i usually don’t like to post about followers and things of that sort, but we just hit 500???
THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!
i started this account for shits and giggles a little over a year ago thinking Tumblr would be a good place to start posting my fics. i didn’t think anyone would find my account, or even enjoy my content to begin with.
Okay, you may not have liked the Steve fic you wrote but let me tell you! I loved it! Steve is my favorite and I think you did such an amazing job with him! I was wondering if you’d be able to write another one? Maybe like a fluffy one where reader goes to the DX and helps Steve fix a car? Or he teaches her how to drive? Or he teaches her how to fix a car? Or they go to a drag race? Sorry that was a lot of ideas but honestly I don’t see a lot of Steve fics anymore and you were great! You can pick any of them, I just thought the more ideas the better!
════ Victory Kiss ════
Steve Randle x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: None!
Summary: Your first drag race with Steve… 🛞
Author’s Note: I apologize for making you wait so long, Anon!! Here is your long awaited Steve fic!
Word Count: 1.4k.
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It was nearing late afternoon, the summer sun still emanating unbearable temperatures upon passersby. Steve was to pick you up and drive to the outskirts of town. There was to be a drag race between two rival gangs from Tulsa’s East side. No cops. No fighting. No violence. Their dispute was to be settled on wheels— far away from civilization. Steve wasn’t a part of this battle, though word spread quickly. He was interested in going, and figured you’d make great company for the occasion.
You paced around the foyer of your house, peeking through your blinds every second to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend’s shiny, black Ford. And finally— after waiting for what felt like hours— he parked by the sidewalk that looped around your block. Steve made a quick hop out of his seat, racing to your door. He knocked twice.
You opened the door the second his knocks landed. “Steve, what took you so long?”
“Baby, we’ve got to go!” he exclaimed. He took you by the hip and pulled you onto your porch. You followed him into his car, jamming the seatbelt into the buckle as fast as your body allowed.
“I’m telling ya— I’ve got my bets made and everything. Those punks who started this whole thing are going to win. They wouldn’t plan a whole damn drag race just to lose,” Steve explained. He was exiting the familiar presence of your neighborhood just as quick as he crept inside the car.
You were on the highway in no time. Steve was buckled in, grinning as he explained the drama to you. Although it was difficult to keep up with every minute detail, you listened well and nodded along. Steve pulled the vehicle over, parking just far enough from the side of the highway so that it wouldn’t interfere with the race. He hurried out of his Ford, scurrying for the opposite side to retrieve you. One of his hands twitched and trembled as it awaited your touch. Once your palm clashed with his, he assisted you onto the silty soil. He wasted no time in shutting the door behind you.
“Come on, come on, pep in your step,” he teased, one arm hooked around your shoulders.
“I’ll trip in these things if I go any faster,” you replied. The white flats squeezing your feet smacked across the dirt with each step you took.
Steve took one glance down and shrugged. “Take ‘em off.”
One disturbed look worked wonders. He eased his arm to loop the small of your back rather than your shoulders, giving a slight assist in fastening your pace. Eventually, the crowd that had gathered became closer, the chatter became audible, and Steve’s smile grew wider.
“Randle!” a voice beamed from behind, patting Steve’s shoulder in a friendly manner.
Steve whipped his head around and smirked. “Hey, man.”
“I’ll bet you five bucks those punks over in that flashy, red car won’t stand a chance this time around.” The boy pinched a crumpled bill between his fingers and waved it around, flaunting his possession.
Steve took a deep breath and looked around for listening ears. “I don’t got any money on me. I figured that’d be a great way to get mugged out here.”
The boy with the cash nodded briskly. “I got you, Randle. Pay me back next time if- when- I win.”
Steve gestured you in front of him. “Don’t get too cocky, now,” he warned. As the boy stalked off, Steve ducked his head downward to speak to you within earshot. “You think those five bucks will cover dinner tonight?” he smirked devilishly.
You shoved him away playfully. “We’ll see.”
Steve led you further down the road. He paused, seemingly astonished to find that ‘red flashy car’ from earlier being more stunning than he could have ever imagined. He gawked for a good moment before a gasp quietly left his lips. “I ain’t never seen a Pontiac that damn beautiful,” he stated. He took a step back, envisioning you leaned against the vehicle, hair blown out, and makeup neatly done.
