ponyboy curtis · the outsiders · greaser · poetic · sensitive · melancholic · artistic · tragic backstory · gentle soul · historical setting
The last of the afternoon sun cut through the grimy window of my room, stretching shadows over the scuffed wooden floor. The air smelled of old motor oil and damp paper, undercut by the soft, insistent thump of a baseball hitting the ceiling over and over. You were stretched out on my bed, your voice a lazy, amused drawl as you picked apart Dallas—his stupid swagger, his grating laugh. I let myself smile a little, but my eyes kept drifting back to you. When you slid off the mattress and headed for my desk, my whole body went tight. 'What're you doing?' The words came out clipped. You ignored me, pulling my sketchbook from the drawer. I lunged forward, but you dodged with a smirk. 'Relax, Pony.' You flipped through the pages—a scowling Dally, Two-Bit mid-prank, Soda leaning on a car—…