#oh boy I'm bein poetic

[thishasalwaysbeenmyname]

I actually hate it when people power wash old stone paths and sidewalks and stepping stones like no no no it's supposed to look like that!!! It's supposed to look old!!!!

To combat this if I ever make some kind of stone path I will be making it dark gray from the get go. And planting moss around it and tiny plants that will inevitably grow into cracks and break it apart

But but but--

No fucking buts

She's supposed to do this!!!!

It's her enrichment!!

Let her reclaim the stones!!

Let her reclaim your body when you die!!!!

I swear to god if anyone tries to embalm me when I die

I will become a ghost and I will haunt them until they FUCKING UNDERSTAND !!!! I want to be eaten by vultures I want the vines to grow over me I want the wind to erode my bonessesss

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Hi!!

I don’t know if your ask box is still open but if possible can you write an angsty Sodapop and Dallas fic? I don’t see enough of them and they are one of my favorite duos!

OH! I LOVE THESE TWO!!! I think I'm going to write a longer fic of them for ao3 but I LOVE this prompt!!! Fic below the cut!!! ty for the ask!!! (also if you would like to be tagged for the longer fic feel free to comment anon!!! if not NO problem at all!!)

"Soda, c'mon." Dallas puts his bony shoulder under Soda's, unsurprised when he feels Soda put a decent amount of his body weight on him.

Soda blinks up at him and his eyes are all blurry and wet and Dallas thinks shit, I let him drink too much. Three shot glasses are lined up in front of each of them, half a beer on Soda's side, two empty on Dallas'. Darry was goin' to kill him.

"Let's get out of here." Soda shrugs, grins that blindin' toothy smile up at him.

"I'm fine, Dally." And his words aren't slurrin' or anythin' so Dallas gives him one hard look over and lets it go. He'd cut him off for now. Soda always was a lightweight. Pony would claim it was 'cause Soda was already drunk on plain livin'. That sounded like poetic bullshit to Dallas but the plain facts were Soda 'n alcohol didn't mix well. Dallas didn't know what had compelled him to ask Soda to Buck's tonight.

Darry was gonna kick both their asses.

"Dallas?" Dally eyes two men, still mostly boys, at the other end of the bar and tries to assess whether they'll kick up a fight. Dallas knows what lookin' for trouble looks like.

"Hmm?" Soda tries to reach across the bar to get another drink and Dallas bats his hand away. Glory, those Curtis boys were makin' him soft.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before. You know that?" Dallas pulls up short, furrows his brow, turns himself fully back to Soda. Steve had once described the look on Soda's face like starin' down the headlights of a Mustang 'n not bein' sure whether it was gonna hit you or not. Soda was prone to sayin' the damndest things outta nowhere.

"Yeah, you have." Dallas grabs a water Buck had poured for someone else and stubbornly ignores the glare the man shoots him. "You've met a thousand guys like me. Now drink this."

Soda takes the water Dallas shoves into his hand with a quirked brow. "No. I've met a hundred guys like the one you pretend to be. But you're one of a kind Dallas."

Dallas feels his nails dig into his palms. "That's it, man. You're cut off. You're gettin' sappy on me." Soda's laugh sounds like a gunshot and it jars Dallas' suddenly shot nerves.

"Now, what do we have here?" The line is so corny and overused Dallas can't help but flash his teeth in annoyance. When he glances over to tell the owner of the one-liner as much he catches a wave of whiskey breath and the two men from the end of the bar. No. Boys. Up close they're not even older than Darry.

"Beat it. We're not lookin' for company." He puts his hand down on the switchblade clipped to his jeans. Buck's was rough. Rough enough even havin' it in a pocket could slow you down too much.

"Dallas! Don't be rude." Soda flips around and he's showin' every damn tooth in his mouth and Dallas thinks glory he's worse than Pony the second you put a drop in him. No sense at all. Then he shakes himself because he sounds uncomfortably like Darry.

"Listen to you're friend here." The boy closest to Soda leers down at him with a smile like a broken bottle. "We're not lookin' for trouble. Just a bit a money." Soda cocks his head, waverin' slightly like he's just realizin' somethin' is wrong.

Before either of them can react Broken Bottle slides a knife out of his sleeve and against Soda's stomach. Soda tenses hard. Sobers instantly. Dallas thinks several things at the exact same time.

