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Rules/Guidelines AO3

Masterlist *Requests are open!

Smut 🌶️ Fluff ☁️ Angst 🥀

Can you make a smut of Dallas and reader having sex and she squirts for the first time (like towards the end of the fic) ?? Also reader is kinda shy (in general) I’m bad at explaining but basically I wanted to know if u can write a smut of Dallas and reader fucking and towards she squirts for the first time 😭

PLUSH

⚠️ SMUT ALERT ⚠️

Pairing: Dal x shy!femreader

Word Count: 3905

CW/TW: unprotected pnv, dom/sub, squirting, degradation, established relationship (kind of), size kink/difference, overstimulation, dacryphilia, innocence kink, dirty talk, praise kink

A/N: thank you for the request! I have 3 more lined up, working on them rn and will get them out in the order they were received 🥹I appreciate all the prompts!

Also I keep forgetting to put in unprotected pnv in my CW/TW so I’ll start doing that - wrap it before you tap it! 💜

Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

You are far, far out of your comfort zone.

You’re not even sure how it got to this point, really - folded up and helpless in Dallas Winston’s room while he loses himself in your pussy, completely detached from reality and letting out sounds that would make a hooker blush.

What should be happening right now is a conversation about boundaries and how your new entanglement with each other is going to work, especially given his promiscuous and unstable nature with women.

What shouldn’t be happening is everything he’s done to you since the minute you got here, which has currently landed you in a state of overstimulated suspension while you cry tears of ecstasy.

You two are polar opposites; you are the textbook definition of shy - a demure, sweet girl from a quiet, hardworking family who should know much better than to waste time with the likes of criminals and hoodlums. You graduated with honours and you cringe at the taste of beer, for Christ’s sake - you shouldn’t even be in a ten-mile radius of Buck’s place, let alone in bed with the town delinquent.

But by some miracle, he got you. Somehow, Tulsa’s most attractive jailbird and resident basketcase managed to ensnare you and currently has you squirming in his bed, a stream of obscenities continuously falling from your swollen lips while he absolutely ruins you.

“Ah-! S-s’too deep, Dally-!”

It doesn’t matter how smart or responsible you are in real life when you’re underneath him like this. In his bed, you’re a mindless harlot only capable of primitive thought and shameless desperation, soothed exclusively by his ministrations.

He’s currently got you pinned down towards the end of the mattress, standing over you with one of your legs tossed over his shoulder and the other held down by the back of your knee against the sheets. The position is exposing and overly intense for someone as inexperienced as you - he’s too big and it’s entirely too much.

You’re too small and weak with bliss to push against him, cunt leaking and squeezing him viciously as the thick head of him continues to abuse your cervix.

Dallas knows better than to heed your cries for mercy. Even if you’re new to all of this, it doesn’t make you any less susceptible to the effects; every single time he bottoms out, your gummy little walls contract around him like they’re just begging him to pump you full of his cum.

“You can take it,” he teases with a smack to your hip, words thick with condescension and lust, “s’right where it’s s’posed to be, baby.”

You can’t think when he talks to you like that.

A lot of him is intimidating, and for good reason; he’s so much more experienced than you in so many ways that it’s only natural to defer to his judgment. He’s everything you aren’t, in both positive and negative qualities. Irresponsible, brazen, hardheaded, irascible, stubborn, antisocial and cruel are all words that come to mind when you think of Dallas. But he’s also steadfast, intelligent, cunning, witty and brave in his own ways - things you have yet to grow into and wonder if you ever will.

He also hasn’t been wrong about what you will or won’t like.

You know it’s not ‘right’ for a guy to speak down to you, and your mama has always said to run away from anyone who treats you lesser than, but when Dallas talks to you in that patronizing tone, your brain goes blank and you listen.

You were a virgin when this all started not two weeks ago, blushing and squeaking at the mention of sex - and now here you are trembling and begging for him to never stop. It’s backwards and naive that instead of smacking him for treating you like a dumb little slut between the sheets, you cry and whine for more.

Case in point, you squeal when he tugs you back into place and tuts at you for wiggling. The begging comes only a few seconds later, after he lowers himself further over you and harshens the angle so each one of his thrusts land deeper. It forces you to stretch and cant your hips up more, burgeoning you with mind-numbing oversensitivity and immediately pulling you right to the threshold where pain and pleasure meet.

You writhe in his hold and let out a keening whine, a series of sobs following and intermingling with your cries for more just seconds after.

“O-oh! P-please don’t stop!”

“Which one is it, sweetheart?” Dallas snickers and gives you the illusion of choice, “make up your mind, I ain’t got all day.”

You don’t need to choose.

“Mmmhh - I want it, wantitplease don’t s-stop!”

He smiles like he’s in on some joke you don’t understand and pulls you into a kiss, swallowing your following cries as the motion folds you further.

He’s just…big. There’s no getting around that. When he popped your cherry it took him a ludicrous amount of petting and patience to get you close to being able to take his cock, and even after an hour of teasing it was another fifteen minutes until you were fully speared on him. After two weeks, you’ve finally come to accept that there isn’t any easy way around his size.

And of course, in typical Dallas fashion, he uses it to his advantage.

His arrogance would be annoying if it wasn’t so enjoyable, and right now is a good example; he keeps rubbing up on that one spot inside you that feels much too sharp, though its sensitivity is muted among the backdrop of overwhelming pleasure. He also hasn’t let up for the better part of twenty minutes, annihilating any rational train of thought and virtually promising you won’t be able to walk properly once he’s through with you.

“Hnngh-” a particularly toe-curling thrust has you hiccuping into another sob, “g-gonna break m-me…”

You can physically feel him throb at the sight of your tears, “M’gonna break you? Yeah? Think I already did that, doll. Split you open and you’re still beggin’ for more.”

His throaty words go straight to your cunt, and it clamps down harder around him. The stretch of him is still present despite the copious amounts of slick you’re leaking and continue to produce, making everything sweeter.

Maybe you’re some kind of masochist, you think hazily, given the way that you seem to enjoy a little agony with your pleasure.

You just can’t shut up. A continuous stream of needy cries and sobs pour from you, mixing together with noises that sound like you’re nearly in pain. Your teary eyes are focused on him in intense disbelief, all wide-eyed and innocent and overwhelmed.

It drives Dallas insane. Something about the way you lose yourself in him, handing over your brain and body in its entirety, is unequivocally endearing to his cold, dead heart. Every single noise, expression and reaction to him is nothing short of addictive, like you’re a test that’s been sent from above to gauge whether or not he’s capable of holding such perfection in his arms without ruining it. You’re an absolutely marvellous thing to take apart and destroy, and he didn’t even have to do that much convincing or seducing to get you to this point.

He’s already made the unanimous decision that he’s going to keep you, because between all of the teasing and desperation and libido, he finds that you’re the one person who quiets his nervous system.

Right now, though, you’re pushing the button in his mind that screams for him to lose himself in you until you’re nonverbal and stuffed full. He has this vision of you that somehow ends up coming true every time he’s had his filthy way with you - cheeks red, lips swollen, eyes glassy, naked as the day you were born and dripping his cum, like some beautiful little angel he’s desecrated into a tragic, hedonistic version of itself.

Dallas mouths along your clavicle, “Look so fuckin’ perfect like this, baby. Y’like when I fuck you all dumb ‘n helpless, huh?”

You’re long past the point of blushing and stammering at his dirty talk, but you still feel the heat rush to your face because you’re just not used to someone speaking to you like this.

The sob you let out in response is nothing short of ravaged, “Please!”

Your begging sends heat slicing through his system, viciously coiling at his core and making him groan roughly.

“Needy girl,” he laughs into your throat before biting down on it and soothing it with his tongue seconds later, “sound so goddamn good. Ain’t a single thought in your head but my cock, s’that right?”

Forming words is a tall ask right now, but you think you manage to come up with something that vaguely sounds like an ‘uh-huh’.

Whatever boiling point you reached long ago has rendered you nothing more than a weeping, limp version of yourself, so you don’t fight him when he readjusts his angle. It makes it worse; the spot that feels far too sensitive is now getting a significant amount of attention, and the trajectory and size of him guarantees you’re going to lose it in the next twenty seconds or less.

All you can hear amidst your greedy cries and his gravelly low murmurs is the obscenely slick sound of your pussy trying its best to take him whole, even if you both know full well he can’t fit all the way inside you.

Thick, heady want settles into you and curls in your gut. You’re right on the cusp of it, teeming with that restless almost-there energy that hits right before the drop, and he fucking slows down with a wicked grin.

Desperate and betrayed you keen up at him, recognizing the familiar look of smug satisfaction every time he pulls an orgasm from you.

“Pleasepleaseplease Dal,” you spare no time before beginning to beg, “wanna cum…m’so close, please-!”

“So greedy,” Dallas hums, groaning low in his chest, “what if I just keep ya like this? Love seein’ you get all desperate for me.”

You wail at the threat, voice cracking on a sob as you cry for release, “N-no!”

“Can’t even do nothin,” he teases cruelly, “just gotta keep takin’ it, sweet thing. Such a good fuckin’ girl-”

Heat consumes you, making you dizzy and slurring the rest of your words.

“Need t-ah! N-need t’cum, please make me cum-"

Something cracks in him at your begging, because behind a veil of tears you see his jaw clench and his eyes shut for a good second or two. When he opens them again to peer down at you, there‘s fresh resolve in them.

You to feel him throb harshly, “Fuckin’ Christ-”

With a famished gaze he resumes his normal pace, just as gone as you are.

“Drivin’ me crazy, doll. You wanna cum? Go on, cum your pretty lil brains out.”

In half an hour, when this is all over and you’re dozing off in his chest, you’ll recognize this degradation as the moment of impact. Right now, though, you feel like someone has just punched you in the hindbrain and turned you into a vegetable.

“Dal-!” You can do nothing but stare up at him as you go completely soft and limp and pliable, “m’cumming-”

Unfiltered energy burns through your system all the way from your gut to each extremity, loading you up like a little electric charge and arc flashing at your core.

It ignites at the tensest possible point, wracking your frame and making your cunt spasm. It feels like you’ve been edged for days, and now he’s just spent the better part of a half hour rubbing against the spot inside you that feels like your clit on the inside of your pussy.

“That’s it,” he chokes at the feel of it, “there y’go. Atta girl. Goddamn-"

Every single muscle in your body seizes and pulses at once, rhythmically contracting around him in a subconscious biological effort to suck him dry. It renders you mute with its power, body unable to curl in on itself with the way he has you flayed open underneath him. The reminder of your helplessness just makes you flare hotter.

Relentless wails echo in your ears for several moments too long before you realize they’re yours and viciously try to taper them off, only for Dallas to scold you and tilt his hips to refresh the angle.

“Keep that fuckin’ mouth open,” he scolds, removing your leg from his shoulder so it can join the other’s identical position, “wanna hear it when I fuck you dumb.”

His efforts loosen your lips up entirely, and with a start you realize he’s not slowing down. Usually he’ll relent, cum with you, or give you a minute to recover - but he hasn’t stopped moving and the pace is just as brutal if not worse than before.

The orgasm is harsh enough that it’s still making you tense and twitchy, so you whine up at him in a wordless plea for leniency.

“I know baby,” he coos in that malicious sweet tone as he briefly steals your lips, “I know. Fuck, y’get so tight when you cum…gonna gimme another one.”

Even though they daunt you, the words send a shiver down your spine. The flames of your previous peak are still lapping at you, and you are too unfamiliar with sex to recognize this state for what it is: the definitive crossroads between whether or not you’re going to cum multiple times and be absolutely unable to stand afterwards.

All you know is that it feels like he’s keeping you on the fringe of losing it again, unable to properly come down, and that sweet feeling of release is turning into something much more cutting.

You shake your head, “C-can’t-“

“Yeah y’can,” Dallas pants, immediately interrupting as he laps at your jaw, “got plenty more left in ya. Doin’ so good f’me.”

As per usual, he’s right. You can feel the tendrils of another orgasm creeping up on you, even if the general sense is that it’ll be a slightly uncomfortable one with how overstimulated you are. Still, it’s only natural for you to complain when you try new and imposing things.

“T-too much,” you wail, sniffling and pouting up at him for mercy, “s’too big, Dal…”

He groans at that, sucking a dark mark into your throat before trailing back up to your lips.

“Too big? You’re takin’ all of it, doll,” he sighs into your mouth, “m’gonna keep y’stretched out on me like this forever, s’too goddamn good.”

The idea of him continuing to fuck you like this for the foreseeable future leaves you starved for more, and you acknowledge far too late that if he meant to seduce you into becoming an addicted little cum junkie, he’s already succeeded.

The need he induces is blinding. It takes over every sense you have and leaves you only with hunger. It’s what makes your throat close around another sob, swallowed up whole by the man above you.

“Keep cryin’ for me darlin’,” Dallas murmurs, nosing your temple and speaking low into your ear, “all those tears ‘n your lil pussy can’t stop squeezin’ me.”

You twitch in his arms with an angelic little cry, and he spares no time laughing under his breath at you for it. He loves this.

His next question is spoken clearly, but you almost miss it with how out of sorts you’ve gotten and how distracted you are by the filthy noises your pussy is making.

“You trust me?”

“Mmmmngh-” you’re whining, initially unable to respond until he urges it from you.

“Hey-” he rises above you and takes one hand to your face, holding it steady, “answer me.”

Even in the throes of hyperstimulation, your sweet, cockdrunk little brain doesn’t know any better than blind faith. You gaze up at him, transfixed.

A sluggish nod accompanies your shaky affirmation, “Mm-mnhm…”

“Mm,” satisfied, his hand drops from your face and pinches a nipple before trekking further downwards, “you shouldn’t.”

You don’t have time to clarify what he means before he takes one warm hand and presses down hard onto that spot on your stomach where the tip of him visibly protrudes.

Beside yourself with agonizing pleasure, you absolutely wail.

The first time you’d seen the physical evidence of how big he was inside of you in the shape of a bump on your tummy, you’d squirmed something fierce on his lap while he cursed and tried to hold you still so he could appreciate the sight.

He’s since become used to exploiting that sight and spot - both for visual gain and for the purpose of flooding your brain, which in this instance works miraculously well.

The added pressure on that little spot you’ve forgotten the name of is too much - you feel like a dam about to crack and collapse, helpless to fight against any of his efforts. If you could, you’d probably fawn to them anyway.

A starved moan escapes you when you feel the incoming rush of release rapidly build in you, spurred on by his neverending pace and aim. It’s downright impressive that he manages to hold out for as long as he does, you think blearily, because this feels too fucking good on your end.

Just as quickly, though, his large hand becomes a tad too imposing and something starts to feel a little off.

Terror settles in when the orgasm starts to feel abnormal - much too sharp and pressurized rather than that comfortable bliss you’ve grown so familiar with the last two weeks.

“Ah! Wait, Dal-! W-wait-”

You try to wiggle away, unable to succeed in any kind of escape or respite as he holds you down.

It almost feels like you’re going to pee, and though you know that this can’t possibly be the same thing it still makes you panic. It’s borderline uncomfortable with how it nearly burns in intensity, but Dallas doesn’t seem to be worried about it at all.

“Don’t fight it,” he urges without letting up his pace, “cum for me, darlin’. Don’t gotta be scared.”

He sees your fear and can’t hide his secretive little smirk or the way his eyes light up with mischief, elated that his hidden agenda has come to fruition and that he gets to see you fall apart in such a manner. The whole point of folding you in half and pushing you to such heights was to see if you’d be capable of exactly what is about to happen.

You stutter and falter, trying and failing to stop the freight train of mutated bliss coming your way, “C-can’t…I can’t - somethin’s dif-”

“Yeah y’can, don’t tap out on me now,” Dallas groans low and throaty when you start clamping down on him, “I gotcha, doll. Cum.”

“B-but-” you’re too far gone to formulate the proper words, and he capitalizes on it.

“I know baby,” he’s switched on that voice again, virtually ensuring your demise, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight…you got it, jus’ like that. What’d I tell ya? Don’t fight it, sweet girl - there y’go, fuck-”

“Dal-ohmyGod…” your words are a mere whisper in the air before you go stupid.

Whatever this is can’t be stopped, and it hits you like a two-by-four to the prefrontal cortex.

“Dallas!”

You positively shriek and jerk in his hold, trying and failing to hide your face in his chest. He keeps you splayed out before him as you burst and cum hard, body attempting to curl in on itself like a beetle and finding only him as resistance.

This time is even worse than the last; the crest of it hits deeper, and you can’t even open your eyes with how heavy it hits your nervous system. You’re a little more lucid though, even if you can’t entirely control your body.

That’s part of what makes you panic. The other part is what you feel happening in your cunt, something you’ve never had any experience with and that immediately accents your cries with alarm.

Every time your pussy clenches around him, you feel bursts of wetness jump from you and make a mess, absolutely soaking you both and the sheets below. Trails of it leak down your ass and rapidly form a puddle beneath you, joining the rest of your cum that’s been pooling.

“Fuck yeah, make a mess, baby-”

Apparently unsurprised and having planned on this, Dallas pulls back and holds you open to reap the spoils.

From underneath him you twitch violently as you gasp and cry out, wondering if this is at all normal or safe. It feels so good it should be damn near illegal, shutting the rational part of you down and obliterating you with pure elation.

He’s made a ruin of you, turning you into a needy, sloppy, silly little animal, and he looks utterly thrilled with himself as you shatter around his cock.

When your system calms and the frantic, milking pulses of your cunt cease their urgency, you’re finally able to speak around a dry mouth and a heavy gulp.

“W-what was that?”

At your bewildered expression, Dallas laughs quietly and lowers himself to soothe you.

“Squirted all over me, sweetheart,” he mutes your apprehensive whimpering with another kiss, “got me soaked. Hottest shit I’ve ever seen in my life, Jesus.”

His explanation makes little sense to you - you don’t know what squirting is, why it feels so strangely intense, nor why it necessitates so much wetness - but you take his words and tone at face value for what they are. Try as you might to ease the meek look off your face, you can’t help your general shyness let alone your bashfulness surrounding this kind of stuff.

But Dallas is obsessed with it - he’s still hard and heavy and filling you to the brim, now throbbing more steadily against your swollen cervix like a warning of what’s to come.

It reminds you that this is far from over, even if you think you might actually explode if you’re forced to cum again.

But by nature you are submissive and tend to yield, especially to folks like Dallas - and that goes triple when he’s the subject of your affections.

He’s just as enthralled by you, though, which is why he won’t take his claws out of you just yet - even when you level him with a pleading, puppy-eyed look that begs for a moment’s rest.

Dallas grins, breathless and wild, entirely unwilling to give you a break. Now that he knows how far he can push you, he’s going to figure out how to get you to said point every single time he’s buried in your weeping little pussy.

You look up at him like he’s a divine saving grace, asking yourself how much and in how many different ways you would let him obliterate you in the name and sake of this consecrated absolution.

“Don’t gimme those big sad eyes, babygirl,” Dallas laughs darkly as he presses your legs back down and slowly starts to fuck in and out of you again, “I ain’t nowhere near done with you.”

Endlessly and in every way are the answers you’re looking for, you admit to yourself as he drives more soft, syrupy noises of sin from you.

And you’ll let him keep metamorphosing you, over and over and over again.

A/N: I need to get laid 🤦‍♀️

I figured it might be a good idea to include this to clear things up and make it easier for anyone wondering or looking to request.

I'll likely see requests dropped in my messages or ask box sooner than comments. I'm currently working full time so I'll try to get to requests done as soon as I can, but I can't promise consistency or speed. I do make a list of all requests, though, so if you've sent it in I've noted it :)

Feel free to message/ask about kinks I may or may not write, as I know there's a lot and if I'm not comfy writing something, I'll make sure to add it here as I go along.

