s been years since you even used the thing properly; it’s basically a spare table at this point. 

“S-shut up,” you mumble with no real mirth behind it, defenseless and flushed. 

He sees that you’re stalling in hesitation borne from inexperience, not fear. You can sense what’s most likely to happen if you join him on your bed right now, and you’re rightfully nervous.

At his responding snicker you simper and relax a bit, still slow to approach him. He’s the picture of relaxed arrogance as he catalogues each expression and action of yours, ever so content that he can prompt such behaviors from you. The knowledge that he has such an influence is addictive, placing him in that dangerous category of potentially troublesome if he so chooses to use this power for wrongdoing.

Neither of you have explicitly said anything in regards to how this is going to go down, but he’s gotten more touchy as of late and you’ve been starving after a month of teasing touches with no relief. Need hangs heavy in the atmosphere - a referendum is not necessary to deduce the outcome here.

The sheer amount of restlessness that sits in your bones can’t be helped, no matter how many times you fiddle with your fingers behind your back as you draw closer to the edge of the mattress. You can see his eyes dip down to your chest. 

“C’mere, lil one. Ain’t gotta be nervous,” Dallas extends a hand when you get close enough and gently pulls you closer by the waist, “I don’t bite.” 

Even if you feel like you’re being led right into a den by the wolf itself, you listen and fold yourself down right beside him, balancing yourself on his chest and worrying at your lip. The plush duvet - one of the only nice things you've made for yourself - is comforting beneath your knees. 

“...’less you ask.” 

You inhale sharply at his addition, eyes going wide and blush now reaching your chest. 

He lets out a bark of laughter at your surprise and pretends to be none the wiser, “What?” 

There is innocent uncertainty in your next query: “T-there’s gonna be bitin’?” 

Dallas flings the butt of his cigarette as far out the window as he can and exhales his smoke long and hard, giving him a second to think about how to answer. 

He’s not very apt at being an emotionally intelligent being, let alone a guy who isn’t an absolute dog about taking a girl’s virginity, but he doesn’t want to send you running for the hills and isn’t an absolute moron when it comes to body language….even a monkey can see that you need a little encouraging. 

“Don’t gotta be,” he meets your eyes, gaze softening minutely, and combs a hand through your hair, “you trust me?” 

Your head tilts with his movement, letting him steady you in front of him so you’re eye to eye and closer than before. It quickens your heart rate and sends heat rushing to your face, unused to being so closely scrutinized.

There is no hesitation when you nod, even if you probably should have debated a response to his question a little bit further.

He pauses for a beat as if he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and then smiles like a starved heathen who’s just been told they’re getting everything they could ever thirst for. 

Right now, he has no issue admitting that his intentions are strictly less than honorable; the demonic urges he has to defile and ruin you are no longer chained down, and what’s even better is that you’re a completely willing sacrifice.

Without any other warning or reassurance, Dallas uses the hand he’s already got on you as leverage to tilt his head down and capture your lips, fingers curling on your scalp.

You practically melt against him.

The reaction is typical; this happens every time he kisses you. It’s almost embarrassing how boneless you go with such little effort on his part; any reason or logic you may have retained a second ago flies out the window. All you can smell, taste, feel - is him, solid and grounding beneath you.

You’re already feeling loopy and rather uncouth, but when he slips his tongue into your mouth, it urges absolutely filthy things out of your subconscious. 

Without removing himself from your lips, Dallas tugs you onto his lap, settling back against the headboard. His hands card themselves through your hair, brushing it back away from your face before trailing down to frame either side of your jaw.

With trembling fingers, you steady yourself against his abdomen, appreciating the firmness that tenses each time you make a movement. One hand flies up to grip the material covering his chest when a palm of his slides down to grip your waist, slowly descending until it squeezes your hip where your upper thigh begins.

It’s only when his other hand lowers to gently stroke the exposed skin between your sleep shorts and t-shirt that you shudder, pulling away in an attempt to recollect yourself.

“Dal-” you’re already out of breath and slurring, “dunno how…I-I don’know what’t’do-”

The mere confession of your ineptitude and subsequent plea for assistance is probably one of the hottest things he’s ever heard in his life. When combined with your obvious addled state, already clearly drunk off of him, Dallas is unable to stop the rough groan that escapes him. Not often do girls entrust him with their virginity, and here you are offering yourself up to him on a platter and begging for him to take you. 

“I know babygirl,” he reassures lowly, gripping you by the waist again to rearrange you on his lap, “so fuckin’ innocent…m’gonna show ya.” 

You’re not skilled enough to decode his near-salivation for what it truly is, much less begin to understand the complexities behind a fetish for innocence. All you know is that he seems to like that you don’t know what you’re doing, which in all honesty is a better reaction than you expected. 

One wiggle on your part connects you two just right, and you freeze with a sudden inhale when you feel the effect you've had on him. For the first time, you fully register and appreciate his reaction to you without backing off. Up until this point, it’s been a little too easy to get lost in your own head - but the way his eyes screw shut and his jaw clenches reveals that he definitely isn’t made of stone.

Still, you aren't as well-versed in this as he is. From your end, you still can’t properly differentiate between discomfort and arousal. 

Your voice is tentative and small, “D-does it hurt?” 

Dallas laughs a little breathlessly at that, like he knows something you don’t, and pulls you in for another kiss, scrambling you. Again he leads with his tongue, gently coaxing yours out. 

It kind of answers your question.

He does something with his hips then, bucking them up gently as if to show you what to do, and you feel the familiar hardness that would usually have you wavering. This time it feels astonishingly more intense, the resulting sensation prompting a soft gasp from you. The brief spark of pleasure runs up your spine and tingles sharply, forcing you to detach yourself from his lips with a trill.

You pull back to find him already looking back at you, pupils blown wide with lust.

Dallas smiles knowingly, voice superciliously saccharine, “Feel good, doll?”

The question is spoken in a very outright condescending tone, striking more heat into you. You don’t really care if he’s diminishing you or talking down to you; the patronizing lilt does something lovely to your insides.

You nod dumbly, plush lips parted in gentle surprise, and he chortles softly at your expression before laying a soft kiss on your temple. He trails across your cheekbone all the way back down to your lips, the thought of wrecking your poor, naive, innocuous little self making him pulse dangerously. 

He’s going to turn you into a brainwashed, desperate, cumdrunk version of yourself that begs for his cock, and you’re going to thank him for it. If he’s good enough, he might even convince you that it was your doing. 

“Go on darlin’,” he’s close enough to you that when he speaks his lips graze yours, forcing your eyes to shut in reflex, “promise you’ll like it.” 

With his hands guiding you and a shaky breath at the newfound knowledge you start to move, a series of staccato inhales escaping you as each motion forces more tingles up your spine. Like a newborn deer finding its footing the first movements are jerky, unaided by the pleasure the movement creates that distracts you, but you find your balance after a few moments with his help. The feelings settle in your chest and generate a warmth like no other.

“Atta girl,” Dallas inhales the shuddered sigh that escapes you, relaxing his hold once he sees you're getting the motion down, “just like that. Y’feel that? S’what you do to me, baby.”

