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A/N: thank you so much for 1.63k followers! 💞💞💞

You know why he walks home like this -- leather jacket over his black tee despite the sweat dripping down his forehead and the humid temperature outside. After sparing a glance to Soda and Ponyboy and seeing they're mostly unscathed -- courtesy of their older brother -- you turn your attention back to Darrel. His shadowed blue eyes betray the half-smile he sends in an attempt to keep you from worrying. I'm fine. I promise.

Without saying a word, you drag him to the bathroom, forcefully but not holding his hand too tight. His knuckles are probably bruised and bloodied like always, and you don't want to hurt him any more than the rumble already has.

The other boys and their groans become muffled as you close the door and run the sink, searching through the disorganized cupboards for a washcloth.

"I need to check on them," Darrel grunts, reaching for the doorknob.

"They're fine," you reassure, looking over your shoulder to send him a look that says "dare me." You know he's mostly worried about his brothers, like always, but besides a few bruises, you doubt they're in too bad of shape. Soda can always handle himself when he's got Steve by his side, and with Darrel, Dallas, and Two on the front lines, you doubt many Socs get through them anyway.

Your boyfriend sighs, but it's less exasperated and more tired. The water is warmer now, and you're able to soak the cloth quickly before shutting the tap off. Normally, a quick once-over is enough to point out the obvious injuries, but his jacket is in the way this time. You know why. It's not often he puts it on after a rumble, but when he does, it's because he wants to hide something.

"Jacket off, now." His tough facade crumbles for a second -- he almost looks fearful. But, you don't let up, staring at him until he shifts to pull his arms out.

You don't miss the grunt of pain he lets out, but you don't point it out either. Taking the jacket from his dirty hands, you set it on the counter. Immediately, your eyes are drawn to his side. His black tee is already dark, but it's obvious there's a wet section -- fabric clinging to his torso.

Without hesitating, you reach for the hem and tug it up, exposing a cut a couple of inches in length. Darrel hisses as the cold air hits the sensitive skin. It's not too deep, thankfully, but it's not small either.

"Jesus, what happened?" You immediately press your washcloth to the wound, and he lets out a shaky breath.

"Switchblade, I think."

"I thought there were no weapons this time."

"There weren't."

A part of you is about to question if he called the Soc out, but you swallow the words. You know he doesn't want to participate in these rumbles -- doesn't even wanna be a greaser. You doubt he'd willingly start an argument that would lead to an even more violent fight. Maybe if it were Soda or Pony. Not himself, though. Convincing Darrel to prioritize and care for himself is impossible -- you'd have better luck asking Two to sell his old car.

Staying silent, you pull back the washcloth, happy to see the bleeding has mostly stopped, the swelling and irritation declining steadily.

You reach for the cabinet that holds the bandages -- the second to left. The rest of the bathroom might be in disarray, but the bandaids and gauze are always in the same spot. It's a simple patch-up job, considering it's not the first blade cut you've dealt with, but you're as gentle as ever as you cover the wound.

Darrel's stomach tenses and he lets out a little gasp as your fingers softly press against him, securing the bandaid. Worried you're hurting him, you look up from between his legs, eyes wide.

"Are you ok?"

He nods, swallowing.

You give him an odd look, before glancing back down, and realizing. His jeans are tight, leaving very little to the imagination. His toned torso seems to grow a thousand degrees hotter, and you pull your hands away quickly.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't--."

He shakes his head, chuckling. It's the first real smile he's given you all night, and you can't help but laugh a little too.

"It's ok. Your hands are just... nice."

His cheeks are flushed red now, matching the dried blood on his knuckles. It's... sweet. His flustered expression gives you some confidence, and you move back to your previous spot, this time letting your hands rest on Darrel's thighs.

"Can I... Can I take care of you like that too?"

Blue eyes grow wide, and you half-expect him to scold you for your dirty mouth, but he just nods, then smiles a lopsided grin.

He's still leaning against the counter, and you watch his hands reach behind him to grab the lip of the sink for balance as you drop to your knees. He's so much from this angle, all lean muscle, and warm, tan skin. The thought of getting your mouth on him almost makes you drool.

You unbutton his jeans quickly, and his large calloused hands help you to tug the denim and underwear beneath down to his mid-thigh. It's careless and messy, but considering the boys are getting rowdier from beyond the door, and they're bound to be knocking in a minute or two, you don't really have another choice.

Darrel is hot and hard in your hands, and he sucks in his bottom lip with a quiet gasp as you stroke him gently. He's tired and weak and you know it won't take long to get him more worked up than usual.

Still, you take your time, slowly sliding your hand up and down, before letting your tongue trace the same path. His breathing grows heavy quickly, but you don't relent, licking back up to his tip before sucking it fully into your mouth.

"Darling, please." It's not often you get a beg out of him, even though this time isn't much, but you savor it regardless.

You take a little more, hands still working him, pace growing faster each stroke. Within a few moments, his hips are twitching, fingers digging harder into the counter. You don't let up, only pulling off every now and again to take a breath, and letting your hand glide through spit and precum to cover every inch of his aching cock.

He's right on the edge when the commotion in the living room grows louder, and the boys start getting antsier for their turn to wash up. Darrel's eyes widen, but he doesn't move, so you continue your motions -- though much faster now.

"C'mon Darry, just let go. It's okay." Your thumb presses against his tip before your lips follow, sucking gently on the head of his cock. Your tongue circles the warm skin, and you look up with gentle but reassuring eyes that beg him to release. He does so with a choked groan, and you take all he has to offer, swallowing eagerly and letting his hips jerk himself deeper into you as he rides out his high.

Only when his hand drops to push you away do you let go of him, lips glossy as they frame a dopey smile.

"Better?"

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. Before he can answer, a loud knock fills the small bathroom, and you're thankful you remembered to lock the door. The boys may be many things, but respecting privacy is not a skill they can claim.

"You two alright in there?" Johnny asks, truly concerned, but you hear Steve and Soda giggling like the girls that stop by the DX to ogle them.

Darrel is quick to readjust, and you wait until he nods to unlock and open the door. All the others are crowded at the threshold, and you can only hope you don't look a complete mess.

"Yeah, sorry," you say. "Darry had a nasty cut, and I had to patch him up."

"Had to get handsy, huh?" Dallas jokes, gesturing to Darrel's rumpled shirt. You know they don't have any clue what just happened, and are blaming your boyfriend's red cheeks on his apparent pain, but you feel your own cheeks heat up regardless.

"It was just his stomach," you retort, hoping your lie isn't too obvious. None of them seem to notice though, and Soda and Pony are already too busy scolding their big brother for hiding the injury. He lifts his shirt to show them the bandage, and any attention previously on you is instead on the large bandaid covering his side.

"Well," Dallas whistles, "looks like you got one hell of a nurse."

Darrel scoffs, but you shoot him a discreet wink.

"What can I say?" you joke with an exaggerated sigh. "I just know how to take care of people."