#my rib hurts

[kirbytripledeluxe]

FUCK that one doctor that didn't want to brace my scoliosis oh my GODDDD

[scramratz]

I bought TWO (2) new binders! I’m so excited I hope they fit

[naphelion]

scribbles bc i have no TIME i have no TIME ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!

[silusvesuius]

testing out drawing maormer 🪸🐚🪸 and a nelvas 🧣📜🩷 i'll ramble about maormer a bit in the tags

[svampira]

night cowboy🦇

[valtsv]

hey man, what kind of tattoos do you have if you don't mind me asking?

two dragons on my left ribcage and the sagittarius constellation on my right. i kinda dgaf about the constellation anymore, it was my first tattoo and at the time i just wanted to get a tattoo to prove to myself that i could more than i cared about the design, so i figured i might as well go with something that reflected me as a person, and my star sign seemed like a safe choice, because even if i grew out of it (which i did) it's harmless and not too specific. plus it's not that big or complex, so if i really wanted to i could probably get a coverup to replace it. but the dragons i will love forever. i even named them (annie and mallory).

[wendigoruble]

He looks like a bartender tho

[fairuzfan]

Me? Yeah I can do 20 wall push-ups without breaking a sweat. (Markable improvement from last week when I struggled to do 10)

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. 

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.  

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.  

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.  

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

[dipplinduo]

I’ve read ur fic and I decided that this doodle I finally finished is very Dipplinshipping core

I can't do this right now OH MY GODDDD 💀💀💀

Nothing - and I mean nothing - could've mentally prepared me for this artwork. I am being so real with you when I say I completely fucking lost it when I opened this.

I want this to be a tee shirt. And a mug. I want this plastered on my wall so I can stare at it and wheeze uncontrollably any time that I'm reminded that I exist in the same timeline as this art. How on earth did this get birthed into existence. Why. Why is it so perfect. Oh my god I can't even scroll up and look at it I'm going hysterical again.

😂😂😂 thank you so much for all of your time and effort with making this absolute gem of a meme masterpiece. This completely made my day.

YOU.

ARE.

✨ ICONIC ✨

[menlove]

man as much as I understand why we bind/tuck and that it's not a bad thing if I could wish one thing upon the world it would be for everyone to get so much more normal about men with boobs and women with bulges (and everyone in between w whatever secondary sex characteristics). bc it sucks. it's uncomfortable and can be super super damaging even if you're using the best methods in the world.

and ofc it sucks from cis society but I think I have even more beef w people in the trans community that push this idea that if you're not binding/tucking you're not Serious about being trans.

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

*randomly spawned a sassy cat in their castle.*

Cross's shirt: bone hurting juice (image depicting text)

Cross: i can make it to the kitchen i can make it to the kitchen i can make it to the kitchen i can make it to the kitchen i can-

sassy cat: (poof)

Cross: .

Cross: pspspspspspsps

[lesbianaelwen]

ohh my god i genuinely popped a rib laughing so hard at brennan carrying the carts out

[barghest-arts]

So Pitfighter Vi huh

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Petition for more dally and soda antics pls 😆

OFC! SO sorry it took so long for me to get to this but I love these boy 'n I am HAPPY to provide!! fic under the cut!!

also HUGE shoutout to my LOVELY mutal @thedeitywhoplayedwithbricks for not only being right 100% of the time but also giving me the inspo to be able to write this ILY😭

"Woah, Soda where the hell did you get these?" Soda leans forward on the couch, jarrin' Pony as he rests his head on Soda's knees. Dallas appears in the doorway, brandishin' a pair of cowboys so new they ain't even creased. Pony lets out a wordless whine 'n Soda pats him on the ribs, absently runnin' a hand through his hair as he sits back so Pony can readjust.

"Just bought 'em." Soda grins ear to ear. "I've been fixin' to get 'em for like three paychecks now. Sweet, yeah?" Dallas turns them over in his hand, lets out a low whistle of appreciation. He flips them so he can see the sole, runnin' a finger over the tread.

"Wait, Soda, we're the same size, huh?" Dallas grins, his silver tooth glowin' mischievously in the low living room light. Soda wags a finger at him in a way oddly reminiscent of Darry.

"Oh, nuh-uh. I worked my ass off you are not stealin' my boots, Dallas Winston." Dally drops them back at the door, puts his hand up in mock surrender.

"Woah, woah, woah. No need to get your panties in a twist. A man can't even admire a nice pair a shoes anymore." Dallas plops down on the couch, liftin' Pony's legs from where he's sprawled out 'n droppin' them into his lap.

"Not when that man is a hood like you." Pony tears his eyes away from the TV to smirk at Dallas who promptly pushes the kid off his lap so he falls straight onto the floor. Pony wails indignantly 'n Soda snorts.

"You kinda asked for that one, Pone." Pony's mouth drops open in betrayal 'n he clambers off the floor into Darry's armchair, scowlin' at Dallas 'n Soda in turn.

"Did not. Soda you should be on my side here, Dally uses your closet like a goddamn consignment shop!" Dallas beams a throw pillow at his head 'n Pony yelps 'n dives behind the arm.

