⚠️ PORN ALERT ⚠️ IF YOU DON’T WANT THE PORN THAT COMES WITH THE PLOT, TURN BACK BC YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR⚠️
Summary: ‘But you…you have pried open his ribs with surgical accuracy, clambered into his chest cavity, and decided that you like it enough to stay - no questions asked. Over and over again you and Johnny keep choosing him, proving day after day that it isn’t shallow attraction, cheap thrills or any ulterior benefits that keep you around.
And Dallas is finally, finally out of energy trying to run from what he wants.
Like a starving mutt, he salivates and circles the flesh he’s been denying himself for the sake of a bigger picture.
He’s sick of being hungry.’
CW/TW: pnv, dom/sub, dacryphillia, degradation, dirty talk, masturbation, AU/everybodylives/nobodydies, best friends to lovers, not really angst/not really fluff either
A/N: like 8/11k words of this is pure smut 🫣 christ...im SO SORRY for the length but i promise it's worth it :,)
thank you so much for the kind words and appreciation everyone <3 I'm so overjoyed that so many folks like the characterization bc honestly it was one of the things I was losing my head over
credit goes to @pinkbabydollblythe for this prompt once again :) and I hope I started doing the tag list correctly but lmk if not!
cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx
Dallas didn’t bet on you making it your personal business to prevent him from finding you for the following twenty four hours.
Until the next evening you virtually disappear; no one has seen you, heard from you or knows where you might be. Buck tells him you’ve called off sick, which you never do - Dallas has seen you sick plenty of times and you milk that shit hard. If you actually had any type of illness, half of Tulsa would know by now. He also hasn’t heard a peep from your room, and your lack of promiscuity makes him doubt you’re hiding out at some guy’s house.
So he waits you out like prey, fully aware that your shift at seven means you can’t avoid him forever, and perches himself by the window.
Like Cinderella you step out of Two-Bit’s car at precisely seven o’clock, driven by none other than fucking Kathy and looking incredibly paranoid as you scamper towards the building. Dallas narrows his eyes at the Plymouth and reminds himself to have a word with Keith next time the jokester is around.
His hunter’s gaze locks onto the way you peek around the block and nibble on your fingernail before entering, undoubtedly trying to gauge whether or not he’s around. If he had to guess, he would say that you followed your typical stress pattern and escaped just after hearing him yesterday so you could spiral in private.
He’s got no idea how dead-on he is.
Truthfully, you’d been so mortified after becoming aware of his presence that you’d all-but snuck out the window and ran to Kathy’s place, begging her to allow you to stay the night. You lied through your teeth about some ‘crazy ex that had come snooping around the bar’ and made her promise not to say a peep about it to anyone. Yet even after buying yourself a whole evening away from everything, you still couldn’t figure out exactly what to do.
And now you’ve run out of time - you have to work, and you’re unwilling to lose your job unless you’ve got another one lined up in a different city where it’s preferable that no one knows your name.
You approach your home like it’s hallowed ground, slipping in without a peep and chucking your jacket under the bar so it’s one less sign of your presence here. There isn’t any visual indication that Dallas is near, but you don’t need to see him to know he’s in the vicinity.
You could pick him apart in a room full of people blindfolded.
It’s his laugh and the sharp crack of it that slices through every other noise in the room like a thunderclap, offensive and imposing. It’s the weight he adds to a space that immediately makes it feel fuller and warmer, even if he’s cold and calculating and insistent on being a menace wherever he exists. It’s the uneasy ripple his aura casts on everyone else’s when they don’t know him and assess him at face value.
And right now, that aura is very active. It makes you want to shrink into a ball with how heavily it encompasses you.
“Y’look like you seen a ghost,” Buck grunts as he hands you a glass he’s just finished polishing, “where y’been all day?”
“Errands,” you smile, taking it from him and starting your usual routine before taking over the register.
You can be a rather prolific fibber when you want to be; it’s unfortunate you likely won’t be able to keep your cool when faced with your best friend. There’s no use trying to lie to a professional liar, and he always says you ‘radiate guilt’ whenever you attempt it. That’s why you’re doing everything to buy yourself more time and avoid him, because you can't pretend like nothing has changed.
The first few hours into your shift don’t feel any different than normal, but there is still a sense of imposing dread that you try to ignore as you catch up with regulars and keep yourself busy. It’s around midnight that you start to really feel like you’re being watched by someone you can’t see, which usually doesn’t happen when you’ve got your back to the entire room.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out whose eyes are on you, and that’s what turns you into a jumpy freak. Every time you have to run to the storage room, lower your gaze or turn your back, a prickling sensation follows that makes you feel like you’re being hunted. It’s like a lion getting closer every time the gazelle pauses to take a drink of water.
At twelve forty-five some random out-of-towers request a round of blue kamikaze shooters, which makes you grimace internally as it requires you to go fetch the curacao that is rarely used. It sits on the top shelf at the very back of the cold room, a spot that is notoriously hard to reach and one that you struggle with every time Buck puts shit up there.
Today is no exception; you find yourself barely grazing the bottle with your fingertips and refusing to go all the way out into the yard to grab the stupid stepstool that always gets put back out there, even though you’ve told the men who work here eight million times that you need it kept inside.
You’ve almost got it, raising yourself on one foot so you can maybe tip the thing over and catch it-
You flinch and flip around to find Dallas suddenly looming over you, invading nearly every sense as he leans a hand on the wall and effectively traps you in the small room. It’s a tiny enough space that you are immediately overwhelmed with the smell of smoke, sun and leather - a combination you’ve grown used to attributing to him over the years.
It’s downright creepy how he’s managed to sneak up on you like that, you think with a massive gulp and a face that likely betrays your fears. You didn’t even hear a single footstep.
Your brain short circuits and your lips part uselessly as you try to figure out what to say, unable to behave normally quite yet. Confidence cannot help you here; any bravado or pretending that you don’t care won’t work because you do care and this does matter. Besides, Dallas can smell that kind of farce from miles away.
His question is absolutely a double-entendre, and by answering it affirmatively you fear that you’ll send the wrong message. You still haven’t confirmed whether or not he actually knows anything, but his expressions give you a hint.
Aside from the undeniable triumph of having finally caught you, he regards you with a look that is borderline confrontational, like he’s expecting you to bolt at any second and is prepared to catch you if you do. You don’t want to test the theory. Besides, he knows you’ve left the bar unattended - he won’t risk both of you getting in trouble by distracting you in here for too long.
“S-sure…” you want to scream when the response you come up with isn’t as confident or loud as you hoped it to be.
Dallas tilts his head with a barely-contained smirk, “What’s the magic word?”
He’s playing with his food, you realize. It’s either he knows and will keep pawing at you like a cat with a half dead mouse, or he’s trying to grill you for having disappeared for a day…and the latter probably isn’t true, because this would be a weird way to go about it. Usually him grilling you involves a lot more sarcasm.
