Teenage Dirtbag Outfit Novels & Stories

PEBBLES' POV I scrambled through my suitcase, trying to cypher through those rags I called clothes. I struggled to find a decent enough outfit. The only items I found were brown corduroy pants that had seen better days and Grandma's old blue cotton sweater that was missing a button or two.

This is as good a place as any to die. “You came to your senses and decided to just give up, then?” A lanky man struts forward, his skin dirty and his hair in dreads, knotted in a low ponytail with a piece of fabric. Rogues are known to be dirty, not as bad as the exiles, but exiles living long is rare so no one really has expectations for us. I shift into my human form, pulling out a pair of shorts from my bag.

With a groan, I heave myself out of bed, my body protesting as I stretch, each crack and creak echoing through the silence. My gaze drifts to my bag, barely filled with the remnants of my life—clothes that likely carry the scent of neglect. I rummage through my old dresser, fingers diving deep into forgotten memories, finally unearthing a pair of sweatpants and a faded Nirvana T-shirt. I throw the shirt over my shoulders, feeling the fabric cling to me like a ghost from the past. My hair falls in wild strands around my neck as I twist it into a haphazard bun, giving up on perfection for the promise of comfort.

The sight of him was sickening. He was dressed neatly in a pair of black woollen pants, black leather boots and a button-down shirt. His copper hair was pulled to the back, displaying all of his foreheads and his grey eyes were twinkling with derision. The sight of Jared made me even more aware of my helpless situation and my eyes dropped to the dirty floor as embarrassment enveloped me. While Jared looked so neat, here I was, as dirty as a pig. I was dressed in nothing but the shorts I had been dragged with to the packhouse.

my best friend and roommate Ashton Wilson shouted at me. “Just give me a minute.” I sighed, running a hand over my hair, making it less put together than I prefer. I didn’t recognize the man looking back at me. I hadn’t shaved for the last two days in preparation for this. This black Sex Pistols tee, dark jeans with rips, and black sneakers significantly departed from the button-downs, khakis, and dress shoes of my regular wardrobe. The only thing about the outfit that indicated I came from money is the gold chain clipped to my belt loop leading to my grandfather’s gold pocket watch that I kept in my front pocket.

It's not all royal and it's not a dump. I sigh and throw my bag on the ground before plopping down on the bed. How can anyone rest in those tiny seats when everyone around you is making so much noise? I should have just bought a ticket for the upper class, but now since I'm undercover as a runaway teen I'm not supposed to be able to afford anything. Being wanted is hard, but I know I can't fall asleep yet. I get up and open my backpack, pouring out everything on my bed. Grabbing a trash bag and stuffing my prison clothes in the bag, I tie it up and throw it out the window and straight into the huge garbage bin.

Dirt doesn't really stick to me, even if I roll on the grass, I still won't stick to it. I went out after making sure everything was fine. I went to my closet to get something to wear. I was completely torn between wearing jeans or a dress. Minutes had passed when I finally picked my outfit for the day. I wore a black fitted ripped jeans and a black sleeveless crop top, which made my stomach easily visible when I moved. It had a Drink My Blood brand on the chest so it was even cooler to look at.

the male replied, eyeing my disheveled appearance with caution. I must admit, I looked like a street bum. My scruffy, unkempt appearance was a disguise. The human press always loved to speculate about America's eligible bachelors like we were ripe for the pecking order. The last thing we needed was to be followed by the paparazzi. My jeans were dirty and torn at the knees, my plain black t-shirt clung to me, my boots were well worn, my hair was outgrown and creeping past my ears, merging with my beard. The only thing I carried of any value was the antique watch around my wrist that had been a gift from my grandfather. Aaron and I had borrowed Neal's truck, so to any onlookers, we were just a

Wow, іt muѕt bе catching. “Speaking оf bеіng direct, what’s with thе сlоthеѕ?” “What do you mean?” I frowned, drорріng my еуеѕ dоwn tо mу оutfіt. “Wеll these bаggу аѕѕ jeans аnd T-shirt. Yоu’vе got to lеаrn tо ѕhоw уоur bоdу оff a lіttlе. I know whаt, I’m gоіng tо take уоu ѕhорріng on Saturday.”

he said, pointing at their targets as he leaned against the grimy wall splashed with crude graffiti. "You think he's Jonah?" Andrei asked, scrunching his face at the lanky dude dressed in baggy jeans, a dark T-shirt under a brown fur-lined leather jacket, and super white Air Force 1s on his feet. Besides his shoulder-length dreadlocks, there was nothing remarkable about him. In fact, he looked like any good old runner with his Gucci crossbody bag strapped to his chest. "Doesn't he look like a Jonah to you?" "Unbelievable!" Andrei muttered under his breath, unable to believe he'd braced the cold for Igor's nonsense. "Jonah could be any one of these guys!"