A whimper is all you can vocalize in return.

He doesn’t warn you before upping the ante, both hands smoothing their palms under your shirt against the skin of your waist and savoring the way you’re moving on top of him before making their way ever so slightly upwards. 

When he reaches your sternum, one hand falls back down to your flank to keep prompting your motions. Your breath hitches at that, little hands gripping his shoulders through his shirt and leaving crescent-moon shaped indents in the fabric with your nails. You're making these tiny noises that drive him insane, mewls and trills that go right to his crotch and make him want to buck up into you like a savage.

He contains himself somehow, even when you solve the problem of your disconnected lips by closing the tiny boundary yourself. Tapering his own filthy comments is enough of a challenge while you're gyrating on his lap; he doesn’t want to overload you, but he can’t help letting another groan slip out when you twist your hips just right.

You let out a muffled squeak when his knuckles brush against the underside of your breast. It makes Dallas grin into the kiss and wrap his whole arm around you to keep you moving as he takes the entire thing into his palm, unwilling to let you back out just yet.

When he gets his thumb and forefinger around your nipple your mouth drops open and gives him the perfect opportunity to slip you his tongue again, sending you reeling. All these sensations are dizzying and make your head feel far too fuzzy in the best kind of way. Briefly, you find yourself wondering how it can possibly get any better than this.

When you pull back ever so slightly to release a whine that he all-but swallows, he grunts and grips your hips for some relief. It lets him grind up into you, forcing a whimper from your lips and a chuckle from his. It is unequivocally endearing the way you surrender yourself to him, opening up like a blooming flower with all the trust in the world. Seeing you like this - completely willing, open and pliable, drives him insane.  

“Dal...” you trail off when he interrupts you with another kiss, unsure of yourself or how to ask for more.

“Use your words.”

Ever so smug, Dallas mouths down your jawline before trailing back up to your mouth, stealing your lips for another moment. He can't get enough of you, and who can blame him? You’re the sweetest thing he has ever tasted, breathed…and sweet things are meant to be eaten.

You halt your hips, starting with bated breaths and whining through swollen lips, reaching down and pawing at yourself before wailing softly.

“D’know how…p-please-” you’re entirely overwhelmed, and he is more than willing to assist you. 

“Jesus Christ-” to avoid squeezing you too hard, Dallas takes a hand off of your lithe waist and wipes his mouth roughly, cock throbbing angrily at your statement, “c’mere, baby. I gotcha.”

He can’t concentrate on your pleading too much, or he won’t last for nearly as long as he plans to. If for some tragic reason you and him don’t end up working out, he’s going to keep this memory imprinted in his brain until the day he dies.

You trill unhappily at being hoisted off his lap, but quiet when he flips you to place you beneath him and his fingers skim the waistband of your shorts. The domineering touch renders you a trembling mess under him, a stupid little lamb having wandered into the perfect trap.

“You’re shakin’,” Dallas lets his fingers drag along the exposed skin of your stomach and fails to hide a smile at your shiver, “what’s gotcha all worked up, huh?”

His teasing has you all turned around, uncertain fingers reaching for him as if to silently accuse him in response. You don't have to say it out loud; he can see it in your eyes.

“Gonna lemme take these off, sweetheart?”

He’s too close for you to think; all you can hear and smell and breathe is Dallas.

Still, you have enough sense about you to nod shyly, and register his self-indulgent grin when he braces one arm above your head to descend upon your lips like a starved vulture. He kisses you slow and heavy and dirty, distracting you from the sleep shorts he removes from you and making it one less object between you two. 

You’re so trusting of him, and he’s barely done anything to earn it. The endearment makes that sticky feeling in his chest coil tighter, and when he tries to shake it off it just comes back tenfold. He’s not sure what it is, but your next noises distract him. 

You try and fail to hide a breathy moan when his hand glides up between your legs, but it slips out anyway when your hips jerk up involuntarily. 

There’s something primal and protective and instinctively possessive broiling up in him disgustingly fierce, curling like a snake before it lunges. 

Mine, the voice in the back of his head chants, minemineMINE.

Without detaching his lips, Dallas slots himself between your legs and cages you in against your many plush pillows. 

He’s mindless when your soft lips are timidly moving against his, slowly being led by example. His brain almost frays as he forces himself to pull back and crack his eyes open, dark and gleaming, to take in every inch of bare skin he sees. The dreams don’t do it justice; you’re a gleaming beacon of ingenuity, and he’s going to smother you. 

He runs his hands down the lengths of your thighs, parting them further and trying to riddle how he’s going to go about doing this without scaring you away too soon.

You seem to have a different idea in mind, because you sneak one shaky hand down between them and begin to slip it behind the thin line of your panties to blindly try and alleviate some of the tension there. 

Dallas almost loses it, hisses, and grabs your offending wrist with a grin, “Christ, woman. Do that ‘n I ain’t gonna last three seconds.”

Caught, a mischievous sort of expression mixes in with your hesitance, like you’re finally learning the first few steps of this dance. It’s playfully naive - a stark contrast to all the other women he’s experienced. He kisses you again to centre you both, allowing your other hand the freedom to tangle itself in his hair while the other stays contained in his palm. The little tug you give when you twist your fingers in his locks makes him throb and groan into your mouth. 

He hasn’t even glanced down yet, because he knows when he does, he’s not going to be able to concentrate on anything else. It takes everything he can to ignore the heat emanating from between your thighs, but somehow he manages. Slowly, he pulls up the shirt covering your chest, giving you plenty of time to stop him but finding that you plead no contest.

When he pulls back, he finds that the actual image of you topless is better than any fantasy of you his filthy brain could have cooked up. 

You're eyeing him partly in self-consciousness and partly in wonder when he goes to softly pinch your nipples and openly ogle your breasts. The feeling of it makes you whine. 

“Perfect fuckin’ tits. You’re a dream, baby.”

The compliment is crude and rough, but it makes you preen nonetheless. He lands one more kiss on your lips before moving his mouth down your sternum to latch onto a nipple, unafraid to use some teeth. 

A gasp is his sole reward, shaky and spellbound. Dallas scores it in his memory like a platinum record. 

You’re tightly wound and hypersensitive. He can feel the trembles in your fingers and the tremors in your thighs from where they wrap around him like vines. An exposed livewire is the right way to think about it; it seems he’s closer to having you a nonverbal puddle of nerves than he thought.

Unable and unwilling to deny himself any longer, he trails a hand down your thigh so he can lift it up and out, pressing your knee to the bed to test your flexibility. He’s pleased to find you capable of holding the position - you might curl into a beetle later when he’s spoiled you with orgasms and drowned you in cum, but for now he needs you open. 

Without any preamble, he takes the back of his index finger and strokes your covered slit. 

You jump and let out a startled, stunted sound. For a moment, he thinks he whites out. 

He meant to ask you whether or not you’ve even touched yourself or made yourself cum, but any words he had queued have up and left his brain. You're absolutely drenched, wetness having drenched the insides of your thighs and completely ruined your panties.

