Dallas Winston X Soc!Reader
warnings: making out, sexual, no actual p in v, adult language, somewhat sub reader, edging, toxic/secret relationship, humping, homewrecker + bitchy reader lowkey.
Summary: Your boyfriend, with whom you're currently on a break, comes over in an attempt to win you back. Although it leads to an argument, the outcome turns out to be even better than you expected.
You should’ve known better.
You should’ve known the moment you walked into Buck’s party and saw him there—Dallas Winston, leaning up against the kitchen counter like he owned the whole damn place, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his eyes were already set on some poor girl, sizing her up the way he always did when he was feeling mean.
But it wasn’t just some poor girl.
And maybe it shouldn’t have hurt. Maybe it shouldn’t have sent that deep, awful feeling crawling up your throat, because Dallas had always been a dirty, no-good hoodlum, the kind of guy who couldn't keep his hands to himself, his mouth to himself, his damn attitude to himself. But it did hurt, because he wasn’t just Dallas Winston, town disgrace and part-time jailbird. He was your Dallas Winston. Or at least, he had been.
You’d stood there in the doorway, gripping the sides of your short pink dress, heart thumping like the bass of the record player in the next room. The whole place smelled like smoke and spilled beer and cheap cologne, and there was Cherry, standing way too close to him, laughing at something he said.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” you had muttered under your breath.
Maybe she saw you first. Maybe that’s why she suddenly straightened up, her smile flickering for just a second. But Dallas? He turned his head slow, like he had all the time in the world, a lazy smirk stretching across his face.
“Hey, doll,” he had said, taking a drag from his cigarette.
You had walked right up to him, your arms crossed so tight it hurt. “Don’t ‘hey, doll’ me, Winston.”
He had exhaled, smoke curling between the two of you. “Ain’t nothin’ happened,” he had said, smooth as ever. “Just havin’ a conversation.”
“A conversation?” You had glanced at Cherry, who had been biting her lip, looking real guilty all of a sudden. And Dallas, the bastard, had just grinned at you, cocky as ever.
“Yeah,” he had said. “A man’s gotta keep himself entertained somehow.”
You had slapped the beer bottle right out of his hand.
The crash had been loud—louder than the music, louder than the shouting, louder than the way your heart had been pounding against your ribs. The whole party had gone quiet, all eyes on the West Side girl in the pink dress and the Greaser with the cigarette dangling from his smirking mouth.
God, you feel embarrassed that he didn't even care. Let alone react or flinch.
You had stormed out of there before he could say another word.
Later that night, you had told him you needed a break. He hadn’t even fought you on it. Just stood there, chewing on the inside of his cheek, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he had half a mind to laugh but didn’t want to get his teeth knocked out.
And maybe that should’ve been the end of it. Maybe it would’ve been the end of it.
If only Dallas Winston knew how to take no for an answer.
The radio is still playing when you hear the noise.
It’s faint at first, mixed in with the low hum of I Should’ve Known Better floating from your nightstand. Then it gets louder—gravel crunching, a muttered curse, a soft thud.
You sit up so fast your Beatles Weekly falls right off your lap.
The first thing you see is your vanity, the way the lamplight spills across the cluttered surface—the open lipstick tube, the old pack of cigarettes he left here weeks ago, the crumpled-up homework, the cold cup of tea with its red-lipped rim, flaking slightly. The second thing you see is the window.
Hanging off the damn ledge like a stray cat.
For a second, all you can do is stare.
Then—“Jesus Christ, Dally!”
You scramble out of bed just as he swings a leg over, landing way too hard against the floor with a thud. He winces, rubbing his knee, then looks up at you, grinning.
“Sometimes I forget how high your window is.”
He doesn’t even look at you. Just brushes off his jeans and strolls right past, like he belongs here, like you didn’t just break up with him. He flops onto your bed, hands behind his head, cigarette already between his lips.
You huff, hands on your hips. “You can’t be here, Dally.”
“Yeah?” He flicks the lighter open, the flame catching on his sharp features. “Well, I am.”
The cigarette lights with a quiet fssst, and then he exhales, letting the ash drift lazily onto your pink bedsheets.
You grit your teeth. “You’re gonna burn a hole in them.”
You step closer, fists clenched at your sides. “I’m serious, Dallas.”
“Me too.” He tilts his head, watching you through the smoke. “Dead serious.”
You narrow your eyes. “Get out.”
You reach for his cigarette, but he moves fast, grabbing your wrist before you can touch it.
“You’re pissin’ me off,” you say through your teeth.
His lips twitch, amused. “No kiddin’.”
For a second, neither of you move. The Beatles hum softly in the background, the piano in the corner sits untouched, the sheet music still a mess.
And then—finally—he sighs. Runs a hand through his messy brown hair. Drops his cigarette onto your nightstand, still smouldering.
“…Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.” He looks at you, dead-on, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’m sorry.”
