hello! this is a fic set in a/b/o or omegaverse, including omegaverse sex mechanics.
the grass is dewy, wet at this hour. ponyboy can smell it as he backs out of the car, unfamiliar with this part of tulsa. he shouldn't be here — none of them should be. this is greaser territory, deep in their homes — ramshackle, sloped and a bit unkempt and not his side, lined with rows of neat houses, immaculately done lawns. he should be back there, reading a book or asleep in his bed, waiting for the day to pass. he should be thinking about what he can do tomorrow, he should be thinking about how to get through this week or about the letter he has for soda, if he should fix it.
instead, he's staring at his best friend, at his eyes that once were so big and full of warmth for him are suddenly fathomlessly cold. he knows that there's something wrong about this — weren't there more people around here? more than him and johnny — where were his friends, the ones who liked to look at his cars liked his money. they were supposed to be here, were in the backseat.
but they're not.
it's only johnny standing there, who looks at him with disgust, with anger, his madras shirt halfway open, sleeves rolled up, cufflinks gleaming, still in that cologne he'd gotten from his father two months back. cologne he said he wasn't going to wear, but had anyway because his father rarely did jack shit for him except throw money to him.
"johnny, please," his voice is high, pleading even as his feet are planted in the grass, unable to run, to move. he's sure that they're not supposed to be here, that the creeping cold in him is off like the rest of everything else. it's not just his thin shirt keeping him cold, it's not just johnny's look chilling him. "i wanted him, johnny. he ain't hurt me."
the accusatory, betrayed look on johnny's face grows harsher, lines deeper in his face. it's not the boy he's known since he was a child, it's not the friend he's had for years and years. his mouth doesn't move, but ponyboy still hears the words ringing in his ears, let's give the dirty omega a bath. wash the grease right off of him.
and then hands are gripping him by the arms, dragging him back. he's yelling, pleading for johnny not to do this, that he wanted it. how could one kiss make him dirty? why was it so bad for him to have wanted—
and then his head is in the water, the cold pulling him under. he's struggling to breathe, struggling to come up, despite the hands that are hard as iron, keeping him under, forcing him to inhale the cold water until it stings. when he's dragged up, johnny's teeth are so white in the moonlight, his eyes dark and awful and ponyboy tries to get up, tries to push him back yet only coughs up water in heaving, awful drags.
there are two thoughts that occur to him: that this is going to be the worst part, it's always the worst part — and that he can't look away, he can't ever look away.
he can't look away from a shadow that johnny can't seem to see, from a pale hand forcing up johnny's chin in one motion, or the surprise on johnny's face. he can't look away from the bright glint of a switchblade being drawn, can't stop from hearing the choking, wet, awful noise johnny makes when his throat is cut nor can he stop feeling the hot spray of blood that hits his face, his nose, his neck, his cheeks.
johnny's blood fills his nostrils — from the metallic scent to the thick feeling of his blood. that awful, metallic scent replaces the smell of chlorine in a sharp, terrible shock. ponyboy can only watch as johnny bleeds out, and when the knife pulls out of his neck, the only person left there is dallas winston. his eyes are just as dark as johnny's, yet not half as menacing. not when he reaches over to cup ponyboy's face, smearing the blood there on an unstained cheek.
ponyboy shouldn't lean his head up at the feeling. he should look at his dying best friend, and not at his killer, and he shouldn't feel safe to be held by him.
dallas leans closer, his mouth parts, fangs glinting in the moonlight. there's the sound of distant whistle that grows louder and louder.
a train. it's a train whistle, the wheels on the tracks.
then ponyboy realizes he's back in bed, waking up. the night sky, park, dallas, johnny's body, all dissolve, replaced by a warm bed, the blankets on him. the pillow is a little big behind his head, and when he breathes in, he can scent his mate.
for a long time, he stays like that, curled up, nose buried in the pillow. the dream is almost inescapable — even if he hasn't had it in a few months, it'll descend on him, reminding him of that night. even if some of the details were wrong, even if sometimes he wore the wrong thing or johnny's expression wasn't right, it always came down to the command to give him a bath, pleading with johnny to stop and always, always dallas slitting johnny's throat, and the way the blood had felt on ponyboy's face.
he wishes that it didn't. he wishes that it could be easier, that he didn't have to keep having it over, and over and over.
the door creaks open, and he can scent his mate right off, mingled with the normal scents of the country: the earth, the horses, all manner of things that came with morning chores. the bed dips as he crawls in, and a hand comes to tug at ponyboy's hair. "c'mon, kid. i know you're awake — it's your turn to do breakfast."
"yeah, i know," ponyboy rolls over and looks up at this dark brown eyes, at the slight frown and sighs. "you want biscuits, dally?"
dallas gives a half shrug. "we got butter? i ain't having honey on it."
a burst of laughter leaves ponyboy then, unable to help it. no matter what, dallas just seemed opposed to anything sweet entering his mouth. he moves up from beneath the covers, taking dallas fully in: the undershirt, the stained jeans. he looks more like a country kid than a greaser from tulsa now, and ponyboy can't help but lean forward to kiss him, uncaring that he'd just woken up. dallas doesn't care either — he kisses him back just and wanting, hand cupping his cheek just like he did in the dream — except there's no blood on his hand, just a little bit of dirt he smears on ponyboy's cheek and neck.
when he pulls away, he grins, "better go start or you're ending up breakfast, kid."
ponyboy slicks up, and dallas growls in the back of his throat, a warning that he means it.
he still tips forward, nips at dallas' bottom mouth and then gets out of the room before dallas drags him back into the bed.
