Unashamedly smutty, and with some feels. I make no apologies. It still follows GG canon. Maybe my Rory is a little OOC, but I think it's within the realms of what could have happened. Yes, she's a good girl, but that doesn't mean she has to be shy about sex or what she wants.
* The odd bit of dialogue is from The Real Paul Anka, but I didn't use it all for the fear of repeating myself. *
When the invitation came, you tossed it aside, determined you wouldn't go. Yes, at the behest of Jess you'd turned your life around and you should thank him for it. Except it makes you squirm to think of that evening in Hartford, of Jess and Logan sparring over you. The humiliation of being told what you already knew, that your attempt to escape from reality wasn't you, wasn't the life you were destined to have.
That's nothing compared to the hot shame you feel to know that Jess was right about Logan. You and Logan aren't speaking, and that suits you just fine.
You ignore the stack of editorials on your desk, get in the car and drive to Philadelphia. You don't think about why you're going, flipping between an eighties station and your new Jack's Mannequin CD and singing along loudly.
Stopping at a set of lights, you catch your reflection in the opposite car window and try not to think about Logan. When you get to the publishing house, you stop outside the door. There's no reason why Jess wouldn't be happy to see you, but the lingering awkwardness almost makes you not go in, hesitating outside the door where you can hear laughter and voices.
You've missed the poetry reading, but are content to look around, take in the quirky atmosphere of the place where he works. Sitting on a stool, you pull his book from your pocket and read those words that are undeniably Jess; it's as if his surly, fifteen-year-old self is speaking to you from the pages. You're so engrossed you don't notice the guests leaving, Jess getting rid of his friends. When he comes over to you, his smile is warm and genuine, and you think maybe this isn't going to be so hard after all. The two of you make small talk about his book, and then the subject turns to how you are.
"So everything's fixed?"
"Yeah, everything," you hear yourself say brightly, even though you notice he's pulled his stool closer to yours.
"I'm glad you're here," he says, his voice low and heavy with expectation, and your heartbeat stutters.
"Me, too."
He leans in, his lips meet yours, and it's fire. You jump up, pulling your arm out of his grasp and getting to your feet.
"What?" Jess asks, nonplussed.
"I'm sorry." Except, you're not. This is what you came here for, and now that it's happening, you can't even damn well go through with it.
That's weak, Gilmore.
"What for?" Jess asks, coming towards you.
You're backing away unconsciously, your voice nervous and girlish as you speak.
"Uh, about coming here like this. I just got the flier, and I don't know. I wanted to see your place, but then – this…" You're babbling, hardly know what you're saying anymore.
"Don't apologise." His words are soft, his eyes dark and intense. When he steps closer you panic, shift on the spot, let him take you by the shoulders. You feel dizzy, like you've had ten cups of Luke's coffee, and hot and freezing all at the same time.
A hand slips round your back, and you're firmly pressed into his body. He's close, so close that you can smell his scent of soap mixed with cigarettes, laced with the gum he must have been chewing earlier. A part of you thinks that it's merciful he hasn't still got that gum, reminding you of those gross, teenage gum-swapping kisses you both used to secretly enjoy.
He kisses you hard, the firm pressure of his mouth on yours dissolving any lingering hesitation or guilt. You acquiesce; open yourself to his mouth and the fierce press of lips and tongues sliding against each other. Jess is all heat and confidence and insistence, rough fingers tangling in your hair and dragging your lips back to his waiting mouth. It's like he can't control himself in your presence.
The idea sends a nervous thrill down your spine, reminding you that you chose this. This is still something that you control, not Logan. It makes you feel powerful, and it's an addictive feeling.
You're already wet, and when he reaches down and cups you, fingers stroking you through damp fabric, you arch against him and moan. You're not even ashamed.
Jess deftly unbuttons your jacket, pushing it off your shoulders before you do the same to his. Teeth nip at your neck, then you're raising your arms and letting him pull off your camisole. You flush as he sees your boring white bra, but Jess tugs one cup to the side, mouth closing over a nipple while he palms your other breast through your shirt. You breathe in sharp, staccato bursts, lost in the all-consuming want for him to fuck-yes, fuck; this can't be described any other way-you rough and hard. Want him to make you forget.
Reaching for his belt buckle, you fumble at the clasp before his hands close over yours, pausing your movements.
"Everything okay?" you ask, meeting his eyes. God, he's beautiful like this, his longish hair rumpled; skin flushed from your touches and kisses, and you realise how much you need this.
"Just want to be sure you're okay with this, Rory," he says, even though his voice is rough and ragged with lust. "You want this, right?" You freeze, afraid he's going to mention Logan, but he doesn't, and you put all thoughts of your errant ex-boyfriend out of your mind.
"Forget it. I want this," you say confidently, and at least nothing in that sentence is a lie.
In between frenzied kisses you fumble at each other's buttons and zips, removing all remaining clothing until there's nothing but heated skin on skin.