It almost sounds real. Almost.
“But what do you want me to say?” He leans back, smirking again. “A man’s got urges.”
You slap him so hard your palm stings.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes.
You don’t know why you expected anything different. Maybe because yours are always soft, always coated in some kind of sweet-smelling gloss, the kind that leaves a faint shine under the lamplight. Dallas Winston doesn’t care about that kind of thing. Never did. He smokes too much, drinks too much, gets into too many fights to ever bother keeping his lips from cracking.
It’s desperate, angry. You hate him for it, for making you want him when you shouldn’t, when you swore you wouldn’t. His fingers tighten around your wrist as he leans into it, like he knew all along you were gonna fold. And maybe he did. Maybe he always does.
The cigarette smoke clings to him, mixing with the faintest traces of leather and cheap aftershave. He tastes like nicotine and trouble, like every bad decision you’ve ever made and the ones you haven’t made yet.
And then, just when he starts to move—when his hands find your waist, when he tilts his head just enough to make you forget—
Your chest rises and falls as you glare at him, heart hammering so hard you swear he can hear it. His smirk is still there, lazy, satisfied, and it makes you want to hit him, hurt him, make him feel something the way you do.
“You,” you breathe, voice shaking, “are a terrible boyfriend.”
Dallas just shrugs. “Ain’t no surprise there, doll.”
“No, really,” you snap. “You cheat, you flirt with my friends, you—God, you just don’t care! About me, about us! You just do whatever the hell you want like you don’t have a single thought in that thick skull of yours—”
He laughs, cutting you off. “Oh yeah?” He leans back on his elbows, looking you up and down like you’re something funny. “And what about you, huh?”
His grin widens. “You’re actin’ all high and mighty, but I don’t remember you caring too much when you were all over Randy that night at the beer blast.”
“Don’t even try it, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “You were smashed. Looked real cute, though. Hangin’ off him, gigglin’ like a dumb broad.”
He tuts. “Doin’ all that right in front of Marcia, too. Real classy of you.”
You want to argue. You want to say something, anything. But your throat feels tight, and you can’t, because he’s right.
And that’s what makes you angry.
“That was different,” you manage, voice sharp. “I was drunk—”
“Oh, sure.” He stretches out on your bed, looking up at the ceiling like this whole conversation bores him. “You were drunk. That’s the excuse, huh? Well, I was drunk when I was talkin’ to Cherry.”
“Because you don’t wanna be wrong?” He tilts his head at you, all faux innocence. “Or because you think you’re better than me?”
You scowl. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
But he’s smirking again. “Face it, babe. If you didn’t have all these fancy clothes, this big house, and that pretty face, you woulda been a Greaser.”
He shrugs, still smirking. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing. Just funny how you walk around all high and mighty when you ain’t nothin’ but a Greaser in pearls.”
You don’t even think—you lunge, shoving him hard against the mattress. But Dallas just laughs, catching your wrists before you can do anything else, flipping you over like it’s easy, like you weigh nothing.
“Feisty,” he murmurs, still smirking. “I like it.”
You glare up at him, breathless, furious, wanting so badly to hurt him in a way that lasts.
But that’s the thing about Dallas Winston.
You struggle against him, but it’s useless. Dallas is stronger, always has been. His hands are rough where they pin yours down, calloused from fights and bad decisions, from growing up too fast and too hard. His smirk is still there, lazy and smug, and you hate him for it.
“Get off me,” you snap, but he doesn’t move.
“Nah.” He’s looking down at you like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s comfortable here, stretched out against you on your own damn bed. “Think I like it here.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re disgusting.”
He grins. “Yeah? You weren’t sayin’ that a minute ago, doll.”
His smirk deepens. “No, you don’t.”
Your pulse thrums in your ears, hot and quick. You should shove him off, kick him out, let him rot in some alley where he belongs. But then he shifts just slightly, the weight of him pressing into you, and your breath catches before you can stop it.
And that’s when you realize—he knows.
Dallas knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
His grip loosens just enough for you to move, but you don’t. Instead, you glare up at him, the heat in your chest twisting into something else entirely.
You tilt your chin up, lips curling into a sneer. “You think you’re real smooth, don’t you?”
He shrugs, all confidence. “Ain’t heard no complaints.”
You scoff, but it’s weaker than you want it to be. “You’re such a bastard.”
Dallas hums, like it’s a compliment. “Yeah, yeah. You done talkin’ yet?”
And then, before you can think of some sharp remark, he kisses you.
This time, it’s him who moves first, but you don’t stop him. You should, you should, but instead, your hands—finally freed—move to tangle in his stupid, messy hair. His lips are still chapped, rough against your gloss-slicked ones, and it should feel wrong, should feel awful, but all it does is make you want more.
You gasp against his mouth when his hands slip under your shirt, just barely ghosting over your skin, teasing, testing, and you shudder.