he brushes his teeth, splashes his face in the modest bathroom the house has. like most things, the mirror is pretty old, the walls mostly white because of the simple paint, and the bathroom is a lot smaller than his one at home. it makes it cozy, nice — he actually recognizes himself in the mirror as he wipes his face off in the towels. it wasn't like how it had been for months back home, after his parents died where just a glimpse of himself in the mirror didn't feel as if it was him looking back — just a ghost that had his features.
his hair is longer than it used to be — closer to an actual greaser's than anyone else's, curling around his ears. ponyboy had resisted those stiff beatle looking cuts and now it wouldn't look right on him anyway. his face is a little rounder simply because he'd finally gotten his appetite back, and hanging from his neck on a chain is a st. christopher medallion that more and more looks like it has always rested on his neck. what would shock his brothers most would be the dark mating mark on the right side of his neck. it's been there for months now, renewed as much as dallas remembers to, as much as ponyboy allows.
he reaches up to trace it, in the mirror. it's almost purple at the edges, and while it used to make his ears tip red…
well, okay. his ears still get a little pink. ponyboy can feel a nice, warm hum go through him as he touches it, and it takes a lot to pull his fingers away, wash his hands and step into the hallway. his fingers run along some of the white washed walls, the floor cool under his feet. the kitchen is small, cramped almost in the house, compared to the one in tulsa.
and ponyboy loves it. it's not state of the art, it's practical. the refrigerator is the newest equipment in there, and he opens it, pulling out what he needs. he can hear dallas in the back of the house, moving to the back door and back out to the animals. ponyboy can see him in the yard: in that white shirt, the jeans, the boots. his hair is getting to almost his shoulders, followed by a bunch of clucking, loud chickens. he watches him for a moment, as dallas snaps at the chickens, the birds fluttering but knowing exactly who has the chicken feed.
then he turns, goes to the right, towards the stables and ponyboy concentrates on the biscuits.
it's not like the first time he made biscuits, as a kid with his mother in their expansive kitchen. she'd been careful with teaching him, just the two of them. usually, soda might've been at the stables then or darry off with friends or at sports events. it was just them, her expression stern. she had told him that just because they had wealth now, they didn't have to be lazy.
he thinks of her as he sinks his fingers into the dough, kneading it beneath his fingers. it's sticky which is good, and as he kneads it, he wishes that his mother was here. that she could watch him as he does it, that she could see how he was here, without her. even though he didn't want to be.
and if not her, than his father. his father might be amused by it all and concerned — but thinking about his father means that he has to remember darry too. that makes his stomach turn over in distress. it had been months now that he hadn't been home — it was early april now, and they'd fled in early september. he'd missed soda's seventeenth birthday, darry's twenty-first. his fifteenth birthday wasn't far off now and they'd be together for months and months then and what…
what did soda think? did he lie awake at night, worried for him? did he still have sandy? how far along was she in her pregnancy? did darry look into his room the way he had after their parents died? did he talk to—
the door bangs open. ponyboy jumps, dropping the ball of dough onto the floured counter top. a woman's voice comes through, "you not paying attention again, are you?"
relief washes through ponyboy. "sorry, dorothy-rae. i wasn't— i got distracted."
the older woman walks inside in an easy stride, in a pair of overalls and a big grin. if ponyboy didn't know better, she could've been his mother's sister: an alpha, at six feet with strawberry red hair, full of confidence. where his mother was always dressed sharply except at home, dorothy-rae is all country from the boots to her overalls as she sets down the eggs from the coop. her hands are calloused compared to ponyboy's softer ones, and she wrinkles her nose at him. "what you thinking about?"
"my mom," ponyboy rolls another ball of dough, putting it onto the counter top, dorothy-rae going to grab the sheet. she places it down as ponyboy continues, "she taught me how to make these."
"must be why they taste so good," she opens up the container of lard, placing it down, washing her hands, peering out the window. "dallas looks like he's almost done with the feed, so hurry on up."
"yeah, yeah," ponyboy speeds up, his own stomach growling. "you want sausage, dorothy-rae?"
"no, bacon'll be fine, honey," dorothy-rae scoops of some of the lard, spreading it on the sheet in fast strokes. "i'm going into town right after breakfast — you make a list for me to take?"
ponyboy shakes his head. "i don't remember — i don't think we got a lot we need, anyhow."
there's a hum from dorothy-rae that he doesn't know how to decipher. she's still so interesting, always had been since she'd allowed them in last december. "well, i'm also seeing a friend in town so i won't be back that fast anyway." she hands over the pan, putting balls of dough on it herself and ponyboy glances at her with some level of curiosity. "you'll have the place to yourself til at least nine."
at least nine. ponyboy's not stupid. he puts the dough on the pan as quick as he can, sliding it into the already warm oven. "just give me a second to check on something!" dorothy-rae gives a grunt in response, pulling out more pans to put on the stove. ponyboy runs his hands on a towel, goes to the room he and dallas share, checks at few boxes, and comes back. "can you pick me up some comics and these?" he hands her a handwritten list of things — mostly books with dallas' own scrawl on the back. some of it was mostly things they'd halfway talked about. the rest, though.
he knows what at least til nine means.
"alright," dorothy-rae tucks it into her pockets. "if i need an extra bit of money, we'll talk when i get back."
ponyboy cracks a smile, then gets to cooking everything they need. he and dorothy-rae work around each other, stirring grits, flipping meat, and the bacon's almost done when dallas stalks in. his scent is heavy again, mixed with the outside and ponyboy falters for a moment when he passes. even if they were mates, even if dorothy-rae was fine with them, he knows it's not exactly appropriate to want to stop dallas in the middle of the kitchen and kiss him the way he wants to. it's almost overpowering the need to, and he busies himself with fixing a plate instead of that.
"that fucking bull," dallas grouses as he opens the fridge, "about kicked my fucking head off, dorothy-rae!"
