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Can u write a fic of when like Dallas and shy reader meet for the first time?? I can’t wait for ur upcoming fics by the way, I love ur writing!! Reading them makes my day ur one of the best fic writers I’ve come across!!

Baby Blue

Summary: ‘His brain is already formulating a plan, wickedly scheming a plot to ensnare you like a little bunny. There’s a vision of you he has, shaking and apt with want, while you whimper below him and take everything he has to give you.’

Pairing: Dal x shy!femreader Word Count: 3999 CW/TW: explicitly suggestive, (light) manipulation, corruption (kind of) 

A/N: Thank you so much for the request, your support and the kind words :,) <3 I hope this is good enough to satisfy! I didn’t take ‘first meeting’ quite so literally, only because in the universe we’ve established with the shyreader trope they’ve already known each other. This is more of their first formal/meaningful conversation ig. If you’d like to request one with an entirely new person/shyreader and have it be a true ‘first meeting’, lmk! disclaimer! I know barely anything about cars esp old classics so I had to google a bunch of stuff for this and I hope it’s not all wrong 😟   Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

Every day, you swear your resolve is tested by whatever deity exists in the great beyond.

You’ve never had a particularly lucky streak, and though you consider yourself a resilient person in the face of adversity, there are some moments that make you wonder if you’ve done something evil in a past life to warrant such horrible fortune. 

Some people might argue that it’s not all bad; you’re young and healthy with a loving mother, a roof over your head, and all the other in-between things that justify taking such a stance. 

But when you’re standing on the side of the road in front of your broken down car in the glaring heat, sun beating down on you and barely able to figure out how to pry the hood open, you wager that you’ve had a decidedly unlucky week. 

You lost your favorite book on Monday, overslept on Tuesday, dropped an entire bottle of cooking oil into a pan on Wednesday and accidentally washed your lip gloss on Thursday. To top it all off, yesterday you asked for a raise and got laughed out of your boss’s office. 

So when you manage to wrestle your vehicle’s innards exposed and see the vapor coming out of God knows where, you’re not exactly inclined to say that your prosperity has changed. 

Quiet panic tightens your chest, guilt rapidly consuming you as you think about how expensive a fix is going to be and how upset your mother will get over yet another setback. She’s a gracious, understanding, loving woman, so making her life any harder than it is (albeit unwillingly) feels like running a sword through your stomach; you’d rather shit in your hands and clap.

You don’t even know anything about cars…you just learned how to drive despite being twenty years old and well-versed in Tulsa city traffic after half a decade of working in midtown. Dad was the car person of your family, but he’s been in the ground since ‘63 and your mom’s default is to take the vehicle into the DX and pray whenever there’s issues.

Honestly, you don’t know what you would do without Steve and Soda’s help. One manner in which you will always consider yourself fortunate is your community, because the neighbors and mutual friends you’ve grown up and gone to school with sometimes act like glue that prevents everything from completely falling apart. While it’s obvious to admit that living on the lower end of a socioeconomic ladder is difficult, there’s no question that it would be ten times worse without the social network you and your mother share.

‘It takes a village’, or whatever they say.

You find yourself wishing that said village was anywhere within walking distance as you bite your lip and frown, looking over the smoking engine. Little hands hesitantly reach for the bumper and immediately draw back once the scalding metal touches your smooth skin. 

“Shit! Ow…” you whimper and instinctively clutch the burn with your other hand, cradling it to your chest. 

‘Damsel in distress’ isn’t your typical go-to, as you try to pride yourself on being intelligent and resourceful, but school grades don’t equal life experience. 

All you know is that this thing is a Ford Custom 300 from 1958 with a decent amount of miles on it, and that there’s something wrong with the engine. You’re wildly out of your league here. 

A lump forms in your throat when you lean over the sizzling guts of the vehicle to try and diagnose its illness. Your efforts are in vain; your untrained eyes can see no obvious answer for this mechanical distress, and you can feel the waterworks incoming. 

So invested are you in the sorry state of your car that you almost don’t register the rumbling of another engine coming to a stop right next to you despite how loud it is, only reacting when the sunlight bounces off the red paint not ten feet from you. 

It’s then that your teary-eyed gaze turns towards the very familiar driver of the Ford Thunderbird idling beside you. 

“Th’hell happened, sweetheart?” 

You’re the last person Dallas Winston expected to see stranded on a side road in the middle of the day. He looks you up and down behind dark shades as he drawls in that familiar, lilting tone of his. 

By some stroke of luck he’d been on the way back to Buck’s when he spotted you, immediately recognizing both you and your family car. 

A recluse you are not, but it’s incredibly rare for you to be seen outside of a regular, restricted schedule. 

You’ve grown up in the same circles, or at least he remembers you being around ever since he wound up in Tulsa, but your demeanor and patterns keep you frustratingly out of reach for someone as chaotic and disorganized as him. Where he is undisciplined and raucous you are methodical and patient; a feral mutt to a trained pup. 

Both you and your mother are like that, he’s noticed. You remind him of Darry in that way; level-headed and efficient under years of life pressure that would have cracked lesser souls a long time ago. Considering what you’ve been through, it’s an impressive feat that should render you worthy of more respect.

(And though he rarely admits things like this to himself, he does respect you - in an odd, rarely acknowledged, roundabout manner that makes him bristle at your redeemable qualities, because they serve to remind him about what he could be doing better.)

It’s just much easier to objectify you and focus on what you’re not; on things he knows that you don’t and the more debaucherous range of skillsets he brings to the table, especially when you make it so easy to highlight the obvious line of experience between you both.

You’re a fairly naive creature of habit, all responsible and soft spoken even when he catches you at the occasional party tagging alongside Kathy or Evie. On many occasions he’s made himself a consistent menace by goading you into revealing personal details, teasing you about whatever he can think of, tempting you into taking shots with him, murmuring filthy compliments that make you blush and stammer something fierce - all for naught when you scamper away and retreat back into your shell. 

It isn’t exactly fear. He can see the curiosity in your eyes every time your mutual friends talk about things you haven’t experienced yet, or the temptation in your expression when you’re faced with an endeavour you find new and daunting. You often stop yourself before you can let anyone talk you into making questionable decisions, which reads as boring or safe for many of your peers.

Instead, Dallas reads it as a fun little challenge. You just need a little nudge, he thinks slyly. Someone to pop the bubble of rational hesitation all-too rampant in those who haven’t taken any walks on the wild side. 

“I-I don’know-” you start rambling with a stammer, voice barely carrying above the ridiculously loud vehicle you know to be Buck’s, “…engine got real hot ‘n started steamin’ up a-and now it won’t start-”

It’s hard enough to talk to Dallas as is; he’s intimidating and attractive and slightly terrifying. You’re grateful that he’s never been anything but sexually forward with you, because it’s his baseline language with women…the alternative is that awful, interpersonal nastiness and violence you’ve seen and heard of before, only slightly dulled by age. If anything close to that nastiness was levelled at you as opposed to the flirting he applies to nearly every girl who gives him the time of day, it would be enough to send you running away from him in broad daylight. 

Still, it’s best to be cautious. 

Dallas frowns at your fretting, an unfamiliar feeling settling in his chest that makes him tense uncomfortably. He doesn’t do well with comfort or emotion and he’s not someone that anybody should be calling in a crisis, but he knows cars. This potential issue is something he’s likely to be able to fix. 

The way he sees it, he’s got two options here: he can go the asshole route and let you keep thinking that you’re no different than any other skirt in town, or he can actually give you a hand and potentially kill two birds with one stone. 

The rare, mild benevolence he’s feeling today makes him settle on the latter, all-too influenced by his desire to involve himself with you. 

“Alright, alright - easy, dollface,” he tosses his sunglasses onto his dashboard and cuts the engine so he can investigate, “lemme see.”

You two are on a side street away from major intersections, but his brash confidence in blocking the road still has you slightly nervous. 

When he stands to his full height you unconsciously take a step back, both to let him see the problem and because you always forget how big he is in comparison to you. 

“S’wrong, y’get burned?” He ganders a glance at your hand as he grabs a bandana from his back pocket and starts poking around, unbothered by the vapor still rising from your car’s guts. 

You blink away your tears, trying to calm yourself down so he won’t tease you about being a ‘crybaby’ or an absolute child when it comes to roadside problems. Giving yourself grace isn’t something you usually take issue with, but right now it feels like you’re pretending to play an adult and this is the first red flag that gives away how much of an imposter you are. It doesn’t help that you have an attractive, hardened criminal with a mean streak in front of you literally coming to your rescue.

“A little…” you gulp, sniffling away the full on meltdown you had coming and double checking your injury. 

“S’just a vapor lock, darlin’,” Dallas spies the problem almost instantly and doesn’t bother looking back at you, “ain’t worth those pretty lil tears.” 

The compliment fizzles into your bloodstream, overshadowed by his knowing tone that ignites hopeful relief and soothes the sting of a potentially expensive problem. You don’t know what a ‘vapor lock’ is, let alone how much it’ll cost to fix, but his manner of speaking implies that it’s not too big of a deal. 

You’re about to clarify when he interrupts you, leaning himself off the propped up hood and apparently unfazed by the heat of the metal as he takes a closer look at things.

“Christ, been drivin’ a month ‘n y’already overheated the thing, huh?” 

Between a guilty gulp and a sudden sense to defend yourself and your inexperience, you absentmindedly register that he’s remembered how long you’ve been driving for. For him to hold onto such a tiny detail is unexpected.

“Didn’know…” you try to explain softly, wide eyes almost pleading with him to take it easy on you, “I-”

“Relax, sunshine. Shit happens,” Dallas tuts and interrupts you, snickering at your gullibility, “gotta let’er cool off.”

He’s close enough for you to feel his heat and smell him - a combination of smoke, sun, gasoline and leather. 

You watch the tension ripple up his arms as he lowers the hood, dozens of questions already on the tip of your tongue. 

“W-wait-”

“Get her outta the sun,” he cuts in again with no further instruction, motioning towards the shade of a tree a few yards away. 

Before you can pipe up again he’s slipping into the T-Bird to get it out of the street, wordlessly confirming his permanence and commandeering of this conundrum. It takes a second for you to move and acknowledge that he intends to stay and help you, because altruistic gestures are pretty unheard of for him and you don’t really know him all that well outside the context of mutual friends. 

Does it really matter, though? You’re not in the position to turn down help right now, and at least he’s not a total stranger. If fixing this steaming mess means you’ll be exposed to more of his flirting, you’ll gladly take that tradeoff. 

The warm start of the other Ford kickstarts you into action, and you climb back into the driver’s seat of your mother’s car to release the parking brake. To your relief the street you unwittingly ended up on seems to have a slight decline, because the vehicle starts rolling forwards and quietly glides towards the shade of the oak tree. 

You roughly let it come to a stop about four feet behind the Thunderbird with a downwards jerk and a harsh creak. 

He’s already lifting the hood before you’ve clambered back out, “Got anythin’ cold on ya? Ice? Cola?”

A confused frown graces your features before you deduce that he’s likely looking for something to toss on the engine, but you don’t have any liquid in the car nor do you know of anywhere nearby that would sell some. 

You recall the possible existence of a first aid kit with a bottle of rubbing alcohol in it, and ask if it’s a suitable alternative. 

“Better’n nothin’,” he shrugs, watching as you open the passenger side door.  

You’re a picture of loveliness, donned in baby blue that hugs your lithe frame in all the right places. Despite your financial status keeping you firmly tethered to the North side of town, you don’t always dress the part of a Greaser. 

Dallas eyes your form greedily as you rifle through your glove compartment, taking in the creamy expanse of your thighs and bare midriff illuminated by the bright sunlight. He doesn’t really know what the hell the whole ‘summer of love’ thing was about, but he’s all for liberation and peace if it means more miniskirts and tank tops…especially when you’re in them.

It’s a miracle he happened upon you first; if literally any other red-blooded male had spotted you prior to his arrival, he’d likely be scaring them off right about now. 

You’re so pretty and defenseless and small compared to him, innocence basically begging for some big bad man to come ruin your life. 

Dallas licks his canines and gives himself that role, entirely happy to play the part of a defiler if it means he gets to keep you. 

He lights a smoke as you search, hands itching to clutch the inflection of your waist. If he were a worse man than he already is, he may have already taken the opportunity to hit on you, what with how delectably you’ve decided to market yourself today. 

Your hair is held back by a matching blue ribbon that he wants to replace with his fist while he holds the fabric between his teeth, and Dallas finds himself actively fighting off the debaucherous imagery such urges provoke. 

His brain is already formulating a plan, wickedly scheming a plot to ensnare you like a little bunny. There’s a vision of you he has, shaking and apt with want, while you whimper below him and take everything he has to give you. The desire to pin you down and fill you up until you're sobbing and begging for more is downright filthy, but he knows if he goes about this right he’s got a good enough shot at trapping and effectively brainwashing you. He wants you sobbing and whining, choking on his cock while he dumps his cum down your throat and lets those gorgeous tears drip down your chest.   

What he wants, he gets. And by all that is holy, do you look good when you cry.

By some saving grace, Dallas snaps back into it when the hum of summer cicadas grows even louder, just in time for you to locate the rubbing alcohol and pass it over to him with a wide, hopeful expression. He has to will away all the blood that’s rushed South. 

God, you really have no idea, do you? 

“Can we fix it?” Your voice is small and worried, absentmindedly placing a bandaid onto your superficial burn as you watch him uncap the bottle. 

“Sorta,” he gives you the most honest answer, “long enough t’get ya down’t’the DX.”

You cringe at that, worried not just about cost but also about the potential wait time. Steve and Soda’s station is the most popular one in town through no fault of Soda himself, and you don’t blame the general female population of Tulsa for thirsting after him. That being said, you’re hoping your friendship will let you skip the line of half-genuine customers who are undoubtedly there for purposefully unclear ‘car troubles’. Any other mechanics will undoubtedly charge you an arm and a leg for repairs. 

You bite your lip in worry, “S’it ‘spensive?” 

“Don’t gotta be,” Dallas responds around his cigarette as he slowly starts to pour the rubbing alcohol onto the problem spot, “if y’can’t bend the fuel line, jus’ toss a spacer under the carburetor. Soda’ll do it for cheap.” 

He’s talking far too quick and complicated for you to understand, and rapid overstimulation sets in. Wet hissing fills the air as the cool liquid does its job, and almost counterintuitively you notice that everything is significantly less steamy. 

You mean to ask him to spell out what he just said, but he’s already moving on. 

“This the first time it’s acted up?” 

You shake your head side to side as you watch him treat the problem, remembering quite a few summertime instances where your mama had to pull over and deal with some kind of similar nonsense coming from the hood. 

“Fuel line runs close t’the exhaust manifold,” he elaborates as he gradually soaks said fuel line, “gas boils up if it gets too hot….fuel pump’ll push air instead ‘n stall the thing.”

For a split second you wonder why he doesn’t just work at the DX alongside Soda and Steve before remembering his abrasive nature and rude mannerisms. Most folks find him difficult to digest even on a good day; it’s no wonder he’s carved himself a nice little niche working for Buck.

You try to grasp what he’s saying even though it seems like he’s speaking an alien language, desperate to avoid this happening again. Oklahoma’s heatwaves are cruel and unforgiving. There’s no telling when the next one will strike, and your car is melodramatic enough as is. If you can’t suss out exactly when or how these things happen, what’s going to prevent you from getting stranded like this again in the future? 

“Th-the fuel line?” 

Dallas does a double take at your confusion, realizing just how little you understand.  

Patience isn’t his virtue, and typically he doesn’t give any time of day to those seeking assistance, explanation, or niceties. This is different. 

He knows you’re not stupid; he remembers being thirteen years old and seeing you for the first time, nose buried in books beside Sodapop at the Curtis kitchen table. Between bouts in juvie he recalls you tagging along to see movies with himself, Two-Bit and Steve, supervised by Darry who made it clear to your mother that you’d be returned at a decent hour so you could get enough sleep for school in the morning. You even tutored Pony in math just to keep him from being held back in the subject, and since then Dallas had quietly registered your intelligence. 

Your book smarts were only outweighed by your looks as time passed, and as your appearances became rarer he never really had an organic opportunity to sink his claws into you. Something like you requires careful mapping and planning, lest you startle and formally shut down on him. 

It doesn’t take much internal dialogue for Dallas to suss out his next few moves.

“Tell y’what, pretty girl,” he starts with a sneaky smirk as he tosses the empty bottle to the side and draws himself closer, “I’ll tell ya all about it if y’have a drink with me t’night.” 

You falter in surprise, not having expected such a deal. 

As far as you’ve been concerned, Dallas sees you as nothing more than another potential conquest - and that suspicion, paired with your mother’s warnings about being diligent with men’s intentions, has kept you away from caving to his advances. 

But this direct request has caused a stalemate in your mind, because he’s making a conscious effort to properly court you after your reluctance to entertain his flirting. Even though you know it’s probably naive of you to think otherwise and you’re sure you won’t be any different than the hundreds of girls he’s taken out before, you’re seriously considering saying yes. On one hand, you have no experience dealing with men and are incredibly curious to venture into those uncharted waters. On the other hand, starting said venture with Dallas Winston runs every risk of being a right disaster. 

But…saying yes doesn’t have to mean hopping into bed with him. 

You can go on one little date without getting yourself in too deep, right? 

You double-check to make sure you haven’t been dreaming, “A…a drink?” 

“What, y’don’t drink?” Dallas goads you with a drag of his cancer stick, well aware that you do. 

Even with alcohol you’re responsible, never getting blackout or foolishly drunk. The most he’s seen you is tipsy, and you had Kathy drive you home before midnight like goddamn Cinderella. Your diligence is almost maddening. 

“O-okay,” your soft, disbelieving response is paired with a blush as you owlishly blink up at him. 

You’re a little confused on why he’s landed on you given his typical choice in women; you aren’t bold, loud or eye-catching according to yourself, and your persona is pretty much the antithesis of what he gravitates towards. 

Dallas eyes you with a slow, cloying grin that reeks of self-satisfaction. He leans off your mother’s car like he owns it, seeping raw lust from every pore. 

“Don’t gotta say yes, sweetheart,” he teases, thrilled by your reactions. 

You’re all-too easy to play. 

He wants to hear you say it; wants you to think it was your idea and that accepting him into your personal life was in your control. He gets off on seeing how far he can push the envelope, drunk with influence. 

“No, I-I…” you stall for a second and flush deeper, chewing on your bottom lip as you eye him like a naughty child being forced to confess some superficial transgression. 

Finally, the damning words shyly slip out of your mouth, almost secretive in their candor. 

“…I want to.”

Dallas can’t help his dark smile, your admission bleeding into his system like pure heroin.  

Persephone herself could have begged Hades to drag her down to the Underworld and it would not have been a sweeter supplication than this. 

At the time, you’d had no idea what kind of intoxicating conundrum you’d just signed up for; no way to measure the near-nirvana levels of absolution and the extent of the depravity you would reach. You’d had no inkling at all, because in your mind there was no way that someone like Dallas would ever be tempted to involve himself with someone like you and actually want to stick around. 

If you’d known how wildly mistaken such a train of thought had been, you might have offered yourself up on a platter a long time ago - a spit-roasted piglet happy to pop the apple into your own mouth. At the end of it all, it’s laughable to think of how little need this man had to split the Earth apart and drag you down to Hell with him. 

No chariot or cataclysmic, famine-inducing acts of abduction were required; you willingly choked on pomegranate seeds and hurtled yourself through katabasis like your soul had been promised to him from the beginning, sinking down, down, down into the blissful jowls of his cavernous domain until the sweet relief of regenesis engulfed you whole. 

And by the time you can even muster the focus to think back on whatever kind of bereft existence was led before his all-encompassing presence, you’ll be in too deep. 

A/N: sorry for all the Greek mythology references, I am a wildly uncultured swine 🙃

again

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

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

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

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

Dallas Winston overwhelms you in nearly every aspect. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...’less you ask.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You practically melt against him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It kind of answers your question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whimper is all you can vocalize in return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Use your words.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna lemme take these off, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer me.” 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck…y’did, didn’tcha.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dallas…!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M-m’sorry…” 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? Y’like that, dont’cha.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, doll?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hear how bad y’want me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh - f-fuck!” 

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, God-

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

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

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

“You gonna let me ruin it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...you’re gonna gimme another one.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah-!”

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

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

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

“Dallas!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A-again - please?” 

Dallas laughs, not cruelly but not kindly either.

Like a kid in a candy store.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes - yesyesyesyes-

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh-! Dallas-” 

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

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

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

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

“S-s’too big, Dal-” 

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

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

“Suck,” he prompts, and you listen. 

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

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

“That’s it, good girl-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

Oh, fuck-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d almost forgotten. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna be good for me ‘n say it?” 

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

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

Everything is tensing and clenching far too fast-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“P-please cum in m-my pussy-” 

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

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

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

“Dallas-” 

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

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

“DALLAS-!” 

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

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

“Oh, fuck-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

UMBRAKINESIS

⚠️ SMUT ALERT ⚠️

Summary: In hindsight, Curly Shepard’s bathroom at a house party was probably not the best place for a quickie. Neither of you care.

