Hallowe'en Party

Rating of Fic: NC-17
Written in response to the following fic request:

Things to Include:
-Lorelai in some form or fashion (even if she's only briefly mentioned)
-Rory is not a virgin
-Tristan and Rory are casually dating (how they met up again is ur choice)
-set sometime during Rory's stay at Yale
-Rory and Tristan get into a huge fight that ends with them having hot passionate sex ;)

Things Not to Include:
-overexaggerated characters (where Tristan is a total wimp/total badass... make him somewhere in between)
-cliffhanger (make it wrap up nicely and leave us in a good place)
-stupid fight (make it something that really matters, so the characters are really pissed off)


AN: Big shout out to my beta, Annastasia, who helped this story make a lot more sense! Also, big thanks to the ‘requestor’, who gave me some great guidelines from which to get started. I hope you enjoy it thoroughly! Title is taken from an Agatha Christie novel, one of my favorites, in fact.


HALLOWE’EN PARTY

The word anger had lost all meaning to her. Standing in the doorway to a bedroom that belonged to someone she had never met while dressed up like one of The Pussycat Girls, her anger level had skyrocketed off the charts. Her selection in costumes had actually been the instigator of this particular feeling she was experiencing, which was ironic seeing as it hadn’t even been her choice—her own mother had to all but force her down and put the clothes on her. She would normally never be caught dead so scantily clad, but Lorelai had thought it would be fun if they both dressed up as members of the sexy dance group, even if they wouldn’t be in the same city on this Halloween. Rory had agreed, on the stipulation that Lorelai kept Luke’s reaction to Lorelai looking like Carmen Electra to herself forever.

Despite the fact that his voice was far louder and closer in proximity to her eardrums, Hoobastank’s ‘Crawling in the Dark’ was all she could focus on. It was saying a lot that she could even make out the tune, seeing as the DJ station was located near the front entrance and they were now upstairs in the back portion of the mansion. The house was more than large—one of the largest she’d even seen in fact. She had been to mansions before, but none like this. Her recent exposure to the rich and famous party style was due in large part to Logan. Lately she’d become friendly with—well, not exactly friendly, more like intrigued by—Logan Huntzberger. He was a fellow Yale student, and someone that she’d disliked from the moment she first met him while getting coffee with her friend Marty when fall classes began for her sophomore year at Yale. In learning that fact, he made it some sort of twisted goal to make her appreciate his worldview. She found invitations to parties he was throwing under her dorm room door weekly, and she had resisted at first. It was only after a month of being rejected did he start hand delivering them—at random times of the day and night. He wore her down finally, and it had been when he showed up at 3am dressed in a robe and slippers that she had to laugh and agree to go see what the big deal was. He even told her to bring a friend, and seeing as Dean was working three jobs and she saw him maybe five minutes over a two-week span, and Paris was acting more like a 60-year-old widow, she opted for Marty.

What she hadn’t expected was to see a familiar face other than the one she had brought along. Upon arriving at the first party, she spotted Logan after Marty had gone off in search of beverages for the two. He was standing near the DJ’s area talking to another guy their age. She narrowed her eyes, hoping if she squinted her view would change somehow. She had no such luck, and started to turn away quickly as the other guy turned to face her at Logan’s pointing her out. Logan called her over, and she almost fainted dead on the spot when he introduced his cousin, Tristan Dugrey.

Since that first party, she and Tristan had enjoyed hanging out, dancing and talking at Logan’s weekly parties. Tristan came up from Princeton most every weekend prior to seeing Rory again, and had become a regular since the evening he discovered Rory would be in attendance. He’d even managed to get her to tell him where she had her weekly Saturday study sessions so he could join her at the local hole-in-the-wall coffee joint. Nothing was official—their status might be described loosely as dating, but it was seen more by the two as hanging out. They were friends. Friends who sometimes had to kiss, it seemed, but friends nonetheless.

When all her friends asked what was going on with the blonde god (after complaining that it wasn’t fair to have both fair-haired boys falling at her feet) she said she wasn’t dumb enough to get involved in the game with Tristan. She’d seen what happened to girls who thought he was going to be ‘The One’. He was the dictionary definition of the word player, and she knew it. That gave her an upper hand, and so when they hung out it was fine, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t date other people. Plus, after the whole Dean fiasco, she was content in not being tied down. In fact, Logan had been so persistent that she had fallen to his charms once, after meeting back up with Tristan. The term might have been better described as hooking up, in all actuality. It wasn’t her finest moment, and she’d be the first to admit it. He’d been a gentleman about it, not telling anyone the sordid details of the evening. It was the night she and Dean broke up, for good. She’d convinced him to come to see her at school, and they got into an argument when his wedding ring fell out of his jeans pocket on the way to her bed. She asked him why he even had it on him, and the fight followed from there. She told him it was over and to go home to his wife. They were still married after all, though legally separated. It was clear that he had no idea what he wanted, but bringing his wedding ring to her room was a clear sign that it wasn’t her.

