*Disclaimer - I do not own Gilmore Girls. Duh.*
*This is a lot different than what I usually write. A lot darker, much more hardcore and emotional. Rated R for language, sexual references and situations (maybe sex scenes, I'm not really sure yet), and drug use. There is not pairing, and I don't know if there will be. Tristan is there. Rory is there. They are two separate people, and they perfectly may stay that way.*
Pan up the grand marble staircase of the DuGrey mansion. No, this isn't a script, or a movie, or a "film". The occasion simply called for a "pan". The hallway splits at the top step, and as we curve to the right, we see an open door at the end of the hall. Inside, a young man, Tristan DuGrey, sits at his bedroom desk. Although raised in the wealthy limelight of Hartford, Connecticut, as we come closer, it is obvious that Tristan is not the most law-abiding citizen.
The view from over his right shoulder reveals a small weighing scale, a few small metal trays, a box of razor blades, and several plastic bags containing white powder.
As we go around the cherry wood desk for a frontal viewpoint, we see his brow furrowed in concentration as he separates some of the white powder with one of the razors on a tray in front of him. Upon closer inspection, tiny beads of sweat form on his face, namely his forehead and nose, which is red around the nostrils.
The phone rings, breaking the absorption in his work. "Tristan DuGrey." He answers with his trademark cocky smirk, leaning back in the uncomfortable matching chair, his free arm draped across his chest. "Yeah, man, I'm behind the scale right now." We hear one side of the conversation, although the dumbest of people could tell you what he is talking about. "I've already chalked it, you'll have it tomorrow." Tristan rolls his eyes, evidently annoyed by the unknown callers idiocy. "Have I ever lied to you?" Holding the phone away from his ear, he crouches over the desk and goes back to work. A few seconds pass, and he brings it closer again. "Exactly. And I've never let you down either, have I?" Once again, it is retracted and brought back. "See? No worries. You'll have it tomorrow." He bluntly signals the end of the conversation by hanging up the phone.
"Jackass." He mutters, shaking his head.
*This is a lot different than what I usually write. A lot darker, much more hardcore and emotional. Rated R for language, sexual references and situations (maybe sex scenes, I'm not really sure yet), and drug use. There is not pairing, and I don't know if there will be. Tristan is there. Rory is there. They are two separate people, and they perfectly may stay that way.*
Pan up the grand marble staircase of the DuGrey mansion. No, this isn't a script, or a movie, or a "film". The occasion simply called for a "pan". The hallway splits at the top step, and as we curve to the right, we see an open door at the end of the hall. Inside, a young man, Tristan DuGrey, sits at his bedroom desk. Although raised in the wealthy limelight of Hartford, Connecticut, as we come closer, it is obvious that Tristan is not the most law-abiding citizen.
The view from over his right shoulder reveals a small weighing scale, a few small metal trays, a box of razor blades, and several plastic bags containing white powder.
As we go around the cherry wood desk for a frontal viewpoint, we see his brow furrowed in concentration as he separates some of the white powder with one of the razors on a tray in front of him. Upon closer inspection, tiny beads of sweat form on his face, namely his forehead and nose, which is red around the nostrils.
The phone rings, breaking the absorption in his work. "Tristan DuGrey." He answers with his trademark cocky smirk, leaning back in the uncomfortable matching chair, his free arm draped across his chest. "Yeah, man, I'm behind the scale right now." We hear one side of the conversation, although the dumbest of people could tell you what he is talking about. "I've already chalked it, you'll have it tomorrow." Tristan rolls his eyes, evidently annoyed by the unknown callers idiocy. "Have I ever lied to you?" Holding the phone away from his ear, he crouches over the desk and goes back to work. A few seconds pass, and he brings it closer again. "Exactly. And I've never let you down either, have I?" Once again, it is retracted and brought back. "See? No worries. You'll have it tomorrow." He bluntly signals the end of the conversation by hanging up the phone.
"Jackass." He mutters, shaking his head.