────۶ৎ life is unfair.. kill yourself or get over it.
when you're the only girl in a house of boys, you've got to grow used to saying goodbye to the little things that made you happy:(
warnings : not much, really, it's just implied that the reader struggles in silence!
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: hey um so.. starting out with this reader trope, you can request for more fics/blurbs/headcanons of the guys in the gang with this type of reader!
Darry never claimed to understand girls.
Not when their mama was alive, not when she died, sure as hell not now with you damn near grown and wilting in all the places you tried to bloom.
He doesn't know how to talk to you, not really. You aren't like Pony. You don’t yell. Don’t shove. Don’t bite back. But there’s something in your silence that needles at him just the same —maybe worse. Because Darry can’t fight silence. And lately, all you do is nod and say “Yes, sir.”
He knows you're mad. He knows you want more freedom —to go out, wear lipstick, see boys. But you're his little sister, for crying out loud. And when he looks at you, all he sees is your mama’s Sunday dress swinging on the clothesline. He sees fragile things. Things that get stolen. Broken.
So yeah, he holds tight. Too tight.
Today you're walking next to him in the store, arms crossed. Wearing a cardigan despite the heat —always so covered up lately, like even your skin’s too much for the world. He’s got one hand gripping the grocery list and the other pressing too hard against the cart, jaw clenched like a vice.
You murmur something about wanting to pick your own shampoo. “Mine smells like boys.”
He sighs. Sharp. Exhausted. “Honey, shampoo’s shampoo. You’ll live.”
You look away, bite your cheek, and that’s when he notices you haven't looked at him all day.
Your hit the checkout line. Your hands start drifting toward the shelf of dumb glittery things: cherry-flavored lip balm, cheap hair clips. He swats your wrist away like you’re five. “We ain’t buyin’ junk.”
Your face shutters. Lips press into a line. But you don’t talk back. You never talk back.
That should make it easier. It doesn’t.
He watches your eyes glaze over, focused on the ugly linoleum floor like it’s safer than looking him in the eye. And something inside him snaps —not with anger, but with fear. Fear of losing you. Fear of already being loosing you.
So he reaches. Not softly.
He grabs your arm. Not rough, but firm. Maybe too firm. You tense like you’re being arrested.
He leans down, voice sharp like cracked glass:
“Girl, you better straighten up or I swear- I’ll drag you outta here myself. You wanna act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one. That what you want, young lady?”
And oh.
Oh, that was not the right thing to say.
You go still.
Like scarily still. No flinch, no pull. Just silence. The kind that drapes over you like a funeral veil.
Darry expects you to snatch your arm back. To snap something under your breath. Hell, he wants you to. Wants proof you’re still in there. But you don’t even look at him. Your eyes are locked dead ahead, full of glassy tears you won’t let fall —not in public, not in front of him.
And suddenly, Darry isn't angry anymore.
He’s ashamed.
You're not a brat. You're not misbehaving. You're just… tired.
Tired of being the “good girl,” tired of holding it together, tired of living in a house full of boys who don’t see that you're breaking just like them, only quieter.
You don’t cry. Not there. But you go pale. Start breathing weird. Your fingers tremble against the cart.
And that’s when it hits him. The same way it hit when Pony cried in the store once, years ago, all green-eyed and furious. But this time it’s worse.
Because you don’t even give him your tears. You holds them in like poison.
And later that night you don’t eat dinner. Don’t say goodnight.
You lock your bedroom door —a soft click, but it echoes.
Soda notices. He gives Darry a long look but doesn’t say anything. Pony watches silently, clutching a half-eaten piece of toast like he’s thinking the same thing Darry is:
You did it again, man.
Darry stands outside her door for a good ten minutes that night. Tries to say something —but the words feel dumb. Heavy.
So he knocks.
No response. Not even footsteps.
Inside, you're probably curled up in bed. Holding your stomach. Feeling like a burden. Crying quietly, because you think you don’t have the right to feel hurt. Not when Darry works so hard. Not when the boys have it rougher.
But Darry knows. He knows. He may be clumsy, but he ain’t blind.
And he wishes—God, he wishes—he knew how to be your daddy.
He ain’t.
But sometimes he has to be.
And that means he has to learn, fast, before the girl with the quiet sobs and cherry shampoo leaves the house with a heart too heavy to carry.
Darry doesn’t sleep that night. He just sits at the kitchen table, staring at the flickering bulb above the sink.
Because he knows… you might forgive him.
But you'll never forget that day in the store —the day he called you a brat when all you wanted was to smell like something pretty.
∙If your staying over with him, your staying in his room at Bucks. mainly because idfk much about his home life 😭😭
∙ He’s a DEEP sleeper. nothing can wake him up. he snores so loud too but not loud enough to wake you up
∙ If your in public, his hand would be around you waist at ALL times.
