⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ cause good girls are bad girls (that haven't been caught)
seán hayden
.𖥔˚ synopsis: in which seán always seems to let you off with a warning
.𖥔˚ tags: fluff, prefect!seán, troublemaker!reader, bad girl!reader, trouble!reader, private boarding school, no use of y/n, smoking, slight peer pressure if you squint, bad interpretation of the irish, all my irish slang knowledge comes from derry girls
.𖥔˚ series: potentially...? if u guys wants
.𖥔˚ word count: 1k
a/n: seán mentioned that he was a prefect in school at some point and then this was born
⋆˙⟡
The abandoned toilets smell of piss and depression, the kind of hormonal teenage angst you get only when you mix a lack of adult supervision with broken pipes and cigarettes. Normally Seán would steer clear of them, ignoring the prefect duties that would require him to do the rounds at objectively the most trouble inducing building in the entire school because nothing can convince him to step over floors damp with either bodily fluids or water from busted pipes—your guess is your gamble.
Well, nothing other than you.
Seán wrinkles his nose, holding a pale finger below his nostrils to block out the nauseating smell and tries not to think about what he's stepping on as he cautiously ventures further inside. It's dark in here, light filtering in through broken slabs of wood—a weak attempt at boarding up the windows and closing the bathroom up for good made a few years ago. Whatever sunlight makes it in catches on the golden badge on his blazer, gleaming across the all-capital 'PREFECT' title that he wears oh-so proudly.
Fucking nerd.
"Trouble?" he calls. His voice fills the empty space, it bounces off the dirt speckled walls in an eerie, hollow echo. This entire situation screams gory horror movie murder and bad decisions. He kicks a cigarette butt to the side with the tip of his shoe. Is that dark red stain on the wall blood or ink?
The stall creaks and moans in protest as he pushes it open with the tips of his fearful fingers, peaking inside for any sign of you. He feels like he's in a zombie apocalypse movie, like he really shouldn't be turning his back to the openness behind him right now. He's about 89.7% sure that a runner is going to take a big bite out of him.
"Over here, idiot," you call.
Seán jumps so hard it feels like his body is trying to push out of his skin. He whips around, wide blue eyes finding you sitting on a particularly disgusting sink top off to the right. The fear turns to the disgust as he sees one of the corners of your skirt is sitting in a puddle of an unidentified liquid and soaking through, his nose wrinkling. His eyes travel up to your face, noticing now the cigarette between your lips.
"You're gonna get asbestos poisoning just from sitting there," he says.
You scoff out a laugh as you pull your cig from your mouth, smoke puffing out in a way that's hotter than he's willing to admit. "Ok...?" you say, making a face at him.
"Anyway, you're not even allowed in here. I should write you up just for that," he adds. He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he takes tentative steps forward toward you—whether as a nervous habit or a protective measure to keep from touching exposed needles and contracting tinnitus is undetermined. "And you're smoking on campus, too. I mean, you're just handing me a detention slip right now."
"Go ahead, then," you say, taking another drag while maintaining deliberate eye contact.
But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't.
Instead, he keeps walking forward until he's right in front of you and very not smoothly changes the subject. "So, um . . . why'd you ask me to meet you in here?"
You grab him by the tie and tug him so he's standing between your knees. He squeaks. "I missed you," you tease. You release his tie and replace your interest instead with his Prefect badge, twisting it off center just slightly. "You're such a fecking nerd, it's kind of hot."
His face blooms up red. You can be so mean sometimes . . . He's too ashamed to admit he likes it out loud.
Seán gulps, dares to place his hands on your thighs for purchase, just above your knees. But only because you're wearing tights under your skirt. He'd probably combust if it was skin to skin contact. He bites the meat of his pink bottom lip and looks up at you through pale eyelashes. "You think I'm hot?"
You tilt your head to the side. "'Course I do." You say it simply, definitively.
You blow smoke into his face and laugh at the way his face crinkles up in protest. "You wanna try?" you ask, offering him the cigarette.
He looks at you like you've grown three heads. "What? Of course not!" he exclaims.
You groan. "Oh, come on. Don't be so boring. Live a little," you urge, holding the cigarette up to his lips.