You clench your jaw and look up at the blue bottle, briefly calculating the safety if jumping will cause all the other stock on the shelves to come crashing down to the floor. You decide you don’t want to risk it and swallow your pride.
Thankfully, some of your baseline personality feels safe enough to come out and lend some normalcy to this moment.
His eyes flash and his smirk turns into a dastardly smile, “I ain’t remember that bein’ the magic word.”
Your eyes slit up at him, trying to gauge how much of your usual sarcastic dynamic would be appropriate right now.
You settle for a mildly exasperated: “…please.”
Satisfaction - bright and viscous - blooms in his irises. He hands you the curacao, tongue-in-cheek and smiling like he’s got a secret.
“Gotta say please if you want a hand, darlin’.”
The play on words is obvious and his tone is condescending, lodging itself somewhere into your brain. It fits like a key and opens something you didn’t know was locked away.
You can feel yourself flushing, even as fresh terror blossoms in your chest when you fully accept reality: that yes, he clearly did hear everything yesterday and yes, he’s apparently keen on holding it over your head. There’s grounds to be fearful of whatever his next plan of action may be.
“Uh-huh…” you delicately accept the bottle from him with shaky fingers, taking much care not to brush against his fingers, “thanks, Dal…”
Any capacity for productive thought has been cauterized.
“Mhm,” he murmurs, eyes dipping down to your lips and tracking the movement in your throat as you swallow.
For a split second you’re struck dumb trying to figure out how you’re going to get past him and back to your abandoned post, eyes flitting to the door at least three times. Dallas watches you with the joy of a contract killer, absolutely thrilled with your nerve.
Deciding to take mercy when a rather raucous shout echoes from the front room, he slowly shifts to give you just enough space to exit and gives you no other choice but to squeeze past him on the way out. He laughs under his breath when you refuse to make eye contact and do your best not to touch him. It doesn’t work; your shoulder brushes up against his chest, warmth spreading at the contact and making your heart skip a beat.
You hold your breath until you’re free, basically scurrying out of the cold room without a second glance back.
With shaking fingers and an unidentified tightness in your chest, you pour the shooters as soon as you get back to the bar and nearly forget to collect payment. Your hackles are still raised, indubitably rattled by everything and the knowledge that he could pop back out at any moment. His behavior is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before and you don’t know how to react, much less start to analyze what he’s thinking. Dallas can be a frustratingly effective emotional vault when he wants to be.
You embody nearly every aspect of a crackhead for the rest of your shift; continuous shoulder checks, darting glances everywhere, and nervous fidgeting. You’re just missing the schizophrenic mutterings, which are done in your head to avoid scaring your patrons.
The only time you see him is when the crowd parts just enough for the billiards table to come into view. You spy him lounging against the wall, beer and pool cue in one hand and cigarette in the other, already looking at you like a tiger would its next meal. Shivering as if you’ve seen a phantom, you immediately avert your gaze.
Not here, not in front of the customers, you mentally plead to whatever deity may be listening.
The minutes fly by far too quickly as two o’clock drags near. With nerves that may as well be limp noodles you find yourself shutting down operations as soon as the last person is out and doing money checks with trembling hands, almost miscounting a few bills and prompting you to start over at least twice.
When the place is locked, cleanup has been done and everything is accounted for, you are finally out of options and must retreat to your room. The staircase may as well be a dark alley, taunting you with danger lurking around every creaky corner.
You ascend the steps like the gallows, heart frantically beating out of your chest and breaths shallow with dread. Whatever is waiting for you up here can’t possibly be good, no matter how much trust you have in your best friend. Confrontation isn’t something you want to encounter, and reconciliation seems unrealistic.
“Fuck…” you whisper to yourself before turning the corner and taking the last few steps, already having peeked around the small landing to check for signs of life.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary as you tiptoe to your room and gently open the door, keeping an eye on the hallway behind you for sudden movements or wayward noises. The creaks in the wood can’t be helped, but you manage to slink into your safe space without hinting at your existence while keeping an eye out. Like a complete manic coward you maintain said lookout until the space between your door and the jamb is just a tiny sliver, only releasing your breath after it’s clicked shut.
It’s then, while you’re resting your forehead against the wood as if to thank it, that you hear a long-winded sigh echo from behind you.
Horror - absolute horror - drains your face of all color and bolts you to the floor, entirely frozen in your spot. Fear grips you so hard your lungs constrict and you strain not to make a run for it, fight or flight caught in a deadlock, while you hear him get up and slowly stalk towards you.
Every single footfall drawing him closer makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand higher until the urge to turn around is too great, but your instincts make you grasp the doorknob in a last-ditch effort to bolt.
Quick as a snake strike, Dallas slams a palm on the door to keep it shut and reaches around you to flip the lock with his other hand, brushing against your ribs as he does. He’s so close his breath hits your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
Out of options, you have no moves left but to turn and face the music.
You look over your shoulder to guide yourself as you do, immediately finding yourself at eye-level with his chest, and slowly lift your gaze until it meets his.
Cowering might seem pathetic, but you hope that it’ll buy you some sympathy points.
If he’s angry, he doesn’t show it. In fact, you can’t get a decent read on him at all; that’s what ends up being the most terrifying about it. His stare is piercing, so intense you can’t help the shuddered inhale you make as you squeeze yourself back against the door.
Is he upset? Annoyed? Offended?
Word salad starts to fall out of your mouth, “I can explain-”
“Don’t gotta,” Dallas interrupts you with ease, “y’think I ain’t gonna do nothin’ after you torture me like that?”
The rebuttal you already had loaded up dies on your tongue as some of your tenseness fades and you look up at him in perplexity.
“I told ya,” his other hand raises to hold your face, fingers framing your cheeks like he’s disciplining a naughty child, “if y’need a hand, you gotta say...”
Your mouth opens uselessly, skin tingling and mind trying to link up pieces of the puzzle to no avail.
His follow-up is lilting and arrogant, “What’d I say t’day? C’mon, use that pretty lil head.”
Images of your shared time in the storage room earlier appear behind your retinas like war flashbacks. Once again, you get the sense that his question is rhetorical and by answering it correctly you’ll affirm something that is redundant to verify, but you connect the dots and do so anyway.
“There y’go,” he’s patronizing you in a way that would have you smacking him if it was literally any other scenario, “was that so hard? Just had t’ask me, doll.”
You recognize what’s about to happen a few seconds too late.
It’s the last thing you’re able to say before he’s tilting your chin up and guiding his mouth to yours, swallowing your gasp and slipping you his tongue before you can argue. The hands that were pressed flat against your door now fly up to fist the fabric at his chest for stability as you fawn and feel yourself melt against him, sheer heat condensing low in your stomach.