Will Do

f/m

smut

fluff

angst

Won't Do

m/m

noncon

incest

bodily fluids (excluding spit, squirting/ejaculate)

underage (all characters are aged up/presumed to be 20+)

⚠️ PORN ALERT ⚠️ IF YOU DON’T WANT THE PORN THAT COMES WITH THE PLOT, TURN BACK BC YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR⚠️

Summary: ‘But you…you have pried open his ribs with surgical accuracy, clambered into his chest cavity, and decided that you like it enough to stay - no questions asked. Over and over again you and Johnny keep choosing him, proving day after day that it isn’t shallow attraction, cheap thrills or any ulterior benefits that keep you around. 

And Dallas is finally, finally out of energy trying to run from what he wants.  

Like a starving mutt, he salivates and circles the flesh he’s been denying himself for the sake of a bigger picture. 

He’s sick of being hungry.’

PART 2 - (Erode)

Pairing: Dal x femreader

Word count: 11432

CW/TW: pnv, dom/sub, dacryphillia, degradation, dirty talk, masturbation, AU/everybodylives/nobodydies, best friends to lovers, not really angst/not really fluff either

A/N: like 8/11k words of this is pure smut 🫣 christ...im SO SORRY for the length but i promise it's worth it :,)

thank you so much for the kind words and appreciation everyone <3 I'm so overjoyed that so many folks like the characterization bc honestly it was one of the things I was losing my head over

credit goes to @pinkbabydollblythe for this prompt once again :) and I hope I started doing the tag list correctly but lmk if not!

cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

Dallas didn’t bet on you making it your personal business to prevent him from finding you for the following twenty four hours.

Until the next evening you virtually disappear; no one has seen you, heard from you or knows where you might be. Buck tells him you’ve called off sick, which you never do - Dallas has seen you sick plenty of times and you milk that shit hard. If you actually had any type of illness, half of Tulsa would know by now. He also hasn’t heard a peep from your room, and your lack of promiscuity makes him doubt you’re hiding out at some guy’s house. 

So he waits you out like prey, fully aware that your shift at seven means you can’t avoid him forever, and perches himself by the window. 

Like Cinderella you step out of Two-Bit’s car at precisely seven o’clock, driven by none other than fucking Kathy and looking incredibly paranoid as you scamper towards the building. Dallas narrows his eyes at the Plymouth and reminds himself to have a word with Keith next time the jokester is around.

His hunter’s gaze locks onto the way you peek around the block and nibble on your fingernail before entering, undoubtedly trying to gauge whether or not he’s around. If he had to guess, he would say that you followed your typical stress pattern and escaped just after hearing him yesterday so you could spiral in private. 

He’s got no idea how dead-on he is. 

Truthfully, you’d been so mortified after becoming aware of his presence that you’d all-but snuck out the window and ran to Kathy’s place, begging her to allow you to stay the night. You lied through your teeth about some ‘crazy ex that had come snooping around the bar’ and made her promise not to say a peep about it to anyone. Yet even after buying yourself a whole evening away from everything, you still couldn’t figure out exactly what to do. 

And now you’ve run out of time - you have to work, and you’re unwilling to lose your job unless you’ve got another one lined up in a different city where it’s preferable that no one knows your name. 

You approach your home like it’s hallowed ground, slipping in without a peep and chucking your jacket under the bar so it’s one less sign of your presence here. There isn’t any visual indication that Dallas is near, but you don’t need to see him to know he’s in the vicinity. 

You could pick him apart in a room full of people blindfolded. 

It’s his laugh and the sharp crack of it that slices through every other noise in the room like a thunderclap, offensive and imposing. It’s the weight he adds to a space that immediately makes it feel fuller and warmer, even if he’s cold and calculating and insistent on being a menace wherever he exists. It’s the uneasy ripple his aura casts on everyone else’s when they don’t know him and assess him at face value.

And right now, that aura is very active. It makes you want to shrink into a ball with how heavily it encompasses you. 

“Y’look like you seen a ghost,” Buck grunts as he hands you a glass he’s just finished polishing, “where y’been all day?” 

“Errands,” you smile, taking it from him and starting your usual routine before taking over the register. 

You can be a rather prolific fibber when you want to be; it’s unfortunate you likely won’t be able to keep your cool when faced with your best friend. There’s no use trying to lie to a professional liar, and he always says you ‘radiate guilt’ whenever you attempt it. That’s why you’re doing everything to buy yourself more time and avoid him, because you can't pretend like nothing has changed.

The first few hours into your shift don’t feel any different than normal, but there is still a sense of imposing dread that you try to ignore as you catch up with regulars and keep yourself busy. It’s around midnight that you start to really feel like you’re being watched by someone you can’t see, which usually doesn’t happen when you’ve got your back to the entire room. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out whose eyes are on you, and that’s what turns you into a jumpy freak. Every time you have to run to the storage room, lower your gaze or turn your back, a prickling sensation follows that makes you feel like you’re being hunted. It’s like a lion getting closer every time the gazelle pauses to take a drink of water. 

At twelve forty-five some random out-of-towers request a round of blue kamikaze shooters, which makes you grimace internally as it requires you to go fetch the curacao that is rarely used. It sits on the top shelf at the very back of the cold room, a spot that is notoriously hard to reach and one that you struggle with every time Buck puts shit up there.

Today is no exception; you find yourself barely grazing the bottle with your fingertips and refusing to go all the way out into the yard to grab the stupid stepstool that always gets put back out there, even though you’ve told the men who work here eight million times that you need it kept inside. 

You’ve almost got it, raising yourself on one foot so you can maybe tip the thing over and catch it-

“Need a hand, doll?”

No-

You flinch and flip around to find Dallas suddenly looming over you, invading nearly every sense as he leans a hand on the wall and effectively traps you in the small room. It’s a tiny enough space that you are immediately overwhelmed with the smell of smoke, sun and leather - a combination you’ve grown used to attributing to him over the years.

It’s downright creepy how he’s managed to sneak up on you like that, you think with a massive gulp and a face that likely betrays your fears. You didn’t even hear a single footstep. 

Your brain short circuits and your lips part uselessly as you try to figure out what to say, unable to behave normally quite yet. Confidence cannot help you here; any bravado or pretending that you don’t care won’t work because you do care and this does matter. Besides, Dallas can smell that kind of farce from miles away. 

His question is absolutely a double-entendre, and by answering it affirmatively you fear that you’ll send the wrong message. You still haven’t confirmed whether or not he actually knows anything, but his expressions give you a hint.

Aside from the undeniable triumph of having finally caught you, he regards you with a look that is borderline confrontational, like he’s expecting you to bolt at any second and is prepared to catch you if you do. You don’t want to test the theory. Besides, he knows you’ve left the bar unattended - he won’t risk both of you getting in trouble by distracting you in here for too long. 

“S-sure…” you want to scream when the response you come up with isn’t as confident or loud as you hoped it to be. 

Dallas tilts his head with a barely-contained smirk, “What’s the magic word?”

He’s playing with his food, you realize. It’s either he knows and will keep pawing at you like a cat with a half dead mouse, or he’s trying to grill you for having disappeared for a day…and the latter probably isn’t true, because this would be a weird way to go about it. Usually him grilling you involves a lot more sarcasm. 

You clench your jaw and look up at the blue bottle, briefly calculating the safety if jumping will cause all the other stock on the shelves to come crashing down to the floor. You decide you don’t want to risk it and swallow your pride. 

Thankfully, some of your baseline personality feels safe enough to come out and lend some normalcy to this moment. 

“Seriously?” 

His eyes flash and his smirk turns into a dastardly smile, “I ain’t remember that bein’ the magic word.” 

Your eyes slit up at him, trying to gauge how much of your usual sarcastic dynamic would be appropriate right now. 

You settle for a mildly exasperated: “…please.” 

Satisfaction - bright and viscous - blooms in his irises. He hands you the curacao, tongue-in-cheek and smiling like he’s got a secret. 

“Gotta say please if you want a hand, darlin’.”

The play on words is obvious and his tone is condescending, lodging itself somewhere into your brain. It fits like a key and opens something you didn’t know was locked away. 

You can feel yourself flushing, even as fresh terror blossoms in your chest when you fully accept reality: that yes, he clearly did hear everything yesterday and yes, he’s apparently keen on holding it over your head. There’s grounds to be fearful of whatever his next plan of action may be. 

“Uh-huh…” you delicately accept the bottle from him with shaky fingers, taking much care not to brush against his fingers, “thanks, Dal…”

Any capacity for productive thought has been cauterized. 

“Mhm,” he murmurs, eyes dipping down to your lips and tracking the movement in your throat as you swallow.

For a split second you’re struck dumb trying to figure out how you’re going to get past him and back to your abandoned post, eyes flitting to the door at least three times. Dallas watches you with the joy of a contract killer, absolutely thrilled with your nerve. 

Deciding to take mercy when a rather raucous shout echoes from the front room, he slowly shifts to give you just enough space to exit and gives you no other choice but to squeeze past him on the way out. He laughs under his breath when you refuse to make eye contact and do your best not to touch him. It doesn’t work; your shoulder brushes up against his chest, warmth spreading at the contact and making your heart skip a beat.

You hold your breath until you’re free, basically scurrying out of the cold room without a second glance back. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

With shaking fingers and an unidentified tightness in your chest, you pour the shooters as soon as you get back to the bar and nearly forget to collect payment. Your hackles are still raised, indubitably rattled by everything and the knowledge that he could pop back out at any moment. His behavior is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before and you don’t know how to react, much less start to analyze what he’s thinking. Dallas can be a frustratingly effective emotional vault when he wants to be. 

You embody nearly every aspect of a crackhead for the rest of your shift; continuous shoulder checks, darting glances everywhere, and nervous fidgeting. You’re just missing the schizophrenic mutterings, which are done in your head to avoid scaring your patrons. 

The only time you see him is when the crowd parts just enough for the billiards table to come into view. You spy him lounging against the wall, beer and pool cue in one hand and cigarette in the other, already looking at you like a tiger would its next meal. Shivering as if you’ve seen a phantom, you immediately avert your gaze.

Not here, not in front of the customers, you mentally plead to whatever deity may be listening. 

The minutes fly by far too quickly as two o’clock drags near. With nerves that may as well be limp noodles you find yourself shutting down operations as soon as the last person is out and doing money checks with trembling hands, almost miscounting a few bills and prompting you to start over at least twice. 

When the place is locked, cleanup has been done and everything is accounted for, you are finally out of options and must retreat to your room. The staircase may as well be a dark alley, taunting you with danger lurking around every creaky corner. 

You ascend the steps like the gallows, heart frantically beating out of your chest and breaths shallow with dread. Whatever is waiting for you up here can’t possibly be good, no matter how much trust you have in your best friend. Confrontation isn’t something you want to encounter, and reconciliation seems unrealistic. 

“Fuck…” you whisper to yourself before turning the corner and taking the last few steps, already having peeked around the small landing to check for signs of life. 

Nothing seems out of the ordinary as you tiptoe to your room and gently open the door, keeping an eye on the hallway behind you for sudden movements or wayward noises. The creaks in the wood can’t be helped, but you manage to slink into your safe space without hinting at your existence while keeping an eye out. Like a complete manic coward you maintain said lookout until the space between your door and the jamb is just a tiny sliver, only releasing your breath after it’s clicked shut. 

It’s then, while you’re resting your forehead against the wood as if to thank it, that you hear a long-winded sigh echo from behind you. 

No fucking way.

Horror - absolute horror - drains your face of all color and bolts you to the floor, entirely frozen in your spot. Fear grips you so hard your lungs constrict and you strain not to make a run for it, fight or flight caught in a deadlock, while you hear him get up and slowly stalk towards you. 

Every single footfall drawing him closer makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand higher until the urge to turn around is too great, but your instincts make you grasp the doorknob in a last-ditch effort to bolt. 

Quick as a snake strike, Dallas slams a palm on the door to keep it shut and reaches around you to flip the lock with his other hand, brushing against your ribs as he does. He’s so close his breath hits your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. 

Out of options, you have no moves left but to turn and face the music. 

You look over your shoulder to guide yourself as you do, immediately finding yourself at eye-level with his chest, and slowly lift your gaze until it meets his. 

Cowering might seem pathetic, but you hope that it’ll buy you some sympathy points. 

If he’s angry, he doesn’t show it. In fact, you can’t get a decent read on him at all; that’s what ends up being the most terrifying about it. His stare is piercing, so intense you can’t help the shuddered inhale you make as you squeeze yourself back against the door. 

Is he upset? Annoyed? Offended? 

Word salad starts to fall out of your mouth, “I can explain-”

“Don’t gotta,” Dallas interrupts you with ease, “y’think I ain’t gonna do nothin’ after you torture me like that?”

The rebuttal you already had loaded up dies on your tongue as some of your tenseness fades and you look up at him in perplexity. 

Hold up. What? 

“I told ya,” his other hand raises to hold your face, fingers framing your cheeks like he’s disciplining a naughty child, “if y’need a hand, you gotta say...” 

Your mouth opens uselessly, skin tingling and mind trying to link up pieces of the puzzle to no avail. 

His follow-up is lilting and arrogant, “What’d I say t’day? C’mon, use that pretty lil head.”

Images of your shared time in the storage room earlier appear behind your retinas like war flashbacks. Once again, you get the sense that his question is rhetorical and by answering it correctly you’ll affirm something that is redundant to verify, but you connect the dots and do so anyway. 

“...please?” 

“There y’go,” he’s patronizing you in a way that would have you smacking him if it was literally any other scenario, “was that so hard? Just had t’ask me, doll.”

You recognize what’s about to happen a few seconds too late. 

“W-wait-”

It’s the last thing you’re able to say before he’s tilting your chin up and guiding his mouth to yours, swallowing your gasp and slipping you his tongue before you can argue. The hands that were pressed flat against your door now fly up to fist the fabric at his chest for stability as you fawn and feel yourself melt against him, sheer heat condensing low in your stomach. 

Your head is spinning, not having expected the possibility of him wanting the exact same thing you’ve been denying yourself. Frantically, your mind tries to catch up to the reality of what’s going on aside from the fact that Dallas is fucking kissing you right now. On no uneasy terms, he’s just inadvertently confessed that he liked what he heard and is fully committed to returning the attention. Even if that’s all fine and dandy, there’s still the little problem of you two being best friends that have a lot to lose if this all goes wrong; the potential fallout of a union like this would be nuclear.

Out of breath and overwhelmed, you tug on his shirt and rip your lips from his, nearly bashing your head against the door and blinking up at him like a baby owl. You find him already looking back at you with a spellbound sort of triumph. 

“I don’t…I don’t get it-“

Dallas laughs once, “Don’t get it? I’ll make it real simple for ya.” 

Frantic to try and reason with him before this gets out of control, you barely contain your whine when he kisses you again and bites at your bottom lip. 

“W-we can’t-” you correct yourself before he does, "shouldn't-"

He snickers at you under his breath like you’re a confused little girl, interrupting you by seeking out your tacky lips with his. He’s already scrambled your thoughts, static interfering with regular programming. 

“Which one is it, sweetheart?” Dallas pulls back just enough to speak against your lips and drops his spare hand to your ass to knead the flesh there, “‘cause I ain’t ever had a problem doin’ somethin’ I shouldn’t be.” 

You know he hasn’t, which is why you’re typically the morally responsible one. Johnny doesn’t know any better and Dallas isn’t famous for his self-restraint, so as the one with the least testosterone and therefore the highest ability for accurate risk-assessment, you often end up becoming the voice of reason. 

It isn’t always an easy cross to bear, especially when the guy who currently has you in his clutches is hell-bent on testing you nearly every day of your lives. 

A reply is close to fruition before he absolutely annihilates it with his next move, gripping you by the hips and carrying you the short distance to your bed. He sets you down rather unceremoniously and situates himself between your thighs, leaving you to play catch-up all over again as you’re faced with the reality of this situation getting far past the point of no return. 

You whimper and clutch at the hair at the base of his skull, “Ain’t r-right, Dal-”

“Feels pretty fuckin’ right t’me,” he interrupts, slotting his mouth against yours once more. 

You whine at the contact and sink into him again, letting him learn your patterns. Every other habit and custom of yours has been memorized by him over a three year timespan, inadvertently dedicated to mapping out your intricacies. He is no less efficient in this endeavour. 

He breaks away from you to assault your neck, nipping as he goes and swallowing a groan when you shiver against him. 

“Knew you’d be sweet,” he exhales against your jugular, “perfect fuckin’ girl.”

“B-but…” you find yourself trailing off when he mouths along your jaw and finds your lips again, wiping out any idea you might have come up with. 

You register his hand slipping under your shirt, thumb smoothing strokes onto your stomach that cause goosebumps to erupt across your skin. The heady want hits you seconds later - that familiar burning need that has had you in its grips all week and wants nothing but for him to touch you.

The keening cry you let slip has him hissing and pulling back, holding himself over you.

“Hit me again, baby. What else y’got?” Dallas challenges breathlessly, trying to urge your protests along so he can neutralize them quicker.

Your mouth opens, but instead of words a wayward gasp slips out as he rolls his hips into you. You can feel the hot, hard press of him against your center, evidence of how badly this is affecting him. The hefty wave of desire almost has you abandoning your efforts to reason with him, and he’s close enough that your eyes flutter shut on reflex.

“You’re my best friend…” by some divine grace you finally manage to speak the words that are at the core of this crisis, “gonna mess it up-”

“Ain’t nobody messin’ nothin’ up,” he whispers back as he grips the back of your knee to pull you closer and grind himself against you, “this feel like I’m messin’ somethin’ up?” 

Another whimper leaves you, and you shake your head in affirmation before his lips temporarily descend onto you again to clear out the space between your ears. 

He rears back to follow your half-lidded eyes, cloudy with lust and impaired judgment, nearly able to taste your surrender. 

“S’what I thought. C’mon, gimme another excuse, darlin’.”

There is one final thing that remains: your fear that his friendship might have all been some kind of long-con ruse in order to reach this point. But the theory is so insulting you don’t even bother voicing it aloud. You’ve seen him lie, cheat and act to get what he wants; he wouldn’t have the ability to put up a farce for this long. And if he’s being truthful, then that means…

“I-I…” 

That means you are officially out of excuses. 

“I don’t got any more…” you sigh into his mouth, finally submitting into him like a dying star. 

“Thank fuckin’ God,” Dallas laughs against your lips in a muted sort of triumph before kissing you absolutely stupid. 

It’s slow and dirty, urging nasty thoughts that you’ve long since abandoned and cast away as unattainable. Thoughts of him fucking you, filling you, keeping you. Now he’s here, heavy against you and already taking you apart piece by piece. 

You plead no contest when he starts to liberate you of clothes. It’s quick and efficient with all the well-practiced conduct of a sexual savant, but he takes the time to pause and appreciate the sight after each article has been removed. 

“God damn, look at you,” as soon as your tits are free, nipples pebbling at the chill in the room, he takes one into his mouth to tease at it and softly pinches the other between his fingers.

The sensation makes you shudder and wail softly, suddenly marveling at how something that you entirely wrote off as unenjoyable because of previous men simply chewing on your nipples can feel so good that it sends liquid heat straight down to your cunt. It’s everything all the other guys who have tried with you haven’t been, and it’s working you up embarrassingly fast. Your tongue feels heavy, like you’re retaining a week’s worth of water in it, choking you up and making it difficult to formulate your request for him to get on with it. 

“Dal, please…” you pant, the fingers tangled in his hair slipping down to his abdomen when he fully pulls back. 

His irises have been completely swallowed by the black of his pupils, “Please, Christ - you’re a fuckin’ dream, aint’cha?”