Pairing: Dal x femreader Word Count: 5638 CW/TW: oral, blowjobs, dom/sub, degradation kink, established relationship, unprotected pnv, creampie, praise kink, size kink, dirty talk

A/N: ahhh thank you for this request! It’s such a fun one. Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

“Fuck, doll. That’s it…deeper-”

The harsh, cold tile of Tim Shepard’s bathroom floor is hard on your knees and etches grout outlines into your skin, sensations completely muted by Dallas groaning and tightening the hold he’s got in your hair.  

It’s one in the morning. The rest of the city is fast asleep while your merry band of misfit friends continue to celebrate Curly Shepard’s birthday approximately fifteen feet away from you two behind the closed door, where both of you have decided to break from the festivities to ride out your hedonistic urges. Defiling other people’s homes isn’t exactly commonplace in your relationship, but when you’d tempted him into some private time like a little seductress, Dallas hadn’t put up much of a fight. 

“Just for a lil bit,” you’d whispered into his ear, perched on the counter and leaning on his shoulder while he tried to hold a conversation, “please, Dal? Wanna taste it…”

The result is exactly what you’d hoped for; you’re currently drooling on your boyfriend’s cock like a common whore, spit trickling down your chest and mascara runny, while he looks on from above. 

It’s only been five minutes and your jaw is already killing you, dull soreness tensing the muscles open over his thickness as he throbs on your tongue and drops more warm, salty precum down your throat. You wouldn’t trade this degrading nastiness for any of the cinematic, cookie-cutter, puritanical sex in the world. 

“Atta girl-” you hear him murmur when you gag softly, plush lips and smooth tongue gliding their way down the length of him over and over again, “-mm.”

You’re not able to take him all the way, but you’ve made a damned good effort of trying in the many years you’ve been together. With a soft whimper you go deeper, this time letting out a more audible gag that has him cursing and rolling his hips. 

“God damn, baby-” 

To your ongoing relief, Dallas has never been the type of guy to roughly push your head down unless the mood calls for it. He’s more prone to tangling his fingers in your hair and tucking the strands away from your face to get a clear view of your mouth swallowing him whole. You already struggle enough to take his size as is, so he likes to sit back like a smug asshat and watch the process.

That isn’t to say that you don’t enjoy when he holds you down to fuck your throat or forces himself as deep as humanly possible before seeing how long it’ll take for you to run out of air, but you still have to make it through the rest of the party after this and you’d rather not have difficulty speaking for the remainder of the evening. 

You can feel his thighs tense beneath the denim that your fingers are clutching when his cock reaches the back of your throat again, and he releases an elated hiss as you draw back to swirl your tongue around his frenulum. 

He’s condescending you like a spoiled child that finally got her way, “Couldn’t help it, huh? Had t’come choke on it, filthy lil thing.”

Mouth stuffed full, all you can reply with is a resounding, muffled noise of affirmation that he laughs at. Tears stream steadily down your cheeks to join the slew of saliva under your jaw, and an equal mess is forming between your legs where you can feel the ridiculous amount of slick dripping from you. 

Rubbing your thighs together to alleviate the want is no longer doing you any good; the ache you have will only be soothed by him stretching you open, plugging you up and rutting into you like a starved heathen. In vain you try to trail a hand between your legs to soothe the burn, unfortunately resulting in nothing but dissatisfaction and more teasing from him.

“There y’go - touch yourself. Ain’t gonna be th’same,” he snickers at you, “so fuckin’ desperate.”

He’s right, and your multitasking fails the minute his cock pulses again and dumps more tangy precum onto your tastebuds, wiping your brain of any thought or physical coordination other than unhinging your jaw even wider. There is already a sharp soreness from your teeth digging into your lips, protecting Dallas from their bite as you suckle and slobber down his length. 

Vulgar noises of moist lewdness echo quietly in the small square footage surrounding you both, broken only by the subtle buzzing of the overhead light and his gravelly hums of approval. 

Little mewls and whimpers of need escape you with every movement and shallow thrust of his hips, starving to pull more noises from the man whose dick feels like it’s carving out a snug tunnel in your esophagus. He’s always said that one of his favorite parts of you is your mouth; you can’t even suck on a lollipop without watching his pupils expand to the size of dinner plates. 

Your eyelids flutter as you try to hold his stare, ultimately failing when he patronizes you again. 

“Like gettin’ on your knees f’me, don’tcha. Shit. Jus’ like that...”

He’s entirely lost in the plush heat of your mouth. There are few things that wither away his self control, and you giving him head is one of them. Aside from your endearing effort to fully take him even if your little mouth doesn’t stand a chance and how fucking good it feels to be buried in your throat while he watches you choke, he also loves seeing you kneel for him. 

You’re always incredibly malleable and pliable in the context of his domineering presence. It’s nearly impossible to think through the fog he induces when he’s like this, and it’s plain as day how much you like turning your brain off to morph you into this version of yourself. 

You fawn and wilt so easily, driven by unfiltered desire and undying fidelity. It’s sheltered by trust that only time can foster, which is why you don’t take offense to his demeaning attitude and continuously ask for more of his degradation. 

And he’ll happily give it to you, every single time. 

“Already drunk on my cock, huh?” 

Dallas pulls another stray hair away from your face and grunts at the sight of you, a vision of pure eroticism, whimpering and drooling around him. He can feel an orgasm coiling tightly at the base of his core, drawing dangerously nearer with each swirl and pass of your tongue down the underside of his length. The constant need to want to leave you dripping with his cum, marked and claimed and dazed with pleasure, is almost uncontrollable. He wonders if you’ve cast some kind of spell on him he wasn’t aware of.

The truth is, you’re both equally gone for each other. 

Something akin to possessiveness surges through you every time you’re stuffed full of him, sitting heavy in your chest and begging for his release with every noise he makes. It’s like you won’t survive if you don’t get his cum, and as much as you want the searing spill of it in your belly, you want it filling your pussy up even more.

Finally the need grows so unbearable that you whine and pull off of him, grateful that he lets you so you can catch your breath even if he denies your request. 

Spit-slick lips part as you look up at him through blurred vision and teary lashes, gasping with unchecked thirst. You refuse to fully part with his cock, letting it rest on your lower lip and making contact with your tongue as you speak. 

“Fuck me,” your hoarse whine is brutally desperate as you pant, “please, Dal-”

Dallas hums low, destroyed. He takes one hand out of your hair to pull your lower lip down, swollen tip leaking more tang onto your tastebuds as his brows pull together and he assesses you through a heavy filter of lust. 

“Want me t’fuck you? Yeah?” 

You nod shamelessly and plant an open-mouthed kiss over the leaking slit of his tip, pouting in that way you know he can rarely resist. 

The tendons in his neck flex as a gutted sound escapes him, “Fuck, c’mere-”

He’s absolutely out of his mind with want as he pulls you up, virtually allowing you to make no effort as he picks you up by the waist and sets you down on the counter of the sink. Both of you are still fully dressed, a testament to burning need, but he takes the time to pull the top of your sundress down to expose your chest.

It’s more difficult to contain your noises without his cock naturally muffling them, especially when he goes to mouth at your sensitive breasts while slotting himself between your legs. Your dress is short enough that when your thighs bracket him the fabric slides away and all he has to do is tug your panties to the side before the heavy, blunt tip of him is sliding against your clit, making you jump. 

 “Dallas-!” 

Your shaky reply is a tad too loud despite the music and voices covering up a majority of suspicious noises.

“Shh-” he releases your nipple and trails his way back up to your lips to steal them, searing and tacky and urgent, “Christ, so fuckin’ needy. Look how wet y’are just from suckin’ me off.” 

A broken little moan from you prompts some sympathy from him and changes his tune if only for a fleeting second. 

“M’gonna give it t’ya, darlin’. Easy.” 

Seconds later he’s taking himself in hand and guiding himself into you, notching at your sopping entrance for just a moment before pressing the fat head of his cock past the first tight squeeze. 

It knocks twin sounds of relief from both of you, groans that share the same air as he licks into your mouth with a light nip of his teeth and a hard breath. Both of you are breathless, and though he knows that you’re as good as betrothed to him he still clings onto you like you’ve got half a mind to run out. One hand is clutching your hip, careful not to let you teeter off the edge of the countertop, and the other comes up to cradle your thigh to tuck it up against his ribs. 

You try to stifle your squeal as he presses deeper, a filthy squelch accompanying the motion, and you refuse to loosen the grip you have on the nape of his neck in order to stabilize yourself. Little tremors quake you, quivering indicating just how out of sorts you are and only growing harsher the more he slides into you. 

“God-” Dallas rips his lips from yours to groan and tip his head back, near disbelief gracing his features. 

You’ll never get used to this, you think, dizzy with the feeling of fullness when he keeps going and going until his hips sit snug against yours and not an ounce of space is left between you two. It’s not just the addictive way he fills you - it’s also the dark fever that takes hold of him when he’s entwined with you like this, a feral version of himself that regards you with blackened eyes that look like he’s gone years without your taste. 

Even when he’s giving you a moment to adjust like he always does, he’s twitching in your velvety walls that squeeze him tightly with every pulse of his cock. He can’t help the subconscious minute cants of his hips, preemptively moving within you. 

“S’so deep, Dal…” you slur, mouthing at his jaw.

He curses deeply, the gravelly, raw sound of it hitting you square in your stomach. 

“S’how y’like it, greedy girl,” Dallas lands another searing kiss on your lips and drops a hand to your lower stomach, thumb rubbing circles on the point where his length protrudes, “feel that?” 

A hiccup interrupts your next sob, “M-mhmmn - a-ah-!” 

Your next attempts at words turn into keening cries at the feeling of him pressing harder on that little spot, tightening around him at both the feeling and awareness of how well he fills you.

“Gotta be quiet, dollface,” he grins and tuts at your volume again, easing off the spot, “relax, I got’cha.” 

Without further warning he starts moving slow, pulling out nearly all the way before fucking back into you and plunging deep enough that his thrusts threaten to move you further up the counter if he doesn’t hold you in place. The first few motions have your mouth hanging open in utter silence, both of you watching as your flushed, swollen pussy struggles to take his thickness for the nth time.

The only thing that ends up breaking the temporary stunlock is when he starts rubbing the spot on your tummy again. You sob and cling to him as pleasure hangs thick and decadent in your mind, highly attuned to the different sounds your body is making in response to his ministrations and how reactive you are to him.

“Oh…”

It’s been made worse by the buildup; you’ve teased yourself inadvertently by sucking him off for so long, and you can feel the effects of it. Cooled sweat has turned clammy on your back and you feel like you’ve been edged for a straight hour. Strands of your own slick stick between the both of you where your hips meet, forming a ring of white around the base of his cock. 

Dallas lets out a tortured sound at the sight of it, “Makin’ such a mess, sweetheart. Fuckin’ ruined f’me.”  

“Wanna cum, Dal…” 

He laughs mirthlessly at your unabashed greed, “You wanna cum? Can’t even last a goddamn minute, can ya. What’s th’magic word, baby?” 

The resounding wail you try to stifle has him glancing at the door a few feet away while he pulses inside of you, “P-please-!” 

“Please what?” 

He’s merciless in his execution as he continues his line of questioning, never ceasing his thrusts or easing up on the pressure as he splits you apart and bottoms out in you every time. It makes your head spin even after years of dating, and you can only be disappointed in yourself for not having learned the ability to speak better throughout it over the years.

“Please m-make me cum-” your words are tortured and tremulous in the air between you both, immediately followed by a gorgeous gasp prompted by a toe-curling thrust, “p-please, Dally…”

He’s the only one who can shove you over the edge fast and hard. It’s part of the reason why you two were fated from the beginning; no one else - not even yourself - is able to make you cum as efficiently and satisfactorily as Dallas. If it isn’t blood magic or some kind of voodoo ritual, you don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely eerie and unnatural how quickly he can make it happen on demand.

It’s also why you plead like this. Besides, it’s a quickie…you two don’t have time to dawdle. 

“Fuck. Sound so fuckin’ good beggin’ for it,” Dallas has all-but lost himself to the same lewd energy that’s infected you, “you wanna cum, sweet girl?” 

You can hear it in his voice, molten and rough, on every single grunt that leaves his chest. And you can see it in his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy and blackened over more than just some alcohol. They scan you over as he breaks you down with each drill of his hips, scrutinizing the control he has over every ounce of your pleasure. 

“F-fuck…yes, yesyesyesyesplease-”

At your frantic nod, Dallas gives you another tantalizing sound before entertaining your request. The force pushing down on that little spot disappears and is replaced by blinding sensitivity once his thumb moves to your clit instead. 

“Hnngh-” you gasp, buckling and biting down on the brown leather covering his shoulder to prevent a louder sound from escaping, “Dallas!”

There’s just something about the way you say his name that drives him nuts. It’s fucking hot, yeah, but it also doesn’t sound like any other girl he’s ever heard before - it’s tinted with some kind of brutal vulnerability and unconditional endearment that he can’t quite pin down, and it makes him insane. He lets you bury yourself in the cage his body makes around you, cock jumping inside you. 

“Like that? Yeah y’do. Look how bad you want it…leakin’ all over me.” 

His demeaning words go right to your pussy, and it clenches down to weep more slick out for him. You can feel the knot in your abdomen pulling tighter, alarmingly close to snapping and spurred on by every one of your senses that’s being overstimulated. His thumb hasn’t stopped moving, circling your swollen little clit with even pressure on every pass. 

“P-please don’t s-stop…” you implore, concerned at the prospect of him stopping or slowing down. 

Your mindless blabbering unknowingly plants an idea in his head.

Absolutely limp and weak in his arms, you let him drag you ever closer to the precipice of release when you’re suddenly interrupted by his next words as they’re murmured into your ear. 

“Think y’earned it, y’lil brat?” 

The pressure on your clit subsides, and dread grips you as you’re abruptly yanked back from that proverbial, searing edge that you’re salivating to jump over.

He so often starts with this when he’s feeling like edging you, which at this particular moment would be literal hell; the last thing you want is to have to wait until you get back home to cum, where he’s probably going to make you wait even longer. His labelling of you isn’t wrong; you’re definitely a brat, and a stubborn one at that given how you forcibly coerced him into abandoning the party just so you could suck his dick - but you’re going to have a literal meltdown if you don’t get what you want in the next five minutes.

“N-no, nonono-” you pull back in a near-panic, a tearful, petrified pout already forming on your face as you start to word vomit, “pleaseplease, I’ll be g-good! Wanna cum, n-need it, please Dal-”

Dallas laughs at you in that taunting tone reserved solely for goading - the one you hear most often in the bedroom when you’re not going to get what you want. It’s quieter since the situation calls for a lower volume, but it’s still that laugh and decidedly not what you want to hear.

“So fuckin’ desperate, listen t’ya.” 

His gorgeous features have turned into something twisted and baiting as he examines you, still fucking into you at a frustratingly steady pace.

“What, you don’t wanna walk out there drippin’ my cum til I say s’time t’go home?”

He knows you’re too out of it to be able to articulate that yes, you also want his cum - you just don’t want to be denied your own finish.

Instead of completely taking his hand away from the thousands of nerve endings currently crying out for attention, he smooths the back of his index and middle finger on either side of your clit to hold your orgasm right where he wants it. You’re so wet that the digits glide seamlessly, appropriately accompanying the obscene sounds of moist with each thrust. 

“Dal - Dal, ohmyGod…please-”

You whine and sob, suffering not lost on Dallas as his hungry eyes flick between your face, your tits, the bulge his dick makes in your stomach, and your dripping cunt. It’s swollen and flush with blood, covered in a layer of sheer, slippery arousal. 

“Fff-uck, pleasepleaseplease-” you swear you see his pupils dilate further before he’s mouthing along your jawline, “l-lemme cum, Dallas please-!”

“Jesus Christ, love hearin’ you beg for it - fuck.” 

He’s breathing heavy in your ear, finally beginning to apply normal pressure on your clit again as your pleading slowly takes effect, “Maybe I wanna keep you all needy like this, baby.”

In the beginning, you couldn’t tell whether or not he was putting on an act or if this was how he truly felt and believed. Nowadays you know for a fact that he’s not hamming it up when he calls you a greedy, needy little brat. Almost every word that comes out of his mouth is dead-on, which makes it all the hotter when he calls you out on your desires and holds them over your head.

You both know he’s not likely to follow through on his threat, but with Dallas there is always, always a slim chance. One of the things you’ve come to appreciate most about him is his spontaneity, which unfortunately doesn’t always work out in your favor. Sometimes, he’ll follow through on threats that are irrational and illogical just because. 

“M’always n-needy for you, Dal,” if he continues you’re definitely going to be a goner, so you try to get all the words out now, “please make me cum, p-pretty please-”

At your keening, soft wails and the way you beg so nicely, he makes the unanimous decision to let you have this one and take the easy way out. 

“Such a sweet fuckin’ girl,” a lecherous groan slips from him, “y’need me t’make you cum? Yeah?”

Another sob follows his praise as you nod. Your pussy grips him hard every single time he tries to pull out, like it never wants him to leave. Every time he bottoms out he can feel himself hitting the resistance that is your cervix as your walls lock him in a vice grip, warm and tight and slick because of him. He’s the one that’s turned you into this freak who can’t go more than a few hours without some sexual attention, and it drives him crazy to know that.

“Keep those fuckin’ eyes open,” he orders, having pulled back to see your eyelids progressively falling more and more shut the closer you get to completion, “wanna see it when I fuck you stupid.”

You obey with a tortured whine, knowing there’s a good chance of him giving you what you want when he redoubles his attention on your clit. The familiar tenseness builds back up again glaringly fast, and you hope to God that this isn’t one of those times where he’s planning on taking that sweetness away again. 

He reassures you with a smug, knowing smile when he feels your cunt start to clamp down on him, “There y’go. Just like that.”

The contractions start deep in you, a proverbial freight train travelling at Mach fuck with no brake system headed right for impact. He’s so deep and you can’t focus on anything other than the incoming freight load of pleasure that concentrates itself around him; his touch, his smell, his voice - it’s nothing but DallasDallasDallas in your brain right now. 

“Dallas-” there’s no need for a warning; he can read your body’s signals just as well as you can feel them at this point, but you warn him all the same, “you’regonnamakemecum-”

“That’s the point, doll,” he grunts as a hit of raw lust shoots down his spine at your words and watches you fall apart, “lemme see y’make a mess on my cock, filthy girl. Cum.”

Like all your body needed was his verbal permission, the wall of euphoria slams into you milliseconds later.

His hand flies up to cover your mouth at the exact second a choked scream claws its way from your lungs, and your eyes roll into the back of your head with the force of your orgasm. Everything clenches down hard as you jerk in his arms, pussy spasming and squeezing down on him in steady pulses that do their best to milk his release earlier than intended. 

Rapt, lascivious pride coats his gravelly tone, “Fuck yeah, that’s it.” 

Beneath his palm you squeal and drool, frantically trying to draw breath and taper cries of sheer ecstasy with each shockwave. Even if he’s got you locked down in his arms your body still quivers and your hips still try to scoop up into his, bearing down in some primal instinct you can’t help. 

“Needy girl…just had’t’cum your lil brains out, huh? Keep goin’ for me, baby.” 

Dallas counts at least ten harsh pulses as he fucks you through it, balls drawing up tightly as he barely staves off his own finish, but when your eyes snap back open the look in them is exactly what does him in. 

Wide, vulnerable, wrought with pleasure and completely submissive to his rough care. 

It’s the gaze of someone who has handed their body and soul to him, and he can feel his cock swell before the overwhelming rush of chemicals hits. 

“Fffffuck-” he’s entirely wrecked, ragged and barely able to stop a dull shout from slipping out, “y’want my cum, darlin’? Take it.”

The hand over your mouth no longer mutes you, so in an effort to shut you both up he tangles a fist in your hair and kisses you, dumping his groans down your throat instead of the cavernous walls of tile that threaten to expose you two. 

Each subsequent whimper is transferred from your tongue to his as he lands two more heavy thrusts and starts to cum inside of you, flooding you from the deepest possible point. 

It’s consistently shocking how he manages to fit inside you, let alone fill you up so much.  You’re already so stretched out around him and unreasonably tight that it’s almost uncomfortable - Dallas has always managed to toe that line between ‘too much’ and mind-blowingly perfect with his size. When he actually starts pumping you full and marking you as his, the throbbing always renders you totally cross-eyed. 

You can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence, but when he rears back to let you breathe you somehow manage to come up with the tiniest, shakiest little: “S-so much, Dal…”

It’s almost laughable how little effort he has to put in to turn you into a drooling, whining, shaking mess. You can’t do anything but continue to take it when he’s got you like this, and you don’t care. You’re in that glorious, hazy, suspended space of post-orgasmic bliss, drowning in mutual lust, and you just want more. 

“You’re takin’ all of it,” his cock is still pulsing, draining as he empties ropes of hot, thick cum into you, “were beggin’ for it. Gonna make a mess all the way home.” 

It’s regrettable that you’re not already at home, because you’re not in a position where you can ask for another round and have a reasonable shot at having your wish granted. 

You whine at the prospect of having to wait until he can fill you up again. 