Your hips buck up into his hand in return, “A-ah!” 

“Christ,” Dallas curses hotly, detaching himself from your chest to stare down at you in awe, “you’re fuckin’ soaked for me, dollface. You ever been touched like this?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but he wants to hear you respond. You're looking at him like you’ve done something wrong. Dallas gives you another tentative stroke, and this time when you buck, he has to hold you down. 

“Answer me.” 

It takes a second for you to respond, and he has to remove his hand in order for you to think. Between a gulp and a few shocked blinks, you manage to locate a response and shake your head side to side.

“No?” He breathes mockingly, “Never played with this little pussy all by yourself?” 

The air is thick, and you pant heavily as you try to draw proper breaths. You’ve never been this drenched between your legs; you can feel the sheer amount of your slick and the mess it's making of your panties, rendering everything embarrassingly slippery. You know from reading anatomy books that liquid arousal before intercourse is normal, but this seems a little much. 

You falter in your response to his second question, not wanting to reveal the lacklustre experiences you’ve had trying to touch yourself, and Dallas zeroes in on the hesitation right away. 

“Fuck…y’did, didn’tcha.” 

You whine and wiggle, trying to hide your face in his neck and tilt your hips back into his hand at the same time so you can get back to that ridiculously amazing feeling, but he holds you fast. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, angel. Tell me.” 

Realizing that he’s not going to get on with it until you entertain his inquiry, you force yourself to cough up a confession you’ve never told anyone before. 

“W-wasn’t the same…” your voice is shaky and mottled, “didn’feel good-”

He relishes in the way you can barely hold eye contact and subconsciously try to scoop your hips up to meet his fingers again. You’re so close to begging for it; he can almost taste the pleas forming on your lips.

“Ain’t feel good, hm?” Dallas takes the pad of his thumb to your covered slit and resumes that slow stroking, “didn’t feel like this? God, you’re fuckin’ drippin’...”

“Dallas…!”

He revels in the resulting quiet wail you try to stifle. 

The overt sensitivity and general lack of awareness about your own body isn’t really your fault. You didn’t have any mother figures to guide you through the later adolescent years of your life, nor did you have any particularly close female friends that you were comfortable enough with to ask about this kind of stuff, so your own pleasure kind of fell through the cracks. Any time you’ve touched yourself, a weird feeling has accompanied it and it’s never led anywhere remotely successful, so after a while you didn’t really bother anymore.

However, since you haven’t had anything to compare it to up until now, you didn’t have any idea of what you were missing out on. 

You don’t know what he’s doing to you, but you don’t want it to stop. 

“Y’gonna lemme play with it?” He’s already sliding your panties down and tossing them to parts unknown. “Gonna lemme take care of ya? Make y’cum nice ‘n hard?”

You know what that word means - cum. You’ve overheard it in vulgar conversation and are intelligent enough to connect the dots, but you’ve never had an orgasm on your own and you’re not sure how it works. But even if you don’t one-hundred percent understand what he’s insinuating or telling you, the way he says it makes your chest tight. Greedy want has your entire body thrumming and pulsing, and you make a keening sound that comes across as pathetically desperate even to your own ears. 

Despite your tentative nodding, your legs still reflexively draw together once you’re bare to him, making him tut as he separates them again. 

“Nu-uh. Don’t hide from me, baby - open up, there y’go...fuck.” 

His vision blurs when he finally spies your cunt. It’s swollen, flush with blood and covered in your own arousal as it pulses around nothing, matching the way the rest of your body trembles. You gulp and quiver, trying to pluck up whatever bravery you can salvage as he stares down at the most intimate part of you. 

“Prettiest fuckin’ pussy…” Dallas groans as he traps your poor, puffy little clit between the back of his index and middle finger. 

You jolt when he glides the digits up and down, ridiculously sensitive to the foreign feelings coursing through you. 

“Easy…so wet, sweetheart,” he’s still awestruck at the responsive state of you, “ain’t even touched you yet.”

A fevered, quiet cry crawls its way out of your swollen lips. You’re dizzy, overwhelmed and fiending - forming any words is a near-impossible task at the moment, so in lieu of any articulate linguistic pleading you try to meet his touch as best you can and apologize.

“M-m’sorry…” 

His voice has dropped down to a gravelly low, “Ain’t a bad thing, darlin’…means y’like it.” 

The explanation fully sinks in seconds later, letting you finally understand why he’s so enthralled by your reactions. Your body is literally dripping for him; it’s no wonder he looks like he wants to eat you alive. 

Without warning you Dallas takes his thumb and presses down on your clit, circling it bare. It’s the first time anyone has touched you like this, and the effect is immediate.  

You whimper and undulate softly underneath him, eyes sliding shut as your hands slip to his abdomen, “O-oh…”  

“Yeah? Y’like that, dont’cha.”

“Ohmygod-” it’s almost too much; you remember something about there being a lot of nerve endings there, which should make how it feels no shock, but you can’t help it. 

You grasp at his shirt like a lifeline to try and access the warmth underneath, but he doesn’t go to take it off. Skin-to-skin contact be damned; he’s not going to let go of you until you give him at least one orgasm.

He mouths and nips at your jawline, “God ain’t here, honey. S’just me n’you.”  

“Dal-” you’re panting as you correct yourself, astutely overstimulated, and his blood sings in response.  

Even in his wildest daydreams he could not have imagined his live reaction to seeing you like this. He can feel every acute response to what he’s doing to you. The fact that this is enough to send you spiraling like this is beyond anything he could have asked for. His heartbeat echoes in his own ears, frantically pumping blood that has nowhere else to go but down. 

“That’s it…look at’cha. Been touchin’ you for two seconds ‘n look how needy y’are.” 

He actively has to taper off his perverted mouth, and what ends up coming out of it is the more reverent parts of what he’s truly thinking. By and large, the words are tame when compared to the ones he has to consciously filter.

“Please-” your beg is so quiet he can scarcely hear it at first, but when his brain registers it seconds later, he snaps back into focus. 

“What’s that, doll?” 

You press your lips together as if ashamed, but a quick vicious swirl of his thumb parts your lips again and almost subconsciously, another plea slips out of your mouth. 

“Mmnhh-please! P-please, Dally-” your default is polite and demure, even if you don’t even know what you’re begging for. 

You just know you like what he’s doing, and you want more of it. 

“Fuck,” he drops a kiss down on your lips like a reward, “good girl…sound so fuckin’ sweet beggin’ for me.” 

He can both hear and see your bashful reaction to the praise, thanking his lucky stars that it works so easily on you. Every minute that passes by further convinces him that it won’t take much conditioning to get you where he wants you to be; you’re already falling into your role so, so well. 

Dallas hardly waits for another cue or signal before teasing you with a finger, “Christ, angel. Such a tight lil thing.”

You’re looking up at him in awe as he slips it into you, orbs going wider. There is no resistance to you, just soft velvet gripping down on him and pulsing softly. His mind reels and he has to fight to keep himself upright; all he wants to do is collapse into you. He’s so hard he thinks he might actually have zero blood left in his brain.