With a staunch exhale he detangles himself from your legs to remove the last obstacle keeping him from your pussy. You can feel yourself messy with slick and sensitivity, the result of what has basically been a week-long edging session with no end in sight until now. 

Everything from your waist down is tugged off in one go, and you’re taken aback when he immediately maneuvers you as soon as you’re fully naked before him.

“You fell right outta heaven, didn’tcha…” 

To access you better, he tugs your hips forward and pushes the backs of your knees up and out, forcing you into a near-folded position that barely lets you keep yourself propped up so you can fully see what’s happening. His hands are certain and steadfast in their mission, focused on the same prize he’s already got eyes on. 

“Pretty little pussy, all mine.” 

The crude nature of his words have you blushing to the tips of your ears. You can’t even curl up in shame as you’re splayed before him, completely exposed and vulnerable. It’s difficult, but you do your best to cast aside the discomfort surrounding the novelty of such openness. 

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, doll,” Dallas exhales a low groan and releases one of your legs to swipe at the glossy residue that coats your inner thighs, “look at’cha. Y’needed me this bad but you ain’t wanna ask for help, huh?” 

You don’t have the wits to respond so you merely nod up at him with wide glassy doe-eyes just begging him to touch you, anticipation and impatience rendering you effectively mute. 

“Mm,” he tastes you on his thumb, giving an amused huff at your resulting squeak and blush, “s’this what you thought about when you were gettin’ off?” 

The breath gets caught in your throat when he takes the back of his index finger and strokes it up your slit, just grazing your clit. Involuntarily, your hips buck up into him as a desperate moan is shoved from your lungs, and he stifles a laugh before stilling you. 

As if it’s a punishment for not having answered his question, he runs the back of his middle and pointer finger down either side of your pussy and narrowly avoids your clit. The tease is vicious; barely-there pleasure that coils tightly in your abdomen and makes you cry wordlessly for indulgence. 

Dallas takes his hand away to hold your bucking hips down, “Y’can’t tell me what that dirty lil mind was thinkin’ when you were tryna cum with my name in your mouth?

He does have a point, but logic takes a second to catch up with you. As soon as you start to respond, he circles back and hits you with the same move, except this time he presses his fingers closer together so your clit gets caught between them. There’s so much slick to you that the repeated glides of his movements are effortless. 

“A-ah! Y-you…” you confess with a whine, aware that he’ll likely stop if you don’t talk, “your fingers, mnhh-your mouth…”

His fingers don’t cease, rewarding you for your honesty as he curses darkly. Your mouth waters with need, close to begging him for just a little bit more. There are few things spicier than the feel of near-stimulation, and you reckon Dallas knows exactly where you’re at based on how you shake and pant. 

The hand still holding one of your legs tightens around the back of your knee, “Wasn’t good enough, hm?” 

“Mm-mmn,” you confirm, shaking as he keeps his motions steady. 

He kisses his teeth in mock sympathy, “Why not, baby?” 

You sob dryly as the tension breaks and surges you past the point of self-respect. You reach for him with more effort than before, and he releases your leg to let you pull him closer. 

“W-wasn’t you…” your whimper as he’s on his way down, “please, Dal - jus’ touch me-”

The air between you gets a lot thinner when he reacts to your words.

You’re the picture of desire; eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and body trembling from his ministrations. He can feel the infuriating ache that makes you curl your hips towards him in an attempt to alleviate some of the want - it was him who planted it there, after all. 

“Fuck…” Dallas murmurs down at you, a little awestruck. 

He did this. He’s the one that turned you into a sopping, quivering mess that mewls desperately and reaches for him with glassy eyes. 

He grunts and briefly rests his head against your temple like he needs a moment of prayer before he’s surging back up to capture your lips. Now the pace is a little more akin to what you need - not frantic, but you’ve worked him up enough to even the scales. 

“M’already touchin’ you, angel,” he hums into your mouth, “God, you’re just drippin’ for me…”

Something in your chest buckles, and you let slip a pleading cry that vaguely sounds like the word ‘more’. 

Saying no to you has always been tricky. So, tempted by the soft, liquid warmth of you and your unabashed begging, he switches out his two fingers and circles your clit with his thumb. 

Your mouth drops open with another whine, neurotic at the direct contact. When he presses down with more pressure and suckles at that one spot right under your ear, the combination makes you keen desperately. 

Dallas eases back, laughs, and kisses you deeply. 

“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, patronizing and low, while his hand adjusts to slide not one but two fingers inside of you, “gonna give ya what y’need, doll.” 

You moan brokenly, surprise coating the sound as you squirm and try to listen to him around the slippery sounds of your slick. 

“God - tight lil thing, ain’tcha? Relax for me,” he breathes, voice nearly a rumble, “just like that.” 

The encouragement strikes you as a double-edged sword; because it’s Dallas, you associate such niceties to ulterior motives. In this case, while the motivation may be erotic - and successful at that - you feel like he’s opening you up for something a lot rougher down the line. There’s no way he’s all sunshine and rainbows in bed. 

Little hands clutch at his chest fruitlessly, trying to ground themselves against the onslaught of targeted pleasure. You acknowledge far too late that he’s very, very good at this - not just in terms of broad skill but also at picking up on your reactions and adjusting himself accordingly. He doesn’t need to wait for you to tell him what feels best; he reads it in every little expression, twitch, tremble and intake of breath. 

In no time at all he finds that spot inside of you that you just can’t hit right no matter how hard you try, fingers curling and filling you so well it brings genuine tears to your eyes. The endless heat you’ve been feeling is being soothed by none other than him targeting the swollen, spongy patch that you can never access on your own. 

“Ah-! Dallas-”

The tension sitting low in your stomach tightens viciously when his thumb finds your clit again, cunt gripping his fingers so tightly he can’t help but let out a gentle laugh of disbelief. 

Hearing his name on your lips because of what he’s doing as opposed to listening from the other side of your wall is something Dallas is eternally grateful for having changed. 

“Sound so fuckin’ good with my name in your mouth,” he slurs against your throat, fighting the need to grind himself down on the sheets like you probably did not even a day ago. 

His head won’t shut up - it’s an endless stream of mineminemineMINE, proverbial dam broken and overflowing with the primal urge to fuck and claim. 

“Can feel you grippin’ on me, needy girl. Pussy doesn’t wanna let me go, so fuckin’ desperate.” 

Like he’s got a direct line from his mouth to your cunt, it squeezes down on his fingers and makes your exact feelings about his words very clear. 

You’re already inundated with overwhelming lust every time you try to look up at him, and him pointing out how sexually attuned he’s become to you in the span of ten minutes just makes you burn. There’s something about him that makes all the derogatory comments and cruel quips fearfully attractive. Maybe it’s because he’s murmuring them into your ear while doing things to you that should be sanctioned by the entire state of Oklahoma, but you don’t care enough to dive into that right now. 

“Y’like it when I’m mean, don’tcha? I knew it.”  

Instead of giving him a proper response, you simply don’t prevent the next wanton moan that he urges from you and drag your fingernails across his scalp so you can tangle them in his hair. Without hesitation, you tighten your grip.

Dallas almost chokes into your clavicle and raises himself up to look at you properly. A brief, dark look passes across his face - like he’s aiming to show you exactly what happens when you tempt him with a good time - before he drops a heavy kiss on your lips and rears back further. 

He returns one of his hands to the back of your right knee to keep you folded open and keeps his other fingers where they are, stuffing you and refusing to let off that one spot. 

You whine at the loss of him, cold air unfriendly, and reach for your own chest in consolation. Your hands find your breasts and clamp down, trapping your nipples between your middle and index finger in some halfhearted attempt to center yourself. 

“There y’go,” his tone has lowered to a gruff, throaty texture, “play with ‘em for me, sweetheart.” 

Without any other preamble he lays an opened mouth kiss on your hip as some kind of last warning before he licks a stripe up your pussy and decides to suction his mouth to your clit. 

You white out for a second and gasp, sounding more like a scandalized virgin than anything else. 

Oral isn’t something a lot of guys your age are good at, and by default that means most of them don’t want to do it. It’s a pity, because you’re not an asshole about it and would be very willing to explore with them, but apparently most men would rather be selfish in bed than admit their shortcomings. 

Also by default, that means that you have both little experience and outstanding sensitivity with anyone being this willing and talented at it. 

It makes you shift backwards a bit as your hindbrain takes over, and he stops to tend to you. 

“Shh,” Dallas curls his fingers a little bit harder, making you squeal and halting your attempt at escape, “quit squirmin’. Promise you’ll like it.” 

Despite your preconceived notions, you do trust him, and that trust plays a part in the way you relax under his knowing gaze and try to calm your panting. You don’t have to say anything when he can read you this well; he’s an expert after years of knowing you and reading your body language, expressions and various unspoken subtexts. 

“Atta girl,” he hums as you settle, “lemme take care of ya. Too out of it, baby - y’can’t even talk, you’re down bad.” 

You whine as he holds your gaze and forces you to listen to the obscene sounds of his fingers fucking into you, wet and messy as you absolutely ruin your sheets. His thumb circles you again, asserting cruel pressure in the temporary place of his tongue. 

He looks up at you once last time as he makes you wait and squirm on his fingers, “Gonna let me do my thing? Make y’feel good?” 

Somehow the spider has convinced the fly that the web is the best place to be, you think, chest heaving as you bite your lip and nod. 

A different kind of heat scrawls patterns into your spine when he takes you into his mouth and starts up again. You try to remember why you never wanted this in the first place, but a swirl of his tongue makes you draw a blank. 

It’s an entirely different sensation than a finger, and it adds a different kind of slickness into the already sopping mess of your pussy. You had no idea what you were missing out on until his tongue was drawing patterns into you, giving you just the right amount of sharp pleasure before switching to more soothing repetitions. 

He doesn’t let up with his fingers, either, rendering you especially useless because the combination of his fingers and his tongue has you reeling. Everything is warm and wet and dizzying, and even the filthy noises that had you blushing to the tips of your ears are now adding to the overwhelming list of things driving you crazy. 

It startles you into grasping just how close you are, because you feel the familiar tendrils of tightness and heat simmer in your abdomen. 

“Dal,” you can’t help sobbing, “y-you’re gonna make me cum…” 

Your quiet confession is uttered into the atmosphere so shakily that it almost sounds like you don’t want it - like you’re upset about how quickly he took you apart and were hoping to hold out longer. 

Dallas pulls back from your pussy to look up at your ruined expression and grins something nearly evil into your thigh, clamping his teeth down into it and groaning at your subsequent squeal. 

“Told ya. Look how bad y’needed me - ain’t even wanna listen t’me an’ two seconds later you’re losin’ it.”

You’re so close that your eyes tear up in anticipation of the drop, moans kicking up in pitch when he sucks at your clit and purposefully pulls away again, laughing as you curl your hips up into him. 

“Ah-! M-gonna cum-”

He holds you down, keeping you spread open and vulnerable beneath him. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna cum? Who’s here makin’ you cum, darlin’?” 

He briefly replaces his mouth with a thumb, holding you right on the precipice that threatens to drop you into a puddle of molten dopamine. He’s been feeling your clenching and slowing accordingly when you get too close, waiting for you to stow your soft, needy moans for the answer on the tip of your tongue. 

“Y-you, Dal-” the words pour out of you like spun silk and drenched in sin, “p-please, pleasepleaseplea-” 

You’ve not been reduced to a blubbering pile of begging for too long before he’s shoving you over the edge with a satisfied grunt, mouth back on your clit and ending that burning sensation of being held on the precious of orgasm for far too long. 

This is where it gets a bit fuzzy for you. 

Initially the implosion starts quiet, and all the air gets sucked out of the room. You jolt in his hold, choke and go silent, eyes disappearing into your skull as you fall back against the bedspread and feel the brute force of the orgasm start deep in you like a cannon-shot. 

It hits you square in the soul, narrowing your universe to a single concrete point.

Then, in a rush of energy, a frantic cry is wrenched from your chest as the energy propels forward and you give yourself over to the savage ebbs and flows. A stream of keening wails follows, and though you can feel yourself bearing down and canting your hips up, you have no control over your body. Everything is buzzing, burning and brightening, completely nonsensical and dangerous with potency. 

Something is holding you down and keeping you steady, guiding you through the motions of this storm with both mouth and hand, and as the waves of it begin to gentle you remember who it is. 

Slowly, Dallas hands each part of you back until you’ve re-entered yourself piece by piece. 

You’re shivering, you realize. Quaking like you’ve been buried in a snowdrift and left to die, salvaged and warmed only by him. 

You acknowledge that you’ve tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged far too tight when your hand starts to ache and you have to force yourself to release his locks, trembling as your limb retreats.

As soon as you’re able to open your eyes, all the other senses fold back in one by one. Hearing is the last one because the ringing in your ears is so loud, but once the intensity of it fades you pick up on the tenor of his voice as it shifts against your stomach. 

“…make you cum on my cock just like that. See what happens when y’listen? Greedy girl. Breathe.”  

You heed his command and properly inhale, a whine soon following it. It lets him know you can finally comprehend his words again, and though you don’t have the strength to prop yourself up to see what’s going on, you feel him shift. 

He mouths over the bite mark on your inner thigh and speaks against it, “You’re shakin’, sunshine.” 

It’s then that you register the quivering in your legs that hasn’t stopped. Your whole body feels like it’s vibrating, still tightly wound and still coming down from the endorphin rush. The ceiling is the only thing that is in focus for you right now.

“Sound like a goddamn angel, sweetheart. That good, huh?” 

You wish you had a more eloquent response to his teasing, but all you can come up with is a resounding, watery: “Fuck.”

Dallas laughs and shifts above you, fingers slipping out of you to trail up your torso and coat your nipple with your own cum. As you’re finally able to refocus on him he pinches it again, applying pressure until you whimper underneath him and let go of the sheets to reach for his chest. 

“Taste like fuckin’ candy…” he lets you pull him down, releasing your leg and placing a hand by your head instead, “open your mouth.” 

The order leaves you a little confused, but you’re lightheaded and pliable after what he’s done to you and so you acquiesce with no further issue. 

To be honest, you could have seen it coming from a mile away, but your blitzed-out brain doesn’t put two and two together until he’s taking the two fingers glistening with your cum and pushing them into your mouth. 

A startled noise leaves you as your eyes widen and the taste of your own spend hits your tongue, slightly tangy with a sweet aftertaste. It’s by far one of the filthier things you’ve been exposed to; no one else has had the gall to shove their fingers down your throat after making you cum hard enough to see stars.

Almost reflexively, you suckle on his digits with the veracity and sounds of a brainless whore. 

“Good girl. Told ya you’d be sweet,” he huffs into your neck where he’s gone back to leaving trails of bruising, “already suckin’ on ‘em, huh? God, such a filthy lil thing.”

A muted squeak is all you can give in return, but it’s good enough for him to understand. 

The grip you have on his chest seemingly reminds him that he’s still got clothes on, a problem he clearly aims to fix as soon as possible based on the way he takes his fingers out of your mouth and pulls away to take off his shirt. Forced to wait and seeking stimulus like a shy, desperate little degenerate, you suck on the knuckle of your middle finger and stare up at him with big, glassy eyes. 

The picture of it makes him groan appreciatively, “Fuck, y’look ruined. Still want more, don’tcha?” 

Your responding, needy whine bounces off the thin walls and earns you a cruel laugh as he returns himself to you. Almost immediately, your hands find their way to his trapezius muscles and find consolation there, skin warm and firm against yours. 

“I know, darlin’,” he murmurs into your cheekbone, “m’gonna give it to ya.” 

Almost like he’s trying to distract you, he licks a kiss into your mouth and absorbs the shuddering breath that sneaks out. It doesn’t work, because the metallic clink of his belt and the rasp of zipper on denim slices through the fog in your mind and makes you clench around nothing, salivating at the mere thought of being filled by him.

Unable to help your perverted urges, you roll your hips up into his to feel for him and finally catch a feel of his cock against your hip, hard and heavy and sweltering, which is when your mind suddenly puts together the size and feel of him all at once. 

You freeze. 

Oh, shit. 

He’s big, and not the kind of big that you give as a compliment to men when they’re looking for a final word to push them over the edge after an unsatisfying night in bed. This is the kind of big that requires a considerate and ample amount of foreplay, because without it there is no conceivable way to comfortably take him. Even with those conditions having been met, you wonder if it’s possible. 

Intimidation curdles in you, coiling in your gut and making you look up at him in fear. He’s already smiling down at you like he knows.

“S’not gonna fit, Dal…” you murmur worriedly, absolutely daunted by him. 

As much as you hate that stupid, smug, lopsided smirk he does when he’s bigheaded about something, it does have a place here. 

You haven’t encountered an excessive amount dick in your life, but this…this feels like it might hurt. 

“Gonna make it fit,” Dallas leaves an open-mouthed kiss along your jaw with a groan and rolls himself against your hip to let you feel the full length of him, “you can take it, doll. Don’t gotta think, just gotta feel me.”

You can feel the searing, slippery glide of his precum along your hipbone, a glaring reminder of how affected he is by the state of prolonged lust you’ve both been held in. Now that you’re able to get a better look at him, you see the other signs that come along with it - his eyes are probably just as glassy as yours, pupils so dilated it makes his entire gaze look like something demonic, and the tension hiding in his muscles leaks out with every wayward grasp of you. Each touch is a tad too much, bordering on that sweet kind of overpowering, before he pulls back and releases whatever part of you he’s focused on. 

The bottomless void in you that only seems to have been quieted by his hands gnaws at you, raw need for him trampling over any other kind of concern about his size. You don’t care if he’s going to rearrange your organs; you want him deep, fucking you open and wrecking you. 

As if he can read your mind, Dallas releases your mouth with a final bite at your bottom lip and rises above you like some type of deity actualizing thanks to the slaughter of you - the little lamb, naive enough to willingly wander into and beg for a ritualistic sacrifice. 

Your eyes fall to where his cock juts out towards you, thick and long and terrifying with the way it throbs. You whimper at the sight of it and barely register his returning breath of laughter before large hands are pushing against the backs of your knees again, pressing you down, down into the mattress and further into the submissive depths of something you don’t want to ever come out of. 

“Tell me you want it,” he takes one hand to guide the tip of himself to you, cock smoothing over the slick mess you’ve made and smiling at your keening wail when it brushes against your clit, “go on. Use your words, toots.”

He’s already so frighteningly wide against your leaky little slit, taunting you with every throb.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting, because most guys would take this moment to accept your green light and just shove it in without a further thought. But Dallas waits, notched at your entrance and pulsing, letting you feel the pressure and heat of him. 

“I-I want it…” you wet your lips and worry at them some more, hips unable to stop their tiny movements to try and slip him a little bit further into you, “please, Dal - please…”

It doesn’t take much of your begging to do him in, and you hear his exhaled grunt before feeling the thick head of him push past the ring of muscle and start to sink into you. You gasp sharply at the dull burn, already too far gone at the feel of him stretching you inch by inch.

The pressure builds far too quickly, “Oh-”

Even with the glide having been made smooth by the copious amount of cum and slick he’s pulled from you, it’s a lot. At your first pained gasp and sign of resistance he stops, a choked grunt ripped from his chest. 

“God,” he bites his lower lip and furrows his brows in concentration, “-damn. so fuckin’ tight, doll. Gonna kill me.” 

His eyes flit from where you’re currently being split apart by his cock all the way up to your pretty little face, watching your reaction as one of his hands drops to where you’re conjoined. It doesn’t disappoint; as soon as his thumb takes up residence against your clit again, he’s rewarded with that innocent little wide-eyed expression and a mewl that makes him ache. 

“There y’go,” he murmurs as he slides in another inch, voice throaty and thick with hunger, “easy. I got you.” 