And damn, if he can't say no to that rebellious glint in your eyes. He sighs, gulping as he hesitantly takes the cigarette between two fingers. "...Fine," he relents.
Seán's eyebrows are caved in a silent 'this is a terrible idea and I really shouldn't be doing this' as he lifts the cig up between his lifts. He inhales smoke a little quickly, and a little too much all at once—and immediately breaks out into a coughing fit, his face burning up bright red.
You fucking cackle, head thrown back, taking the cigarette back and taking an easy, carefree drag just to humiliate him more. He glares up at you, eyes brimming up with tears. He still hasn't stopped coughing, you still haven't stopped laughing even with the smoke fogging up in front of your face.
He lets out a particularly aggressive cough in an attempt to compose himself. "Fuck off," he manages.
You pout mockingly. "Don't be like that, Seán. It was cute."
He stands up straight, you take the opportunity to pull him in by the tie again—but this time in for a hard kiss, one that makes his knees weak. He has to grip onto the sink for stability, and for a moment he forgets all about the many bacteria-borne illnesses he might be developing just from touching it.
His eyes are glazed over when you pull back.
"Sneak into my dorm later tonight?"
He nods so eagerly that even he considers himself pathetic.
☆— THE PALE, OFF-WHITE of the sky filters through orange and yellow trees, casting diamond shaped shadows across the curved planes of Gabi's face as she turns her face upward. Her hands are in her pockets, the wires of her earbuds wrapped loosely around each other as they snake up to her pierced ears. Stubbornly, insisting on curling up even after untangling them.
She lets her eyes fall closed, relaxed and comfortable even with the pain piercing her chest. She's been sad for so long she doesn't quite know how to be anything else.
She'd be able to hear the birds chirping and the soft rustling of trees if she wasn't blasting Ethel Cain so loudly she risks hearing damage. She finds herself thinking she 'feels so Ethel Cain', even if she has never actually related to an Ethel Cain song.
Gabi would also be able to hear the person coming up behind her and saying 'hey, excuse me?' if she wasn't blasting music, but she doesn't. No, she instead feels the touch to her shoulder that makes her shriek and jump.
–
A laugh. A pebble kicked with the tip of a shoe. "Hendrik, mate, I can survive a couple weeks without you, you know," he says.
Hendrik's voice crackles over the line: "But can you do it without getting into trouble, Danny?"
Danny sighs dramatically, rolling his head back. Phone pressed to his ear, a hand in his jeans' pocket. The tip of his shoe is digging into the dirt. "That's just unfair."
Hendrik laughs. "What's unfair is that I can't watch over you children right now. You really shouldn't be left to your own devices."
"I've got Josh to watch over me."
"That's worse!" Hendrik exclaims.
Danny chuckles, taking a few idle steps around in a circle. "We'll be fine, Hen," he insists. "Trust me."
"That's really not reassuring," Hendrik says. There's shuffling around on the other end of the line like maybe he's adjusting the way he's sitting. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Danny stops in place and his brows furrow up, face scrunched in confusion. "Then I'm very limited."
A scoff over the phone. "Oh, piss off, mate!"
He laughs again, dipping his head momentarily. "Look, I'll be good. I'll stay out of trouble and be sure not to disparage the reputation of the band or anything. Relax, Hen. You can actually take a break." He shuffles his feet around and turns to the side, glancing around the park aimlessly—until something catches his eye that makes his chest clench up. His fingertips start to feel sweaty.
Hendrik's dramatic heavy sigh feels so far away now. "Fine, fine. I'll trust you. Be good now, yeah?"
"Um, yeah. Whatever. Bye," Danny mumbles. He pulls his phone away from his ear and hangs up even while Hendrik's mid-goodbye. He's halfway across the park, probably a good four meters away at the end of the dirt path, but those streaks of pink that he can see even from here are making his feet buzz like pins and needles.
It's the ATM girl. The really pretty one who seemed anxious and yet adorably lost. The one he saw barely a half hour ago and was sure he'd lost his chance to talk to.
And now she's right there, alone, basking in the sun—well, the poor excuse they have for a sun here in England.
She closes her eyes and tilts her head up to the sky, and Danny can't help but smile. There's a certain serenity to her right now, an 'eye of the storm' way about her.