Fuck.

Darry was goin' to dig up their bodies 'n kill them.

Get the fuck away from my brother.

Dallas moves entirely on instinct. He grabs the boy closest to him, has his switch out 'n leveled against his gut before any of them blink. Soda doesn't move, back ramrod straight. But then he catches Dallas' eye 'n grins.

"Woah man, we're not lookin' for a fight." Broken Bottles' partner is white as a sheet, he's got his arms up like Dallas' got a gun aimed at his head. Even Broken Bottle looks suddenly unsure.

"C'mon Dallas." Soda's eyes are shinin' in the dim light and he looks like the fuse on a firework as it burns down to the gunpowder. "They don't want a fight. But, hey, give me your St. Christopher. I wanna do my last rights anyway." Dallas grabs his pendant with one hand, not movin' his knife at all, 'n pulls it right over his head, droppin' it in Soda's hands.

Broken Bottle jars his knife closer to Soda and he pauses. Looks at him with the full force of those headlight eyes. Soda wraps the chain around his knuckles like a rosary, Christopher out. Closes his eyes like he's gonna pray. Both boys shoot each other looks. They picked the wrong fight. Dallas 'n Soda were made for nights like these. But they were goin' to find that out by themselves.

"Glory," He opens one eye and his smile is like a Roman candle, "Forgive us for this." Soda's hand shoots out, connectin' with Broken Bottles' eye, the other hand comin' down on his knife, wrenchin' it free 'n tossin' it clear over the counter. Soda preferred a good skin fight. Dallas would happily go at it with anythin'.

Dallas moves the knife up to his boy's throat when he jerks to help Broken Bottle. The kid freezes instantly. New to this. Not from around here. He reeks like the middle class holdin' up a pair of Greasers for nothin' better to do.

He spares Soda a glance but he doesn't need any help. He's thrown his full weight at the man, sweepin' him onto the filthy bar floor and layin' punches wherever he can reach. Dallas hesitates for a second too long.

He feels the fist connect with his side before his can tense. It only knocks the wind from him for a moment. He pulls the knife back up and thinks about usin' it. Hard. But then the kid puts his fist up and in front of his face to hide his tremblin' lip and Dallas thinks, not for the first time, fuck Tusla's stupid fair fights. He tosses the blade onto the bar and cracks his knuckles against the kid's jaw.

Dallas has his partner backed against the bar, arms up again. God, what was the point of a fight if you were just gonna give it up before it got good. Soda clambers off the ground, tosses Dallas back his necklace and he catches it out of the air.

The fight doesn't have time to get interestin'. Soda slams Broken Bottles' head against the floor and he stops fightin' at all. Middle-class losers. Soda gives him more grace than Dallas would ever have. His knees pin the boy's elbows down as he lands one final belt straight to his eye. One to grow on. When he pulls his hand away the outline of St. Christopher is indented in the flat bone of the boys cheek.

He puts his foot down beside Broken Bottles' head and he looks just like a paintin' Pony had once shown Dallas in one of his art books. What the hell had it been? Michael. Warrior angel Michael. He shakes his head.

"You think they're done, Dally?" Dallas shoots them a cold glare and they both scramble back and away the second they can.

"They better be." Soda drapes an arm over Dallas' shoulders, wipes blood from his busted lip. They're both gone before the door can slam. Dallas turns when Buck's hand comes down on his shoulder. He passes him his discarded knife, pats him on the back twice, gestures for the door. Some hurrah.

Soda doesn't take his arm away as they both hit the street again. Dallas doesn't fight it.

"We should have cleaned that up before we left." Dallas gestures to the dryin' blood across Soda's mouth. He grins and licks his lips and runs a hand across his face.

"I think it makes me look tuff, don't you think?" And it does. Soda always left fights lookin' like the tragic JD with a heart of gold in those corny movies they showed at the drive-in. But Soda always had preferred beach flicks.

"Tuff enough Darry's gonna know we were in a bar fight the second we hit the porch." Soda howls his laughter and Dallas can't help but join in.

"Guess we'll have to take our chances. I wanna go home."

"Yeah, home." Dallas can't explain it. How it hits him sometimes. He didn't know how he'd ended up here. Somehow part of this dysfunctional little family full of greasers and hoodlums and kids just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But that wasn't true, exactly.

