#yatesevent001

Sawyer sighed as he looked at his suit piled on the ground, knowing the risking of alcohol or something worse spilling on it and his allowance was running a little low so dry cleaning was not an option this week. A chill crept down his spine as he now stood in only his boxer briefs. Despite the sheer amount of bodies working up a sweat as they grind against each other, the Calloway house still managed to have a draft. He really wasn’t drunk enough to be giving into dares this early into the party, but there was something so intoxicating about being surround by people he didn’t know chanting his name. Plus, anything for a good story right. He slipped his thumbs into his waist band, about to fully commit when he saw a familiar face. “Hey!” He stood a little straighter, waving them over. “Want to add a great story to list of ones to tell tomorrow. Plus it’s early enough we might actually remember this one.”

The grandeur of the Calloway House presented a rich, if not slightly blurry, backdrop to Romeo’s heroic sprint up the spiral staircase. Initiation night had barely passed the two-hour mark and his collar was already stained with someone’s girlfriend’s lipstick. The someone in question? A Hastings member two years his senior, now dead-set on strangling Romeo with his own tie. “For fuck’s sake!” He shoved through a throng of partygoers, their irritated yelps lost on him as he flung open a door at random, slammed and locked it behind him. He had just let out a sigh of relief when, upon realizing he wasn’t alone, he jumped back so violently that the back of his head hit the doorframe with an audible clack. “Um, hello? Did you just fucking apparate in here or something? I could have died. That noise a second ago? That was the sound of my skull cracking. Thanks so much, I’m braindead now.”

Sitting on a windowsill as she sat watching the Calloway party from a distance, Maggie was taking slow sips of... well she didn’t know what was in her flask. It was jungle juice, with some kind of drug laced in it, given to her by a fellow Kincaid member. “I have a question,” she asked the person nearest to her, blue eyes watching a couple across the room who clearly had no qualms about PDA, her beaded dress, given to her by her grandmother, catching the low lights. “Do you think she’s trying to swallow him? I’ve seen her get lockjaw at least three times during their makeout, but her jaw just keeps opening wider and wider.” Maggie sighed, kicking her heels back and forth. “God, I wish someone would dementor-style suck my soul out like that. I think not having a soul would give me cool superpowers. One can only dream, right?”

She liked to make an entrance. That was obvious enough. Anita not so much walked around the intricately adorned Calloway house as she glided, lips pursed, smile nonexistent. She looked out at the sweaty bodies in front of her, wincing and rolling her eyes. Where the fuck were her friends? These people had no class, no sense of restraint. The party had just begun and already, the air was electric with chaos. Sure, she was usually the epicenter of drama, but. But, fuck. At least she waited until a of couple hours into a party to start fucking shit up. That was called class. And these people had never heard of it, apparently. Anita walked to the nearest table with alcohol, enclosing her fingers around the stem of some fruity cocktail. She took a sip. Gagged. "What the fuck is this?" She turned to the body directly next to her, opening her mouth before she could even register who it was. "I need something way stronger than this if I'm gonna have a good time tonight."

“God someone fucking.... stepped on my hand with a stiletto. Right after I was jostled to the ground by a particularly beefy dude. It’s fucking chaos in here. My nail even got ripped off. Glory and gore and all that,” Darby rambled, examining her bruised and mangled middle finger. “Gonna have to grow it back. You know what they say, grow the coke nail you wish to see in this world.” She brushed hr hair out of her face, taking a puff of a cigarette held on a long, slender cigarette holder. “Anyways,” she said, taking her short silver skirt for a spin, nearly flashing the person she was speaking to, grin on her face. “If you look closely you can totally see my left ass cheek, right? Take a picture for your mental wank bank. What should I get tramp stamped on there?”

Felix was sitting perched on a table, next to the infamous Calloway “drug bowl”, legs crossed and eating from a family sized bag of Skinny Pop. He was still dealing with the backlash from his tweet about seeing Dahlia naked, his fellow Calloway Society members shunning him all night as he wandered around the party in a drugged out, blissful haze from the two joints he had smoked. “Are you mad at me too? I get it, it was kind of fucked up. But I was high! And she has amazing tits, you have to agree,” he complained, popping more popcorn into his mouth. “Uncle! Uncle! Stop whipping me in the town square for all to see. Anyways, will you do me a favor? Will you smoke with ya boy?”