It only takes about ten seconds to psyche himself up. Remind himself of all the girls screaming his name every night, of how he's considered suave.
Talking to pretty girls isn't the hard part. Once he gets going it's almost hard to stop, flirty comments and compliments rolling off his tongue naturally.
It's the actually starting up a conversation part that trips him up. Sometimes he chickens out just on the way up to her.
So, he psyches himself up. Shakes off the nerves until he's just left with cocky charm and approaches her.
"Hey, excuse me?" he says, at a volume he considers rather fair, but she doesn't move. Doesn't flinch or even acknowledge his existence.
Honestly, he can hear the music playing through her earbuds even from here.
So he reaches over and touches her lightly on the shoulder.
Danny stumbles back in surprise when she shrieks and jumps away from him. Eyes wide, he raises both hands up in defense. "Whoa," he mumbles as she pulls her earbuds out. The tinny music is unfathomably loud before she pulls her phone out of her pockets and pauses the song. She's got a tight grip on her phone.
The girl is panting, keeping her distance. She stares at him like some wild prey animal.
"Hey," Danny laughs breathlessly, eyebrows lifting. "I'm not gonna, like, hurt you or anything. I'm not a serial killer."
Her brows knit together, turning up at the inner corners. "That's not very reassuring."
He groans but he's amused all the same. He drops his hands against his thighs. "Why does everyone say that?"
She's holding her phone up protectively, like a weapon, and slowly lowers it, pocketing it cautiously. Then she tilts her head curiously, and Danny lets her. It's kind of like watching a cat warm up to you. He doesn't dare move.
"Hey, you're that ATM guy," she says finally.
He deflates with relief. "Yeah, I am. I helped you, like twenty minutes ago." She nods, he reaches his hand out. He can see the exact moment when she lets her guard down just enough: her shoulders fall, and she just barely takes a step forward toward him, no longer angling herself so protectively. She takes his outstretched hand, shaking it stiffly. "I'm Danny," he says.
"Gabriela," she says. Her head dips just a little, like she's always trying to hide her face in the shadows, although the shift just makes the sun—what there is of it—catch on her nose ring. "But my friends call me Gabi—called."
Danny doesn't catch the correction. He pulls his hand back, sliding both into his rear pockets in an effortless attempt to appear, well, effortless and aloof. "Can I call you Gabi?" he asks, the corner of his mouth pulling up.
A sudden pang of fear vibrates through her body and makes the edges of her outline feel fuzzy. No friend has called her 'Gabi' in a few weeks—not that Danny is a friend.
She takes in a self-regulating breath through her nose. "Yeah, sure."
He has an easy-going grin on his face now. "So what brings you to Chorley?" he asks, a playful lilt to his voice like he's used to talking to cute girls. "I can, uh, tell you're a tourist."
Gabi can't quite explain her emotions; that makes the fuzzy fear spike up again. She gulps, a nervous laugh bubbling out of her compulsively. It's either that or cry—and, oh look, tears are welling in her eyes. "Um, everything's fucked. My mom and I fight all the time, none of my friends want to be my friends anymore, and my boyfriend broke up with me." It's just word vomit, involuntary and quick succession. She looks up at him, sniffling and wiping away a tear at her waterline before it can spill. "What about you?"
Danny blinks, eyebrows raised. He stares at her for a moment, mouth just . . . open.
". . . I live here," he says finally.
Another watery laugh, it sounds stunted and forced. "Right, of course you do." She pushes her glasses up with the heel of her palm as she catches another stray tear, tan skin blooming red and splotchy.
Danny watches her face for a moment, chest panging with sympathy, before letting out a gentle breath. "Do you wanna sit down? Get breakfast or something . . . talk?" he offers.
He's got these big, inky eyes, the kind with a little shine like they've been dipped in glossy dark chocolate. The kind that look at her like he's sorry for her, and like he's hoping on saving her from whatever melancholy she's fallen into. They're pretty eyes, really. Just not for her.
Gabi shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I don't need saving, Danny," she says. The damp dirt digs into the ridges in the soles of her ballet flats as she turns on her heel, starting down the path.
His eyes widen and he scrambles forward to catch up to her. "I'm not saying you do! I just—you know, you look really cool."
She stops, he skids to keep up. "I look cool?" she asks, eyebrow pulled up by the invisible force of confusion.