The more you sit with him inside of you the more you realize this is a marathon, not a sprint, and by the time he’s halfway into you, tears have already gathered along your waterline from the pressure and the visceral need for him. You want so badly for him to be pressed up against the depths of you, filling you completely, but the stretch is threateningly immense. It warns you of abrupt pain if this isn’t taken slow.

“Tighter than a goddamn vice,” he mutters darkly, pulsing at the sight of your tears, “s’right…gimme those tears, crybaby.” 

You faintly register your begging, “P-please…please, Dallas - f-feels so fucking good-”

All you know right now is the deep-seated, primitive urge to be pressed down and taken until you’re nothing but a shell of your former self. You can feel the slick dripping down your ass and pooling underneath you, joining the already-ridiculous patch that’s been worsening since the minute he placed you here. 

“Easy-easy, what’d I say? I got you,” your sniffling is interrupted by his coos, “got no patience, needy girl. Soakin’ the sheets ‘n I ain’t even fucked you yet.”

“Mmnhh-” his words make you flutter around him and fist the sheets you have clutched in your claws. 

A twisted, sick sense of pleasure blooms at his teasing. There must be something wrong with you, you think, for the way your body reacts to his degrading nature. 

“Please, I want it,” you slur, panting and beside yourself with want, “I can take it-”

A guttural growl, mottled and thick with tension, sends heat rushing through your veins, and Dallas throbs once, twice before bottoming out inside of you. 

Your shriek is barely covered up by his hand, abandoning your clit and flying up to silence you before both of you get evicted. From behind his palm your mouth parts, eyes rolling up and eyelids fluttering as your muffled, needy noises do their best to escape. 

“Oh fuck,” he pants at the feel and sight of you before laughing in sheer disbelief, “m’never leavin’ this pussy. Jesus Christ, baby - m’gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He’s not even all the way in; he can’t possibly fit all of him inside of you, even as stretched out as you are, but the tip of him is pushed up against the mouth of your cervix and there is literally nowhere else to go. It’s maddening - you’ve never felt this full, and yet you only want more. 

As soon as he releases your mouth, his name is an exhale on your lips. 

“Dal…m’so full-”

You’re beside yourself, sheerly shocked at how it’s possible for this to feel so fucking good. For a long few moments he settles there, still and letting you feel him throb inside of you, and you wonder if something is wrong before to catch his mesmerized stare and watch him place one big hand on the spot below your belly button where you can literally see the protrusion of his cock. 

His voice has gone reverent, “Look at that, doll. Gotcha all stretched out on me.” 

Faintly, and then all at once, he exerts just enough force down onto the spot that it makes your mouth drop open with another breathless gasp. 

Holy shit. 

The feeling and physical evidence of his size difference is a little too much; you clamp down on him viciously, and Dallas hisses as it prompts him to move.

The first few thrusts are a feign of a fuck; just enough for him to barely pull out so he can grind deep and let you feel the excruciatingly slow drag of him. Every single time the head of his cock bumps against your cervix you shudder and sob, nerve endings firing off like poprocks. It’s making you dizzy, weak as you warble and clutch at him like a needy mess. 

When he’s sufficiently tortured you both enough with that, he goes in with long, deep strokes that completely annihilate your frontal lobe and turn you into a brainless bimbo. You can hear the soft, syrupy noises he pulls from you from a third person perspective, like you’ve died and ascended to heaven only to re-watch the portrait of your murder. It’s accompanied by the lewd sounds of your slick cunt taking him over and over and the ragged murmurs of filth he’s feeding you between grunts, words nearly lost on you. 

He’s just as vocal as you are, groaning and rutting into you like a dog. He pulls all the way out until the tip of him nearly pops out, only to sink back in deep enough to take your breath away. 

“Look at me.” 

It’s an order, and you listen without a shred of hesitation. 

Starved and possessive are the two words that come to mind when you meet his gaze. His eyes, typically shifty and cautious, are nearly red-rimmed with sheer hunger and depravity. He’s equally ruined for you. 

“You feel how deep I am?”

As if you couldn’t already, he presses the hand that’s on your lower stomach down harder and smiles when you writhe and sob at the extra pressure. It’s much too sharp, and when it’s paired with the indecent noise of your cunt responding to his actions, it makes all of your muscles draw up dangerously. 

“Hear how bad y’needed me t’fill you up?”

A beat of pure, unfiltered heat floods through your system. 

“This is my fuckin’ pussy,” Dallas snarls, canting his hips and deepening the angle, “mine.”

The words make your heart and your cunt contract at the same time, a pathetic whimper escaping from you as you feel more fat tears bubble over and fall from your eyes. It’s all too much. 

Mind hazy and body a livewire, you realize that you’re soon going to come completely undone around him if he doesn’t let up. It’s far too soon; you don’t want this to stop, but you’re addicted to the way he’s fucking you and filling you. You reckon even heroin doesn’t feel this good; you’ve been completely overtaken by the sheer need for more, more, more.

You’re going to cum.  

“Dallas-” you’re tightening and tensing, nails digging into him as every cell in your body charges up with energy, “oh my fucking God-” There isn’t any need to warn him. He can feel it. 

“I know baby,” he groans, low and wrecked, dropping himself to lower his forehead against yours as he starts to murmur liquid filth, “fuck, I can feel you squeezin’ me. Gonna keep y’like this forever, all fuckin’ stupid ‘n needy. Fuck you dumb every fuckin’ day.”

You’re positively quaking, feeling your imminent demise boiling over and reducing you to nothing but heavy breaths and biological reactions. Every instinct is calling for your body to cum and pull him into the same brain dead state so he can pump you full and satiate you both. 

“Open your eyes,” Dallas keeps two fingers on the spot where his cock meets them and sneaks his thumb down to your clit, “look at me when you cum your greedy lil brains out. Lemme see you cry ‘n make a mess on my cock, sweetheart. There y’go, that’s it - good girl-”

The cord snaps.

Everything in your body contracts hard as a final cry of his name leaves you, energy dispersing and flying through your system. The sharp sensation of your fingernails digging into him are nothing compared to the rhythmic pulses of your walls gripping down on his cock so tightly that he has to stop talking you through it and focus on not falling over the edge. 

Every part of you is in concordance with him. There is not one action his limbs have spoken that yours have not echoed - not one implication of any lack in harmony. Your synergy is interwoven and whispered in these congruencies like a prophecy. 

Semi-lucid and desperate, you find a spare patch of skin and bite down into it, shredding the capillaries there under your wailing jowl and nuking any effort he may have made to contain himself. 

It’s a heavily proprietary action and one that is even more impactful when it's done subconsciously; it implies he is yours just as much as you’re his, and you’re laying visible claim to enunciate that. It’s a tipping point that he can’t fight against after seeing you lose yourself around him, and with a sound that’s crossed between frustration and agonizing pleasure, he stops trying to fight release. 

“Ffffuck - m’gonna cum in you,” Dallas grits his teeth as the familiar prickle of bliss settles in, “fill you up ‘til it’s leakin’ outta you, show everybody whose pussy this is.” 

He knows that your mind must have registered his words despite your state, because you sound like you’ll die if he doesn’t do what he’s promising. The final nail in the coffin is when you detach from his chest where you’ve been soothing your bite and look up at him like he’s hung the stars, utterly destroyed. 

“I know, doll. Gonna give it t’ya, just like that - takin’ it so goddamn good, fuck yeah-”

Two hard thrusts like he’s aiming past your cervix and he’s gone, thick ropes of cum stuffing you full with every heavy twitch of his cock. The force of it pushes him almost too deep, nearly able to slide the hilt of him inside of you and forming a plug around the spend that’s already seeping out of you with the sheer volume of it. 

It hits him hard enough that his ears ring from how tightly he clenches his jaw, and he moves his hand off your clit to hold you down in some primitive reflex that tells him you need to stay still and not waste a drop of what he’s dumping into you. 

“Take it,” his voice is downright demonic in your ear, filtering past all the overstimulation and echoing in the empty cavity between your ears, “fuckin’ take all of it, baby.” 

From beneath him you sob, salty tears overflowing as you try to deal with the last waves of your orgasm and the feel of him flooding you. He’s got you properly pinned down again, one hand on the back of your knee to keep you open and uncaring of your little whimpers of faint discomfort when the sensation becomes nearly uncomfortable. 

It’s so, so much. He’s still going, tip rubbing your cervix with every jump while it leaks more cum into you. You can only communicate to him through a look and a needy moan, pleading for nothing in particular because notwithstanding your overstimulation, you don’t want this to end. 

“Yeah, sweet thing. I fuckin’ know,” Dallas pants down at you, dropping a heavy kiss on your lips that you try to return with equal fervor, “Jesus Christ…just drownin’ in my cum, huh? How’s that feel?” 

His capability to verbally recover and retain the capacity to speak even while experiencing the last dregs of his finish are remarkable, you think, because there’s no way you could formulate a sentence in this state. You still feel like he’s boiled you alive and is currently devouring you, every twitch of him reminding you of how absolutely filled to the brim you are. 

Still, you try, and manage to come up with a snivelling: “D-don’t wanna stop…”

“Knew you were greedy,” Dallas laughs, somehow managing to sound both tender and cajoling at the same time, “filled you up and you’re still beggin’ for more.” 

His dick plugging you up is the only thing keeping you from leaking all over the bedspread, but at this point you’re so far past the point of caring that when he warns you he’s going to pull out and does so with a wince, you aren’t bothered by the rush of fluids that start to leak from you. Stickiness be damned, you’re going to enjoy feeling like a fully cooked, stuffed thanksgiving turkey for the foreseeable future. 

“Look at that,” he holds you open with a throaty groan, eyeing the slick mess of your pussy as his cum starts to ooze out, “look good drippin’ my cum, sweetheart.” 

Another whimper leaves your parted lips, suddenly cold and missing his warmth. Like he knows, Dallas throws himself down onto your copious puddle of pillows with a satisfied grunt and tugs you into him, simultaneously reaching for the pack of cigarettes that have mysteriously found their way onto your nightstand. 

He lights one as you relax into his chest, “All that mouth on ya and as soon as I get y’under me you’re whinin’ and beggin’. Fuckin’ figures.” 

A huff escapes you, as if insulted by the insinuation that you’re a complete pillow princess who will fawn at the slightest bit of effort from someone, but you know it to be true in this instance. Maybe over time it’ll be different, but-

Wait. 

Over time? 

Your senses come back to you all at once, a thousand clamouring voices in your head shouting like a furious council. 

Oh, fuck. 

Fuck. 

What have you done?

Fresh horror replaces all the warmth in you. Suddenly very conscious and fully capable of human speech, you repeat your earlier sentiment from before he put your brain in a blender.

“You’re my best friend.”

The words are so quiet that Dallas has to strain to hear you.

“What?”

“You’re my best friend…” your voice has gone deathly still, sheer terror lacing every word as you contemplate the severity of what’s just happened. 

You don’t want to do yourself the dishonour of thinking that you’re different than any other woman who has lain with him. Sure, you’re closer than most, but you’ve seen how he operates. You know how horrible he is with this kind of stuff. For crying out loud; if he’ll fight Tim Shepard on a bi-weekly basis, what kind of stability and longevity can you really expect out of him? You know him so well, and- 

And…

Fuck. 

You know him so well, so how could you think he would toss you aside like anyone else? 

You're my best friend. 

Fuck. You’re in a stalemate. 

Dallas interrupts your overthinking with a resolved murmur, “Still your best friend, stupid.” 

The urge to shake him and force him to understand that things don’t work that way is barely wrestled down by your self-restraint.

Though it terrorizes you to do so, you pull yourself from his chest to look at him. His beautiful features are contorted in confusion. 

“Best friends ain’t do stuff like this, Dal.” 

He exhales in contemplation, smoke curling out of his nostrils like some sort of post-coital dragon your dreams have sent to test your resolve. Slowly, his eyes trace over every pore in your petrified face - each breathtaking detail he’s committed to memory in some vain effort to sequester it from the world and keep it for himself. 

He’s never been able to catch and keep something like you. He doesn’t know how, much less believe that he deserves it. But you willingly walked into his house of pain and made it clear you were there to stay, time and again. And now that you’ve given him a taste of nirvana - a light at the end of the tunnel that hints of a true shot at happiness - there’s no way he’s going back. 

Dallas shifts and tilts his head, slowly beginning to outline the boundaries of something new. 

“What’s it called, then?” 

You frown, confused. 

“What’s what called?” 

It takes him a second to formulate the words. And you - bless your loving, pure, honest heart that knows him so well - give him all the time in the world. 

“When you wanna keep that…” he trails off, swallowing harshly and eyeing the cherry at the end of his smoke, “with all the other stuff.”

Initially you think he’s poorly trying to describe some kind of friends-with-benefits situation, but you know he wouldn’t stoop that low with you, and something in his eyes prevents that line of thinking. The child in him you’ve seen poke out only a handful of times over the years flickers, muted and distant in his cold irises, caged behind two decades of horror and brutality. Dallas guards that child with merciless precision, unquestioning and instinctive.

Somewhere in his gaze, before it flickers away, you see something that reads like hope. It’s so subdued and mutated that you barely get a gander at it, but it’s there. 

Realization sets on you like the rays of a setting sun. 

Your voice goes quiet again, cautious and frightened, “...I think y’know, Dal.” 

His eyes snap to yours again, never having left his. 

He knows. He’s sure it’s not an original idea, but he’s going to pretend it is and take it like it’s his own so he can feel mildly better about falling into this. 

For him, love is a myth; a mystical tall-tale told by those stupid enough to believe such nonsense is real. It exists only in the sphere of falsities, manipulative cruelty, deceit and pain. A lethal weapon at worst and a devastating weakness at best. He doesn’t know what it is, how to describe it, show it, or even that it exists. 

He is one-hundred percent, without a doubt, one of the worst options to saddle up with. And if this goes wrong, you both have far too many mutual assets to be able to survive the collateral damage. But if there’s a will…

You can see the gears turning in his head. Dallas gets like this when he’s weighing an idea; he gathers storm clouds and kinetic energy until it’s too much to contain, and that’s when he’ll strike with a judgment call. It is always precise, targeted and weighty - a proverbial bolt of lightning that reminds everyone of the severity of its conviction by the way it shakes the ground and leaves a trench. 

Finally, he lays his verdict down on you like a templar’s blade. 

“That,” his voice is rough and detached, “I want that.” 

You nearly fail to contain your shock.

Because everyone knows that once Dallas Winston wants something, he gets it. It’s a fact nearly all of Tulsa has had beaten into them. Even the police department doesn’t bother chasing after him half the time anymore. 

“Okay,” you breathe, afraid that any other reaction will undo all of this and take away one of the most precious people your life has given you. 

So you two lie there, petrified and still - two violent dogs just having sniffed each other and found some plane of reality that urges them not to bite. 

Dallas ends the gridlock by pulling you closer, analyzing your expression up and down, and apparently deciding something before continuing to pull you fully into his clavicle. It seems like some arbitrary test you’ve passed that resolutely settles something for him.

You do your own analyzing with your face buried in his neck. There is already connection, friendship, stability - trust. The love is there, even if he doesn’t know what to call it or how to show it. 

Your hackles lower. For once, you put your faith in something that isn’t concrete. 

Everything else will follow. 

A/N: unsure how I feel about the end, but Dallas is notoriously bad with this kind of stuff and I wanted to stay true to his character while also giving the finish enough depth. hope y'all enjoyed :)

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⚠️ PLOT ALERT ⚠️ IF Y’ALL DON’T WANT THE PLOT THAT COMES WITH THE PORN, THAT'LL BE IN PART 2 ⚠️

Summary: ‘But you…you have pried open his ribs with surgical accuracy, clambered into his chest cavity, and decided that you like it enough to stay - no questions asked. Over and over again you and Johnny keep choosing him, proving day after day that it isn’t shallow attraction, cheap thrills or any ulterior benefits that keep you around. 

And Dallas is finally, finally out of energy trying to run from what he wants.  

Like a starving mutt, he salivates and circles the flesh he’s been denying himself for the sake of a bigger picture. 

He’s sick of being hungry.’

PART 1 - Gnaw

Pairing: Dal x femreader

Word Count: 9606

CW/TW: pnv, dom/sub, dacryphillia, degradation, dirty talk, masturbation, AU/everybodylives/nobodydies, best friends to lovers, not really angst/not really fluff either

A/N: my first request! :,) thank you to the lovely @pinkbabydollblythe for the idea - best friends/lovers trope, ig kind of an AU cause this is technically an everybody lives/nobody dies timeline. She’s a lil hefty so i split her up into 2 parts, but i wanted to do justice to this idea, plus i’ve had a bunch of scenes laying around that i haven’t been able to use for anything else that fit well here

I’m aware that story-wise Dallas never actually ‘rented’ a room at Buck’s, but I like giving him a place to stay and find it realistic enough considering he both ~canonically~ bootlegs and jockeys for Buck (also idk if anyone else searched it up but $50 bucks back then is equivalent to like $800USD today, which is a WILD amount of money that Dal just handed to Johnny)

Cross posted to ao3 by me <3

“Who the fuck taught y’all t’play cards?”

Dallas throws his hand down on the rickety old dining table with a shit-eating grin, revealing two aces, a ten and a five. 

One pair. Damn it.

From your right side, Soda recoils and throws his hands up. 

“What?!”

Sitting opposite you, Steve is equally unimpressed: “Fuck you, Dal.”

You don’t even bother to reveal your own hand, instead chucking the cards at Dallas. 

“You taught me, cheatin’ bastard!” 

It’s late in the afternoon on a Thursday night, and so far you’ve lost three games of poker since arriving at the Curtis house a mere two hours ago. The only productive thing you’ve managed to do all day is help Darry convince Ponyboy to try out for track and field again this year. When everyone else showed up and busted out the playing cards you knew nothing constructive would come out of it. 

Your best friend dodges the rest of the cards you fling his way and laughs, neatly swiping away an incoming swat from Steve. 

“Ain’t my fault your poker faces suck,” Dallas snickers as he defends himself, “pay up, assholes.”

It’s not like he’s desperate for the money. You know for a fact that Buck pays him decently enough to bootleg liquor, plus extra from jockeying. You regularly see him give Johnny anywhere from ten to thirty bucks like it’s nothing and you know he’ll give you anything you ask for, so it feels backwards placing any cash in his slinky hands. 

Unwilling to fork over your funds just yet, you turn towards your other best friend lazing in Mr. Curtis’ old recliner. 

“Johnny, you seen him pull some slick shit or somethin’?” 

“I ain’t seen nothin’,” the newly turned seventeen-year-old raises both of his hands with a suspicious smile.

Your eyes narrow playfully.

“Traitor.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve worked together like this, but it’s all fun and games with these two. 

When Dallas moved here from New York and saddled up with the Curtis boys, you, him and Johnny somehow ended up becoming thick as thieves. 

Johnny was always one of your favorites, and you’ve been close for a long time. He’s sweet and kind-hearted - much like Ponyboy, who you also have a soft spot for. It’s bittersweet to have known these boys since childhood and watch them grow up into their own personalities when you remember making mud pies and fighting over toys with them. 

You remember sneaking into movies with Darry and Soda, nothing but candy and the promise of an adult-rated film on your minds as you sprinted through the grass to the hole in the drive-in fence. You remember Two-Bit teaching you how to drive, hollering at you not to hit the only other parked car in the empty lot you’d been practising in and consequently getting smacked by Kathy from the back seat when she declared his tone ‘too harsh’. You remember Steve sneaking you your first beer and teasing you when your face scrunched up something fierce, declaring that you were ‘never going to drink that piss water, ever’. 

