#im just always thinkin

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

begging you for more picky eater dallas!!!!!!

AOUH!! I've gotten like four asks for this one!! I hope I did it justice!! fic under the cut!! TYSM for the ask AGH!!!

The second Dallas walks into the Curtis' house he turns his nose up. Somethin' simmerin' in the kitchen 'n stinkin' the whole place up. For a moment he considers just spinnin' right on his heel 'n beatin' it outta there.

"Oh good, just in time Dal." Darry appears from the hall, rollin' up his sleeves, 'n ducks into the kitchen. "I thought I was gonna hafta hunt you down."

Dallas scowls, flips him off the second his back is turned. Darry's been on a bit of a one-man mission lately to force them all (but really just Dallas) into eatin' better. Apparently, a person could only make so many a nutritious dinner of three cigs 'n a sleeve of swiped Chips Ahoy jokes before Darry's goddamn mother-hen instincts kicked in.

"Not like you gave me any choice." Dallas mutters, toes his boots off 'n figures it's too late to make a break for it now.

"Nope!" Darry pops the p cheerfully 'n Dallas glares daggers at his back. "Now c'mere 'n stir these."

He drags himself into the kitchen, the record player spinnin' through The Beatles Help! album. Dallas rolls his eyes, mostly on instinct rather than actual dislike, 'n takes the wooden spoon Darry offers him.

He has to fight the urge to not cover his face with his sleeve, the smell alone turnin' his stomach. He settles for leanin' as far back as he possibly can, stirrin' the pot with his arm extended as far as it could go. Darry quirks an eyebrow at him, opens his mouth, but before he can say anythin' Pony slides in on socked feet, nearly trippin' 'n fallin' straight on his face. He scrambles for a moment, slippin' on the tile before Darry reaches over to deftly grab him by the shoulder.

Soda's right behind him, slammin' into Pony when he stops abruptly so there's no savin' either of 'em 'n they both go straight down in a heap on the floor. "Sodaaa!" Pony whines, kickin' at his older brother's tangled limbs.

Soda grins, kickin' Pony back for a moment before somethin' catches his attention 'n he sticks his nose straight up in the air like a hound dog. "Darry! Are those mama's collards?"

"Soda!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He finally disentangles himself from Pony, with one final whack to the shin on Pony's side, 'n pops up, divin' for the pot on the stove.

"Ah, you can wait for dinner like everyone else." Darry turns, quick as quick, pops him once on the back of his outstretched hand 'n Soda wails like he'd been shot, collapses into Dallas' arms like he'll get any more sympathy there.

Dallas catches him, shoves the spoon into Soda's hands 'n spins him back to his feet at the stove. "Since you like 'em so much you can stand here 'n stir 'em." Soda pouts a lil', jams an elbow into Dallas' ribs he doesn't manage to fully avoid, but turns back around to the stovetop.

"Fine. Then Dallas, you 'n Pony can come over here 'n pull this chicken."

Pony whines wordlessly 'n Dallas scowls, mutters, "Didn't know you only invited me 'round so I could do all you're housework," at the same time Pony huffs,

"I'm pretty sure there's child labor laws against this shit." Darry rolls his eyes at them both, reaches back 'n unties his apron.

"Hush, both of ya before I make you do the dishes too." More glarin' 'n draggin' ass but they both throw themselves down at the kitchen table to diligently start on the chicken. "Good." He ruffles both their hair, turnin' to give Soda the same when he pouts.

"Where're you goin'?" Pony narrows his eyes accusin'ly as Darry ducks out of the kitchen, comes back with the keys to the truck, laces up his shoes.

"I gotta run down to the corner store. 'N don't you go gettin' mouthy with me 'cause I'm only goin' to pick up Pepsi for your ass." Pony relents, shrugs a shoulder by way of apology, 'n returns to the chicken. "I'm gonna pick up Two on the way back 'n then dinner should be all ready."

He palms his wallet off the counter 'n is halfway out the door before he turns back, points a condemnin' finger at both Pony 'n Soda. "'N y'all better not eat any of it before I'm back, y'hear?"

They don't even give him the decency of waitin' for the door to swing shut before Soda has a heapin' spoonful of collards in his mouth 'n Pony has a handful of chicken.

Good. Dallas thinks, dryly, when they turn implorin' raised eyebrows to him, less for me.

...

The dinin' room table is full to overflowin', probably only really made for four they've managed to squeeze the seven of them in. All elbows, 'n knees 'n kickin' each other, accidently 'n intentionally. Reachin' hands 'n glasses crowded together in the center like refugees on an island so nothin' got spilled.

Darry hmms vaguely to himself, drops Pony 'n Johnny's plates down in front of them 'n neither wait for any other promptin' to dig in. Soda howls at somethin' Steve says, goes to knock his ankle 'n misses, jarrin' the whole table.