“I know y’like it, dirty girl,” Dallas gives you a disbelieving laugh as the aftershocks settle, and you feel him dip a finger between the two of you to gather whatever has already seeped out. 

“Open.” 

Listening to him is a second reflex; you stick your tongue out obediently without another thought, brainless and stupid with pheromones. With a pleased hum he feeds you his middle finger, drenched in his own spend, and your lips close around it with a wanton mewl. 

He snickers at you, soft and patronizing all at once, striking a specific kind of heat into you as the familiar taste of him fills your mouth. 

“Nasty, greedy lil thing,” his cock throbs again at the feel and sight of you suckling down his digit, still hard and heavy in you, “addicted t’me, ain’tcha.” 

It’s not a question. He’s telling the absolute truth. 

Ordinarily in the past, you’ve taken up issue with ex-boyfriends parading you around like a conquest while you trailed behind them, uncomfortable at the teasing noises of their friends cajoling and jeering at the conquest that was defiling you. But there’s something about Dallas and the way he takes care of you that would have you let him talk down to you on national television, what with how he manages to brainwash you. 

If you could spend all day, every day, taking his cum and letting him shatter your psyche with blinding rushes of dopamine, you genuinely would - and you’d let him walk you around like a prize showpony too. It’s frightening what you’d trade for a life that’s already close to that. 

You nod up at him, transfixed, and he smiles that demonic little smile at the sight of your glassy, fucked-out eyes. He knows he could ask you to do pretty much anything right now and you’d likely say yes, but the best part is that he doesn’t have to. You already volunteer it. 

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf, sweetheart,” Dallas noses his way across your temple and leaves a kiss on your cheekbone. 

Your muscles feel like they’re vibrating, tense and jumpy and only losing their charge when their energy is addressed. It’s then that you start to consciously unclench, trying to match the way his heart rate and breaths dive bomb for baseline far before your nervous system has even had a chance to calm down. 

It’s then, during what one could argue is the most vulnerable post-coital moment between two people, that Curly Shepard decides a closed door is apparently an open invitation to join your little private party. 

The bathroom door swings open with a hard click and an unnecessary flourish, and your heart pretty much drops into your stomach.

You screech and instinctively curl into Dallas, covering your body and sheltering yourself from the intrusion. With your face in his chest and him blocking you from sight you can’t tell how much was seen or who else saw, but you hear the curses and shouting as your boyfriend’s chest rumbles from under your ear.

“-GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Technically it’s Curly who should be yelling - or at the very least Tim, since it’s his house - but Dallas has some seniority over the younger brother and you’re a woman who is still very much exposed in a house dominated by males. Of course your mate is going to scream.

“S’my fuckin’ bathroom!” Curly cries from the other side of the door, still in shock, “Y’can’t kick me outta my own bathroom!”

“Tough shit!” Dallas fishes you out of your hiding spot on his chest and ignores Curly entirely, “fuck…y’alright?” 

The unwelcome intrusion is annoying, but there’s not really any need for alarm. It’s actually not even the first time you guys have been walked in on or caught in precarious positions, but it is the first time you’ve been caught by a Shepard. 

“Yeah,” you close your eyes and try to flush the irritation out of your system, “fuckin’ Curly…” 

Some may consider it entitled for either of you to be annoyed or offended at a house occupant barging into your secret rendezvous, but you do actually have a reason as to why you thought it appropriate and fair to choose this bathroom in particular. 

Earlier this month, on one particularly rowdy poker night in your apartment, Curly got blackout drunk and ended up puking into your kitchen sink. Ordinarily you’re fairly sympathetic towards alcohol-induced incidents and you don’t want to come off as judgmental, but come on…even for your lax standards, committing such an offense with no consequences is a little much. 

You ended up hiring a plumber to come drain it because there was absolutely no way you were touching that shit and there was a humanly impossible volume of it. The younger Shepard didn’t apologize, and neither you nor Dallas brought it up to him because it was the same week Angela got a concussion and things got forgotten in the noise of an upcoming rumble. 

So this is your silly way of making things even, because one can concede that while neither situation is ideal, a sink full of puke is a right sight worse than a countertop that didn’t even see a drop of cum. 

You can hear the kid whining from the other side of the door, “C’mon man, not on my fuckin’ birthday…”

“Cry me a fuckin’ river!” Your man snaps through the inches of wood that separate you two from him, detangling your shaking legs from his sides and slipping out of you so he can slide your panties back over your dripping cunt.

Maybe it’s the dopamine and maybe it’s the satisfaction of having gotten revenge on the very person who cost you thirty dollars in plumbing fees, but your delirious ass starts giggling at the sound of Curly’s moping and doesn’t stop even when he starts complaining about hearing your laughter. 

Dallas laughs under his breath as he slips the straps of your dress back over your shoulders, “He’s such a little shit.”

You snicker into his throat as you tip forward, allowing the tiny buzz from whatever alcohol you’ve consumed and the ooey-gooey feelgood sensations take over. You let him pull you off the counter and prop you on semi-unsteady feet, still chortling softly.

The noises of Curly’s complaints and the rest of the party beyond the four tile walls of his bathroom fade, leaving you smiling and murmuring into the cotton of his shirt. 

“Think y’broke my brain, Dal.” 

Dallas smiles into your temple and lets you get used to standing on your own two legs again, eyeing the way his body swallows yours in the mirror. It’s a little dark and demented, but he feels like he’s a shadow constantly looming over you, only absolved of such a transgression because you continue to remind him that you want the shade and favor it considerably over getting scorched in a perpetually chaotic, sunlit life. 

“Think I broke it a long time ago, doll.”

The truth in the statement makes you swoon, grin and bunt your head along his chest like an affectionate kitten. 

You’re inclined to agree.

Tag list:

i would like to request dallas winston with fem!reader who has a decently high sex drive & always asking for quickies before they go out?

if you don’t wanna write this or don’t feel comfortable, that’s totally fine i’m sorry for possibly making you feel out of your comfort zone but i would love to see your take on this prompt.

have a good day/night !!

LUST (Lat. LUXURIA)

⚠️ SMUT ALERT ⚠️ UNHOLY, FILTHY SMUT ALERT ⚠️

Summary: "For everything in the world - the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life - comes not from the Father, but from the world."  - 1 John 2:16 (NIV) You drip of temptation and exude unfiltered sin; an Asmodean devourer of flesh and faith. (In layman's terms, your libido somehow outpaces that of Tulsa's resident troublemaker.)

Pairing: Dal x femreader Word Count: 6791 CW/TW: choking, unprotected pnv, dom/sub, degradation, established relationship, size kink, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie

A/N: thank you for the request!! I’m 100% happy and comfortable to write this kind of stuff ☺️  disclaimer: I am not religious so idk if i used that bible verse properly lol - this piece was just inspired by the 7 deadly sins and the quote felt appropriate.  Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

After a quarter of a century spent terrorizing nearly everyone who gets within a ten-mile radius of him, Dallas has been hard pressed to find someone who matches his energy on so many different levels. 

In some ways, he embodies every aspect of the world feral with unyielding certainty. He can be violent, unstable and merciless in his convictions, and even on a lighter day he is very much an untamed, unruly, wild thing; all qualities of a man happy to remind everyone that getting his way is a necessity, not a choice. As expected, this type of resolve translates into his appetite for promiscuity, where he sometimes feels like a savage who never really outgrew his teenage years.

So when he met you and fell hard for the slightly-chaotic-yet-miraculously-brilliant energy you brought, he thought it too good to be true. You compliment him incredibly well in so many aspects that it was only natural for him to be waiting on a rug pull of some kind, and when you two had first started seeing each other, he made the mistake of presuming that your raging, adolescent libido would naturally fade as time passed. To his continuous surprise, you’ve only gotten more voracious as the years have gone by.

It’s a quality a lot of people fantasize and wish they had in a partner, and Dallas knows how lucky he is, but even he remains surprised at your near-constant desire.

Right now is a good example; it’s six o’clock and you’re due to meet up with Two-Bit and Kathy in a half hour to see a movie at the drive-in. He’s stepped out of the apartment for two minutes to grab smokes from the corner store and give you a second to shower, but when he comes back, he finds you looking significantly more ravenous than when he left.

It’s not even like he hasn’t given you any attention today - you guys already went at it like rabbits this morning, and just three hours ago you were quivering in his lap while he curled his fingers into you and whispered pure filth into your ear.

At this very moment, though, you’re perched on the bed and quietly looking across the room at him like you haven’t gotten laid in months. 

“Hey, darlin’...” Dallas assesses the situation quickly, immediately reading your expression for what it is.

He throws his spare change onto the kitchen table you two never use and drops down onto the couch as if none the wiser, curious to see if you’ll taper your urges so you two can leave in time or if you’ll give into them like some mindless harlot.

You’ve slipped back into one of his shirts, wet hair leaving transparent little damp patches and nipples pebbling against the fabric on your chest with every breath you take, basically panting from your spot on the bed. So obscured are your irises by dilated pupils he can scarcely see the familiar ring of color around them as you stare him down like a woman mad, concupiscent gaze heady and heavy. 

It feels a bit like he’s a piece of meat just dropped into a lion’s den and you two are already running late as is, so he treads carefully at first - even if pretending to be oblivious is a rarely effective tactic that basically translates to just playing pretend. It’s fun to watch you try and dance around what you’re not-so-secretly wishing for when you’re not in the mood to be dominant, so horny that you can’t even properly ask. 

He tosses an arm across the back of the couch and flicks the TV on, “Y’ain’t even get dressed yet, hot stuff. What’s th’matter?” 

Your tongue darts to wet your lower lip and bite at it, unable to hide the lecherous nature of your state as you untangle yourself from the sheets and silently traipse across the floor. Dallas watches you with an astute smirk, eyelids lowering almost imperceptibly at the sight of your bare legs as they carry you all the way to where he sits. 

It happens all-too fast, like you’re a little secret spy on a mission he already read the roster for but didn’t care to establish any counter-attack on.

He grunts when you suddenly slide down into his lap without further ado or explanation, straddling him and letting your knees sink into the cushioned material. There’s barely any time to react or poke fun before you’re kissing him, spit-slick lips opening up against his.

“Mm-” heat strikes low into his abdomen and the rush makes him laugh breathlessly when he pulls back, “-can I get a fuckin’ hello before y’treat me like a dime store hooker? Christ.”

A giggle and a playful little smile pulls at your features as you assess him through a filter of amorous ardor, feeling him already half-hard underneath you. Both of his hands fall to cradle your hips, warm and steady as they subtly nudge you down against him. 

“Hi…” 

Your voice is sheer cream; a buttery sunset against the backdrop of a pastel sky.

For a moment he’s blinded by your beauty and reminded of how graced he is to hold something like you - let alone have you in his life at all - before he recenters himself to address your needy state.

“Hey sweet thing,” he purrs back with a salacious grin, lust already rubbing off on him, “what’s goin’ on?” 

Dallas knows you’re more than capable of speaking up for yourself. One of the things he appreciates most about you is your feisty attitude that hits just right whenever it pops out. Currently, however, you’re a little tongue tied. It’s as if an infectious, potent aphrodisiac has infiltrated your mind and poisoned your blood, turning you into a devious temptress coyly attempting to hide her intentions. 

You gaze back at him with that mischievous simper reserved only for when you’re trying to get something out of him. 

“Want somethin’...” you murmur like it’s a prized secret, fingers already tucking themselves under his shirt to skim the denim waistband hidden there. 

The warm, firm muscles under your knuckles tense teasingly, but a quiet huff of laughter is all you get in return before he’s clasping your wrists in his hands to stop your efforts. 

“You want somethin’?” He speaks lowly with a knowing smile, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, “whaddya want, pretty girl?” 

Against his firm grip your hands twitch and writhe for their prize, so close yet so far away, until they go slack at the understanding that he won’t be letting go anytime soon. 

Fed up with dancing around the matter, you put all the sensual energy and lewdness you can into your next declaration: “You.” 

Both of you feel him throb at that, and he groans into your mouth when you lower your swollen lips to his again. As soon as his hold slackens with your ministrations, you take advantage and let your hands slip up his chest so your fingers can tangle themselves in his hair.

One roll of your hips and a well-placed tug at the nape of his neck has him softly bucking up into you, scrambling to get a hold of this situation before it spirals out of control. 

He detaches himself from your lips with a hiss, “Greedy lil thing. You forgettin’ what day it is?” 

It’s not like the world will end if you guys blow off going to the movies or anything; Two-Bit and Kathy will be perfectly fine on their own, and there will be plenty of other times to hang out with your friends. But this is the third time this week the two of you are going to be late to something because of your insatiable hedonism, and for the nth time in his life it’s making him question if this is a case of untreated nymphomania. 

“No…” you play innocent as you gyrate softly in his lap and tug at the chain around his neck, “we can be quick, right? Please?”

As you make your case, you’re doing everything you can to coerce him - softly scraping your nails against his scalp, pulling on his hair, mouthing at his neck, teasing along his waistline - all things you’ve learned that drive him crazy. Dallas swallows a strangled sound of barely-contained self-restraint and holds your hips still, cock pulsing from where it’s trapped between you both. 

He can’t contain your wandering hands, though, which continue their libidinous efforts to break his resolve. 

“Pretty please, Dal?” Your wide-eyed gaze has gone theatrically pleading when he takes too long to respond, “m’so empty…”

Nearly delirious, he laughs at your performative antics and wraps one arm around your waist to reposition you better against him, “Empty? How many times did’y’cum t’day, baby?” 

You whine as you mouth along his jawline, unwilling to reveal the answer you both know or compromise in any way. A shiver reveals just how out of sorts he is from everything that you’re doing, eyes rapidly becoming just as glossed over as yours. 

Dallas lets hands dip to squeeze at your ass with a throaty sigh when you don’t reply, “What? Lost count?”

A meek ‘mm-mn’ is all you can give in return, limp and still kneading at his chest. You let your fingers slip under his shirt again so they can skim the happy trail you wish to follow so badly as he half-heartedly tries to corral you. 

It’s then that the trapped head of him perfectly hits your clit after a very targeted roll of your hips, making you gasp shamelessly while he curses under his breath at the feel of it. It’s the last straw, and he makes a grand show of giving in even if it’s comically fast and both of you know there is little to no chance of him ever turning you down. 

“Fuck- fine, needy girl,” his voice has gone gravelly with barely-contained desire, “y’want my cum that bad?” 

You don’t have to verbally respond to his question. A brilliant, dazzling smile overtakes your features as you realize you’re going to get your way, and he shakes his head with another disbelieving laugh at the sight of it. 

“...such a little shit. Y’know we gotta leave in like ten-”

He’s interrupted when you promptly lift your shirt off and toss it to the side, temporarily stunlocking him like your body does every time he sees you bare before him. 

“...fuck.”

At the realization that you haven’t even bothered to put bottoms of any kind on, he hums a low note of appreciation in his throat and goes to paw at you. He’ll never be used to seeing every single perfect dip, curve, angle and swell of your naked form. 

A relieved exhale at the feel of him palming at your breasts turns into a sharp noise of elation when he redirects the attention to your nipples, softly pinching and tugging them between gropes. It makes your pussy pulsate and settles a thick fog into your head that clogs your mouth with cotton, quickening your breaths as your heart rate rapidly rises. 

You can feel him watching you, and the combined attention makes your hips stumble in their steady grinding, “S-shit…”

Already splintered, you crack even further when he tips you forward to take one into his mouth, urging your hips along with a heavy hand on your waist. 

The dull bite of his teeth against the sensitive skin of your nipple sends raw electricity down your spine and makes you hump against him like a dog, nearly beside yourself with craving.

“A-ah…justlikethat-” you’re still tugging at his hair, a little lost in the thick of it as he distracts you. 

It’s not really your fault; every time he gets his hands on you like this you two drift into your own little world, and you’re just more prone to having your head in the clouds. It’s safe and easy since you’ve got him to tether you, even if that requires tugging you back down to Earth sometimes. 

At the next pass of your hips, he does exactly that, because the pressure is getting all too unbearable and he literally can’t keep his dick in his pants for another second. 

“Woman-” Dallas growls, releasing your nipple and almost glaring at you in impatience. 

He’s just as dishevelled as you are, hair mussed and eyes glassy as they come while he looks on as if you’ve been edging him all day. 

The implicit message is clear: get a move on. 

You smile, giddy with the small rush of power. There’s rarely a perfect balance of dominance here; you both have fairly high sex drives and enjoy driving each other nuts, but he so frequently comes out on top because he’s not often willing to give up control and he knows just how to get you completely brainless.

It makes small moments like this all the better, sweet satisfaction roaming its way across your diaphragm at the sight of his matching fervor.

Dallas tenses at your impish little grin, hands tightening on your hips as he’s forced to wait. 

“Swear t’god, m’gonna-”

“Shhh-” you chastise, relishing in his choked grunt as your hand frees the throbbing length of him, “who’s th’needy one now, huh?” 

You can see the exact second that his brain deletes whatever passive-aggressive reply he had loaded up, because you choose that exact moment to swirl your thumb around the leaking, thick tip of his cock. His eyelids slam shut and his whole body tenses as his words are replaced with a terribly oppressive exhale, like someone’s just winded him. 

It’ll take a lot more to get him truly strung out and ready to take over, so in times like this where he’s willing to hand over the reins and let you set the pace (surprisingly enough, given how you should have left the house by now), you take full advantage. 

You feel yourself dripping, the evidence of your arousal making a mess on his jeans and sticking to the insides of your thighs. Touching him only worsens your symptoms; he’s so hard and flushed with blood that you can feel the heat of him emanating into your palm, and the realization makes you dizzy. There’s a solid moist patch where you’ve been grinding down on him, and as if he’s just been reminded of your own sorry state, his hand slips down to your swollen little clit before you can stop him. 

“Dal-!”

The sensitivity is blinding. You need him so badly you ache and clench hard, only serving to squeeze more slick out of you. He’s nothing short of triumphant as he watches you tremble and cry out, well aware that you’re unlikely to let go of his cock or release his chest where you’ve stabilized yourself in order to smack his hand away. 

“You’re drippin’,” he hums cruelly, circling the slippery bundle of nerve endings while you writhe, “this all for me, sweetheart?” 

In lieu of a confirmation neither of you need, you refuse to respond to his rhetorical patronization and redouble your efforts with an adorable wayward pout. He’s already had the privilege of you whining and shaking in his arms today…you need a win. 

A twist of your wrist and a swipe across his tip wipes the smug smile off his face, and you grin when he jerks and curses darkly. 

“Evil, devil woman-”

“So mean,” you somehow gather the vocal stability to mock him, and when you hear his frenzied breath of laughter you know that it’s marking a slow descent into madness. 

“C’mon babydoll,” Dallas urges without actually saying the words, planting an open-mouthed kiss on your left breast before biting into it.

The sobering, sharp pressure of his canines digging into you makes you gasp and almost distracts you from how wrecked he’s beginning to sound. His tone is fraying at the seams, coming undone before your eyes and taut with tension. It’s not a flat out beg or a searing whimper, but you’ll take it.

(You’ve only heard him whine a handful of times throughout the course of your relationship, and every single instance of it has been scored in your head like a platinum record. A trophy should be awarded for the effort you’ve put into making him lose control like that, what with how difficult it can be.)

As hot as this is, though, you’re burning up with undeniable want, and you can’t hold out any longer. Your resolve isn’t as strong as his when it comes to this sort of stuff and you’ve been battling this outbreak since the last time he made you cum today, the whispers of your last orgasm still clinging to the outskirts of your mind like a fever. 

Every swirl of his thumb drags you closer to hell, a little matchstick burning brighter and brighter as it descends. You’d sit in endless eternal fires if it meant feeling this way for the rest of your life. 

Like a true addict, the fiending overtakes you when he releases you to pull his own shirt off, silently telling you that he’s moving onto the next act whether or not you’re prepared for it. You nearly vault up in response, eagerly accepting his help and letting his hand guide his cock to your weeping slit. The lechery has your legs shaking, craving winning out above all and pure relief bathing your system in waves once he’s notched and pushing past the first ring of muscle.

Dallas groans, jaw going slack as he watches you slowly sink down onto him. His brows pull together at the sound of your perfect little cries and he spares a glance up at you, finding you already looking back at him like he’s hung the very moon and stars and fuck - if that isn’t something.

“Goddamn-” he can feel himself salivating at the feel of your warmth enveloping him bit by bit, “just like that, doll. C’mon, take what y’need.” 

He’s power bottoming and it’s entirely unfair, but it feels so good and your brain goes so blank when he talks to you like this that you just…wilt and wane in his arms. 

“Oh-oh, s-shit…” 

“Such a pretty fuckin’ pussy…” a satisfied groan is punched from his chest when you drop an inch lower, “...s’all mine.” 

You nod, eyes starting to tear up at the reprieve of him finally being inside of you and the way his voice has dropped into that deep, familiar, lilting tone. 

The lower you sink the harder he gets, balls drawing up dangerously tight like he’s a horny teenager fucking you for the first time all over again. Every single beat of his heart feels like it’s pumping blood straight to his dick, swelling more and more inside of you and making him stupid with pleasure. There’s a distinct point he reaches when all his venom and bite bleeds out to leave a vacuum for the rush of dopamine that comes with filling you up, before it all comes roaring back in one symphonious cacophony and he feels like he can breathe again.