You let him press you into the rug on the floor, your skin bare against the cold carpet. Heat blazes over your body with every touch of his mouth and hands, a contrast to the chill. He's much slower and gentler now, taking the time to explore every inch of you. His fingers trace patterns that make no sense, before you realise that he's writing on your skin, sealing each word with a heated press of his lips.
"Wait, what are you-?" you start to ask, before he cuts you off with a kiss.
"I'll never tell," he says, with a flash of that rebellious smirk that always used to make you soaking wet.
The sudden change of pace makes you consider what this means to him, even as you arch into his touch and make high keening moans that are embarrassingly loud. It's painfully obvious that this is so much more than sex for him, and maybe it is for you, too. You could have just gone out and found some random guy in a bar, but you chose Jess. You're unwilling to think about what that means right now.
Jess smiles against your skin, tells you you're beautiful and laughs when you blush crimson. You always used to blush when you made out on Luke's couch, bodies pushing against each, desperate for some friction, but you'd go red whenever you felt him hard against you. Things change.
He kisses the hollow of your hipbone and you're shaking, your body taut and overwhelmed with sensation. You move your hands to tangle in his hair and still him for a moment. With one quick movement, he slides back up your body to kiss you, deep and wet with a promise of everything he's going to make you feel.
Warm lips trace a path down your body, and when his mouth finds you, you cry out.
It was never like this with Dean. He was gentle, respectful – always asking if you were okay, if he was hurting you. Made sure you came first, held you in his arms, whispered over and over how perfect you were.
Logan makes love with a confidence that has never surprised you, with that golden smile and the dirty words he whispers in your ear that make you embarrassingly wet. "Come for me, Ace." Logan's mouth is soft against you when he does this, all fluttering tongue and perfect pressure slowly easing you to a shattering release.
You should have known that Jess would be nothing like Logan or Dean.
Jess is all over you, fingers roughly slipping inside as his mouth fits full against your sex. The faint stubble on his face scratches at the inside of your thigh, he twists those fingers, and you're already spinning, teetering on the precipice when he sucks hard on your clit. You're thinking no, too hard, too sensitive, I can't but oh God more, harder, yes, please Jess, and you're writhing, pushing against his mouth as you break.
"Jess – fuck!" you scream, your thighs trembling against his head even as he holds them apart with firm hands.
"Rory Gilmore, swearing? I must be good." You swat him playfully, thread fingers through that bad-boy hair and kiss him to taste yourself on his lips.
You reach down and grasp him, solid and fierce heat in your palm, and he groans, his fingers moving to your breasts and squeezing. You're about as rough with him as he was with you, his hips shifting as he pumps into your hand. Eventually, he stops you with a low, warning whisper of your name.
"I want –" you start to say, but he just kisses you.
"I know." You can't bear to wait any longer, you need him inside of you, to lose yourself in that rhythm of two bodies moving together.
Your back presses into the rug-if it's still cold, you don't even feel it-and the burning heat of his body rests on yours. You let Jess spread your legs, slide up in between them as you wrap your thighs round his hips. Feel him tentatively press inside you, his breath catching with a low groan against your forehead. There's a slow, burning ache as he pushes further until he's seated fully within you, your hips flush. He gives you a soothing kiss and waits until you feel comfortable. You reach up to tangle your fingers in his hair, shifting your hips impatiently.
He pulls back and drives into you, hot fingers finding your hip and grasping it so tightly you're sure it's going to leave a mark. You wrap your legs round his back, drag your fingernails down it until he hisses and starts pounding into you roughly.
With one swift movement, he sits back, one hand on your back pulling you up in his lap. You rest your hands on his shoulders and move over him, meeting his eyes as you both listen to the wet, thoroughly erotic sound of him sliding in and out of you. You give in to Jess, let him own you, split you open with every searing thrust of his hips. One particularly violent push of his hips into yours makes you cry out in near-pain, muffling a sob against his shoulder.
There's a sudden dampness between your cheek and his collarbone, and you pretend it's sweat.
You let him turn you over, press your face into the floor as he wraps your hair around his hand and fucks you. The deeper angle feels even better, and you're moaning unashamedly now, trembling as your fingers scrabble at the rug fibres, trying to find purchase. Jess kisses your neck, his lips wet and slack, breathing hot against your ear as he shifts against you, laughing softly each time you can't stop yourself from crying out his name.
He spreads his palm out over your hip, lets his fingers tighten on your flesh, and you realise you want him to hurt you. Not what you'd do normally-no, never like this-but you can't stop yourself from vocalising every twisted thought in your head.
The hot, sticky, needing rawness of the moment hits you. And so you beg for the marks of his possession, wanting the bruises and scratches that will remind you tomorrow that this was real.
You arch into Jess, thrusting back at him harder, ignoring the growing burn of your bloodless knees and knuckles where they dig into the carpet fibre. He drops your hair, and then his fingers are slipping wetly between your legs, clumsily circling at the place where you join. The white hot pressure between your thighs increases, your impending release surging.
His voice is in your ear, a ragged, broken whisper, "Come on Rory, come for me." Jess draws back slowly, and slams into you so hard you scream, coming with a sound that's halfway between a scream and a sob.