"You know Soda," Soda shakes his hair from his eyes, grins at Dallas and out into a world that jumped you in bars just for lookin' like a grease like nothin' could touch him, "I think I owe everythin' to you, sometimes."

He'd followed Soda home from a corner store in '62. Then he'd turned around one day and ended up someone's kid brother. Life was funny that way.

Soda stops, studies him with those big eyes and Dallas thinks headlights. He's got that glow about him he always got after a good fight or a bad fight or a lame joke or a real smile. A car swings onto the street and Dallas blinks away the glare.

"Nah, Dally, you don't owe me anythin'." And he grins with his whole face, splittin' the dryin' cut on his lip 'n makin' it bleed again. "But next time we go to Bucks? Don't let me have any tequila shooters."

[shimmershae]

Waltzing might have stalled (for the moment), but all the words and worlds crowding my brain haven't.  Wanna have a look-see at some of the other little Caryl drabble-verses I'm considering turning into their own full-fledged stories (eventually)?  Here you go.  Tell me which one(s) you'd most like to revisit.

First up, the AU Caryl married fic where they raise Sophia.  And a puppy. 

 1. 

 “Please, Mom.” 

 “Sophia,” Carol warned. 

 “But it was an accident, Mom.  He didn’t mean to.” 

 “Tell that to my begonias.” 

 She heard a snort behind her, and she whirled around to glare at her husband.  He was just as complicit in the laundry list of crimes as her twelve-year-old.  He didn’t know it yet, but he would pay.  “Daryl, don’t even.” 

 “Didn’t say nothing.”  He grinned, edged a little closer, penned her in against the counter.  “You know you want it, Sweetheart.”   

 “Mommy,” Sophia pleaded. 

 Three pairs of puppy dog eyes stared at her until she folded, completely melted. 

 “Okay.” 

***

“Daryl, have you seen my favorite…” 

 Daryl tried to hide the chewed-up shoe behind his back, but it was too late.  She’d already spotted it. 

 “Where is he?”

 “Sweetheart, just remember.  Harvey’s still a puppy.  He don’t know no better.”

 “Harvey Dent Dixon!” 

 Sophia appeared behind her mother, their happily slobbering new addition cradled in her arms. 

 Daryl tried to warn her away with his eyebrows, but he didn’t marry no fool.  His wife whirled around and angrily wagged her finger beneath the puppy’s nose.  

 “How do I even put up with you?”

 “Mom!”

 “We should have named you Wreck-It-Ralph.” 

 ***

 “Harvey, you know you’re not supposed to be in the bed.”

 The puppy responded to her half-hearted scolding with a sweetly pathetic whine and a broad swipe of his pink tongue across her chin, burrowing beneath the blankets with her and flopping down in an exhausted heap. 

 Caught between a giggle and a sigh, Carol merely smiled and opened her eyes, thankful her husband and daughter were at soccer practice and not bearing witness to her utter failure disciplining the little obedience school dropout.  “Oh, you.”

 Harvey’s tail thumped lazily. 

 “I have a secret.  Two, actually.  Promise not to tell?”    

 ***

“You can’t just hug me and think everything’s okay.” 

 Daryl peeled back, let his arms fall to his sides.  His blue eyes darted over to Sophia, but the preteen was looking elsewhere, anywhere but at them. 

 Harvey was flopped down between her daughter’s bare feet, his tongue lolling, mouth panting as he tilted his head this way and that, happily, tiredly unrepentant for the latest episode of chaos.

 “Help me out here, Soph.” 

 “It looked dead.” 

 “Weren’t, though.  How’s I s’posed to know Mama and Pa would go all Commando on us?  Fucking squirrels.” 

 Carol snorted out a laugh.  “Daryl!” 

 ***

“No more dogs.  How hard is it to understand?” 

 “Really?” Carol sighed as her husband mimicked her oft-repeated words.  Twisting in her seat to face him, at least as much as the seatbelt cinched snug across her hips would allow, she challenged, “C’mon.  You can do better than that, Pookie.” 

 Behind them, Sophia giggled. 

 Catching his stepdaughter’s eyes in the reflection of the rear-view mirror, Daryl narrowed his eyes.  “Traitor.” 

 Sophia grinned, stretching out her legs and wiggling her socked feet between them, her smelly socked feet. 

 “Sophia!  Shoes back on!” 