Your head is spinning, not having expected the possibility of him wanting the exact same thing you’ve been denying yourself. Frantically, your mind tries to catch up to the reality of what’s going on aside from the fact that Dallas is fucking kissing you right now. On no uneasy terms, he’s just inadvertently confessed that he liked what he heard and is fully committed to returning the attention. Even if that’s all fine and dandy, there’s still the little problem of you two being best friends that have a lot to lose if this all goes wrong; the potential fallout of a union like this would be nuclear.
Out of breath and overwhelmed, you tug on his shirt and rip your lips from his, nearly bashing your head against the door and blinking up at him like a baby owl. You find him already looking back at you with a spellbound sort of triumph.
“I don’t…I don’t get it-“
Dallas laughs once, “Don’t get it? I’ll make it real simple for ya.”
Frantic to try and reason with him before this gets out of control, you barely contain your whine when he kisses you again and bites at your bottom lip.
“W-we can’t-” you correct yourself before he does, "shouldn't-"
He snickers at you under his breath like you’re a confused little girl, interrupting you by seeking out your tacky lips with his. He’s already scrambled your thoughts, static interfering with regular programming.
“Which one is it, sweetheart?” Dallas pulls back just enough to speak against your lips and drops his spare hand to your ass to knead the flesh there, “‘cause I ain’t ever had a problem doin’ somethin’ I shouldn’t be.”
You know he hasn’t, which is why you’re typically the morally responsible one. Johnny doesn’t know any better and Dallas isn’t famous for his self-restraint, so as the one with the least testosterone and therefore the highest ability for accurate risk-assessment, you often end up becoming the voice of reason.
It isn’t always an easy cross to bear, especially when the guy who currently has you in his clutches is hell-bent on testing you nearly every day of your lives.
A reply is close to fruition before he absolutely annihilates it with his next move, gripping you by the hips and carrying you the short distance to your bed. He sets you down rather unceremoniously and situates himself between your thighs, leaving you to play catch-up all over again as you’re faced with the reality of this situation getting far past the point of no return.
You whimper and clutch at the hair at the base of his skull, “Ain’t r-right, Dal-”
“Feels pretty fuckin’ right t’me,” he interrupts, slotting his mouth against yours once more.
You whine at the contact and sink into him again, letting him learn your patterns. Every other habit and custom of yours has been memorized by him over a three year timespan, inadvertently dedicated to mapping out your intricacies. He is no less efficient in this endeavour.
He breaks away from you to assault your neck, nipping as he goes and swallowing a groan when you shiver against him.
“Knew you’d be sweet,” he exhales against your jugular, “perfect fuckin’ girl.”
“B-but…” you find yourself trailing off when he mouths along your jaw and finds your lips again, wiping out any idea you might have come up with.
You register his hand slipping under your shirt, thumb smoothing strokes onto your stomach that cause goosebumps to erupt across your skin. The heady want hits you seconds later - that familiar burning need that has had you in its grips all week and wants nothing but for him to touch you.
The keening cry you let slip has him hissing and pulling back, holding himself over you.
“Hit me again, baby. What else y’got?” Dallas challenges breathlessly, trying to urge your protests along so he can neutralize them quicker.
Your mouth opens, but instead of words a wayward gasp slips out as he rolls his hips into you. You can feel the hot, hard press of him against your center, evidence of how badly this is affecting him. The hefty wave of desire almost has you abandoning your efforts to reason with him, and he’s close enough that your eyes flutter shut on reflex.
“You’re my best friend…” by some divine grace you finally manage to speak the words that are at the core of this crisis, “gonna mess it up-”
“Ain’t nobody messin’ nothin’ up,” he whispers back as he grips the back of your knee to pull you closer and grind himself against you, “this feel like I’m messin’ somethin’ up?”
Another whimper leaves you, and you shake your head in affirmation before his lips temporarily descend onto you again to clear out the space between your ears.
He rears back to follow your half-lidded eyes, cloudy with lust and impaired judgment, nearly able to taste your surrender.
“S’what I thought. C’mon, gimme another excuse, darlin’.”
There is one final thing that remains: your fear that his friendship might have all been some kind of long-con ruse in order to reach this point. But the theory is so insulting you don’t even bother voicing it aloud. You’ve seen him lie, cheat and act to get what he wants; he wouldn’t have the ability to put up a farce for this long. And if he’s being truthful, then that means…
That means you are officially out of excuses.
“I don’t got any more…” you sigh into his mouth, finally submitting into him like a dying star.
“Thank fuckin’ God,” Dallas laughs against your lips in a muted sort of triumph before kissing you absolutely stupid.
It’s slow and dirty, urging nasty thoughts that you’ve long since abandoned and cast away as unattainable. Thoughts of him fucking you, filling you, keeping you. Now he’s here, heavy against you and already taking you apart piece by piece.
You plead no contest when he starts to liberate you of clothes. It’s quick and efficient with all the well-practiced conduct of a sexual savant, but he takes the time to pause and appreciate the sight after each article has been removed.
“God damn, look at you,” as soon as your tits are free, nipples pebbling at the chill in the room, he takes one into his mouth to tease at it and softly pinches the other between his fingers.
The sensation makes you shudder and wail softly, suddenly marveling at how something that you entirely wrote off as unenjoyable because of previous men simply chewing on your nipples can feel so good that it sends liquid heat straight down to your cunt. It’s everything all the other guys who have tried with you haven’t been, and it’s working you up embarrassingly fast. Your tongue feels heavy, like you’re retaining a week’s worth of water in it, choking you up and making it difficult to formulate your request for him to get on with it.
“Dal, please…” you pant, the fingers tangled in his hair slipping down to his abdomen when he fully pulls back.
His irises have been completely swallowed by the black of his pupils, “Please, Christ - you’re a fuckin’ dream, aint’cha?”
With a staunch exhale he detangles himself from your legs to remove the last obstacle keeping him from your pussy. You can feel yourself messy with slick and sensitivity, the result of what has basically been a week-long edging session with no end in sight until now.
Everything from your waist down is tugged off in one go, and you’re taken aback when he immediately maneuvers you as soon as you’re fully naked before him.
“You fell right outta heaven, didn’tcha…”
To access you better, he tugs your hips forward and pushes the backs of your knees up and out, forcing you into a near-folded position that barely lets you keep yourself propped up so you can fully see what’s happening. His hands are certain and steadfast in their mission, focused on the same prize he’s already got eyes on.
“Pretty little pussy, all mine.”
The crude nature of his words have you blushing to the tips of your ears. You can’t even curl up in shame as you’re splayed before him, completely exposed and vulnerable. It’s difficult, but you do your best to cast aside the discomfort surrounding the novelty of such openness.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, doll,” Dallas exhales a low groan and releases one of your legs to swipe at the glossy residue that coats your inner thighs, “look at’cha. Y’needed me this bad but you ain’t wanna ask for help, huh?”
