An older werewolf from a large city. He was not born that way, but instead turned when he was in his early teens. He was homeless after his parents died in a house fire and was attacked by a small group, robbed and left weak in an alley. He was then attacked by a wandering werewolf, who was close to death. He watched him die as he turned for the first time.
What followed was years upon years of haunting the streets of the city, killing innocents and losing control. He viewed himself as a monster and did everything he possibly could to stop it, with no progress.
Eventually, he was captured by shady traders in the city and put on the market. This is where he first met Fenella, who was touring with her mother. She wanted to pay for him, just so he could be free, but her mother refused, and he was instead sold to a wealthy empress who kept him as a personal servant and bed warmer. Years passed that way until he snapped and killed her, after talk of using him to produce her a strong heir. He ran free for a while after that, living completely feral, killing as he pleased. He met Fenella when she went for a wander in the woods, only surviving because of her vampirism. Recognising her, he came to stay with her tentatively, and eventually never wanted to leave.
Summary: Following the trend of trying to pretend things have gone back to normal, the three of them slink into town to look for some new clothes. Finding some replacements as discreetly as they can, they eventually manage to laugh and pretend they're back at home.
cw: grief and implied/referenced child abuse
a/n: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I feel like i'm getting to the point in my life where I actually really enjoy writing characters talking to each other
also on a03! lol, it's been on there longer than tumblr
With the car rattling comfortably along the road, Ponyboy fixed his gaze on their surroundings, flitting by outside the window. He felt oddly content, considering everything, and he chalked it up to the food in his stomach, the exercise heâd had earlier that morning and sunlight blazing through the car. He was warm, out in the bright sunlight for the first time in what felt like so long, after he and Johnny had squirreled themselves away in that abandoned church Dallas had pointed them towards. Going swimming had allowed him to stretch, to move freely without worrying about being spotted. Theyâd been cramped up and hidden away, before ending up bundled into the car for ages, equally just as cramped, and his muscles had been starting to feel like they were turning to stone.
He shifted in place, sinking back into the seat, letting himself relax just a little bit more. Heâd been tense since theyâd gone to eat, all three of them pulling back on their wrinkled shirts and dusty jeans so they could pile into the car and head for the nearest fast food place.
Sure, he and Johnny had huddled down in the backseat, ducking even lower every time the sound of footsteps drew too close to the car, but that hadnât done much to soothe his fear of discovery. The only comfort heâd managed to draw during the agonising wait for Dallas to join them in the car again had come from imagining Two Bit laughing at him for worrying like heâd been the one to go and stab someone. He was kind of glad he wasnât with them, even if he couldnât help but think of him as he worried. He wouldnât be able to keep quiet or stay inconspicuous for long.
But, before long, Dallas had slipped back into the car, almost scaring the two of them out of their skin, and theyâd been back on the road, stopping by a small, empty park to scarf down the food as the sun rose to its fullest point.Â
âHey. You two wanna go and grab some new clothes?â Dallas asked, breaking the midday silence, tapping absently at the steering wheel as he turned the car, heading straight towards the centre of whatever town theyâd ended up in.
The two were silent for a minute, exchanging a baffled look between them. The proposal felt almost unreal, like theyâd closed their eyes for a fraction of a second and fallen into some other version of their world.
âHave you lost your mind?â Johnny eventually spat out, his face frozen in an expression of confusion. âI thought we werenât supposed to be making ourselves too conspicuous?â
âAnd we wonât. Come on man, I canât stay in these clothes forever, Iâm itching like crazy already.â Dallas replied, rolling his eyes flippantly.
âWe canât just stroll down the street like usual, Dal. Weâre bound to get booked.â
âHave some faith in me, Johnnycake. I know what Iâm doing. So long as we stay out of the way, I doubt weâll raise a single eyebrow.â
Johnny settled back into his seat, eyes fixed on his feet. Ponyboy could practically hear the cogs ticking around and around in his head, thoughts flitting erratically back and forth behind his eyes.
Dallas turned down a small, nondescript street, and Ponyboyâs eyes flitted to the window, his attention caught on a few stores dotting an otherwise semi-abandoned block. One was painted a very faded red, so light that he almost thought that it was exposed brick for a moment. There were racks of clothes just outside, with folded paper taped to the front of each, flapping gently in the breeze. As Dallas pulled into a spot across the street, he realised they were signs telling passerby that the racks were discounted.
The three of them sat there, frozen, for a moment. It was like a leap of faith, and none of them wanted to jump first, especially if it meant dragging the other two down to their potential deaths as well.
âCome on. Just follow me and donât draw attention to yourself. Itâs easy.â Dallas said, opening his door and stepping outside, throwing himself off of that imaginary precipice with careless abandon.
Scared and nervous, Johnny and Ponyboy followed suit, stepping out into the clear, midday sun. It felt almost wrong to be out there and he wanted to dart back into the car the moment he was out in the open. By the looks of it, Johnny felt the same way, huddling into his jean jacket, eyes darting over the pavement erratically.Â
The street was empty, the only other signs of life being the shadow of someone moving around inside the store with the clothes racks out the front and a battered Rambler parked at the opening of the little street.