Not five minutes after Dean stormed out of her room, Logan had shown up with another invitation (the last time he delivered in person). She invited him in, and things sort of got blurry after that point. He knew she was upset about something, he offered to lend an ear, but she didn’t feel much like talking. The rest, as they say, is history. The next weekend, she didn’t mention the rendezvous to Tristan, assuming Logan wouldn’t be bragging to his cousin about nailing the girl Tristan had his arm around most of the night. It’d been that party when Tristan had kissed her for the first time in years. They were both drunk, and had managed to dance themselves into a corner. When he pulled her closer to turn her out of the corner she misread his signals and leaned closer to him. Not one to miss an opportunity to kiss a beautiful woman, he moved closer to her. His lips moved against hers, and despite her slightly inebriated state and slightly numb lips, she reacted immediately. After that moment, it seemed unnecessary to pretend they didn’t enjoy it.

The song ended, and another one began, though the tune was not familiar to her and his words came suddenly into lucid focus.

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” came the last demanding question from Agent Smith, from the Matrix movies; hair sprayed black, sunglasses and all.

“TRISTAN, STOP YELLING!” she tried to yell as loudly as he was, to get his attention, then lowered her voice. “It wasn’t a big deal!”

“He’s my COUSIN, Rory, how is that not a big deal?”

“You know what, I don’t have to take this from you. I didn’t sign a contract that made me somehow indebted to you. You don’t own me,” she stuck a finger in his face, as if that might drive her point home.

“God, what a chick response,” he rolled his eyes and stepped back away from, giving her room to unwedge herself from the doorway.

“What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me, and don’t pretend to be so offended. You’re better than that, Rory, I’m not going to buy that cliché shit from you,” he threw his words at her.

“Tristan,” Logan found the pair in the hallway, Rory looking to be emerging from one of the guest bedrooms. He tried to follow them as they made a spectacle of themselves, yelling as they pursued one another through the crowd.

“Leave it alone, Logan,” Tristan warned, motioning for his cousin to leave them to their skirmish.

“Just, hear me out, you don’t understand what happened,” Logan tried again, trying to reason with his favorite cousin.

“Get the fuck out,” Tristan’s voice lowered and Logan knew he was serious. He nodded and gave Rory an apologetic look before backing away with his hands raised as if to surrender before disappearing back down the stairs.

“Nice, Tristan, he was just going to explain--,” she began, but he held his hand up to motion for her to stop as well.

“He made himself perfectly clear earlier, Rory. Obviously he fucked you a few weeks ago, and no one bothered to tell me,” he looked at her harshly and shook his head.

“Tristan, you don’t know the whole story,” she countered, not believing he’d hear her out, but hoping nonetheless.

“Oh, really? You want to give me a play-by-play of how my cousin is in bed? Go ahead, regale me with the commentary. Should we get him back up here too?”

“You aren’t being fair—it didn’t mean anything, it just happened. You of all people should understand that.”

She said it without thinking, but regretted her words when his face reacted faster than his comeback could escape his lips. As tight-lipped as Logan had been about their night together a few weeks prior, tonight he had let a simple comment meant for her only be heard by one other. He had no idea Tristan was right behind him, hearing every single word.

"Christ, you look hot. I suppose another fuck is out of the question?" He'd whispered loudly in her ear, over the noise of the party.

Unfortunately he’d whispered too loudly. Also unfortunate was the fact that Tristan seemed to have super-human hearing when he put his mind to it. Seeing his cousin standing pressed into Rory while she was dressed like that was definitely something that peaked his interest. He’d never seen her dressed so provocatively in his life—and he was pretty sure in all her life as well. One look at her made his costume immediately too snug in the groin, though thoughts of what he himself wanted to do to her took a backseat in his mind as he watched Logan’s beeline for the object of his own affection.