Dallas hasn’t been around for quite long, but you’ve created just as many memories with him. He immediately caught your interest when he made waves as the chaotic new kid whose deadbeat Dad dragged him halfway across the country, but you didn’t judge. Back then you were only eleven and each had your own respective family problems. Your own mom was never around and your Dad was a shell of a man after Korea, ending up dead from heart complications a mere three years later. 

At fourteen, you found yourself orphaned and dead broke with not a generational penny left in sight, frantically trying to escape the clutches of a girl’s home. Your friend’s parents were incredibly sympathetic and supportive to your plight - including the Curtis folks, who always kept their door open for you and whom you miss dearly - until your survival instincts kicked in. By fifteen you had managed to convince Buck to let you rent a room above his bar, no questions asked, in exchange for free dishwashing and some sneaky counterfeit cash production. 

(You always had a good drawing hand, and Buck was right in that no one would suspect a teenage girl of such an egregious felony.)

It took two years to coerce him into allowing you to train behind the bar, but your track record helped - and when you told him you could start paying rent, he eventually cracked.

It seemed Merril had a fondness for under-the-table, cheap child labour, because he hired Dallas to do bootlegging runs just a few months after you moved in and let him rent a room not much later. 

Initially you’d been rightfully wary - especially when the problematic side of his personality started showing and nearly all of Tulsa started speaking about him the same way they spoke of Tim Shepard. But after he gained the trust of all your closest friends and further folded into your life without much ado, you two started to understand each other a bit better. 

That isn’t to say that you haven’t had your fair share of differences and humps to get over. 

In the beginning of your fifteenth year it was a common occurrence for you to exchange several heated words a day with him, forced to share your space and working environment with a frighteningly attractive guy who apparently didn’t know how to behave like an inconspicuous human being or keep the noise down when he brought any of his girls home. Your location and inability to migrate gave you no other alternative than to find creative ways to shut him up, finding it unbelievable that he could even find this many girls who were consistently available to fuck. It almost felt targeted when he read your attraction to him and, after understanding that you weren’t going to hop into bed with him easily, absolutely used it against you by bothering you with his conquests. 

It wasn’t just the noise complaints that pissed you off - it was also how badly he ran his mouth. Dallas Winston is not a guy who likes to shut up, and you’re not a girl who likes taking any flack from shitheads. He knows where the lines are and where he starts to push people's buttons, and will consistently choose to cross that threshold in what can only be described as an act of tempting entrapment, daring anyone who is brave enough to try him. 

He’s vicious, unruly and untamed; a feral thing that hasn’t really ever been corralled for long enough to be domesticated no matter how many ex-girlfriends may have tried. He refuses to be anything but himself, as awful as that may be for those around him, but you resonate with it because you have also had to survive by unapologetically taking up space and refusing to compromise. So given what he has gone through in life, his personality and values make perfect sense to you. 

You’ve always said that it’s not a surprise - he’s a violent dog, and violent dogs bite. 

What did make you rather suspicious was his reputation with women, apparently having established himself as someone who didn’t care about personal space and wouldn’t be deterred by a few slaps to the face. Rumours quickly spread about his talent between the sheets, which would have intrigued you had you not had a first row seat to it the minute he moved in. You know how good he is; it’s been shoved in your face for the better part of three years.

(Nowadays he’s nice enough to give you a heads up before he goes to town, but back then he weaponized his sex life to the point that you had to use your Dad’s old army headset for noise cancellation.)

Dallas made it very clear he was a ruthless flirt with an insatiable appetite for women, and you made it very clear you would do your damndest not to be tempted by the likes of him - no matter how many lewd comments he tossed your way. Perhaps his continued interest was due to your residential proximity and ability to match his energy without totally turning into a tongue-tied lush; after all, part of your job as a bartender is to engage in friendly banter with men that might lure them into tipping you more. 

His advances on you tamed significantly the moment you two got friendlier, and you choose to believe that it’s due to the social circle you both belong to that he can’t just avoid or get rid of if he makes a wrong move. As soon as he realized how ingrained you were with the very same guys he’d taken a liking to, the aggressive flirting and forward comments toned down. At the time you didn’t get much whiplash over it, figuring that the boys mattered to him enough that he wouldn’t risk ruining the small bit of peace he’d fostered with this found family.

Slowly but surely, platonic trust developed as mutual acts of service were exchanged. 

When you returned a pack of smokes he’d left on the banister, he responded by somehow managing to place a carton of your favorite candy into your cash register before the end of your shift. When he scared off some asshole that had somehow snuck upstairs and was waiting for you to finish work, you made sure to give him a few days of free drinks and tossed him a spark plug that the T-Bird needed as an additional note of thanks. 

The turning point was when he heard you fall out of bed and bash your head off your nightstand on your eighteenth birthday, drunk as all hell, and driven you to the hospital despite your protests. For the next few weeks while your concussion healed he was uncharacteristically considerate and quiet, ceasing all obnoxiously loud activities and spending odd amounts of spare time hanging out with your little brain-damaged ass to ‘make sure you didn’t croak’. 

Both of your hackles lowered, two animals having found shelter and company. 

After that, you started to see the similarities in each other, and when boredom struck you two quickly started defaulting to whatever shenanigans were entertaining enough to kill an afternoon together. He’d teach you how to work on cars, play cards, drift - and you’d let him laze around the bar before opening to try whatever new drinks you’d been tempted to create. You’d tag along on his liquor runs just to get out and enjoy the sunshine sometimes, soft top down and bare feet hanging out the window of the Thunderbird with a sketchbook in your lap while he dropped off copious crates of booze. You, him and Johnny would wander the city, gamble, go to street races, shoot pool, drink by the river, take random little road trips, break into abandoned buildings - anything and everything to avoid the doldrums and monotony of growing up into actual adults. 

Every single thing you know about your best friend has been a hard-earned lesson in patience and equal trade, because Dallas rarely gives without taking and that includes sensitive, personal information that could be used against him.

He’s not a nice guy by any means. He can be cruel, uncaring, and vicious, which you know very well because you two have gotten into screaming matches and arguments that would rattle the devil himself. He’s irascible, distrustful and prickly on a good day, and you regularly have to warn women who approach you at the bar seeking advice or help on how to woo him that there’s a reason he’s never been able to keep a girlfriend for more than a year. 

Attempting to change anyone into the mold you want them to fit into is dishonest and backwards, but you understand why the girls are tempted to do so - up to a certain degree. You’ve had at least a few men come into your life and be surprised that the fun, attractive young bartender they’d fallen for wouldn’t grow out of that just because they’d barely met your standards of an acceptable human being to keep around. It’s a little different because Dallas is a much harder pill for people to swallow, but the concept is the same. 

Most folks would describe him as abrasive at best and downright terrorizing at worst, though you’ve seen the ways he expresses genuine love. You’ve caught the ways he looks after his own and consistently manages to show he cares, even if it’s unintentional and rough around the edges. 

It’s what girls hope for when they get involved with him, only to find that it takes a lot of time and effort in a manner they aren’t used to in order to achieve that. It sadly results in resentment, anger and abandonment. 

That being said, you’ve also bore witness to the feedback loop enough times to see how his immaturity and disrespect contribute to it. You make it a point to remind him that he’s a horrible boyfriend whenever he complains about these women. 

“Ya went ‘n flirted with the waitress right in front of her, Dal!” 

“There ain’t one person holdin’ a gun up to your head ‘n forcin’ you to go steady with a broad…”

“Why the fuck would she stay when you told her she sucks at givin’ head?!” 

“She asked for one date an’ you took her to a drag race!”

He’s nearly hopeless, but he’s your best friend. You don’t blame any of these girls for trying to love him, and you try not to blame him for his learned cruelty. After all, why would he be an angel after everything the universe has put him through? But it gets hard to defend him after the thousandth time you hear shouting from the room next door. 

Dallas is a kaleidoscope, only properly appreciated when you pause and look at him from a very specific angle. A brief, beautiful picture that’s gone as soon as you make any sudden movement. Those who don’t know what they’re looking for won’t find it, and he never admits its existence much less trusts others enough to regularly let them search for it.

The closest he gets is right now, in this room full of people who have accepted him wholly for who he is. 

Unfortunately, it’s five o’clock and Buck’s got you on shift for six, which regrettably means you both have to abandon these wonderful people and start making your way back to the shithole you call home. It sucks to be working on a backwards schedule that takes up most of your evenings, but the cash tips make up for it when you have a good night. 

Unwilling to leave just yet, you lean on Two-Bit to watch Mickey over his shoulder while Dallas smokes on the front porch and gives Darry a hand with repairing his circular saw. Your stalling only works until he spots you through the window laughing at the TV like an eight-year-old. 

“C’mon dipshit - you got work in an hour!” Dallas calls through the screen door like a grumpy father, and you roll your eyes before patting Two-Bit on the shoulder and bidding everyone farewell.  

Johnny passes you your jacket on the way out, and you thank him with a warm smile.

“You wanna come see the races on Sunday with me and Dal, Johnnycake?” 

Your best friend nods, and Pony pokes his head out from around the corner where he’s making eggs with a forlorn glance, “I wanna come!” 

“Shh…” you’re quick to bring a finger up to your lips so he doesn’t tip Darry off about it, “...as long as ya don’t tell your brothers.”

The youngest Curtis brother disappears back into the kitchen with a secretive grin, and when you pass by Darry on the porch moments later to bid him farewell you hope he’s none the wiser. He’s still a little on edge about allowing Ponyboy out at night by himself after the events of the Fall, but it’s easy to get around that if you tell him you’ll be taking Pony out for dinner instead of a street race. It’s all one in the same anyways; it’ll be just as safe given the company he’ll be in. 

You and Dallas depart into the late afternoon with a noisy backfire and the squeal of tires moments later, bickering like siblings as you go. It’s not a far trip from the Curtis house to Buck’s, but you manage to spend all of it nagging him about his alleged cheating. 

“Fine, y’won’t admit it. Then what’s my tell?!” 

Dallas - surprisingly patient despite your persistence - pulls a face, “Now why the fuck would I go ‘n tell you that?” 

“What, like you’re makin’ a killin’ off me? I’m broke, ya bum,” you throw your hands up in a huff before suddenly remembering that you covered his bar tab a week ago, “y’owe me anyways!” 

Pushing away your outstretched hand, he takes a sharp left and laughs, “Whaddya want me t’say? Y’gotta practice, man.”

“You’re the one who taught me,” you sniff indignantly and put your feet up on the dashboard, the irony not lost on you.

Your best friend frowns over at you as your ratty old Converse leave dust prints on the padded material, no doubt thinking of having to clean the interior before Buck chews him out again. Your boss is a hardheaded ass, but he trusts Dallas implicitly - there’s a reason he lends him the car and no one else.

“Get your goddamn feet off my dash,” he smacks the side of your thigh, noise echoing dully in the Thunderbird. 

You yelp at the sting and stare back at him in incredulity, “Your dash?!” 

“Yeah - my dash,” he counters, jerking the steering wheel to make the car swerve side to side until you squeak and smack him upside the head. 

“Stop it, you ass! Gonna give me vertigo-”

“Oh I’m sorry, grandma,” Dallas jerks the vehicle one more time for good measure and ducks from the second swing you throw his way, “you wanna walk instead?” 

He’s far too cocky for someone borrowing a car, but you can’t say shit because he’s your ride everywhere. Still, you refuse to move your feet out of spite. 

“Whatever, I still think you cheated anyways,” your blatant accusation makes him snort, “you did! I know y’did! You an’ Johnny are conspirin’ against me-” 

“Conspirin’ now, are we? Big word for you, cupcake,” his interruption has you scoffing in return.

You can’t help your laughter, “You’re such a dick.” 

“That’s what they tell me.” 

His not-so-steady driving has you two already pulling onto the gravel of Buck’s lot, where he tosses the car into park and kills the engine. The lights of the day begin to make their descent, silently beckoning you away from your pleasant afternoon and back into the bar where you hope your shift will go smoothly. 

Dallas climbs out and doesn’t follow you towards the entrance, “You want anythin’ from the corner store?”

“Sweetar-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts you off with a hand and starts to walk away, “fuckin’ Sweetarts, I know. Gonna rot your teeth, stupid.” 

You watch him slink off down the block with a glower, “I ain’t the one who's gonna die from lung cancer, genius!” 

He doesn’t even turn around. A middle finger is all he graces you with, which you choose to ignore as you make your way inside and prep for opening. 

You’re one of three bartenders Buck keeps around, the other two being himself and one of Tim Shepard’s crew who doubles as a security guard whenever folks get rough. It’s an almost nightly occurrence that you thankfully don’t have to worry about too much, because whoever is stupid enough to lay hands on a woman while fifty other hoodlums are around is really asking for an early grave. 

The job isn’t bad, but because the staff roster is so small you’re forced to do a lot of jobs solo. The silver lining is that such leeway allows you to make life easier for yourself, something that you’re grateful for every time you open the fridge to see things like your mixers neatly organized and fruits already cut. Even though it’s a dive bar that illegally sells liquor by the drink and whose customer base probably doesn’t know the difference between a martini and a margarita, you like to keep things that Buck is kind enough to budget well-organized and available. It’s what sets you apart as a good bartender, and sometimes ends up getting you tips when your looks aren’t enough to convince a patron. 

A regular mentions it when he stops by at around nine, tipping you for your efforts and complimenting Buck on how smoothly the business is running. 

“Ain’t half bad, Merril - you got it all figured out with the rooms upstairs ‘n all.”

“S’respectable enough,” Buck grunts back as he gives you side-eye, “‘cept that old married couple. Y’should hear ‘em go at each other like a pack o’ dogs.” 

“Shut up, Buck,” you roll your eyes and throw a dish rag at him, watching it miss and plop to the ground like a wet napkin. 

The last word you would use for this place is ‘respectable’, and the unruly teenagers that he both employs and rents out to are testaments to that no matter how much he makes fun of you and Dallas over your lame arguments and wayward shenanigans.

The old cowboy smirks around his toothpick, “Heard ‘em say it sounds like we got a retirement community up there.”

“You’re so full of shit! Who says that?!”

Your boss doesn’t answer and conveniently chooses that moment to disappear into the back for the rest of the night, leaving you with a full bar, a pack of Sweetarts that have mysteriously been placed by the register when you weren’t looking, and a wet rag that you don’t bother picking up for another hour.

To your relief the rest of the shift goes by quite quickly, and you manage to make enough tips to constitute putting a little extra cash under your floorboards this week. By the time you’re showered and in bed, drifting off peacefully, you’ve decided it’s been pleasant enough to deem it a good day. 

Apparently, doing so meant the universe decided to throw you a very large, very inebriated, Dallas-sized curveball to prompt a reassessment. 

It’s around four in the morning when you’re jostled awake to something making a disconcerting thump and flinging your door wide open. 

As the years passed, it became a regular occurrence for both you and Dallas to simply start barging into each other’s spaces when needed even if the other wasn’t home, for reasons ranging from actual emergencies to simple requests. Privacy isn’t a problem when you both have doors that lock and it’s usually pretty easy to tell when he’s got a girl over, so you stopped caring about him randomly coming into your room ages ago. 

It doesn’t make it any less startling when it does happen, though. 

Bleary-eyed and half asleep, you jolt up in your bed only to find Dallas using your doorframe as a temporary crutch while he basically bleeds out on your fluffy little welcome mat. It would be more alarming if it was the first time something like this has happened, but it isn’t and at this point you’re half-sick of the near-panic he induces when he barges in like this. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” suddenly you’re wide awake, tugging him inside and shoving him down onto your couch, “the hell happened t’you this time?!” 

“Y’should see th’other guy,” he slurs without elaborating, grinning to show off crimson stained bone-white teeth that are far too healthy for his tax bracket. 

You don’t doubt him; you’ve seen him take on more guys than he should and win, but you’ve also stitched him up hundreds of times when the ‘other guy’ managed to get the best of him. This time it looks like he’s lost a spat with a lawnmower, and you wager said lawnmower probably didn’t start the argument. 

But he’s drunk and injured, so you take pity on him and start the process of cleaning him up for the nth time in your life. 

“Shut up - stay still,” you bark when he makes to get up for whatever asinine reason his inebriated brain has come up with, “take your fuckin’ shirt off.” 

Dallas laughs that laugh he does when he’s this fucked up - a haunted, hollow thing that irks your soul and sends a cold shiver down your spine. It’s one of your least favorite sounds he makes. It reminds you of some kind of wraith, borne of death and already resigned to a grim fate. 

“Y’wanna get me naked, doll? Jus’ had t’ask…”

It’s only during moments like this that he turns back into the unyielding flirt you know him to be, inhibitions lowered by alcohol and comfortable enough to say things that would send a nun into cardiac arrest. It’s partly your fault for continuing to allow it, but there doesn’t seem to be any downsides other than a brief ego-boost until he passes out and pretends nothing happened the next morning. You’ve just chalked it up to his nature after all these years, figuring that if he does have feelings or attraction for you he’s done the same as you and sacrificed them for the sake of your mutual friends. Little bursts of it may escape, but they're always deliberate - like pressure cuts in concrete. 

It took awhile for him to realize that such behavior, apparently more tolerated if he was drunk, wasn’t going to result in his exile as long as he didn’t cross certain lines. 

You grab the med kit where it always sits ready for action on your tiny countertop and wonder if he actually got that memo, because those lines get more and more blurred every time he’s like this.

“I wanna stop you from bleedin’ out on my damn couch,” your correction is ignored by him as he strips himself of his destroyed shirt and sprawls out on your couch like he owns the spot, far too calm for a guy leaking this much blood.

With a pointed sigh you sink down onto your bare knees beside him on the plush cushioning and start to assess his wounds, blindly unpacking your medical supplies with the practised ease of a makeshift nurse. Dallas watches you examine him with a lazy air of smug satisfaction. You can’t narrow down whether it’s because he thinks you’re enjoying the view or if he’s proud of the state he’s in. 

“Fuck’s sake,” you lament as you inspect all the nasty gashes and fresh bruising, “I ain’t even know where t’start this time, Dal.” 

“The stuff that’s bleedin’,” he supplies unhelpfully and rolls his shoulder with a wince. 

Nausea curls in your stomach when his lacerations fill with fresh blood and seep at the movement. Muscles ripple and bones shift in creepy harmony, making you flit between uneasiness and appreciation at his form. He’s built for survival. Every lean part of him sits coiled like a snake, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. 

“No shit,” you pick what looks like the worst of his injuries and go to town, “should’a been a doctor, birdbrain.” 

He’s drunk enough to quiet while you’re working and chooses to observe you with his infamous gaze - the one that people shy away from because it feels like he’s picking you apart from the inside out. He does it to everyone at some point, and you’ve been on the receiving end many a time. After all these years you still haven’t figured out exactly what it means, though you suspect it’s his way of trying to decipher something and intimidate someone at the same time.

Typically you’re able to stare back at him when he does it, but this time you’re out of energy and choose to keep your eyes focused on a deep gash that has penetrated to the fatty tissue of his upper arm. 

You don’t even bother pushing to find out what happened to him; he’ll tell you eventually, and it doesn’t really matter right this second nor in the long run. He’s covered in so many scars that by the time he dies he might actually just be one giant keloid. 

Dallas hisses and interrupts the one-sided staring contest when you douse the wound in antiseptic, frowning down at the cut in a sort of lackadaisical animosity. 

“Easy, nurse dipshit.”

“Shh,” you narrow your eyes, “y’been through worse.”

He doesn’t retort but goes back to assessing you quietly, dark gaze carefully watching each and every movement you make like he’s going to fill out a customer satisfaction survey after you’re done. It reminds you of the first time you helped patch him up, fingers shaking as you tried to stop the flow of blood from a knife wound in his abdomen. His lack of panic was unsettling and wrong. Paired with the way he’d been looking at you, it made you feel like a demigod had sent a test of your nerve as a practical joke. 