"probably because he thinks you're kin with the way you act," she says dryly, scraping some grits onto his plate. "i'm not snipping him, not when he's still bringing me money so you can drop it, kid." she points the spoon at dallas as he swigs some milk from the bottle. "and you can keep that finger i see you're about to flash, too."
ponyboy snickers as he checks on the biscuits. "they got a few minutes to go." he shuts the oven, moving to the cabinet to pull out the honey and jelly. "and i got butter, dal don't worry."
dal gives a grin, wiping at his mouth. "yeah, i knew you would." he gives ponyboy an up and down look that can only be described as hungry. "might taste better with something else, though." he leers — ponyboy's ears grow pink and dorothy-rae makes noise of annoyance.
"come on, hurry up! i gotta go, soon as possible," she beckons. ponyboy puts down what they need, goes for butter, the pitcher of cold water. they all get arranged on there, the grits, eggs, bacon, sausage and the salt and pepper on the side.
dorothy says her own quick prayer to herself, and they all dig in. it tastes good to ponyboy, better than any meal in tulsa. he gets up just to retrieve the biscuits, hissing at how hot it is even with the mittens on. they all eat, dallas complaining anyway about the bull, dorothy-rae confirming the last things needed, and ponyboy humming in satisfaction with how good the biscuits tastes with honey.
dorothy-rae exits quick, ruffling his hair as she goes. the truck is loud as she pulls it out, then she's down the road.
which leaves just him, wiping the biscuit in the honey, and dallas eyeing him from the other side of the table.
"how long she gone for?"
"probably ten, with the list i gave her," ponyboy grins. "maybe later."
dallas gives a huge grin back.
neither of them dislike dorothy-rae. there's no way they could — not when dallas had been so desperate that december to help ponyboy. ponyboy had a fever, wasn't feeling well, the weather had turned for the worst, and dallas had done what he'd needed to do, finding the barn and getting ponyboy warm. he'd just meant to break in and get something to keep ponyboy's fever down. from what dallas had told him, dorothy-rae had found them both, asleep, in the barn. ponyboy had looked feverish, dallas' normal anger had worn down to desperation and dorothy-rae was a lonely alpha after her wife had died years before.
she hadn't asked questions — just known that they were newlymates, and taken them in. she had never pried, never demanded anything from them except that they pull their own weight, more dallas than ponyboy at first seeing as he was healthy.
it was just sometimes, they liked to be left alone in the house. it was nice to go into the fields by their own; just, when they had hours alone, to themselves, it was perfect. it meant that they could do this, dallas catching ponyboy by his chin in the midst of dishes and just kiss him in front of the kitchen, knowing they wouldn't be interrupted.
it feels as if the house is theirs, as if it's their own bed, given to them in marriage. it feels less like ponyboy had to run away from home, less like reality when he grips dallas back, forces his shirt up as he slicks. it feels like nothing is wrong, at all.
and in a way, nothing is. not when he breathes into dallas' mouth, "love you." not when dallas growls in his mouth, cants his hips up and lets ponyboy feel how hard he is. ponyboy groans into his mouth, lets dallas lift him up off the floor — breath hitching as he goes, loving the feeling of being lifted up and then placed on the half cleared table from breakfast.
he loves it, looking at dallas with a dirt smeared face, with his hair long and unkempt without grease. he thinks of dirty omega for a moment — and then slicks up when dallas' dirty hand smears some dirt on his face, voice deep, "been wanting you all mornin'."
"why ain't you just take me?" ponyboy grins, slicking more, his hand pushing his shirt up, the other unbuckling his own button. "thought that's what you do — greaser who takes what he w—"
dallas shuts him up with a kiss, a growl. ponyboy moans, slips his tongue into his mouth. he squirms out of his pants, kicks them away. he only gets a moment of air as dallas pulls off his shirt, and then his own pants.
then his hands are wrapping themselves around dallas' shoulders, dallas is lifting his hips up, and then ponyboy can't feel anything more important as the feeling of dallas roughly entering him. he cries out, the noise choked when dallas kisses him. he can hear something falling, can smell honey in his nostrils mixing with dallas' scent, and most of all can feel how good it is to have dallas stretching him, to feel his knot against his ass as he fucks into him.
his nails dig into dallas' back, right as he feels dallas' own grip his hips harder. he thinks he says dallas' name, yet he can't be sure. it doesn't matter as much as the fact that he loves his mate, that he loves the feeling of dallas inside of him, loves the scent of blood in the air when dallas breaks his skin.
it feels worth it. everything feels worth it to see the way the light catches the edge of dallas' dark eyes and lights it up to a bright, copper brown, to feel his cock puls in him as he fucks him into the table, to catch his mouth in his over and over again, to feel pleasure hitting him over and over again. every stroke, every sensation pushes him closer and closer to euphoria, his entire world whittling down to this one space, this one person, dallas' body inside of his own.
it's no wonder that he cums first, groaning with it, fingers tearing into dallas' back, vision whiting out from the force of it, from how good it feels. he can't even come down from it properly, not when dallas' teeth sink into his mating mark, sending out waves of pleasure — and then he feels himself stretched to his limit when his knot breaches his hole entirely, ruthlessly.
there aren't words or thoughts, just the sensation of being filled with dallas' cum, of being so happy that dallas was his mate, that they chose each other.
and then there's just nothing for a few moments outside of a blissful, warm void full of dallas' scent, of the feeling of his cock inside of him, the scent of honey mixing with it all.
slowly, he comes back to himself: feeling of being overstretched and full, of dallas half slumped on top of him, his sweat and blood slicked skin beneath his fingers. ponyboy blinks, everything coming back into focus, the sight of the honey jar on the floor, the lid half off, plates face down, the table beneath him a light brown. his legs feel like jelly even though he wants to wrap them back around dallas' waist.
dallas' breath fans out warmly against his neck, and ponyboy turns his head to get a better look at him. his eyes look dark again, and ponyboy runs his fingers through his hair, smiling at him. dallas smiles back — and then pulls back to deliberately tug his cock against ponyboy's rim. it makes ponyboy whine from the sudden spike of pain, and dallas grins wider.
