𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 🦋

football quarterback || darry

⎨credits to greasergirls 🤩⎬

October 12, 1962.

He approaches your desk as you fidget with the plastic spiral of your notebook, pencil resting against your bottom lip. Football jerseys have a way about making their possessors look godly, or so you've noticed.

As if by magic, your attention is averted from the dusty chalkboard and its written page number. You have no idea, and you won't have any idea, what the significance of the War of Camden is. A true, blatant tragedy.

Only, now he's not walking towards you. He's walking past you to get to his friend three seats behind you.

Desperation: an eleven-letter long word you completely and entirely embody as you take out a loose leaf sheet of paper.

He's discussing his strategy for that big game tonight with his thick voice. Your pencil flies across the paper in haste.

No, it's not a love letter. If it was it would have a quirkier title like, 'Dear Darrel Curtis, Fire of My Loins' instead of a pathetic call for help to your best friend. You think she's your best friend, anyway.

He's talking to you when he asks if you're going to the game tonight. You are, you reply, cautiously flipping over the thousand word grand manifesto of your teenage hormones.

"You know, I always thought you were a—"

"— Junior, I know."

"Huh," he remarks, contemplative as usual. Darry's undoubtedly Paul Newman, but you can't deny the way he pulls off Brando. "You're only a baby, aren't you?"

October 21, 1962.

His hair doesn't ruffle like yours does as he slides off your top. You run your hands down him. The muscles aren't taut, but they're defined and hard.

Darry's kissing you hard as you undo his pants. His tongue kneads yours, searching and exploring your mouth. For whatever reason, you don't think he'd ever remove his jeans himself.

Must be a pride thing, you decide. He's a good guy underneath the limelight layers.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He questions as your warm panties slip past your ankles.

You're trying to convince yourself that there is a micro-shred of modesty left within you so you leave your soft pink skirt on.

It pools around you as you climb onto the boy's lap. He leaves your thin shirt on, groping underneath for the clasp to your bra. He finds it.

His jaw is clean-shaven. You've never really seen him without it all like that. Blue-eyed puppy.

A big good puppy, though, you note as a hand grabs hard at your breast. Involuntarily, you moan and turn the dark hue of a ripe strawberry. It's okay, he assures you, I wanna hear you.

Darry rubs the fabric of your plain blouse against your nipple using only his large thumb. You flinch, unused to the sensation. It's better with the top on.

When his thumb skims over the peak of both, you can't control yourself any longer. You'd much rather just get things going.

"Are you hard?" You ask. The question itself is not vulgar, but you experience an inexplicable rush of a welcomed wave of confidence.

"Almost," he answers before running both hands through his hair. He's lying.

You take advantage of the opportunity presented and scoot into his chest. Your lips find his neck as you press yourself into him, grinding and rolling your hips.