∙ He gets so jealous it’s unreal. if he ever sees you talking to someone he doesn’t know, even worse a guy, he puts his arm around your waist protectively and drags you away or just kisses you, which turns into a makeout session
∙When he found out you don’t smoke or drink he was so confused. He was with you and johnny at that moment when he asked johnny for weed and you were just liked “what’s that?” he just replied with “dude is she serious right now?”
∙ I won’t lie, he won’t cheat but he will flirt with other girls. so it’s not guaranteed you two will stay together, get married and on and on..
∙ He always calls you ‘doll’. he never calls you your actual name, only an odd time if he really needs to for something but it’s always doll
∙ ALWAYS STEALS STUFF. he steals things for you too sometimes. i imagine that he gave you something and you would just be like “did you steal this from somewhere?” and he would just reply with “yup!” and a big smile on his face.
∙ Sweats super easy. Since he doesn’t have a shirt on a lot, you can always see the outline of his abs clearly due to the sweat
∙ Chases kids every time he seems any. he also steals their sweets or candy on halloween and runs away with it, eating it with pony and johnny
∙ I hate to say it, but he’s toxic. You two always argue and argue over literally anything
∙ NOT a hugger. hates hugs. if you put your arms around him he would immediately shove you off and get uncomfortable
the funniest part about Love Never Dies is the implications it has for the canon of the ALW Phantom of the Opera. because what do you mean Raoul turned into an alcoholic gambler, lost all of his money, found out Gustave wasn't his son, watched Meg shoot Christine, and STILL had the funds and energy to go back to the Paris Opera House to purchase that silly monkey like 12 years later.
a greaser dating a soc? how ironic! | dallas winston x soc ! reader ࿔*:･ﾟ
-
never in a million years did the dallas winston think he’d find himself even enjoying the presence of a soc, yet here he was, absolutely head over heels for one. you were everything he stood against— you grew up in a gated community, you drove a baby pink mustang, and your favorite lace dress was worth more than anything dal ever owned. even then, there was something so captivating about your beauty that had him swooning over you. every time you flipped your locks behind your shoulder and every time your lips curled into a soft grin, dallas could feel himself falling harder for you.
the two of you are enjoying your night in the drive-in, your head leaning against his shoulder as his hand his firmly place on your thigh. even though you’re focused on the movie, dally on the other hand can’t concentrate anything whenever you’re in his presence. his gaze always trails back to you, admiring the way you seem so invested in the movie.
“dal, would you get me a coke and some popcorn?” you turn your head, looking up at him with a gentle smile.
a light flush of pink washes over dally’s cheeks as he looks down at you. god, your smile does something to him that makes him internally scream like a girl watching elvis wiggle. he nods, standing up from his seat and making his way over to the concession stand.
while you’re waiting for your boyfriend to come back with snacks, a boy approaches you with a smirk on his face, his hands pocketed into his jacket.
“what’s a broad like you doing here all alone?” the boy takes a seat in dallas’ spot, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. you flinch away from him, grimacing.
“i have a boyfriend and he’ll be back any second.” you stand up, grabbing your purse.
the boy shrugs, sarcastically looking around the drive-in with his hand above his forehead. “i don’t see him, sweet thing.”
out of nowhere, you catch a familiar new york accent behind you.
“jesus, i leave for 5 minutes and someone’s already trying to flirt with ya?” dally sets the popcorn down onto your seats, then removes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it with his heel. “fuck off, that’s my lady you’re talking to!”
the boy scurries away in fear, nodding as he runs off.
you turn to dally, cupping his face and pressing your lips against his cheek. “you’re so cute when you act all tough like that, you know?”
dallas holds in a girly giggle, instead shrugging it off with a smirk. “yeah.. that’s jus’ what you do for a pretty girl.” despite his nonchalant attitude, deep down he’s just as head over heels for you as you are, but he’ll eventually show it.
‘i’m lost in admiration, do i need you this much? … something happens and i’m head over heels, i never find out until i’m head over heels’ .ᐟ ₊˚⊹♡
I recently just reread the outsiders and decided to draw all the characters based on my interpretation! They’re a mix of both the book and movie. The outsiders is literally my favorite book so I hope I did them justice. <3333
…
I want to keep making art of them so if y’all have any ideas lmk!
So, when his forehead is placed on your shoulder, bloodied and busted hands gripping the fabric of your shirt— it feels contradictory.
After the rumble, you’d pulled him away and quietly tended to his wounds. There was no room for words, because Dally knew he wouldn’t be himself if he spoke. If he spoke, he’d tell you he was in love. But, he can’t— won’t— love you. Not when he’d have to lay himself before you, show the darkened corners of his tormented soul.
He lifts his head up, meeting your gaze. His eyes showcase a poorly-hidden softness, telling you love poems and epic tales. You only smile at him, and he knew then that he’d do anything to keep you looking at him like that.
Dally pulls his hands away, one reaching to grab his cigarette box from his pocket as he steps back. He murmurs a thanks, looking away from you.
No, he’d never let himself love you. Dally wasn’t made to love.