Dallas didnât seem at all as concerned as they were, strolling across the street with the callous confidence of a well fed alley cat, blue eyes flashing with smug conviction.Â
Once they reached the racks, Dallas didnât miss a beat, not faltering once, reaching to start shuffling through the various sizes and styles left out there. Only now did Ponyboy notice that they were standing outside the thrift, flyers for missing pets and community events yellowing in the sun, taped to the front display window.
He tried his best to follow suit, trying to relax his shoulders and look like he didnât have a care in the world, just stopping by for a quick browse, nothing to see here. He stuck close by Johnny, bobbing back and forth, worried that if he stuck too close to his side he might start to look unnatural to any people passing by.
Once there was some distance between them and Dallas, who had drifted off to examine the things stacked by the front door, Ponyboy shuffled over to where Johnny was, meeting his gaze from the other side of the rack they were pretending to look at.
âWhatâs with him?â he whispered, flicking absently through the childrenâs sizes blocking him from the other clothes.
âWhat dâyou mean?âÂ
âWeâve been stuck in that car for ages, on the run, but now all of a sudden heâs full of beans?â
Johnny sighed, knocking his forehead against the metal rack.
âYeah, I know. Look, just ignore it, Pone. Heâs probably just glad to be out of that car for a while. Dal gets stir crazy when heâs stuck in one place for too long, and it's not like we havenât both been annoyed by how cramped up weâve been lately.â
Ponyboy looked away, his attention drawn back to the clothes on the rack. None of them were things heâd typically wear, but that was probably for the best. Nobody would recognise him that way.
He doubted that Dallas was just stir crazy. He was never just stir crazy, or bored, or tired, or whatever other excuse he tossed over his shoulder on his way to his next score. Something about the narrowing of his eyes reminded him of a snake, hidden back beneath a rock or somebodyâs porch, watching ankles moving back and forth, deciding which one to latch onto first. There was something behind that look, he just couldnât figure out what.
Maybe heâd feel better if Soda was with them. Heâd be able to understand it all far better than he could, and even if he couldnât, heâd probably be able to actually make him feel better.
But Soda wasnât with them. Of course he wasnât. He wasnât involved in this mess theyâd found themselves stuck in. He was back at home, going about his usual life, going from work to home as if nothing was wrong.
He was probably worried sick. Just the thought alone sent a pang of guilt worming through his stomach and he grabbed something off the rack, slinging over his arm, half hoping the act would take his mind off it all. That failed, not even working for a split second, but luckily, it looked like Dallas was heading back their way again, carrying a few bundles of fabric under one arm.
âWhatâve you got?â he asked, still unusually chipper, in his own weird way.
Johnnyâs attention turned to him and he could faintly hear him telling Dallas about what heâd come across out there, but it felt like Ponyboyâs ears were clogged with cotton wool, drawing his focus away from that moment, and instead drifting over to the storeâs window, staring absently at interior racks, spanning all the way to the very back of the store, weaving lanes of shirts and pants filling the space, dotted by small stools with other knicknacks piled on top.
There were stores like this back home. He hardly ever found himself wandering through one, since clothes had never been something that entertained his mind and he had basically everything he needed in the wardrobe department, leaving the little store a few blocks down from his house devoid of his patronage.
There was another one, or at least another one he knew about, further in town and closer to the other stores and businesses in the heart of it all, much bigger than the one he was used to seeing. He hadnât been anywhere near there in years. He hadnât even noticed it until now.
He didnât recognise the specific interior of the store in front of him. He knew that. But it was enough to tip over the memories in the back of his mind, sending them skittering through his head like the spilled contents of an old storage box.
The bigger store back home had been a cornerstone of his earliest childhood memories. Back when things felt simpler, and the only big event in his life was the weekly event of running errands with his mother. Heâd spent what felt like hours crawling around underneath the many clothes racks, reaching up to trail his hand through the swathes of different fabrics. It had felt like heaven back then, able to squirm around under there, knowing that the safety of his mother was only a few feet away.
His eyes prickled unexpectedly and he turned away, wiping furiously at his face. The action pulled some of the wool out of his head and he self consciously started to cough, shaking his head a little to stave off the blooming tears.
âYou alright, Pony?â Johnny called, leaning over the rack, who he quickly tried to wave away as quickly as possible.
âYeah, yeah, sorry. Got something in my nose.â he choked out, wiping at his face one last time, sniffling back the rest of his tears before they could even form.
That seemed to be enough of an explanation for both he and Dallas, the latter of which took the clothes Johnny passed to him and headed inside, a bell above the door jingling to announce his arrival.
âWait, whereâs he going?â Ponyboy asked, trying to shake off the fog that had settled over him for a minute there.
âHe said heâs got some cash for the clothes, so Iâm guessing heâs going to pay for all of it. Donât worry, I snagged you a thing or two.â Johnny replied, shooting him a small smile, a ghost of his old sense of humour dancing across his face for a split second.Â
Maybe Dallasâ odd good mood was getting contagious. He kind of hoped so. Seeing Johnny so small, his expression always storming, gaze locked on his feet and mouth set in a hard, guilty line, made him feel just as miserable.Â
âCome on, letâs get back to the car.â Johnny said and he followed him the minute he moved, tagging along behind him without thinking much about it.