You’re equally rapt with simmering thirst. It hangs heavy, all-consuming in your mind until you’re incapable of thinking about anything other than the way he’s stretching and filling you. The dull burn of him scratches that itch that nothing else but his cock can soothe as it splits you in two, throbbing harshly every few seconds with each spasm of your cunt. 

Dallas swallows a moan, beyond trying to slow his breaths down. “Fuck yeah, jus’ like that.” 

The fuller you get, the more control you hand back to him, quickly accepting that this is not one of those instances in which you can retain dominance. Your head is too fuzzy and your limbs are too weak with want, reminding you of a head cold with how it nearly forces your eyes shut. 

But like all aspects of your relationship, Dallas is always there to catch you when you stumble.

While your senses muddle and mix together, his get clearer - similar to when one wakes up with clear sinuses after an awful sickness only to realize that their partner has been plagued and infected by the same bug. 

He’s keeping you steady against him with one hand on your ribs and the other splayed on your hip, making sure you don’t drop down too quickly. Sometimes you can’t be trusted to take it slow, and as much as he loves to see you whine over his size, he doesn’t want you limping to the car or to be in pain for the duration of a movie you two may or may not see.

You wax and molt and melt, dripping down his length and whimpering at the overwhelming sensations assaulting you until finally, finally - you’re entirely speared on him and utterly stuffed to the brim. 

It induces total static in your mind.

“O-oh fuck…” your head hangs, miserable with pleasure, “Dallas…” 

You’re so fucking full, and he’s losing his mind.

There’s just something about you being this way - so beside yourself with lust and helpless because of him - that makes him absolutely insane. You were an absolute freak before you met him, sure, but your proclivity for sex only increased tenfold when you two started going steady. 

“Easy. Just sit there, nice ‘n full,” despite being on equal ground Dallas taunts you like a merciless God ridiculing the naivety of your sacrificial slaughter, “feel better, y’lil freak?” 

And like Thor’s goats, you’re ready to be slaughtered and resurrected again and again if it means he’ll never stop devouring you. 

Saliva builds between your molars, threatening to have you frothing at the mouth like some hedonous aberration. You keen in response to his goading and teeter dangerously towards him, prepped to faceplant into his shoulder so he can flip you into the couch and can fuck you senseless, but Dallas is having none of it.

“Nah, nah-” he pulls you back up and props you steady with a harsh crack of laughter, forcing you to continue, “y’wanted t’come hop on it, right?”

A resulting mewl is all you can give him in return.

“Let’s go, lil bunny - bounce.”

It’s so demeaning and vile you think you might cum just from those words alone, and if the harsh clamp your cunt gives him in return doesn’t do it, your deprecating wail completely gives you away. 

Dallas grins around a satisfied grunt, toothy and all-encompassing, “Yeah, y’like that? I know y’do, filthy lil thing.” 

He guides your every move and gathers your pliant essence with only the most devious of words, only to spoon feed your soul back into you. 

"C'mon - up, arch y’back…there y’go. Good girl.” 

The praise lights up a part of your nervous system that no one else but him has ever touched.

Fuck.

With his guidance and low murmurs of encouragement, you finally start your pilgrimage to the holy land, canting your hips carefully until he’s nearly slipping out of you before sinking back down with a sniffle and another gorgeous keen. You keep your death grip on his nape and ignore the way your fingernails are drawing blood from his trapezius muscle, digging into the skin there like little claws. 

He can’t really help the gravelly obscenities that starts to fall out of his mouth; it’s only natural when you’re squealing and bouncing on him so prettily, soaking wet sounds filling the room. 

“Mm - atta girl. Y’wanted me that bad, didn’tcha?” 

“M-mnhmm…” you gasp, quivering in his lap for the second time today.

“Couldn’t go three hours without my cock stuffed in this lil pussy, huh?” 

Pure fervor ignites deep in your belly at his words, flint against steel clashing to spark an uncontrollable wildfire. You knew you were close, but you didn’t think you were this close.

“Dallas-” 

At your warbling he briefly wonders if you’re some kind of holy temptress delivered to him as a test of his resolve, because with the way you rut down on him, he’d think you closer to a succubus than a human.

“That’s it - fuck, such a dirty girl…listen t’that,” he grins up at you as you move, releasing your ribcage so he can softly pinch your nipple instead, “so fuckin’ wet f’me.”

He keeps you stable above him when the oversensitive nerves of your chest tingle in response, clutching you greedily and letting you fuck him at that maddening pace while tooth-rotting pleasure dulls your senses and decays your mind.

“Oh my fuckingGod,” you’re slurring, begging by default and practically drooling in his lap, “please, pleaseplease…” 

He hisses with a smack to your hip that echoes throughout the apartment, “Keep takin’ it, doll.” 

Your tearful eyes find his amidst the wreckage of your hunger, and you hold onto his gaze while you move like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. The pace isn’t that fast but you can feel yourself unraveling by the second, every drag of him inside of you pushing you further along. 

His sightline suddenly drops, trained on your swollen, pulsing heat, covered in a thick film of slick that creates a moist, vulgar sound every time you drop yourself down onto him. Every thrust and clench leaks more out of you, sloppy and messy and fucking perfect, making an absolute ruin of you both.

It’s carnal and crude and downright disgusting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You don’t even have fantasies anymore; they’re all just fever dreams about Dallas that he fulfills without having to ask. 

“Mmnnhh-” you have to swallow around a gasp before you can sob the rest of your sentence out, “love your cock-”

His entire body thrums at that, dick throbbing as he drops his head back and chokes around a destroyed groan. 

“Fuck-”

Watching you fall apart because of him is a drug that Dallas will continue to willingly overdose on no matter the cost. He will never tire of hearing you gush while you struggle to take him, body not designed for someone his size but stubborn to extract every ounce of pleasure you can. 

“-know y’do, sweetheart. C’n feel it.” 

Between every fall of your hips your gummy, soaked little walls contract around him like warning seizes, indicating just how close you are. It’s like your body has been holding you close to release for hours between bouts today, not ready to go without an orgasm or his affections for set periods of time. 

“Love my cock so much y’gonna cum on it, aint’cha?” 

Your resulting sound of need cannot be helped. 

What’s even more addictive about you is how downright responsive you are to him. The phenomenon is applicable to nearly all avenues of your relationship, but it’s like Dallas has a hormonal blueprint that your body taps into whenever he’s nearby. He can stand behind you while you’re making dinner and touch on you for all of five minutes before you’re putty in his hands, pleading for him to take you against the counter. He’ll whisper indecent, pornographic things into your ear while you’re both out in public until you’re begging for him to take you home, desperate for him to fill you up. 

“Know you’re close, baby,” between husky words he reconnects his thumb to your swollen clit, “can feel y’squeezin’ me.”

His own pupils have blown wide, rendering him akin to a demonic incubus as he watches you quiver against him. You’re frantic in your chase for release, voice rising in pitch and shameless desperation.

It feels so blindingly good that your hips almost lose their rhythm and you have to release his hair so both trembling hands can clutch his shoulders, “Dal-”

“I know darlin’,” he flips the script into something mildly dulcet and soothing as he likes to do, so frequently able to shift based on his mood, “gotcha all drunk on me, didn’t I. Poor fuckin’ thing…wanna feel better? You wanna cum? Go on.”

His coos are music to your ears, bathing your cells in promises of rapture as he keeps steady pressure on your clit. The fever has already lowered itself into your mind, filtering everything in a hazy glow as thick satisfaction encompasses you, and you have only him to guide you through it as tears completely blur your vision. 

“Dallas-!” 

“There we go,” as soon as he feels the telltale spasms that accompany your warning cry he’s grinning, breathless and equally intoxicated, “cum for me, sweet girl. Lemme feel it.” 

You’re shaking, thin sweat cooling quickly on your skin as your efforts are rewarded by that familiar, nearly-drunk feeling of balance loss right before your muscles tense back up again, and a split second later you’re gone. 

Some orgasms are rough, jerking you around like you’re caught in an undertow and forcing you to bite down into him just so you can find something steadying. Others are mild and pass quickly, often paired in multiples and gratifying in their own right, but sitting somewhere in-between the scale. But orgasms like these are your favorite; they’re slow and heavy and sickly-sweet, transforming you into a little puddle in his lap while you release lewd noises of sin between gasps of his name.

You can feel your hips stutter and start to grind instead of continuing to bounce as the dense waves of dopamine hit you with every vibration, pussy clamping down around his dick that’s so deep in you, you swear you can taste it in the back of your throat. 

Vaguely, you register Dallas further coaxing your hips along and letting you ride it out naturally, the low hum of his words lost but their tone and intent astutely received. Even your subconscious mind naturally listens to him without hesitation, having marked him as wholly safe and yours a long time ago. The trust and familiarity has roots so deep you could target him in a crowded room purely based on scent and sound alone, pheromones happy to guide you to him any time of day. 

You fall and fall until all you can breathe is him, finally collapsing blindly into the pocket of his clavicle when the last contractions leave you absolutely boneless. 

It takes a moment before you can actually hear what he’s saying, but you can feel the steady palpitations deep in you from where his cock is lodged against your cervix. He’s barely thrusting - just tiny cants of his hips that he clearly can’t fight - but they make you hungry you all the same.  

“Dirty, greedy, messy lil thing,” pride inundates his tone as it rumbles through the atmosphere and connects right to the reward centre in your brain, “so fuckin’ good, doll. Fuck, c’mere.”

You don’t bother to wipe your teary cheeks as he pulls you up and out of the safe corner of his body, ‘tsking’ at your whine. It’s not a true complaint; you could go all day if he let you. 

“Quit-” Dallas scolds playfully, “...fucked yourself stupid, silly girl. Y’want my cum?” 

Like a true heathen you’re magically renewed at the verbal reminder of your original mission, and Dallas straight up laughs at you for it while he repositions you both. 

“I got you, darlin’,” he flips you without slipping out, pushing you down with one hand on your chest and rearranging your lower limbs, “-easy, open up f’me. There y’go - good girl. Hold it like that.” 

As he pins your other leg to the cushions by the back of one knee he watches you for every single reaction you make, catching the way your ribs expand and hold with a breath while little twitches continue to assault you. You’re still recovering, aftershocks zipping through you, but you’re a trooper and a stubborn one at that. He knows you’ll tap out if you truly feel like you can’t take it.

But there are no qualms in your dazed little eyes while they look up at him in wonder, and so with a lecherous smile and an incredulous laugh, he starts fucking you. 

It’s a steady, deep, heavy pace, instantly making you come back to life with a wet gasp that sounds like you’ve just been shocked. Your bleary eyes open wider, deceptively innocent expression sitting so perfectly on your face that he thinks if he didn’t know any better, he might say this was your first time feeling him. 

Dallas makes a sound like a wounded animal as he feels the rounded ring of muscle that signals he’s reached a point of resistance in you, “Y’got no idea how crazy y’make me, do ya?” 

It’s a lucid, rhetorical question - one that requires no answer. 

Your libido may be higher, but it rubs off on him so much that on days like this it’ll transform you both into useless, cum-drunk versions of yourselves that shouldn’t be trusted to leave your home. 

“S’whatcha needed, huh? Wanted me t’fuck you like this til y’can’t talk no more?” 

Endless, needy noises of explicit desire that spill from your swollen lips are only slightly muted when he takes a hand to your throat, dropping down lower over you and folding you further in half. You almost shriek, throat tensing around his constrictive hold and unable to do anything other than continue to take his merciless thrusts.

His voice has gone completely molten, “Fuckin’ perfect girl-” 

Dallas realized a long time ago that there is no end to your lust. You’re never truly satiated, and he thinks that if you had the choice to go through life without ever having to leave his lap, you would do so without question - and he would happily let you without any argument. 

So he knows it’s (logically) hypocritical for him to tease you over it, but you look so pretty crying over his words and losing it all over him that he just can’t help it. 

“Look at’cha, sweetheart,” he can feel the tense coil of raw pleasure sitting low in his abdomen, “fuckin’ destroyed. Who did this t’you, huh?”

“Y-you, Dal-” the words are hoarse from lack of oxygen and intermingled with whiny, endless cries, “oh my f-fucking God-!”

He’s got you right on that delicious cusp between orgasms, where your startling sensitivity is keeping you right on the line of falling over the edge again. In a near-subconscious effort to push yourself over said edge, you let your hands drop from where they’re clutching at his chest to your own tits, grasping them and pinching your nipples between your middle and index fingers. 

“That’s it - play with your tits f’me,” he’s taunting you again and snickering at the state of you, “so desperate.” 

You’re inconsolable as you babble and slur underneath him, pleading for him to never stop. The squelch you hear every time he bottoms out would be downright humiliating if you were anyone else, but to you it’s rapture and it’s fucking perfect and shit - you think you might cum again from this alone; just full of your man and touching yourself like some brainwashed whore. 

“Greedy, greedy girl-” Dallas keeps going, tutting in that condescending manner you love so much, “can’t take ya anywhere, can I?” He’s not going to last. Between the buildup, the slick sounds of your soaked heat, the feeling of your plush cunt gripping him like a goddamn vice while it keeps leaking and making a mess of you both, the way you’re sounding and looking as you fall apart for him and because of him - he’s as good as gone. “Oughta tie y’up ‘n leave you on th’bed-” 

Yes, yesyesyes, the devilish urges in you chant, going against every empowering lesson about independence and womanhood you’ve learned in your life.

“-keep dumpin’ cum n’you ‘til y’shut up.” 

The derogatory words make you wail, completely drowned by ecstasy underneath him. There’s no room to breathe with how he fucks you; no room to think or react rationally to words that your friends would probably nauseate themselves knowing you enjoy. 

Between the vulgar, wet sounds of your coupling and every snap of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs you can hear your fractured noises of bliss, high and breathy and entirely lost for a man who has earned every single ounce of said reactions. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna cum again-” he feels it right before you do, which somehow is even hotter than you feeling it yourself. 

There’s a tone of finality to his statement, like there are no ifs, ands or buts about it. And you know better than to question Dallas when he’s certain about this kind of stuff, because you’ve never seen him be wrong about anything between the sheets. 

It hits you about two seconds after you feel his cock swell and start to flood you with thick, sticky warmth, making you shout in its intensity as it completely overtakes you. In perfectly congruent, animalistic harmony, the rhythmic contractions your pussy makes urge all the cum he’s plugging you up with deeper, forcing it to stay and overfill you. It’s always sweeter when you get to feel him finish in you at the same time, pulsing frantically and rubbing up against your cervix with every heartbeat.

He’s practically snarling into your collarbone as he holds you down, “Good fuckin’ girl-”

Completely enslaved by your hedonistic tendencies and euphoric with the blinding rush of your orgasm, your hips cant themselves up into his, frenziedly begging for more, more, and more until his own instincts make him truly pin you down with his weight. The resulting depth he reaches drives stars from behind your eyes and stills you, struck dumb by the sheer pressure even though this is something you feel at least once a day. 

Finally, you’re still and forced to accept what he gives you, every throb of his cock following a flutter from your gummy little walls. 

You register his harsh panting and the fact that he’s released your neck far too late, but your hands have made their way back to the mastoid area behind his ears to scrape your nails through his hair like it’s second nature. Amidst his responding shiver, you can feel the click of his jaw as he unlatches and relaxes his teeth, obviously a little rattled. 

Somewhere in the whirlwind of it all he must have bitten you, you think contently, because there’s a few sore spots around your chest and neck that line up perfectly with where his mouth currently is, face still planted in your shoulder. 

It doesn’t bother you in the slightest; you’re always happy to show off the necklaces of bruises that come along with this kind of affection. 

“You-” Dallas starts, still breathless and buried to the hilt inside of you, “little fuckin’ demon.”

Warm laughter spills from you, high on endorphins and pure happiness. Your lush impulses have been soothed - for now - and though he may complain about lost time or sore muscles, you know he loves this. Tiring someone like him out in any capacity is a good indicator that he’s met his match, and that match is you. 

His cock pulses again at your sounds of joy, an unequivocally endearing base response that reveals how he truly feels without saying anything. 

“Killin’ me, doll. I swear,” he plants an open-mouthed kiss above your heart and finally lifts his head to level you with a bewitched sort of reverence that indicates he’s completely spent, “-m’gonna die in this pussy.”

You hum and giggle, letting his hand fall away from the ditch of your knee so it can stroke your thigh. 

“Think you’d like that, Dal.”

He laughs under his breath, “Damn straight.”  

His forehead falls back down to your clavicle with a low hum, and a steady beat of exhausted silence passes in which you both catch your breath, keeping each other warm in the afterglow. 

You always find it so funny when Dallas speaks to you like you're the troublemaker who is constantly letting her lust rule the course of your lives, as if he didn’t just spew utter pornography into your ears after ‘falling victim’ to your advances. The reality is that both of you are a little to blame for letting it get so intense; you for refusing to taper your urges, and he for refusing to deny you time and again.

It makes his next words even more poignant, because aside from their timing, they are fully ironic in their request. 

“Y’know,” he suddenly continues in that sneaky tone that always implicates him trying to pull a fast one over on you all while nosing at your neck, “we don’t gotta leave the house if you don’t wanna.”

A/N: I know suspension of disbelief is supposed to be a thing with fanfiction and all, but I did some research since a majority of my writing has creampies in it - and apparently the first IUDs came out in 1964. How about that!

Decided to pin a list of upcoming works so people can make sure their requests came through and there's a general spot for referral :) I'll update accordingly! I'll try not to spoil the titles or too much of the plot.

Dallas x f!reader - corruption kink (smut) Dallas x f!reader - angel!reader (smut) Dallas x f!reader - rough (smut) Dallas x f!reader - Curtis sister!reader (smut) Dallas x f!reader - sore (smut) Dallas x f!reader - shy reader first meet Dallas x f!reader - breeding kink (smut) Dallas x f!reader - shower (smut) Dallas x f!reader - kitchen (smut) Dallas x Soda x f!reader - size difference/rough/dacryphilia (smut) Dallas x Darry x f!reader - rough/dacryphilia (smut) Johnnyxf!reader (fluff) Cherryxf!reader (smut)

Thank you so much! Oh my god I am so so flattered by this you have no idea :,) I love your writing too - it’s also perfectly descriptive, original, creative and inspiring.

ANGEL

⚠️ ALERT/THIS STORY COVERS TOPICS/INSTANCES OF ABUSE AND DRUG USE (PAST) ⚠️ MILD SMUT/INTERRUPTED SMUT/SMUT-LITE ⚠️

Summary: You’re a resilient person with a hefty past, abusive childhood included. A certain stimulus triggers a stress response you didn’t think possible.

Pairing: Dal x femreader Word Count: 4120 CW/TW: established relationship, hurt/comfort, dom/sub, unprotected pnv, PTSD, (past) abuse/mentions of abuse, (past) drug usage, (past) overdose, degradation kink, praise kink, dirty talk, AU/everyonelivesnobodydies, (light) dacryphilia

A/N: Thank you for the request!! This was an interesting prompt, primarily bc I see/write Dallas as being notoriously tricky with anything comfort-wise so it was challenging to accurately depict that and not make him too OOC while also staying true to the request. I also wasn't sure if the reader should be crying over what he said or an entirely different issue that the emotions of sex/degradation brought up, so let me know what you think of where I landed :) (i also took a 'second' a little too literally, not sure if that's okay haha but I like to think of him as pretty quick on the uptake) This is a little heavy because the subject themes are quite sensitive. I’ve dealt with abuse, substance use and overdoses myself, so I feel comfortable enough to write about it, but I just wanted to put up several warnings. Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

There aren’t many things that shake you after the kind of childhood you’ve had. 

Being a young woman growing up in mid-century Oklahoma during the Korean war was already tumultuous enough, but to add on top of that an impoverished lifestyle and abusive parents was a whole other pile of awful. 

It isn’t rare to find broken families in Greaser homes. Hell - you’re fairly certain your parents took lessons from Johnny’s with the way you both grew up, and you know you two aren’t the only ones in the neighborhood who shared those experiences. 

Sometimes you wonder if it would have been easier to have a completely absent mother like Dallas, subsequently carted around the country by his father only to be left abandoned in the end, but you know it’s all one in the same when the end result is a traumatized child left alone in the world. 

Between the two of them, you came out somewhere in between; you’re not cautious yet deadly like Johnny or brazenly cutthroat like Dallas, though the former has definitely improved over time and the latter shows you every day that there are plenty of warm spots to his ‘cold, dead’ heart. 

Your poor upbringing has made you all the more grateful that you have so many friends you can count on, but it has also made you harshly resilient and self-sufficient. You aren’t a mentally weak person, nor do you fawn easily during times of stress and hardship. You’re tough, resourceful, dedicated and loyal. You’ve built up a secure system of trustworthy people that you love and cherish, and when grievances occur you’re pretty good at dealing with them in a mature and rational way. All in all, these are befitting traits for a person who is well-adjusted enough to deal with things like trauma in a fairly reasonable, expectable manner. 