"Jesus, Mary, 'N Joseph Soda." Dallas reaches out 'n grabs the can of Pepsi 'n glass of water that pitch to the side in a motion he's done probably a thousand times. "Cool it."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to turn the table up if Dar'd hurry up with dinner." He teases, grinnin' wide when Darry fixes him with a look over his shoulder.

"Maybe it wouldn't take me so long if I didn't have to fix all your plates, huh?"

"Aw, Dar. C'mon, how old d'ya think we are?"

"Well, lemme think. Last time I let y'all get your own dinner Pony ate half a pan a mac 'n cheese on his lonesome, Two didn't have nothin' on his but chocolate cake, 'n Dallas had a cigarette for dinner." The offendin' parties let out indignant noises 'n Darry promptly twists around to ignore them. "The only one a y'all I can trust to serve his damn self is Johnny. You would think I have a house full a toddlers."

"Aw, Dar. Don't be such a stick in the mud! Cake is a well-rounded meal-" Two grins, puts his elbows up on the table, drops his head into his hands, 'n blinks up at Darry.

"Save it." Darry knocks his arms off, slides both Dallas' 'n Two's plates in front of them. Two pouts for a half second before tuckin' straight in, half standin' to snatch the barbeque sauce from in front of Steve.

Dallas scowls down at his plate. Half of it covered with mushy collards whose smell is enough to put him off everythin' else. There's coleslaw shoved up into the corner thanks to Steve's insistence, the chicken takin' up the leftover space.

Jesus Christ, Darry had really gone for it.

Johnny accidentally elbows him in the side but the bench seat probably was never intended for three people so he really couldn't blame him. Dallas glances up to Johnny's big, dark eyes studyin' him quizzically. "What, you ain't hungry or somethin'?"

His voice is all quiet so his question slides right under the vehement argument Steve, Pony, Soda, 'n Two are holdin' regardin' whether you could put barbeque sauce on pasta.

"Naw, it ain't that." (It's got tomatoes in it! It's basically marinara!)

Johnny raises an eyebrow when Dallas picks his fork up, pushes the coleslaw back 'n forth on his plate. (What the hell does that hafta do with anythin'? Next you're gonna be tellin' me you can put ketchup on pasta 'n it's basically the same.)

Dallas glances over, Darry's back still turned as he finally gets his own dinner together. (Well...) Johnny's already housed most of his, but he always ate like a man half-starved. (EW! My God, I'm arguin' with a savage.)

He doesn't wait a moment more, pushin' his plate against Johnny's 'n scrapin' a decent helpin' of both the coleslaw 'n greens. So, of course, Soda picks just that moment to take a break from the heated debate 'n slap a palm against the table, grabbin'.

"Hey! If we're sharin' slide some my way!" Dallas kicks him under the table, hard. Soda yelps but it's already too late.

Darry turns, plops his food at his seat, rasies an eyebrow over at Soda, then Dallas, fork still hoverin' over Johnny's, plate slid up shotgun.

"Dallas Winston." 'N Darry's got that scoldin' tone in his voice he usually saves for Pony. Or Two. "Eat your food or so help me I'm gonna make you have double."

Dallas scowls down at the table, can see Pony lean forward to peek around Johnny, Steve 'n Soda sharin' a confused look. "I dunno what y'all are lookin' at." Darry cuts in, mercifully drawin' the group's attention away as fast as he had focused it. "Also. Barbeque sauce can't go on pasta. 'Cause that's real vile." He says with finality 'n Two 'n Steve both jump to argue.

Dallas pushes the coleslaw around. Goddamn, he didn't know how people could like this stuff.

Here's the thing. Dallas wasn't picky. Picky was for toddlers 'n Pony insistin' for an entire summer that sweet potatoes were disgustin'. Dallas would eat anythin'. Or at least he used to.

"Can I have s'more Dar?" Pony 'n Soda have both cleaned their plates thoroughly enough it looks like they licked 'em. Hell, they might've.

"Go for it, kid." Darry idly glances over, raises an eyebrow at Dallas, nods pointedly, goes back to whatever he'd been shootin' the shit about.

He sighs, comes to terms with the fact he ain't gettin' outta this. The chickens probably his best bet so he sighs, sticks his fork into it.

"Goddamn, no sauce Dal?" Steve cuts in 'n Dallas rolls his eyes, lets out an aggravated scoff.

"Can't a man do a fuckin' thing around here without gettin' the peanut gallery?" Dallas shoves the bite into his mouth, flips Steve off when he just grins haughtily. "Also barbeque sauce tastes like shit so-"

"Woah woah woah! No need to start throwin' around insults!" Two cuts in with an indignant wail.