Another huff escapes him when you move on to the next laceration and drown it in disinfectant too. 

“Yeah, well get used to it, princess,” you snark back at his noise with all the attitude appropriate for a sleep-deprived nightlife worker, “got a lot more where that came from.” 

“Had it comin’,” he mumbles, unwilling to specify who or what he’s talking about.

You take a shot in the dark, because you know him well enough by now. 

“You’re just actin’ like this ‘cause Sylvia done went ‘n pissed you off,” you mutter, dabbing a nasty slice right above his eyebrow. 

Dallas grunts, but doesn’t fight you on it.

He recently had the good sense to leave her after she cheated again, even though you suspect it’s just an ego thing instead of an emotional thing. He never loved that girl - you’ve seen him love people and felt the rare rays of it shine through the canopy of overgrowth in your heart. What he gave Sylvia was very different. 

(Actual love - real, unfiltered brutal love - from Dallas isn’t spoken or obvious. He doesn’t know what it is or how to purposefully show it. So when it does appear, it’s filtered through wayward gestures, harsh moments and quiet actions that purposefully won’t create ripples, lest they are noticed and start to become expected.)

The first time he caught her cheating he’d been fairly pissed off, and after she spent two weeks groveling after him with the self-respect of a dime store hooker, he’d taken her back. Apparently she had both him and everyone else convinced that she was truly sorry, but what Dallas was actually pissed off about was knowing that every guy in town might have a fair shot at his girl. 

Your best friend swallows a mouthful of his own blood with a sickening sound and tilts his head back against the couch.

“Fuck her.” 

He can say that again. 

Sylvia is a force to be reckoned with. An annoying force, but a force nonetheless. She sinks her claws deep into any man willing to give her the time of day, and will trample over anyone and anything to ensure they stay in her life for as long as possible. You figure that her insecurities must run incredibly deep given the way she treats her body, both in terms of unsafe sex and general health choices.

It seems like harsh judgment, but you and Sylvia grew up in the same circumstances; you’ve also been poor your whole life and are no stranger to substance use or stretching meals for days, but at least you’re capable of holding down a job and discerning who you let in your pants. 

What you can’t forgive is her lack of fidelity. Cheating is a relatively easy thing to avoid if one has a sliver of a semi-decent moral compass, and even if Dallas has a less-than-favorable track record with relationships, he’s never actually cheated on any of his girlfriends. It doesn’t make him a saint or excuse any of the other toxic bullshit he does, but it does make him at least a fraction of a better partner than Sylvia. She made her true regard for him clear the first time she cheated. 

You tried to tell him that many moons ago, before he went back in the slammer for a few months, but he didn’t want to listen. It took Steve threatening to beat her to a pulp over flirting with Johnny, of all people, for Dallas to finally accept that Sylvia wasn’t worth the headache anymore. 

“Y’got bigger problems than that broad,” you try to get him off the topic and purposefully slap a disinfectant-soaked bandage over the giant gash on his pectoral. 

“Fuck!” Dallas chokes on a cough, smacking one of your legs with the back of his hand, “you bitch…”

He’s such a child, honestly. 

“Shut up,” you murmur while your deft fingers work on the dried blood to separate wound from scab, “...so dramatic.” 

At least he’s behaving somewhat normally now. You’ll take this version of Dallas any day over the brooding, terrifying version that feels like the devil is looking right into your soul. This version is predictable. 

As a petty response to his insult you prod the cut on his ribs a little too harshly and wordlessly ask for forgiveness from no one in particular. 

It completely backfires. 

“God-” he grits his teeth and growls while grinning up at the ceiling, “do that again, baby.”

The little masochist in him never fails to come out whenever his pain and intoxication create the perfect combination for it, and despite your best efforts and how used to hearing them you are, the comments and tone of voice still make you flush. It’s just obscene. 

When he spies your reaction he can’t help the suggestive, dopey smile that follows, and reacts the same way when you move on to cleaning the next injury with much more care than before. He’s not exactly playing it up - you know it hurts, but he’s not holding back any of his reactions like he would sober. They’re just being combined with his filthy little mind and voracious libido.

He positively groans at the burn of alcohol meeting open flesh, suggestive and unnecessarily indecent. 

“Love it when you’re rough, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes and try to stop him from wiggling around, blush now reaching your chest. 

“Such a freak…” you mutter as you try to press a butterfly bandage into his eyebrow, “stay still, asshole!” 

Dallas snickers, and his hands stay on you as he quiets. His inquisitive gaze is gone, replaced by carefully fond eyes that watch you with a reserved sort of reverence. The hand resting on your thighs flips and makes itself comfortable gripping your smooth skin, tightening when you disinfect the abrasion on his cheekbone. 

He has no qualms about touching you on a semiregular basis; he’ll tug you in random directions on the sidewalk, play fight, rearrange your limbs if they’re in his way - but this is different. 

You’re about to crack and ask him what on earth is up with him when his thumb brushes over something that makes him stop. 

“Hell’s this?” 

You look down, seeing where his fingers have found the slice on your bare thigh. You never wear pants to bed, which historically has not been much of an issue but is now kind of biting you in the ass. 

“Ice machine got me,” you explain, forcing down a shiver when his big hands go to examine the cut further, “s’fixed, though.” 

The wound is shallow and scabbed over - it just looks gnarly at first glance. 

Buck refuses to hire a repairman unless absolutely necessary, so you and Dallas tend to end up doing a lot of the repairs around the bar. That includes malignant machinery that refuses to perform up to standard, like the ice machine that kept leaking coolant and making an odd whirring sound until you took it apart a few days ago.

“Look at’cha,” Dallas huffs a wet laugh, “lil mechanic.” 

You’re unable to contain a light snort at that as you continue patching him up, “Mechanic?” 

His fingers grip you a little harder, “Shuddup, y’know what I mean.” 

“Mhm.” 

He pipes up again a second later: “I swear I was gonna fix that.”

You scoff, “Yeah, okay big guy.”  

His head lolls against the couch to make fun of you some more, but stops when he apparently spies some detail previously missed. 

”S’that my shirt?” 

You look down at the large black shirt you have on, puzzled on why he’s pointing it out. 

“I think? I’ve had it for ages, Dal.” 

It’s one of the copious articles of clothing you’ve kept from him over the years without a second thought, finding it comforting and inconsequential when he’s literally your best friend and lives right next door to you. Dallas sees you in his clothes all the time; you’re fairly certain a third of your closet is crap he’s grown out of or shit you kept after borrowing. 

His inebriated mind takes a second to process what you’ve just said before tiredly slurring out a response. 

“Look good wearin’ my stuff, sweetheart.” 

Heat zips down your spine at the compliment, forcing you to sit a little tighter and inhale sharply. Whatever this little moment is between you two is quickly breaching the territory of forbidden fruit, and the contained crush you sealed in a metaphorical lockbox ages ago jerks painfully. 

You mumble a confused word of thanks and try to hide the reaction behind your treatment of his next wound, but you see his secretive little smile when he closes his eyes and rests his head back on the couch. 

It’s not your fault, okay? Your brain can’t help it. You never properly confronted your romantic feelings for him and it’s been a long time since an attractive guy has touched you. You have difficulty trusting men, and you’d rather not deal with the headache of a one night stand unless it’s absolutely necessary. And as of late, both your own two hands plus any meagre options surrounding you means you don’t meet your own requirements to initiate a random hookup yet. You’re doing just fine on your own. 

…right? 

It doesn’t matter - in fact, you shouldn’t even be concerning yourself with the subject of your lust despite his awareness of the effect he has. You don’t want to ruin your friendship, and since you’re the sober one right now it’s your responsibility to-

Your very rational train of thought ends when his hand slides down to your hip, dangerously close to your ass. It’s an abnormally handsy move for him, and his palm feels like it’s burning a mark into your skin. 

You look up at him from where you’re tending to his ribs on his other side, but his eyes are still closed and you just can’t bring yourself to say anything. It feels too good to have the want you have buried away for him returned again that you selfishly keep quiet even if tomorrow this whole thing will be ‘forgotten’. 

As silently as possible, you finish patching him up and pack up your med kit with unsteady hands. You don’t even return it to its proper spot, leaving it at the other end of the couch so you don’t have to get up and disturb him. 

He’s so warm. Even shirtless is a cold room he radiates heat, beckoning for you to lay your head in the crevice of his shoulder and pass out like you do when he forces you to go see a movie you have no interest in or takes you drinking at the lake. 

Unfortunately, you’re exhausted and your bed is calling your name. As much as you’d love to unpack and fantasize about whatever the hell this is, it doesn’t trump your need for rest, and that’s what finally gets you to break your silence. 

“Nurse dipshit has t’go to bed, Dal,” you murmur, checking the hold on one of his bandages. 

His response time is frighteningly fast and his tone far too steady for someone as plastered as you thought he was. 

“Is nurse dipshit keepin’ me for observation? Might die of blood loss.”

Your lips part in mute surprise just as he reopens his eyes, dark orbs cracking open to peer playfully at you. 

What the hell? 

He doesn’t typically pass out at your place unless he’s full-blown drunk and unable to make it ten feet next door, but here he is very clearly asking for your permission to stay. Someone must have really hit him hard tonight, because the only other viable explanation is that he’s more sober than you think and actively choosing to still push this agenda. 

A little taken aback, your typical demeanour turns into something softer and more perplexed. 

“Y-you wanna stay here?” 

“Unless you got other patients comin’,” he somehow settles further into the couch, “don’t wanna stop you from havin’ your fun, doc.” 

As if. It’s incredibly rare for you to have men over in your safe space, and you prefer not to shit where you eat. Besides, the last few guys have been especially disappointing, and you’d rather not sit through another round of ‘find the clit’ whilst battling paranoia that your fucking best friend might hear you through the wall. For all you know, your escapades have historically gone unnoticed - and you’d rather it stay that way. 

Some of your attitude seeps back in at the suggestion of gentlemen suitors frequenting your room, “In what world d’you remember me havin’ any fun company over here?” 

His heavy hand on your hip still burns, but it squeezes just barely enough for you to notice. At the same time he licks blood off his lower lip and keeps it between his teeth for a second, refusing to break eye contact while he responds in a suggestive tone.

“Y’want a real answer, sweetheart?” 

You feel your cheeks heat and your mouth drop open against your will as the implications of what he’s just said settle in your head. The fact that he has likely noticed other guys coming to your room and probably heard the god-awful noises of you consistently being let down by them is mortifying for so many different reasons.

Realizing that he likely has just baited you into admitting this information on purpose, you bristle. It’s enough to make you want to disappear into the couch cushions, wide eyes comically large as he grins with all the smugness of a cat that ate the canary. 

There isn’t much else to do or say other than shut down; this is entirely overwhelming, and your fatigue is threatening to have to pass out on this couch - something you desperately should avoid. At this point you don’t care if he comes or goes. The damage has been done.

In the end, the most reasonable response ends up being a resounding and rather squeaky sounding ‘g’night, Dal’ as you rip yourself from his grasp and scramble away from the couch.

His snickers follow you to your bed, where you yank the covers over your head and swaddle yourself like a nesting animal, silently praying that this shirtless little demon will be gone by the time you wake up. 

You yank the emergency brake on the thoughts running a mile a second and basically force yourself to give in to sleepiness, figuring that if you stop interacting with him he’ll either get bored and leave or pass out. You wish with every fibre of your being that in the morning this will all blow over, or that he’ll at least have the decency to pretend he forgot about it. 

If this is some kind of cruel joke, it’s way out of line. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now,” his husky tone teases you from beyond your soft cocoon of safety, “y’look cute when you blush-”

Your voice is shrill when you all-but yelp from under the covers, “I said g’night, Dal!”

The last thing you hear before falling asleep is his cajoling laughter, and the first thing you hear in the mid-morning is the door quietly closing as he presumably takes his leave. You’re surprised he ended up staying the whole night and make to shout after him so that you can check on his bandages, but you stop with a startle when you remember what’s transpired.

It has you downright petrified to run into him, which is exactly what you feared would happen if this kind of dynamic was introduced in your friendship. Anxiety plagues you while you get ready for the day and refuse to leave your room unless absolutely necessary, pacing and sketching and surviving off of stockpiled snacks. 

By some grace of God, at noon you hear a palm smack your door three times in rapid succession, paired with the very same voice you’ve been dreading to hear. Except…it’s normal.

“Hurry up dumbo, we gotta be at the DX in twenty!”

Shit - you’re supposed to pick up caliper bolts from Steve and Soda. You completely forgot about that. Saturday’s plan was to change out the brake pads and calipers on the T-Bird, which you honestly were looking forward to doing. 

Wishes apparently having come true regarding the total memory wipe from last night, you put down your sketchbook and take a deep breath before responding.

“Jesus, okay! Fuckin’...gimme five minutes!”

(It’s really no wonder Buck’s customers insist that there’s cranky spouses living up here.)

You feel your cortisol lowering as the reality of your luck settles. Either he’s being courteous by not holding your reactions over your head, or the liquor actually did get to him and he can’t remember the interaction. Either way it seems like he’s not acknowledging what happened, and you’re certainly not going to bring it up. You can’t deny that a small slice of you quietly dies at that, but you try your best to snuff that part out and stuff it down the garbage shute in your mind. 

Contently carrying on with your day, you remain blissfully unaware of the minefield in his head.

Dallas is thinking - actually thinking, which is something rather rare for him. He thinks and thinks until his brain is mush and you infiltrate every spare thought, unhelped by your ceaseless presence in both life and mind. Then, he thinks some more. It’s uncanny and unlike him to put this much mental energy into anything. 

For the first couple days he doesn’t explicitly say anything, taking care to behave ‘normally’ and calculating what the best course of action is.

On one hand he can’t really help himself; you’ve always been a bombshell that’s frustratingly ‘off limits’, but if he does take the plunge he can’t do it halfway. It’s no longer just because of the friends and living space you share - it’s now because he doesn’t want to lose you. 

He’s been hesitant to pull the trigger on any kind of serious relationship for years. Girlfriends are considered entertainment at best, and after twenty years on this planet he’s realized he’s not in the business of being an emotionally intelligent person or a particularly doting partner. He even keeps his close friends at a careful distance, other than you and Johnny. It’s enough to convince most people he’s heartless. 

But you…you have pried open his ribs with surgical accuracy, clambered into his chest cavity, and decided that you like it enough to stay - no questions asked. Over and over again you and Johnny keep choosing him, proving day after day that it isn’t shallow attraction, cheap thrills or any ulterior benefits that keep you around. 

And Dallas is finally, finally out of energy trying to run from what he wants.  

Like a starving mutt, he salivates and circles the flesh he’s been denying himself for the sake of a bigger picture. 

He’s sick of being hungry. 

By the third day he still hasn’t decided how he wants to go about this, but he can no longer turn off the part of him that is always screaming to touch you and keep you close. 

Consequently, by the fourth day he’s being physical in ways that you can’t quite pin down as ‘out of the norm’ for him but your brain registers as off. It’s like his touches linger. 

When he passes behind you at the bar to grab the liquor run list from the back, he guides you out of the way with a warm hand on your waist that stays for just a second too long, fingers clenching down ever so slightly before he releases you entirely and moves on. When you’re laid out on the couch at Darry’s watching some awful horror movie with your legs in his lap, he rests a hand dangerously high on your thigh and lets his thumb absentmindedly stroke a rhythmic pattern into your jeans. When you can’t reach the tequila sitting on the top rack of the stock room, he crowds you against the shelves with a heavy palm on your hip and retrieves it easily before grabbing what he needs for his run and fucking off. 

It would already be far too much on its own. It becomes borderline overwhelming paired with the little comments and low murmurs on the fifth day - things said in a sultry, comforting tone that you know he doesn’t use without good reason. 

When your room’s door is stuck again and he urges you aside so he can shove it open with no issue: “Move, sunshine. I got it.”

When he leans low over you to spy on your cards while you’re playing poker with Steve and Soda, helping you win for the first time in weeks by speaking into your ear: “You trust me? Call his bluff.” 

When he’s got the key for the bar’s safe that you need and pretends to give it to you, only to fake you out a second later and kiss his teeth at you while you glower and swipe for it: “Too slow, kid. C’mon, you gotta want it.” 

When you find your favorite shirt that went missing a year ago behind your dresser and he passes you in the hall, eyes unabashedly dropping to your cleavage before speaking around the unlit cigarette in his mouth: “Y’look good, doll.” 

It’s driving you nuts, and Dallas knows exactly how he’s affected you on a subconscious level. All of his behaviors could be plausibly deniable, and some are genuinely just a result of him refusing to check his hormones anymore, so even he doesn’t catalogue everything he’s doing differently. 

He sees how on edge you are. Your tension bleeds into every other movement and conversation you make. He knows it kind of makes him a manipulative ass, but he grins when he hears you nearly shout at a rude regular whom you normally never give the time of day, and he flat-out laughs when you throw the remote at Steve’s head because the idiot changed the channel on your favorite show.

It’s like the static charge before a lightning strike - there’s kinetic vibration in the air that comes off as anger, but he can read the need behind it. You’re brimming with concupiscent energy, sitting so ripely underneath your skin that he can almost taste it. 

By the end of the week, all the wayward touches and comments have left you dazed and heavy with want. You guess that it’s because Dallas has re-attuned your awareness to the opposite sex and you’re just oversensitive to his behaviors after having denied yourself so long, or perhaps you’re ovulating particularly horribly this month, but either way you find yourself cancelling your plans and hiding yourself in your room as soon as Buck gives you the next night off. 

It’s then that you truly start to lose your mind. 

You’ve never felt this kind of heat before; no matter how many times you work yourself over and make yourself cum, it won’t satiate you. Your fingers aren’t long enough, the mental images aren’t doing it, and your body still feels like an exposed nerve. 

Five disappointing orgasms and one miserable shower later, it’s eight o’clock and you’re ready to admit defeat. 

You need something - someone, anyone - but your options are limited. You don’t want to give up, much less travel to some other sleazy bar just to pick up a slimeball you’ll regret entertaining later, and you’re convinced that who you actually want isn’t a real option. The need for him has to be burned away like some infection, but the fever won’t break. 

So your go-to thought is to grab a pillow and do your best with your imagination, grateful that you’re the only tenant upstairs right now. You triple checked to make sure.

It feels desperate and filthy, but the slight relief feels like a cool balm against whatever frenzy has gripped you. The fabric is immediately ruined after the first couple rolls of your hips, stained with slick as it becomes forced into whatever servitude lies between your thighs.

Like some teenage fantasy come to life you quickly lose yourself in the mental image of his fingers curling into you and holding you down, voice in your ear urging you on. No matter how much you corral your thoughts or shove him out of your brain, he manages to slip back into your mind. 

Without thinking, his name slips from your lips between shaky whimpers and needy whines, echoing softly in your empty room and taunting you with a lack of response. 

Until-

A noise comes from behind the dividing wall that you and Dallas share - a brief, sudden thing that sounds like a dropped lighter or the shut of a drawer. 

It might as well have been a bomb. Your chest constricts like someone has just tossed a bucket of ice water on you and you freeze, briefly wondering if a fall from a second story window would kill you. 

You are fucked. You are so, so fucked. 

If he heard you, there won’t be any coming back from this. You’ll have to move - change countries, even. Maybe Mexico is nice this time of year. 

Stuck in the depths of your panic-induced spiral, you sit there naked as the day you were born and continue to think the worst, with basically no weight given to the possibility of anything positive coming from this. 

It’s a completely different story from his end. 

Truth be told, Dallas was just looking for an excuse to go upstairs. The bar is way too crowded, he’s already done with liquor runs for the day, Two-Bit is pissing him off, and he doesn’t feel like leaving the building. His original plan was to fuck off for a good hour, shower, maybe take a nap, and then decide if he wanted to go back downstairs. Those ideas are thrown out the window the moment he walks into his place and hears the tiny mewls and whimpers echoing from next door. 