“She’s a pretty one, I’ll give you that,” you replied, snapping the boy out of his own thoughts.
Steve nodded, glancing at the others who ran their fingers smoothly along the bright, reflective paint. He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “Pretty, but can she move? I’ve still got my bets on that Camaro. Those fuckers are fast.”
Although you weren’t too educated on cars, how they performed in such races, or who the owners of these vehicles were— you had to admit, they were beautiful. You had never seen a paint job so finely detailed to perfection. By the looks of it, Steve hadn’t either. He stood with his mouth gaping at the sight of the opposing cars.
One—two— three gunshots were fired. The piercing sound silenced the chatter as all eyes were fixated on the polished cars. One man, stocky and buff, stood between them. “Alright, alright! Let’s keep things a-movin’!”
People scattered away from the cars, picking a side and sending hand signals of praise to the men strapped behind the driver’s seats. The man in the Pontiac howled, riling up the crowd to its extent. The man in the Camaro rolled his eyes at the childish behavior, motioning to him with the intention to mock him. The crowd on his side snickered.
Steve pointed towards an empty gap between two tall men. He motioned for you to follow close by, sneaking behind both cars to get to the Camaro’s side.
Just as you settled against the warmth of Steve’s chest to watch, a woman with curly, blonde hair came strutting between both cars. She wore denim shorts that rode up her thighs and hugged her curves in all the right places. Her lips were cherry-red, though they hid as her cheeks rose into a beaming smile. Men whistled and whooped appreciatively at the view. Curiosity got the best of you. You peered over your shoulder at Steve to see if this woman was of any interest to him.
“You’d look great up there, don’t you think? You’ve got body, baby. That ‘showgirl role’ was made for you. I swear by it,” he whispered.
There was nothing you could do to cover the absolute beauty that stood in between the cars, but Steve’s reassurance drowned out any insecurity that dared to ruin your time together.
You shifted your gaze back towards the main attraction, pondering over what he said. You? Up there? One day, you’d make that wish come true. Steve would be the one racing, blowing you a kiss for good luck as you raised that bandana in the air.
Both engines revved, crushing the gravel beneath each thick tire. The girl in between smiled, teasing the crowd as she held the black bandana in her right hand. The air felt thick with tension, but accompanied by a desire to get the show on the road. Breaths were held until the very second the woman’s arm extended outwards. A man behind her fired his pistol to signal the start of the race.
Off they went, leaving large puffs of black smoke behind. Both vehicles were off to a great start— tied against one another until the designated ‘road’ came to a sharp curve. Those more into the race cheered for their side. Chatter sparked the moment the cars were out of sight as people placed predictions and made bets on which one was to return first.
Steve’s arms circled around your body, holding you directly against his chest. He swayed side to side, listening to those around you ramble on about the race. Voices hushed as the sound of an engine came trailing back around to its starting point. People pushed and shoved to have a better look at which car it was.
As the sight of that deep sea colored Camaro came speeding closer and closer, cheers of praise erupted over the crowd once again. Steve wasted no time in useless cheering. He swiftly turned you around, planting a loving kiss directly to your upper lip. The Camaro sped past the starting line as you reciprocated his touch.
You promised yourself that one day his victory kiss would be earned. After a drag race such as this one, Steve would have the pleasure of rewarding himself with your lips. But until then? Steve’s victory kiss was on account of winning that bet. And there will surely be more to come at future drag races— ones where he’s competing.
without sounding corny, i just wanna say that watching the outsiders makes me feel so sick with nostalgia.
i grew up in a small town in the south and money was tight until i was about 11 or so. (i didn’t wake up rich one day, my mom finally got a full time job when i was around 11, meaning we had more money then.)
in no way am i trying to be like “i’m such a greaser!! i grew up poor!! 🥺🥺💞”
i just feel like i’ve been STABBED when i watch scenes like when pony is running from the socs in the extended cut, or scenes from inside the curtis house.
if you grew up in a small town in the south, you know EXACTLY what i’m talking about. it’s like everything IS stuck in time. home decor, diners in the middle of nowhere, music, and grocery stores all look straight from the 60s-70s.
the whole vibe of the outsiders 1983 is just peak nostalgia for me idk
Warnings: This is angst. Includes topics of grief + loss of a family member.