Unfortunately, all that gets tossed out the window when a few little unexpected words throw you right back into your childhood years - back when you were hiding underneath the kitchen sink clutching your doll between trembling fingers to avoid your screaming father two feet away, lest he drag you out by the hair and smack you for whatever trivial transgression you had committed. Back when you found your mother overdosing and didn’t know any better but to try and resuscitate her yourself, little fingers slippery with her vomit as you tried in vain to reanimate a corpse. 

There aren’t many instances that trigger a stress response that echoes back to those years, and it’s odd to you that a couple choice words from your boyfriend in the middle of some well-placed, mind-blowing sex did it, especially considering they aren’t even words that you’re unaccustomed to hearing. 

You’re not sure if the recent anniversary of your father’s death has something to do with it, but your birth family has been on your mind a lot these past few days, and you’ve been distracting yourself with potentially unhealthy levels of sex to try and get your mind off of it. You figure this kind of method is something like those self-cleaning ovens that came out eight years ago in ‘63; if your brain is tainted with unwanted thoughts, the automated feature is available to wipe it all away. 

It’s a fair distraction because Dallas is here, alive and very willingly tending to you, reminding you that you have a purpose, a loving life, and that you make a difference in this world. 

“Been so fuckin’ needy this week,” he’s murmuring throatily into your shoulder as he thrusts into you, driving any thought that dares formulate from your head with every drop of his hips, “hell’s gotten into you, sweetheart?” 

You hope he’s not waiting for an actual response, because a coherent reply from you is virtually out of the question right now. Your mind is already lost in its own depths as you lay prone beneath him, drooling into the sheets like a braindead animal. 

Dallas snickers from above you, mean and cajoling. He’s got one of your wrists pinned down by your shoulder and the other above your head, though he wouldn’t need to hold you down even if they were free. You’ve reached the point of complete cathartic bliss that renders you limp and pliant - the proverbial ‘off mode’ that only he can find the button for in your head.

“Ffffuc-ck-! Dal…” you slur and wail, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

You’re an absolute mess; every single time his hips meet your ass he fills you up so entirely that you’re anointed with whole-body shivers and spine-numbing sparks of kinetic energy, annihilating any chance of recollecting yourself.

It feels so good that tears have been consistently leaking down your cheeks while you sob, choke and squeal, unable to shut your mouth or stop the innate reaction you have to hearing your sopping little pussy take him over and over again. The filthy squelch of it fills the room and you can feel the mess of it between your thighs, slick and copious and made even worse by his constant rutting.

He’s so, so deep, and the awareness of your body’s innate reactions to him just further your descent into a lust-induced madness.

This happens every single time he fucks you. It was a novelty the first two weeks you dated, but now that you’ve cohabitated for years it’s genuinely concerning how seriously he devastates you. You’re so stretched out you can’t possibly think there’s any more room in your swollen cunt to fit him, but he changes his angle ever so slightly to hit deeper and suddenly he’s hitting a point of resistance, bumping your cervix with every thrust. 

It’s too much and you think you might wind up dehydrated with how much your pussy is absolutely gushing for him, but you never want this to end. A choked scream is all you can react with.

“I know. I got you,” he hisses as you tighten around him and drops his forehead to your shoulder, “Goddamn…my dumb lil crybaby’s in heat, ain’t she.” 

You’re beside yourself with want, sheer heat burning its way through your arteries. “O-oh my fucking God y-yes…yesyesyes-! Please don’tfuckingstop-”

Dallas groans, tone low and molten in your ear. “Sound so fuckin’ good, darlin’. Just can’t get enough, can ya? Addicted t’me.” 

A cry slips from your chest, salivating at the feeling of that familiar, tightly coiled pleasure sitting in your core. There’s this vacuum of space right before the pressure drop that you’ve become infatuated with; a suspended in-between stage where you’ve been shoved off the cliff but have a few seconds before you fall. You feel your jaw start tingling as your body rushes to throw itself off the proverbial ledge. 

“I can feel your lil pussy grippin’ on me,” he doesn’t let up as he licks a bite into your shoulder, “y’gonna cum for me all helpless like this, greedy girl?”  

Your breath hitches harshly as something within his last remark sticks, like sickly, tacky skin right before a fever break. 

Helpless…your mind parrots back at you, hm.

Maybe it’s because it’s paired with a stray thought of your old life and how grateful you are to be crying for all the right reasons, or maybe it’s because you suddenly remember the last time your Dad called you helpless and how nice it’s been to have had a whole year of your life gone undisturbed since he passed, not having to wonder if he’s dead or alive somewhere. 

Either way, the word drops into your subconscious pool of repressed memories and sinks deep, deep down towards whatever bottomless maw has opened its jowls for the incoming meal. Initially you don’t think much of the weird feeling it blooms in you, because words never really have that affect on you. Sticks and stones or something like that…you can’t recall the saying right now. 

It’s not even a new word, nor is it one you’re uncomfortable with; you like when Dallas tells you how stupid and cockdrunk you get off him, and he regularly points it out because it drives him crazy. 

But all-too quickly, the disconcerting flashbacks and rapid feelings of unease fester into something uncontrollable. 

Suddenly you’re eight years young again, learning how to hide your injuries from nosy peers and do-good adults. You’re ten and starving in the cafeteria as you wonder why all the other kids at school get to have a packed lunch every day. You’re thirteen, shivering in the abandoned lot waiting for Johnny so you won’t have to sleep in the cold alone, unwilling to go back home because your current bruises are still healing. You’re fifteen, lying to your teachers the week before you drop out and urging them to mind their own business after telling them that your welts are from ‘a fall’ and not a belt. 

You’re five years old, back in your childhood home and hiding in your closet. 

You are forcibly taken back to a time period when, in every sense of the word, you were truly helpless. And your cruel, cruel imagination whispers: what if this is all a dream? What if you’re still in that closet? 

The suggestion floods your senses with its intensity, entirely unexpected and terrifyingly possible to your addled mind. You feel the influx of panic before anything else, unhelped by your breath rate already having risen so dangerously high. All too quickly, each beat of your heart is a touch too fast and your rapid panting comes from a place of alarm, not lust. 

Every heavy movement from your boyfriend above you only worsens your state, viciously tearing you from the comforting precipice of release and molting a safe space into something brutish. It feels like it cannot be helped, because this isn’t some kind of external phenomenon that has metamorphosed into a nightmare. This sickness comes from inside.

Like a flipped switch, your tears are now based in pain instead of pleasure, warping your breathless sobs into something haunting. And even though you won’t properly appreciate it until after this awfulness, you’re infinitely lucky that your man is so quick on the uptake. 

Dallas knows you frighteningly well. He’s had years to learn your various tells; every expression, mood shift, tonal difference, involuntary reaction and physical reply tells him something, and though plenty of folks would agree that he isn’t very academically inclined, he’s made a quick study of you. He’s become so innately attuned to you that he can’t help but react and gravitate around your needs, almost subconsciously. 

So when your noises start to sound even the slightest bit off in pitch, he notices and reacts startlingly fast. 

It’s the cadence of your sobs and the timbre of your voice that tips him off. 

You rarely cry unless it’s in a sexual context - not because you don’t have the emotional range for it, but because that isn’t a frequent way you vent your feelings. He’s heard every range of human emotion in you and catalogued it with all the effort of a pious cleric looking to prove their devotion. He’s studied your breaths and noises in all of their specific and familiar ranges, having grown accustomed to hearing them like they’re his own feedback loop. 

Of all the noises your beautiful little lungs produce, fear is the one that pokes at his heart the most. No matter how much you try to remind him that he’s not just a glorified watch-dog that you’ve decided to adopt and keep around for reasons other than pure adoration, his self-deprecating brain screams that his utmost task should be to protect you. That he has to remind you that nothing will get to you as long as he’s there to intercept it - no matter how much you cry or startle - and remove your fear. Because if he can’t do that, what else is he good for? 

Given this inherent processing, it’s only natural that the ability to rapidly discern and sort through your various noises has become second nature to him, and that your terror-stricken cries, fearful whimpers and teary-eyed whines are the equivalent of warning shots. Every time he hears any level of petrification come from you, his entire soul becomes consumed by the need to do one the only things he was put on this great green earth to do. 

Dallas knows the sounds of your panic; the inflections of it have been permanently tattooed into his brain. 

He only has to stop and listen for two seconds before it hits him that your cries have mutated into something awful.

To his knowledge, he hasn’t done anything differently to set such a reaction off; you like it when he’s degrading and mean in bed, because he strikes a perfect balance with equal parts praise. He’s always been a bit rough, sure, but it evens itself out and you aren’t afraid to tell him when you don’t want something.

Immediately, he slips out of you and turns you over, rapidly scanning your distraught face for the problem. 

“Woah, dollface - hey, heyheyhey-” 

Your teary eyes are unfocused and downright terrified; face soaked for all the wrong reasons and clearly distraught as the hefty feelings of nonoNOwrongbadwrongWRONGWRONGWRONG completely hijack your brain. Even amidst the chaos your central nervous system is putting you through, you reach for Dallas and sob as he pulls you up into his arms. 

He props you up and goes to roughly clear the tears from your cheeks, hands steady and grounding compared to your weak and trembling self. 

“Jesus,” he’s scanning you up and down to try and diagnose what’s wrong, “th’hell happened, sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

A reply forms in your throat only to die a wet, suffocated death on your tongue. Sirens are still blaring in your head as your nervous system tries to sort through the mess of a traumatic response, scrambling every instinct you have and only making you grip at his skin all the more desperately. Nails leave little crescent moons wherever your fingers clamp down, and even that kind of touch is easily distinguishable to Dallas as being completely warped and awry. 

“Hey-” he grips your chin and forces you to focus on him. 

Between frantic sobs you swallow and blink hard, trying so dearly to clear your mind and center yourself so that you can hear what he’s telling you. Considering that your baseline for comfort has been intertwined with his for so long, it’s no surprise that it starts to work when you use his voice and scent to guide you through the thick mire of unwanted feelings. 

“-eathe. Fuck, doll. Open your eyes.” 

You only catch the tail-end of his words, but his voice is clearer now. It sounds less like someone is holding you underwater where everything is muffled by pressure and more like you’re being dragged out of the waves, kicking against the undertow as it does its best to pull you back in. 

Dallas lets you clamor against his pectoral, completely deadweight, as vicious little tremors shake you. The rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart in your ear are the two constants you cling to like a wayward barnacle, only able to find safe passage through some larger, more stable being. 

It takes another moment or so, but you start to hear him properly as the space between each of your sobs finally grows longer.

You’re not in a closet.

“Ain’t nobody here but you ‘n me,” he’s saying your name, voice still raspy with leftover lust and coated in concern, “don’t gotta be scared.”

That’s…right. 

He’s right. This is real, your brain clamours, reason finally winning out, this is real.

You’re not sure if he’s caught on to what’s happened here. Your home life wasn’t a secret to any of your friends while growing up and he knows that your father’s death date has just passed, but talking about your childhood isn’t one of your favorite pastimes and outbursts like this simply aren’t commonplace for you. You’ve done your processing, privately and efficiently, from the comfort of your own mind as you grew up away from the horrors of your early years. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you acknowledge that this is most likely a one-off thing, probably spawned from some unaddressed relief about your last-standing abuser finally dropping out of this world. It’s then that you notice how you’ve stopped crying.

“Look at me, angel.” Dallas murmurs. 

With a broken inhale and an incredibly stuffy sniffle you follow his guiding hands up, away from the warmth of his chest and into the open air where you have to hold your head up alone again.

His vigilant gaze bounces between your two irises as he roughly wipes your tears away, still trying to scrutinize for an obvious problem. He hates being unable to automatically remove the terrified look of exhaustion on your face - it’s like you’re giving up after being chased for too long and have accepted your fate. 

“Gotta tell me what the fuck is goin’ on, darlin’.”

If there is one thing you can say in defense of your man’s rough style of comfort, it’s that it helps highlight the clearest path to identifying your issue. Dallas is nothing if not incredibly efficient at spotting a problem and nuking it with the most direct approach possible; for all his past shit communication and toxic bullshit you put up with over the years, he’s actually pretty clear and concise when he wants to be. You don’t need someone to stand for you or hold you up in life; you need someone who will help you get up again and remind you of who you are. And regardless of whether or not he means to do so, Dallas does that every single time.

You’ve been coming back to yourself in increments, bits and pieces arranging themselves into a recollected masterpiece, until you’re suddenly whole again in his arms. 

“What the fuck-” you gulp and whisper as the reality of having been betrayed by your own body hits you, “what the fuck…”

Dallas looks a little too relieved that you’re back to your normal self and matches your wide-eyed look of confusion, “The fuck happened?”

You can’t stop the question from flying out of your mouth: “He’s still dead, right? I ain’t dream all that?” 

There’s a brief, almost comical interval where you two stare at each other like aliens seeing one another for the first time, before your boyfriend understands what you’re talking about and responds.

“Dead ‘n gone last I checked…” he confirms, albeit a little uneasily, “what gives?”

You nod like you knew that already and feel silly for asking, but it had to be done. It’s the last push your brain needs to fully snuff out any embers of panic left behind, still fully capable of burning down the building if left untended. 

“He’s been in the ground a year ‘n the piece of shit still won’t leave me the fuck alone,” you detach your claws from his skin and press the bases of your palms into your eye sockets, as if one hard push there will purge these ghosts. 

Words cannot begin to measure up to the relief you feel now that this panic has passed, and you slowly start to repeat the same affirmations that came up around this time last year when the news came. You’ll never have to hesitate before venturing near your long since abandoned childhood home, getting a call from the coroner, or visiting the familiar parts of town you know your father used to frequent. No more horrible days when you think you’ve spotted him and have your mood soured for a week, viciously reminded of how much of a waste of air he is. 

Dallas seems to understand what you mean, but he’s having difficulty connecting your outburst to a trigger. You’ll take this quizzical stare over the one he was giving you before, though; the one where he looks at you like you’re a delicate angel that might break if he goes even slightly off script.

“Why’s that in your head?” He’s overly cautious, trying to pin down a reason as if it’s a thing he can expunge.

The idea of lying to protect his feelings doesn’t even last a split second in your head. It’s not how you operate, and you wouldn’t be able to lie to him anyway. He’s a professional bullshitter.

“Somethin’ y’said just b’fore,” you squint and look at the wall for a second, trying to recall the word, “helpless, I think.” 

Dallas darkens, perturbed by the answer because him being part of the stimulus that drove you into a panic is a variable both nauseating and hard to solve for, “Ain’t mean it like that, baby.”

You know that. You know you’re the furthest thing from helpless, both in body and spirit. He is innocent in this.

You sniffle one last time to clear the stuffiness and lay a kiss on his jaw to try and void some of the tension there, “I know, Dal. Y’know I like it when you’re mean.” 

He sighs long and heavy. This kind of dynamic doesn’t come naturally to him, and he always feels like he’s going to say the wrong thing or snowball the situation into something uglier. But for you he tries, because the only other possible outcome - the one where you remain scared and alone - is unacceptable. 

Your limbs are still tangled together when he readjusts you both into the headboard and pulls you atop him. 

“Nobody’s touchin’ you like that ever again,” he rumbles like he’s pissed he didn’t rescue you from the clutches of your family sooner and coils his arms tightly around you. 

He can’t stand not having any control over whether something from your past is going to come back and haunt you, especially if it’s in your mind. The only thing he can do is take caution not to trip you up and keep kiting you down to Earth if something like this does happen, which are both options he’s not incredibly fond of. He prefers to have a direct target; something or someone he can spit at, punch, and delete.

“Think m’just buggin’ cause it’s been a year,” you confess quietly, not needing to elaborate as to exactly which anniversary has recently passed. 

Dallas waits a second before humming lowly in acknowledgment, still dissatisfied that he can’t do more than simply log this incident and avoid using that word around this time of year from now on - just out of caution. 

“Ain’t buggin’,” he counters, “rat bastard deserves t’rot.”

His reassurance makes you swallow roughly and nod against him, quiet as he continues.

“‘Dead men do no harm’ or whatever, right? If that fuckin’ lowlife crawls into yer head again m’gonna dig him up ‘n kill him twice.”

Even though you fully believe him and wouldn’t put grave desecration past him, you still snort and smile into his chest. Your hackles lower at the feel of his warm hand carding through your hair and focusing behind your ear, strikingly similar to the way one would pet a purring cat. 

He’s lowered a gigantic iron gate in your mind and welded the drawbar shut behind him, a key factor in definitively separating life before and after last year’s occurrence. It’s actually incredibly appropriate for someone like him to have played that role, because Dallas so often deals in absolutes where you falter to adopt the ‘black and white’ mindset. He’s a burning ball of energy; your own version of an Apollonian figure that is far more prone to thinking globally, permanently and catastrophically - manners of functioning that are usually unhelpful unless one learns to warp them correctly and use them sparingly, which he has somehow managed to do. 

It is only in these types of scenarios that you are comfortable letting such unconditional, severe convictions dictate your style of thinking, because you accept that it is an inherently protective way to demystify the trauma and center yourself. 

Heavy is the soul of a child so brutalized in a world all-too unyielding and inhospitable, but the weight is infinitely less crushing with your own personal sun to illuminate the path whenever all other lights go out. 

A/N: I know I probably didn’t need to make the abuse and drug flashbacks as explicit or raw as I did, but idk I was feeling it (I’m currently in recovery from opiates and it’s been a tough week) so I hope it wasn’t too much. Also…did anyone catch my LOTR reference at the end there? :,)

Tag list: @itsalwaysyoutoo @shotbyeros @pinkbabydollblythe

I honestly wanted to say I respect your decision a lot honestly. I appreciate the way you’re able to connect with your characters, it humanizes them so much, and I love the raw authenticity in your writing if that even makes sense??

I genuinely get what you mean a lot because sometimes when I try to write female reader, because usually reader is based around me, it just kind of feels like someone calling you the wrong set of pronouns. Your writing always just seems so real and it feels like you really pour out your heart and I wanna thank you for contributing to the writing community.

I would also like to apologize if my question came off as pushy, I was just curious as to why and I did not intend to be rude!

Oh hi!! Thank you so much for reaching out again! I appreciate the understanding and I’m glad you get how I feel - you described it perfectly :,) the wrong set of pronouns is precisely what I feel when I think of trying to write m/m, and that’s kind of one of the ways in which I could tell that the self insert thing was going to be a blocker for me.

I absolutely do pour my heart out and try to make things as authentic as I can, which makes me so happy and grateful when people enjoy my works - I wouldn’t have thought that folks would engage with them so much, and I’m very flattered!

In a way it’s unfortunate that I’m not able to force myself to change my comfort level or get past that mental hurdle, because there’s so much good to be had with m/m, but like I mentioned, perhaps that will change and I will absolutely let people know if it does :) 

Also! You have absolutely nothing to apologize for 🥺 You didn’t come off as pushy or rude at all and I could tell it was a genuine question <3 I was super concerned that my response would come off as offensive so I’m glad it was received as intended.

you are also more than welcome to message me anytime if you’d prefer, but I totally respect your privacy otherwise. 💜

First of all, I LOVE your content. Your writing style and characterizations are off the charts and I eat up every little bit you post.

And therefore, I’d just like to say that the male reader community aren’t the type to obsess/worry over how authentic a m!reader comes across as. Really, with how little content there is out there for us to consume, we’re happy with whatever writers like to share within that community.

So if ANYTHING, please don’t withhold from attempting male readers bc of worries about authenticity or offending anyone. More than anything, it would bring a gladness that there’s more people making m!reader content.

(And, to add on, branching out to attempt characters that don’t share characteristics to you is a good way to better your skill!!)

That’s all I have to say about that. Feel free to delete and ignore, just wanted to say my piece.

Again, love your writing. Your scenes and descriptions take me to another world. Thank you for sharing it 🫶

Sunshine

⚠️ PWP/SMUT ALERT ⚠️ SCROLL DOWN FOR SMUT, START HERE FOR PLOT ⚠️

Summary: After a month in jail thanks to none other than Tim-fucking-Shepard, Dallas has only one thing on his mind. 

Pairing: Dal x femreader Word Count: 9915 CW/TW: PWP, established relationship, unprotected pnv, degradation, praise kink, AU/everybodylivesnobodydies, creampie, dacryphilia, dom/sub, dirty talk, (light) size kink

A/N: thank you so much for the request! I had fun with this one, especially doing a lil research into what jail was like back in the 60s. I wasn’t sure how to go about doing a songfic as they’re not my forte, but I tried to morph some of the lyrics into concrete sentences without sounding too cliche or forced and hope I did it justice! I know it’s long I'm sorry but I got a lil carried away!! :,) Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

The ins and outs of the Tulsa County Jail release process are very familiar to Dallas Winston. 

He’s been frequenting correctional facilities since he was ten years old, which makes him no stranger to arrests, charges, bail and credits for time served. The inside of a cell and the bullpen floor no longer come as a shock - nor do the lockdowns, sleepless nights, the constant fog of cigarette smoke, barely-passable human food, or endless bouts of boredom.

It’s just that by 21, he was kind of expecting to be done with it all. It’s not like staying out of trouble is some great sisyphean task for him, but apparently the boulder wasn’t quite done rolling yet.