He hadnât expected to get so upset that it brought him to tears. Hell, he hadnât cried over all of that in a good while. He wasnât sure why, now that he thought about it, and he didnât like the wave of guilt that overtook him when he realised that. He didnât want to forget his parents. Heâd been committed to never ridding his memory of them. They didnât deserve that.
Maybe he shouldnât have wiped away his tears, and let them fall instead. But he didnât want to start bawling in front of both Johnny and Dallas. They were in enough of a jam, the last thing they needed was for him to go to pieces all over them.
He barely registered it as they reached the car, the doors clicking open and shut as the pair climbed inside, Johnny in the passenger seat yet again. His own thoughts were swirling so hard and so fast that he barely paid what was going on around him any mind.
It was only now that he started to realise how awful this all felt. He was so far from home, so far from everything he was used to, everyone that he knew, and any distant memories of his parents still lingering around them all.Â
What if he got back and it all felt different? What if those glimmers of his parents he felt around him when visiting their old haunts were long gone by the time of his return? What if he had to lose them all over again?
His hands rubbed at the legs of his jeans, the uncomfortable feeling of the dirt and grime caught all over them nearly driving him to grind his teeth against his gums. He was starting to be thankful for Dallasâ risky idea. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back, still wet from their dip in the little spot theyâd found amongst the trees, and he was sure heâd go nuts if he had to sit in the backseat and wait for it to dry in whatever sunlight filtered through the windows.
âYou doing alright?â Johnny asked, slinging one arm over the back of his seat in a gesture that resembled Dallas so much it felt oddly alien when Johnny did it. Despite that, his brown eyes were sincere and the expression on his face was one of genuine concern.
âYeah, I guess. The, uhâŠthrift store kinda reminded me of this place my mom and I used to visit when I was a kid.â he answered, picking at a loose thread sticking out of the side of his jeans.
âOh, yeah?â
âYeah. We always used to swing round before we went grocery shopping for the week. My dad could never understand it, but I think I could, in my own way. She just liked looking at stuff, even if we didnât need any of it back home. I guess it was her way of relaxinâ.âÂ
The car was quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of birds tweeting through the grass shifting in the breeze just outside. It felt so strange to say it all out loud, this oddly painful memory that never used to be such a sore point. But he knew Johnny would care. Johnny was a lot more like him than any of the others. He knew what he meant, even when he could force his words into sentences that communicated his point right.
âMy mom used to like doing that kind of thing too. Way, way back, when I was little.â Johnny eventually said, looking down at his hands, which had busied themselves fiddling with the cracked leather of the seat. âWe used to go on these little trips, just us, and weâd bounce around town all day, looking through any little stores we came across. It didnât happen very often, usually only whenever she woke up in a good mood, butâŠyâknowâŠI always used to look forward to it.â
They both went quiet again, not looking at each other, busying their hands instead, as their thoughts spun far out of control.Â
It was a weird thing to imagine, Johnnyâs mother in good spirits, bustling through department stores with her tiny son in tow. He wasnât sure he could even imagine her not screaming. He wondered if it was the same for Johnny. Could he even think of his mother without hearing her shrill voice piercing the air, words ringing fierce with venomous hate?
âI miss when things were simple, like back then.â Ponyboy muttered, half surprised that those words even managed to push past his lips.
âMe too.â Johnny said, and he was again surprised by his response, that heâd even allowed those soft, vulnerable words to pull into the air outside his head. Maybe it was the change in location. Maybe being away from everything they were familiar with was helping him open up, his mind devoid of the typical fear of vulnerability that seemed to dog all three of them.Â
Before they could dwell on it all too much, the driverâs side door swung open and Dallas pulled himself into the car, slamming it shut behind him. There was a tall, brown paper bag sitting on his lap, which he promptly tossed into the back seat. Ponyboy only just ducked out of the way, and it instead fell onto the seat beside him, the folded clothes inside spilling out.
âWeâll go find a bathroom or something now, yeah? Because I canât stay in these clothes for another minute, I swear.â he said, still wearing the unshakeable demeanour heâd adopted earlier.
Without waiting for either of them to respond, he started the car and pulled away from the curb, the car trailing off down the street, Dallasâ cold, blue eyes flicking from the street in front of him to the street on his side, scanning for whatever he was looking for.
âWhat took you so long, Dal? The cashier giving you trouble?â Johnny asked, his tone a little off, clearly still carrying some of that worry that had reared its head when Dallas first suggested showing their faces in a public place.
âNah, not really. It looked like she wanted to chat my ear off, but I guess she doesnât get much company over there.â Dallas snorted, rolling his eyes like he had somewhere to be other than chatting with whatever random employees felt like catching his ear.
Johnny and Dallas kept talking, but Ponyboy lost interest, his gaze drifting to the road dragging lazily past them out the window. He watched grassy streets and old houses drift by as they drove through town, little details of peopleâs lives passing by without a second thought from any of them.Â
Everyone here had lives, just like he did, and he couldnât help but wonder if things worked here the way it did back home. Did they worry about socs, or greasers, or either? Or did they have their own separate thing, something completely foreign to the three of them? All of these little details skimming past them as they drove through neighbourhood after neighbourhood, childrenâs toys abandoned in the grass, packets of cigarettes stacked on a fencepost, a crate of newspapers fading in the sun, all of those were a part of someoneâs life, they all had a story and an explanation behind them, and he couldnât help but wish they could stop for a moment and find out what it was all about.