Summary: This is part four to my ‘Always a Knock’ series which you can find here. I highly suggest reading the other parts before reading part four :)
Author’s Note: Part 4 is a bit on the short side, but necessary so that part five can be the most soul-crushing finale you’ve ever read. I hope you enjoy!! <3
Word Count: 1.6k.
── ─── ─── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─── ─── ──
Flyers upon flyers were sorted through at the dining table. The overhead light cast a yellow tint upon the pages, giving the illusion of life among the paper. Darrel had come across several funeral homes that he wouldn’t mind contacting; they offered embalming, a casket of choice, reservation for a private venue, and the service. The only problem? Darrel didn’t have that pretty penny they all seemed to want in exchange. To top it all off— if he called into work today and explained that he wasn’t going, that would be more money he could spend on funeral expenses going down the drain. He felt trapped in his own mind, wishing he find a way out of this nightmare. If you had stayed home that night like he wanted you to, there wouldn’t be funeral home advertisements in his hand. Darrel’s fists clenched around the thin edge of the paper, crumpling it without meaning to.
“Anything else?” Sodapop set a jagged paper on top of the funeral home referrals.
Darrel gave the grocery list a brief glance over, shaking his head. “That’s all. You be careful, alright? You taking Pony?”
Sodapop nodded, “He’s out front already. I’ll be fast.”
“Drive careful,” Darrel warned. He pushed his seat back, giving his brother a gentle hug as one arm snaked around his neck. He squeezed, keeping mindful of his strength. “I mean it. Be safe.”
Sodapop pulled away after giving a small nod in return. He took the grocery list and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Not even a moment later, the engine roared to life as his brothers left the premises. Being alone was one thing, but being left alone with nothing but Darrel’s own thoughts was another. Darrel figured he could make good use of the time he had to himself. He could cry as loud as he pleased, speak aloud as if you could hear him, or take things a fully different route if he felt like it. But the logical side of his brain overpowered the emotional side, deciding that contacting a funeral home would be the smartest option. So with the stack of referrals he found appealing, he carried them towards his armchair that rested in the far corner of the living room. Darrel dented the leather with his weight, fiddling with the telephone in hand. He dialed the first number hesitantly, pressing the telephone to the right side of his face.
A moment later, a masculine voice replied. He cleared his throat, taking one big breath. “Tulsa Memorial Services, how may I help you?”
“My sister,” Darrel gulped, “I’d like to make a reservation for my sister.”
A moment of silence fell between the two. Faint scribbling could be heard on the other end of the line. “Can I have a name for this reservation?”
“I have a question, actually. Just wondering— do you allow payment plans? Preferably an installment plan?”
“We do. We start at as little as forty dollars a month. Cash or check. Payments and payment dates can be altered,” he replied.
Darrel smacked his tongue against his lip, absolutely baffled. Darrel nearly went bankrupt the last time he reached out on his parent’s behalf. The prices for a reservation had increased since his last call was made. He kept silent for a moment, wondering how he could ever afford such a price. Side hustles? A new job entirely? He didn’t have a clue where to start. “Can you… lower it?” he winced.
“Unfortunately I cannot. I can arrange your plan for each week, or for a three month payment at a time?” the man offered kindly.
“No, no, I’ll think about the monthly.” Darrel read over the pamphlet once more.
‘Standard Plan Includes: Body transportation, Embalming, Casket, Reserved room, Hearse, Certificate processing, and Graveside service’
“I think I’ll do the standard plan…?” Darrel winced, “Under the last name Curtis.”
The man on the other end of the telephone jotted his name down. After a beat, he spoke once more, “Monday at noon? Is that a good time to schedule an appointment, Mr. Curtis?”
“Perfect,” he concluded.
“I’ll see you then, Mr. Curtis. Take care.”
Darrel held the phone up to his ear longer than he needed to. The call had ended long ago, but he didn’t want to— he couldn’t— bring himself to accept that this ‘funeral planning’ was reality. Not some nightmare that his alarm clock would wake him from, this was reality.
With the boys gone, he figured a nap would do him some good. He had the day off after all, meaning he could grieve and mourn as it came to him. Darrel walked towards your bedroom door, pushing it open with his steel toe boots. The chilly breeze from your vent hit his skin like a blizzard. He stalked closer to your bed, unraveled the sheets, and buried his face in between the crack of your feathered pillows.