The way the blush hit her cheeks, the look in her eyes as she very obviously replayed the night over in her own mind. It felt like a knife twisting, he feared his gag reflex might not hold, as he gave no thought to advancing on the two. Logan stepped back from Rory, showing his guilt. She saw the flash in Tristan’s eyes immediately. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew by his apparent anger that he’d overheard Logan.

And now, she’d made it worse.

“Well, at least no one I fuck is married,” he growled.

Any guilt she’d had dissipated quickly at his intention to make her hurt as bad as he felt she’d hurt him.

“Fuck you,” she moved closer to him, lowering her voice so passersby couldn’t hear anymore than what he’d just yelled.

“Fuck you, you don’t know anything about my situation,” she repeated as she stuck a finger into his chest.

“Is it just about sex for you now? No matter the situation? Don’t care if they’re married or related to people you’re dating,” he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her far enough back gently to get her finger out of his body. She was pushing enough of his buttons and he wasn’t quite sure what he might do next. All he knew was that he was getting so angry that he couldn’t take it anymore.

“We aren’t dating, Tristan. I mean, we sort of are, we’re together at parties, and you bother me while I study, but,” she rambled.

“Jesus, Rory, stop!” he yelled again, causing more people to turn and watch the two fight. They’d been watched the whole time, but most people were pretending not to be watching until now. Now it was a show.

“Or else you’ll do what, Tristan?”

He didn’t have time to tell her, as it was already happening. He had her pressed into the doorframe, lifting her up off the ground so he could move her wherever he wanted her to be. Bystanders watched as he kissed her with such ferocity, roughly moving his lips across hers, parting her lips unapologetically with his tongue, and delving deep into her mouth, as he tasted her. Instantly intrigued, the moment for observing the two was over in the blink of an eye as he had her inside the bedroom with the door shut and locked, ensuring their privacy.

Her mind was reeling, as he seemed to be everywhere at once. She held onto his shoulders tightly as he moved her into place. Once inside the bedroom, she heard the door lock, which she couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to find a spare hand to do so. The thought was gone as his mouth traveled down to her neck, nipping and kissing down her jugular vein, taking extra time at her pulse point. She needed his hands to move, she found herself moving against him in some newfound rhythm as if she were trying to get him to dance with her. He held still, moving only with his lips, knowing she wanted more, but wanting to prime her beyond need. He wanted her to know what true desire was. He knew she’d been with Logan and Dean—he wasn’t sure about anyone else, but Paris had seemed very sure that Dean had been her first. These men didn’t know how to give her what she needed. He wanted to give her something that was beyond her imagination. He wanted her to beg for his touch: to need it more than air, water, or shelter. He wanted her to experience new sensations, almost as if she’d developed a new sense with which to grasp hold of and let go of the world as she knew it.

He wanted her to know what a good fuck was.

Her back was pressed firmly against the oak door, and his right hand had snaked its way under the scrap of fabric that had until recently barely been covering her ass. Running a finger over her soft skin, he found that the only other barrier for him to remove was a lace thong. He groaned as he linked his finger through the loop of fabric, letting the rough lace scrape against his finger. She dug her perfectly manicured nails, covered in a fresh coat of fire engine red, courtesy of Lorelai in anticipation of completing their outfits, through the fabric and into the muscles of his upper back. She felt him run a finger along the center of her body, flesh on flesh, and slow down as he reached her moisten folds.

“Aw, fuck,” he nearly cried.

She took this opportunity to test his strength. She dipped her head down a bit to explore his neck, starting at his earlobe. She took the soft skin into her mouth and bit softly before licking slowly to make amends. He had only one hand holding her up, and he realized her actions were going to make it hard to support her as he tested her himself. The one finger that had been caressing her core slipped around before he moved inside of her for the first time.

“God,” she vocalized as he moved her quickly from against the door to the bed. It was just about three feet away, but it seemed like a football field to him as he tried to keep his building motions inside of her fluid.

With her now lying on her back, he let loose of her with his other hand, and pushed away what little of her skirt fell over her, obscuring his view. Her hands went over her head, unconsciously in search of a pillow to grab hold of. He lowered himself down so that his mouth was at her apex, but didn’t slow his movements that were speeding up with two fingers now against her inner walls. She arched her back and flexed her hips towards his touch, willing him to give her a release. She could feel herself slipping into that fuzzy haze, the one area where all walls fall down and her mind stops.

He glanced up and realized her attention was his; that her whole world right now was the motion he was creating in her. He slowed to a stop, rather than speeding the process. She whimpered, thinking she wasn’t getting her way.