Dinner goes on like that for another twenty minutes or so. Soda 'n Pony damn near come to blows over the last of the collards, Johnny polishes off the rest of the chicken when no one's lookin', Steve's got the whole bowl of leftover coleslaw in his lap, 'n Two's waitin' as patiently as he can for Darry to cave 'n pull out the chocolate cake.

Dallas has managed about six more bites.

"Jesus Christ, Dal. You gonna finish that today or...?" Soda eyes the mushy, untouched, cold pile of greens like a five-dollar bill on the sidewalk.

"Glory, y'all are like vultures. Take your cake 'n go put on Mickey. You're crowdin' up my kitchen." Darry shoos them out, dumps an arm full of dishes into the sink. Two shoots straight up, balances the whole heapin' cake in his arms 'n a fork 'n vanishes into the livin' room, Steve 'n Soda hot on his heels. Pony 'n Johnny linger only long enough to help Darry stack the cups up 'n then follow.

Dallas shoves his plate away, goes to get to his feet. Darry's hand comes down hard on his shoulder, pushes him back into his chair. "Nuh-uh. Not you."

"What the hell, man." He makes to twist away 'n Darry easily holds him in place. "You can't make me fuckin' finish my dinner like I'm four."

"Naw, I can't." Dallas turns to glare at him over his shoulder.

"Glad we've come to the same conclusion. Now got offa me." In one smooth motion, Darry pushes his chair back in, pulls Dallas' plate closer to him.

"I wasn't done. I sure can't make you eat 'em but I can make you sit here all night. Choice is up to you." Darry grins, turns to flip the tap on. Dallas' glare bores holes into his back.

"This is bullshit. I ain't a kid." Darry hmms vaguely to himself, lifts the record needle 'n starts the album again.

"Really? Coulda fooled me." Dallas grits his teeth, grips the chair til his knuckles are white.

They lapse into silence, Darry washin' the dishes, hummin' absently to himself, Dallas scowlin' down at the table, then turnin' his fork around 'n around, then resortin' to draggin' it across the plate so it shrieked.

Darry pointedly ignores him, reaches over 'n crankin' the volume. He goes on for another minute before a throw pillow comes careenin' through the doorway, beamed at Dallas' head.

"Can you keep it down in there? God damn!" Steve hollers 'n Dallas shoves his chair back, squealin'. Unfortunately, Darry's quicker.

"Y'all know you have a volume dial on that TV, right?"

"But-"

"Good Lord, don't make me kick y'all out." Darry crosses his arms 'n Steve, after a moment's glarin', backs down.

"Fine, fine. Don't get your panties in a twist." Darry fixes Steve with one last look before he trudges back to the sink, stickin' his hands back into the soapy water. The moment he's outta the doorway Steve flips Dallas off 'n he happily returns the gesture.

"Dallas. Eat." Dallas scowls, props one elbow on the table, leans down to try to watch whatever Western they had rerunnin' on the tube. Darry clears his throat without turnin' around, the bastard, 'n Dallas sits back up.

He turns the plate 'round. Just do it. Just bite the bullet. He scrapes a forkful of the greens, somehow even mushier now then they'd been hot, together. Lifts it up to his mouth. Pussies out. Why couldn't he just fuckin' eat? Like he used to? Jesus. Back in New York he'd-

The tap flips off 'n Darry wipes his hands on his jeans, twists around to look at Dallas. God, why were the Curtis' always doin' that? Just lookin' at you like they could pick you right apart.

"C'mere." Dallas jolts to his feet, happy for an excuse to finally escape the goddamn table. "'N bring your plate." He makes a face 'n Darry just quirks an eyebrow, puts his hands back on his hips. Dallas kicks at the floor balefully, but snatches the food up, trudges behind Darry out to the porch.

It's a mild night. The kind they would migrate out into once everythin' good had stopped playin' on the TV. Spillin' over the porch steps 'n the swingin' chair. Pony scratchin' away at some drawin' in the low light of the street lamps or readin' somethin' Dallas couldn't make heads or tails of. Johnny wipin' the floor with whoever he could convince to play cards. Darry rockin' all slow back 'n forth. Soda twistin' those bracelets outta the high summer grass. The cicadas hissin' 'n singin'.

But for now, Darry just eases down onto the steps, jerks his head for Dallas to sit next to him. He does, reluctantly, droppin' his plate down between them.

"You don't like it?" Darry waves a hand absently 'n Dallas' stomach twists up. He doesn't sound upset, really. Just curious. But it makes somethin' like sick slide down Dallas' throat.

'Cause Darry's been real good to him. He'd admit it. When he wasn't naggin' him 'n fussin' like an old maid, Darry was a real good guy. 'N it's so stupid 'cause Dallas won't even do him the favor of eatin' his fuckin' food.