For the first time in his life he isn’t apathetic about being in handcuffs or getting stuffed into a squad car, and that goes double now since he’s got a home and a girl waiting for him. There’s simply too much at stake to risk fucking it all up, and there are plenty of things he’d rather be doing than causing general ruckus like he did in his youth. He knows better now.

His repeated visits to the slammer have made Dallas acknowledge how annoying and inconvenient it is to be taken from a life he actually enjoys, especially when he runs the risk of being ripped away from you. 

(The passive aggressive remarks that the cops make about his ‘prodigal return’ don’t help either; he’s sometimes motivated by pure spite to prove them wrong.) 

Unfortunately, agreeing to go out with Tim Shepard virtually guaranteed his regression into a state of tomfoolery, and now that he’s served yet another short sentence Dallas is fairly certain he won’t be drinking with Tim again anytime soon. 

He follows the officer’s lazy gait as he’s led to the discharge unit, itching to get back into his street clothes and smoke a cigarette that isn’t county-issued crap available on commissary. Along the way, he passes by the jail entrance and looks away from the holding tanks there with an annoyed exhale. 

He remembers viciously glaring at Tim one month ago in said tank as they waited to be booked and processed, nearly raging at the fact that he’d be torn from both his home and your presence for thirty days because of his old buddy. 

‘Quit lookin’ at me like that,’ Shepard had the nerve to throw him an attitude, ‘she’ll survive a month without’cha.’

‘You wanna call ‘n tell her that yourself?’ Dallas had bitten back with a nasty scowl, ‘g’head.’

Tim had simply pursed his lips and looked away, unwilling to verbally back down even if he knew he was wrong. There was no denying how upset you’d be, and you’re not a girl who is known for your patience. 

By the time the boys in blue had come around to let them know what the verdict was, he had calmed down enough to not fly off the handle. With age has come clarity and equanimity; changes he’s very grateful for as they’ve gotten him much further than his anger and hardheadedness ever did. He’s still Dallas to the very core; feral and brazen and determined to fight the world - but the sage wisdom that comes along with time means he’s much better at picking his battles.

And running from the cops is one can of worms he has to be very picky about when to open nowadays. Tim hadn’t cared; he’d tried to bolt from the bar as soon as he saw the flashing lights outside, but Dallas stayed put and threw his hands behind his head like it was second nature.

It wasn’t technically their fault; some assholes from the South side were running their mouths at the bartender and started throwing fists when Tim intervened, inevitably dragging Dallas into it. 

So with a black eye and some mighty sore knuckles, he was hauled into the station with his old pal and charged with one count of Assault and Battery, and another for Disturbing the Peace. He correctly predicted the outcomes, too; a bail set at one hundred and fifty dollars, and thirty days behind bars.

Though he was under obligation to help a fellow Greaser and one that his own gang has always shown loyalty to, it definitely wasn’t worth it for either of them to step in. Even if the satisfaction that comes along with beating some Socs is still running rampant in his bloodstream and he won’t hesitate to knock some sense into anyone who truly deserves it, Dallas is still pissed. 

He’s pissed that Tim didn’t think before throwing fists in a bar on neutral turf, and he’s pissed that the cops had a record reaction time when they usually won’t beat a pizza delivery service to the door. Mostly, he’s pissed he agreed to go out at all in the first place. 

‘Ain’t seen ya in a month, dumbass,’ Tim had guilt-tripped him over the phone the evening before, ‘c’mon,  sunshine’ll cut y’loose for one night.’

He didn’t think too hard about agreeing. It’s not that he doesn’t go out or drink anymore, it’s just that Tim isn’t around as often, and he’d rather be spending his time with you or his closer friends. Trust is a difficult currency to come by these days - and like Tim has recently proven, it shouldn’t be easily bestowed. 

Dallas squints towards the harsh sunlight hitting the glass window of the personal effects counter and wonders when Shepard will be released, given the extra charge for evading arrest and his proclivity for causing trouble even while being in jail. 

A month behind bars had cooled them both off, but ‘correctional facilities’ for people like them doesn’t rehabilitate or cure anything - it just makes them angrier when they get out, helpless against a system that’s always been pitted against their socioeconomic caste. 

Speaking of economic phenomena, he’s certain that Buck wasn’t all-too pleased losing his best jockey and most proficient bootlegger for a month. Luckily, that doesn’t matter much to Dallas when he knows there’s always cash shoved under the floorboards beneath that horribly fluffy rug you insisted on buying and that he’ll be right back where he left off when he goes back tomorrow. 

There is one thing that concerns him, though, and that lovely little thing is you - his sunshine, currently back at home probably sleeping off your shift. 

Dallas calls you sunshine because initially the nickname annoyed the shit out of you and it made him laugh to see you get all flustered, but over time he associated it with how much radiance you let into any space you found yourself in. It’s like when you don’t realize how dark something really is until you shine a light on it; you’re a soothing energetic warmth, kind enough to let him bask in your glow.

The nickname is also fitting because you smell warm and bright. The first time he’d gotten you in his lap, anointing you with overbearing touches and kissing you senseless, he was immediately hit with how addictive you smelled. It’s soft cream and sun and some kind of vanilla scent that he hasn’t quite nailed down, and it makes him want to eat you whole. He’s basically salivating just thinking about it. 

Dallas winces when the phone in the discharge unit rings earsplittingly loud, reminding him of the call he’d had to make once his verdict had been laid out. 

The Tulsa PD is familiar enough with him by now that they granted him a phone call purely based on a desire to see him get chewed out over the line, and by some miracle you picked up on the third ring to deliver on their wishes.

Ron, one of the senior officers that he’s gotten rather familiar with over the years, had laughed as he dialed. 

‘Good luck.’

Dallas only had time to cast him a tired glare before the line started ringing. 

Your patience has its limits, and him getting thrown into the cooler is one of those limits. He knew what he was in for the minute you picked up, because the operator had already given you the familiar message: 

‘Hello, I have a collect call from the Tulsa County Jail. Will you accept the charges?’

It gets your blood boiling every time. 

Your resulting screech was predictable, enough so that he already had the phone held about an arm’s length away from his ear when the call finally got patched through to reveal your already-infuriated mutterings.

‘-gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Again, Dallas?!’

Needless to say, you hadn’t been overly thrilled with his arrest.

It’s the nth time he’s been arrested and the third time he’s been jailed since the course of your relationship, and while that seems excessive to regular folk, it’s actually not that bad based on his track record. You’ve been together since you were both eighteen, and you’re aware of his less-than-stellar situation with the law. There’s been a significant improvement as the years have gone by. 

‘What the hell are you tryin’ t’do, make a bible outta your rap sheet?!’

Your livid voice had carried over the receiver and projected into the room, making itself known to everyone in a ten meter radius. When Dallas looked at the ceiling for some kind of evangelical support that he knew wouldn’t come, he could hear Ron snickering in the background. 

‘Easy, sunshine - it ain’t my fault,’ he’d winced at your shrill tone and gingerly brought the phone closer to explain, ‘Shepard fuckin’-’

‘I’m gonna kill that man-’ you’d interrupted with all the force of an exasperated housewife, ‘m’gonna kill you both! Y’know you’re gonna miss Pony’s graduation?!’

(Dallas cringes at the memory. He honestly feels really bad about that, because he promised the kid he’d be there. He’ll have to make it up to Pony when he goes to see the boys tomorrow.)

With an exhausted rub of his eyes, he’d leaned up against the phone mount and gotten comfortable to explain what happened. It’s like thirty five cents a minute for phone calls in county, but he’s firm on the commitment that he’ll give up an entire month’s profits if it means he can hear your voice…even if all you’re doing is yelling at him. Honestly, he would do a severely concerning list of questionable things for a glimpse of your smile whenever he’s behind bars. 

It’s not a fact he wants blatantly advertised, but he can’t hide his infatuation with you. Even Johnny has given him shit for it. 

You’d calmed down a bit after his explanation and refocused rather quickly, ‘Did your bail get posted?’

He’d kissed his teeth at that, ‘M’only gonna be in for a month, baby. Don’t do it.’

Now that you’ve moved in together and you’re both financially stable, there’s less worry about rent or necessities, but a hundred and fifty bucks is still a lot of money. It wasn’t worth it for this short of a sentence. 

He could picture your infuriated look purely based on the inflection of your voice.

‘You’re a fuckin’ moron, y’know that?’

‘Yeah,’ Dallas had laughed once, tongue-in-cheek, ‘that’s the word on the street.’

You two had talked technical for a bit - adult nonsense that had to be decided and taken care of thanks to his little impromptu vacation - before you tortured him with the reality of what his sentence meant. 

‘Th’hell am I s’posed t’do by myself for a month, Dal?’ 

Your intonation went sad and almost fearful. He hates hearing you like that and could almost perfectly picture your big, pouty expression. Whenever you give him that face it makes him entirely susceptible to whatever you’re asking for, because he’ll do anything to get that sad, glassy look out of your eyes.

So when he said he was sorry he truly meant it, which is incredibly rare for Dallas given how hardheaded and callous he can be. His tone had switched to that silky timbre used to calm your brain and praise you senseless, but you still hadn’t been fully confident by the time you’d hung up the phone.

Realistically, he knew you’d have no trouble managing responsibilities on a day to day basis. You’re both older now, and you have plenty of friends who can keep you company. But Dallas is your person and you his, so being separated is like having phantom limb syndrome. 

‘S’just a month, doll. Be good for me.’

Your snippiness had come back towards the end of the call, more brazen now that you knew he wasn’t going to be able to punish you for it.

‘Yeah, alright tough guy. Say hi t’Ron for me.’ 

The sarcasm and sass is innate to your personality. Your attitude is one of the things he likes most about you, and in this case it was the only indication that your anger wasn’t going to last for the entire time he’d be gone. 

Therein lay the reality of his true punishment: separation from you. 

You refuse to go to visitation and he doesn’t blame you for it; you’ve only been once, and swore it off after the sounds and smells were too much. Other than the occasional phone call or a polaroid to keep you tethered, neither of you are inclined to waste money chatting away about nothing over the line when you’ll only be separated for so long. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ and all.

So if all this wasn’t motivation enough for Dallas to stay out of jail, the doldrums definitely are; he’s getting far too old for this.

The only tip off he’d gotten about how you were doing was one of the last phone calls he’d had with you, only four days ago. It was about one o’clock and he was up two packs of smokes in poker when he’d been interrupted.

‘Winston!’

His head had snapped in the direction of Ron’s post, where the officer languidly waved the telephone in the air, ‘Phone call!’

You’d been working nights that week, and he could hear the way the change in schedule was affecting your mood as soon as he picked up the call. Apparently, whatever you were annoyed about was worth the phone charges.

‘I can’t find the goddamn wrench, where’d you put it?!’

Immediate concern had flashed through him, because you and tools don’t mix very well. Whenever he sees you walk by with a power drill or a screwdriver he’s immediately at full alert and will follow you wherever you’re going, insistent on taking over whatever task you’re deadset on having done. Too many holes have been drilled not into studs and you’ve hurt your little fingers just enough times for him to not want to chance it anymore. 

‘Th’hell you need a wrench for, darlin’?’

Your response had been testy and irritated, ‘The fuckin’ sink keeps drippin’ and I can’t sleep!’

Dallas had smiled once he recognized the underlying whine in your voice - the brattiness that comes out whenever you’re particularly needy. You get like that when you haven’t been fucked. Even a couple days is too much of a gap; one month was asking far too much from you. 

Given your proclivity for injury surrounding home repairs plus the little devil in him wanting to keep you needy, he’d lied and told you that he didn’t know where the wrench was, and if you wanted the sink fixed you could ring Darry and ask him to come by to fix it since it was his day off. He was about to soothe you with a reminder that he’d be home in a week when Tim had walked by.

‘S’that her?’ His friend passed him a cigarette as he slinked onwards, ‘tell her I thank her kindly for lettin’ me borrow ya this month.’

Dallas remembers glowering at his retreating form and trying to calculate how much extra jail time would be involved if he smacked Tim upside the head with the receiver. 

Ultimately he’d decided against taking that risk, and he’s glad for it now that he’s currently stepping out of the jailhouse and into the bright sunlit block. There’s really only a few things on his mind right now, but the most glaring thought is getting back home to you. 

It’s around two o’clock, and he knows you’re probably sleeping off your last night shift, but because he’s been released in the middle of the day he’d planned for this. Two-Bit is his failsafe whenever he’s getting out during working hours - Darry is his other option, and he won’t do that to the man who’s trying to feed three mouths on a roofer’s budget. 

Like clockwork, Keith and his Plymouth are there waiting for him right as he clears the jail’s property line. 

The jokester smiles and greets him with a teasing smile, “Missed county that much, huh buddy?” 

“You’re hilarious, pal.” As pleased as he is to see his friend, Dallas has got little patience and even less of a sense of humour right now. “Let’s go.”

During the half-hour drive, Two-Bit updates him on what he’s missed during his absence, an endless fountain of information and jokes. Sometimes Dallas thinks he’d be a hell of a radio host with the way he talks; if someone gave him a microphone he’d have a crowd in no time. 

The rambling only pauses when you’re inquired after. It’s lucky that you both share the same circle of friends, because it means they can be counted on to have your back when Dallas can’t. Still, it’s natural for him to be a little worried about leaving you alone. 

“She’s holdin’ up,” Two-Bit grins mischievously as he reveals the next tidbit of information, “...tried t’do an oil change on the Chevelle.”

Dallas has to shut his eyes at that, dreading to see what kind of possible chaos you’ve wreaked on the innards of his prized possession. It’s entirely in-character for you to do something like this. 

“...Fuck.”

The Chevrolet Chevelle is his second baby right after you, and he was praying that it wouldn’t give you any issues while he was gone that would require you to do any work on it. You’re fiercely independent and determined to brave new ventures on your own - hence the willingness to use tools that you refuse to practice with - and while he respects that drive, he doesn’t want it tested on the first thing he’s actually proud to own. 

No such luck. 

Two-Bit laughs at his comical concern, “Just about said th’same when she told me. Soda stopped by ‘n checked on ‘em, said she was runnin’ fine.” 

Thank God. 

The news makes him all the more anxious to get home and see you, including whatever undoubtable trouble you’ve caused while he’s been away. He wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world, even if the first thing he sees when he quietly breaches the front door is the large crack in the baseboard right where you chuck your sneakers off every day. 

The smell of home makes him a kind of grateful he didn’t think he’d ever feel. In fact, simply being able to have a space to call home and having it be an actual place instead of a rented room or a friend’s couch is an entirely alien concept that he still isn’t one-hundred-percent used to. It’s definitely odd to get out of jail and head back to the benefits and responsibilities of owning a finite area of square footage, but opening the bedroom door to see your sleeping form is getting him used to it quite quickly. 

Something in his body settles as soon as you come into view. He feels like he can take a proper breath again, and the tension in his shoulders completely fades away. There’s nothing more he wants to do than curl you into his chest.

You’re on your side with your back to him, one leg curled up high around a pillow that’s obviously replaced him while he’s been gone. His eyes trail up your bare legs and the curve of your hip, unable to stop himself from zeroing in on where the end of his shirt you’ve borrowed is failing to cover you. 

Fucking hell, he thanks whatever deity is listening for having sent him something as precious as you and letting him keep it. At least once a month someone will tell him how lucky he is to have someone like you - whether it be for your looks or your personality - and damn if he doesn’t fucking know it.

It’s clear you passed out right after taking a shower; your hair is still damp and leaving small patches of wetness onto the pillow. You’re clutching your childhood stuffed animal - a blue teddy bear that looks like it’s done three tours overseas - while your chest falls and rises with steady breaths. 

He’d told you his approximate release date, but narrowing it down to a specific hour is impossible with the way Tulsa PD words and you probably assumed he'd be home tomorrow given the lateness of the day. So it’s not a surprise that you’re asleep, and he won’t risk disturbing you like this.

There is some rule, undoubtedly written in an arbitrary book of laws somewhere, that you must do everything in your power not to wake a sleeping, exhausted woman. It’s a rule Dallas has grown to know very well despite not having grown up in a nuclear family or a home of any kind that comes with a hardworking female.

Even if you let out a soft exhale and trill quietly as your body relaxes and silently acknowledges his presence. Even if that subconscious acknowledgment means more than anything you could say about trust and love.

You do not wake a sleeping, exhausted woman.

You’re a nurse, so every precious minute of sleep counts for you - and protecting that sleep is one of the many pieces of evidence that show Dallas is capable of showing genuine love. He may not be the best with words or other traditional shows of affection, but his actions show where his intent and loyalty lies. 

Everything from acts of service to subconscious habits and patterns are examples of this. If something needs fixing he’ll tend to it without a second thought, and sometimes you’ll come home to see random things upgraded. There are days that he gets absorbed in little projects just for quality of life purposes; you never asked him to expend the amount of energy he did adding a recessed shelf in the shower, but when you came home to find him setting the final tiles, you were so thrilled that you all-but danced circles around him.

Case in point, he avoids the spot just under the right corner of the bed that he has yet to patch in order to cross the room and crouch in front of you. He’s gotten incredibly proficient at sneaking around his own home for the sake of your rest. He knows every inch of this place; which floorboards creek, which doors squeak, which faucets have to be turned to a specific angle so they don’t drip - it goes on and on.

A heavy wave of relief and gratitude hits him as he takes in your angelic little sleeping face, and he thumbs your hairline before pressing his lips to your temple. The comforting smell of you hits hardest at the crown of your skull, immediately sinking deep into his hindbrain and soothing the frantic feeling of having been separated from a mate for too long. With a start he realizes how strongly you actually smell of him, and he has to pull back so you don’t hear the groan he swallows, dizzied by the wave of possessiveness he feels at that.

Mine, minemineMINE his head is screaming, clamouring for him to swallow you whole. 

For the last month you’ve only existed in the realm of phone calls and sleeping visions. To be this close to you feels like a fever dream. 

Entirely unhappy with the concept but forced to do so, he stands and backs off, retreating to go shower so he can keep himself occupied until you wake up from your nap. He’d rather jerk off once down the drain anyway; he’s planning on spending as much time as possible fucking you once you’re awake, and jail isn’t the most private place in the world. For a month he’s been severely tapering his base impulses, so when he cums it hits him hard enough that he has to stand still for at least three solid minutes, braced against the wall with nothing but the water beating down on his shoulders to keep him grounded. 

When he lets himself back into the bedroom you still haven’t moved, but as if your sixth sense has awakened, you open your eyes as soon as he’s within five feet of you. 

“Dal…?” 

Your little sleepy voice is absolute music to his ears.

“Hey sweet thing,” without wasting a second he goes to you, kneeling on the bed and lowering himself to kiss your forehead, “fuck, I missed the shit outta you, darlin’.”

The rumble of his words make you keen reflexively as your bleary eyes brighten up in hopes that this is not a dream; that Dallas is actually here, above you, warm and real and safe. 

You release your teddy bear in favor of grasping at him and only have time to let out one whimper before he’s lowering his lips onto yours and exhaling in relief. Every sense of yours lights up at once, immediately activating at his presence and all screaming for him as your brain fights to accept reality. 

The need to hear you and taste you is equally consuming to him, a decision he repeatedly fails to make as he gets hit with the dopamine rush that comes with touching you.

Little hands run across his warm skin, clutching and grasping at nothing in particular as you silently pray that he’s truly here and this isn’t some realistic fantasy - that he’s actually back in one piece and you don’t have to go it alone anymore. 

“Dallas-” you’re breathless when he pulls back to look at you, also seeking reassurance that he isn’t hallucinating, “…am I still sleepin’?”

“Nah baby,” he laughs once, soft and disbelieving, “ain’t a dream. ‘M real.”

As if to prove his point he kisses you soundly and grips your waist with the fingers splayed there. Finally, your body relaxes as you listen to the stimuli that have been fed to you and accept that he’s actually returned. You let him blindly reposition you, pliant and yielding to his hands like always, until he’s got you exactly how he wants and able to grind himself into you. 

Like a cat in heat you try to grant yourself as much access to his skin as possible, grateful that he’s only bothered to put on those sweatpants that drive you nuts. Him shirtless in any other scenario does the same, but maybe it’s the way you can actually see the outline of his dick when he gets hard or the way you can feel everything when you writhe atop him whenever he’s wearing them. 

It has the same effect even if you’re underneath him, which is why you can’t help the full-body shiver at the feel of his cock that you so desperately want after an entire month of a dry spell. At this point it doesn’t matter where he puts it - down your throat making you gag or stuffed in your little pussy making you whimper - you just need it. 

You tell him as such when he gives you a second to catch your breath by mouthing down your jaw, and you take the moment of reprise to tangle your fingers in his hair. Every single bit of skin he touches or laves at is tingling, and your entire body is focused on nothing but him. 

Agonizing want hits you, choking you up and leaving you dizzy. 

“I-s-shit…Dal-” you’re interrupted as he suckles at your throat, making you swallow and gasp like you’ve been dunked into ice water, “-ah! M-missed you s’much, please-”

Dallas grunts at that and bites down on your neck a tad bit too hard, making you squeal and close your legs around his hips. Almost every single red cell in his body has gone straight to his lower half where he’s still slowly grinding against you, lust sinking heavy into his mind and quickly taking over his actions. You’re equally affected; after a month of unsuccessful self-soothing and fingers that aren’t nearly as satisfying as his, you feel like an exposed livewire.