An obscene noise of moist can be heard when he draws his finger back out, only to stuff it back in and locate the spongy patch he knows will drive you nuts. 

“Hear how bad y’want me?” 

You squeal and try to hide your face in your hands, blushing even brighter at the unholy sounds coming from between your legs and how callously he points them out. No one has ever bothered to explain the intricacies of this anatomy to you - but the noises sound dirty and make your tummy feel funny. 

Dallas laughs and takes your hands away with a deep hum, “Don’t walk it back now, baby - look at me.” 

When your timid gaze meets his, he adds another finger and hisses as your gummy little walls grip him like a vice. You’re going to be the death of him with how tightly you're squeezing - he isn’t even sure how he’s going to convince you to let him stuff his cock into you. 

Untrusting of his own mouth, he assaults the area behind your ear at the little sensitive spot that hides there, tongue darting out before his teeth to scout the area he wants to drain blood from like a leech. It delays your response time, as does every swirl on your swollen clit and plunge of his long fingers into you.

“Fuck, y’taste like candy-” he’s dazed by you, voice gone molten, “how’d’you taste like candy…” 

A full-body shudder accompanies him suckling a sizable hickey into your neck, and it catapults a wanton mewl from you. 

Your willowy tone is coated in disbelief at the satisfaction you feel, “Dally, p-please-”

Whatever spell you have him under keeps working its magic, because if you were anybody else he wouldn’t have bothered to keep taking it this slow. He’s fully dedicated to metamorphosing you into the little savage version of yourself he knows already exists somewhere in that brain of yours.

He rears back to fully appreciate your pleading, “That’s it, gonna take everythin’ I give ya. Doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

His thumb stays on the livewire that is your clit, and he lets you jerk every so often as your body responds to his ministrations, hips jolting and rolling. A plethora of whimpers escape you as your limbs clutch at him and try to force him back down to your lips, but he stays right where he is, too enraptured by the sight of you to move. 

All at once, that scary sensation that so commonly prevented you from continuing these kinds of escapades on your own is rising rapidly in your core.

“Mmnngh-” you try to warn him, “w-wait Dal…f-feels-”

He interrupts you, apparently having spotted the signs before you even began to feel them. Your entire body has started tensing and your hips are moving of their own accord, canting up into his fingers as he keeps feeding them into you with filthy squelches.

“Don’t fight it,” Dallas bites his lower lip hard to avoid the nastiness that nearly spills from his mouth and quickly replaces it with something more palatable, “told ya I was gonna make y’cum nice ‘n hard, didn’t I?” 

Still struck dumb by his dirty talk but infected by the depravity, you nod before you speak with delicately parted lips, “M-mmnhm…”

It’s when he’s on the next downstroke that he crooks his fingers just right, and-

“Oh - f-fuck!” 

You’re closer than he thought you would be. He can feel the steady pulsing building up strength like a flexing muscle, and the rush of pride and arousal is so strong he actually has to briefly close his eyes to concentrate on not blowing his load at the sight and feel of it.

“There y’go,” he exhales once he feels stable enough to look at you again, “relax for me, doll.”

Finally, you settle against him like a retreating tide, giving him a long, drawn-out shudder and a keening noise before your head falls back with a soft thump.

It’s been like climbing a mountain; slowly and steadily you've been ascending with little breaks along the way where the pleasure tapers off, only to pick up again when you open your eyes to look at him. But right now, it feels like your whole being is holding its breath in anticipation for some kind of impact. 

“I can feel you grippin’ on me,” Dallas warns you, “y’feel that? Your pretty lil cunt wants t’get filled up, babygirl.”

Oh, God-

“Dal-!” you all-but wail, eyes tearing up while you fist the fabric you've got in a death grip.

“You want it, don’tcha? Gonna lemme feel how tight this sweet innocent pussy is?” 

Soft, needy cries pour from you in droves. You feel like you’re going to implode, frantically chasing his touch that isn’t going anywhere. His words and their cadence do nothing but spur you on. 

“You gonna let me ruin it?”

Another sharp gasp is his only warning before you shatter with a squeal, and Dallas has to hold your hips down as you break apart under him.

Your universe tilts, widening and then narrowing to a single concrete point as the feverish coil of want he’s been winding up abruptly pops into blinding bursts of pleasure. You clamp down around his hand, walls flexing and spasming as the rest of your body tries to fold itself inwards.

It feels like a rush of pure energy has ignited you, warming every cell in your body and dumping a load of gooey feel-good chemicals into your brain. If it weren’t so dizzying and intoxicating, you might be marveling in awe that such a sensation exists. You can feel yourself pulsating harshly around his long fingers that won’t stop moving, forcing your hips to continue meeting them as you chase after a high you don't want to come down from.

“Fuck - that’s it, there y’go,” Dallas exhales harshly at the sight of you, murmuring praise as he guides you through it.

Half of it is lost on you while you try to adjust to this new feeling, colors bursting from behind closed eyelids like little fireworks that have detonated into a million tiny sparks. A rush of warm, soothing relief settles in your bones as the pleasure ebbs and flows, cresting and then retreating slowly like the tide.

“Good girl. Betcha feel better now,” He’s still moving his fingers, not slowing them even as you start to jerk from overstimulation, “had t’cum so bad you’re leakin’ all over.”

You whimper at that, finally opening your eyes to find him looking down at you like a man starved, salivating at the only source of sustenance he’s seen in weeks. If you had to put a descriptor on it, you’d say he looks unholy. Like you’re some angelic thing he’s making his business to taint and defile. 

The reality is you have no idea how close you are to the truth. His desire to pin you down and force you to cum again and again until you’re weeping and pleading for him to fuck you is nearly violent in its want, and this time he doesn’t want to contain it.

“...you’re gonna gimme another one.” 

It’s a statement, not a question - and one that you take too long to actualize because Dallas isn’t stopping his motions, which means you can’t fully come down from whatever high he’s tossed you into. 

“W-wait-” for the second time today you try to stall him, only to have a shaky moan shoved from your chest and promptly swallowed by him. 

It’s uniquely intense; you’re already woozy from whatever he just did to you, and this time it feels like he’s pressing up on that funny little spot in you harder. 

“S’too m-much, Dal-” you slur against his lips, tears blurring your vision as you warble and sob for him. 

Dallas sounds completely wrecked when he takes your lower lip between his teeth and nips at it, coercing a whimper from you. He pulls back seconds later, and when he does you can’t even see the color of his irises with how blown his pupils have gone. 

“You c’n take it,” he rasps, swallowing roughly as he pulls back to use both hands on you, “I got you, darlin’. Turn that lil brain off.” 

You don’t even have time to respond before he’s pressing down low on your pelvis and making you squeal with how acute the sensation is. The little spot that makes you see stars is being squished between the pads of his long fingers and the palm he’s pushing into your stomach, and it’s far too much. 

“Ah-!”

You want to tell him that you feel like you’re going to pass out - that if he keeps going, you’re going to have some kind of heart attack or worse - but there’s a vicious, raw pleasure that is rising fast and overriding those instinctual alerts. All you can do is stare up at him in shock and let him have his nasty way with you as the pleasure builds far too quickly.  