"Wait a minute, Pony's got a point."

"Nuh-uh! I do not. I don't have shit of yours but I'll tell you right now those are my jeans." Dallas kicks Soda in the shin 'n Soda squeaks 'n slides further down the couch. He lifts a knee 'n studies them, frownin'. After a moment he pulls his nose down 'n sniffs, coughin' 'n makin' a face.

"I wondered why they smelled like menthols." He sticks out his tongue 'n kicks his feet onto Dally's lap. Dallas rolls his eyes but lets him, grabbin' him by the ankles 'n slidin' him down a little further.

"See, now who's the clothes stealer?" The front door swings open 'n Darry drops his tool belt onto the table, glancin' into the living room to see who was over.

"Hey, boys-" He stops, double takes. "Dallas, is that my shirt?"

...

Soda wakes up the next mornin' 'n Dallas has already managed to worm out of bed. He always was the early riser of the bunch but most days he couldn't pry Soda off of him so he'd just stay until Soda woke up.

He drops his feet to the floor with a yawn 'n listens for the sounds of his brother's in the kitchen. Pony's still snorin' softly in his bed on the opposite side of the room 'n Soda pulls the blanket up a little higher as he passes by.

The TVs on real quiet 'n Steve's layin' back on the couch, eyes mostly closed 'n hair floppin' into his eyes. Soda pauses beside him just long enough to see what's on 'n Steve absently puts a hand up 'n taps Soda in the chest without takin' his eyes off the screen. Neither of them were particularly mornin' people.

"G'mornin', Dar." He flops down at the table 'n Darry slides him a plate of eggs Soda immediately tucks into.

"Mornin' lil buddy." Darry pulls out the chair next to him, flippin' off the stove 'n pickin' up the newspaper. "You've got perfect timin', I was just about to drag you outta bed by your feet."

"It's a skill. Knowin' when the hell to get outta dodge that is." Soda quips around a mouthful of eggs 'n Darry snorts a laugh.

"If that were true, I wouldn't spend most of my afternoons chasin' your ass around." Soda scraps the last bite off the plate, he always inhales his food like it was runnin' away from him, 'n pushes himself up.

"Hey, be fair. You spend most of your afternoons chasin' Pony. Or Dallas." Soda ducks into the laundry room 'n shucks off his sleep shirt, replacin' it with a white tee 'n his DX button-up. "Speak of the devil, where is ol' Dally?" Most mornin's like clockwork Darry 'n Dallas were up at the ass crack of dawn just putsin' around the kitchen.

"He beat it out of here real early. I think Buck has him doin' prep for a race tonight." Soda pops back into the room, grabs a piece of toast off the counter 'n stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.

"Ready Stevie?" Soda sticks his head into the living room 'n Steve drags himself off the couch, reluctantly. "You drivin' Dar?" Darry leans forward over his paper, hurriedly tracin' an article at his fingertips before foldin' it 'n droppin' it on the table.

"Yeah, I'll give you boys a lift." Soda 'n Steve's beater was lovin'ly busted. Again.

"Alrighty." Steve pulls on a pair of sneakers that may have once been Darry's but had since passed through Two-Bit down to Steve. Soda lets him steady himself on his shoulder, reaches for his boots twice 'n misses them before he actually looks down.

They're not there. Soda blinks at the space he left them last night. Pokes back into the living room. Hell, he slides down the hall in his socks 'n checks his 'n Pony's room. "Soda, buddy, y'all are gonna be late."

"Do you know where my cowboys are, Dar?" Soda shouts, forgettin' Pony's still curled up asleep. He stirs 'n Soda cringes.

"You left 'em by the door, honey," Darry calls back. Soda sprints back down to the kitchen, slippin' a bit. The pile of shoes is notably missin' Soda's, still.

Oh. Wait a goddamn minute. "Dallas!"

...

"Hey Dar, what's for dinner I'm starvin'-" Before Dallas even makes it all the way into the house he's flat on his back. Soda streakin' from the living room to throw his entire weight on Dallas' chest. All the air leaves Dallas in a whoosh 'n he hits the kitchen tile hard. Soda pins him down with his knees pressin' into Dally's upturned palms.

"You asshole you took my goddamn boots!" Dallas grins up at him, brings a knee up 'n shoves into Soda's chest, easily pushin' him off. Soda scrambles for him again 'n Dallas grabs him by the shoulders, wrestlin' 'n rollin' around on the floor.

Soda manages to sit down hard on Dally's chest 'n start to wrestle his boots off Dallas' feet. Dally thrashes around 'n when Soda doesn't get up he grabs a handful of Soda's wild blonde hair 'n yanks just hard enough to pull him off balance. Soda yowls 'n apparently that was too much in poor form for Darry.

He sighs 'n lowers the simmer on the stove, reachin' over 'n easily pullin' the two apart, givin' them both a firm shake before droppin' 'em again.

Soda shoots him a glare 'n Dallas grins wide 'n snorts a laugh. Soda manages to hold onto his scowl for a moment more before he hoots a laugh 'n suddenly they're rollin' around again, laughin'.