"can — bed?" ponyboy has trouble forming words, still caught up in the sensation of dallas' cock in him, on the knot.
"ain't walking there," dallas laughs, hands moving to rub at ponyboy's sides and thighs. ponyboy trembles a little and he can see a flash of worry on dallas' face, before his arms move to wrap around his waist. he grunts as he gets ponyboy up — who hisses at another sharp tug at his rim.
he buries his head in dallas' neck as they walk to the bedroom, inhaling dallas' scent. he relaxes only when they make it to the bed, sighing at the feel of the cool sheets. he nuzzles against dallas' neck, feeling the st. christopher cool against his skin. once they're settled in, he yawns against dallas' neck, but tries to fight sleep, mumbling out, "see anything in the paper this morning?"
"nah," dallas rubs ponyboy's back, looking sleepy too. "think they're stopping the ads out here."
ponyboy pauses. "you think… you think darry's given up?" on one hand, it hurts to think about, that darry would give up on finding him and it hadn't been a year. it stings. on the other hand, it'd be a relief to stop feeling scared that someone's on their heels all the time, looking for them.
"could be the cades giving up," dallas shifts in the bed, nail running along ponyboy's side. "ain't they got more money than your folks?"
"lot more," ponyboy confirms. "house was twice as big, three times as old." it feels weird to discuss this with dallas, after being on the run with him for so long, the wealth they'd had. and how empty it felt, in the end. "johnny used to have me over and we'd play hide and seek — get lost for hours looking for each other." his tongue is a little thick, heavy but it doesn't hurt to talk about johnny, while looking at dallas. months before and he barely could and now it's easier. in the past tense. "his dad bought him all the newer cars and stuff — maybe they're thinking we went elsewhere."
"i went elsewhere," dallas pushes back, "ain't none of them actually think you willingly went with me. they all think you're some innocent, rich, soft omega i probably raped and killed." there's a derisive tone to it, the sneer on dallas' face familiar. "and they already think i did half of that to you before we even left tulsa."
it's the truth. it's why johnny had been so disgusted, so angry. and it's why ponyboy had pushed back — and things had gotten out of hand. still, he clings closer to dallas. "you'd never — i wanted you to kiss me. i wanted to leave with you. why can't they understand that?"
a sigh leaves dallas. "told you kid, shit doesn't change." he's eighteen and sounds so jaded, and ponyboy wants to argue back. wants to tell him that people do, and yet…
dallas pulls him in closer, licks at his cheek. ponyboy nips at his neck and goes silent, not wanting to fight. not when he still felt warm, when every movement gave a tug at his rim, not when he felt loved and cared for. it's easy to let his eyes close, and to go to sleep in dallas' arms.
the sunlight is vivid orange and pink and yellow and ponyboy wishes he could feel something. he wishes that he could love a sky as brilliant as this. normally he did: he would absorb it, talk about it and try to explain to johnny how gorgeous it is.
he can't, though. nothing has been the same since his parents died, and not even sunsets can fix that.
"i brought you all the way out here and you ain't like it?" johnny's voice breaks through.
ponyboy turns, finding himself in johnny's car, the expensive mustang. the one his father had said had come fresh off the line, never been touched. it's good looking — dallas would describe it as tough, the interior a deep red. johnny looks disappointed in the seat, sad almost. they're parked at some beach front ponyboy can't remember the name of, yet somehow is on the tip of his tongue. it had been a long day, johnny insisting he get in and go with him.
"i want to," ponyboy confesses, voice quiet. "i just… i don't know. it ain't the same."
johnny makes a noise of disappointment in his throat at that. "cause your parents ain't here?"
ponyboy averts his eyes. and something tells him this isn't how the conversation went. that in the car, they had sat mostly in silence, that johnny had expected something and whatever it was, ponyboy hadn't given it.
he looks back up at johnny, and this time the sunlight is gone. this time, his eyes are hard, angry. ponyboy's nostrils fill with the smell of blood, and horribly, he sees that there's a gashing, gushingly red wound at johnny's throat. he scrambles across the car, trying to staunch with his hands, feeling it gush out wetly, as johnny chokes, gurgles. his eyes shine too brightly, his mouth opens—
"hey! hey!" dallas' voice cuts through, and ponyboy finds himself gasping for breath, for air. dallas' face is closed to his, and for a moment, he can see the black night, the moon in the sky. can smell the blood, remembers the flash of the blade, feel the hot warmth of johnny's blood. and then he realizes that no: they're still in the house, he's still on dallas' knot, and there isn't any blood. dallas' grip on his cheek is tight, expression worried.
ponyboy feels torn in two seperate directions: the need to pull away, to push himself off the knot, to get away from the boy who'd killed for him — and the need to draw closer, to kiss him, to be as close as he can because dallas had killed, cheated, stolen for him. he'd listened to him, he cared about him and the boy dallas had killed for him hadn't cared, hadn't listened to him. and dallas? did. dallas does, expression slowly softening as ponyboy starts to cry.
he doesn't want to. darry had told him not to cry so much, that crying wouldn't bring their parents back. he knows that crying won't bring johnny back or fix how johnny thought about dallas or make him stop trying to shove ponyboy in the fountain or keep dallas from saving him. he knows crying won't turn back time or erase that night, give it a happier ending.
he cries anyway, body stretched around dallas' knot, buried in his scent, held against him. he cries in a way he wasn't able to cry after his parents died, and dallas doesn't push him away or taunt or makes fun of him. he cards his fingers through his hair, and his tongue laves at ponyboy's face, at the salty, warm tears. dallas says things that ponyboy isn't quite able to understand. it doesn't matter: the actions matter more, the feel of his tongue on his cheeks, at the corners of his eyes, his hand on his back, his other stroking ponyboy's side.
it takes a long time for him to calm down. in that time, the knot has gone down, popped out of him without much to say for it. dallas doesn't do more than nuzzle at him or lap at the tears on his face, murmuring every now and then. when it's over, ponyboy feels wrung out, palming at his eyes as he mumbles out, "m'sorry. won't cry anymore, promise."