He stops in his tracks and listens. 

You’re not supposed to be home. Buck gave you the night off, and Kathy and Evie were supposed to pick you up and take you to the drive-in hours ago. If you are home, something is clearly wrong, because initially you sound like you’re in pain and it worries him into thinking the worst. 

But then you let out another whine, and it takes him all of two seconds to recognize what’s going on. 

Dallas can’t help the lecherous smile that forms and keeps quiet, satisfaction settling thick at the evidence of his teasing getting to you. The mental picture is enough to drive all the blood out of his brain. 

He crosses his arms and leans against the wall to hear you better, cataloguing each noise that carries from your mouth like a devout zealot listening to a priestess preach some holy gospel. It’s divine; you may as well be an angel signalling the rapture, and he’s the smug doomsayer that correctly predicted it all. 

“Dal…” 

His smile drops as his whole body pulses.

That’s his name. You just said his fucking name. 

It’s the first spoken evidence of how you feel, and suddenly this whole thing becomes very real. It’s you in there - his best fucking friend, who he’s been working up like a lamb to slaughter all week and is none the wiser to what his intentions actually are. The extent of his depravity is lost on you; you have no idea that he’s listening from the other side of the wall, harder than he’s ever been in his life and gritting his teeth to stop himself from walking in on you. 

Head to the wall in sheer agony, Dallas makes a split second decision and lets his lighter drop to the floor with a resounding clatter. 

The signal works; your noises abruptly stop. 

Lightheaded and out of his mind with lust, he tries to recenter himself. He knows two things: one is that you both want the same thing, and the second is that you don’t want him to know about it at all. 

⚠️SMUT ALERT!!! FILTHY, DIRTY SMUT ALERT!!! ⚠️

Pairing: Dal x femreader

Word Count: 5786

CW/TW: pnv, squirting, dom/sub (you’re on top but you’re not really a top ya know?), dacryphillia, degradation, dirty talk, overstim, established relationship, aftercare(kind of?), some fluff, multiple orgasms

A/N: not my original idea! Inspired by ‘Adorable’ by Slater_Babe on ao3

FYI I didn’t know that there’s a soda brand called ‘Squirt’ and it took everything in me not to use ‘Diet Squirt’ for the title…too on-the-nose ;)

cross posted to ao3 by me <3

It has not been your best day. 

The store ran out of your favorite cookies, your girlfriend cancelled a hangout because apparently she’d rather see her stupid ex-boyfriend over you, the car’s been making a weird noise, and your boss scheduled you to work a double shift on Sunday. 

Every day you get closer and closer to quitting your job; it’s become overwhelmingly tempting to say screw it all and just bartend at Buck’s instead. Ever since he fucked off to Montana with some pretty young thing and left the place to Dallas, you’ve been feeling the urge to spit in your manager’s face and hightail it out of his ratty little diner. 

The change in employment would certainly make the commute easier - you’ve been living in the renovated apartment above the bar for about a year now and it feels like having constructed a private little slice of heaven. Your loving, calloused hands have pulled wires, framed walls and lain tile in the place to transform it from a dump into a home, so leaving it behind every day to keep some soul-sucking job while your man runs the bar feels entirely backwards. It feels like you should be there, growing the seed you so lovingly planted and tended to. Such a notion is hardly far-fetched when you’ve brought so much life into the place, alongside your collection of lava lamps, exceptionally interesting rocks, and kitschy salt and pepper shakers. 

It’s depressing and disheartening, but maybe it’s exactly the headspace you need to be in to make a change in your life for the better. Still, a shitty day is a shitty day, and when you get home to see that Dallas has yet again placed the entire frying pan of scrambled eggs into the fridge instead of a container like a sane person, you just about lose it.

Only one thing could possibly make you feel better right now, and when your boyfriend walks by with the very last of the cookies you were supposed to replace, you see the last of said thing disappear into his mouth.

“Hey shortstack,” Dallas greets you around chews and doesn’t register how your expression changes, “you’re home early.”

He breezes by you with a kiss to your temple and a smack on your hip, reaching for the container of orange juice in the fridge that he proceeds to drink directly out of the carton. 

Your vision slowly turns red, but Dallas still doesn’t notice the change in demeanour. 

“Ain’t you s’posed t’be with whatsherface? Star?” 

Estelle, you want to scream for the hundredth time, fully aware that he’s probably doing it on purpose. You don’t even bother to correct him - it’s been years and he still hasn’t learned her name because he says she ‘ain’t a good friend’.

(He’s probably right, but you’re not going to tell him that right now.)

Dallas finally picks up on your rapidly heating glare and muteness with a frown, “...what’s eatin’ you?” 

Any type of answer or conversation would be useless here; he’s more of an action over words guy anyways, so you do nothing but glower and drag him by the collar to your bed, mind set on the second best thing that’s going to soothe you after the day you’ve had. It involves nothing but his dick, which you intend to use as an emotional-support dildo for however long you feel like it. 

He puts two and two together fairly quickly and doesn’t fight it when you push him onto the mattress, reflexively going to support your waist with a breathless laugh as you straddle him. 

Ever the comedian, he starts to joke around a smug smile, “Y’know, I charge by the hour-” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, shoving him down onto his back and resisting the urge to smack the lascivious expression from his face.

It’s incredibly rare for you to take charge in the bedroom, but on the rare occasion you do he relishes in it like the cat who ate the canary, basically backseat driving the entire time in that supercilious way and teasing you for being entirely out of your element. This time, it’s a little different. You’re pissed, overstimulated and ready to burst.  

Dallas props himself up to get a better look at you, suspicion intermingling with blind lust. 

“The hell’s up with you, cupcake?”

His confusion is fair; it’s not often that anger leads to sex in your relationship even if you two go at it like rabbits. But you don’t want to elaborate right now, so you kiss him in lieu of an explanation and successfully sidestep his line of questioning. He figures whatever he’s done can’t be all that bad if you’ve literally dragged him into bed and basically started humping him, so he forgoes trying to riddle out your reasoning behind this little outburst. 

Not much foresight goes into prep other than a hand down his pants and a bit of saliva, which means he’s splitting you open in the next thirty seconds while you moan and gasp above him. It’s a daunting task given how much time he dedicates to opening you up most days before taking his cock, but you make it work. 

“Fuck-” Dallas chokes as you sink down, eyes locked on your pussy struggling to stretch around him, “Christ, doll.”

You don’t dignify him with a response, bullying the rest of him into you with a pathetic mewl and not sparing a second before starting to move your hips,  finding it a little tricky with how tight a fit you are around him. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for your body to catch up to where you want to be, slick rapidly building up and easing your movements. 

He’s so deep, and you’re unwilling to sacrifice any more of the heavenly stretch than necessary by properly riding him. None of this is for his pleasure, so you stick to grinding back and forth where your poor, puffy little clit is swelling up with blood. 

Neither of you have even bothered to undress other than to slide your panties off, but now that sweat is starting to build up you find yourself utterly annoyed by your cute little sundress and shuck it off with an annoyed whine. 

Dallas immediately takes advantage, going to grope your tits and tease at your nipples with a throaty groan. Because it’s to your advantage, you ignore it and let the little jolts of electricity travel down to your throbbing pussy. Slowly but surely, the brainless state of suspended ecstasy takes hold of you and lowers a fog in your mind. 

Wretched mewls and cries of relief escape you as your frantic motions continue, trembling hands planting themselves on his warm abdomen where you dig your fingers and use the traction to help your pace. You’re so, so full, absolutely addicted to the way his cock stretches you out.

Genuinely, you don’t think there’s a way you could live without it anymore. Nymphomania always seemed like such a ridiculous foreign concept until Dallas got you hooked on him - now you feel like an addict when you beg for him to fuck you into oblivion and pump you full of his cum. It’s almost concerning how badly you never want to be empty. 

It’s why this case is a little off-track for you; you’re usually the one reduced to a puddle of tears under him, not on top of him. The tune is the same, but the lyrics read differently. 

You communicate none of this to him and don’t let him know how badly you need this, already a quivering slave to the tension in your lower belly. It’s all too often that you find yourself using sex as a release during times of stress, and this instance is apparently no different. That heavy feeling of ooey-gooey impending rapture turns you into a ditzy airhead and makes your mouth drop as pleasure zips down your spine. Like some kind of feral animal, you gasp needily as you try to keep your pace. From where he’s patiently watching underneath you, letting you take charge, he smooths his hands up your hips slow and sneaky, apparently having forgotten that you are hardwired to his every move and pattern by now. Your brain changes frequencies around him - he’s the only one you’ve tuned into so innately over all these years. 

“Y’gonna lemme help?” Dallas murmurs lowly, reaching up to lightly pinch your nipple, “you’re a mess, doll.” 

You whine and swat his hand away, out of breath and incapable of uttering anything other than a fractious moan: “Sh-shut up, Dal-!”

“Oh, we’re gonna play it like that?” 

The disapproving kiss of his teeth vaguely registers somewhere in the depths of your lust-addled brain, but you pay it no mind. You’ll deal with the consequences of whatever this is after you’re satiated. 

When your first orgasm finally bubbles over and reduces you to a puddle of whines and whimpers, you hear him curse darkly and feel him steady your trembling form. Instead of sparing any energy to rid yourself of his hands again, you brace yourself against his hold.

You haven’t even fully come down before you’re moving again, vicious gasps escaping you as you chase the overstimulating high that whispers promises of multiple orgasms if you work hard enough. It’s then that Dallas realizes you’re simply not going to stop, and lets his mouth fall open with a choked grunt when you move rougher against him, trying to take him deeper.  

“Needy little-”

He gets interrupted when you surprise him with a sudden rise and fall of your hips, properly riding him for a change. It punches a rather colorful swear from his chest and leaves him breathless again, made quiet by your movements and soft, needy moans as your hips keep rolling. 

Your pussy is absolutely dripping now, quickly having caught up to how lust-addled your brain is. A mixture of cum and slick rapidly becomes a glaring side effect, coating his abdomen and soaking the sheets below. When his awestruck gaze falls from your face to where you two are connected, he spies the thick ring of cream around the base of his dick and a dangerously sharp jolt of pure pleasure threatens to ruin his composure. 

You’re visibly swollen, puffy and raw, cunt already abused with how violently you’re rubbing and dropping yourself down on him. Somehow he manages to gather enough composure to speak, even if the heat of it all is sitting on his chest with the weight of a V12 engine. 

“C’mon baby,” he toys with your breast and lets his hand sink lower, “lemme help…y’hear how bad you need me?”

The sounds he’s referring to are downright obscene; explicit noises of moist that echo in the room with every pass of your hips. With each roll they seem to get worse as more leaks out of you, and if you weren’t already so worked up and flushed you’re sure the blush would stretch to your chest by now. 

“Mm-mn,” you deny and paw him away again with a weak whine, “s-stop it!” 

Dallas laughs in disbelief, holding both his hands up in surrender. 

“Little miss attitude, huh?” 

“No! Hnngh-” you toss your head back and completely refute his accusation as heat crawls up your spine and needles its way down your tummy, “-o-oh, fuck!”

The wave of your next orgasm is already cresting, wracking your frame and making you shake viciously against him until your hips stumble and the peak hits. The contractions are so intense you’re winded from the sheer strength of them, nearly forgetting to breathe for a second as you white out and come back to yourself with a breathless gasp. It’s almost painful, and this time you release a dry sob once the worst of it has passed, head hanging in absolute misery when the fire in your core still hasn’t extinguished. 

You’re still far away from begging for his help; you won’t subject yourself to that quite yet even if you know this would all go by a lot smoother if you just asked nicely for him to fuck you dumb. Try as you might to hide that fact, Dallas can tell what’s going on. 

“I know you’re lookin’ for that one spot, angel,” he rumbles patronizingly, brushing a knuckle against your clit and snickering when you swat his hand away tiredly, “I told ya - can’t do it on your own.” 

You know, and it’s maddening. None of this is as satisfying as it is when he’s participating, but you refuse to admit it right now. 

All Dallas sees of your internal monologue is an infuriated whine and your hips starting back up again. He’s seen you this out of it before, but to watch you attempt to do this all yourself is the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life, even if you’re clearly struggling. 

He huffs unhappily and watches you writhe, now torn between sympathy and something darker. 

“Jesus honey,” this time his voice is actually coated in pity - like you’re some fallen divine thing that can’t find its way back to the holy land, “look at’cha, poor fuckin’ thing. Y’sure you don’t want my hands on you?”

You do your best to pretend like you aren’t listening, because for all intents and purposes you might as well not have ears right now. The only time you react is when he goes to slide his hands up your thighs and gets too close to the live bomb sitting between your legs, making you jerk and cry out.

He hisses and slides his shirt up, giving you a perfect little happy trail to follow as if he’s telepathically cuing in to what you need. Even if he’s just trying to tempt you and it’s not intentional - you can see the way his eyes stray to your ruined pussy - there’s no hiding his attunement to you. 

This time you don’t even bother to swipe his hands away from your chest, letting him grope his little heart out while you squirm and sob above him. You feel like you’re going to crack under the pressure of the next orgasm that’s rapidly building up, bubbling just under the surface of your skin and threatening to release lava throughout your veins. 

Your legs burn, your tear ducts are nearly empty, and you’re pretty sure your thighs are going to be sticky for a couple days, but you can’t stop. 

“Mm-! Ffffuckkk,” you’re slurring your words, nearly on autopilot and barely intelligible, “m’gonna cum again-”

“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he exhales through a low groan, licking his lower lip and bucking his hips up into you, “go on - make a mess on my cock.” 

As much as you started off this journey pretty pissed off with him and the power bottoming is absolutely unfair, his words do help, and with them you teeter over the edge with a vulgar cry. Every cell in your body jolts with pure energy, fizzing like fresh cola on ice, while you cling to him like a barnacle and sob once more. 

Dallas truly expects you to be done by now given how weak and tearful you are, but to his complete shock you lift yourself up and slam back down on him like you still haven’t been satisfied. It’s enough to both concern and frustrate him if it weren’t so fucking hot - somewhere in the back of his mind he knows you can’t keep this up forever. 

“Baby…” he trails off with a salacious groan when your motions force him deeper. 

You pay him no mind and continue bouncing, the tendrils of pleasure refusing to relinquish you just yet. You’re still in that in-between state of oversensitivity where you know you can cum again if you just push it a little further; maybe if you’re lucky you’ll be elevated into some sixth sense that’s just one long permanent orgasmic rush so you’ll never have to have another bad day again. His dick catches a spot inside you that makes you gasp wetly, “Ah-! F-fuck…”

You’re fully sobbing, tears pooling along the waterlines of your eyes and trailing down your cheeks. The sight of them makes Dallas throb angrily inside of you. He wants to bottle them up and drink them down like shots. 

There is no other way to explain your current state of mindlessness other than pure hunger, starving to continue the continuous state of nirvana you’ve put yourself in. As long as you’re in that euphoria, the dopamine makes every little problem go away, so you fight to keep yourself in it. 

“Oh my fucking God yes,” you cry as you another orgasm sneaks up on you and you cum again, pussy viciously milking him. 

The strength of it forces you to pause as your hips naturally buck down on him, humping like a dog in rut. It’s dehumanizing and borderline vile, but the filth just makes your skin crawl in that itchy need-to-get-my-brains-fucked-out kind of way. 

Dallas grits his teeth through it and watches in bewilderment as you start again, mewls infiltrating the part of his brain responsible for rational thought. His self-control is actually pretty decent despite what the general population of Tulsa may think, but it’s quickly depleting with every sound that comes out of your mouth and every time you start your movements again.

“Gotta be kiddin’ me…” somehow he manages to sound both exasperated and starstruck at the same time, “darlin’-”

You try to quiet him with a feisty growl, but it comes out more of a desperate whine.

It makes him laugh at you again, persistent hands staying at your hips and helping your movements. The gesture infuriates you for no reason, but you give up trying to correct him because you can feel another orgasm building up in your toes. It moves upwards through your body as it tightens every muscle and constricts your lungs, cracking your voice on a high pitched moan to transform it into a frantic cry. 

The buildup feels the same, but this time something feels different when the peak hits. 

“Hhn - ah! Dallas-” your voice has shifted into something more urgent, immediately changing his tune.

Out of pure reflex he props himself up and braces you with one large hand on your sternum, “What’s wrong, doll?” 

You don’t have the capacity to warn him, only able to release a broken cry before the proverbial dam breaks. Instead, he’s forced to feel it when your pussy clamps down around him like a vice and starts gushing cum, spurting with every lift of your shaking hips. 

“Oh shit-” Dallas chokes, utterly captivated at a sight he hasn’t seen from this angle before. 

Starving, shaky cries of desperation are escaping you in droves, paired with every single move you make. Your hips bear down on him, reflexively canting over and over again as you soak him, releasing senseless wails and digging your fingernails deep enough in his pelvis to draw blood. 

Squirting isn’t anything new for you, but it’s something that is difficult to achieve if you’re on your own and even less so when he isn’t helping you along. He knows your body better - has studied your reactions enough to write a book on how you tick - and is able to corral you past the point of mild discomfort that typically shies you away from trying on your own. 

This one entirely snuck up on you instead of feeling that typical sharp sensation of too much while he presses a hand down on your stomach and fingers you into oblivion or the usual overwhelming pressure inflicted by his dick reaching spots in you you couldn’t even imagine.

You’re absolutely destroyed, sopping wet and boneless, thoroughly having soaked both his clothes and the sheets beneath you. Finally, you collapse onto his chest a sniffling mess and acknowledge him as a real entity in whatever realm you’ve floated into, still mildly unsatiated and thoroughly wrecked.

Dallas cages you into his chest and lets you calm down like he always does after one of your meltdowns, always happy to be of service as a shield against whatever shitty things are stressing you out. It becomes ironic when that thing is him, though, because it’s kind of like trying to mail the post office - even if he does a brilliant job of talking and calming you down from whatever dumb shit he’s done to piss you off. 

Truly and with your whole heart you can say that this man has a unique propensity and talent for pushing people’s buttons and then somehow corralling them back in once they’ve gotten annoyed with him. 

You lie there on his warm chest, weak and twitchy and teary, hoping that he’ll be understanding enough about your plight to not exact any torturous revenge. 

Unbeknownst to you, Dallas is seriously debating it. 

He’s never been this hard. There’s nearly no blood left in his brain, which impacts his capacity for rational thought as he listens to your breathing pattern and mulls over what to do with you. Obviously you’re irked about something or the other, but there’s always been a give and take in your sex life - a ubiquitous balance that he carefully upholds because you often can’t be trusted to control your own lush impulses. 

Which he understands given how obsessed you are with each other, so he decides to play (somewhat) nice. 

“Had enough, sweetheart?” His tone is careful and patient, like a parent with a tantrumming child, “gonna lemme give you what y’need?”  

You sniffle some more and try to hide in his shoulder, but end up nodding either way. It’s the only permission he needs before he’s gently pulling you off of him with an obscenely wet sound and maneuvering you onto your stomach. 

He hushes you when you mewl and trill at the commotion, suddenly empty after having been so intensely filled for so long. 

“Shh, I know. Needy fuckin’ girl,” Dallas hums, “fucked yourself dumb, huh?” 

Through your peripherals, you see him strip his shirt off leisurely before leaning down low over you. One warm hand traces up the inflection of your waist all the way to the base of your neck, where he wraps your hair in one hand and uses it to pull your head up out of the sheets so he can gauge your level of awareness. 

A cruel laugh leaves him when he spies your teary-eyed, fucked-out expression.

“Yeah y’did,” he lets go of your hair to push your upper back down gently, like he’s telling you to relax and let him take over, “that was cute, doll. Real cute.” 