But he had other plans.

She wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing—Tristan Dugrey had surely been the giver of enough orgasms to know that she had just been on the brink of one of the best she was certain to have in her lifetime. Yet he had ceased; pulled back to leave her unsatisfied? Was this his form of revenge? The words quelled up in her throat, her anger rising again.

But they didn’t make the escape hatch in time. Before she could utter a single negative comment, his lips were on her inner thigh, making their way down her leg slowly. She couldn’t ever remember being kissed there, and never in such a manner. She felt like he was devouring her, his hands caressing areas yet to be met with the warmth of his mouth.

“Mmm,” was the only reaction she could suddenly muster. And instead of coming out in a loud shout, it came out as a guttural moan.

Her antics were not lost on him. Through his own foggy haze, he gauged her reactions, making sure his measures were effective. She was surprised and unsuspecting—and hot as hell as she lie before him, completely open and running her own hands over her torso in response to the feelings he seemed to have awakened in her. As he made his way back up her other leg, he almost lost it as he spied two perfectly manicured fingers circle around her breast. She was killing him, touching herself where he longed to touch her, and perhaps worse, hastening this process.

Now, he just couldn’t have that.

“Tsk, tsk,” he shook his head, climbing back up her body, barely brushing against the most important parts, parts she tried hard to push into him as he came over her, and removed her hand from her person. He took both of her hands in one of his, holding them securely over her head and kissed her lips softly.

Her confusion ceased as she noticed for the first time how incredibly soft his lips were. They reminded her of the blanket Lane had in her room when they were little. They used to make up stories about the mythical creature that had supplied its coat just so they could experience the softness and warmth of the blanket. They would have been crushed to find out it was probably some synthetic blend of fibers, but nonetheless it had been the softest thing she’d ever felt in her life. Until now. Perhaps a mythical creature himself, Tristan allowed himself to be open and raw with her now, kissing her as he’d wanted to for so long. Gentle, full of feeling (though the actual feeling he was still a little too wary of to name at this juncture) and she hated to be so cliché, but sweet. His warmth spread over her, and she made to move her hands to stroke his hair.

Then she remembered her hands were still joined over her head. He pulled back out of the kiss and smirked at her, glancing at her wrists. He liked that she couldn’t actively participate this way, and used his free hand to yank his tie up over his head. He couldn’t believe he was still in the state of dress that he was—all that had gotten ripped off was his sunglasses as they fought out in the hallway. He vowed to remedy that just as soon as he completed this mission. Holding her steady, despite her now vigorous squirms as she was indeed a smart cookie and had figured out his dubious plan, he untied his tie and began to secure it around both her wrists and the bedpost. There truly was an advantage of having sex in mansions—there were always ample fancy bedposts from which to tie things.

“Tristan,” came her demanding voice, wanting his attention, but he simply smiled.

Taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his dress shirt, he sat back on his haunches as she looked on, unable to move much. He was seated over her legs and her arms were now suspended behind and slightly above her head. She was truly in a bind.

Not ever having been in this situation, she had no idea what to do with herself. The only other times she’d ever been with men, she had tried to reciprocate in kind to whatever they were doing—and it had served its purpose well enough. No one had been complaining before. But now, with her limbs so restrained, she had nothing to do but experience what Tristan was doing to her—the slightest shiver her body gave as he moved his fingers lightly down her torso before grasping her hips to reposition her to his liking—she would have missed that if she were trying to busy herself with how best to put her hands. The sensation, pleasuring and dizzying, of blood rushing from her head down somewhere into her core, as he peeled away the scrap of cloth that was passing for her skirt tonight. The gentle rubbing of his silk tie against the inside of her wrists as her body began moving in motion against his mouth as he delved down to suckle and lave at her most receptive of spots. These were currently the things working to almost overload her nervous system—almost, but not quite. She was pretty sure if he kept this up for any extended period of time, she would pass out.

As he monitored her reactions, easily done through facial expressions (he’d have to thank her for that later), he vowed that their next experience would be a hard and fast fuck. Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself, but the longing he’d pent up for this girl was making his current task of drawing this out for her pleasure—a teaching tool of sorts—was truly the hardest work he’d ever done. And the contrast of aching and flying would be good for her, too.