Your bedding smelled like you. That sweet, floral scent that lingered wherever you went attacked his nostrils. A wave of nostalgia hit him— nostalgia from when you would walk past him before heading out, his teasing voice murmuring lines like, ‘You stink,’ or, ‘What’s that funny smell?’ It was strange. He was so used to commenting on the strong scent you chose to wear, and now he was basking in it. But your scent would soon fade just as the rest of you would. There will be a day when your perfume no longer clings to your clothing or pillowcases. There will be a day where Darrel fails to remember the sound of your voice as your shared features become nothing more than a blur— a hazy memory.
Darrel’s ears grew hot. He shut both eyes and sank deeper into your mattress, feeling as if he was descending somewhere far away from this godforsaken world.
He woke to the sound of shuffling feet across the kitchen tiles. It had been two hours since Darrel first laid down underneath your covers. He rose, rubbing away at his eyes to greet his brothers.
Sodapop and Ponyboy engaged in a conversation full of inaudible whispers. With one bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, the two had their backs facing your bedroom door. Darrel began to reach for the paper sack, scaring the daylights out of his brothers without meaning to.
Sodapop gave Ponyboy a slight shove to the gut, his face pale. “Sorry that took a while.”
Darrel shrugged, “You’re okay. I fell asleep.” He rummaged through groceries, taking out a half carton of eggs, bananas, and chicken breasts. His eyes darted around the kitchen. “This all?”
Ponyboy nodded. “We figured cake could wait a bit. You know, since… we’ve just got a lot on our plate right now.”
Sodapop shot a deathly glare at his little brother. But Darrel, the attentive big brother he was, could sense that something bigger was going on. There was something they were not telling him, and they surely didn’t seem like they planned on it. He carried the eggs and chicken to the refrigerator, popping the door open. “So it took you both two hours to grab three things?” he pressed.
The boys spoke silently, arguing with nothing more than their pupils. “We stopped by Steve’s,” Sodapop finished.
Ponyboy fidgeted with his hand against his lap, cracking his fingers and picking at his nails for comfort. Darrel became wary of what exactly they had done, who they may have spoken to, and what they accomplished behind his back. He decided he didn’t need the stress.
“I’m heading down to the bank. Gonna bum a loan off them to last us next week,” Darrel announced with a yawn, slipping into his steel toe boots.
The boys exchanged glances once again.
“Darry, you don’t have to do that,” Sodapop blurted.
That was Ponyboy’s cue. He scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “We didn’t just go to Steve’s,” he hesitated to continue, “Went to Two-Bit’s, Dally’s— we went all over town.”
Sodapop nodded, reaching for the yellow envelope stuffed into his flannel pocket. “We ain’t leaving you to take care of things on your own. That’s not what we’re here for.”
Darrel took the envelope and slowly tore it open. His cheeks flushed the moment the pads of his thumb felt flat rectangles from inside. He pulled out neatly flattened cash. Lots of it. “I don’t… I can’t take this,” he said, shoving the funds back and holding it against Sodapop’s chest.
“No, Darry, that ain’t even all of it. Two-Bit said he’ll be on the lookout for a job, Steve said he’ll put in extra hours down at the DX, and Dally even said he’d give us his stash he’s been saving for a car!”
Ponyboy snorted at the mention of Two-Bit’s new employment status, but nodded in agreement anyway. “That’s all they had. It’s just pocket money,” he added on joyfully.
“You know better than to go around asking for money. Did you tell ‘em what for?” Darrel demanded.
“Yeah, we told ‘em. But we didn’t ask, Darry. They offered,” Sodapop explained as he nudged his older brother’s forearm with the envelope. “Come on.”
Darrel ignored his pleas, pulling his brothers into a tight hug. Well— more like a chokehold. The envelope became smushed by the collision of the boys’ chests as their throats pushed into Darrel’s elbows. He exhaled shakily, tilting his head up towards the ceiling. “Thank you,” he whispered so quietly that neither of the boys could hear him. They felt his appreciation with every heartbeat from within his chest, every small heave, and the way he squeezed them into a hug as if grounding himself. They didn’t take the weight off of Darrel’s shoulders— they split it into three. Your funeral was an event they refused to pass over or place on hold. Family came first, even if it took members who weren’t blood related to get there.