You don’t have the wits to respond so you merely nod up at him with wide glassy doe-eyes just begging him to touch you, anticipation and impatience rendering you effectively mute.
“Mm,” he tastes you on his thumb, giving an amused huff at your resulting squeak and blush, “s’this what you thought about when you were gettin’ off?”
The breath gets caught in your throat when he takes the back of his index finger and strokes it up your slit, just grazing your clit. Involuntarily, your hips buck up into him as a desperate moan is shoved from your lungs, and he stifles a laugh before stilling you.
As if it’s a punishment for not having answered his question, he runs the back of his middle and pointer finger down either side of your pussy and narrowly avoids your clit. The tease is vicious; barely-there pleasure that coils tightly in your abdomen and makes you cry wordlessly for indulgence.
Dallas takes his hand away to hold your bucking hips down, “Y’can’t tell me what that dirty lil mind was thinkin’ when you were tryna cum with my name in your mouth?
He does have a point, but logic takes a second to catch up with you. As soon as you start to respond, he circles back and hits you with the same move, except this time he presses his fingers closer together so your clit gets caught between them. There’s so much slick to you that the repeated glides of his movements are effortless.
“A-ah! Y-you…” you confess with a whine, aware that he’ll likely stop if you don’t talk, “your fingers, mnhh-your mouth…”
His fingers don’t cease, rewarding you for your honesty as he curses darkly. Your mouth waters with need, close to begging him for just a little bit more. There are few things spicier than the feel of near-stimulation, and you reckon Dallas knows exactly where you’re at based on how you shake and pant.
The hand still holding one of your legs tightens around the back of your knee, “Wasn’t good enough, hm?”
“Mm-mmn,” you confirm, shaking as he keeps his motions steady.
He kisses his teeth in mock sympathy, “Why not, baby?”
You sob dryly as the tension breaks and surges you past the point of self-respect. You reach for him with more effort than before, and he releases your leg to let you pull him closer.
“W-wasn’t you…” your whimper as he’s on his way down, “please, Dal - jus’ touch me-”
The air between you gets a lot thinner when he reacts to your words.
You’re the picture of desire; eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and body trembling from his ministrations. He can feel the infuriating ache that makes you curl your hips towards him in an attempt to alleviate some of the want - it was him who planted it there, after all.
“Fuck…” Dallas murmurs down at you, a little awestruck.
He did this. He’s the one that turned you into a sopping, quivering mess that mewls desperately and reaches for him with glassy eyes.
He grunts and briefly rests his head against your temple like he needs a moment of prayer before he’s surging back up to capture your lips. Now the pace is a little more akin to what you need - not frantic, but you’ve worked him up enough to even the scales.
“M’already touchin’ you, angel,” he hums into your mouth, “God, you’re just drippin’ for me…”
Something in your chest buckles, and you let slip a pleading cry that vaguely sounds like the word ‘more’.
Saying no to you has always been tricky. So, tempted by the soft, liquid warmth of you and your unabashed begging, he switches out his two fingers and circles your clit with his thumb.
Your mouth drops open with another whine, neurotic at the direct contact. When he presses down with more pressure and suckles at that one spot right under your ear, the combination makes you keen desperately.
Dallas eases back, laughs, and kisses you deeply.
“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, patronizing and low, while his hand adjusts to slide not one but two fingers inside of you, “gonna give ya what y’need, doll.”
You moan brokenly, surprise coating the sound as you squirm and try to listen to him around the slippery sounds of your slick.
“God - tight lil thing, ain’tcha? Relax for me,” he breathes, voice nearly a rumble, “just like that.”
The encouragement strikes you as a double-edged sword; because it’s Dallas, you associate such niceties to ulterior motives. In this case, while the motivation may be erotic - and successful at that - you feel like he’s opening you up for something a lot rougher down the line. There’s no way he’s all sunshine and rainbows in bed.
Little hands clutch at his chest fruitlessly, trying to ground themselves against the onslaught of targeted pleasure. You acknowledge far too late that he’s very, very good at this - not just in terms of broad skill but also at picking up on your reactions and adjusting himself accordingly. He doesn’t need to wait for you to tell him what feels best; he reads it in every little expression, twitch, tremble and intake of breath.
In no time at all he finds that spot inside of you that you just can’t hit right no matter how hard you try, fingers curling and filling you so well it brings genuine tears to your eyes. The endless heat you’ve been feeling is being soothed by none other than him targeting the swollen, spongy patch that you can never access on your own.
The tension sitting low in your stomach tightens viciously when his thumb finds your clit again, cunt gripping his fingers so tightly he can’t help but let out a gentle laugh of disbelief.
Hearing his name on your lips because of what he’s doing as opposed to listening from the other side of your wall is something Dallas is eternally grateful for having changed.
“Sound so fuckin’ good with my name in your mouth,” he slurs against your throat, fighting the need to grind himself down on the sheets like you probably did not even a day ago.
His head won’t shut up - it’s an endless stream of mineminemineMINE, proverbial dam broken and overflowing with the primal urge to fuck and claim.
“Can feel you grippin’ on me, needy girl. Pussy doesn’t wanna let me go, so fuckin’ desperate.”
Like he’s got a direct line from his mouth to your cunt, it squeezes down on his fingers and makes your exact feelings about his words very clear.
You’re already inundated with overwhelming lust every time you try to look up at him, and him pointing out how sexually attuned he’s become to you in the span of ten minutes just makes you burn. There’s something about him that makes all the derogatory comments and cruel quips fearfully attractive. Maybe it’s because he’s murmuring them into your ear while doing things to you that should be sanctioned by the entire state of Oklahoma, but you don’t care enough to dive into that right now.
“Y’like it when I’m mean, don’tcha? I knew it.”
Instead of giving him a proper response, you simply don’t prevent the next wanton moan that he urges from you and drag your fingernails across his scalp so you can tangle them in his hair. Without hesitation, you tighten your grip.
Dallas almost chokes into your clavicle and raises himself up to look at you properly. A brief, dark look passes across his face - like he’s aiming to show you exactly what happens when you tempt him with a good time - before he drops a heavy kiss on your lips and rears back further.
He returns one of his hands to the back of your right knee to keep you folded open and keeps his other fingers where they are, stuffing you and refusing to let off that one spot.
You whine at the loss of him, cold air unfriendly, and reach for your own chest in consolation. Your hands find your breasts and clamp down, trapping your nipples between your middle and index finger in some halfhearted attempt to center yourself.
“There y’go,” his tone has lowered to a gruff, throaty texture, “play with ‘em for me, sweetheart.”
Without any other preamble he lays an opened mouth kiss on your hip as some kind of last warning before he licks a stripe up your pussy and decides to suction his mouth to your clit.