“Been gone too long,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust, “left ya all needy.” 

A pathetic little mewl of affirmation escapes you, and he tuts at you while pulling you up to remove his shirt from you. As he does so with practised proficiency, he doesn’t hide the groan of approval at the sight of your bare chest. Resting on your sternum between your breasts is his St. Christopher pendant, safeguarded and inherently branding you as his. 

Even though he didn’t mean to leave it with you and by some stroke of luck left it behind before his fateful night out, the picture of it is erotic in nature simply because of what it suggests. The little possessive monster in him jerks and he feels himself throb just looking at it. It’s another reminder that you’re his in every way, and coming home to you wearing it, twitching beneath him with how desperate you are, is absolutely poetic. 

He’s made the mistake of giving this pendant to people who didn’t deserve to bear its weight before. But whenever you do wear it, you treat it like it’s his heart that he’s entrusted to you, guarding it with absolute care. 

“There y’are, prettiest fuckin’ girl-” Dallas exhales and steals your lips again, hand smoothing up your stomach to your chest so he can push you back down. 

Accepting his direction isn’t even a debate in your mind; you go down willingly, back into the sheets that whisper promises of elation, and let him reacquaint himself with your body. 

On one pass, his teeth drag along the skin of your nipple just right, and the sensation travels directly to your clit. It has you tugging on his hair and whining like you’ve been shocked, and it makes him release your chest from his mouth and rear back to grin down at you.  

“So sensitive,” he huffs with a smile, like you should be ashamed of how responsive your body is to him, “fuckin’ love y’like this. Can’t even talk, can ya?” 

At your wits end and sick of the teasing, your chest constricts with a dry sob and your features contort into a beautiful pout that you know he has no power against. You feel so, so empty; your cunt is clenching down around nothing and you’re nearly cramping with how badly you want something - anything right now. You can feel the slick building up and leaking from you, body quickly having caught up to his ministrations even if you’ve only been going at this for five minutes. 

You could cum from a mere whisper on your clit at this point, and he knows that - he’s very familiar with what point of depravity you’ve reached because (albeit very rarely) he will push you to this point himself if he really wants to. Sometimes he feels like edging you for days, refusing to let you cum because he wants to see you absolutely brainless and nonverbal underneath him, and that’s when you’ll usually get to this level of needy. The only other times you’ve gotten like this are when he’s been locked up, and though it’s tempting to say the tradeoff is worth it, he’d rather work to get you to this point himself than have to go back to county ever again. 

Unable to deny you any longer, Dallas finally takes two fingers and swipes them up through the mess of your pussy. 

You squirm and cry out at the feeling, nails digging into whatever skin of his you can grab as your mind screams yes, yesyesmorepleaseMORE-

“Christ, sweetheart,” Dallas genuinely looks concerned for a split second as he pulls back to look at the slick puddle of sheen that has decorated your inner thighs, “you’re soaked. Y’tryina drown me? I ain’t even done nothin’ yet.”

You can only whine up at him and use the hold you have on the bedding to buck your hips up like a feral animal, hoping for some kind of friction or contact, but he just holds you down. 

“Shh, I gotcha-” he promises, still marveling at the sight as he circles your clit with his thumb and gently dips both fingers into you, “Jesus, honey. Y’need me that bad, huh? Look atcha, fuckin’ wrecked.”

A wail slips from you at the same time, and with a start you realize your body is almost vibrating with how badly you want him. On some innate level, your system knows that Dallas is the only one who is going to give you the kind of release you need and have been lacking for a straight month. 

There’s no resistance to you - just firm, slick, gummy walls squeezing around his digits while they curl and fill you, striking that one spot that makes you pant like a dog. You’re forced to listen to the slick noises of your dripping cunt as it takes his fingers, hips already rocking to eagerly take more. It’s all too much having him back like this; his smell, his touch…him talking to you in that tone that could have you committing war crimes if he asked you to. You know you’re going to lose it. 

“You’re shakin’...” Dallas notices with a knowing lilt to his voice as he skims his lips across your cheekbone, “needy girl. Left ya on your own for a month ‘n y’couldn’t hack it.”

The husky, resonant pitch of his voice and choice of his words make you gasp and flutter harshly. It happens again when he snickers at you for it, condescension coating the sound. There’s just something about how mean he is in bed that’s always driven you a little crazy. 

He’s not wrong, and he knows it. You’ve become so addicted to the way he takes care of you that your own hands just don’t cut it anymore, and that means attempting to go about it on your lonesome hasn't often resulted in success. It’s gotten to the point where you can’t even cum if you’re not repeating words he’s murmured to you between the sheets anymore, because no other fantasies can get you there. Being with him is literally as good as it could possibly get.

So after a month of disappointing orgasms, you feel like a junkie finally getting your fix again. You can’t talk, let alone plead or defend yourself as to why you’re so desperate for him. Fortunately, you don’t have to; you can tell he knows based on the way he smiles when he crooks his fingers just right against that perfect little spot you can never reach. 

Tears - actual, godforsaken tears - viciously bubble up and over as you sob at the sensation. Both the unholy desire festering in you and the sheer relief of having him here, tending to you, contribute to your rapidly diminishing state. Even the familiar scent of him acts like a pollen that triggers your hindbrain into a feral mindset where all you want is for him to fill you up and make you cum until you’re a drooling mess. 

Dallas kisses his teeth and hisses at the sight of your tears, “Fuck, such a good girl…cryin’ for me so fuckin’ pretty.” 

Every word of his diffuses to your core, tightening and tightening until you know your release is inevitable. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly he’s gotten you here purely based on how badly you’ve needed him. Thick tension starts to contract your walls around him and makes you squirm some more, wordlessly warbling for release as you wail up at him with those big, begging eyes.

“Already?” Dallas laughs breathlessly when he feels it, one part amazed and one part goading, “so fuckin’ desperate, baby. Bet I could sit here talkin’ dirty ‘n you’d still cum.”

Your returning cry has a ring of affirmation to it, but it’s lost on both of you. He’s watching you closely like he always does when he wants to fully appreciate your distraught state, eyes glassy and pupils so dilated you can’t see the luscious color of his irises anymore. Over and again you sob, so high-pitched there is no denying your inconsolable stage of neediness. 

“Already losin’ it, huh? Been in this bed five minutes ‘n y’can’t even last one of ‘em.” He’s almost cruel with his cadence, but you can hear the underlying familiar affection behind the words.

His words push you to the definitive point of no return, pressure built up so tensely it will snap at any second. But like a trained showdog your body pauses in an indefinite holding pattern, waiting for the final send-off that only he can provide. The look you level him with is nothing short of absolute submission, delirious with hunger. 

“Goddamn,” Dallas rasps, apparently just having grasped the legitimate severity of your desperation, “you’re fuckin’ gone, ain’tcha. Go on, sunshine. Cum f’me.”

That’s all you need. 

Like your body recognizes that it’s safe to do so and has finally been granted permission to release, you shriek as you cum hard and curl into him out of reflex, nearly every muscle you have clamping around him in an attempt to keep him there. Whiting out is kind of inevitable when you’re hit with the sheer force of it, sending you down into the depraved depths of no return as ecstasy simmers and detonates the pressure in your abdomen. Even your legs, shaky and unstable, wrap around him and tighten as if afraid that letting go will mean going another month without this kind of release. 

The power of it is almost blinding. No amount of effort on your part could have possibly gotten you to this point alone. Whether it’s by his skilled hands or the simple fact of Dallas being here doing it himself, there is no earthly way you yourself could have produced this kind of climax. It feels like it did the first time, when you got hooked on him and questioned your entire sexual history before him.

You can’t hear his words, only the low tenor of his voice rumbling as it guides you through these motions, but every one of your cells listens despite being unable to translate. 

In the dark of it all you feel his fingers still moving, expertly coaxing you through it after so many years of learning your reactions and anatomy. At this point he knows you so well that your body’s responses are innately tied to him, well aware of how badly the withdrawals have affected you both. In every sense of the expression you let him catch you, and hear him suck air in through clenched teeth at the feel of your velvety walls pulsing, frantically trying to milk cum out of the wrong appendage as you gasp and whimper underneath him. It’s the first glimmer of true relief you’ve felt for the burn he left with his absence, and the strength of the orgasm speaks for itself.

He groans, carnal and low against your temple, as you re-learn how to breathe and come back to yourself in tiny pieces. Despite the severity of this release you still feel insatiable, and you sense this is going to be one of those days where you’ll die a thousand little deaths - none of them painful. 

The first words of his you can actually understand again are degrading and condescending in nature. It doesn’t take a behavioral analyst to see how equally starved for you he is. 

“Poor girl-,” Dallas teases, sporting a vicious little smile when you open your eyes, “so fuckin’ horny y’can’t even think, huh? My dumb lil bunny.” 

Instead of smacking him like your conscience is telling you to do or chastising him for leaving you for a month without this tending, you whine as your pussy seizes again around his digits. Like a braindead whore you unlatch your nails from his chest to then tangle your fingers in his hair, finding the strength to surge upwards and do your best to stick your tongue down his throat. 

Muffled laughter leaves him as his fingers slowly slide from you, making you jerk in overstimulation while his tacky lips keep moving against yours. He’s giving you a moment to reset, even if it’s the last thing he wants to do, though that ‘reset’ also involves him trailing a hand up to your breast where he lightly pinches a nipple and coats it in your own spend. 

You still don’t know how he manages to get you like this; to spin you like silk and reduce you to a quivering, blubbering puddle of nerves and tears. At one point, years ago, you had asked him how he did it, eager to resorb his techniques so you could have some chance at a satisfying orgasm whenever he wasn’t around, but he had simply grinned and denied you. 

“Ain’t tellin’ you,” he’d laughed at your childish little pout, “y’wouldn’t be able t’do it on your own anyways, sweetheart. I like hearin’ you beg for it.” 

His most recent absence has been a harsh reminder of just how correct he was, and you jerk when the slice of his nail presses into your nipple just right. 

You break from his lips and sob, unable to properly form a sentence. “Ah-! Dallas…”

“Missed hearin’ you say my fuckin’ name like that,” he confesses darkly, pulling back to appreciate the sight of you. 

Another gravelly sound of barely-contained want slips from him when he sees the mess of your pussy, flush with blood and soaked with a mixture of slick and cum. 

Reverence coats his next few words, “Look atch'you baby, all swollen ‘n helpless.”

As much as you know he wants to sit there and goad you on, making you twitch and sniffle in your primitive need, you feel like you’re going to burst if he doesn’t fill you up.

“N-need it, Dal - fill me up, p-please…”

He’s just as down bad for you as you are for him, evidenced by how quickly your begging changes his tone. 

“I know,” Dallas doesn’t bother going any further than freeing himself from the gray sweatpants that have done nothing but be an accessory to this crime, “I know, doll. Fuck - I know. M’gonna give it t’ya, easy. C’mere.” 

You practically drool at the sight of his cock, aching for it after having been forced to live solely off the memory of it for all this time. He’s thick and heavy and hard against you, precum leaving a sticky trail whenever the searing hot tip of him touches any part of your skin. You want so badly to flip him over and take him into your mouth, to feel the throb of him on your tongue and let him pulse while he cums down your throat, but you want this more. 

Urgency guides every one of his movements, and he only spends a few seconds repositioning you before he’s pressing inside and splitting you open with a choked grunt of elation. You’re beside yourself with want, tears refreshed by the familiar blunt sting of him stretching you. 

Dizziness surges through you as the pressure winds you and sends you reeling, “O-oh, fuck - Dal-”

There’s just so much of him. There always has been; his size is nothing new, but it feels like a lifetime since he’s been here, filling you up, pressing you down and rendering you a ghost of yourself with how you wail. 

“There y’go- fuck, good girl,” Dallas coos at you, hissing at the feel of your tightness slowly enveloping him, “fuckin’ missed this tight lil pussy, sweetheart. You feel so fuckin’ good.” 

You’re like a vice around him, velvety walls gripping hard like your pussy intends on keeping him in forever. Neither of you are going to last long. 

He takes his time sinking all the way into you, letting you whimper and writhe as he fills you so wholly you think you’ll die if he ever leaves again. Once he gets about halfway, apt concentration renders him quiet, gripping the back of your knee harshly and grasping the sheets next to your head so tightly his knuckles go white. 

Breathe. He needs to breathe - it feels like there’s no air in the room at how fucking good it feels to be back in your warmth with you pliant and soft and warm under him. Unfortunately, he bottoms out a second later with a lascivious groan and your resulting set of words further drain the oxygen from the room. 

All at once, you’re babbling and begging in no particular order, “-nnngh, please-! Pleasepleaseplease, more, Dal-feels s’fucking good I n-need it, please, I’ll do anythin’-”

“God-”

Something in him buckles and breaks, turning him into nothing more than a vehicle for the primal and animalistic urges you have coaxed from him. Blood surges through his system, roaring through his heart and back down to his dick where it pulses steadily inside of you before he finally starts moving properly.

You gasp wetly as he skips the typical thrusts to get you accustomed to his size, and fucks down into you in long, thorough strokes, filling you so entirely that you wonder at how there is even an opportunity for more slick to leak out of you. If either of you had the sagacity to pull back and gander at the explicit sight of your physical coupling, you would see a thick ring of cream around the base of his cock - a mixture of your arousal that spreads between you both like filthy, silky strings of spiderwebs. 

The noises of filth that come from you are entirely lewd and obscene in nature, both vocal and otherwise. The wet squelch of your sopping little pussy taking him over and over is nearly overpowering, seconded only by the sounds of sheer relief and desperation that fall from you. 

“Listen t’that,” his knowing grin twists your insides something fierce, “creamin’ all over me, baby.”

You sound like you’re in hysterics, because you pretty much are. Tears are running down your cheeks in warm tracks, your entire body is trembling against him, and you can’t stop running your mouth as you drool and sob beneath him. There is nothing you can do but keep taking his cock, vision cloudy and brain absolutely numb as he dumps endless loads of dopamine into your brain. 

“Mmmn-ohmyfuckingGOD, Dal - pleasedon’tstop-”

“Beggin’ for me so fuckin’ pretty,” he slurs, ironically only slightly more composed than you, “I got you, darlin’ - I know. You’re such a mess, sweet girl. Lemme take care of ya.”  

“Just like th-that please,” you whine, hoping that he doesn’t hold back or switch it up to torture either of you, “a-ah! S-so fucking good-”

“Goddamn - love it when you cry f’me. Gimme those tears.”

He’s deep enough that the thick tip of his cock kisses your cervix with every movement he makes, sending hot flashes sparking through you and toeing the line between pain and pleasure in the most perfectly overwhelming way. It drives you nuts and he knows it - his size has always been a tad too much for you, but the feeling and knowledge of that strikes such a perfect balance that it’s never been a problem or complaint. Even when he makes fun of you for whining and struggling to take all of him, both of you are addicted to the feeling. 

“Ffffuck,” Dallas is breathless watching you come apart and listening to the soft snap of his hips meeting the back of your thighs over and over again, “you’re so fuckin’ wet for me, sweetheart.”

“S’so deep…” the wide-eyed way you pout up at him reminds him of the first time he destroyed you like this, amazed by how yielding and soft you got, “‘m’so full, Dal-”

He throbs at that, canting his hips to let you feel him even deeper, squeal swallowed by his lips when he lowers himself to kiss you slow and dirty. It leaves you out of breath and lightheaded, almost missing his next words when they’re spoken into your jawline.

“Cryin’ like a baby but you keep beggin’ for more. Y’like gettin’ stretched out like this? Like it when I’m fuckin’ you stupid?”

They’re redundant questions; he points these things out every time and the answer has never changed, but he likes hearing your answers and you like admitting them. It’s degrading and filthy in the nastiest of ways, reducing you to baseline instincts and borderline concerning impulses. 

“M-mnhm,” your answer is shaky with tears, throat clogged with emotion and overstimulation. 

“Mhm,” he mocks back with a nip of your neck, patronizing and satisfied, “say it, dollface.” 

Asking you for a proper response is a mighty high ask right now, but he loves seeing you try and fail to formulate sentences when you’re like this - all fucked out and pliant under him. Dallas has always been a domineering person who gets a rush from displays of power, therefore it was no surprise to you that he was like this when you started seeing each other. 

“L-like when y-you fuck me s-stupi-” you attempt to parrot back his words to no avail, “o-oh shit…mnnh- Dallas-!”

There isn’t even a shot at you thinking straight, because he’s released the back of your thigh in favor of sneaking a hand down to your clit and thumbing at it in tight circles. It makes your eyes roll to the back of your head and basically drool while he laughs at you, still rutting into you at that perfect pace that keeps you right on the edge of shattering. 

“Can’t do it, huh? Too drunk on my cock,” he hums down at you with that lopsided little smug smirk that infuriates you anywhere other than bed, “I can feel you, baby. Gonna cum again, aint’cha?”

You hadn’t even acknowledged how close you are until he pointed it out. You’re so wound up you can nearly taste your release, core coiling and tightening viciously with every move of his hips and pass of his thumb. 

“Hnngh-! Dallas-” you gasp, beside yourself with crippling pleasure as all the air suddenly leaves the room in one fell swoop. 

“Yeah y’are. That’s it, just like that,” his encouragement sinks low into your mind, shoving you over the edge and yanking you into the category that separates itself from your lacklustre solo finishes, “Fuck, good girl-”

When you cum with one final keening wail, he actually has to stop thrusting with how close it gets him. You’ve clamped down on him so harshly that movement is next-to-impossible and near-painful, throwing him into the nexus of blinding oversensitivity.

Everything is quivering, shimmering and shaking as your little universe collapses, release taking you so forcefully that your ears ring. Catharsis feels too mild a word for it, given the exaltation that this type of orgasm grants, and you do your best to coax him back into moving with mindless little movements of your hips. Tiny mewls of ecstasy spill from your swollen lips as you let the numbing euphoria wash over you, totally lost to it all and ignorant to what you’re putting him through until he reacts.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, doll-” Dallas growls at the feel of your gummy walls spasming around him, ruthlessly squeezing and urging him to fill you up. 

Finishing alongside you wasn’t the plan. Ultimately it doesn’t truly matter since it’s not the last time he’s going to fuck you today, but he wasn’t expecting you to cum so hard that it pulled him with you. He feels the familiar raw pleasure rip its way from the base of his skull all the way down his spine where it festers in his abdomen for a moment before forcing him to move. Searing rapture brought on by your contractions binds him to basic urges and leaves him unable to stop the slow roll of his hips. Mindless with the need to fill you up, he stops trying to fight it.

“Fuck-” he chokes and cums so hard his head actually swims, forgetting his name for a good few seconds. 

He has to power down against your collarbone as he pants and holds you in place, cock jumping inside you with every pulse as he floods your pussy with what feels like a month’s worth of cum. He can’t help it; his body literally won’t let him pull out to save his life, locking you both down until every last drop has been spilled into you. 

“Dallas…!”

You’re whimpering and squirming at the sensation of his tip throbbing against your cervix, feeling the warmth flood you so extensively that it almost immediately starts to pour out of you. He’s filled you up so much that there isn’t any space left for it to go, but it’s soon replaced by more because he’s still cumming. 

“Take it, greedy girl-” Dallas grips you tighter and suckles a hickey into your clavicle, “fu-ck, there y’go. Just like that, nasty lil thing.” 

He’s no better than a dog in rut right now, still canting his hips to pump his cum deeper while you whine and quake under him. The cold chill of post-coital air still hasn’t hit the room yet, keeping you both warm and still as you come down from your highs. 

It takes a whole solid minute before both of your bodies stabilize and he feels steady enough to rear up and check on you, finding you already peering back at him with those big, fucked out, glassy eyes. More often than not your mind is mush after moments like this, but your senses are a lot more attentive after time apart. 

The look you’re giving him is still partly anxious and needy, naturally clingy after having him ripped away from you for so long. You whine and try to pull his lips to yours again, trembling legs bracketing his ribs, and Dallas releases a quiet huff of laughter before entertaining you. 

You come back into yourself slowly but surely as his tongue dips into your mouth, realizing that you’ve completely forgotten to give him shit about his arrest like you promised yourself you would. You hadn’t counted on the blinding need taking over as soon as he actually re-entered your atmosphere, though - it seems like you’d forgotten how it went the last two times you’d been separated like this.

It isn’t until he pulls away again that you realize how bad things had gotten in the fallout of his absence. You’ve been stuck in some kind of calcified state of anhedonia with him gone, forced to float through the days like a little lost wisp, but now you feel like you can see colors again. Calling it ‘dependent’ would be a little reductive; you would both survive without each other, sure, but it would be miserable. 

Dallas sees your frenzied relief, feels the way your fingers dig tiny bruises into his skin, and releases a low hum. 

His next words are reverent and bittersweet, “Hey sunshine. I know y’hate me right now.” 