He scoffs, a wordless 'are you kidding me?' He gestures at her face loosely. "You've got pink hair and a nose piercing, yes, you look cool."
Gabi goes silent, crossing her arms over her chest as her teeth tug at the meat of her pinkish-brownish bottom lip. She's got this piercing gaze behind the glare of her glasses that's making Danny feel observed—and observed in way he's not used to. More like she's expecting there to be more. Like she knows there's more.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "And, ok, I'm saying you need savin' or anythin', but I asked you what you're doing in Chorley and you immediately trauma dumped on me. So, I don't know, maybe you don't need savin', but maybe a therapist?" He sighs heavily, stuffing both hands into his front pockets. "Can we please just have breakfast? That's it; just breakfast. I'd like to get to know you. There's a cafe nearby."
She blinks. Considers. Licks her chapped lips. "All right, sure." Danny deflates with relief momentarily, before she stiffens her back and says, "But you're not getting my Instagram. Or my number or my snap or anything."
His mouth falls open. "What? Why?"
"'Cause I'm only here for a day. I leave tomorrow morning and I just . . ." She takes in a deep breath, daring to meet his eyes. "You only get today." Then she spins back around and starts up toward the cafe.
. . . before halting to a stop. In a small voice she says, without turning to face him, "I don't actually know where the cafe is."
.𖥔˚ synopsis: in which you're frat!cruz's girl
.𖥔˚ tags: fluff, frat!cruz, trouble!reader, no use of y/n (but use of trouble), bad interpretation of brits
.𖥔˚ word count: 0.6k
a/n: dear d10 im officially obsessed
⋆˙⟡
You take a quick glance at the address as you make your way up to the porch even though you know this frat house by heart and the 2000s JB and Central Cee playing at a fucking frat party is an instant tip-off that you're at the right place: Cruz's frat. An invite-only party, which is made abundantly clear when you knock on the door and are greeted by a pledge with a clipboard.
"Hey," you say curtly, instantly trying to side-step past him into the packed house, distracted as you text Cruz that you're here—when his hand on your shoulder pulls you back into place.
"ID please," he says, offended.
You scoff, pointing at your face in a silent 'do you know who I am?', but he responds with nothing. A blank stare with too much audacity for an 18-year-old kid who has way less authority than you in this frat. "Are you mad?" you all but laugh.
"Look, this is invite only—" He flashes the cascading list of names on the clipboard at you quickly, half of them scratched off, to prove a point. "Either your name is on the list or you're not getting in."
"Just let me in, mate. Cruz is—"
"ID."
"But Cruz—"
"I.D.," he insists, each letter overpronounced carefully, separately.
You stiffen your back in frustration and reach into your purse, mumbling something about 'fucking dumbass freshman.' You come up with your wallet and fish out your driver's license, slapping it onto his side of the clipboard. "Here," you deadpan.
A glance at your name, a drag of the pen down the page, and the next three, and this bitch-ass freshman shakes his head. "Nope, you're not on the list."
You groan, pressing onto your tip toes to get a peek at the names, but he tilts it out of view. You know you're at the very top of the list, messing up the alphabetical order in bold, underlined with double exclamation points. Cruz makes his guest lists while in bed with you sometimes, shows you your place above everyone else with pride. Sometimes he'll tack on a '(let her in immediately, no questions asked).'
You're just about ready to deck this six-foot idiot in the face. "Cruz probably has me under—"
"Trouble!" The exclamation comes from behind the freshman, and he steps aside to reveal Cruz in the football jersey with his name across the back that he loves. He approaches the two of you and throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. "I was getting worried. You told me you were here then you never showed up."
You cross your arms over your chest, expression sour as you jut your chin forward. "Your little bodyguard didn't wanna let me in," you complain.
Cruz sighs, turns to the freshman. "C'mon, man. Don't mess with my girl like that. Let her in whenever she wants."
The kid goes all wide-eyed. "W-Well, I mean—I didn't see her name on the list—"
"She's at the top—" Cruz pulls away from you to look at the clipboard and push his thumb across the clearly defined 'Trouble' on the number one spot. "She's always at the top."
"And don't you forget it," you add snarkily, scowling.