You white out for a second and gasp, sounding more like a scandalized virgin than anything else.
Oral isn’t something a lot of guys your age are good at, and by default that means most of them don’t want to do it. It’s a pity, because you’re not an asshole about it and would be very willing to explore with them, but apparently most men would rather be selfish in bed than admit their shortcomings.
Also by default, that means that you have both little experience and outstanding sensitivity with anyone being this willing and talented at it.
It makes you shift backwards a bit as your hindbrain takes over, and he stops to tend to you.
“Shh,” Dallas curls his fingers a little bit harder, making you squeal and halting your attempt at escape, “quit squirmin’. Promise you’ll like it.”
Despite your preconceived notions, you do trust him, and that trust plays a part in the way you relax under his knowing gaze and try to calm your panting. You don’t have to say anything when he can read you this well; he’s an expert after years of knowing you and reading your body language, expressions and various unspoken subtexts.
“Atta girl,” he hums as you settle, “lemme take care of ya. Too out of it, baby - y’can’t even talk, you’re down bad.”
You whine as he holds your gaze and forces you to listen to the obscene sounds of his fingers fucking into you, wet and messy as you absolutely ruin your sheets. His thumb circles you again, asserting cruel pressure in the temporary place of his tongue.
He looks up at you once last time as he makes you wait and squirm on his fingers, “Gonna let me do my thing? Make y’feel good?”
Somehow the spider has convinced the fly that the web is the best place to be, you think, chest heaving as you bite your lip and nod.
A different kind of heat scrawls patterns into your spine when he takes you into his mouth and starts up again. You try to remember why you never wanted this in the first place, but a swirl of his tongue makes you draw a blank.
It’s an entirely different sensation than a finger, and it adds a different kind of slickness into the already sopping mess of your pussy. You had no idea what you were missing out on until his tongue was drawing patterns into you, giving you just the right amount of sharp pleasure before switching to more soothing repetitions.
He doesn’t let up with his fingers, either, rendering you especially useless because the combination of his fingers and his tongue has you reeling. Everything is warm and wet and dizzying, and even the filthy noises that had you blushing to the tips of your ears are now adding to the overwhelming list of things driving you crazy.
It startles you into grasping just how close you are, because you feel the familiar tendrils of tightness and heat simmer in your abdomen.
“Dal,” you can’t help sobbing, “y-you’re gonna make me cum…”
Your quiet confession is uttered into the atmosphere so shakily that it almost sounds like you don’t want it - like you’re upset about how quickly he took you apart and were hoping to hold out longer.
Dallas pulls back from your pussy to look up at your ruined expression and grins something nearly evil into your thigh, clamping his teeth down into it and groaning at your subsequent squeal.
“Told ya. Look how bad y’needed me - ain’t even wanna listen t’me an’ two seconds later you’re losin’ it.”
You’re so close that your eyes tear up in anticipation of the drop, moans kicking up in pitch when he sucks at your clit and purposefully pulls away again, laughing as you curl your hips up into him.
He holds you down, keeping you spread open and vulnerable beneath him.
“Yeah? You’re gonna cum? Who’s here makin’ you cum, darlin’?”
He briefly replaces his mouth with a thumb, holding you right on the precipice that threatens to drop you into a puddle of molten dopamine. He’s been feeling your clenching and slowing accordingly when you get too close, waiting for you to stow your soft, needy moans for the answer on the tip of your tongue.
“Y-you, Dal-” the words pour out of you like spun silk and drenched in sin, “p-please, pleasepleaseplea-”
You’ve not been reduced to a blubbering pile of begging for too long before he’s shoving you over the edge with a satisfied grunt, mouth back on your clit and ending that burning sensation of being held on the precious of orgasm for far too long.
This is where it gets a bit fuzzy for you.
Initially the implosion starts quiet, and all the air gets sucked out of the room. You jolt in his hold, choke and go silent, eyes disappearing into your skull as you fall back against the bedspread and feel the brute force of the orgasm start deep in you like a cannon-shot.
It hits you square in the soul, narrowing your universe to a single concrete point.
Then, in a rush of energy, a frantic cry is wrenched from your chest as the energy propels forward and you give yourself over to the savage ebbs and flows. A stream of keening wails follows, and though you can feel yourself bearing down and canting your hips up, you have no control over your body. Everything is buzzing, burning and brightening, completely nonsensical and dangerous with potency.
Something is holding you down and keeping you steady, guiding you through the motions of this storm with both mouth and hand, and as the waves of it begin to gentle you remember who it is.
Slowly, Dallas hands each part of you back until you’ve re-entered yourself piece by piece.
You’re shivering, you realize. Quaking like you’ve been buried in a snowdrift and left to die, salvaged and warmed only by him.
You acknowledge that you’ve tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged far too tight when your hand starts to ache and you have to force yourself to release his locks, trembling as your limb retreats.
As soon as you’re able to open your eyes, all the other senses fold back in one by one. Hearing is the last one because the ringing in your ears is so loud, but once the intensity of it fades you pick up on the tenor of his voice as it shifts against your stomach.
“…make you cum on my cock just like that. See what happens when y’listen? Greedy girl. Breathe.”
You heed his command and properly inhale, a whine soon following it. It lets him know you can finally comprehend his words again, and though you don’t have the strength to prop yourself up to see what’s going on, you feel him shift.
He mouths over the bite mark on your inner thigh and speaks against it, “You’re shakin’, sunshine.”
It’s then that you register the quivering in your legs that hasn’t stopped. Your whole body feels like it’s vibrating, still tightly wound and still coming down from the endorphin rush. The ceiling is the only thing that is in focus for you right now.
“Sound like a goddamn angel, sweetheart. That good, huh?”
You wish you had a more eloquent response to his teasing, but all you can come up with is a resounding, watery: “Fuck.”
Dallas laughs and shifts above you, fingers slipping out of you to trail up your torso and coat your nipple with your own cum. As you’re finally able to refocus on him he pinches it again, applying pressure until you whimper underneath him and let go of the sheets to reach for his chest.
“Taste like fuckin’ candy…” he lets you pull him down, releasing your leg and placing a hand by your head instead, “open your mouth.”
The order leaves you a little confused, but you’re lightheaded and pliable after what he’s done to you and so you acquiesce with no further issue.
To be honest, you could have seen it coming from a mile away, but your blitzed-out brain doesn’t put two and two together until he’s taking the two fingers glistening with your cum and pushing them into your mouth.
A startled noise leaves you as your eyes widen and the taste of your own spend hits your tongue, slightly tangy with a sweet aftertaste. It’s by far one of the filthier things you’ve been exposed to; no one else has had the gall to shove their fingers down your throat after making you cum hard enough to see stars.
Almost reflexively, you suckle on his digits with the veracity and sounds of a brainless whore.
