m'rie. (cocacolaswirl) wrote,
m'rie.
cocacolaswirl

Because people are impatient.

Party? What party? Why hadn’t she been told?—oh, yes, like the almighty Barbary would mention it during rampages through whatever room they were located in—yeah, seemed logical that he’d mention to her in passing that they were going to have a party at the, as she called it, “manor-thing” while she was jerking off his jacket, and he was attempting to remove her turtleneck, Oxford, or whatever graced her personage at that moment in time. So now?—while the other occupants were—hell—god-only-knew-where throughout the manor, scattered around the structure like well-tossed confetti, and someone sounded like they were getting a good bang in the hallway—second floor—she was sitting on her bed (which was made, as she was secretly a neat-freak) in a bathrobe staring at her closet as if it was the Witch King of the Nazgul. Naturally, however, she thought, as her brows quirked with one rather loud thud—it couldn’t be excellent, as she wasn’t there. Her attention was returned to her wardrobe, then, as she came to the conclusion that—yeah—if she waltzed throughout the manor in a bathrobe… it’d probably come off, and she didn’t necessarily want to be streaking anytime soon. A soft creak from the bed as she stood—her bare feet sinking into the fuzzy carpet, and her hand extended to slide open the closet door—brows pulling together with absentminded annoyance as she sighed at the vast options that hung from the vertically stationed pole that stretched across the entrance like a multi-colored curtain.

Her fingers curved around the fabrics—silks, satins, chenille, leathers, plastics—she had it all, it was obvious. But, alas, she didn’t have anything new. This was, most assuredly, an event that required the entrance with a new garment… which she did not have—that, she figured, could pose a definite problem. However—what she hadn’t worn in a long time could be considered new?—right?—right. Especially if the majority of partiers were either drunk or high, or, as possibility held, both—they wouldn’t notice. She bent over—diving into the depths of the epitome of a material world—her nose wrinkling as she winked in order to keep the brush of the occasional designer out of her green-blue gaze—her lips curving into a frown as another thud echoed through the rather quiet domain—someone would have a migraine, she was sure. A roll of her eyes—it was probably Orsino and his drums, again—the raunchy affair between the Boy and his Sticks had already hit the Quibbler. Given—what the kid didn’t know wouldn’t scare him back under his rock. She finally straightened up, triumphant, a grin plastered on her girlish features—and draping over her arm?—something that’d make the most holy of men do a double-take, and the most manly of a motorcycle gang blush. And with a shake of her blonde curls—which fell down her back in the usual golden waves—she plucked from the depths of the decorative closet a shirt.

A shimmy and a shake—she’d pulled on the skirt—zipping up the small silver bangle on her side—she turned sideways, looking into the mirror, her hands moving over her thighs brushing out the wrinkles and creases that folded along the curve of her hips in the satin. Deep, dark, sultry red fell down to the ground—though, it was not as innocent as the back gave impression to. No—Rita was never innocent. From the back, it looked like a long skirt—a simplistic piece of rather nice fashion—but, from the front? Quite the opposite. Running the length of her left leg, was a large slit in the fabric—it came to a rounded in just under her upper thigh—revealing, sultry… perfect for this type of gathering, she imagined. And next?—well, rather, last, as she already had on her top—a black lace bra that was, both, revealing and concealing—she walked over to her bed, where she got down on her knees, and reached under the spread. She pulled out from under the bed a large white box—which she opened with a smirk, eyes glittering devilishly in her bedroom light. She reached inside, and pulled from the tissue paper a very familiar black leather jacket—surprisingly?—one that didn’t have any mud on it. Greece had returned it—she’d been the one to get the mail that day, and what Heathcote didn’t know wouldn’t get her killed, or deny her shagging privileges for a week, or some other such nonsense. She’d kept it under her bed—chances were, she determined as she shrugged the over-large coat on, he’d be much too drunk to remember her wearing his jacket.

And she made her exit—she didn’t bother with shoes—dashing down the hall, and down the stairs. One flight—two—she slipped past Heathcote, dodging a soccer ball, and reaching up to ruffle his hair before continuing forward towards the main—or rather, biggest—living room in the whole establishment. She swung around the doorframe, flinging herself over the armrest of one of the squishy couches, managing to land with such grace, some poor, unknowing fool would think she actually posed herself—her head balanced on one hand as her eyes looked over across the coffee table at Don—long streaks of “sugar” stretching over the mirrored surface of the table. Her brow quirked, and she tilted her head—blonde curls falling over her angelic—but most definitely misleading—features—“More sugar?—I thought I used most of it for the brownies… which everyone liked. Why are you eating it with a straw?”—as much as Rita liked to pretend she was as hardcore and rebellious as they got, she was horribly naïve when it came to the drug world, as the most she’d ever had was marijuana—alcohol was her deal—“And through your nose?—allergies?”

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