Cruz laughs, reaching his hand out for yours. "C'mon, darling," he says, pulls you along inside with him past the pledge. He kisses your hand and puts his arm around your shoulders.
You cuddle into his side as you both venture further into the packed house, music booming. "I don't like him," you grumble.
He chuckles, squeezes your face to pull you in for a kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry, Trouble. He'll learn."
☆— ALL THE REGULAR bad decisions had been said and done: Gabi pierced her nose, and then she chopped her previously mid-back-length hair down to a chin-length bob, and then she dyed pink streaks in it. She even went a little crazy and gave herself a stick-and-poke tattoo of a swirl on her wrist.
So really, she was out of the stupid choices people usually make when everything is falling apart. It's not her fault. She shouldn't have had internet access at one in the morning anyway, and her mother really should've known better than to give her a debit card with €1000 for emergencies. And how many times did she insist that she didn't want to get her driver's license?
Anyway, she's in Manchester now, stumbling through the airport with nothing but wired earbuds, her phone, and her wallet.
Wait, she forgot her charger. Shit.
She checks her battery as she stands outside the airport, rude busybodies pushing past her shoulders. She makes the tight, screwed up face she sometimes makes when she's thinking about saying something but ends up holding her tongue. Sure, she'd heard that London was one of those bustling cities that never sleeps, but Manchester?
Actually, that's New York. What's London again? The city of sex?
Her phone is at 82%, which isn't bad. She'll just have to make it last 'til tomorrow morning.
She takes in a deep breath and sucks up the courage, rushing past the sea of people taller than her toward the edge of the sidewalk outside the airport and hails down a cab. She's climbing into the backseat and pulling her seatbelt on when the driver asks her where to. "Um, Chorley, please," she says.
Chorley is one of those towns Gabi had never heard of, but in all fairness, she's from a city most people have never heard of. She'd chosen Chorley the night before completely by accident. She just opened up a map of England on her laptop in the middle of the night and, through bleary eyes and slightly shaking fingers, sleepily pointed to a town at random.
She really shouldn't have been driving last night.
The driver nods, switching back into drive. "Anywhere specific?"
"Um, anywhere's fine." She says "um" a lot, a habit she just can't seem to shake. Gabi looks up at the driver once her seatbelt has been clicked in, and instinctively her eyes cut up to the left. But she's in the UK now. She blinks in surprise, and her eyes promptly follow to the right. "Like a park, I guess?"
The English are so weird.
–
Her lip feels weird from sucking it in between her teeth and chewing on it so much. She's used up another 10% of her phone battery on the 40-odd minute drive down from the airport to avoid real human contact with the driver, even though she figured this middle aged man probably wasn't banking too hard on making small talk with the nervous teenage tourist in the backseat.
The car pulls to a stop on the curb in front of a park in a quaint little town. "50 quid," the driver says.
She pockets her phone for the time being and pulls out her wallet. "Oh, yeah. Do you accept debit?" she asks, fishing her card out. From here, she can very well see the built in card payment device on the dashboard.
The driver reaches over and taps the screen rather roughly. "Sorry, it's broken. Cash only."
Her face falls, and she feels the coil of nausea instantly tightening in her gut. "Oh." She searches her wallet frantically, even picking at the tight corners where 2 cent coins normally get lost as if she'll magically find pounds despite having never step foot outside of the EU. "I'm assuming you don't accept euros?" she laughs nervously.
"No," the driver replies gruffly.
It's not like she has enough money even if he did, anyway. She's got 10 euros and 47 cents. She doesn't know the exact conversion rate from pounds to euros, but she's pretty damn certain 50 pounds is more than 10 euros and 47 cents.
She bounces her leg anxiously, black ballet flats with the little bows at the top tapping incessantly against the car floor. She gulps, followed by an awkward laugh, "Is there an ATM nearby? I—I swear I'll be back, I just need to withdraw the money."
The driver isn't amused. He sighs heavily, pointing out the windshield. "There's an ATM over there. Take a right, between those two buildings."
She nods, unclasping her seatbelt. "Yeah, ok—" She's reaching for the door handle when the driver holds up a hand to stop her.
"Leave your phone. Collateral," he orders, placing his palm out flat between the front seats.
She huffs, slapping her phone into his hand. "Yeah, whatever." She climbs out of the car.