“Good girl. Told ya you’d be sweet,” he huffs into your neck where he’s gone back to leaving trails of bruising, “already suckin’ on ‘em, huh? God, such a filthy lil thing.”
A muted squeak is all you can give in return, but it’s good enough for him to understand.
The grip you have on his chest seemingly reminds him that he’s still got clothes on, a problem he clearly aims to fix as soon as possible based on the way he takes his fingers out of your mouth and pulls away to take off his shirt. Forced to wait and seeking stimulus like a shy, desperate little degenerate, you suck on the knuckle of your middle finger and stare up at him with big, glassy eyes.
The picture of it makes him groan appreciatively, “Fuck, y’look ruined. Still want more, don’tcha?”
Your responding, needy whine bounces off the thin walls and earns you a cruel laugh as he returns himself to you. Almost immediately, your hands find their way to his trapezius muscles and find consolation there, skin warm and firm against yours.
“I know, darlin’,” he murmurs into your cheekbone, “m’gonna give it to ya.”
Almost like he’s trying to distract you, he licks a kiss into your mouth and absorbs the shuddering breath that sneaks out. It doesn’t work, because the metallic clink of his belt and the rasp of zipper on denim slices through the fog in your mind and makes you clench around nothing, salivating at the mere thought of being filled by him.
Unable to help your perverted urges, you roll your hips up into his to feel for him and finally catch a feel of his cock against your hip, hard and heavy and sweltering, which is when your mind suddenly puts together the size and feel of him all at once.
He’s big, and not the kind of big that you give as a compliment to men when they’re looking for a final word to push them over the edge after an unsatisfying night in bed. This is the kind of big that requires a considerate and ample amount of foreplay, because without it there is no conceivable way to comfortably take him. Even with those conditions having been met, you wonder if it’s possible.
Intimidation curdles in you, coiling in your gut and making you look up at him in fear. He’s already smiling down at you like he knows.
“S’not gonna fit, Dal…” you murmur worriedly, absolutely daunted by him.
As much as you hate that stupid, smug, lopsided smirk he does when he’s bigheaded about something, it does have a place here.
You haven’t encountered an excessive amount dick in your life, but this…this feels like it might hurt.
“Gonna make it fit,” Dallas leaves an open-mouthed kiss along your jaw with a groan and rolls himself against your hip to let you feel the full length of him, “you can take it, doll. Don’t gotta think, just gotta feel me.”
You can feel the searing, slippery glide of his precum along your hipbone, a glaring reminder of how affected he is by the state of prolonged lust you’ve both been held in. Now that you’re able to get a better look at him, you see the other signs that come along with it - his eyes are probably just as glassy as yours, pupils so dilated it makes his entire gaze look like something demonic, and the tension hiding in his muscles leaks out with every wayward grasp of you. Each touch is a tad too much, bordering on that sweet kind of overpowering, before he pulls back and releases whatever part of you he’s focused on.
The bottomless void in you that only seems to have been quieted by his hands gnaws at you, raw need for him trampling over any other kind of concern about his size. You don’t care if he’s going to rearrange your organs; you want him deep, fucking you open and wrecking you.
As if he can read your mind, Dallas releases your mouth with a final bite at your bottom lip and rises above you like some type of deity actualizing thanks to the slaughter of you - the little lamb, naive enough to willingly wander into and beg for a ritualistic sacrifice.
Your eyes fall to where his cock juts out towards you, thick and long and terrifying with the way it throbs. You whimper at the sight of it and barely register his returning breath of laughter before large hands are pushing against the backs of your knees again, pressing you down, down into the mattress and further into the submissive depths of something you don’t want to ever come out of.
“Tell me you want it,” he takes one hand to guide the tip of himself to you, cock smoothing over the slick mess you’ve made and smiling at your keening wail when it brushes against your clit, “go on. Use your words, toots.”
He’s already so frighteningly wide against your leaky little slit, taunting you with every throb.
You’re not sure what you’re expecting, because most guys would take this moment to accept your green light and just shove it in without a further thought. But Dallas waits, notched at your entrance and pulsing, letting you feel the pressure and heat of him.
“I-I want it…” you wet your lips and worry at them some more, hips unable to stop their tiny movements to try and slip him a little bit further into you, “please, Dal - please…”
It doesn’t take much of your begging to do him in, and you hear his exhaled grunt before feeling the thick head of him push past the ring of muscle and start to sink into you. You gasp sharply at the dull burn, already too far gone at the feel of him stretching you inch by inch.
The pressure builds far too quickly, “Oh-”
Even with the glide having been made smooth by the copious amount of cum and slick he’s pulled from you, it’s a lot. At your first pained gasp and sign of resistance he stops, a choked grunt ripped from his chest.
“God,” he bites his lower lip and furrows his brows in concentration, “-damn. so fuckin’ tight, doll. Gonna kill me.”
His eyes flit from where you’re currently being split apart by his cock all the way up to your pretty little face, watching your reaction as one of his hands drops to where you’re conjoined. It doesn’t disappoint; as soon as his thumb takes up residence against your clit again, he’s rewarded with that innocent little wide-eyed expression and a mewl that makes him ache.
“There y’go,” he murmurs as he slides in another inch, voice throaty and thick with hunger, “easy. I got you.”
The more you sit with him inside of you the more you realize this is a marathon, not a sprint, and by the time he’s halfway into you, tears have already gathered along your waterline from the pressure and the visceral need for him. You want so badly for him to be pressed up against the depths of you, filling you completely, but the stretch is threateningly immense. It warns you of abrupt pain if this isn’t taken slow.
“Tighter than a goddamn vice,” he mutters darkly, pulsing at the sight of your tears, “s’right…gimme those tears, crybaby.”
You faintly register your begging, “P-please…please, Dallas - f-feels so fucking good-”
All you know right now is the deep-seated, primitive urge to be pressed down and taken until you’re nothing but a shell of your former self. You can feel the slick dripping down your ass and pooling underneath you, joining the already-ridiculous patch that’s been worsening since the minute he placed you here.
“Easy-easy, what’d I say? I got you,” your sniffling is interrupted by his coos, “got no patience, needy girl. Soakin’ the sheets ‘n I ain’t even fucked you yet.”
“Mmnhh-” his words make you flutter around him and fist the sheets you have clutched in your claws.
A twisted, sick sense of pleasure blooms at his teasing. There must be something wrong with you, you think, for the way your body reacts to his degrading nature.
“Please, I want it,” you slur, panting and beside yourself with want, “I can take it-”
A guttural growl, mottled and thick with tension, sends heat rushing through your veins, and Dallas throbs once, twice before bottoming out inside of you.
Your shriek is barely covered up by his hand, abandoning your clit and flying up to silence you before both of you get evicted. From behind his palm your mouth parts, eyes rolling up and eyelids fluttering as your muffled, needy noises do their best to escape.