 “What your mom said.” 

 “Technically, it’s a kitten.” 

 “Pfft.” 

 ***

 “You fell asleep in the tub?”

 “Third time this week,” Sophia piped up oh-so-helpfully, fingers tightening in Harvey’s collar when he made another playful lunge at their newest family member.    

 Coined Poison Ivy by her feline-averse husband, the kitten squeaked.  Blue eyes huge, just as wet and bedraggled as Carol thanks to this latest disastrous romp, it shivered and snuggled itself into the open vee of her robe. 

 “Third time, huh?”

 “Not now,” Carol frowned.  “Sophia.  Take Harvey outside.  Let him chase some real squirrels.” 

 “But Mom…” 

 “Please?”

 Once alone, Daryl reached for her.   “Something you wanna tell me, Sweetheart?” 

 ***

 Eyeing her husband’s pale face warily, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, Carol murmured, “Did you hear…” 

 Daryl staggered a little on his feet, hands fumbling to find the edge of their mattress, just flopped there like a fish out of water.  Still looking a little stunned, he nodded at her when she made her careful approach. 

 Smiling hopefully when his hands found her waist, Carol tenderly brushed his hair back from his forehead.  “Use your words.” 

 “A baby?  You’re…” 

 “I’m...” 

 “Holy shit, Sweetheart.  We’re living in a sitcom.”    

 “Daryl!” 

 Frightened from her doze, Ivy mewed plaintively. 

 “Cat agrees.” 

 **************************************************

 Second, the AU where Carol and Daryl are partners.  Purely platonic.  Or are they?

2. 

 “Bed, Soph.  Now.” 

 “Fine.” 

 “Love you.” 

 “Sure.” 

 “Teenagers,” Carol muttered, falling back against her bedroom door.  Kicking her heels off, she bent to peel the stockings from her legs, made short work of her blouse and skirt.  She was down to her underwear and thigh holster before she realized she wasn’t alone. 

 “Keep going, Partner.” 

 “Fuck!  Dixon!  Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” 

 “Exterminators, remember?”    

 She took off her gun, turned on the bedside lamp, rolled her eyes at the erection tenting the sheet pooled around his waist.  “Seriously?” 

 He shrugged, grinned.  “Happens.”    

 “Stay on your side." 

  ***

Thing about Mason was, she was fun to fuck with.  And Daryl?  He loved fucking around.  Both in the bedroom, and…well.  Barring the field, everywhere really. 

 She’d left her bra on.  Sexy little number.  Just a lacy shadow against her pale, freckled skin. 

 His hands, body burned with the need to touch that skin, touch her.  He didn’t.  Didn’t trust himself not to take them both down a long, dark road that would consume them both.  Didn’t want to put their partnership on the line that way, but fuck.  She was right there.  He groaned. 

 “My name isn’t Leslie…who’s Leslie?” 

 ***

Carol rolled over, glared at her uninvited bedmate.  “Answer me, Dixon.  Who the fuck is Leslie?” 

 His smirk was slow.  Sly.  “Why?  You jealous?”  He deftly avoided her attempt to knee him in the nuts, pulled her leg over his hip instead. 

 “Dixon.” 

 Heeding her warning, he let her go.  “Relax.  Been watching tv with your ball-busting daughter.” 

 Carol softened.  “She loves that show.” 

 “Yeah, well.  Didn’t do much for me.” 

 “Your taste is questionable at best.” 

 “Mine?  What about yours?” 

 “Excuse me?” 

 “Your UPS man wear his little shorts on your date?” 

 “Dixon.” 

 “…” 

 “Scoot over a little bit, please.” 

  ***

“Quit moving.  I’m trying to sleep.  Wait.  Are you…what?!” 

 Daryl’s hand stilled under the sheet just long enough for him to hiss, groan.  “Jesus, Mason.  Think you can stop screaming in my ear?”  That was absofuckinglutely the wrong thing to say because those blue eyes flashed and caught fire, and shit.  Shit.  His hand quickly went from tugging his dick to shielding it as his partner’s small hands balled into fists, and she growled.  She fucking growled.  He was equal parts terrified and turned on.  Alright.  More like 60% terrified, 40%...

 “My kid’s…” 

 “14 going on 40 and not here.” 

  **************************

Third, teen besties Caryl AU where they both grew up with absent parents and found each other early on. 