“You wan’ it, don’tcha? Yeah y’do. I c’n feel it, baby. Cum for me.” 

His words land like a sucker punch to your gut. Suddenly, you understand that if this is how wonderful it can be, it’s no wonder people are so obsessed with sex. 

“Dallas!” 

Nearing hyperventilation, you choke around a shout and tumble over the edge again, eyes rolling back as everything snaps and you shut down. 

This time the feeling is a lot sharper and harder than before, but you still ride your way through the waves by clinging to him and letting your hips cant up naturally into his touch. His murmurs of praise and encouragement as he guides you through it filter through the fog in your head. 

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, - ffffuck yeah. Good fuckin’ girl, sweetheart. Fuck.” 

You’re pulsing and shaking and delirious, totally lost in the euphoria and ignorant to how much self control it’s taking Dallas not to ravage you right now. He’s got no blood left in his brain - this is quite possibly the hottest shit he’s ever seen in his life.

When you come back to yourself, you’re still trembling and whimpering with aftershocks, but you don’t realize that there are tears on your cheeks until your throat closes around a sob. It’s then that you acknowledge the wetness on your face and open your eyes to find your boyfriend staring back down at you like you’ve just handed him the keys to heaven. 

Dallas laughs at your tearstruck, fucked-out expression and coos at you, “Did so good, sweet thing.”

He tuts at your whimper when he takes his hand from you to trail his slick fingers up to your chest, using your own cum as lubricant to coat your nipple and driving you a little crazy from the tingles that it prompts. You’re so sensitive. 

“Look so fuckin’ pretty cryin’ f’me,” he noses along your cheekbone and inhales your mewl, “how’s it feel? Made a mess just from my goddamn fingers.”

It’s almost comical that he expects you to be able to formulate any intelligible sentences or words right now, let alone say ‘thank you’ or ask ‘what the hell was that’. So, out of breath and flushed to high heaven, you skip the rational part and go right to begging for more, unabashed and fully embracing desperation. 

“A-again - please?” 

Dallas laughs, not cruelly but not kindly either.

Like a kid in a candy store.

His eyes briefly scan your obedient, vulnerable face, “Made y’cum for the first time in your goddamn life ‘n you’re already fixin’ for more, huh? Greedy girl.”

You miss his fingers, no matter how much your body is pleading with you to take a break, and the way he’s still teasing you doesn’t help. So you nod like an obedient little drone, hoping that it conveys your desires just as well as a few choice words.

“I’ll give ya more,” he murmurs against your lips, a filthy promise whose tone suggests it’s been written in stone, “y’want me t’fuck you? Pop that lil cherry?”  

You tense, justifiably nervous about the idea - the potential pain that you’ve heard whispered among girls who have more experience than you, the risks of pregnancy, men leaving after they’ve had their fill and inadvertently revealing that they really only wanted one thing from you. 

All of that is outweighed by the sheer desire coursing through your veins right now. You want him so badly you think you might combust if you don’t have him, and not only has he shown you how amazing it can be - he’s claiming it can be better. 

“Say it, darlin’,” Dallas murmurs, very aware of your inner turmoil. 

Uncertainty is where he shines; he’s excellent at getting people to do what he wants and convincing them that it was their idea in the first place, especially if they’re under his spell and lost for him like you are. 

You’re a big girl…you know how to say ‘no’. You just don’t want to. 

He’s close enough that when the words are spoken his lips brush against yours, distracting you from the reasonable part of your mind and urging you to just let go and give in to what you want.

Yes - yesyesyesyes-

“F-fuck me…” the words are timid and whispered, but you cannot hide the pleading lilt to them, “...please, Dal?” 

You’re worrying your lower lip raw, the picture of absolute desire; eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and body still shaking. There is no pain, fever, or burn; only a heightened sensitivity and an infuriating ache that makes you keep gyrating your hips softly as you attempt to alleviate some of the want. 

It takes a moment before Dallas remembers to respond, temporarily blinded by the surge of unbridled lust that your words invoke.

“Please - Christ, sweetest thing I ever known, doll.” 

Everything gets a little blurry after that, because he’s pulling back to strip his shirt off and only bothering to shove down his jeans enough to pull his cock out and-

Oh, shit.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it, and the first thought you have isn’t even the acknowledgment that this is the first actual dick you’ve ever seen in your life; it’s that there’s no way this thing is going to fit inside of you.

It’s a bit of a mixed reaction; on one hand, your mouth waters and you pulse in a foreign sense of want you’ve never felt before. Empty is the right word for it, you think. On the other hand, terror grips you and makes you gulp almost comically, eyes wide at the sight of his size. 

He’s long and thick, heavy enough that even fully hard his tip points down towards your weeping slit like a warning of what’s to come. The leaking head of him is swollen and red, seeping a clear fluid you’re not experienced enough to name yet, and when you bite your lip in concern you actually see the whole thing throb. 

Your eyes go wider, and when you look up at him you find him already assessing you with a knowing, smug smile. 

“S’not gonna f-fit, Dal-” you whisper, gaze unsteady. 

“Gonna make it fit, pretty girl,” Dallas shifts you closer by the hips and grunts when the flared head of his dick connects with your clit, “fuck…see what y’do t’me? Got me all fucked up - gonna stretch this lil pussy out.”

You trill sharply when he uses his tip to draw circles on the bundle of nerve endings, little sparks shooting down your spine and brain going blank as you accept that this is about to happen. Your cunt still feels tender and sensitive, but when he notches himself at your entrance you’re struck with a headier sense of want. 

He hisses, finally able to feel the sopping heat of you exactly how he’s been wanting to. If he were an even worse man than he already is, he’d be flipping you over and bullying himself in far too quickly for your comfort. 

Gentle and slow isn’t typical for him, but for you he tries, even if what comes out is a mutated version of soft dominance that feels innately appropriate when paired with your soft whimpers.

“M’gonna fuckin’ break you, tiny girl.” Dallas confesses in a wayward moment of honesty before slipping his swollen tip inside of you. 

It accepts him with a quiet, slick noise that ricochets like a gunshot in your room, rendering you unable to react to his previous statement. 

“Oh-! Dallas-” 

He grits his teeth around a molten groan as he feels the first inch of your soaked, gummy walls, already gripping him far too tightly. It’s better than air, and he can’t help but slide himself in as far as you’ll let him, pulsing with every heartbeat.

Blunt pressure overrides the foreign sensation of being filled, slowly but surely, with something you’ve never felt before. He’s so, so warm inside of you, and you want him deeper - don’t want any part of you remaining empty without the feel of his dick entirely lodged in place - but he’s soon hitting resistance and you start to feel the sting of the stretch. 

Dallas pauses his hips and growls in the back of his throat, low and completely wrecked. 

“Gotta relax, lil one-” he drops down low over you, careful not to disrupt the angle, and swallows your next airy moan when it comes, “...squeezin’ me like a goddamn vice.” 