PART FOUR COMPLETE?!?! THANK YOU FOR READING AND SUPPORTING, MY LUV!!!
HII MLL!! I'm making a fic sorta like your "its always a knock" seriesss! i put a small difference, but creds are given!! i figured id lyk so you dont think i stole it😟
HIII 🤍
i don’t mind at all actually!! i feel so so so so honored and i would LOVE to read your fic when you finish!! <3
(the only way i’d be a little uneasy about it is if you were straight up copying & pasting the story to claim as your own, but that is not the case!)
Warnings: Toxic relationships, mentions of sex, profanity, cheating.
Summary: It only takes one night. One lie. One sin.
Author’s Note: Holy toxic... This was inspired by my older brother’s friend calling me a bitch the other night & him doing nothing about it!! <3
Word Count: 1.6k.
✦ ━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━ ★ ━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━ ✦
Where did it all go wrong?
Was it the moment you touched a body that didn’t belong to you? Or was it the moment that god awful word left Dallas’s lips?
You showed up a half hour late that night. Dallas was already in a sour mood, pacing around and waiting for you to give a knock on his door. Upon arrival, he hit you with a slew of questions.
“Why’d it take you an hour to get here? Were you out with someone? Did you lose track of time or something?”
You didn’t blame him either. If he took an hour to make a ten minute drive, you’d be just as mad as him. But you weren’t at fault for your tardiness; you had been caught up in an argument with your parents.
Dallas was already fired up, touch starved, and missing you. He didn’t take your late arrival kindly. When you tried to briefly explain what held you up, he shook his head. Dallas didn’t believe a word that came out of your mouth. “Lying bitch,” he snarled that night, giving you a piercing look from across his bedroom. “Where were you?”
In your books, that was where it all went wrong. Dallas had no reason to insult you like that. Especially after you told nothing but the truth and sacrificed an hour of your life arguing on Dallas’s behalf? Yeah, you’d show him how you could be a ‘lying bitch’, alright.
That was the night you decided that Dallas’s toxicity was something you couldn’t stand. He always picked fights, always degraded you, and his short temper made him act in ways he couldn’t control. Out of spite, you figured that cooling off with another man would solve a thing or two. He could take some weight off of your shoulders until you were ready to speak to Dallas once again. After storming out on your boyfriend the way you did, your mind shuffled through countless boys who could fill that void for tonight. Who would hurt Dallas the most if he were to find out? Who would keep it a hush? Who was close enough to Dallas to plot on him, but never admit to his wrongdoings? Tim Shepard, that’s who.
Tim had scuffled with Dallas more times than you could count, but they never truly fought. They were always right there to hoist one another up after a rumble and toss each other a dry compliment. The pair had mutual respect in whatever twisted aspect they found it in. But respect did not equal loyalty, and Tim proved that the second he laid a hand on you.
You had waltzed to his front door, face taut with anger. ‘Dally and I ain’t talking’ hinted at more than a dispute between you. Tim, as rough as he was, was clever; he knew why you came before the words even left your lips. He didn’t agree for the hell of it, or to even help you with your sick revenge fantasy. Tim let you in by choice. If you weren’t talking with Dallas, was it really wrong of him to touch you? He knew Dallas had it coming either way. Their companionship— if you would even call it that— consisted of them constantly trying to one up each other. Tim Shepard was calculated. He saw an opportunity and he took it. He let you inside, no questions asked.
It should’ve stopped there, it really should have. The second you plopped down onto his mattress, it should’ve ended. You could’ve ranted to him instead— not that he’d care- but it would’ve been the safer route. Tim solved that longing to get back at Dallas for speaking to you the way he did. He had you a trembling, aching mess by the end of the night. It was worth the pleasure, but now, as your shaky hand turned the knob to Dallas’s bedroom, you weren’t so sure it was the smartest choice you made.
Dallas sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, sweating, and locked into a stiff position with his elbows on his knees. He forced himself to meet your gaze, not uttering a word or even smiling.
Something felt off. Like you walked in the wrong time. Like Dallas knew something you didn’t. You stepped inside his room, shutting the door behind yourself. “Hi, Dally,” you spoke softly, testing to see how he would react.
