Spin Cycle
RATING: T
SUMMARY: Tristan and Rory do some laundry
Written in response to the following fic request (Trory V-Day Challenge 2004):
Rating of Fic: PG-13
Things to include:
1) Post-Chilton
2) Humor
3) Kissing
Things not to include: Smut
"How many times do I have to tell you this, Tristan? Your Calvin Klein boxers don't belong with your Hanes. The Kleins are dark, and the Hanes aren't. Darks go with darks, and lights go with lights, it's really quite simple. I don't know why you refuse to listen."
Tristan Dugray, holding open the door to the dorm laundry room in the basement, smirked at his girlfriend currently pilfering through his undergarments. "Look, Gilmore, underwear is underwear, alright? It all touches the same stuff everyday, so I'm not worried."
Rory glared at him, setting her basket down on the counter space in the center of the room. "You're such a pig. Is absolutely everything about you and your…appendage?"
"My appendage," he said with a playful leer while leaning in, intrigued.
"Yeah. What else would you have me call it? Princess Sophia? Pr — Princess Sophi — haha —"
Instantly, she broke out into random fits of laughter at the memories that the pet name sparked while he, of course, feigned disinterest.
"I rue the day I ever watched that God-forsaken movie with you. Never again."
She continued to laugh while loading her jeans into the wash. "That's what you think."
"No, it's a fact. What I say goes. I'm the wearer of the proverbial pants in this relationship, Rory."
"Uh huh. The cold-rinse pants you're currently trying to wash with socks and towels. Hopeless."
He smiled at her snatching things away from him in bulk and couldn't help but chuckle. "Alright, Martha freaking Stewart. Since you seem to know so much, you do my laundry for me," he challenged smugly, putting his basket on the counter with a thud then hopping on top and giving her his most pompous leer.
"I'd love to. You don't know what the hell you're doing anyway," she told him, sticking her tongue out briefly and acting as if it had been her idea to begin with.
While Rory continued to separate out both her and Tristan's clothes, he took the opportunity to admire the girl whom he'd known for some years now. He'd spent most of his high school efforts on torturing and teasing her when all he'd really wanted was to get to know her. He had an asshole complex that needed dealing with, but that wasn't really the point. Their time had been cut short; when he was actually starting to get somewhere with her, he'd been yanked out of Chilton and sent off to teenage boot camp hell. Granted, it had made him cut, stronger and more "disciplined", but ultimately it was a waste of time. It also didn't help that he'd thought about her almost every hour of the two years he was away either. He knew that had never happened with anybody in his entire life, and he vowed that once he got out of there, he'd sure as hell do something about it.
Upon release, he was able to take advantage of his father's shallow social connections and get a four-year ride to Yale University. Much to his dismay, since he'd had it on good word and memory that Rory was going to Harvard. Whatever, people invented cars for a reason, he didn't mind making a bit of a drive for something he wanted. One day shortly after classes had started, he'd actually subjected himself to the campus cuisine and got some coffee to rescue him from his post-Carolinian, sleep-depraved funk. Lo and behold, who should he see vapidly consuming the same beverage across the commons than Rory Gilmore. He blamed it on the funk for giving him unkind hallucinations, but he soon realized that she was very real. And then they caught glances with each other. He could've sworn she'd choked on the sip she'd just taken upon seeing him, and he tried not to laugh at her coughing and widening eyes. Well, this was his shining moment. He'd been waiting to be exactly where he was right then and he could barely move. Swallowing the nerves that loved to bunch right at the back of his throat, he found himself standing in front of her, waiting for either of them to say something. Anything.
She looked so different, but somehow she hadn't changed at all. Not really. She had definitely matured; her face was a bit slimmer, her hair was shorter and attractively cut. From what he could see her body was without a doubt showing signs of development, though he tried to stay discreet about noticing. And yet she still managed to have that same innocent glow about her that had made him seethe with want he'd never known for another human being his whole life. No, different wasn't the word he was looking for. Hurtfully gorgeous was about the only thing he could think of without really having to think at all.