There's a cool October nip to the air now, even though the sun's out and it's nearly 10 in the morning. She's heard all about how England is always cold and grey and gloomy, so she isn't too surprised. She's dressed as weather-appropriately as she managed at one in the morning, running on assumptions gathered from internet comments and coffee she doesn't like to keep her awake. She stuffs her hands into her pockets and pulls her puffy brown leather jacket closer together over her white, lacy babydoll top.
She hops over a puddle, the hard soles of her flats clanking against the ground. The road is rain-slicked, gentle sunlight catching in between grooves in the gravel, shimmering. She walks up, glancing between every building she passes. She's biting her lip again.
If she's being honest, Gabi didn't actually understand the directions the driver gave her. She didn't catch where he pointed, or the buildings he was on about. She has no idea how far she's supposed to go before she takes a right, and there's loads of little walkways between all these buildings, but she's too embarrassed to go back and ask. It's already bad enough that she wasn't prepared to pay, but going back and admitting that she didn't pay proper attention when he was giving her directions? Absolutely not.
When she figures she's walked up far enough—which really just means, when she's gotten embarrassed enough about the driver watching her from the car—she takes a right and wanders in between a corner store and an apartment block.
She's stumbling around a street of pavers now. She stands in the middle, glancing from one wall to the other. She . . . doesn't see an ATM. She spins around, almost tripping on her own two feet. Nope, no ATM on this side either. Um . . . what the fuck? Is it farther up the road? Farther down?
She glances across the street to the either side. Maybe it's over there. Did he say left or right? Right, he said take a right. Or maybe left. Or maybe he said take a right but he really meant take a left. Or maybe right and left are different in England—
"Excuse me?"
The voice comes from behind her.
Gabi jumps, twirling around on instinct. There's a boy standing there. Light brown skin, thick black hair, dark eyes, and he's looking at her like he's confused, eyebrows raised.
"Are you lost?" he asks. His British accent is thick. "You look lost."
She blinks. Gulps. "Um, yeah. I was looking for an ATM and there's one nearby—well . . . I don't know that there's one nearby but the driver said there was, and I need to withdraw money to pay because the card machine is broken and—"
The wide-eyed, lips-parted look he's giving her makes her rambling stop short, and she retreats into her big jacket. "Do you know where the ATM is?" he asks slowly, pulling her lips into a tight line.
The boy takes in a deep breath, as if absorbing the information. Honestly, he was kind of distracted by how pretty she is. "There's an ATM around here, yeah. Just not on this road, unless you go all the way up—" He twists his upper body to look behind him and point all the way up the street, then turns back to her. He juts his chin out toward the road. "The closest one here is a bit further down."
Gabi's face is prickling with heat for no reason in particular. It's embarrassing that she has to ask a second stranger for directions, she thinks, no matter how illogical. Most social situations are embarrassing for her.
She doesn't ask for clarification on how much further down "a bit further down" is. No, she sucks it up and accepts her faith to wander around aimlessly in a Chorley neighborhood in pursuit of The Lost ATM™ until she's inevitably arrested for theft, or evading payment, or whatever the legal term is. "Oh, ok. Thanks," she says. She turns on her right foot and starts up the street.
"Do you want me to show you?" he asks, making her stop mid-step. He laughs softly. "You just . . . still seem a bit lost."
She doesn't turn to look at him, and she drops her eyes to the ground. "Um, yes please," she admits quietly.
"Yeah, alright." He touches her elbow as he comes up behind her, making her finally break her stare away from the floor and up at him. He cocks his head forward. "Come on," he says, She follows him out.
It turns out the ATM is only three buildings down. The walk is short but quiet. Gabi keeps looking away, the boy keeps looking at her. When she hops up on the little platform and sticks her card in, he stands off the side and watches her side profile. The way the light catches in her glasses, and the way her pink and brown hair fans in front of her face. The slope of her nose, and the curve of her lips. She's really pretty.
She accepts the conversion rate, collects her money, and steps down as she's putting it all away in her wallet.
The boy steps forward and gives her his best smile. "Hey—"
"Thanks," she says quickly and all but runs away, keeping her head down.
He watches after he, doesn't make a move to follow her, even though he really wants her number.