“Oh fuck,” he pants at the feel and sight of you before laughing in sheer disbelief, “m’never leavin’ this pussy. Jesus Christ, baby - m’gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”
He’s not even all the way in; he can’t possibly fit all of him inside of you, even as stretched out as you are, but the tip of him is pushed up against the mouth of your cervix and there is literally nowhere else to go. It’s maddening - you’ve never felt this full, and yet you only want more.
As soon as he releases your mouth, his name is an exhale on your lips.
You’re beside yourself, sheerly shocked at how it’s possible for this to feel so fucking good. For a long few moments he settles there, still and letting you feel him throb inside of you, and you wonder if something is wrong before to catch his mesmerized stare and watch him place one big hand on the spot below your belly button where you can literally see the protrusion of his cock.
His voice has gone reverent, “Look at that, doll. Gotcha all stretched out on me.”
Faintly, and then all at once, he exerts just enough force down onto the spot that it makes your mouth drop open with another breathless gasp.
The feeling and physical evidence of his size difference is a little too much; you clamp down on him viciously, and Dallas hisses as it prompts him to move.
The first few thrusts are a feign of a fuck; just enough for him to barely pull out so he can grind deep and let you feel the excruciatingly slow drag of him. Every single time the head of his cock bumps against your cervix you shudder and sob, nerve endings firing off like poprocks. It’s making you dizzy, weak as you warble and clutch at him like a needy mess.
When he’s sufficiently tortured you both enough with that, he goes in with long, deep strokes that completely annihilate your frontal lobe and turn you into a brainless bimbo. You can hear the soft, syrupy noises he pulls from you from a third person perspective, like you’ve died and ascended to heaven only to re-watch the portrait of your murder. It’s accompanied by the lewd sounds of your slick cunt taking him over and over and the ragged murmurs of filth he’s feeding you between grunts, words nearly lost on you.
He’s just as vocal as you are, groaning and rutting into you like a dog. He pulls all the way out until the tip of him nearly pops out, only to sink back in deep enough to take your breath away.
It’s an order, and you listen without a shred of hesitation.
Starved and possessive are the two words that come to mind when you meet his gaze. His eyes, typically shifty and cautious, are nearly red-rimmed with sheer hunger and depravity. He’s equally ruined for you.
“You feel how deep I am?”
As if you couldn’t already, he presses the hand that’s on your lower stomach down harder and smiles when you writhe and sob at the extra pressure. It’s much too sharp, and when it’s paired with the indecent noise of your cunt responding to his actions, it makes all of your muscles draw up dangerously.
“Hear how bad y’needed me t’fill you up?”
A beat of pure, unfiltered heat floods through your system.
“This is my fuckin’ pussy,” Dallas snarls, canting his hips and deepening the angle, “mine.”
The words make your heart and your cunt contract at the same time, a pathetic whimper escaping from you as you feel more fat tears bubble over and fall from your eyes. It’s all too much.
Mind hazy and body a livewire, you realize that you’re soon going to come completely undone around him if he doesn’t let up. It’s far too soon; you don’t want this to stop, but you’re addicted to the way he’s fucking you and filling you. You reckon even heroin doesn’t feel this good; you’ve been completely overtaken by the sheer need for more, more, more.
“Dallas-” you’re tightening and tensing, nails digging into him as every cell in your body charges up with energy, “oh my fucking God-”
There isn’t any need to warn him. He can feel it.
“I know baby,” he groans, low and wrecked, dropping himself to lower his forehead against yours as he starts to murmur liquid filth, “fuck, I can feel you squeezin’ me. Gonna keep y’like this forever, all fuckin’ stupid ‘n needy. Fuck you dumb every fuckin’ day.”
You’re positively quaking, feeling your imminent demise boiling over and reducing you to nothing but heavy breaths and biological reactions. Every instinct is calling for your body to cum and pull him into the same brain dead state so he can pump you full and satiate you both.
“Open your eyes,” Dallas keeps two fingers on the spot where his cock meets them and sneaks his thumb down to your clit, “look at me when you cum your greedy lil brains out. Lemme see you cry ‘n make a mess on my cock, sweetheart. There y’go, that’s it - good girl-”
Everything in your body contracts hard as a final cry of his name leaves you, energy dispersing and flying through your system. The sharp sensation of your fingernails digging into him are nothing compared to the rhythmic pulses of your walls gripping down on his cock so tightly that he has to stop talking you through it and focus on not falling over the edge.
Every part of you is in concordance with him. There is not one action his limbs have spoken that yours have not echoed - not one implication of any lack in harmony. Your synergy is interwoven and whispered in these congruencies like a prophecy.
Semi-lucid and desperate, you find a spare patch of skin and bite down into it, shredding the capillaries there under your wailing jowl and nuking any effort he may have made to contain himself.
It’s a heavily proprietary action and one that is even more impactful when it's done subconsciously; it implies he is yours just as much as you’re his, and you’re laying visible claim to enunciate that. It’s a tipping point that he can’t fight against after seeing you lose yourself around him, and with a sound that’s crossed between frustration and agonizing pleasure, he stops trying to fight release.
“Ffffuck - m’gonna cum in you,” Dallas grits his teeth as the familiar prickle of bliss settles in, “fill you up ‘til it’s leakin’ outta you, show everybody whose pussy this is.”
He knows that your mind must have registered his words despite your state, because you sound like you’ll die if he doesn’t do what he’s promising. The final nail in the coffin is when you detach from his chest where you’ve been soothing your bite and look up at him like he’s hung the stars, utterly destroyed.
“I know, doll. Gonna give it t’ya, just like that - takin’ it so goddamn good, fuck yeah-”
Two hard thrusts like he’s aiming past your cervix and he’s gone, thick ropes of cum stuffing you full with every heavy twitch of his cock. The force of it pushes him almost too deep, nearly able to slide the hilt of him inside of you and forming a plug around the spend that’s already seeping out of you with the sheer volume of it.
It hits him hard enough that his ears ring from how tightly he clenches his jaw, and he moves his hand off your clit to hold you down in some primitive reflex that tells him you need to stay still and not waste a drop of what he’s dumping into you.
“Take it,” his voice is downright demonic in your ear, filtering past all the overstimulation and echoing in the empty cavity between your ears, “fuckin’ take all of it, baby.”
From beneath him you sob, salty tears overflowing as you try to deal with the last waves of your orgasm and the feel of him flooding you. He’s got you properly pinned down again, one hand on the back of your knee to keep you open and uncaring of your little whimpers of faint discomfort when the sensation becomes nearly uncomfortable.
It’s so, so much. He’s still going, tip rubbing your cervix with every jump while it leaks more cum into you. You can only communicate to him through a look and a needy moan, pleading for nothing in particular because notwithstanding your overstimulation, you don’t want this to end.
