Speaking in Tongues
Title: Speaking in Tongues
Author: sothereyougo
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: R / Adult?
Length: About 1,000 words
Warnings: Het sexual activity, a little sexual language
Spoilers: Through all of Season 5 to be safe.
Pairings/characters: Rory/Dean
Notes: This was originally written for oxoniensis' Porn Battle vii. It is a coda of sorts to "Say Goodbye to Daisy Miller" and isn't all that porny per se.
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts belong to the original authors, and their copyrights are sacrosanct. None of this world is mine. If it were, then Dean and Rory would have worked out their personal shi*, learned a lot, grown up a little, and ended up together. HINT: Make the dang movie!
Summary: "So, her eyes closed, and Rory let go of 'what hands are' because she didn't need her eyes to see Dean's hands. . ."
Rory heard herself mumble something like,"Yeah, words . . ." and then something else very strange and wonderful happened. Words themselves somehow lost any kind of one-to-one correspondence with the concrete objects or even any other kind of abstraction they were supposed to designate. That was Dean's magic. He could make language go all nebulous and floaty, no longer an earth-bound thing, but instead soaring high and free and a little dangerous, spinning through her mind and body and skin, every cell a receptor.
It started with the low hypnotic flow of his voice, how that became a music of images and sensory communication, his teeth and tongue and lips and throat making the sounds, but they only meant warm and soft and wet and mingled into kisses that fed her Dean's breath all mixed up with her own. So, her eyes closed, and Rory let go of "what hands are" because she didn't need her eyes to see Dean's hands, knew the beautiful long lines of each finger and thumb and palm curving and cupping around her, cradling her head, sliding up her sides, leaving a swirling wake of heat and tingle and need at their passing.
Then hands stopped meaning just his hands because they meant hers too, but hers had become hungry, sloping mouths, starving for the feel of Dean's skin, boy-taut and stretched over ribs and back and belly and hip, but there were curves here too, bicep and bottom, flesh she could sink her finger-teeth into, squeeze and knead and savor.
There was air moving over naked skin not touching Dean, and that was hers, but it was theirs everywhere else, where tongue was tracing circles on nipple and wet mouth was sucking into hollows of throat and wetter fingers were pressing inside, and where did outside stop and inside start anyway when it was both of them reaching for his cock and crying out sharp and bending and shaping to make it fit where it had to go, was always meant to go.
That was Dean just now, saying, “I’ve got you. Won’t let you fall,” but it didn’t just mean now, it meant ever. It meant this is how it is to have Dean, to be covered and so safe and warm and to know it but want more, to never have enough of his hands everywhere and his eyes drinking her up, and that was honey-sweet and new and old, but it wasn’t all cottony-soft and cushiony-secure.
Here too was the raw, hard edge, the piercing through veils of nice and good, and Rory knew it had always been there inside her, what it would be to let herself take and have all of Dean, the man of him, had ached for it every time kissing him and sending him home had sent her fingers where Dean was now, and it was so scary and good and right to say with her body, “Yes, this is what I’ve wanted. You are what I’ve wanted. So here I am, take this and this and this, all for you, and I am taking everything of you, mine and more and now.”
It was, “Oh God,” and “Love you so much,” and it didn’t matter who actually said what, and this barn of a Miss Patty’s studio was straining at every seam and board with what they had made here for each other and together, but soon it would have to start all over again because it just had to.
Rory had almost all of Dean's weight, and she almost couldn’t breathe, and she never wanted him to move. But of course he had to. He ran his fingertips lightly along the line of skin that shown out when she bent down to pick up one sock that had been trying that sock trick of sneaking away when it thought you weren’t watching, and it sent a chill all through her.
Now they were almost dressed, and Rory brushed a sweat-damp strand of Dean’s hair back from his face, “I promised Lane I’d stop by,” she said.
“I have to go too,” and how could he look so happy and regretful at the same time?
Dean kissed her goodbye, and Rory sucked in his bottom lip, so full and tender that she wanted to hold it for just a little longer between her teeth, but there wasn’t time for that just now. He looked back at her before he slipped out the door, all shiny-eyed and flashing dimple, and then she was alone in this big, shadowy room, and she still didn’t know exactly what this was and what was supposed to happen next because that was Dean’s magic, and she had fallen again for his wordless spell.