"You can be honest." Dallas swallows thickly. Shakes his head. Fiddles with the loose step. "Well, alright."

Dallas whips up 'n Darry just tilts his head, looks at him evenly. "That's it?"

"Well, no." A car passes by, briefly lights up the lawn with its one workin' headlight. "We gotta find somethin' you'll like."

'N it's stupid. It's so goddamn stupid. Stupid that someone cares enough to make sure he fuckin' likes his food. Stupid that Darry Curtis is probably the first person to ever care. "Oh."

Darry turns to look at him, furrows a brow, rests a hand on Dallas' shoulder he doesn't even think to knock away. "I ain't gonna let you go hungry. Not on my watch." Oh. God, it was so stupid. Dallas makes a low noise down in his throat he didn't ask for at all. Darry doesn't hesitate, just hauls him across the step to his side. 'Cause Darry was a good brother. To all of 'em.

There's a moment's pause. The crickets hop across the sidewalk, the street lamp flickers 'n buzzes, the cicadas screech.

"Hey, Darry?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Do I gotta eat those greens?" 'N Darry blinks down at him once, snorts, chuckles, 'n then dissolves into the kinda laughter that makes Dallas just open his mouth 'n join right in despite himself.

"I'll make you a deal." He grins, catches his breath. "You eat two bites 'n I won't make 'em for a month."

Dallas scowls but he doesn't mean it. Not really. Not at all. "Soda might just die."

Darry smiles, squeezes him once on the shoulder, twists to grab Dallas' plate 'n put it back in his hands. "You know, I think he'll live."

'N they're gross. They really are. But he swallows them back quickly, like a shot. 'N maybe doesn't even mind that much when Darry clears his throat at him tryin' to get the smallest bite he possibly can. 'Cause he cares. 'N that makes it that much easier.

[sicc-nasti]

Rapunzel type tower situation but the tower is a giant mimic and hunts in the way a pitcher plant does. Yes, fair knight. Climb up this conveniently long hair, follow the sweet smell, pull yourself up and over the window sill and fall in to the far below.

[bardace]

guys i really love my ocs and i love that no one will quite experience them in the same way i do and i love when other people draw them and they look different in subtle ways and i love that people dont know what theyre like as well as i do and thats ok and i love it when people have ideas of things they might do i love it when people think about them for more than just the times i talk about them. im giving out little pieces of my soul for people to play touys with and theyre picking them up and putting them in cute dresses its really wonderful :)

[hobbithoes]

billion trillion ancient wips from my old ipad 😵‍💫

[enciecreates]

I think about Nagito’s death at the end of SDR2 a lot. There’s so much symbolism and meaning in it. His death reflects a lot of the other deaths from the first game, which is a cool easter egg, but the meaning of that also kind of blows my mind. 

The symbolism of how he’s embodying so much of the despair from the first game, compiled into a single death. How he’s depending on his luck to burn out every last ounce of despair from this death game, while also embodying every ounce from the last one at the same time. He - intentionally/consciously or not - is embodying as much despair as he can so he can burn it all away and bring hope. 

But most recently I’ve also been thinking a lot about the spear. 

Because there’s two major ways you can interpret Nagito’s luck cycle: either luck is a real supernatural force that exists in the DR universe, or Nagito is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Personally, I do think it’s hard to argue that everything that happens to Nagito throughout the series is totally unrelated to some greater supernatural force. But I also think it’s so tragic to think of his luck cycle as just a bunch of psychological tricks. So a little bit of this is a “what if”: even if it’s not the most likely explanation, there is a way of arguing for it and I think that’s interesting. He believes with all his heart that he’s cursed by this luck cycle. That good and bad will happen to him in extremes, in waves. Confirmation bias tells us he’ll pick out that pattern easily, searching for evidence that supports his understanding of the world, and then presenting what is essentially cherry-picked evidence to other characters. Which is often what we see of his luck cycle: the narrative he has constructed. Then, throw in how he’d subconsciously make decisions and put himself in situations that further supports his view of himself and the world. He might purposefully put himself in precarious positions when he thinks there’s bad luck due. He might do something like hang a spear above his own head. That act, metaphorical or literal, is then, also sort of his essence, isn’t it? Nagito hangs spears above him, poised to kill him, and waits for his luck - real or not - to use them. And when the spear falls, because if you keep hanging spears above your head eventually they’ll fall, he calls it intentional and purposeful. He calls it part of his luck cycle. But how much of it is really luck, and how much of it is that he’s just hanging spears and waiting? How much of it is that he really believes he deserves bad luck or pain or hurt? Honestly, we don’t know exactly if the poison killed him before the spear did. We can certainly assume it did, since Monokuma rules Nanami the killer, and because the spear was supposedly released upon Nagito’s death (and the nature of the poison). However, I think there’s enough doubt in there to argue that, even if its unlikely, the spear did kill him. Monokuma could’ve lied, there was no one and no way to prove him wrong after all. The poison could’ve weakened Nagito just enough that he wasn’t dead until the spear impaled him. 