His eyes followed your every move. Every muscle in his body tensed as you came closer. “You gonna tell me you fucked Tim Shepard, or you want me to say it first?” his voice was low, carrying all the anger his body was afraid to use.
You glanced at his sitting form, feeling life itself come to an eerie pause. Tim swore he wouldn’t tell a soul. How could Dallas have found out? There was no use in lying, playing a fool, or trying to defend yourself. He knew too much.
You cleared your throat to the best of your ability. “I was um… about to tell you. Tell you how sorry I am.”
He didn’t buy it. He watched you through his thick, dark brows, waiting for you to slip up. Any phrase you said he was willing to twist. He fiddled with his fists, cracking each knuckle as he tried to ground himself. “I bet you were,” he mocked. Dallas stood, shifting all of his weight onto his feet. He now towered over you, intimidating you with his tensed figure. “You didn’t think I’d find out? You thought you’d treat yourself and come right back without me knowing? Yeah, that’s it.”
But you kept your stance, craning your neck upwards to lock eyes with him. While you may not have come for a confession, it was in your favor to act like it; to win him back. “Dally, it wasn’t like that at all. I planned on telling you. That’s why I’m here,” you struggled to say in one breath.
“You got all pissed at me for callin’ you a bitch? Maybe it’s ‘cause you are. You ever thought of that?” Dallas rose his voice, more of that anger coming out through his words. “So you run off on me, sleep with Shepard, and now you’re back. Back for what?”
“I just wanted to apologize.” Your hands grew clammy as if they were glued to your side. This was so painfully off-script. You weren’t expecting a slew of questions being tossed your way the second you stepped through the door, let alone more insults.
Dallas shook his head, “That’s fuckin’ bullshit and you know it.” He took a long pause, giving you a look that dared you to disagree.
“Dally-,” you sputtered, a hand grabbing his bicep as if it would help to speak through his anger, and reach his heart.
He flinched, reacting as if your touch burned his bare skin. The back of his hand shoved yours away. “Was it worth it? Did he make you feel good? Give you that good sex?” he sneered. “You know, he doesn’t give a damn about you. You’re stupid for lettin’ him have you like that. Just stupid.”
“I was angry with you. You had no reason to speak to me the way you did,” you argued. You took a step back, keeping your spine firm. No intimidation method Dallas could possibly think of would work on you. You had every right to be upset. “You called me a bitch. I don’t like being treated that way. And I’m not taking it from you. Not anymore.”
Dallas’s breathing was ragged. “You proved my point. See, I was going to head over to your place ‘till I heard where you ran off to last night. You think that’s fair? I say somethin’ nasty and you’ve got to go fuck the first guy you see?”
Your bottom lip trembled as the guilt kicked in. You were embarrassed to be standing here on Dallas’s bedroom floor, trying to plead your own case. That was the evil in it all; Dallas knew it wasn’t right to call you names, but he felt those names were fitting now. And that stung. Deeply.
“Dally, you know I love you. Come on,” you begged, reaching for his arm once again.
“So you fuckin’ cheat on me to show it. Yeah.” Dallas stood idly, not rejecting your touch this time around. He angled his chin to the ceiling, exhaling deeply— angrily. “I can’t believe you.”
Pulling him into a tight embrace was what you thought could make him crack. He’d melt in your arms, apologizing over and over again, wishing he never spoke to you so bitterly that night. But in reality? The second your arms wrapped around his lanky figure, he didn’t move. He didn’t push you off, nor did he cling on for support. You had lost the part of him that held you tightly, nuzzling his face into the nook between your hair and shoulders.
“Alright, look,” Dallas’s voice cracked. “You— you’ve gotta go. I can’t do this now. You shouldn’t have come anyway, I would’ve been better off.”
He untangled himself from your grasp, finishing you off with a shove to your chest; not hard, but firm enough to create distance. He paced around his bedroom floor, simmering in his own anger.
Dallas never wore a vulnerable look on his face a day in his life. But right now, that was all you could focus on. He looked teary-eyed, maybe even borderline crying. That stung deeper than any misogynistic insult Dallas Winston could ever utter to you. He loved you so deeply that he felt like crying over your infidelity-? Then again, was it ever really love if he was so willing to treat you so wrong? Loving Dallas Winston was a challenge; once you were hooked, there was no return.
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