He sighed and sunk back into his seat, letting the window down a little so that the passing breeze could comb its cold fingers through his hair.Â
Even if they did have the time to stop, that wouldnât mean anything. Realistically, they wouldnât be able to find out anything and everything about the lives of the people they passed. That would involve staying there way longer than they could, and much longer than theyâd all want to. They were all missing someone and setting up in a different town for who knows how long wouldnât make any of them happy.
Johnny and Dallas were still talking, locked in a conversation that he could barely focus on. The two of them were like that, similar to himself and Johnny, and he could never fully understand it. He and Johnny understood each other, had similar personalities, so they were able to talk for hours without getting bored and understand each other without ever needing to speak. Johnny and Dallas seemed to have the same kind of bond, which he could never seem to puzzle out. The two of them couldnât be more different in every way, and he often wondered how they managed to talk without arguing every minute of every day.
Johnny was small, down trodden, bearing a deep scar along the side of his face as a reminder of how harsh of a hand heâd been dealt. He and Ponyboy were able to share those few moments of vulnerability due to Johnnyâs patience and his nonjudgemental attitude. He spent all of his time huddled into his jean jacket, wide, dark eyes peering out at everyone with a pleading look, as if asking without speaking to be kind and leave him alone.
Dallas, on the other hand, was sharp around every edge, with a spiked matt of white-blonde hair puffing out around his face like a demented halo. His blue eyes were cold and cruel, his smile always too sharp, as if he was constantly baring his teeth. He never slumped back into himself, standing out proud, with the overconfidence of someone who was afraid of nothing. He prowled through his life with no fear, no worry, doing as he wanted when he wanted, throwing caution to the wind. He only cared about himself and what he wanted at that moment.
And yet here they were, sitting close in the front of the car, laughing as they talked like there wasnât enough time in the world. Johnnyâs face had softened out of its nervous mask somewhat and his eyes glimmered with an odd, hopeful look that Ponyboy couldnât quite understand. Dallas was smiling too, which still looked as threatening as ever, but there was a calmness settling over his features, making the sharper parts of him almost fade into the background, even the wide scar cutting across one side of his face becoming almost unnoticeable.Â
It was hard not to wonder about him, especially in moments like this, when he looked almost normal and approachable. He knew he wouldnât have bothered even participating in the conversation he and Johnny had just had. But did he have memories like that? Come to think of it, he didnât know a thing about Dallasâ parents. He couldnât even picture him like that, skipping along behind his mother while she headed to the grocery store. He couldnât picture Dallas like that, with round cheeks and bright eyes, gapped teeth beaming innocently at other passersby.Â
Maybe it was so hard to picture because heâd never been that way. Maybe Dallas came from a long line of people with hard set shoulders and sharp, mean grins, with the exact same attitude problems he bore like a badge of honour. Maybe heâd never been small or innocent, and he always would have grown into the person he was today.
Now <i>that</i> was easy for him to picture.
Eventually, they pulled into a spot out the front of a small park, which was empty, apart from one man and his dog, but they were running back and forth on the opposite end, far enough away that they couldnât see his face. Good. He wouldnât be able to see theirs either.
Following in the footsteps of each other, they all filed into the bathroom, a small, square brick building. The inside was as nondescript as the outside, years worth of dirt and whatever else caking the walls inside. There was only one stall, so Johnny gestured for Ponyboy to go first, Dallas handing him a folded bundle of clothes.Â
He awkwardly shuffled in the stall and pushed the door closed. The lock was half hanging askew, looking like someone had kicked it off in a fit of rage. It stayed shut for the most part though, so he hung the new clothes up on the hook on the door and got started shedding the shirt Dallas had given him the night they ran off.
It felt odd, looking at the shirt lying on the floor like a half folded snake skin. It would be nice if it would work like that in real life. If he could just shed his skin, leave behind the parts of him attached to all of this.
For a moment, he bunched his fists in the fabric of the shirt, just like the night Dallas had pushed it into his lap. Then, his hands had been shaking, barely managing to latch onto the fabric, still freezing cold and soaking wet from being shoved into that fountain.
He dropped the shirt, grabbing at the new clothes, as if the thought had shocked him back into his body. Just thinking of it made him feel queasy and he was grimly thankful that he was in a bathroom stall.
He could only just keep the memory out of his head, and every night he felt it lapping closer and closer to his heels. The feeling of freezing water flooding his lungs, the animalistic panic that drove him to kick and clutch at whatever solid shape he could feel nearby, all of it lingered in the very back of his head, threatening to take him over once again, sending him into a panicked spiral.
