A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Thanks to the lovely Nat for the BETA.
Oh and Kristy Anne Halliwell: Actually, I live in Australia, where we're just over winter and the whole school/homework thing is kind of a necessity.
This was written for Gilmore Girls Improv, using the words:
revive velvet verve revolve vivid
Chapter 3: A Little Less Conversation
You can't blame him for wanting more – another taste, another piano bench. The way he follows her with blinding faith, as if she embodies his salvation; his saving grace, when in actuality, she is the one coming undone; watching her parent's relationship fall apart. That school doesn't help matters, attending with those gargoyles that stalk the halls Monday to Friday just as they perch on top of the buildings. People like that submerge themselves with a dead weight, an emptiness, to evade hurt or rejection; dragging them so far under in an attempt to silence the war inside.
Tonight, the pulse of the mansion throbs loudly with their efforts; obnoxious rhythms and writhing bodies. He melts into the crowd and out onto the terrace where he sets eyes on her; poolside, on the sun lounge next to Summer and Paul something-or-other. The watery glow from the pool light against the back wall paints her ethereal blue and he vaguely wonders how it would feel, splitting apart her velvet folds, breaking her in, pressing himself between her pages.
She balances a bottle of one of those syrupy girly drinks precariously on one knee and after spotting him, saunters over.
"There you are," she practically purrs, smiling widely. She envelops him, pressing flush against him. It isn't so much her words but her breath, warm against his cheek, and the soft weight of her breasts resting against his chest that instantaneously kick his senses into overdrive.
"You were right about Summer." she muses as she pulls away.
"Yeah." he says, trying to hide the big fat 'I-told-you-so-face' he is sporting.
"Did you hear about Madeleine locking herself in the bathroom?" she asks cringing, trying to swallow her smile.
"No. I saw the line though." he smirks cruelly and looks away, back to the sun lounge where Summer, wasting no time, is sinking her claws into Paul No name. "–What poorly scripted line from Mean Girls did the ice maiden draw on this time?" he inquires and smiles derisively at the all-to-familiar situation.
"Now I can't be sure. But I think it was..." her voice momentarily slips up an octave, tinged with a valley-girl air, "If you give him head, he can't see your cellulite, that offended her enough to send her toilet-bound."
"And which part was it that offended her exactly? The allusion to her cellulite or future as a sex worker?"
She pretends to ponder the question with deliberation and they share an amused look, "Beats me. It's a girl-eat-girl world."
"Actually, according to Summer, its a girl-eat-boy world..." he smirks and chuckles dryly. He takes a long swig from his bottle of Corona as she scoffs appropriately.
"Pig," it rolls effortlessly off the tongue.
He shrugs away the insult easily. He is in his element with her, the banter; he feeds off it. He twists open another bottle, wordlessly handing it to her. The gesture comes naturally and artlessly, free of any ulterior motive and after accepting his offering she takes a hesitant sip.
Brett Fontaine doesn't like to play second fiddle to anybody, least of the doe-eyed virgin from Hicks-Ville Town America.
So upon the realisation that Tristan's attentions seem rather preoccupied, following the movements of blue eyes from English Lit rather than his story of a hot tub foursome, he decides to reclaim the spotlight.
"Is our boy Dugrey hankering for a yankering?" he gestures crudely and winks at the blonde.
Tristan suddenly feels the innate desire to roll his eyes... or knock Brett's lights out. Either/Or.
"Brett, I really like you," Tristan quips and pulls his gaze away, filling the Rory shaped hole with visions of the party around him before turning back to the group. "But, you and me, strictly friends."
Inwardly Brett scowls at the golden boy. God, how he wants to bring him down to earth, to stand on the ground with the other mere mortals whose lives don't resemble one continuous episode of Leave It To Beaver.
"Don't hide behind a fucking comedy routine Dugrey. It is what is it is- You're a fucking lapdog." he singsongs and laughs dangerously, "Tonight is a fucking free for all, land of the easy lay and you're letting Gilmore string you around by your blue balls," he jeers.
The remark seems to hit a little too close to home.
"Fuck off. It's just a matter of time." he seethes, his pride on the line.
"Just a matter of time before you what... -do her homework for her, start braiding her hair, hang out with her Mum?"
Tristan doesn't understand what makes him walk away.
Maybe because the guy had a point.
The kitchen is practically empty when she approaches the lone figure. He is leaning casually against the breakfast island, hovering over the cluttered Formica, a quiet smile playing at his lips. However, it's his eyes that betray him. Clear and blue but void like cold stars in an empty sky.
The space is littered with half-empty liquor bottles, the tiny diamond cut of their glass creating shards of translucence on the countertop and he pours another of the nameless amber liquid into a shot glass.
"Way to give yourself alcohol poisoning," she deadpans from behind and the frosted glass pauses momentarily against his lips. He takes in her expression, somewhere between disapproval and amusement, as he as he throws back the shot, swallowing the sharp liquid with a grimace.
