The Outsiders Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Bare-chested, broad-shouldered, with nothing but loose sleeping pants slung low on his hips, he looked almost unreal; like a painting suddenly come to life. Calley’s gaze betrayed her before she could control it. Her eyes slipped downward, drawn irresistibly to the bold, black ink sprawling across his chest, shoulder, and down his arm. A Polynesian tribal design, thick and intricate, alive with sharp lines and curves that seemed to pulse against his skin. It was impossible not to stare; it commanded attention, dominance radiating from each mark.

“Everybody else can leave us alone.” There were three of them. Two brunettes and one blonde. They all looked like they could have been models if they'd wanted to. They were tall and skinny, with high cheek bones and glowing skin. They were wearing next to nothing and what was there left little to the imagination. A slight breeze would have exposed them. Normally, Oliver would have been delighted to have girls like these come and sit next to him. But for some reason, as they approached, he felt more repulsed than attracted.

"Would you like to come over? I took another slow lick of my ice cream, watching the interaction, waiting to see how he would respond. I knew he was handsome, but I didn't expect him to attract women this easily. Then again, women always seemed to have a thing for the bad boy aesthetic—the leather jacket, the sharp jawline, the motorbike. It was a classic recipe for trouble, and apparently, these two were more than willing to take a bite. Amber batted her lashes, stepping just a little closer, while Nina played with the edge of her dress, throwing him a coy smile.

I turned around slowly, ready to face whatever catastrophe was looming. The cafeteria seemed to go unnaturally quiet as a trio of boys strutted through the double doors. They didn't walk; they prowled. They wore distressed black denim, leather jackets draped over their shoulders, and combat boots that clicked sharply against the linoleum. Their hair was styled in messy, intentional ways one with ash blonde spikes, another with jet black waves that shadowed his eyes. They exuded an aura of pure, unadulterated rebellion, moving with the swagger of wolves who knew they owned the territory.

I looked at the girl who had just called me a whore. She stood a few feet away, her posture stiff, arms crossed in front of her chest like she had something to prove. She was a bit chubby, the kind of build that suggested she didn’t care much for the gym but also wasn’t shy about who she was. Her hair was a bright, artificial shade of purple, the kind that turned heads whether she wanted the attention or not. The bright color clashed with her skin tone in a way that seemed intentional, as if she wanted to challenge the very idea of beauty itself. Tattoos crawled up her arms—roses, skulls, the occasional random phrase, all mashed together in a chaotic display of rebellion.

ARI Standing 6’5 foot of perfection is looking at me with … hate and murder in his eyes that I forget how to breathe. Dressed in all black, his hands are tucked in his pickets, his perfect body so evidently godly sculpted despite the layers, a sharp jaw, chiselled cheeks, and piercing blue eyes. His hair cropped short leaving the front a little longer, he is so magnificent, insanely beautiful it should be a crime. “If you are done ogling-“

I’m trying not to panic—but I’m also definitely panicking. And then... He appears. Him. Like he stepped out of a fever dream designed to ruin my standards forever. He’s shirtless. Of course he’s shirtless. Because why wouldn’t a kidnapping kingpin be built like sin and carved like sculpture? His skin is pale gold, marred only by a scar that curves like a question mark across his ribs. His black pants hang low on his hips. His hair is dark, slicked back from sharp cheekbones. His eyes—

He found Zayn to be rather familiar, as if he had encountered Zayn somewhere before, but he could not quite place his finger on it. He quickly noticed that Zayn was dressed in tattered, bloodstained clothes, and that he had quite the tanned complexion. Zayn looked just like a laborer, only with a slightly taller and more muscular physique. He saw Zayn as poor, underprivileged societal scum in his eyes. He brushed Zayn off as a nobody unworthy of his attention.

Leather jackets with fraying seams, gold chains that looked just a little too thick, shoes that creased in all the wrong places. Their faces were rough, lined with the kind of hardness that didn’t come from discipline but from years of making the wrong kind of choices. Their presence oozed danger, but not the kind that came with control or calculated power. No, these men were crude, opportunistic. The kind of men that got off on hurting people simply because they could. They were the kind of men who would use their fists before their brains. The kind who took what they wanted, simply because they could. Aurora kept her head down, forcing herself to breathe. Rationally she knew that these men

I muttered. She crossed her little arms, hovering with an expression that screamed judgmental mall clerk. “And who might you be, stomping through my forest in… those rags?” Excuse me? Those rags? I looked down at myself. Sure, I was covered in dirt, blood, and probably tree sap, but still. My jeans were functional. My jacket was sensible. “You mean my post-apocalyptic forest chic?” I said, squinting up at her. “This is called survival fashion, sweetie. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Comes with pockets and trauma.”