"Take my goddamn shoes off you little thief!" Soda grabs Dallas by the ankle 'n pulls the boot off in one swift motion. Dallas doesn't fight him but he sure as hell doesn't help him.

"Who're you callin' theif? If anythin' I'm a victim brutally attacked in my own home!" Dallas flops back on the tile 'n Soda hits him in the stomach with the heel of the boot.

"My house 'n my shoes, asshole." Soda snickers 'n clambers off the floor, offerin' Dallas a hand 'n haulin' him up.

"For now." Dallas wiggles his eyebrows 'n Soda knocks him in the side.

"Oh, you're on." Darry lets out an almighty sigh. Those three words never bode well for his sanity.

...

The cowboys have made the rounds about eight times back 'n forth when the hat gets involved. Dallas swears he got it by legal means 'n no one really believes him. 'N the problem really should have worked it out here, tradin' one for the other. But it's never that simple.

"Dally, lemme see your hat." It's one of those brown suedes with the fancy stitchin' around where the brim meets. One of those real expensive ones.

"You can see it just fine from there." Soda's been in possession of the boots for three days by means of sleepin' with 'em. Not on. Wrapped up in his arms like a goddamn baby. So it was safe to say any generosity has gone straight out of Dallas.

Two appears behind him, snatchin' it off his head 'n tossin' it across the room to Soda. Dallas socks him a good one in the ribs 'n dives across Pony to grab it back. Johnny's at Pony's feet 'n he flattens himself against Pony's calves 'n duckin' as Dallas climbs onto the sofa.

Soda holds it above his head, reachin' as far as he can. He's sittin' on his boots like he's takin' to doin' since Darry won't let them wear shoes in the house 'n Soda refuses to let them out of his line of sight for even a second. Dallas goes for the boots 'n Soda makes the snap decision to drop his arm to bat Dallas away. Dally grins smugly 'n takes the chance to snatch the hat back.

"Oh, no way. You're not sharin' 'n neither am I." He plunks the hat down again 'n wedges himself on the opposite side of Pony who was still whinin' at bein' climbed over.

"Glory, no brotherly love from that one." Soda howls 'n Dallas flips him off.

"You first." Soda sticks his tongue out 'n Dallas makes a face.

"Well, you gotta go to sleep sometime." Soda settles back down, slings around Pony. Just his eyes are visible above Pony's mop of hair, shinin' mischievously.

"I'd like to see you try."

...

Turns out a hat is significantly harder to sleep in. 'N far easier to steal.

...

Soda wakes up on a Saturday mornin' 'n immediately knows somethin' is wrong. He realizes three things at the same time. One, the boots he fell asleep with are no longer on his feet. Two, the hat he had pressed to his chest is likewise gone. Three, the screen door is bang-in' shut 'n Dallas' laugh is peelin' down the street.

"Asshole!" Soda doesn't bother to put on his shoes or nothin', just rips outside after Dallas. Dally's got one hand pressin' the hat down as he sprints 'n the other clutchin' at least two of Soda's shirts. One guess what the ass has got on his feet.

His blonde hair is blowin' away from his neck 'n he's howlin' laughter into the early mornin' chill.

Soda catches up with him easily, the boots slowin' him down. He throws himself onto Dallas, both of them rollin' into the grass head over heels.

"C'mere you bitch!" Soda wrestles him to the ground 'n Dallas grabs him by his shoulder, grins, 'n easily tosses him head-first over him so Soda lands on his back.

"Gotta be faster than that, huh man?" Dallas clambers to his feet, scramblin' around for the hat that fell off in the scuffle. Soda howls 'n sits up.

"Oh, I'll show you faster!" Soda kicks him in the back of the knee 'n Dallas goes down again. "Hood, stop takin' my shit!" Soda grabs Dally by the hair 'n pulls 'n Dallas wails, reels around, 'n kicks Soda in the front of the thigh.

"Who're you callin' hood you hog!" Soda yelps 'n dives on Dallas again.

"It's not hoggin' if I bought it!" Dallas slaps a zinger to Soda's bare upper arm 'n Soda yips 'n rubs at it like Dallas shot him. "Oh you asked for it now." He hollers a laugh 'n lunges for Dallas.

Niether of them are sure how long they're wrestlin' around in the dew before Darry shows, manhandlin' 'em apart, chests heavin', mouths bleedin', pantin' hard, 'n grinnin' around split lips. "Glory God almighty what the hell is wrong with you two?"

"Well?"

Dallas' got one boot on, Soda's shirt is half ripped off, both are covered in grass stains, hair mussed, the hat is somewhere lost in the high grass, the second boot with it, Soda's got a bite mark on his finger (but that was his fault for puttin' it over Dally's mouth) 'n Dallas is missin' a handful of hair. Both their ribs ache as much from laughter as from the ill placed punch.

Both Soda 'n Dallas point fingers at each other. "He started it!"

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

trick or treat!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy Halloween!!!!!!!!!!!! You get....

Jesus Christ what happened to him