"Dutch courage." he supplies and swipes a hand across his mouth.
"What?" she questions bewildered but she hears him the first time. He watches her lips curl around the word, the shapes she makes with her lips when she talks.
"Nothing... You're doing that really sexy thing with your mouth again." he adds contemplatively as an inebriated afterthought.
"What? Speaking?" She leans down slightly to adjust the strap of her heels and unintentionally offers him a low shot down the front of her shirt.
"Yeah," he says lamely. "Listen, I gotta tell you something"
She sees it again, just like the many times before, that intensity in his gaze, directed squarely at her, barely restrained, simmering just beneath the surface. But tonight, she doesn't balk and hide behind an expertly timed insult. Truthfully, she doesn't seem to be able to string one together at that moment, preoccupied by how good he looks, the way his shirt hangs perfectly on his form, piquing her interest and imagination.
She takes another long sip from her second glass of punch as a vision fades into view; Tristan bringing his mouth to her's in a punch-flavoured kiss, a trickle of the drink is dripping down her chin, and it rolls over his finger as he cups her face, she laughs as their lips press together, playing against the slow song of eachothers mouths, swallowing and kissing.
His gazed is still on hers when she lifts her face to look at him.
"Sounds serious..." she teases, her voice rising to a playful lilt and her eyes cloudy with something.
His thoughts- It seems important to get them out but they swirl around him, reason drifting in and out like the tides, a stormy blur of thoughts, thoughts of her, images of hot flesh flashing against the back of his eyeballs, crashing against the walls of his brain.
He wants to lay her right there on the table... No that's not right... Lay it out right there on the table. Right there... Its been weighing on his chest... and he'd rather be weighing on her chest. No that wasn't quite it either.
"Me and you..." he starts abruptly, spurred on by her smiles and the easiness between them. He starts over. "You and me..."
"Goodnight, Starlight by The Juliana Theory. Right?" She cuts short the beginnings of his confession, delivering the oversight without missing a beat
"Yeah. Good one..." His voice is suspiciously vacant.
"God, I can't believe your waxing emo..." She laughs and briefly lays a hand gently on his chest
"...Did you see the beer pyramid?" He asks hurriedly, rotating his body so that he is leaning back against the marble counter top next to her.
"I did." she sounds coy and indifferent. It's aggravating and he tries again.
"You're looking at the architect. Taking one for the family business." he boasts asininely and tries to hold her eye contact. She slides her vision to the various bottles littering the countertop. Assessing the amount of drink left in the bottles by weighing them in her hands.
"Is the construction of beer pyramids in big demand at Daddy's Architectural Firm?" she asks tongue-in-cheek like.
He ignores her attempt to steer the conversation.
"Hey. You wanna take a walk?" he asks from nowhere and the comment is reminiscent of another such conversation, only this time, the accompanying look is almost vulnerable. It is still unbelievably self-assured, yes, but its as if underneath his bravado he is really holding his breath. The alcohol walks his hand dangerously low on her back and he smiles at her, a fully-fledged smirk, though his eyes speak of his longing.
"I'm just about to go home," she looks at him out of the corner of her eye to see his reaction. It has become increasingly difficult to remember why she fought against this. He traces slow lazy circles on her spine and she feels somersaults low in her abdomen.
"I could give you a ride," he whispers coarse and seductive, a bold move, inspired in large part to the alcohol swimming in his veins and said-veins moving the blood southward, to areas that leave him light-headed. He moves to stand behind her, grasping the counter top either side of her, tightly encircling her, effectively trapping her in.
Involuntarily melding into him, she manages a weak protest, "I don't think you should be driving. You're not exactly the poster boy for sobriety at the moment. "
He chuckles and plays with her hair, then moves the strands off her back, over her shoulder, exposing her neck. He touches it delicately, tracing invisible lines with the bulb of his thumb and her world seems to spins faster on its axis.
"Maybe I wasn't talking about my car.... unless we're talking about the backseat." he leers and it seems he's too far-gone to turn back now.
The point of no return, there it is, way back, off in the distance, that far away horizon.
"Tristan..." she trials off absently. Her voice echoes around her and she feels removed from herself, pleasantly numb and hardly able to suppress the distant girlish laugh that escapes her lips.
His inhibitions dry up before evaporating completely. "Or you should give me a ride. How are you at driving stick?" he grins and leans into her.
Her response is immediate, pushing back against him languorously. She feels top-heavy, uneven and arranges her head under his chin, laying it on his chest.
He laughs softly against the shell of her ear and together with the feel of his arms around her, she suspects the scene looks strangely intimate, is strangely intimate.
Over her clouded thoughts, it begins to register... 'this is a mistake', just a tiny voice in the back of her head, but then it says it louder, again, and then again louder still. It's damn near impossible to do but reluctantly she untangles herself out of the hold.