"i ain't pissed," dallas says back, shifting in the bed better, pulling ponyboy closer. ponyboy isn't quite sure if he believes it, even though dallas has never been a liar. it isn't the first time he's seen him cry either, even if they don't talk about it usually. "what was that about? hell kind of dream was it?" thickly, ponyboy swallows, turns his head away. he knows he can't escape, though — dallas reaches over, tugs his chin back, so he's looking at him. "c'mon — you keep having them on and off. it's about johnny, ain't it?"
it's so rare to hear dallas use his real name. he normally just says the cades or the cade kid. it must have been bad, how bad ponyboy was. he nods, swallowing. "i can't make 'em stop."
dallas seems to be fighting down a scowl on his face. anyone else might hate him for it, for the lack of remorse. and maybe a piece of ponyboy can't reckon with it, the lack of remorse. the rest of hm, he knows what would have happened if dallas hadn't shown up. he knows that he's never, ever regretted looking at dallas in the theater, he knows that when they had kissed — in front of everyone — they'd been seen.
he just didn't know how far out of control it would spiral.
he doesn't want to talk more about it. not now, when he can feel slick and cum between his legs, not when it was a nice day out and they had the house to themselves. he nuzzles against dallas, voice shaking as he says, "can we just take a bath now?"
he doesn't think he has to point out that he only likes taking them with dallas.
the water is still steaming by the time ponyboy gets into the bathroom. it's clear, all the way down to the bottom of the tub, a stark white. it's big, with clawed feet and is one of the newer things in the house if only by a scant few years.
dallas is waiting for him, already naked, glancing up at ponyboy's footsteps. his neck is mottled, dark from the shared bites, skin still red and raised from the scratches on his back and sides.
"how'd you get that?" ponyboy hadn't noticed before, a bruise on dallas' thigh. "wasn't me."
"that fucking bull, man," dallas grouses, waving ponyboy over. he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, hissing at the heat but not getting out. "he may be making dorothy-rae money but he's a fucking pain in the ass. tried to take a chunk out of me this morning and almost crushed me when i was putting him out to pasture."
ponyboy's quick to grab the soap and towels, worrying. "why's he got it out for you? he's never like that with me." he'd a good looking, white bull that's huge, always fairly docile whenever ponyboy tends to him.
"hell if i know," there's a splash as dallas sinks into the tub, all the way to the back. "c'mon, get in before it gets cold."
"it's not getting cold that quick," and still, ponyboy takes his time, the water almost shockingly hot. he yelps a little bit; it's better than it being ice cold, though. it takes some easing and then he's into the hot warmth of the tub, facing dallas. the sunlight filters through the window, making dallas' hair brighter, making him look less like an eighteen year old greaser slumming it on a farm and more like the kid he is.
not that he looks soft, like ponyboy does. pony is still, a little frustratingly, like some of the other omega socs he knew which was mostly soda and the others only in passing from other places. he was softer, his hands weren't really calloused from work, and he was still small in comparison.
dallas looks like an alpha kid: tall, wiry with muscle as he sinks into the bathtub, fangs fascinatingly sharp in his mouth. he's still got tons of scars that don't all have stories, that danger that he's carried since ponyboy had seen him in tulsa years ago, working at the stables with mickey mouse and soda.
it makes him ache and wonder. he hadn't known what it was like then, to have his parents gone, to be unmoored and without some kind of money. he had only glimpsed a rough looking hood and then soda was showing him his horse, the one he was going to have proudly after the cotillion they had planned for his presenting omega. there was no knowledge of the future, at all of how close he'd be to a greaser kid people even then were afraid of.
dallas splashes him, breaking his train of thought. "hey, you listening?"
"no," ponyboy shakes his head. "what you'd say?"
"i said," dallas nudges his side with his foot, making pony squirm, "you ain't planning on just staying here every day are you? they got summer school out here, you need to go."
a frown makes it's way on ponyboy's face. "no. ain't the whole point that we're lying low?" ponyboy pushes dallas' foot away, picking at the towel, massaging the soap between the towel and his hand. "i can't go to school — especially not with my name. i'm fine here."
"no, you ain't," dallas presses his toes against ponyboy's side again, vindictive and insistent. "you're reading more books than what we can keep up with. you're bored, you ain't getting much done here by just reading whatever dorothy-rae gets for you. and you like school, you can go."
"i mean — how can i? people might know my face, they could rat us out," a spike of fear works it's way up his spine, and ponyboy nudges his own toe against dallas' thigh in retaliation. "we — you said we can't get caught. they'd put you in the chair if they caught us."
"that picture on the ad was two years old, right? you ain't look half the same." dallas insists, ponyboy starting to clean his arms, his neck, the towel splashing in and out of the water. "all you gotta do is just give them a different name, make sure you ain't look like a rich, pampered little omega like the photo and you ain't half like that picture now."
there's a huff and ponyboy throws the towel to dallas who catches it. "why do you care? don't you want to go back, too?"
"back to school?" dallas snorts derisively, working the towel behind his ears. "i ain't been to school since i was eleven or twelve years old." surprise instantly makes it's way on ponyboy's face at that, water sloshing as he shifts in the tub.