“S-s’too big, Dal-” 

“God-” he chokes at your whine, the visceral boost of ego and eroticism proving nearly too much, “I know, baby…y’weren’t made for cock like this, were ya.” 

He gently pulls your lower lip down with a thumb, seemingly trying to decide something before sliding it into your mouth and ignoring your little whimper of surprise. 

“Suck,” he prompts, and you listen. 

It’s demeaning and incredibly degrading; you’re literally suckling on his thumb like a vapid whore while he splits you in two, leaking all over the sheets as your body betrays just how much you like this and just how much it disagrees with your fears. 

He nearly cums from your responding sound alone, entirely lewd and dripping with need. 

“That’s it, good girl-” 

You mewl around his finger as he slides in another inch, eyeing him like a perfect little bimbo who knows nothing else but to worship her man.

Dallas fights off pinhole vision, “Y’like that? Like hearin’ me tell y’how good you look takin’ my cock? Fuck…” 

Your mouth falls open as he pulsates inside of you, the sudden sensation both too much and perfect at the same time. 

“Course y’do…knew you’d be dirty. Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight-”

His thumb stays on your tongue, holding your mouth open as he watches you take every agonizing inch of him your body will allow. You’re so wet that all he has to do is take it easy and wait for you to keep opening up for him, even if he jumps the gun a bit between each ribbed ring of muscle. Relentless, he keeps feeding it to you, eyes flitting between your face and swollen little pussy struggling to accept his agonizing length as he bullies it into you. 

Tears well up and spill over, your glassy eyes tugging at everything but his heartstrings.

Dallas feels his lungs constrict, “That’s it - cry for me, sweetheart.”

He takes his thumb out of your mouth so he can drag a knuckle across your cheek, brushing away a wayward tear and tasting it around a lecherous echo. You don’t know why, but you feel the way the action makes you clench around him. 

Dallas frowns around another groan, “Christ, doll. Keep takin’ me nice ‘n deep, just like that.”

The oxygen keeps expelling from your lungs as he keeps pressing into you, deeper and deeper, until you swear no more can fit inside of you. You’re already so full, stuffed to the point of bursting, and you didn’t know your body could take this much even though you know childbirth is a thing and the marvels of anatomy are very real. 

It’s a dull sting that grows with every other inch until he has to stop, forced up against the back wall of your cunt that you know to be your cervix. 

Finally, you’re completely full of him, stretched out and squirming and whimpering at the feel of it while he growls from above. 

“Fuck, there y’go,” Dallas is murmuring down at you in awe, “can’t even take all of it…you’re so fuckin’ small.” 

He’s running a hand across your waist and pausing at your stomach. Initially you’re a little confused, caught between tears and trying to slow your breathing down, but when you feel a concentrated pressure, you lift your head to check what he’s marvelling at. 

The pad of his thumb is rubbing up against an obvious bump just under your belly button, one that you immediately worry about until you feel him throb and see it move. 

It’s him - you can actually see him rearranging your organs from the inside out. 

Your eyes widen in shock, stupefied by the concept of something being able to reach deep enough and being big enough that such blatant evidence of its presence can exist. 

“Dallas…” a whimper is all you can manage, warbling around another sob when he pulses. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rumbles at you between ragged breaths and black spots dancing in his vision, “y’see that? S’how deep I am, pretty girl. Told ya I was gonna ruin you.” 

You wail, and he chooses that exact moment to start moving. 

Initially when he starts to pull away you think you’ve done something wrong, but instead of drawing out all the way, he only pulls out a few inches before doubling back and letting the tip of his cock kiss your cervix again with an obscene squelch. 

The friction isn’t quite as nice as what you felt earlier, but you figure that this is all a little new and maybe you’re not doing something right; maybe when it’s all said and done you can ask him how to-

Oh. 

Oh, fuck-

It’s on the sixth or so roll of his hips that pleasure blooms low in you, and suddenly everything clicks. 

Dallas sees the exact moment you start to feel it - really feel it - and grins as he watches you cry out. You’re caught hook, line and sinker, absolutely pliant in his hands. 

“There it is,” he presses a little harder against the spot where his tip is protruding from your skin, “feels good, don’t it? Told ya y’just needed t’get filled up.”

How he’s treating and talking to you is…entirely staggering. On top of that, despite the slow speed, he’s just huge and pressing up against every single spot inside of you. You’re already dangerously close to passing out, and every movement of his hips draws more breath out of you. 

“Hnn-” the fingers gripping his chest dig in, little fingernails nearly drawing blood, “a-ah! Dallas-”

You have to swallow the ridiculous amount of saliva that’s built up in your mouth before you start drooling and really giving him something to tease you over. 

He kisses you only briefly in an attempt to refocus you, “Gotta breathe for me, sunshine.” 

You try - you really do. But it’s hard when every drag of him against your walls feels like flint on steel and ignites you to kingdom come. 

The cool metal of his St. Christopher slides against your collarbone while you whine, a stark reminder that there exists a world of stimuli outside this bubble of ecstasy. 

You’d almost forgotten. 

Once he settles into an easy rhythm, able to see what you can tolerate, it’s pretty much game over for both of you. There’s no way you’ll be able to go back to a life before this kind of unimaginable euphoria, and there’s no way Dallas is going to unlatch his claws from you. It’ll be a cold day in hell before anyone pries his decayed, dead fingers off of your soul. 

He’s gone, absolute filth pouring from his mouth while he ravages you. There isn’t a single thing on Earth that could get him to shut up at this moment. 

“You’re mine, doll. Fuckin’ ruined you.” 

“God, keep takin’ it, just like that.” 

“That’s it - y’like it deep like that, don’tcha?”

“Perfect fuckin’ girl, all tight ‘n needy. All mine.” 

Every single word is laced with awe, sheer reverence at the fact that he has been the first - the only - to create and witness this. He watches you like he’s found religion, blind faith enrapturing him.

One particular thrust has you squealing and curling your toes, wide-eyed as you clamp down on him. Every pornographic sound that comes from your coupling bounces off your walls and settles into your brainwaves, frequency tuned and locked onto him. 

“S-so deep…” you trail off, absolutely unused to using the dirty words he’s so comfortable with. 

Dallas goads you into it with a sharp laugh, pointed and cruel, “Deep in your what, baby? Say it.” 

You want to, but your brain has encountered a mental blockade. The whimper you let out instead isn’t satisfactory enough, and he slows the roll of his hips. 

“Ain’t wanna say it, huh? Gonna make me train you like a dumb lil puppy?” 

You whine at the insult and feel yourself contract, astounded that you enjoy this. How is it possible to like being talked down to this much? To be told with absolute certainty that you’re no better than a silly animal with base impulses should make you want to smack him instead of begging him for more.

“Y’like that too,” Dallas snickers at you, “fuckin’ figures, filthy girl.”

He goes back to circling your clit slowly, breathing in the greedy noise you make and cutting off his own grunt when you tighten around him. 

“Gonna be good for me ‘n say it?” 

It doesn’t take very long to break you down. 

“S’so deep’n’my pussy…” you slur it out, flushed and desperate for him to just get on with it so you can feel that blinding crack of pleasure again. 