Then she smiled — a real, genuine, beautiful smile — and it melted away his anxiety as he saw fit to return it, loving the way her porcelain skin tinted with color from what he thought sure was blushing. So he hadn't lost his touch after all. He'd almost felt like buffing his nails.
From then on out, they'd basically been together, whether as friends or as more later on down the road, and he honestly couldn't have been more elated with himself for actually taking the plunge and doing what he'd meant to all this time. Much to the dismay of his eternal skepticism on matters of the heart, he'd found that risks had their benefits, and he surely planned on taking them more often.
Presently, he found himself in the here and now, staring into the abyss of his reverie and not even realizing that such a short amount of time had passed since he'd began his trek down memory lane. She was still sorting and loading their laundry. Later on, he'd have to ask her how she made even the most ass-boring things so damn cute.
When she was facing the washer and her back was turned to him, he stealthily crept up behind her, sliding his arms around her slim waist and nuzzling against the cradle of her neck, conveniently exposed by her cropped hair style. He felt the chills course through her stomach under his hands as his mouth danced across the surface of her skin at a feather-light pace. Then he saw she was trying to dip the scoop in the detergent box but was caressing the air instead. Laughing both at her and the effect he had on her more often than not, he redirected her arm to be above the Tide instead of next to it, to which she blinked out of her daze and pretended she knew what she was doing.
"Smooth. Almost convinc—"
"Shut up," she snapped, to which he chuckled and continued kissing her skin, adding the slightest hint of teeth.
"Oooo…got some shiny fangs to match those talons, Vampyra?"
Rory rolled her eyes around to look at him. "That was the stupidest I think I've ever heard you say as long as I've known you."
"Hm. Stupider than the time I almost told your grandparents about how I stole your virginity?"
"Just about. Well, maybe not that stupid. And you didn't steal. I gave," she reminded him, giving him a quick kiss on his mouth before setting the washer to Permanent Press and pulling the water-releasing knob.
"Quite willingly, as I remember…" he teased, nipping at her earlobe.
"Oh get over yourself, I was drunk."
Tristan gawked at her harsh jab, loosening his hold on her. At the gradual loss of contact, she turned to face him, pinning herself between him and the currently-whirring cleaning mechanism. "That was mean," he half-pouted though trying to remain stoic.
"Now don't be silly. I never said what I was drunk on, and clearly at that point and time I was drunk on Tristan," she beamed, giving him suckering kisses in rapid succession.
He tried to act angry, but he was miserable at it and succumbed to her advances without a fight. "Well…as far as manipulative excuses go, that's pretty damn good."
"I thought so."
"Don't get cocky though. Just because you know how to do laundry and talk your way out of getting in trouble does not mean anything. I still reign supreme."
She snorted at this in the middle of the kiss she was giving him. "Shall I be calling you Lord Gorlock then, or something equally as intimidating?"
"How 'bout Master of the Universe — it works for me."
"So humble too."
"No not really, humility is for wusses."
She mock-gasped, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist so he could extend his arms and rest his elbows on her shoulder, locking his hands together. "Aww. Don't tell Billy Graham that, he'll be out of a job."
Tristan made a low, rumbling sound in his throat that she was sure was supposed to be a chuckle, causing her stomach to do somersaults on itself. Slowly, he adjusted his arms so he was cradling her face with his hands, and he brought her mouth up to his, not yet letting her kiss him as she expected. "My heart weeps…really. I'm undone by grief and depression."
"You're also full of crap."
He smiled, filling her mouth with his tongue before responding. "Well there is also that, but no one has to know."
"I'm afraid there are certain truths you can't hide."
"Shh…please Rory, keep it on the D.L."
Her giggle became muffled by his commencement of the next kiss, painstakingly slow at first, then slightly more passionate as their tongues swept against each other at a languid, steady pace, Rory's hands finding their way under his shirt to the small of his back and drawing lazy circles there that she knew drove him insane.