Hands beginning to shake, he unbuttoned his pants, shedding them next so he could don the new ones. Heâd been so sure he wouldnât come back home. As his vision had faded, no matter how hard heâd tried to maintain an iron grip on consciousness, heâd been positive heâd never see his brothers again, never know what fate befell Johnny that night after they were done drowning him. Darry hated him, and yet in that moment heâd wanted nothing more than to be back home, even if it meant him chewing his ear off for staying out so late. He hadnât always been that way. Heâd been easy going a long time ago, easy to smile and quick to respond to any joke. Heâd been the big brother everyone wanted and Pony had been positive heâd have his back no matter what. He didnât know where that part of him was now. As water had flooded his nose and blurred his vision, heâd desperately wished to go back home to that version of his brother. The one he could recognise.
His big brother didnât have tense shoulders and bags under his eyes. His brother was usually outside, laughing and tossing a ball around with Soda, hollering at any of their friends that passed by, half challenging them to some kind of contest, that they were all always positive heâd win. That was his brother. Not this stranger wearing the shell of him their parentâs death had left behind.
Shaking that thought away, Ponyboy brushed himself off and pulled the bathroom door open, his old clothes tucked under his arm.
âDonât toss the clothes. Donât wanna leave a trail for anyone to follow.â Dallas told him, expression turning serious as he moved past him, the door soon clicking shut behind him.
Ponyboy stood in front of the cracked, smudged mirror for a moment, brushing and tugging at his clothes. The image in front of him made him wince. His hair was sticking up in tufts, much shorter than heâd ever had it, and cut so unevenly it looked like it had all started growing at different times. It was bright yellow blonde as well, so foreign to him that he struggled to even recognise himself.
The clothes Dallas had grabbed fit fine, other than the shirt, which had to be half tucked into his jeans, since it hung low and baggy around his waist. He patted at the off white fabric, smoothing down the small lapels and trying to ignore how much he didnât like the red and blue stripes running across the top of the entire shirt.Â
At least the jeans were pretty neutral, a brighter blue than he would have chosen normally, but devoid of any stray threads or patchy holes. They looked kind of good with his scuffed shoes and he felt himself stand a little taller as he noticed it.Â
Maybe not looking like himself could be fun. He wouldnât have to worry about anyone noticing him or judging him and his family, because even if he ran into someone he knew, they probably wouldnât even notice it was him.
âYou look like a soc.â Johnny chuckled, cocking his head to stare at him.
âItâs only because you washed all the grease out of my hair.â
âNah, I think youâd still be able to pull it off with your hair greased down.â
âI donât think Iâd make a very good soc.â
âYouâre too rough around the edges.â
âSays you. Even grease canât keep your hair from looking scruffy, Johnnycake.â
âYeah, yeah, donât think I havenât noticed.â
They both giggled quietly and Ponyboy felt a little more weight slide off his shoulders. These small moments, small snatches of being able to act like their typical, every day selves soothed some of the frantic worry curdling in the pit of his stomach.
The stall door cracked open and Dallas paced out, not even glancing at the mirror. He settled against the wall opposite it and Ponyboy tried his hardest to choke back a small giggle.
Dallas looked just about the same, with his matted mane of hair brushing his shoulders and his wilde, blue eyes glittering with buried emotion, the only difference now being a checkered green shirt and a pair of loose, dark jeans. He couldnât quite tell if they were loose because they didnât fit or it was just the cut of them.
A soft snicker bubbled out of Johnny, Dallasâ immediately swinging around to face him. There wasnât a touch of humour in his expression but Johnny didnât seem to care, hiding his face in one hand as he buckled over with mirth.
âIâm sorry Dal, but gloryâŠyou look awful funny.â Johnny struggled to say, his words choking out in between his laughter.
Dallas just rolled his eyes, shoving a bundle of clothes into Johnnyâs arms.
âJust get changed already.â he grumbled, moving so he could make his way past him, into the only cubicle.
Once the stall door snapped shut and Johnny was out of sight, Dallas fixed his gaze on Ponyboy, who was trying his best to keep a grin off his face.
âYouâre not laughing over there, are you, Ponboy?â he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the brick.
âCourse not, Dal.â
His critical gaze didnât shift. The two of them just huddled there for a moment, cast in awkward silence, and he couldnât be sure what intentions lurked behind Dallasâ sharp gaze.
Luckily, Johnny left the stall only a few minutes later, taking his place by the mirror to pull at the orange polo that clung uncomfortably to his arms, clearly too small. His new jeans were rolled up at the ankles, further than he usually ever would have.
âI swear, I thought theyâd fit.â Dallas said, looking almost ashamed as Johnny fidgeted, running a hand through his short, uneven hair.
âThey do, for the most part. Theyâll do for now.â he assured him, and that seemed to soothe whatever worry was stirring in Dallas.
âLet's get going then. Iâm getting itchy, hanging around here for as long as we have.â
âYou were the one suggesting we stroll into a thrift store in broad daylight. Youâre telling me <i>now</i> youâve grown some sense?â
âYeah, yeah, whatever. Letâs just get in the car. Put some more distance between us.â
No one had any complaints with that and they all filed out of the bathroom, trotting across the short grass until they reached the car that was starting to become their full time home. Before long, they were all piled inside and speeding off, the little town already beginning to fall away behind them, as they headed back onto the open road. The windows were open, a fresh smelling breeze wafting through the car, spinning through their hair and bringing a healthy flush to their cheeks.