Everything is tensing and clenching far too fast-

“That’s it,” he starts up again with a teasing chuckle and a throb at your gasp, “ain’t so hard, was it? Like a bitch in heat…” 

The nasty insult hits you far harder than it should, knocking away your appropriately appalled noise. 

Something snaps and before you can help it, you’re cumming with an astounded gasp, pulsing around him and frantically crying for him. 

“Oh, fuck-” he almost chokes as he watches you fall apart, stalling his hips to let you ride it out and delirious with how you feel losing it on his cock. 

He barely manages to stave off an impending orgasm. Honestly, it’s a miracle that he hasn’t lost it yet; he couldn’t have asked for anything better - you’re the perfect little template to mold into his exact wants, and you’re lapping it up like a true vixen.

“That’s what’m talkin’ about - there y’go. Goddamn-” 

You’re so tight and soaked and syrupy, suctioning around him as you whine through the waves of heat. 

Dallas can taste the purity he takes from you with every passing second, devouring the essence of your virtue like a starving vulture. 

When you come back alive with a wet inhale, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look up at him with half-lidded glassy eyes, the last thing he expects is for you to beg for more. He’s already driven you past the point of mindlessness, making you forget anything and everything except for him and the way he keeps filling you up. 

To his surprise, you rally yourself rather quickly, albeit with a little difficulty. 

“Dal-” you warble, sniffling and clutching his trapezius muscles, “pl-please don’stop-” 

A disbelieving beat of laughter leaves his mouth, “Split you open ‘n you’re still beggin’ for more…Christ.”

He can feel how close he is, the coil of simmering tension pulled taut and prime to snap. It’s unhelped by you and your constant noises of sin, deflowered and debauched, spurring him further along with the knowledge that he’s successfully defiled you in such an intimate way. 

You’re so wet that you can feel the dampness of the sheets underneath you and register how sticky the backs of your thighs have become. Slippery, indecent sounds accompany every thrust, and even if his hips can’t fully meet yours, the weight of his thrusts has your headboard hitting the wall with a dull thud. 

“F-feelsogood-” you sob, somehow constricting around him further. 

Dallas groans like he’s been shot and lowers himself further over you, accepting his fate. 

“I seen those pills y’take every mornin’, angel,” he pants into your ear like a devil on your shoulder, “gonna lemme cum in this sweet pussy? Make y’feel all nice ‘n warm?”

Two things wash over you in that instant: blinding, lustful acceptance that your boyfriend is about to be the first person to ever cum inside of you if you let him, and surprise that he’s been keeping track of your behaviors much more closely than you imagined. 

Dallas is definitely not as stupid as most folks believe him to be. It’s a little disconcerting, but your hindbrain lets go of the worry because he won’t stop annihilating your little cunt with vicious, brutal thrusts that echo in their wetness and send your thoughts scrambling. 

“Nnnghh-” you try to vocalize your hesitation between squeals and cries. 

“What, y’don’t want it?” He pulls back and holds you by the jaw, the pads of his fingers sinking into your cheek, “I can stop anytime, darlin’.” 

Your panic is immediate when you keen up at him, “N-no! Don’t s-stop-” 

He can’t help his resulting snicker even if he’s right on the cusp of an orgasm, fighting to hold off. You shudder when his thumb drops back down to your clit, curious to see if he can squeeze any more out of you today.

“What’s th’magic word then, lil one?” 

An angelic gasp leaves your swollen lips at his touch, mouth rounded in a perfect ‘O’ shape, “Please…” 

“Please what?” Dallas teases even as he feels the tug of euphoria start to bubble over. 

This time your words are spoken with significantly less hesitation, inhibitions having been replaced with hedonistic desires. You’re quaking harshly, so tense with pleasure that you’re certain you’ll be sore in more than one place come morning. 

“P-please cum in m-my pussy-” 

It’s enough to make him implode, and he feels the chain reaction ignite before he can help it.

“Fuck…y’want my cum, baby? Want me t’fill you up? Take it-”

Something in his brain shuts down as he gives himself over to whatever animalistic code in him dictates release, grip tightening on you to keep you in place as his thrusts turn more vicious. He doesn’t slow or falter even when you pulse around him, blindly fisting the sheets with trembling fingers. 

“Dallas-” 

He reads the urgency in your voice, sees the physical warnings and ignores them, not having expected your body to be able to create such a response given how rare it is. 

But when you lock up around him, tense and tight, he feels the intensity of you gripping on him much more vigorously than usual. 

“DALLAS-!” 

You shriek and squeal with each one of his motions, slick squirting from you in bursts as he keeps hitting the gummy ring of muscle that indicates he’s gone deep enough. Whatever type of reaction you’re experiencing feels much too pressurized and sharp compared to the previous three cliffs you’ve been shoved over, but it stays within the realm of harsh pleasure. You’re so doped up on him right now that the reasonable part of your brain screaming ‘what the fuck is happening’ becomes muted, though you still have enough wit about you to hope that this isn’t anything totally abnormal.

Something in his chest gives harshly at the sight of you gushing around his cock, and vocalizing anything else beyond a cursed shout becomes impossible given what he’s just coaxed out of you.

“Oh, fuck-” 

Dallas spills into you with a final thrust, pulsing harshly and filling you with rope after rope of cum. It’s too much and too deep, immediately flooding you and leaking out of your swollen little cunt in warm rivulets as you continue to contract around him, but you don’t have any mind to complain. 

You’ve never felt so wholly filled and plugged up, woozy with satisfaction and a deep, dirty sense of gratification at every throb of him against your cervix. There isn’t even any room to feel fear or confusion over whatever completely alien bodily reaction you’ve just had. 

For all intents and purposes, you may as well be floating right now, weak and lethargic with dopamine, ever so content to stay in this bed. Briefly, you find yourself wondering if it would be too much to ask him to do this again before you both go to sleep.

It isn’t until the fuzziness has cleared from your senses that you’re able to open your eyes without your vision swimming or the room spinning, and it’s then that you feel the bite of his teeth. He’s clamped down at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder - a direct, possessive action that urges you to stay put and accept that you’ve been claimed.

Your walls give one last clench at the emotion that such a gesture prompts, and it makes Dallas unlatch his canines from your skin with a low, appreciative hum. 

He’s a picture of pure carnality when he raises himself back above you, and you’re entirely entranced by him. Even in this moment of aftershock you wait for his direction, wide eyes trailing over his features like your life depends on it. He’s watching you closely, scanning for any alarm or signs of regret before accepting that your mesmerization is all-positive. 

“Did s’good, sweet thing,” he rumbles, dropping a long kiss on your lips that settles in your bones like sizzling hot asphalt. 

Given his track record, gloating or smugness would be typical here. Instead, he substitutes them both for reassurance because he knows that in order to truly lock you down and successfully keep you pliant and willing, you need tending to. 

Dallas pulls away to assess the fallout and reap the spoils of what he’s done, but when you stare up at him, intensely curious and submissive and teeming with sincerity, he realizes far too late that he’s played himself. In his blind, all-consuming efforts to transform you into a subservient little pocket pussy, he hadn’t counted on the possessive response that his system involuntarily provoked. 