"We still have more laundry to do," she informed him, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth.
Tristan smirked at the fact that she was still thinking about washing clothes, even at this juncture. "Oh right, the infamous laundry situation. Call me crazy, but I could really care less about separating my darks from my whites right now. Not only is it racist, but it's just plain stupid," he added, stealing a few more not-so-subtle kisses.
"Racist? Have you been talking to Al Sharpton on the phone again, do you know what I told you about that?"
"Sorry, I couldn't help myself. He's just so wise, so learn-ed…"
"It's all in his hair, trust me. Once he goes bald he's worthless."
He laughed heartily and shook his head, running his fingers through her hair and joining their lips again in a somewhat urgent manner. Then he stopped. Out of nowhere he just stopped, dropped his hands from her face, and turned back to the counter. "Okay. Cold rinse."
Needless to say, Rory was left gaping like a fish at his abruptness and was immediately infuriated, her eyes glazing over. On impulse, she kicked him right in the ass. Not very hard, mind you, but she still kicked him, and he jerked like someone had just given him a wedgie, to which she was very pleased. When he shot a look over at her, she was finishing up the sorting process and naturally pretending like nothing had happened.
Huh. So she wanted to play ass-hitting games, eh?
Turning away so only he could see, he held the ends of his shirt and whirled it into a tight, rope-like shape, then quick as lightning he pivoted and popped her one right on the same spot he'd been hit. He didn't expect her to yelp like a strangled chicken then fly three feet up in the air only to land on the spot where he'd been hit and be hidden under a flurry of dirty laundry, but it was nonetheless entertaining. Now was his turn to laugh, it would seem, and laugh he did. Almost too hard, since she was currently yelling at him from under the clothes for him to help her up and something about castration that was undistinguishable for all intents and purposes.
Digging through the pile, he found her red-faced and perturbed, but she was still too adorable for words, and he started the laughing thing again. As mad as she wanted to be, she figured she'd be a good sport and not take it so seriously. Besides, it was pretty funny in retrospect. She could still slap him though.
"Asshole. I can't believe you did that…" she scolded with a smile that offset the authority intended almost instantly, even as she was hitting his arms and any available spaces of body mass that looked like they could be smacked. She never expected him to stop laughing anyway.
"Did you se — your — did you — w — th —" Oh for crying out loud, he couldn't even finish a sentence. Even still, he was making sure she was okay, smoothing down her static-y hair and removing spare pieces of clothing that lingered on her frame.
"You so owe me, like, a bagillion cups of coffee for the next week, at least. I think I have a bruise," she whined, looking behind her as best she could and nursing her offended rear.
"Aww, I didn't wanna hurt you," he purred, joining in on the rubbing session with a little too much relish.
She saw that this was quickly becoming an excuse for him to cop-a-feel, and, while she was enjoying it to a certain extent because of the relief it provided, she was supposed to be a little mad at him still for being the body part he was in the process of grabbing. "Oh shut it. You don't get to feel me up after attacking me."
He leered in an evil manner, covering her mouth in a kiss that would've made even the most enraged person start frolicking and singing the Carpenters in a New York minute. But that's exactly how long the moment lasted anyway. It was interrupted by a loud clearing of somebody's throat. Neither of them had to guess whose.
"You both are disgusting and pathetic. This is a campus laundry room, not a brothel," Paris said in a playfully-venomous tone, trouncing into the space and clearing a spot for her basket without asking either of them to move their stuff.
"Hello Paris, how are you?" Tristan returned dryly.
"I'm just fine, thanks. Well I was anyway…"
"Oh don't mind her, she's harmless. I should know. I live with her," Rory assured her boyfriend, patting his bicep.
"Yes well, don't be going to sleep tonight or anything. You never know who you can trust anymore."
She rolled her eyes at Paris' cryptic warning before kissing Tristan again briefly and moving to clear the mess they both had made.