Just, think of the potential symbolism of the fact that we can only assume- based on incomplete and biased observations - that the poison killed him. That Nagito’s luck killed him. From that biased assumption, we are led to believe his luck is cyclic and intentional. Just like everything Nagito does and says could be seen as a biased presentation of evidence that leads us to the same conclusions. But realistically we can also assume that Nagito just killed himself by hanging a spear over himself and waiting. We can also assume Nagito's luck isn't as drastic as he claims. What if, in reality, he just keeps hanging spears above him and waiting, maybe even hoping, they fall?

[doomedclockworkdotmp3]

i thiiink hes soooo prettyabyway

[minimujina]

while i completely understand the violent thirst over lighter i just hope we all don’t let it overshadow his character. this happened to wriothesley with his ass, and now we’ve got lighter and his ass. like yes i understand it’s big, and i too wanna kiss him all over. but also we should also recognize that he’s not a sex symbol and should not be reduced to a sex symbol. i have a hard time even with the official arts from his time in the ring, seeing people sexualize them so much. those seem to me like depictions of his worst, depictions of him when he was considered nothing but muscle and all he did was fight; he was just a body being used for entertainment and profit. he literally described himself as a zombie. idk like does this make sense that i find it uncomfortable to sexualize him sm or am i crazy? i know it’s probably not that serious and it’s ok to be absolutely down bad for him, i just sometimes get uncomfortable with the lengths people go to, especially considering his past. don’t get me wrong i like injured bloody men as much as the next girl but i can’t find it in me to see the art of his past as hot or sexy because that was the worst time of his life and im not sure he even saw himself as human then

[edsbacktattoo]

I have Gathered some Data

@skysofrey and I recently got into a discussion about names in OFMD. Specifically, how many times does Ed actually call Stede by his name in the show? We could only think of a few examples each and that didn't seem right. And because I'm insane, I decided to rewatch and note down every time a name was used, who used it, and who was being spoken to. Here are my findings!

Before you proceed, please know that this is strictly for fun and because I was curious. There are likely errors in the data (I'm sure I missed some things, I'm just one person.) but! I still think that what's been gathered is very interesting.

Here are some other fun/important/miserable things that I found in my travels:

There is one more time where Stede calls Ed “Edward,” and the only time it isn’t said to him directly. This is when Stede is addressing the petrified orange.

Of the five times that Stede is called “The Gentleman Pirate,” two of them are from Ed.

Ed calls Stede by his name only twelve times in the series. Only two of these instances are spoken to someone else. There are two others when Ed is looking for him at the pier, and therefore spoken to no one.

There are only ten instances of other characters calling Ed something other than his name or “Blackbeard.” Two of these are from Izzy, during the scene in Spanish Jackie’s bar, where he’s informing Stede that Ed would like to meet with him. During this scene, he only uses “my captain” and “my boss.” This is one of the very few times he doesn’t refer to Ed to other people as “Blackbeard” and it’s at the time that is arguably the most important. (He’s an idiot.)

Out of the twenty times that Ed refers to himself, fourteen of those are as “Blackbeard/The Kraken.” He refers to himself with names other than “Ed/Edward” 70% of the time. 50% of the times he refers to himself by his name are during the beach scene in episode nine, and there is only one instance where he uses his name that is not in Stede’s company. ("Actually, I do want to be called 'Ed' from now on.")

Izzy only refers to Ed as "Edward" to other people four times in the show. Two of those times are when he's marooning Stede's crew, and each time he uses his name in that scene, he takes on a mocking tone. Meaning that 50% of every instance he's referred to Ed as "Edward" to other people, he's been mocking his name.

Ed calls Stede "mate" as often as he calls him by his name, but he only calls him "mate" directly.

Stede calls Ed by his name only once more than Izzy does.

80% of the times Ed refers to himself by name happen in episode nine.

