set during the wicked party. no concrete spoilers, though, insert disclaimer here.
-p l a s t i c-
c r o w n s;
--
{pretty little liars}
--
"Princess Spencer," you drawl in the sexiest, most grown-up growl you can muster. And for her? God, you would muster the fricking moon. If that even made any sense whatsoever. Not that you even care; no one cares about you. There are adults at the Hastingses' bash, too. Responsible adults who carry drivers licenses and have gone through childbirth and adult shit like that. Of course, most of said 'responsible' adults are zoned-out on Xanax, buzzed from Cristal, stressed by their French-imported cigarettes, or a combination of the three.
"Yes, King," she giggles, her nose, long and slender, bumps yours. Your breath catches and you think that Noel Kahn would say you're being a pussy - but who cares? A gorgeous girl is in your arms, her legs are wrapped around your waist and the feather-trimmed hem of her little black dress is bunched up almost to her promise land. Life is pretty damn good.
You correct her, "Nah. I'd be 'Prince.' If I was the king I'd be your father and I don't think you're into that kind of kinky, roleplay stuff. Unless...?" You raise your eyebrows suggestively and she laughs again - her laugh is no longer a girlie giggle, it's a full-on belly laugh. You think that, if you're not quite in love with the girl yet, you're in love with the sound of the girl's laughter.
"Oh." Spencer smiles widely, showing off her perfect teeth. She bites her lip and you pray to god she's not going to go all holy on you and be like 'This is wrong.' But then again, a direct quote from the Twilight trailer isn't her style. You shake the thought from your mind - Aria can be all 'Ooh, Clockwork Orange,' and 'Ahh, Bridshead Revisited,' around her skeezy older paramours, but she's secretly in love with teen romance movies. She, alone probably gave the YouTube version of the trailer 200, 000 hits.
That's when you can't help yourself any longer. Even though you swore you'd let the girl be the instigator for once, she's just too damn perfect to be left there, soclose, biting her lip and untouched. So you press your lips against her and pray (oh god, do you pray) that this isn't a dream. She slips her tongue between your lips; you let her.
--
She sweeps her dirty-blond hair off her freckled back, mouths "Zip me up?" And you do. You wonder how anyone could say no to her. When she turns around, she gives you one last closed-mouth smile. It's not enough. You'd rather hear her laugh. She smoothly exits the old study, narrowly missing an heirloom bookshelf where the heavy tomes are all hollow and hard liquor resides. Her manicured fingers carefully tip her plastic crown back into place - the same crown she was wearing as a pretentious seventh-grader. You remember it from the grainy home video they showed on the local news. You don't think you could ever forget it.
"Bye, Mike."
You straighten your tie. Savannah - oh, yeah, her - might be looking for you. Pretty, sweet, gentle, kind Savannah. Who likes lacrosse and is addicted to Facebook and thinks that Diet Coke tastes nasty. Your girlfriend.
"Bye, Spence."
The rest of the night is spent with your eyes glued to the bottom of the Swarovski crystal shot glass, your trembling fingers swirling the amber liquid in shaky circles. Savannah's snuggled up close to you and she puts her arm around your waist whenever that loser kid with the bleached hair (Hanna Marin's bitch, Lucas, was it?) pops by to snap a photograph. He mumbles something about 'some people' being 'happy couples.' You don't correct him.
You pretend that you're not imagining Spencer Hastings at your side, in her short little black dress, with her unsteady smile and glazed-over eyes.
Because that's what the Montgomery family does best.