Dallas laughs, breath warm against your lips. “Knew you’d fold.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but it comes out breathless, desperate.
He kisses you again, and it’s messy, all clashing lips and teeth, all pent-up anger and fire. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and your body presses against his like you’ve forgotten why you were even mad.
For a second, nothing else matters. Not the break, not Cherry or Randy or Sylvia or Paul, not your parents or his reputation. Just this—this fire, this ache, this terrible, terrible need to feel something real.
Your fingers trail down his back, nails dragging just enough to make him groan, and the sound goes straight to your head, making you feel dizzy, reckless.
You bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to make him swear, and when he pulls back, his eyes are dark.
“Minx,” he murmurs, voice low, amused.
You don't know who pulls who first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but before you can stop yourself, you're back against the sheets, hands tangled in Dallas' stupid, messy hair, and his weight pressing into you like he's got no intention of moving. His body is solid, lean muscle and bad intentions, and you hate how good it feels.
The room smells like cigarette smoke and his cheap cologne, like your floral perfume and the vanilla lip gloss he’s smeared all over his own mouth. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, the way his hands are gripping your hips like he’s trying to prove a point. He always has something to prove.
His lips leave yours for just a second, long enough for you to catch your breath before he moves to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—
"Dallas," you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his face up to yours again.
His mouth is pinker than before, slick with your lip gloss, and he's smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
You glare. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?”
His fingers skim under the hem of your top, rough fingertips trailing over your stomach, slow, deliberate. You shiver.
“I don’t think, doll.” His voice is lazy, full of smoke. “I know.”
You roll your eyes, trying to shove him away, but he barely moves, just chuckles under his breath like you amuse him.
"You got a real smart mouth, you know that?"
"You got a real annoying one," you shoot back.
Dallas laughs, low and throaty, before suddenly flipping you over onto your back again, pinning you down beneath him with that stupid, smug smirk. His hands are at your sides, thumbs brushing your ribs, and you know he can feel how fast your heart’s beating.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
His eyes flicker over your face, down to your lips—now smudged, gloss all but gone, swollen from kissing him. And God, you shouldn’t want him like this, not after what he did, not after what he said, but you do, and it makes you furious.
"You ain't as good as you act, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice like a challenge. "You act all sophisticated and proper, but you wanna be bad just as bad as me."
Your eyes narrow, anger flaring in your chest. "Screw you."
Dallas just smirks. "You sure about that?"
He squeezes your hips tightly and pulls you closer to him with one hand by the thigh.
he laid back down your bed, pulling you on top of him.
He grabbed your left hand and led it to his bulge, staring you right in the eye. Your chest was on fire as you felt something burning in your soul. Was it desire, was it pleasure, or was it a mix of both.
"Good girls dont do this doll. you aint a good girl so stop acting like it." He said in a raspy voice, his eyes low as he guided your hand, you rubbed him slowly, he was breathing heavily.
You decided to be a bit bold and take your hand off of his bulge, sit up, scoot closer to him and sit on his lap.
"Slut. I knew you wanted this." He said, his smirk lazy and condescending.
you didn't bother to reply. Instead, you decided to grind on him slowly, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you laid your head in the crook of his neck.
He guided your hips, his touch rough as he tugged you back and forth, low groans and whimpers coming from both of you.
He was breathing heavily, whispering sweet nothings into your ear but you knew he meant none of it.
The thick and rough feeling of his jeans, contrasting with the thin silk of your nightdress. You felt your panties getting wetter and stickier with each passing moment.
A heat burned rapidly from your core and spread all around your body.
"No one else can make you feel like this right?" He grunted into your ear. He was getting closer and closer to his limit and so were you.
Your brain was so fuzzy, and you felt so confused with everything so you just nodded in agreement.
"Not even Randy or Paul. God they dont stand a damn chance."
Your breath hitched, heart slamming against your ribs as his words slithered into your ear. Randy? Paul? They didn’t even cross your mind—not now, not when it was Dallas beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like he owned you, his voice dripping with something possessive, something dangerous.
"You like this, don’t you?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw, his smirk still lazy, still infuriating. "Bet you’d hate to admit it, but you love it when I get my hands on you."
You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, but your body betrayed you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him like he was something solid in the middle of all this chaos. He chuckled, deep and knowing, like he could feel the way you were unraveling under his touch.
"Go ahead," he taunted, tilting his head, lips ghosting over your pulse. "Tell me you don’t want me."
Your breath stuttered, heat pooling in your stomach. You hated that he was right. You hated that no matter what he did, no matter how many times he got under your skin, you always came back to this—to him.
But you weren’t going to let him have the last word.
With a sharp inhale, you leaned in, your lips barely brushing his. "I don’t want you," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair, even as your pulse betrayed you.
Dallas just grinned, his hands skating up your sides, his voice rough with amusement. "Liar."
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