I still feel like this is kinda self-indulgent, but I'mma post it anyway. Masturbational PWP. ~900 words.
Title: Hende Dean
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Characters/Pairing: Rory, Rory/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Underage (Rory and Dean are sixteen)
Summary: Rory masturbates and thinks about her boyfriend. Set in season 2 sometime.
Thanks: to
femmenerd for aiding and abetting, and to Jared Padalecki for having hands.
A/N: "Hende" is a Middle English word often glossed as "gracious," but it's also the root of the Modern English "handy" (see Chaucer's Miller's Tale for a fun play on that one) and I am a big dork.
Rory drops her bag by the kitchen table and calls “Mom!” up the stairwell, just to make sure, but Lorelai’s off with the inn’s accountant, and so Rory knows she’s got at least another hour before “taxes were invented by sadists, Rory,” and whining pleas for pizza. She could have stayed at Dean’s for longer, but she had told him her mom would be waiting for her at Luke’s, dying of starvation. Anything less of a lie would have been too much of the truth.
“Okay,” Dean replied, all sleepy-eyed and slow like he always was when they’d been kissing for a while. “I have homework anyway. See you before school tomorrow?”
His hand was at her waist, fingertips dipping under the untucked hem of her uniform shirt, warm on her skin. He never argues when she tells him to stop, and a part of her wishes he would. Because she knows it hurts him the way it hurts her, leaves them both aching. “Yep,” she told him, straightening her clothes, tucking her feet back into her saddle shoes. “See you tomorrow.”
“Say hi to your mom for me.”
“Sure thing.” She pressed one more kiss to his lips at the door.
Rory shuts her bedroom door, carefully, and closes the curtains. She hangs her skirt in the closet and tosses her shirt into the hamper. It smells like Dean now, all boyish and sweet. Turning slowly, she studies herself in the mirror: white bra, pink panties, black knee socks, hair loose over her shoulders. She can still feel Dean’s fingers against her belly, and she puts her own hand there, so small in comparison.
Good girls don’t, she knows, but that’s not really why she doesn’t. There’s no time, and she wants time, hours and hours, wants to savor it, and lie in Dean’s arms afterwards and talk about nothing in particular and feel his laughter under her cheek. In the meantime, she gives herself this. Rory lies down on her bed and pushes two fingers into her panties, slow. She’s already wet, has been since Dean started kissing her neck. Sometimes she wonders if he knows what he does to her. Sometimes she wants to tell him.
Rory rocks a finger against her clit and imagines Dean’s hand instead, imagines winding her fingers through his, guiding him, saying, “Just like this.” Rory slips a finger into herself, crooks it, beckoning, and bites her lip. Dean would reach so much farther into her, long, tapered fingers, and she jams her knuckles, imagining. He would be gentle, and she can practically see the look on his face, open and wondering as he touches her. She fucks herself with her middle finger, moves her thumb in steadily speeding circles over her clit, remembers the feel of Dean’s breath against her cheek.
A pause. She holds herself back, teases, just to know she can, shudders against her own hand and licks the lingering taste of Dean’s kisses from her lips. She wonders how his tongue would feel inside her, big hands spreading her open, kissing between her legs like he kisses her mouth. Rory imagines tasting herself on his lips afterwards, or on his fingers, pictures him asking, “Can I?” and her saying, “Yes.” She’s an educated, liberated girl. She knows that penetration isn’t everything, but sometimes it’s all she can think about-the mystery of Dean’s penis. Because he has one, obviously; she’s felt it a couple of times, pressing into her belly as they’re kissing, just for a moment because Dean always jumps back like he’s been burned when it happens. He’s a gentleman. Not in any of the ways that would matter to her grandparents, but he is.
Rory slips a second finger into herself, and that little twinge is gratifying. She would kneel over Dean’s lap, sink down onto him, his hands completely engulfing her breasts as he makes love to her, palms rubbing over her nipples, fingertips trembling. He would say her name like he sometimes does, soft and warm, as though it’s so much more than the sum of its syllables. Rory presses her thumb into the soft flesh just above her clit when direct stimulation gets to be too much, and works her hips into a steady rhythm against the thrusting of her fingers. She doesn’t stop this time, doesn’t tease. Her orgasm overtakes her in a slow-cresting wave, and she rides the metaphor back to shore, stroking herself through the little eddies of sensation that follow.
The walk to the bathroom to wash up is wobbly and slow, Rory teetering along in her bathrobe like an old woman, still too sensitive. After this, she thinks, rubbing lavender soap between her fingers, the evening will proceed as usual: she’ll wear pants and eat pizza and ruin another eraser on her math homework. She’ll put all the want there’s no time to touch in its neat box in the back of her mind, and it will only rattle a little when Dean kisses her at the bus stop tomorrow. And maybe fall off its shelf during their date on Saturday, if he kisses her neck again. And one day, someday, she hopes she’ll open it up for him, when they have all the time in the world.
~fin~