DEAR READER, this drabble will contain themes of comphet and internalised homophobia, allusions to underage drinking, some self-destructive tendencies and bad coping mechanisms, and mild references to sexual interactions.
please read at your own discretion.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE MUSIC IS PUMPING with the bodies that bump together to the noise of hardcore beats and slurred conversation. The crowds still part for Rory (they're afraid of getting a heel to the face, or worse: kicked out of her party). She weaves in and out from the kitchen to the next room, navigating the fairweather friends here to keep her company on a Friday night. She dons a characteristic smirk because it's easy when everyone's eyes are on you, wide with awe that infects those losers far too quickly. She offers a wave of her hand to one boy and snatches a shot right out of another's hand.
In this sea of boys who would fold at her feet for one second, Rory finds herself swimming in every other possible direction. Especially away from that hand on her hip, which she grabs by the wrist and uses the hand to dispose of her empty shot glass. Though she smirks in the guy's direction, as soon as her face is turned, she finds her expression contorting with ick. Boys and their audacity.
And they wonder why Rory isn't interested in their gawking stances.
Her ears are ringing. The flashing party lights are hurting her goddamn eyes. Some of this annoyance manifests itself in the way she shoves against the two girls making out on the stairs, blocking Rory's path. They give her a glare, which Rory returns just as icily over her shoulder. Perhaps her eyes had lingered just a little bit too long.
"Get a room, losers." She quips to fill the silence of the exchange, flicking perfect platinum curls over her shoulder. Her heels clack on the stairs as she rises away from the action in search of an answer to the one question on her mind for the past twenty minutes: where the fuck did Amber go?
Amber Freeman, who had suggested they throw a party this week, was hiding away from all the fun somewhere. None of these bitches have the nerve to invade Rory's room. Blue eyes scan the hallway, and Rory advances towards one particular door that's open by a crack. Gotcha.