Whether it be chemical or hormonal, every cell in his body screams for him to take care of you, watch over you, keep you close and satisfied and full in more ways than one. He didn’t count on such a severe dose of obsession to surge through him so dramatically. It drops into his bloodstream and spreads like a virus, pheromones bleeding from every pore.

So when you ask him for it ‘again’, all shy and sugary and not even able to push yourself to say the words even if you were just begging for him to cum inside of you not one minute ago, he can’t even bring himself to feel bad about metamorphosing you, because he’s been equally affected by his own wicked games. 

“Yeah pretty girl,” Dallas laughs in near incredulity at what he’s experiencing, licking another kiss into your mouth, “we c’n go again.”

A/N: please let me know if the tag list is working properly!

Well, I loved the idea of ​​keeping their bratty side in play for this scenario. I hope I met your expectations, honey

Be free to suggest anything my lovers!

Hope y'all enjoy!

𝑩𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

CW: Leering and intense non-consensual fixation, implied animal cruelty, implied childhood physical abuse (Henry scars), period-typical vulgar and derogatory language (including 1980s slurs) and toxic group dynamics.

"Come on, you fags." he raised an arm to get everyone's attention.

"We're going to the quarry. It’s hot as hell out here, and you guys want to roast your asses inside Belch's car." Henry scoffed, furrowing his brow as a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek a dead giveaway that the heat was already taking a toll on all of us.

Victor started complaining that being at the quarry was just as hot as hell as staying inside the fat boy's car.

"You're a fat ass, Victor." Patrick laughed for the first time in the conversation, though he couldn't care less about being in the car or at the quarry it was all the exact same shit to him.

"Oh shut up you fuck-face" He shot back.

"That place is full of garbage." he muttered one last time, leaning back against your side. To you, this was just a bunch of childish bickering, but what were you gonna do? Unfortunately, you had to call these guys your "friends."

Henry flashed a quick glance at your legs before looking up at your face, shamelessly admiring your cheeks, which were flushed from the heat inside Belch’s car.

"What about you? You’re so quiet it’s making me jumpy." Henry muttered through his teeth as the others shifted their attention to you. Henry bit the inside of his cheek, staring at how close Victor was staying to your side.

“I don’t give a crap.” you said, completely brushing it off as you rolled down the window to get a breath of fresh air—inside the car, it felt like walking on literal lava. Henry rolled his eyes and whipped back around toward Belch.

“Get your ass moving to the quarry. Asking these brats anything is like talking to a damn brick wall.” Belch chuckled, shaking his head, while Patrick stayed dead silent the whole ride… except for when he spotted a fly inside the car.

It took a couple of minutes before we finally hit the quarry grounds and made it up to the ledge. Everyone piled out of the car. Victor barely even wanted to budge, but Henry and Belch kicked his ass right out of there.

Since he was being a lazy chump, Henry and Belch exchanged a look before rushing him, stripping him of his clothes until he was down to his underwear.

They grabbed him by his arms and legs and bolted toward the ledge of the quarry.

"No! NO, NO!" Victor thrashed around, but the two of them wouldn't let go for dear life. They started swinging him back and forth before tossing him over, busting a gut laughing. Patrick and you watched the whole scene from the back with zero intention of stepping in.

Patrick smirked wickedly when they let go of Vic, sending him plummeting into the empty air toward the water. You couldn't help but laugh uncomfortably at the sound of that maniac's chuckle.

Belch dove in right after Vic in a cannonball that nearly blasted all the water out of the quarry. Henry started stripping down to his underwear, and you couldn't help but notice the scars patterned across his back. You quickly snapped your gaze over to Patrick, who, by contrast, was skinny to the point of being scrawny.

To be honest, it was a bit hilarious lookin' that difference.

You ended up diving in right after Henry, stripping off your clothes and tossing them by Belch’s car. Patrick seemed lost in some kind of trance, staring at an ant colony near the ledge while flicking his metal lighter dangerously close to them. You didn't want to stick around to see how that turned out.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

"Christ." Victor muttered, wiping the water dripping from his hair and face with his forearm. From where he was standing, Belch tossed a towel straight at his face, expecting nothing in return.

Everyone was soaked to the bone. You had to admit it was pretty funny, but at the same time, seeing Patrick actually jump into the water was weird as hell. You'd never pictured him doing something like that, and honestly, even trying to imagine it was a stretch.

"Hand me a beer from the cooler." Henry said, drying off his mullet, which was now all matted down from the water. His skin gleamed like a pearl, and you could see the tension in his muscles as he caught the beer Belch tossed his way.

You stayed in the water, admiring and feeling grateful for the temporary peace this place could offer you. No shouting, no bickering, no nothing.

After a little while, you found yourself craving one of the juices you'd brought along, the ones you had nicely asked Belch to keep in the cooler. You climbed out of the water, waving your hand at Belch to signal him to toss you a towel.

Belch looked at you and tossed a towel, but not before tilting his head away in embarrassment. The truth was, it was the first time you’d been around them in so little clothing.

Henry shamelessly stared at your cleavage and the way the water droplets rolled down it. Flushed, he tried to play it cool by pretending to look out at the horizon, restlessly bouncing his leg in an effort to calm his raging thoughs.

Vic’s pale skin had turned a subtle shade of pink that you didn't even notice. In fact, you hadn't caught a single one of those "little" glances, even though these guys didn't know the first thing about being subtle. You walked over to them, completely clueless about how you were driving every single one of their thoughts wild.

Patrick stared dead at the water droplets tracking down your skin without a shred of decency. He followed you with his eyes until you were standing right in front of him, completely oblivious to how he was examining every single detail of your body with genuine fixation, a pretty bizarre one, to be completely honest.

You crashed down onto one of the towels to catch some sun and dry off since, with this whole plan being so sudden, you hadn't even had time to put on or bring a change of clothes.

Every single one of them was admiring every detail of your body, in a cowardly and pretty embarrassing way. Victor finally decided to grab the juice that belonged to you and hand it over. "It's… pretty cold... hehe" he said, not really thinking about what was coming out of his mouth on the inside, he was dying of secondhand embarrassment at his own words.

"Thanks...?" you smiled, not reading too much into how he was acting, even though it was pretty weird for all of them.

Henry swallowed hard, watching how completely calm you were, totally unaware of how you shook up the whole atmosphere just by being there. It made him feel incredibly weird.

You noticed the atmosphere getting weirder by the second, and you looked at all of them, frowning in total confusion.

"What the hell is wrong with you guys?" you muttered, somewhere between a laugh and sheer bewilderment at the way they were acting. "You look like a bunch of little piss-pants staring at a girl walking by." You finally smirked, realizing how a couple of missing layers of clothing had completely struck them dumb.

Henry finally snapped out of his trance, his brow furrowing at the mere mention of those pussies who made his life a living hell, according to him, obviously. Those poor devils didn't hurt a soul. Nobody asked for having a "please punch me" face to be a crime in front of this ape.