"what?" his voice is high in shock. "i thought you and two bit went to school together."
"nah," dallas seems amused as ponyboy stares at him. there are so many times that they've had moments where it's been very clear that they have lived very different lives, that they've had very different experiences. this, though. this is such a yawning chasm of difference between them, that dallas hadn't even been like the other greaser kids, that he hadn't even gone to school like the rest of them. he'd seen two bit mathews and his cousin, molly, around dallas before. two bit wasn't a soc or a greaser, somewhere in the middle, and they were best friends. and ponyboy had simply assumed that they went to school, that dallas had missed it.
and no. that wasn't the case at all. dallas hadn't stepped foot in a classroom in years, out of choice. it makes ponyboy's mind race with all the things he did and didn't know, all the things that he did and didn't know. things he longed to know. "so what… what did you do, then when we were all in school?"
"lots of shit," dallas throws the towel back, "but it don't matter. what matters is that you go back to school, kid. i know we're out there by ourselves, we gotta live on our own. it don't mean you gotta give up on everything else, though." his voice takes on an odd tone, one ponyboy has rarely heard from him. "you can go, get that fancy degree and all."
ponyboy shifts from the end of the tub, between dallas' legs. dallas looks down at him, frowning. "you feeling — you ain't steal me away or nothing."
"i know," dallas says it, and yet ponyboy doesn't think that he does know. he thinks that maybe there's a little bit of guilt in his face, a little bit of regret. not for killing johnny, he knows dallas well enough for that. it's something else.
and ponyboy guesses, stroking the mating mark on dallas' neck.
even if he doesn't tell everything that happens in his dream, dallas is smart. he'd guess. it's not as if they've forgotten what happened, not like they can. for all the bravado, for all the bravery for the first time, ponyboy thinks of how dallas might see it, pulling this soc omega away from everything else. how things might've seemed to him, that ponyboy had two brothers he'd pulled him away from, an inheritance that was vast ponyboy had given up, the circle of friends.…
and yet, ponyboy knows that he hadn't had many friends. that his best friend had been johnny and johnny had turned on him the minute that ponyboy had wanted to be more than tentative friends dallas. that he had been by himself for months in a fugue of grief, of sadness. that he had withdrawn from his brothers, and ultimately, he hadn't cared about the money. not when everything had felt so bereft with the loss of his parents. that he'd only started to feel normal again when he'd gone to the movies those few months, and now…
he kisses dallas softly on the mouth. dallas doesn't kiss back softly — he never does. his hand, wet from the tub, sinks into ponyboy's hair. it doesn't feel like how he'd touched him, after johnny died and it feels good. it feels right.
there are no promises made there. he just kisses dallas, until that look on his face is gone.
the day wanes — they have lunch in the kitchen after it gets cleaned. the spilled honey is fine, scooped back into the jar, the plates cleaned and cleared. dallas and ponyboy end up in the small living room together, on the couch.
dorothy-rae has a television that's still mostly black and white, barely able to pick up a signal but they're able to watch some local news together. there's nothing of too much importance, dallas more concerned about showing ponyboy how to play poker, and then ponyboy trying to explain to dallas how to play chess with the board dorothy-rae has. he's halfway through when the phone rings.
both of them freeze — dallas glances at ponyboy, and ponyboy reaches over, grasps his hand tightly. then dallas gets up, goes to the phone and picks it up. ponyboy hovers beside him, able to hear dorothy-rae's voice over the line, "hey, boys. i'm staying overnight in town — pearl needs help with the pup that's comin' and there's no midwife available except me."
"okay," dallas breathes out, in relief. "we'll be fine, dorothy-rae. see you tomorrow."
"i'll see you then. check up on the animals before you get to sleep," dorothy-rae says, and dallas hangs up. there's a wave of relief between them; whenever a call came there was half an expectation that it might be her, warning them to get out of there as soon as possible.
as it's not, ponyboy glances out the window, towards the animals. "think we should go ahead and feed 'em? so we can have dinner a little early?"
"you got something in mind?" dallas asks, almost never thinking about the actual act of cooking at all, not beyond the basics whereas ponyboy remembered the pork chops in the fridge.
"yeah, and it'll take awhile," ponyboy goes to the side of the kitchen, looking for the boots. they were still a bit big for him, and had belonged to dorothy-rae's mate. "we get them all fed now, we can come back, eat dinner in front of the tv."
the chores with the animals aren't ponyboy's best — half because when they'd come here, he was so sick that it took awhile for him to finally get the strength to go there with them. he was still learning, and a part of him just wanted to prove himself already. prove he wasn't just a spoiled soccy omega, and the rest of him just wants to do more than cook or clean or have nightmares.
"i'll get the bull and the horses — you fine with the chickens and the cows?" dallas doesn't baby him the way darry might've or soda as he shoves on dorothy-rae's boots.