Ponyboy leant back, letting out a long sigh, the warm air allowing him to drift off to sleep, falling into a midday nap. He was finding it easier and easier to sleep during the day now, when before, drifting off, even at night, had always felt like pulling teeth. He wasnât sure if he was grateful for the change or not.Â
summary: it's her wedding night. Stella should be overjoyed. She should be excited. There's so many things she should be.
She should be happy.
Why isn't she happy?
cw: royal family sexism, implied sexual acts, loveless marriage, general angsty feelings
a/n: honestly, the main thing drawing me back to this rewrite is the concept of Stella I came up with, it infects my brain every now and again
The water running was so loud that it drowned out anything outside the bathroom. Stella was thankful for that. It was soothing, almost, to sink into the noise, hidden behind its loudness, sequestered away from anything that might make her feel worse than she already did.
The bathroom was cold, sending occasional chills through her snowy white feathers. Small clumps of them littered the floor, standing out starkly against the lavender tiles.
Stella tried to slow her shaking breaths, wrapping her arms around herself and gently squeezing.Â
Sheâd be OK. It was fine. Everything was fine.
The water had risen much further than sheâd originally intended, but Stella didnât care much. She turned the tap, switching it off, before climbing in and sighing. The warm water was exactly what she needed. It felt like the tender contact sheâd been longing for the entire night, curving along her back and embracing her under the arms, soothing any of her small internal aches and insecurities keeping her trapped in this uneasy state of mind.Â
Pleasant smelling bubbles crept up around her face and shoulders as she huddled down into the warm water, pulling her knees up to her chest. The cold that the entire palace seemed to emanate started to drain out of her slowly, replaced by comforting warmth seeping into her very bones.Â
Stella leant back in the tub, closing her eyes and sinking down into the water, until the warmth began to creep up her chin. Despite the comfort of the waterâs temperature, she couldnât shake the chill in her bones, the feeling of exposure that she just couldnât rid herself of.
She knew that she shouldnât feel so sad, so lonely, so afraid. It was her wedding night. Only so many hours ago, sheâd stood at the altar and taken the name of her husband, becoming the princess sheâd always dreamed of, ever since she was a little girl. Sheâd gotten money, a crown and a husband, all things that sheâd always been promised. She was more than happy to take the money. Arriving in the new palace for the first time, sheâd been astounded by the decor. The wealth present there had made her familyâs estate look like a pauperâs home in comparison. If this was all her new life was, she was overjoyed to move forward into her marriage, even if it was arranged.
Besides all that, sheâd always secretly hoped to find a way out of her familyâs palace through this marriage. Away from those cold, dreary halls, filled by her mother and brotherâs harsh, cruel laughter, away from the eyes constantly watching, judging and picking apart her every move. Somewhere she could begin to feel like herself, where she could begin to understand the person she was outside of her family and their near constant plotting. Somewhere she could be more than just a pawn for climbing the social ladder.
Stella rubbed anxiously at the bald patches lining her upper arms, remnants of old emotional outbursts prior to this. Her mother had always hated them, buying her pairs and pairs of gloves to cover the unsightly blemishes.
Sheâd often wondered if her future husband would hate them too. Would he pull away from her in revulsion once he saw them? Would he tell her exactly how ugly she really was, just like her mother delighted in doing? Would he divorce her, right then and there?
Or, she hoped in secret, would he tell her she was beautiful? Would he look past her flaws, the marks and blemishes, to tell her that she was worth something after all? Would he show her the love sheâd always dreamed of feeling?
But he hadnât done either of those things. Stolas Goetia had barely even looked at her the entire time. Sheâd stood, terrified, before him, her body bare in front of another for the first time in her life. Sheâd expected so many things to happen. Sheâd spent so long mulling over the idea and wondering about what would happen after, but she had never expected to face nothing but pure indifference.Â
Heâd barely looked at her. Heâd barely touched her. It had felt like going through the motions, performing a scripted act for someone else. Who? Their families, she supposed. The Goetia that wanted an heir, another demon to continue their sinful lineage.Â
Stellaâs hand fell down to her stomach, rubbing absentmindedly at the feathers there. Was she pregnant now? How would she know? She wasnât supposed to gain much weight, even when she did bear a child, sheâd made sure of it, slimming her body down until she was sure sheâd bounce back no matter what.Â
What if she couldnât have children? What if she was barren?
Maybe that would be better.
The Goetia had enough children, enough branches on the accursed family tree to last them thousands of lifetimes. The last thing she wanted was to offer up another child to them, <i>her</i> child, her son or daughter. She could barely keep track of all of the many demons populating their sinful lineage, which just showed how meaningless her child would be. Did they really need to be born at all?
What if she had a daughter? She wasnât sure she could bear that. A son would be alright, tolerable even. He would be his fatherâs son, entrusted to him to grow into a prince they could all be proud of. She could forget about the pain of bearing him and bury all of the maternal feelings that struggled to push through her years of cold, steely training.
A daughter would be her responsibility however. Her responsibility to groom and train into the perfect wife and mother. Her responsibility to teach everything she needed to know in order to navigate the world she would grow up into. The thought made her sick. Could she really look down at a soft, innocent face, so like her own when everything had been unknowingly stolen from her, and crush their dreams the same way her own had been?