 3. 

 “We really doing this silent treatment shit?  S’not my fault they only had one room.” 

 Carol heaved her duffel on top of the bed with a roll of her eyes, started digging through it like it held the secrets of the fuckin’ universe. 

 He wished.  Some last hurrah this was turning out to be.  Stuck in Bumfuck, Nowheresville in this Bates Motel wannabe.  With a best friend who’d sooner rip his nuts off than utter a civil word.  “Got a beer in there?” 

 “…” 

  “Shit.  Sorry.  Jesus.”

 “…”

 “Is that…That’s my shirt.  So is that…wait.”   

 “…” 

 “S’Walsh, right?  You crushin’ on me, Sweetheart?" 

 ***

 He was almost asleep, first decent forty winks he’d managed since they’d started this trash-fire trip when he heard it:  a blood-curdling scream worthy of this place’s whole Psycho ambience. 

 “Daryl!”

 The bathroom door bounced against the wall when he burst through it, practically broke his nose on the rebound, but that was all beside the point.  Two steps inside, and Carol was in his arms.  Shaking, still squealing, naked as the day she was fuckin’ born.  “Shh.  Got ya.  S’alright.  Somebody…shit.” 

 “Kill it.” 

 “A roach?  Seriously?  Thought you were bein’ murdered.” 

 “It’s prehistoric…what?” 

 “You’re so clingy.  I love it.” 

 ***

 They checked out, ended up at some Waffle House knock-off a half mile down the road that smelled like grease and maple syrup. 

 Daryl had already demolished his burger, was on the second refill of his shake before he addressed the huge fuckin’ pink elephant in the room.  “So, I saw you naked.  No big deal.” 

 Carol tugged at one of her wet curls.   “Great.  What every girl wants to hear.” 

 “Yeah, well.  Waxing poetic or some shit ‘bout your world class tits would only make things weird.” 

 “World class, huh?” 

 “Fuck.” 

 “Sharing is caring.  Now, give me your fries.” 

 ***

 “Oh.  Did I scare you, big boy?” 

 His fingers still fumbling with his half-zipped fly, Daryl scowled.  “Fuck off.” 

 Carol sighed, gathered her loose curls in one hand, lifted them from her sweaty neck.  “Would you relax?  I didn’t even see anything.” 

 Daryl remained skeptical.  “Sure?”

 This time, Carol rolled her eyes.  “Yes, I’m sure.   Want me to tear the hinges off a bathroom door next time?” 

 Daryl’s ears burned with the pointed reminder, and he joined her on the truck’s old tailgate, cast his eyes to the evening sky, their surroundings.  It was too…

 “Children of the Corn.” 

 “Stop.” 

 ***

 Fourth, Sophia finds herself in a spot of trouble. 

 4. 

“Quit stalling.  Where’s your father?” 

 Beside her, Sophia moaned into the cover of her hands.  “Mom, please.  It’s not Cade’s fault.” 

 Feeling her blood pressure tick up another notch, Carol wryly reminded her teen daughter, “Of course not.  I paid attention in health class.  It takes two.” 

 “Which makes it both their faults.” 

 The screen door slammed shut behind the man as he belatedly joined the fray, and Carol did a double take.  “Daryl?” 

 The boy’s shoulders lifted defiantly, but his blue eyes still looked just as worried. 

 “You’re Cade’s father?” 

 “Uncle,” Daryl clarified. 

 “This keeps getting better and better.” 

  ***

 Finally, because this post is too long and I'm going to have to do another one, AU.  Carol and Daryl are two neighbors not-so-secretly pining over each other, and the waiting game for one of them to make a move is killing Carol’s visiting friend Aaron.  He decides to help things along. 

  5.   

  “Hold my hand so he gets jealous.” 

 “What?  But you’re, well.”  Her cheeks almost as red in that moment as her hair, Carol couldn’t even sputter out the word. 

 Aaron, as always, was quick to bail her out of the awkward moment.  Hiding his smirk in her mad cap of curls, he took her hand in his own and pulled her against his side, ushering her quickly down the hallway to her apartment door while her neighbor—her hot, adorably awkward, single, and undeniably interested neighbor—watched.  “What Dixon doesn’t know…” 

 “But…” 

 “No buts.  Just play along.” 

 “He watching?” 

 “Definitely.”