"sure," ponyboy stands up, rolls up his sleeves and grabs the basket to collect eggs with and the bag for the feed. dallas opens the door and they both make their way out from the kitchen and onto the modest farm.
before they'd come here, dorothy-rae had mentioned that she had field hands to work with her at times after her mate had died. now, she had them, and ponyboy thinks it's not a bad deal, out of it all. he kicks up dust as they go to the main part of the farm, and for a moment, remembers a conversation he'd eavesdropped on a year ago, at the theater. back when dallas was someone he knew of and existed around, but hadn't had the guts to speak to yet.
the theater wasn't dark yet. a lot of the kids had already filed in and ponyboy had been by himself, one of the times where he'd skipped school, gone to the moviehouse instead. darry and soda hadn't known; all he wanted to do was get lost in a movie for once if he couldn't do it in a book or sunset. except, it had slipped his mind that this was a greaser hang out, that most of them went to this one instead of the other.
he had been quieter then, not even fourteen, sitting a row back, invisible. dallas had been there with sylvia, the greaser girl that ponyboy now knew was always an on and off thing, always contentious between them. back then he'd just thought that she had looked a little pretty if gaudy, with very red lipstick and bottle blonde hair, how she had laughed when dallas had said that if he were in the country, he'd be bored with it all.
and here he was now, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it as he looks at the animals dorothy-rae had, half a tan on his skin, miles and miles away from a city. when he lights up the cigarette, he glances over at ponyboy, sharp eyed. "what you thinking about?"
there's an inclination to say nothing, except he knows dallas well enough now. ponyboy reaches over the cigarette, dallas passing it over, "just… remember something you said. about you'd be bored out in the country." he takes a drag from the cigarette, not sure if dallas would remember saying that. he must though with the way his eyebrows go up in surprise.
"you sneak," the tone comes out accusatory and to ponyboy's delight, a little childish. "you were at that moviehouse? i ain't scent you."
"think your nose was in sylvia's neck most of the movie," ponyboy grins around the cigarette. "your fingers might've been elsewhere." he gets shoved for that and he blows out smoke as they get closer to the farmland. "i was there plenty of times — you just ain't see me til a little later is all, after i presented." in fact, if ponyboy thinks his math is right, he presented about two weeks later. and the week after that was the first time dallas turned around to him, sneered at him, and they'd finally spoken.
"go on, get those chickens, we can talk later," dallas takes the cigarette back right as the chickens start to cluck, gathering around the fence. he thinks he can hear the bull bellow in greeting — and dallas mouth curls into a displeased sneer in response. ponyboy goes right, dallas goes left, climbing over the fence and into the enclosure.
the chickens gather around ponyboy, his hand dips into the feed bag and he scatters out feed to them. they cluck and chatter around him as he goes about, counting them carefully to make sure none of the dumb things have wandered off. they haven't, at least.
when he slips into the coop, checks on the birds there, there aren't any new eggs to take, and he gets out quick enough. from there, it's the cows — and the two billy goats — that need tending to. it's work to do it, to count the cows, to fill the trough with water from the well dorothy-rae has, to get the hay out for them. ponyboy works up a sweat as he goes, the afternoon sun turning to evening with the work. at different times, he glimpses dallas: leading horses to and fro, getting the hay he needed for them, cursing the bull a time or two. there's a tense moment where the bull looks as if it's about to charge, pony freezing where he stands, a goat squirming in his arms.
the bull's big, really big — with curving, white horns that are paler than his white coat. it stares dallas down, unhappy that dallas was in it's own little territory with him. dallas looks like he might not back down either, both of them tense. the bull starts to pick up speed, and dallas does the sensible thing, climbing up over the fence, hopping it before the bull can make another move towards him.
ponyboy can feel his heart in his throat at the way dallas falls off the fence, hitting his side. he can't make out the curses he hurls at the bull only that the bull canters in triumph, delight, before dallas is stalking off again.
by the time the evening falls, they're both back at the house, bruised in dallas' case, and dirty from the chores. ponyboy's arms ache, and his chest does too a little. he pushes it aside though as the sun hangs in the sky, knowing it wouldn't set for at least another half our or so. dallas rubs at his face, grumbling, but all the chores done before six.
ponyboy considers a nap at that moment, so tired he is from the work. he and dallas share a cigarette, and finally, they pump some water from the well, bathe themselves quick, and then they're inside for the evening.
"you still want to cook by yourself?" dallas huffs out, the sun starting sink.
"huh?" ponyboy is pulled out of his thoughts, and then shakes his head. "no, you mind getting some of it? think we got potatoes we can boil." both of them know dallas isn't as knowledgeable as he is — that seems simple enough.
"i'll go start it," dallas pushes inside, leaving ponyboy where he is. he can see the sun start to sink on the horizon, turning the sky into a dusky honey gold. it's not like the ones in tulsa, exactly — something about this one is too yellow, not orange enough as it goes down. it's missing reds too, and still it's beautiful to watch it go. he can hear dallas banging around in the kitchen, swearing as he gets pots out and onto the stove.
he remembers with real clarity the beach johnny had taken him to. it had been a days drive, he'd been fourteen for two weeks then, and hadn't bathed and dressed himself in days until johnny had taken him out. he thought that the beach would be fun and good with johnny and it had been — it really had. at least for a little while, as the sun had set and he and johnny had gone quiet in their own way.
even then, though, it aches. it wasn't perfect. johnny had been impatient with him days after for still not being himself — cajoling him for a drive, trying to show off things in the way of his that no one else would find all that show but to ponyboy said everything. he had been so desperate to make ponyboy okay again, even telling some of the hanger ons to leave them alone.
and ultimately…
ponyboy remembers the chlorine, the words, the spray of blood. throws his cigarette to the ground and goes inside where dallas is putting the skillet on, the television on in the background. where dallas takes a look at his pensive face and doesn't demand his attention, only comes to lock the door behind him and push him to the fridge.
dallas doesn't demand anything more than a kiss and a slap to the ass as they cook and it's nice. ponyboy doesn't feel like speaking much until the pork chops are on the old plates that dorothy-rae keeps, nudged against the not-that-mashed-but-certainly-mushed potatoes following from dallas, the corn on the cob they both thought of at the last minute and the soda for ponyboy and beer for dallas are all together.
it's not like the fancy dinners where darry and paul were at the head of the table in absence of their parents with decent chicken but lacking vegetables with soda visibly bored and steve almost never there or the times when he and soda would sneak to a room to eat snacks and cake with each other, giggling. it's not quite like when his parents were alive, and they all talked together, with his mom rolling her eyes at his father's jokes or his father cajoling him with soda, darry and his mother conversing seriously.