With shaking hands, Stella reached for the glass of wine on the vanity, taking a sip to calm her nerves. Perhaps it could help more than she initially thought. Alcohol was thought to stave off pregnancy, its effects making the body near uninhabitable for a child to grow.
And yetâŠcould she do that? If she never fell pregnant, it would be soon assumed that she was infertile. What then? Her family might abandon her, fleeing from the social ire and embarrassment of bearing a failed daughter. She was sure she hated her family, but she knew she was nothing without them. Without them, she was just a useless pretty bird, never taught to fly, hopping about, her songs falling on deaf ears.Â
Would Stolas divorce her? With her family abandoning her and her husband leaving her, where would she go? There was no place for an unwed, divorced Goetia without any family connections. She would have to either barter away her last riches for some semblance of safety, or get comfortable with the idea of living on the streets. A Goetia, alone on the streets of any of Hellâs cities, would not last long.Â
There was no life for her away from this. Her only choice was laid out in front of her.
Struggling to draw in a breath, Stella set her glass back on the vanity. Gritting her teeth and steeling her nerves, she pulled herself out of the tub, dragging the plug with her, the water quickly emptying down the drain.
Fixing her gaze on her reflection in the mirror, she began the same nightly ritual sheâd repeated her entire life, even when she was so young that servants had to do it for her. Massaging oils and potions into her feathers, slicking them back into a relaxed, yet regal style. She brushed some stray liner and blush across her cheeks and eyelids, their magical properties making them sleep proof. Her mother had always maintained the belief that a princess needed to look her best at all times, even when fast asleep beside her husband.
She dressed herself quickly, pulled on one of the sheer night gowns Andrealphus had gifted her the week before her wedding. She tugged at the hem, disliking how much it exposed, but she did her best to shake off the feeling. Her brother wasnât here to leer and laugh at her barely clothed frame anymore. Even her husband wouldnât, since heâd been fast asleep when sheâd snuck off to clean herself up. He wouldnât look at her anyway, even if he was awake. Heâd made it quite clear that he had no interest in her or her body. The only things she had to offer him.
But that could be OK, she promised herself. The palace he lived in, now the palace she would live in for the rest of her natural life, was large, far bigger than her familyâs. There would be plenty of rooms that she could use for herself, to hide away in and create a space all her own that she could retreat to. Her husband could be tolerable, his more meek nature making it easy to ignore him if she tired of their forced partnership.Â
She could be a good wife. She could keep herself thin and beautiful, never once faltering, and could be the perfect jewel to hang around her husbandâs neck at every function and royal dinner. She could bear him an heir, several even, if that was what was desired of her, and she could raise them to be stronger than she ever was. She could make a name for herself amongst the Goetiaâs, and be remembered for the only things she could contribute: her womb and her body. That could be enough for her. At least she would be remembered. She could swallow her own desires and submit to the only life for her to live, the only choice available to her. That could be enough, she was sure. Sheâd spent her entire life training for this. It wouldnât be hard to settle into it like a good little Goetia.
Perhaps sheâd be able to avoid her family for the rest of her life if she was good enough at her role as the princeâs wife. Perhaps then she could keep Andrealphus from slithering his way back into her good graces. She didnât trust herself not to slip up around him and allow him to worm out all of her secrets yet again. She might finally feel some semblance of happiness then.
For now, she needed sleep. Sheâd face the strange mess her life had become in the morning. She could make her own plans then.Â
Steeling her nerves, she slid open the door and padded slowly across the bedroom, settling awkwardly on the edge of the bed, watching her husband sleep for a few minutes, talons balling the bedsheets into a mess beneath her.
For a moment, she was struck by a pang of homesickness, not for the place sheâd grown up in or the family sheâd left behind, but instead for the bedroom sheâd slept in her entire life, the place that had become her refuge from the trials of her life.
She missed having the entire bed to herself, not awkwardly curling in on herself to avoid brushing the feathers of a man who couldnât be less interested in her. It felt so embarrassing, so degrading, to lie beside him now, after heâd so clearly lacked any interest in what theyâd just done together.
Sex was supposed to be special, something that sealed you together as forever partners. Stella couldnât possibly feel any further away from her husband, physically or otherwise. Sheâd been worried about messing it all up, about not knowing how to perform satisfactorily, but she shouldnât have worried about that, now that she thought about it. Her husband had no doubt not even noticed her lack of experience. Heâd looked like he was daydreaming of being somewhere else, and she was ashamed to admit that she had started doing the same, dreaming that she was with someone else, anyone else, someone that loved her and thought she was beautiful.
Stella closed her eyes, pulling a spare pillow close to her chest. She longed for anotherâs touch, not the kind sheâd experienced earlier, that had left her feeling lonely and unclean, but the kind that soothed, that warmed her chilled bones, the kind that felt like the bath sheâd just curled up in earlier. She was thankful for the experience only because it made her feel so exhausted that she didnât need to struggle to drift off. She was glad she didnât have to spend the night tossing and turning, wondering why she wasnât enough and why her husband felt like a ghost lurking at her side.
Didnt have much to say about this guy but i do love his design
Finchstar was born pure Thunderclan, to an older she-cat and a slightly younger tom. Nothing in particular stood out about his upbringing, it was about as standard as it could be in Thunderclan. He spent the mornings following his father around and evenings curled beside his mother.