In an instant, the ground seems to tilt against her and it takes every being in her body to keep from toppling over. His hand flies to her waist in an attempt to steady her and the other lightly grasps her wrist. Instinctively, his reflexes draw her back into him again, clumsily brushing his mouth the length of the aforementioned ear – which is all the encouragement she needs.
Her ears fill with static and white noise as she seizes him by the collar. He meets her halfway, capturing her lips in one fluid movement, descending upon her mouth frantically, hungrily. She kisses him back thoroughly, her lips everywhere at once, covering every itch of his mouth with her own. There is no room for a second thought... or thought at all. It is only sensation, the heady pheromone that is his lips against her lips, the taste of her perfume, the exchange of heat, radiating from his torso through the light fabric of the cotton polo shirt he wears. The slow spread of that warmth seems to reach her toes.
She feels him smile against her coaxing lips as they work together, lifting her onto the smooth granite of the counter top. Her expression is a perfect picture, a watercolour, soft and pale and placid.
She splays her legs open, before wrapping them round his waist, latching on for dear life. She eases herself off the smooth counter, into his hold, his hands running the contours of her back, travelling through her hair, mapping her. Lips sucking at the hollow of her neck, marking her.
The crushing force of hipbones makes her burst open, bloom with colour and desire. Her lips are slightly parted and she stares past him through her lashes. She pants faintly under her breath and the effect is infinitely removed from the waif-like pastel; she is wild and fiery.
He carries her aimless around the room, eyes clamped shut, kaleidoscopic patterns forming behind them. She distantly feels the impact as they knock against the large refrigerator, kicking off the cold stainless steel with a foot. They move up against the oven and she is numb to the fact that the handle is digging painfully into her back.
They skim the kitchen wall and finally she reaches over him with her free hand, the other busy running through his hair as she blindly jiggles open the door of the pantry.
She laughs giddily against his shoulder as they enter. The dull bass of the music is muffled somewhat as he pulls the door partially shut, distracted as he is once more taken in by the hot caress of her wet mouth.
The cramped space is immersed in blackness and she is dimly aware of her location, the heavy feeling of use by dates and the floating scent of spices and preserves. The jar and containers chink and rattle together in chorus as he slams her up against the pantry door, clicking it closed... along with the world outside. Because in here, they are miles away, dying at each other lips.
She serenades him, grinding on him in a deadly rhythm, singing sweet nothings through swollen lips against his mouth, playing havoc on his desire with her fingertips. He responds unconditionally, giving himself over to her fully, every lungful of air, every tremor of muscle.
His passion washes over her in waves and she clings on for dear life, swept away by sensation, bracing her back against the inside of the pantry door.
The collision of tongues and teeth and the faintly fruity taste of her lip balm fuel his desire as he smashes into her lips feverishly, over and over.
"You feel so good" he says dizzily, running his hands under her skirt, up and down the downy skin of her thighs, again and again, learning every curve off by heart.
Her reply is a string of incoherent 'Gods...' 'Tristan's...' and 'ohh's' and she kisses him back with equal verve.
He doesn't care that they are ruining everything, lighting fires they can't put out. In his drunken haze, he is swimming in her, the warm and salty sea of her mouth. He runs his tongue along the roof of the opening causing her to only push against him harder, their bodies pressed together with such ferocity that its painful.
She kisses him all over, 'God' she calls into his lips again and then lolls her head back against the wooden panel of the door, two slow revolutions, as he worships her neck. He travels up, feather light, touching the underside of her breast tenderly, reverently and then he pulls back, whispering in her ear, his voice rough with emotion,
"You're everything I've ever wanted,"
The words are vivid and powerful in their simplicity and he cups her face, the movement abrasive, fierce, yet with aching vulnerability.
Even in the darkness their eyes lock and she panics, halfway between temptation.
Centuries go by, finally it is her fear that wins out over the pleasure and she stumbles away. She is overcome with the implications of his declaration and the slow sinking feeling of her bold actions.
Senseless and mute, she places two fingers against her lips, which even an hour later still hum with him, that electricity.
It's only a week later, after she puts continents between them; last to arrive to the classes they share, first to leave, playing that intricate dance of avoidance, the steps she knows so well; almost off by heart... breaking her heart, that she overhears scraps of conversation, in low tones, her grandma on the phone one day after school.
"Awfully sad...A stroke... Paramedics tried to revive him... Always seemed so full of life... Yes, Rory is friends with his grandson... Tristan, Poor thing. It was said they were close...."
I think some people were a little confused with the ending. I didn't kill off Tristan or leave him in a coma. Just Grandpappy!Dugrey. Ok? Don't give yourself a stroke. ;)
Next, is a definite R, so.... change your default rating settings if you want to find out what happens.