You could never truly hate him, but you don’t tell him that as his hand trails up your side to clasp one of your wrists. There is so much you want to say and so little energy to say it, making you thankful that you don’t have to when you have someone as attuned to you as he is. All he needs to see is your tearful face, terrified and vulnerable and completely open, for him to understand what’s going on in your head. 

A tug on your neck confuses you for a moment before you realize he’s pulling on his own chain. He doesn’t ask for it back, merely examining the pendant he’s fished out from between you both with a careful, solemn gaze. You let him, a little lost in his eyes and the face you’ve missed so badly.

“Please don’t leave again…” your imploration is spoken very, very quietly; a little prayer that you don’t dare say any louder. 

A painful sigh escapes him, clearly disappointed with himself for having allowed the circumstances to put you in such a position, and he drops his forehead to yours. 

It’s a silent apology that says everything and nothing. To witness Dallas behaving this way is like seeing an endangered species. Most folks never will in their lifetime, and those who do are incredibly lucky. 

Aside from your clear and immediate reactions to his return, he’s already seen the evidence of your suffering. Barely any of your own clothes are visible around the apartment; it’s all his shit strewn about, dumped in the couch, the hamper and tucked between the bedsheets. His towel and his toothpaste instead of yours out in the bathroom (even though you hate the aftertaste of the brand he uses). He even saw takeout from that place only he likes in the kitchen with your name on it, meaning you’ve tried to absorb as many qualities of his as you can just to feel close to him. 

It’s the heartbreaking mark of a mate missing their other half, listlessly scavenging connective tissues and leftover bone piles in a vain effort to put together some semblance of stability.

“Did my time, babygirl,” he thickly reassures you as much as he realistically can, “ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hell will have to freeze over before he steps foot in county again. For his entire life, Dallas didn’t even bother to dream about ending up with someone like you, so now that he’s got everything he could ask for he’s terrified of losing it all. He’s never told you about that fear because he naturally presumed you to be aware of how rare it was for someone like him to keep you and how awful it would be for him to lose you, but he thinks you know. 

You’re not stupid; you can read the regret and fear in him even if he hates admitting or talking about that kind of stuff. Tension melts away as you nod and accept that this was a one-off instance; that he isn’t regressing or deliberately trying to fuck things up in that awful, self-sabotaging way he so infamously did as a wayward youth. And that - that quiet kind of trust no one ever really mentions because it’s so deeply interwoven in day to day behaviors and ingrained, implicit patterns - marks the precise difference between two people simply existing side by side versus two entities finding congruent symbiosis in a vastly unfair, harsh world. 

Dallas isn’t sure what the fuck people are going on about when they talk about the American Dream or whatever, but when he kisses you again - slow, languid and whole, breathing you in - he figures this is as close to it as it gets.

Also tysm for writing my last request I loved that fic so much 😭 ur like the only writer I’ve requested who’s answered my request and I’m so glad bc I loveee ur writing 💗💗

DULCIFY

Summary: You’ve already had a bad day, and when three Socs make it their business to add to your stress, you’re reminded of a side of Dallas most folks won’t ever see.

Pairing: Dal x shy!femreader Word Count: 3770 CW/TW: catcalling, verbal harassment, misogyny, stress/shock, established relationship, fluff, shy reader, hurt/comfort

A/N: ahh thank you so much for the second request! I’m so glad you liked the first and I so appreciate the continued prompts. I love these little ‘slice of life’ ones because I picture so many lil moments like this, I just have commitment issues so putting them into one long fic is like ugh but these one shots are perfecttt for them!  Set in the same universe as ‘Plush’ - shy!reader/Dal, a little bit more of an established relationship.  I’m working through all the requests slowly but surely - it’s been awhile since I’ve written this much so I’m getting back into the swing of things :,) smut takes a bit longer also and I wanna do right by each of the prompts/give them all the right amount of attention so that means they may not come out in order like I said they would 😅 but I promise if you requested something it’s been received and upcoming!  Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx

It hasn’t exactly been a lovely Sunday for you. 

First of all, work scheduled you for a nasty double shift that left you rather beat. Then, to add insult to injury, they gave you Monday off, which means you’ll be unlikely to see your friends. To top it off, your Mom is in Branson visiting cousins until next Sunday, which means you won’t get home cooked meals OR the car until she’s back.

Oh - and your cat, a geriatric eighteen year old tabby who won’t stop hurling up hairballs, threw up on your very light, very new carpet this morning. 

All this being said, you’re rather looking forward to turning your brain off and letting Dallas do the thinking for the next twenty four hours.

Since his place is closer to your work, you planned to swing by there so he could drive you both to wherever the rest of the day takes you, but you hadn’t counted on the amount of hooligans out at this time of day. You’re typically not on foot; since your mom works so close to home, you wind up taking the car most days, and though it’s ideal for your demure nature, you’re about to realize how it has desensitized you to the harsh reality of Tulsa streets. 

You’re about three blocks from Buck’s when a red mustang carrying three Socs slows to a roll beside you on the sidewalk.

You see the varsity jackets and perfectly coiffed hair before anything else, and it tells you everything you need to know about these guys before the first idiot even opens his mouth to catcall you.

“What’cha doin’ out here on your lonesome, babygirl?” 

Horror blooms in your chest and rips its way down your spine as your worst fears become actualized; you’re alone in a secluded area with three men you don’t know, who obviously have no issue harassing you and potentially doing worse. Being a woman is such a humiliation ritual in this day and age because of men like this, you think, praying that these inbreds don’t get out of their car. 

“Bring that pretty lil ass over here honey, come sit in my lap.”

Disgust crawls through your system as your fight or flight immediately engages. 

You’re not even sure what they’re doing in this neighborhood; it’s seedy and disheveled and not where the upper class usually has any business being, so it’s either they’re here for nefarious purposes, or they’re lost. Once they see your destination they’ll likely zoom off; Socs typically don’t come this close to Buck’s and they tend to leave a lot of space between themselves and these parts of town. Ultimately, the why and how of them being here doesn’t really matter, because in any case this is bad for you if you don’t get to Dallas as fast as humanly possible.

If you were anything like Angela, Evie, Kathy or any of the other Greaser girls you’ve grown up with, you would be hollering at these morons and maybe even throwing whatever rocks are laying around in their direction. But you are not a confrontational person in the slightest; your shyness extends into nearly every aspect of your life, meaning you choose to live as quietly and inconspicuously as possible. 

It’s why you gulp instead of turning in their direction, crossing your arms so you can huddle into yourself and hopefully make them lose interest. You quietly make the decision that if any of them get out of the vehicle, you’re going to sprint the rest of the way to Buck’s - your mama didn’t keep you from smoking all these years only to have you not be able to run a few blocks, and you’ve always been quick on your feet. 

Your footsteps quicken and your heart starts to pound, likening you more to a cornered mutt than a human girl. You see this for what it’s going to be before the next words come flying at you.

“What are you, deaf? What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Verbal harassment isn’t something you’re particularly new to as a young woman, and Socs bothering your socioeconomic class of females is unfortunately common, but it’s always terrifying when it happens. You do your best to catalogue the vehicle and faces of these guys without holding eye contact for too long, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, one of them fixes you with a revolting smile and you only get a semi-decent glimpse of them before you have to look away.

“I see you lookin’ darlin’, don’t be shy. C’mere, let’s party. I’ll letcha choke on it.”

You cringe at the vile words, trying to force the reactions to settle on the side of your face not facing the road. The duality of the contextual importance of such words isn’t lost on you here; your own boyfriend has said much worse things to you that you keen and beg at him over, but in this setting - unwanted, in public and coming from people who have a history of harassing your kind - they have made you so fearful that you’d rather not walk alone for the rest of your life if it means risking running into any more catcalling. “I’ll fuck the Greaser right outta you, pretty girl. You wanna come home with me? Be a good little bitch ‘n have my babies?” 

Jesus, a lump forms in your throat as panic starts to bubble and fester. You’re beside yourself with fear and shock, incapable of fully processing the severity of these words as you focus on getting yourself to your destination. 

It’s four in the afternoon and daylight is still bright, so you know if you cried out someone would eventually come running, but because it’s a bad neighborhood and people are less likely to respond to a woman screaming, you don’t want to put your faith in that idea. 

“What’s wrong baby? You a hooker or somethin’? Gotta charge us for a good time?” 

You’re not even dressed that obscenely, you think with a sad note of helplessness, and even if you were it wouldn’t matter; it wouldn’t give these trashbags any right to treat you like this. 

Finally - finally, Buck’s bar looms into view and you basically scamper towards it as relief unfurls in your stomach. The neon signs may as well be placards for the pearly gates with how grateful you feel seeing them. 

“Oh, shit-” 

One of the assholes realizes exactly where you’ve led them, but the driver takes a second to catch on. 

Absolutely beside yourself with fright, you barely register the car veering away with a squeal of tires, and you throw yourself through the doorway of the building seconds later. 

You’ve never been so happy to smell the decades of cigarette smoke trapped in the wallpaper or see the fading daylight filtered in through the cheap curtains Buck has never bothered to replace. Safe, your brain screams, eyes frantically scanning for the one person who is going to actually convince your nervous system that everything is okay.

It doesn’t take you long to spot him - it never does. You two have a keen ability to locate each other even in a crowded room, like some kind of sixth sense. It’s endearing on any typical day, but right now it serves as a near-survival instinct that lets you hone in on him pretty much immediately. 

He’s by the bar with Tim, talking with Buck like he usually does before the place gets too crowded with weekend stragglers. 

Tears have already started pooling and blurring your vision as the heavy realization of what’s just happened hits you. It combines with the knowledge that you are now out of danger and finally lets the aftermath of this torture settle in - it feels like you’ve just run a marathon trying to get away from some nightmarish ghoul that was right on your tail the whole time. 

You make your way to him, half-blind and muted by distress, and are deaf to his greeting when he lets you collide with his chest and bury yourself there. 

“Christ, doll-” Dallas grunts at the impact and wraps an arm around you, shielding you from the world, “easy. What’s goin’ on?” 

Contrary to what most people believe, Dallas does have a naturally protective side - it just takes awhile to activate since he rarely lets people into his heart. He may not consciously make an effort to be comforting or caring, but he’s effortlessly efficient at soothing when he wants to be. Try as he might, he cannot override the primitive urge to calm down an agitated mate.

Tim and Buck are quiet around you. It’s abnormal for you to behave like this; for all of your shyness you’re not necessarily a crybaby, and even if you were, this crying would be absolutely warranted. Vocalizing issues is just so rare for you that for them to see you this way is completely out of character. 

Dallas gives you a beat or two before he’s prompting you to speak again, rapidly realizing that something has gone very, very wrong.

“You’re shakin’,” he notes, words murmured into your hairline, “th’hell happened, sweetheart?” 

You hadn’t even registered how badly you’re trembling; even your jaw is clenched tight, and you have to forcibly unlock it through five seconds of dedicated thought. Simply hearing the same names that were so awfully spoken to you just seconds earlier come so lovingly from your boyfriend feels like a soothing balm.

Dallas noses along your temple and fishes you out of his clavicle with a hum, worry turning to brutally attentive concern once he sees how terrified you truly are. 

He scans you for injuries first, large hands clamping down on you in alarm, “Fuck - what happened?” 

Everything, you want to say, unsure where to begin. It ends up coming out a jumbled, teary mess; you mention the car first, then the Socs, and finally (very quietly and very hushed) their volatile words. Suddenly, all three of the men around you are much more alert. 

“When’d this happen? Jus’ now?” Dallas checks, appearing profusely apoplectic. 

You’ve only seen him get this angry a few times in your life, and it’s quite petrifying. People say he’s ‘mean’ or ‘cold’ - and while those traits are true, they are also indicative of him on a good day. When he’s truly infuriated, he’ll go eerily quiet and contemplative. He’s a man of action who enjoys using words as collateral, so when those words disappear from his arsenal, you know all of his concentration is going into what kind of brutality he can exact as revenge. 

What Dallas wants, he gets - and that phenomenon also applies to vengeance. It took some pattern recognition to get there, but you’ve stitched up enough of his wounds and visited him in jail enough times to understand that. With deeply distressed eyes and another sob you nod unhappily up at him, and the hands framing your face tighten almost imperceptibly before he pulls you into his embrace. From behind your ear his chest is warm and his words rumble as he reassures you of what you already know.

“They ain’t gonna touch you, baby. You’re safe. S’okay.”

As if it’s going to help ground you, you hold your eyes shut a few times in a row between rapid blinks like it’ll reset your brain. 

From behind you, Tim’s words filter through the fog. “What’d they look like?” 

Around staccato inhales and sniffles you do your best to describe the three perpetrators, thankful that your survivor brain remembered to categorize their faces and their car before totally shutting down. You remember your work training you on what to do if someone came in to rob the place, and the first lesson was to let them take any and all valuables; instead of trying to protect the goods, one should attempt to recall as much as possible about the perpetrator.

It kind of assumes that you’ll survive to be able to tell someone about it, but still. 

As soon as the last syllable is out of your mouth you see Dallas look over your head at Tim like he’s ordered a hit, and a few seconds later you hear the older crook shift before striding out towards the door you’ve just ran in through. Buck watches the entrance as Tim leaves, eyes shifty and steely like he’s expecting any of your assailants to waltz in even though he knows no Soc would ever step foot in his bar.

You turn your face back down into your man’s chest and hiccup, unwilling to start a turf war over some stupid comments. You’re not that important for Shepard to go hunting like some vigilante, as much as you’d like to see those three braindead morons squished to a pulp. 

“W-what’s he gonna d-do, Dal?”

Like it’s responding to you, an engine rumbles to life somewhere in the alleyway.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dallas guides you away from the bar where customers are slowly starting to trickle in, “c’mere. Let’s go.”

You do worry about it, but you let him guide you up the stairs nonetheless, ushering you into his room where he pushes you down onto the mattress and pulls you into his chest. One of his hands tangles itself into your hair while the other wraps itself around you, holding you tightly. 

Confused and out of sorts you start to whine about not being tired enough to sleep, but Dallas stops you with some very grounding words that have nothing to do with going to bed.

“Ain’t bringin’ y’up here t’sleep. You’re still shakin’, baby.”

He’s more aware of what you need right now than you are, and he’s forcing your body to deal with the shock. 

You pause and startle at the acknowledgment of your quivering, muscles jumping like you’ve just wandered in from a snowstorm. It’s a little freaky that you didn’t even realize how poor of a state you were in until now, and it isn’t until Dallas starts thumbing circles into your skin that you start to pick up on things like your hands clenching on his shirt like a lifeline, or your fingertips tingling like they do when you’re low on blood sugar. 

He’s quiet underneath you, seemingly trying to squish down the urge to hop in the T-Bird and go vigilante hunting alongside Tim while also trying to sort out how to best calm you down. 

Finally you reach what you hope to be the end stages of this incident and start to come down from the adrenaline high. Inevitably, it’s a tumbleweed of dizzying feelings and sensations. Internalizing it all hasn’t even crossed your mind yet.

“Dal…” your broken little mewl of his name into his pectoral is utterly heartbreaking. 

There is a decent amount of righteous indignation in his voice when he responds, “…I know, darlin’.”

He still hasn’t switched off that manner of speaking - the honeyed, low, soothing, self-assured tone that is so dulcifying and pacifying you can hardly pay attention to anything else when he speaks like that. When he’s like this he talks like he knows everything, and for right now that may as well be true. 

You aren’t someone who requires a crap ton of verbal support when something goes wrong. What you want is to know with a fair amount of certainty is that whatever is bothering you is going to be tended to. Talking means nothing if the problem keeps reoccurring, so the ‘actions over words’ approach that Dallas so conveniently uses actually lines up pretty perfectly with what you need. 

Still, it’s not like he doesn’t try to say the right things. It’s just that comfort isn’t his outright specialty and he’s a little rough around the edges when it comes to anything nurturing. But right now, there’s nothing he can actively do to abate this situation short of sweeping the entire city for three bozos who are probably already hiding in the South side, and that action would require leaving you behind. He’s not willing to do that. 

So he stays, rendering himself nothing more than a brute who has forced himself to become anything other than, because leaving you when you’re like this is something he physically cannot do. The code for it has been rewired out of his system. 

“W-what if they-”

The question hasn’t even left your mouth before he’s interrupting the train of thought with a resolute answer.

“They ain’t gonna.” 

Something about the way he says it immediately lets you know that you won’t ever see those guys again, and you don’t bother questioning it any further. 

Nevertheless your brain still tries to come up with rationalizations and useless hindsights, like the frustration with having no vehicle for another week. It’s silly because you know this would have just happened to whatever next girl was walking down the street if you hadn’t been there for those boys to harass, but it’s infuriating to think that you had to deal with it just because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  

“Wouldn’t h-have happened if I had t-the car…” you whine sadly, wishing that your mom had taken a train or bus across state lines. 

Dallas sighs long and heavy, like he’s carefully deciding what to say without going off. 

“Car ain’t the problem, sweetheart.” The hand he has in your hair shifts as his thumb soothes that spot behind your ear. “Just ‘cause a sheep runs outta the pen don’t mean the wolf gets t’bite.”

Your overstimulated, frazzled brain takes a minute to process his analogy. In very simple terms, he’s just told you that your circumstantial behavior doesn’t really matter; you could have been streaking down the side of the road in broad daylight with a blaring siren on your head, and that still wouldn’t give someone the right to pin you down and assault you. Whether or not you were in a car would have just delayed or offset this harassment to someone else. 

As usual, he’s right.

The metaphor has puzzled you enough that it’s temporarily distracted you from your processing. You briefly wonder if his allegory makes you vulnerable prey or a proverbial piece of meat in this instance, but you’re done philosophizing for the day and huff tiredly into his shirt. 

Though the tears have mostly stopped, shivers still wrack you and goosebumps still litter your skin. You’re the kind of cold that settles in after having done some intense bout of exercise, even though that makes no sense since the only distance you ran was half a block to Buck’s front door. 

“‘M freezin’...” you complain, confused and nuzzling further down into him.

Dallas grunts and unravels one long arm from you so he can grab his jacket from its place on the floor. It’s strewn across you moments later, warm and familiar. Before you started dating him you would have never imagined that smoke, leather and aftershave would be comforting scents. 

Hours later, you’ll understand that your body was having an acute stress response to this awful situation and you’ll realize that Dallas singlehandedly guided you through it with the same kind of ease one takes to check the mail. And somewhere within that realization, you’ll add another thing to the ever-growing list of reasons why you’re grateful for him. 

Right now, though, you’re spiraling and debating whether being a more outspoken person may have saved you a bit of grief. 

You know there’s nothing wrong with your personality. Just because you’re shy doesn’t give people the right to walk all over you, though it does make it a lot easier whenever they decide to. Plus, being confrontational is always a double-edged sword; in this scenario, it could have very quickly escalated into something much more dangerous. 

Besides - why should the mental load and risk fall on you when it comes to this kind of stuff? Why isn’t it more prudent to teach people’s sons not to bother young women on the street instead of the unfortunate reality where girls have to learn how to best operate around dangerous men? 

“I can hear ya thinkin’, angel.” Dallas calls you out with a decisive murmur, “Spit it out.”

A squeak falls from you at his forwardness, not expecting to have to put your thoughts into words. Thankfully, it all boils down to a very simple complaint.

“S’not fair…” you mumble sorrowfully, hands much steadier and warmer as they play with the fabric covering his chest. 

“I know, doll.”

None of it is fair. Even if the three who harassed you today are likely going to get what’s coming to them, that won’t fix the overall likelihood of something like this happening again to you or any other girl. It’s not fair that you’re here, traumatised and terrified and still at risk, and it’s not fair that none of this will change the way that men treat women. 

But neither you or Dallas can exactly help any of that. Right now, he’s doing exactly what you need, even when your own body couldn’t tell him or give him an accurate read on what was going on in your head.

The room is so quiet you can still clearly hear the intricacies of the music downstairs, and when you exhale the first full breath you’ve managed to take since entering the building, it sounds like you’ve been holding it in for a full minute. You feel anxiety give way to warmth and security as the steady beat of his heart guides you back down to Earth.

Sometimes you marvel at how quickly he analyzes exactly what is best to do in a moment and enacts a plan with surgical precision. He might not be a textbook boyfriend in a lot of other ways, but in moments of crucial pressure where the correct set of actions makes all the difference in the world, he becomes a sort of Polyphemus. And you, his sea nymph, see the genuinity and intent behind every one of his efforts, however unrefined they may be.

You feel him curl further around you like a python, lean muscles rippling and shifting to hold you better. 

Dallas isn’t an unrealistic man. He doesn’t mince words, he won’t delude you with false promises, and he can’t assure you that everything will turn out alright. But he can assure you that everything is okay right now. And this stability is the one variable that reduces the entirety of whatever terrifying equation has come your way down into a single, unshakeable point. 

Something in your soul unclenches.

Hey! 2 reasons: reliability/self-insert and concerns w/representation.

I’m a pans female so while f/f is something I could do, if I wrote m/m it wouldn’t be an authentic story for me bc i feel I wouldn’t be doing it justice. M/f and f/f are things I have experienced before, so I feel more comfortable sticking to what I know and can represent as there is more of a connection to the narrative and emotional experience of those relationships