it's, well, better a little to have dallas with very little manners shoving his fork into the potatoes with hardly clean hands, in semi dirty clothes, sitting against a couch as they watch the flintstones together. he likes taking a sip of the beer dallas has, and seeing dallas pull a face at the offer of the pepsi ponyboy knows is always going to be refused. he likes bumping elbows with him, and then shoving, and then the fun that comes when they start to wrestle in the light of the television — and he loves it more when he's pinned beneath dallas, panting, and the kiss dallas gives isn't anything nice or sweet.
he doesn't kiss back nice — but maybe it's a touch sweet, when he does.
there's the sound of something hitting the floor with a bang and for the first time that day, ponyboy wakes up, and it isn't from a dream he can rightly remember — there's only the vague sense memory of smoke, of a hand on his elbow, and neon red. they all vanish within seconds; he feels disoriented for a moment, trying to figure out what's wrong. he's in bed, dallas is beside him, it's dark. they went to bed hours ago, after dallas had shared his beer, ponyboy reading with dallas' head in his lap. and —
there are wolves howling outside. he can hear something animal screaming with it and fear shoots up his spine. there's a bellowing and then he and dallas are both moving. dallas goes for dorothy-rae's room, three steps ahead of him, getting the gun. ponyboy gets the ammunition and he doesn't know how either of them can be this calm as more sounds rent the air.
then they're both barreling out the door, and ponyboy can hear it clearly: the bull. he's bellowing, and both he and dallas are running closer to the pen he's kept in. the medallion is banging against his chest, and then they can both see it: three wolves, snapping and snarling, with one on the bull's back. he's cornered by them, blood staining his coat, and ponyboy doesn't have to say anything for dallas to get the shotgun up.
he covers his ears on reflex, and the shot goes off. but it's not a good one; it's fired too wide, only getting the wolves attention, not really scaring them off. dallas swears, fumbles, fires again and it's wider.
"give it," ponyboy turns, offering his hands out. dallas looks like he wants to hesitate — then he's shoving it to ponyboy. it's heavy in his hands, yet his hands remember how to handle a shotgun, remembers how to aim the way his parents taught him as the wolves snarl. the bull bellows, catches one of the wolves on his horns —
ponyboy fires. it hits home: the wolf on top of the bull takes the shot right in the skull. the other wolves freeze for a moment, and he reloads, puts the shotgun back up. he aims: they've turned tail, backing away with whimpers and snarls.
his hands feel slippery when he puts the shotgun down, panting as if he'd run a mile. the wolves turn, disappear fully into the landscape but the bull? the bull sags, drops to the ground. ponyboy can't do anything but shiver, watch as dallas runs over to the pen at breakneck speed.
his body feels almost as if it isn't his. like was back at the fountain, when the blood had been on his face and neck and he hadn't completely comprehended that johnny was dead. his legs feel stiff as he carries the shotgun with him, taking him to the pen. the other animals are making various states of noises and he puts the gun down so he can climb over the fence.
by then dallas has one of the lanterns dorothy-rae keeps, and he's holding it over the bull. his eyes are going wild in his head, head tossing, groaning in pain as dallas looks at him, his face drawn up. ponyboy doesn't spare a glance for the wolf's corpse — he's more captivated by dallas, who'd hated this bull, trying his best to try and touch his head, to try and comfort it. it doesn't work — one blood stained horn nicks at his cheek, the bull bellowing defiantly.
"you fucking—" dallas swears, blood trailing down his cheek, and then looks at ponyboy with what can only be described as fear, and hurt. not for himself, but for the bull, twisting, half of his insides out.
he doesn't have to say anything. neither does dallas.
there's only one thing that can be done.
"ssh," ponyboy finds himself reaching out for the bull's head. where the bull bellows, hates dallas, he doesn't mind ponyboy touching his forehead. ponyboy can see the whites of his eyes, can hear it heaving for breaths. his fingers stroke his ears, some of the blood around the horns. carefully, he eases himself beneath his head, the weight heavy.
he makes soft sounds that soda used to make for him at night, the ones that had made ponyboy feel better, crying in those days after their parents death. he doesn't know what else to do as dallas moves to the barn. he doesn't know how long he sits there, looking at those eyes, seeing more and more red stain his white coat.
not until dallas says, "move your hand, pony."
he moves his hand and then there's an awful choking noise from the bull. there's a spray of blood, the feeling of it seeping into his lap and his eyes shift to see dallas, cutting the bulls throat with what seemed to be a leftover scythe of some kind. his face is determined as he does it, eyes shining in the poor lantern light the way they had at buck's, when he'd told ponyboy to go home, and ponyboy had shaken his head no.
the reminder pulls him back and for a moment, ponyboy is taken back to that night — but not to buck's. no, he's taken back to the park. he's taken back to johnny's blood spraying on him, taken back to the dewy grass and ponyboy feels himself lock up as the scent of blood grows thicker, overpowering without chlorine to balance it out.
the bull dies in his lap, the lowing turned to gurgling and then to nothingness.
his vision blurs into colors. ponyboy can feel tears rolling hotly down his face, and dallas cups his cheeks the same way he had at the park, only the blood on his hands isn't human this time. ponyboy looks at his eyes, and thinks of how dark they are, how much they resemble the bull's own.
he reaches up and it's surprising to him that his hands already have blood on them when he grasps dallas' own.
😇 i've teased at this scenario before but i decided that it would be more fun to show us a glimpse through this way instead of a more traditional one, ha. this scenario happened because aishitaeru had an amazing brainwave in january, we rode with it in the DMs and then this came out. i love questions, comments, and kudos. thank you so much for reading.