"Rory," he mutters against your skin, the words coming out as a strangled whisper, and you're amazed at the rush of feeling that accompanies them. With a start, you realise Jess is still in love with you, that he was trying to bury it beneath his rough and raw physical need for you. You've known it all along, and yet you still let it happen.
Whore. Slut. Bitch. Even with your extensive vocabulary, these are the only words that come to mind. You deserve them.
You don't have time to think about it, because Jess surges forward, panting, and then he's coming inside you with another grunt of your name. It takes you by surprise how shockingly intimate it feels when he pulses inside you hotly, and the feel of his come trickling down your inner thigh when he slips out of you.
Logan's always wanted to do that, and you've never let him. You're always on birth control, but insist upon condoms anyway. You're too paranoid, too sensible, always insist upon covering all bases. Rory Gilmore, the consummate planner. For you to do something so stupid and spontaneous is unheard of. You can almost hear Paris's voice in your ear: No glove no love.
He trails kisses down your sweat-slick spine, and your breath is still coming in quick, fevered pants. Jess rests hands on your shoulders, turns you round to face him and that's when you realise you're crying, the tears falling from your flushed cheeks to the rug below.
"Rory?" His eyes widen in concern.
"I can't do this," you say, bringing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. "God, I'm so stupid. I wanted to cheat on him like he cheated on me."
"What? Who cheated on you?" He sounds panicked, and guilt twists in you, your stomach curdling like undercooked scrambled eggs. You say nothing, knowing he'll figure it out anyway. A shadow of comprehension passes over Jess' face, and he lets out a resigned sigh.
"That guy?"
You nod, letting more ugly, hot tears spill from your eyes.
"I thought everything was fixed?"
"Everything but him."
Jess runs hands through his hair. You exchange words, hating the sarcastic tone in his voice when he tells you that he's going to ask his poet about love. You tell him you love Logan, and you do.
"If it makes you feel any better, you can always tell him what we did." Jess is smiling, but his eyes are cold, the sharp edge of sarcasm evident in his voice.
You get to your feet, wincing as you feel the burn in your thighs from holding yourself up on the carpet. You dimly register you should probably clean yourself up in his bathroom, but every fibre of your being is screaming that you can't be here with him another second. You retrieve your panties from the floor, put them on with as much dignity as you can muster before putting on the rest of your clothes.
He says nothing, just gets dressed alongside you, and you don't look at him. The silence echoes, your heartbeat crashing in your ears.
You go, telling him your car's outside. Maybe he follows you, or he doesn't – you're not sure.
It's hot and messy between your thighs, and you feel the phantom throb as though he's still inside you. You drive far too fast; you know it's dangerous to drive like this. And so you pull over by the side of the road and let the sobs wrack your body.
The marks he left on your body fade slowly, like the pencil-marks he used to make in the margins of your books, erased by you to leave only a faint echo.
Jess doesn't call, and you don't blame him.
Shaking fingers hover over the buttons of your cell phone, dialling his number even as you're not sure what to say. Fumbled apologies and inappropriate declarations of affection that probably aren't true whirl through your confused brain. You want him to say it's okay, that you can still be friends, but deep down, you know you can't be.
You'll always crave it – rough fingers and thrusts that break you apart and heady, teenage kisses that are so Jess.
You hit the 'cancel' button, are about to toss your phone back into your bag when it rings. Scrabbling at the buttons, you answer so quickly you can't see who it is, your heart skipping a beat as you wait.
"Hello?"
But it's not Jess. It's the call that changes everything.
"Logan did what?"
When the bus makes a stop in Philadelphia on the campaign trail, you excuse yourself from drinks with your colleagues and make your way to Truncheon Books. It's late, but there's a light on upstairs. You ring the bell and he comes down, eyes bugging when he sees you. His face is guarded, and you wonder for a second if it was a huge mistake coming here, but then he reaches for you.
There are no words, just his body against yours as he takes your hand, pulls you inside and kisses you with a force that leaves you breathless.
Afterwards, wrapped in his sheets, you talk as he writes words he won't explain on your bare skin. He's seeing someone-nothing serious, just casual-and that doesn't bother you like you thought it would. Hell, it gets lonely sometimes on the campaign trail; it's not as if you've never sought a willing body and some comfort on those nights you regretted your decision to not become the future Mrs Huntzberger.
Except Jess is different, and you find yourself wondering how you could have thought that would be enough.
"Maybe, when Obama wins and you can stay in one place for two seconds, Gilmore, then the two of can give this train-wreck a chance." Jess is smiling, and his eyes are soft even as he teases you.
"I don't think we can make this any worse than it already is," you tell him seriously, and when he raises an eyebrow, you lose it.
You laugh and laugh, and think that maybe this is what you were looking for all along.
I apologise for the use of words demeaning to women (whore, slut, bitch) - I am not implying that Rory is any of those things, it was just a visceral expression of the thoughts inside her own head at the time.
No beta, so don't shoot me for the odd typo.