[ghost-bard]

feeling unwell about solavellan

[3416]

1634 make me genuinely ill because there are just.... so few bonds in this sport where you look at them and go. that was 100% meant to happen like that and no one else could've slotted in. like yea, so many of players across the league form close bonds and friendships bc that's the nature of spending a whole part of your life sharing a common goal and space when you're like.. doing this team activity... and guys are constantly befriending ppl and moving on... but auston and mitch it's like. it's almost like THEY feel that they were supposed to have that bond... and go out of their way to reaffirm it at every turn... like they met and got along and loved each other immediately and were so excited to get to play hockey together only to NOT get to for a long while and while they waited, they ??? developed all these rituals. and these things together... their personal routines, things to communicate to each other that they have each other's backs and are building each other into their visions and superstitions and dreams, some of which we'll never know about (unless they'd so kindly like to tell us a la mitch's interview with cabbie where he says maybe some day he'll share the gifts auston's gotten him w the world. tell all book when mitch).. but their gloves and their handshakes and their warmups and even the way they walk into road games and it's jsut. like it's friendship, for sure, obviously. they get along off the ice and make each other laugh the most and have a good time, but it's also the inextricable linking of their own careers. BY THEIR OWN DOING. like they want their names jotted next to each other and that's PART of the chase for this greater goal. yes, they would have been talked about in tandem anyway bc they're out here being the best leafs ever and hitting milestones like 500 points.... 600 points... just weeks apart from each other season to season. but also it's their commitment to each other that makes them talked about too. it's commentators saying they love to play together bc they can see it. they've heard them talk about it. they watch it. "marner to matthews" "matthews to marner". they're always gonna know where each other are.... it makes me . feel. violent with love, lol. makes me feel like some things are definitely meant to be.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

It's thirty til midnight 'n the house is crowded with the hot press of bodies. Someone's shoutin'. Actually, most of 'em are shoutin'. The living room stinks like the spilled beer Two's ground down into the carpet. The TV's playin'. Some New Year's special that Pony's glued to. The record players skippin' its way through a Christmas album. The tree's still up 'cause none of them would let Darry take it down 'til after New Year's.

Darry checks his watch once, runs his thumb absently over the face, compares it to the little glowin' clock above the stove, stands up 'n shifts past the card game Johnny has been creamin' Dallas at for the last half hour. Darry wasn't sure how he had any money to his name left. He steps over the coffee table 'n catches the hand of pure shit Dallas grins 'n ups the bet on. Good lord Johnny was gonna have the shirt off his back before the night was over.

Soda's bouncin' back 'n forth between the holiday special 'n the card game, offerin' commentary only Johnny seems to enjoy. Steve's got a huge bowl of popcorn Darry had fixed balanced on his lap, pitchin' kernels at Two's mouth as he dives for 'em.

Darry sighs, snatches one out of the air 'n pops it into his own mouth, steppin' out of the way so Two falls unceremoniously onto his knees with a grin.

"Hey! I was gonna catch that one!" Darry rolls his eyes, absently grabs Pony from where he had his nose three inches from the tube 'n hauls him back, much to Pony's indignation.

"Sure you were. Just like you were gonna catch the other thirty or so that I'm gonna have to vacuum outta the carpet." But he doesn't really mean it. The mood's high 'n Darry's just pleased to have 'em all together. Outta trouble 'n safe.

"Hey it ain't my fault Steve can't throw straight! He ain't exactly got your arm, Dar." Two wraps both hands around Darry's bicep 'n Darry hauls him up, danglin' like a monkey with his knees all bent.

"Hey!" Steve takes his opportunity 'n dives off the couch, nearly dumpin' the entirety of the bowl onto Dallas' head. Dally yowls, drops his cards onto the table 'n snatches for Steve's ankles to drag him back across the floor. Johnny leans over, tips the cards up, 'n grins to himself, then promptly sprawls to the side to avoid Darry shakin' Two off him 'n onto the floor.

Soda, never to be left out, throws himself into the mess of limbs until they're all a tangled mass of carpet burn 'n sharp-toothed peels of laughter. Darry disentangles himself, hovers in the doorway 'n watches them for a moment. Then he checks his watch again, adjusts the worn leather strap, peers at the clock on the stove glowin' softly through the darkness of the kitchen, 'n slips out the back door.

He knows his time is numbered 'cause Pony 'n Soda have always been herders. Had to know where everyone was at all times. But Pony's sleepy 'n zoned in on the TV like a lifeline 'n Soda's had two shots (both hastily over the kitchen sink 'cause Pony still thought Soda was drunk on the plain idea of bein' alive 'n they all liked to let him think it) so he had maybe just a few more minutes than usual.

It's fridged outside. The kinda cold that burns along his bare arms 'n makes his breath hang in low clouds around his face.

He can't really explain it. He's never been real good about the holidays. They're just... heavy. Even before, well, everythin'.

He crosses the porch, sinks down on the stair 'n blinks down the empty street. There's a light or two on. One house or the other still holdin' out for midnight. Most are quiet 'n dark 'n Darry's heart does an odd little flip in his chest.