When her tongue came to replenish her parched lips, he decided to move back up leaving just his agile fingers to continue the sweeping motions his tongue had been making over her clit, alternately delving further into increasing slick folds and teasing the hot opening, he leaned up to kiss her. He licked her lips for her, shocking her at first. No man had ever kissed her after paying so much attention to her nether regions. He treated her mouth as he’d just treated her down there; tasting, probing, and claiming. She had no thoughts, she moved with him as best she could with no hands, one leg wrapping around his torso instinctively.

Knowing he probably couldn’t hold off too much longer, and her reactions became more and more feral, he moved his hands up to cup her face as he kissed her hard. So hard, neither could catch a breath as he leaned back to make fast work of his pants. She glanced down at her still partially covered chest, and he raised an eyebrow at her before unfastening the front hooked bra with one hand and pushing the fabric back with the other. Her breathing became heavier—she could almost feel his lips on her breast before he made contact. She had no idea where he learned to touch women like this—perhaps practice does make perfect, but she felt like she were melting into the bed when he touched her. Each new explored area made her need to rethink what passion was, except she couldn’t have formed a complete thought if she wanted to.

He realized that she expected to be untied before he truly entered her, so he took extra time teasing her nipples and letting her naïve belief live on. Softly biting then lovingly licking the darkened nipples, he continued until he was overly sure she was ready for him.

Again he sat up, wanting to take her in fully before worrying about condoms and beginning the last leg of this journey, he traced her body with pleasured hands, looking into her eyes all the while. A look of seriousness glazed over his eyes, she was sure it had changed from whatever was there before—lust, with most probability, but there was much more than that now. She didn’t feel naked in front of him, like she had with Logan and especially with Dean. She was too hot all over, like she was wearing a parka in the middle of the Caribbean.

Need wasn’t even a real word to her right now. She didn’t want him; it was more than that. She felt as if she might die without his touch. As if should he leave the room right this second, she would just stop breathing altogether. She might have normally been upset to have him know just how she was feeling, this requirement she seemed to have developed for him to worship her body, but he seemed to understand and suddenly the only look in his eyes was that of relief as he entered her for the first time.

He moved slowly at first, trying to keep pace with all his other actions. It was partially selfish; he wanted this feeling of her so tightly enveloping him to last as long as humanly possible. She was so tight and hot around him, he felt like he’d lost himself inside her. He continued the slow and steady motion of his hips grinding down into hers, allowing her to quickly find the rhythm that he was moving to.

She’d never felt so in sync with someone, he made her feel every movement he made, and she felt him move even deeper as he moved both of her legs up around his torso. It was at that point that the force that was driving them seemed almost impossible to keep up with. Both moved faster against and with the other at the same time, as he grasped her hips with his hands in an attempt to help her along with the furious pace they were building.

She fell first, right over the blissful cliff, hoping she’d never stop this freefall. She closed her eyes, as if to try and focus solely on what felt like her whole body coming unglued from her abdomen out, and colors flashed over her eyes. She vaguely heard herself calling out his name, not caring there was still a houseful of people having a costume party, not caring what night it was or who was there or what she had to do the next day—all she knew was Tristan.

Her soft, and increasingly not so soft, cries for him sounded like her urging him to come join her in this state of pleasure. She was tighter around him, the waves too much for even him to control. He was just a man, after all. He cursed that fact for a flash, but forgot about everything as she pulled him off that cliff with her.

Coming back to earth, she realized he was kissing her damp skin, just above the swell of her breast. His lips were just barely pressing into her skin, showing that he too was just too tired to make more of a gesture than that.

“Tristan, that was--,”

“That,” he interrupted her, pressing a finger over her lips, “didn’t just happen. You weren’t just an available body.”

He looked into her eyes, making sure she understood his meaning. A blush lightly colored her cheeks and shook her head slightly.

“No, it didn’t,” she agreed.

“I want you to understand, that I don’t want anyone else to touch you like I do,” he looked directly into her eyes. Since they had been seeing each other the last couple of months, neither had ever vocalized such a comment of commitment. He was shocked that he of all people was the one demanding ties and a relationship. It had built up past his control, and obviously with Rory, this is how it manifested itself.

She gave him a half smile, “Tristan, no one has ever touched me like you did,” she assured him, still feeling the fire that had raged over her entire body.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, kissing her once more.

“Just, one thing,” she said, sounding more like her normal self, ready to question.

“Yeah?”

“Could you untie me? I can’t feel my fingers,” she glanced up at her still secured wrists.

“Hmm, now that we’ll have to negotiate,” he smirked before kissing her yet again.