His apprenticeship was much the same. He excelled at hunting, especially larger prey, and made friends easily amongst the other apprentices and young warriors. He was surely destined for great things, as he was well liked by almost everyone in the clan.
His rise to leader was quick and successful, becoming Whitestarâs second deputy, after the older, more experienced cat she appointed before him lost their life to greencough. He served as her deputy for the remainder of her nine lives and greatly contributed to Thunderclanâs age of progress before receiving his leader's name. He worked hard to help her with her battles for Sunningrocks, and was dedicated to winning it for his clan. His intense pride in his clan was one of the things Finchstarâs clanmates liked the most about him.
After Whitestar died, there was a lot of unease amongst Thunderclan, since many were so used to her calm stability. Luckily, Finchstar took a lot from his time as her deputy and quickly calmed the unrest.
Over his time as leader, Finchstar never took a mate or expressed interest in anything of the kind. He was very much a âmarried to your jobâ kind of cat, and even if he wasnât leader, he wouldâve likely just found some other task he enjoyed much more than a relationship and starting a family. Some of the elders thought him odd for that in particular, but he didnât really care for their opinions. When it came to matters of leading the clan, they were assets that he wouldnât do without. But when it came to his personal life, he could do without their nosiness.
Thunderclan was peaceful during his rule and there was a great period of mourning after he eventually died of old age, while on patrol. He went out exactly as he lived, thankfully, refusing to listen to anyoneâs fretting and leading another hunting patrol, determined to feed his clan until his last breath.
âtrans men donât experience misogyny because theyâre men thus cannot experience womenâs oppressionâ
I hate to tell you this but even cis men experience misogyny if they step a toe over the line of what our incredibly sexist society sees as âproperâ for a man. You really donât think that a man with interests or expression the world sees as âfemaleâ arenât treated with violence?
âwould you say that of other privileged groups? do you think white people experience racism?â
I mean sometimes they do yeah. I know a white guy with monolid eyes and zero known Asian ancestors and he absolutely experiences anti-Asian racism on a fairly regular basis because people think heâs mixed Asian/white. I know a woman who was told throughout her life that she was Native as an adoptee with no known history or background who experienced incredibly violent amounts of anti-Native racism until she discovered as an adult through DNA test that she is 100% white. I know white people who tan incredibly dark in the summer comparatively that are constantly accused of being mixed race and experiencing racism due to that, usually anti-Mexican racism perpetrated against white people with Greek or Italian ancestors.
Their ability to make it stop by saying âhey, Iâm white actuallyâ only goes as far as the person enacting violence on them is willing to believe them. They still have to live with the trauma and physical scars from the altercations. We live in a racist world and thus there will be violent people who force all others to pass a whiteness test and eliminating or harming the rest.
Got an ask that I just block/deleted but it was basically âso you think cis people experience transphobia!?!?!?!?â and uh
If you think cis butches donât experience both transphobia and misogyny and homophobia for daring to be women who break gender roles while still holding onto their womanhood youâve sorely misunderstood just how bad butches have it in this world sorry. If you donât think cis queens experience transphobia and homophobia and misogyny for daring to be men who break gender roles while being loud and proud about it and still holding onto their manhood then youâve sorely mistaken just how bad they have it in this world as well.
Not to mention all of the cis men who wear dresses and skirts and makeup and nail polish and heels simply because they like them who experience all of these things. All of the cis straight women who simply just exist but something about them doesnât pass societyâs âwoman enoughâ test, leading to them being caught in bathroom bills and sporting rules and being attacked by people who mistake them for being transgender or gay.
Just like how straight people experience homophobia to such a degree that they literally beat their children out of any potential deviance from rigidly upheld gender roles and let politicians make jokes on national TV about how theyâd drown their pre-teen kids if they came out as LGBT. Do you really think a straight kid still figuring themselves out hears that and doesnât internalize that homophobia? Doesnât rigidly hold themselves to some impossible standard so that no one could ever possibly think theyâre gay? You donât think straight teenage boys who maybe donât pass some bullyâs straightness test are getting the shit kicked out of them for âbeing gayâ when, surprise, they arenât? You donât think all those kids being attacked by their priests and coaches and teachers are being told âthis wouldnât have happened if you werenât gayâ when theyâre literally not gay? Do you know how many straight kids had close calls at my school that famously expels all gay kids, because someone made up a believable enough rumor? Do you know how many of them still got their shit kicked in even though administration ultimately decided to let them stay?
All bigotry is violent and all bigotry catches people it doesnât âintendâ to and hurts them as well. It doesnât matter what someoneâs label is, or if they even have one. It matters if the person enacting the violence is doing it because their victim didnât pass whatever âacceptable enoughâ test they didnât know they were being subjected to.
Everyone is at risk. Oppression doesnât care what your label is. Some people are more visible targets than others, and as a result those people are the more common targets. That doesnât mean no one else experiences it.
Under-discussed fic struggle is trying to write domestic scenes for a ship when you know in your heart neither of these bitches can cook. Girl the only two realistic options here are they order takeaway or the house burns down.
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