He doesn't know why he thinks about the winter he was twelve 'n had been the best of friends with the boy that lived on the corner. Or why his stomach sinks when he thinks about how hard he'd cried when they had moved out. Inconsolable even when their mama had pulled him up into her lap (though he was too big for that. Too big for needin' his mama.) (that last bit was never true. He still needed his mama. Maybe more than he ever had before.) 'n had just cried 'n cried 'til Soda 'n Pony had come home from wherever they'd been 'n that had been that. 'Cause he shouldn't cry in front of his brothers. He should be strong for them.

Somethin' shatters to the ground inside 'n jerks Darry outta his memory.

"Sorry!" Someone hollers 'n Darry chuckles to himself. Man, maybe he shouldn't have had that last beer. He must be in too good of a mood 'cause he doesn't even think about goin' in to reem out whoever was breakin' shit. But he knows that's not true 'n it ain't the beer to blame.

He runs his hands up 'n down his arms, stands up 'n crosses the lawn, dead 'n dry in winter, leans against the fence 'n hisses when the metal bites into his arms. He sighs, kicks at the hole ripped in the bottom, smiles absently to himself.

Soda 'n Two had put that there. Had run one of those push petal cars so hard into it they'd both flown off 'n scraped knees 'n elbows 'n come crawlin' up the steps with, not two, but three missin' teeth between the two of them.

God, they must have been in middle school then. When had they grown up so much?

"Agh put me down you sonofabitch!" Somethin' else hits the ground but this time Darry's mostly sure it's a person. No one wails so he figures he's still safe. 'N he ain't ready to go back in yet.

He checks his watch, fiddles with the knob on the side, a nervous habit he's had since he was eighteen. Fifteen minutes to go. Plenty of time.

A breeze kicks up, swings the gate open 'n closed so it lets out a low, mournful squeal. It hadn't hung right since the summer Darry was ten. They'd always just jumped the fence, givin' each other the boosts they refused to ask for, gigglin' when their mama had called them coyotes, takin' runnin' starts 'n laughin' off when they misjudged it 'n came down hard on their knees. Their daddy had sworn he was gonna fix it every summer since.

He never got to.

Last month they'd had a real bad wind storm that pushed that old gate forlornly back 'n forth for hours, wailin' 'n moanin' until Darry had scowled 'n muttered he was gonna fix that goddamn thing if it was the last thing he ever did. 'N then he'd looked over at Pony 'n they both suddenly felt sick to their stomachs.

He never did get around to it.

The wind howls 'n Darry flexes his fingers, realizes suddenly its the only sound he can hear. He checks his watch again. Five minutes to go. He should go back inside.

But then he's runnin' his fingers around the face 'n thinkin' about the people not waitin' for him back in that hot 'n crowded living room. Thinkin' about how it ain't really his watch.

It had been his daddy's. His pride 'n joy. Thick leather strap 'n gold platin' around the face 'n it had been his granddaddy's before him. God, Darry had coveted it. Could remember bein' thirteen, runnin' fingers around 'n around it til it shone. Fifteen 'n askin' his daddy if he'd pass it down to him one day. Eighteen when he had put it in his hands on his graduation day.

You gotta watch out for it. The time flies, kiddo. Be careful how you spend it.

Darry doesn't hear the screen door slam, or the patterin' footsteps across the lawn, or the creak of the fence as someone leans against it til Soda's there, head restin' down on Darry's shoulder. Darry jumps, scrubs the back of his hand against the tears so hot against his flushed cheeks they burn. 'Cause he shouldn't cry in front of his brothers. He had to be strong.

"I figured I'd find you out here." Soda wraps a blanket, stolen from the couch, around Darry's arms 'n he suddenly realizes just how cold he is. He sighs, pulls Soda in 'n tucks him under his elbow.

"C'mon, Soda. You shouldn't be out here." 'N he shouldn't. 'Cause he shouldn't ruin everyone else's good time with his stupid achin'. "Let's get you back inside."

Soda tilts his head back 'n blinks up at Darry. Or, no he doesn't. He doesn't need to. Hasn't needed to look up to Darry in a long time, long since hit that final growth spurt that had their mama lettin' out all his jean hems 'n hopin' they stopped below his ankle. "You shouldn't be out here alone, Dar."

"I'm fine-"

"Oh, I know. You're fine. You're good. You're peachy." Soda sighs, drops his chin back down to Darry's shoulder. "You thinkin' about them?"

'N he is. But not really. He's thinkin' about all of them. About breakin' promises 'n not bein' careful enough. About turnin' around one day 'n Pony's not six years old 'n followin' Darry around 'cause he was still young enough to think Darry was the coolest person alive. That Soda's not ten years old 'n missin' his front tooth 'n a permanent bandaid on his knees 'n bringin' home one kid after another until their house was always full. That Johnny 'n Two 'n Dallas 'n Steve ain't just his brother's friends or strangers hangin' around his living room or even just good buddies.