“Yeah, sweet thing. I fuckin’ know,” Dallas pants down at you, dropping a heavy kiss on your lips that you try to return with equal fervor, “Jesus Christ…just drownin’ in my cum, huh? How’s that feel?”
His capability to verbally recover and retain the capacity to speak even while experiencing the last dregs of his finish are remarkable, you think, because there’s no way you could formulate a sentence in this state. You still feel like he’s boiled you alive and is currently devouring you, every twitch of him reminding you of how absolutely filled to the brim you are.
Still, you try, and manage to come up with a snivelling: “D-don’t wanna stop…”
“Knew you were greedy,” Dallas laughs, somehow managing to sound both tender and cajoling at the same time, “filled you up and you’re still beggin’ for more.”
His dick plugging you up is the only thing keeping you from leaking all over the bedspread, but at this point you’re so far past the point of caring that when he warns you he’s going to pull out and does so with a wince, you aren’t bothered by the rush of fluids that start to leak from you. Stickiness be damned, you’re going to enjoy feeling like a fully cooked, stuffed thanksgiving turkey for the foreseeable future.
“Look at that,” he holds you open with a throaty groan, eyeing the slick mess of your pussy as his cum starts to ooze out, “look good drippin’ my cum, sweetheart.”
Another whimper leaves your parted lips, suddenly cold and missing his warmth. Like he knows, Dallas throws himself down onto your copious puddle of pillows with a satisfied grunt and tugs you into him, simultaneously reaching for the pack of cigarettes that have mysteriously found their way onto your nightstand.
He lights one as you relax into his chest, “All that mouth on ya and as soon as I get y’under me you’re whinin’ and beggin’. Fuckin’ figures.”
A huff escapes you, as if insulted by the insinuation that you’re a complete pillow princess who will fawn at the slightest bit of effort from someone, but you know it to be true in this instance. Maybe over time it’ll be different, but-
Your senses come back to you all at once, a thousand clamouring voices in your head shouting like a furious council.
Fresh horror replaces all the warmth in you. Suddenly very conscious and fully capable of human speech, you repeat your earlier sentiment from before he put your brain in a blender.
The words are so quiet that Dallas has to strain to hear you.
“You’re my best friend…” your voice has gone deathly still, sheer terror lacing every word as you contemplate the severity of what’s just happened.
You don’t want to do yourself the dishonour of thinking that you’re different than any other woman who has lain with him. Sure, you’re closer than most, but you’ve seen how he operates. You know how horrible he is with this kind of stuff. For crying out loud; if he’ll fight Tim Shepard on a bi-weekly basis, what kind of stability and longevity can you really expect out of him? You know him so well, and-
You know him so well, so how could you think he would toss you aside like anyone else?
Fuck. You’re in a stalemate.
Dallas interrupts your overthinking with a resolved murmur, “Still your best friend, stupid.”
The urge to shake him and force him to understand that things don’t work that way is barely wrestled down by your self-restraint.
Though it terrorizes you to do so, you pull yourself from his chest to look at him. His beautiful features are contorted in confusion.
“Best friends ain’t do stuff like this, Dal.”
He exhales in contemplation, smoke curling out of his nostrils like some sort of post-coital dragon your dreams have sent to test your resolve. Slowly, his eyes trace over every pore in your petrified face - each breathtaking detail he’s committed to memory in some vain effort to sequester it from the world and keep it for himself.
He’s never been able to catch and keep something like you. He doesn’t know how, much less believe that he deserves it. But you willingly walked into his house of pain and made it clear you were there to stay, time and again. And now that you’ve given him a taste of nirvana - a light at the end of the tunnel that hints of a true shot at happiness - there’s no way he’s going back.
Dallas shifts and tilts his head, slowly beginning to outline the boundaries of something new.
“What’s it called, then?”
It takes him a second to formulate the words. And you - bless your loving, pure, honest heart that knows him so well - give him all the time in the world.
“When you wanna keep that…” he trails off, swallowing harshly and eyeing the cherry at the end of his smoke, “with all the other stuff.”
Initially you think he’s poorly trying to describe some kind of friends-with-benefits situation, but you know he wouldn’t stoop that low with you, and something in his eyes prevents that line of thinking. The child in him you’ve seen poke out only a handful of times over the years flickers, muted and distant in his cold irises, caged behind two decades of horror and brutality. Dallas guards that child with merciless precision, unquestioning and instinctive.
Somewhere in his gaze, before it flickers away, you see something that reads like hope. It’s so subdued and mutated that you barely get a gander at it, but it’s there.
Realization sets on you like the rays of a setting sun.
Your voice goes quiet again, cautious and frightened, “...I think y’know, Dal.”
His eyes snap to yours again, never having left his.
He knows. He’s sure it’s not an original idea, but he’s going to pretend it is and take it like it’s his own so he can feel mildly better about falling into this.
For him, love is a myth; a mystical tall-tale told by those stupid enough to believe such nonsense is real. It exists only in the sphere of falsities, manipulative cruelty, deceit and pain. A lethal weapon at worst and a devastating weakness at best. He doesn’t know what it is, how to describe it, show it, or even that it exists.
He is one-hundred percent, without a doubt, one of the worst options to saddle up with. And if this goes wrong, you both have far too many mutual assets to be able to survive the collateral damage. But if there’s a will…
You can see the gears turning in his head. Dallas gets like this when he’s weighing an idea; he gathers storm clouds and kinetic energy until it’s too much to contain, and that’s when he’ll strike with a judgment call. It is always precise, targeted and weighty - a proverbial bolt of lightning that reminds everyone of the severity of its conviction by the way it shakes the ground and leaves a trench.
Finally, he lays his verdict down on you like a templar’s blade.
“That,” his voice is rough and detached, “I want that.”
You nearly fail to contain your shock.
Because everyone knows that once Dallas Winston wants something, he gets it. It’s a fact nearly all of Tulsa has had beaten into them. Even the police department doesn’t bother chasing after him half the time anymore.
“Okay,” you breathe, afraid that any other reaction will undo all of this and take away one of the most precious people your life has given you.
So you two lie there, petrified and still - two violent dogs just having sniffed each other and found some plane of reality that urges them not to bite.
Dallas ends the gridlock by pulling you closer, analyzing your expression up and down, and apparently deciding something before continuing to pull you fully into his clavicle. It seems like some arbitrary test you’ve passed that resolutely settles something for him.
You do your own analyzing with your face buried in his neck. There is already connection, friendship, stability - trust. The love is there, even if he doesn’t know what to call it or how to show it.
Your hackles lower. For once, you put your faith in something that isn’t concrete.
Everything else will follow.
A/N: unsure how I feel about the end, but Dallas is notoriously bad with this kind of stuff and I wanted to stay true to his character while also giving the finish enough depth. hope y'all enjoyed :)
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