For some reason you get the sense that there’s going to be a lesson in here somewhere; a B-story to the main act that he’s had to sit through for at least half an hour while you relieved the pressures of your day. 

“S’my turn now.” 

Well, shit. 

You don’t really have time to prepare yourself before your pussy is accepting him again with a filthy squelch and he goes right to that spot inside of you that feels like an off button, immediately causing you to tighten around him with a cry for mercy. It’s the one he was referring to; the spot that’s always maddeningly out of reach whenever you ride him or try to find it yourself with your fingers, and there’s no other possible reaction other than your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your mouth falling open. 

He sits there with an elated groan, shoved right up against your cervix and overfilling every possible spot in you, forcing you to feel the full press of him. 

“Made such a mess,” Dallas coos in that sugar-coated condescending tone before his voice turns into something less friendly, “you’re gonna make another one for me.” 

Your only vocal response is a warbled whimper, which he picks up on and correctly translates.

“Yeah y’are,” he counters in what is less of a soothe than a command, “m’gonna make ya. You wanna be greedy? This is what y’get.”

Then he starts moving. 

You know you’re a goner at the first snap of his hips, already feeling entirely different than the last half hour of desperate grinding despite the many orgasms. 

He fucks down into you, letting gravity do most of the heavy lifting and subjecting both of you to the vulgar sounds of your pussy that quite frankly should have at least a few indecency charges related to them. Every single thrust pushes his swollen tip right up against the deepest parts of you, filling every crevice and rubbing against the spot behind your belly button that makes you go stupid. 

It’s unbearable.

“Oh-!” Your silent streak ends as you come back alive, eaten up by pure bliss, “mn - please, Dally!”

“Ffffuck,” he lowers himself further over you and keeps a tight grip on your waist, words taking a highway to the nerve center in your brain, “whose pussy is this, baby?” 

It’s like one of those wild sci-fi movies where the protagonist is about to have their brain wiped - you don’t have to think when he gets you like this; you just float. 

There is no hesitation in your ruined voice, “Y-yours! Ngh - ah! Please, pleaseplease-”

Dallas is going to die in this bed, he just knows it. 

“I got you,” on a dime he switches, oscillating between comfort and control as per his usual mode of operation, “you’re mine, darlin’. Got me all stressed out, won’t even lemme take care of ya…”

His musing trails off as he catalogues the mess of tears clumping your pretty little eyelashes together and the way your lip quivers with unreleased energy, matching the needy state the rest of your body is still in. 

God - you even feel like you fell out of heaven, he thinks. How a creature as breathtaking as you decided to stay with something like him is something he’ll marvel at for the rest of however many days he’s allowed to stay in your presence. 

“Mine,” Dallas repeats the words between devastating thrusts and heavy breaths like they’ll ensure your permanence in his life, “you’re fuckin’ mine, pretty lil thing.” 

His reverence always makes you melt. It’s the way he manages to mix surprisingly endearing emotions with such raw, textbook lust that drives you crazy and turns you into a sentimental sap. He’ll murmur devout words of carnal worship into your skin like holy scriptures, each one carving its own inflection into your brain as he defiles you in every other way.

You’ve already been reduced to a pile of tears, but when he releases your waist to snake a hand down to your clit you jerk against him and wail. 

“Look so pretty when you cry, baby.” 

His voice reminds you of honey on hot gravel, sinking deep like a shot of hard liquor. You know he’s reaching his breaking point and you try to prevent the freight train of inconceivable pleasure threatening to shatter you, but it’s far too late and you’re too far gone. 

Dallas sees the signs before you do; sees your body twitching before it starts pulling taut and the change in pitch of your moans. Your entire muscular system strains and tightens up, tension traveling towards your cunt at breakneck speed. 

You have to strain to hear him over the rushing in your ears and the unstoppable noises of sin falling from your mouth. He’s speaking into your ear to filter through your cries, overriding your brain’s reflex center and pushing you past the point of no return. 

“Stop fightin’ it,” he pants, voice nearly unrecognizable with how low it's dropped, “y’feel how deep I am? M’gonna fill you up right fuckin’ there - don’t run from it baby, just take it. Just like that, fuck-”

“DallasDallasDALLAS-!” 

Your final noise is a choked scream into the sheets as you detonate and implode, squirting around him again and nearly pushing him out with how violently your walls contract. 

Unable to hold back anymore at the sight and feel of it, Dallas follows you with a cursed shout, pulling his hand away to leave finger-shaped bruises in your waist as he stops himself from collapsing down onto you. 

He couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. He’s never cum so hard in his fucking life - it feels like your pussy is trying to suck the soul out of him, clamping down around his cock like a vice and doing it’s best not to relinquish even one drop of his spend. 

The strong pulses make the tip of him rub up against your cervix every time while he floods you with cum, filling you so deeply you’re pretty sure you’ll be leaking for days. 

When the ringing in his ears goes away and he feels like he can breathe again, Dallas lifts his forehead from your shoulder and registers your erratic panting. 

It takes a decent amount of concentration before he can release the death grip he’s got on you, forcibly detaching his hand from your waist and shifting your hair out of the way so he can make sure you’re still alive. 

It’s not unheard of for you to pass out after intense bouts like this, but he spies movement behind barely-closed eyelids and relaxes. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dallas drags a hand over his face and slowly starts pulling out with a wince, “you fuckin’ kill me, y’know that?”

Your cunt regrettably lets him go with as much difficulty as possible, still contracting as the head of him slips out with a wet pop. The sight of your combined cum slowly leaking out of your swollen, overstimulated pussy makes him throb. 

Sometimes he’ll slip a finger or two back into you and force another gut-wrenching orgasm from you, but you’re overdue for a break and more important things are clearly on your mind, so he takes a deep breath and wrestles his demonic urges back into the sealed box they’re usually contained in. 

“C’mere, grumpy.”

He throws himself down next to you and collects your limp, jelly-limbed self into his arms, ignoring the whine you give and letting you slowly settle into the space between his neck and shoulder. 

It’ll take a few moments before you regain your normal capacity for speech, as is typical for you after this kind of intensity. 

Without disturbing your position he reaches over you for the pack of smokes on the nightstand and lights one, arms still sheltering you from daylight and reality.

Dallas exhales and holds you tighter, resting his jaw along the crown of your head. 

“Now you wanna tell me what fuck crawled up your ass ‘n died, sweetheart?” 

You hesitate, chest still tingling and brain still having difficulty forming proper sentences. It takes a moment. 

“Bad day,” you eventually whine quietly into his collarbone, “…’n you ate all my cookies.” 

A beat of silence passes while the light of your life processes this information, quiet as a rumour. 

“I got you more at the bodega this mornin’,” he suddenly speaks, looking down at you like you’ve grown a third head, “they’re on the table, y’psycho.” 

Oh. 

Honestly, that one’s on you, because you forget that the corner store sometimes carries that same brand and you didn’t even look at your table when you walked in the apartment earlier. It’s not entirely your fault; you guys barely use it and the only time the thing is mildly useful is when the boys are over, where it becomes a communal ‘stuff’ table. Two-Bit’s jacket that he left for you to stitch up is still laying there alongside Steve’s spare shop keys and Darry’s tape measure you and Dallas borrowed to fix one of the bartops that wasn’t flush with the wall. 

Frustrated with yourself and entirely overwhelmed by the day, your eyes fill with tears again as you start to word vomit. While you unload everything you barely let him get a word in edgewise, hiccuping and sniffling away. 

“I h-hate today!” 

“Oh my fuckin’ God, doll-” 

“They put me on a double this weekend!” 

“I keep tellin’ you to quit, we need ya behind the bar-”

“The fuckin’ car keeps makin’ that n-noise-”

“It’s the differential, Soda’s gonna fix it-”

“Estelle keeps blowin’ me off f-for her stupid ex-”

“I told ya she ain’t a good friend-”

“I know!” You sob unhappily with the inflection of a petulant child that doesn’t want to admit their wrongs, “I j-just wanted a cookie-” 

“Baby, look at me-” 

Careful to keep his cigarette away from your hair, Dallas tugs you out of where you’re hiding in his clavicle and holds your face with his other hand, long fingers framing your wet cheeks. 

“Ain’t nothin’ we can’t fix, alright?” 

He’s never been good with comfort or feelings, but he learned a long time ago that telling you to ‘calm down’ in these moments just makes everything worse, so he settles for vague promises that somehow always end up coming true. It’s like the universe’s way of apologizing for the first parts of his life being so shit that it’s doing its best to ensure the next twenty years are particularly good, despite the karmic balance being a little offset after so many of his questionable choices. 

Big, sappy eyes look up at him like a kicked puppy, one lone tear trailing down a still-flushed cheek. 

You sniffle dejectedly, “O-okay…”

If you asked him to run a knife through his own chest just to make those tears go away, he would without a second thought. It isn’t a fact he’s particularly happy broadcasting since most people think him a violent asshole and he'd prefer it to stay that way, but he can’t say no to your doe-eyes. 

“Fuckin’ drama queen,” Dallas laughs softly and kisses you soundly, “got me all fucked up thinkin’ I did some stupid shit.” 

You whine weakly, wordlessly protesting that it isn’t your fault, but it’s lost between you both when his tongue slips into your mouth. 

Word count: 2253

⚠️⚠️⚠️SMUT SMUT THIS IS ALL FILTHY SMUT TURN BACK IF YOU DONT WANT IT ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Pairing: Dal x femreader

CW/TW: dirty talk, dom/sub, somnophilia, creampie, pnv, slight humiliation/verbal degradation, established relationship, mentioned aftercare

Cross posted to ao3!

🥰 ok ty enjoy

Searing heat and a deep-seated pressure in your tummy wake you from your slumber, prompting you to groggily open your eyes and gasp when you feel the press of his thick cock fucking into you. It’s not every day that Dallas wakes you up like this, but it’s a frequent enough event that it leaves you ever-hungry for the next occurrence.

He’s got you on your side, fucking you steadily from behind with a heavy hand on your hip. The first couple seconds of these moments always have you confused and scatterbrained, but the one thing you know is that you want more.

Your heart rate jumps as your brain turns on all the lights at once, neurons firing off in a million different directions and sending signals that scream out for nothing but him. You can feel how worked up he’s gotten you by the sheer amount of slick between your thighs; every time he does this, you’re amazed by the way your body subconsciously responds to his efforts, even in sleep.

“Dal-” you gasp again, hand shooting out to stabilize yourself as you prop yourself up by one elbow.

You’re alarmingly close to coming, wound tight and trembling. He must have teased you for at least an hour for your body to get to this point - it’s not atypical for him to spend ages touching all over you, rubbing your clit, playing with your nipples, making you dizzy with kisses, leaving endless hickeys all over you, not letting you move from his lap until he’s sure you’re a begging mess.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, building you up until the point where you could cum from a mere whisper on your clit. It works you into an absolute puddle even when you’re not conscious and it never fails; right now it feels like you've been edged for days with how desperate and tense you are.

Any thought that may have dared to cross your mind is wiped out by pure euphoria.

Dallas sounds absolutely ruined when he groans hotly in your ear, voice molten, “You got no idea what you do t’me, do you baby?”

You bite your lip and gander a look back to see how far gone he really is, and the picture of it nearly pushes you over the edge with a wanton moan. He’s completely wrecked, pupils blown and dark eyes glassy as he gives in to his hedonistic tendencies. You recognise the look on his face - the one that indicates just how detached from reality he is, and release an unabashed whimper in response. You reckon you could ask him to shove Steve down the stairs tomorrow and he’d say yes in this state, though such a request would hardly be far-fetched from reality given the proclivity for dumb shit Steve has.

He feels you clench down at the sight of him and bites back a grunt, briefly closing his eyes. Some kind of purge from heaven must have exiled all the angels to earth for him to be able to catch you, he thinks, listening to the slick sound of your pussy taking him over and over again. You’re quickly coming undone by his hand, gushing down onto the sheets and creaming all over his cock.

“Oh-ohmygod, Dallas-” your eyes roll back when he hits a certain angle, and he capitalizes on it.

It’s not rare for you to use his full name, but when you do he knows he’s really got you.

“Y’like that, don’tcha darlin’-” your wail has him groaning as his brows pull tight in concentration, “-fuckin’ Christ.”

He twitches inside of you and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a nasty mark, only pulling back when he feels your walls start fluttering around him.

“I can feel that lil pussy squeezin’ me,” Dallas murmurs as his hand tightens on your hip, “gonna cum, ain’tcha? Can’t even last a minute, can ya sweetheart. Too fuckin’ needy.”

You moan with all the grace of a spent whore, fisting the sheets and pushing back against his thrusts in a futile attempt to spur him on. The drag of his cock inside of you is maddening, and his talking only makes it worse.

You’re not going to last.

The fucked-out haziness that has scattered your senses doesn't hide the lewd, wet noises of your coupling that spur you on with every thrust. This kind of mindfog he inflicts turns you into a brainless bimbo, starving for nothing other than being filled and fucked by him. It’s filthy, it’s dirty, and it makes your clit throb fiercely as it aches for release.

You don’t dare reach a hand down to try and speed your orgasm along; you run the risk of being edged further if you don’t ask for permission, and you’re in no state to be forming verbal requests right now.

Dallas sees your desperation and laughs, deep and gruff and cruel.

“Greedy girl, creamin’ all over my cock like a bitch in heat.”

He can immediately feel the effect his words have on you when you clench down around him violently; it’s so easy to push you right to the edge with just a few condescending comments. You’re trembling and he’s losing it at the feel of your sweet pussy swallowing him full, prompting him to raise the bar by sliding a hand down to where his length is protruding from your stomach. He presses down against it and watches you squirm as he nearly forces you over the edge, far too close to falling over himself.

You sob brokenly and push back against his thrusts hard enough for him to debate flipping you on your front.

“So fuckin’ desperate, doll,” he rasps with a particularly hard thrust, “just beggin’ for it…ain’t gonna last another five seconds, are ya-”

His insults are the last straw, and you interrupt him with a harsh cry of his name as your pleasure crests and comes to a boil.

“There y’go - told ya,” his strained groan is the only evidence of how close your pulsing is to tipping him over, “fuck, baby-”

Heat - pure, unfiltered heat, consumes you. Particles of pure energy shoot across your chest and light up every nerve ending, concentrating themselves in your core and contracting your gummy walls around him so tightly that it makes him white out for a second with a harsh grunt.

For several moments you’re absolutely boneless and twitching against him, a picture of pure lust as you moan breathlessly with all the makings of a pornstar. When things start to come into focus again you’re able to pick up on his low murmuring, chest rumbling from behind you.

“…drive me fuckin’ crazy. Gonna die in this pussy.”

As the scorching warmth gives way to blinding overstimulation, he keeps going and you reach the definitive crux of whatever mindless episode he’s placed you in. Then you really start to beg for it.

“Please,” you mewl as your head tips back, finding itself in the crevice between his jaw and shoulder where he’s propped up and keeping you steady, “I want it…”

Dallas licks his canines and kisses his teeth, huffing unhappily. At this point he has two options; keep fucking you and send you into a blissed-out mute state, or give in to what every fibre of his being is urging him to do.

Ever the patience tester and brat that you are, you quickly make your opinion on which of the two you think it should be very clear.

Another unfettered moan slips from you, “Fill me up - wanna f-feel it, Dal…”

The vague notions of finishing in your mouth or on your ass are rapidly becoming unattainable, unhelped by you literally begging for his cum. Dallas can feel his long-gone self control slip away even further.

Going.

“Pretty please?”

Your lips find their way to his jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses and nips at any available skin. It has him hissing and kneading the flesh of your ass in one of his palms.

Going.

“Ah-! Feels so good, need it so bad, baby-” you interrupt yourself when a downright filthy gasp leaves your lips, the chilled inhale and warm heat of it hitting every sensitive spot along his jawline you’ve been mouthing at.

Going.

“Please Dal,” your voice is honey sweet as you pull back and look up at him with those brutal doe-eyes that hold unabashed desperation and pure want, “want your cum…gimme all of it, want it deep - please?”

Gone.

“God,” he almost chokes as raw pleasure rips its way through his veins and detonates at his core, “y’little fuckin-”

For a brief moment he looks at you like you're a dastardly minx for having pushed him, but the expression is gone as soon as it comes and quickly replaced by an ethereal open-mouthed frown. You feel him harden even further before pressing himself to the deepest part of you and starting to cum against your cervix, cock pulsing with every frantic beat of his heart.

A gasped whine and a weak shudder is all you can give him while he drains himself, his spend absolutely flooding you and leaking out when there is no other place for it to go. You’re so full you can barely think, yet somehow he just keeps going.

Even by his standards, it’s a lot. You’re going to have to change these sheets.

Like some animalistic knotting ritual he’s got you clamped down with one hand around your waist and another by the back of your neck, gripping you fast and ensuring you stay put until you've taken all of his cum. You shiver as you feel the twitching continue like his dick is trying to make it all the way into your womb.

Dallas soothes the bite on your shoulder with an open-mouthed kiss and hums lowly, “Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart.”

“M’so full,” you proclaim gently, still shaking and recovering your breath.

His cock jumps again at your statement, harder than it should be by this point. It makes your breath hitch.

“Gonna fill you up again if y’keep talkin’ like that,” he releases your hip to grip your chin and pull you both into a breathless kiss, all tongue and teeth and possessiveness.

He pushes in hard one final time before starting to retreat out of your warmth, and your ensuing whine makes him pull back to laugh gently - a tender noise that’s an entirely different sound than the cajoling snickers he releases when he’s got you in his lustful claws.

The dichotomy of this boy is captivating, as cantankerous as he may be. Sometimes it gives you whiplash, but most days you’re just along for the ride.

“Dal,” you complain with a huff as he pulls out and still leaves you feeling rather stuffed, “s’too sticky.”

The sheets beneath you both are tacky and soaked, an unfortunate side effect of vicious lovemaking that no one likes to deal with or think of.

Dallas runs a hand through his hair as he briefly surveys the extensive damage, taking a second too-long as his eyes inevitably stray and he relishes in the sight of cum leaking from your tight hole.

“Goddamn,” his voice is still gravelly with lust and sleep, “made a mess, dollface.”

Your trilling is ignored in favor of splaying your pussy to appreciate the picture better.

All he wants to do is throw himself right back in, but you both need a shower and he knows you’re going to want to chug an entire glass of water. With a tired sigh, he seemingly decides that the issue of ruined sheets is a problem for another time.

“Yeah, fuck that,” he declares, “we’re sleepin’ on the couch.”

With a heavy smack to your left ass cheek and a lazy point towards the general direction of the bathroom, he wordlessly spells out the next series of events and relieves you of having to take any mental load.

It isn’t a surprise when you can't gather the strength to stand on your shaky legs; you look like Bambi when you try to rise from your spot on the bed and he ends up having to carry you to the shower with no shortage of teases or smug comments along the way.

It’s sweet in all the dirty, crude ways you’ve grown used to expecting from Dallas once you realized his way of showing affection was different than most, and such a concept might be feasible to explain to regular folks if it weren’t for the fact that after he’s gotten you clean and somewhat standing on your own, he ends up ravaging you in the shower like an absolute caveman and dumping another load into you.

It’s for this reason that you leave out all the nitty gritty details when people ask what you see in him or why you’ve been together for so long; it’s much easier to share the appropriately sweet story of how you ‘woke up in the middle of the night starving for pancakes’ and how he drove to get you some instead of the unmodified truthful version that includes two rounds of filthy sex before some diner-contingent aftercare.

But it doesn’t matter to you when the outcome is the same - satiated, happy and licking leftover syrup off your fingertips with your head tucked into his neck as he drives you both home and lowly murmurs praises into the crown of your head.