"I'm thinkin' about my resolution." He pulls Soda in closer 'n somewhere down the street someone bangs pans together. A lone firework bangs off into the sky, lightin' his brother's face in a way that makes him look like he was a kid again, pressed against the window 'n tryin' so hard to stay awake.

"Well, don't leave me hangin'." Soda yawns, presses his face into Darry's chest to shield it from the wind.

Darry smiles softly to himself, runs a hand through Soda's hair, the lamp light bouncin' off the watch face when he lifts his wrist.

"I'm gonna keep some old promises."

I ain't gonna let time slip me by. The back door bangs open 'n when Darry turns he can see the shinin' grin on Two's face, his arm draped around Steve's shoulders. Pony leanin' hard on Dallas though Darry knows he'll claim he ain't tired. Johnny shiverin' in his too-big jacket.

"Come on, Dar! You're gonna miss it!" 'N Darry knows he means the ball drop or the announcer on TV or the end of the special but Darry can only smile ruefully, shift Soda closer to him 'n sweep him right off his feet to carry him inside.

You're right. You gotta be careful or you will. You'll miss it all.

tags 'cause y'all were so sweet in my other post I was like well I simply gotta finish this right now😭@trekkiehood @strxwberry-julius @marmaladedcroissant @wildestdreamcatcher @sarcasticallyexplicit11 @scalls @greasernamedbug

[deeply-embarrassing]

it's going to take me a few business weeks to organize my thoughts about "shauna, jackie, and what their use of make-up represents"

[xxplastic-cubexx]

it’s hard being a comic and movie fan💔 they’re always at each others throats i feel like that one pic of the furry parents yelling at each other with the kid in between

sometimes i get it however it aint hard to just.. be nice to each other.. idk.. we're all still fam no....

[chiimeramanticore]

waow

[biohazard-inevitable]

Hair

They say that hair holds stories, that the style is what makes a man.

They say long locks make you a pansy and a real man should have it short lest they be mistaken for a girl.

Where I grew up, every man buzzed their hair down.

It was a shame for it to be long and shaggy, and mothers would fuss over you, insisting upon a haircut.

For girls, it was fine.

They could have hair as long as they wanted or as short as they needed, so long as it wasnt buzzed as short as a man’s.

Being anything else just wasn’t a thing round these parts where churches chimed every sunday, pastors clammoring around resturants and filling their quotas in a single lunch.

So I buzzed mine.

I tried as hard as I could to seem as manly as possible

To appear as bull of a brute as any cowboy should.

I wore all the boy things and had all the short boy hair.

My scalp was sensitive anyways, so I thought it didn’t bother me.

It was better shorter.

Wasnt it?

I still gazed and clammored about the anime boys I saw on screen or in Otome games though.

I gushed about how pretty they were with hair down their backs like a silken curtain, or whipping wild through the air like the mane of a lion.

Legolas was never deemed as not manly enough

Beither was Zen or inuyasha or the undertaker.

A crush, I supposed.

Because of course thats all it was.

I was a gay little boy with gay little crushes and my type was men with long, Beautiful hair.

Right?

My hair was a dull, discolored brown from the shimmering blonde it used to be, the blonde I remember from kindergarten.

I tried to return to that blonde with bleach.

My school didnt allow unnatural colors, so anything was better than that matted, oily brown.

Shaved short and as platinum as a ken doll, I should have been as man as ever.

4 years, I stayed like that, and while the short hair was easy to take care of, I felt as hideous as a pile of sludge.

It didnt matter if I was loved for my looks, I supposed.

Wouldn’t that be too vain of me?

Boys weren’t supposed to care about what they looked like, they werent supposed to coo and admire Beautiful hair or seethe in jealousy that their sister looked so much better and has such long, goregous hair.

It wasn’t until after high school that I began to explore.

Covid let me grow my hair out more, though I still trimmed the sides.

I let my bangs grow long and shaggy over my face, like a veil to hide me from the world.

Eventually I dyed it again, this time going with that green I had always wanted to try, the one I had seen on my favorite youtuber growing up, fluffy and emerald.

Still, for years more, I kept it short. Only allowing that fringe to hover over me as some sort of style.

Recently though, I’ve realized I want that hair that those anime men had.

I want that soft curtain rolling down my back like waves of an ebony river, flecks of mossy green dotting it like a miasma of toxin flowing through the oily black stream.

I want the hair like the ring girl

The people around me are foolish and prudent to think the length of ones hair makes you more or less of a man.

I know that now, and I’m glad I do.

I want to stop pretending not to like things

[employee052]

CAN I FOCUS ON ONE FUCKIN THING AT A TIME PLEASE I BEG