The Beard
Trory. Drabble. PWP. Set after show's end, in some alternate reality where fics are born. Inspired by CMM's Instagram feed and posts of his beard. I'm not sure what it is with boys and beards, but CMM has one, as does my Hubby and they are weirdly fond of them.
Rated M, for mature.
Contrary to popular belief, Tristan Dugrey did not spend a lot of time preening in front of a mirror.
His skin had a healthy glow, thanks to both a disposition to eat vegetables without force or the guise of guilt and the fact that he'd grown up being able to afford high-quality food. While he was no stranger to a late-night drive-through window, it was an exception rather than a rule. No matter how much he ate, his preferred method of exercise was, in his own words, a short seven-mile run most mornings.
They had many differences, she and him, but if any one thing highlighted that fact more than any other, it was that he considered a seven-mile run short. The only way to make traveling the distance of seven miles short for Rory Gilmore was if some sort of vehicle was involved.
Many people would assume that his hairstyle took some time to get right, using deft fingers to move the locks around with a trained eye on his reflection until he got it just so. His hair was just long enough that it wasn't just wash-and-go ready; but not so long that it looked unkempt or in need of a trim. It was always styled, but he never spent more than thirty seconds running a shallow palmful of gel after he got out of the shower. When all else failed, he looked smart in a hat.
He had always cared enough to keep good grooming habits, but his whole routine had him in and out of the bathroom, post-shower, in five minutes or less. Until recently, it seemed. In fact, his new, extended routine had begun while she'd been out of town. It had been a longer trip for her, two weeks away from their shared domicile, and in that time one very noticeable change had occurred. On his face.
She'd had to go to DC for work, a trip that lingered longer than most of her others and certainly took her out of her normal groove for the duration, but never in the course of their daily interactions on the phone did he allude a change in his appearance or give her any reason to think he wouldn't look exactly the same on her return as he had when he dropped her off at her train with a kiss that was old-movie worthy, complete with a back-bend and ending only as the conductor called out for final boarding. Two weeks later, she'd come back to find a beard where she'd expected a clean-shaven jaw.
She hadn't thought much of it at first. But by the fourth day of Beard Watch, she realized two things. He wasn't going to suddenly shave it off the next morning, and it took some amount of maintenance and care on his part. Portions of his morning were spent standing over the sink in front of the mirror with an array of combs and trimmers at his disposal, all the while the bathroom door remained open at half-mast. She in turn had taken to sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet tucked under her and watching him, as he stood inspecting the growth in the mirror with only a towel wrapped around his waist and the mirror still partially foggy from shower steam.
On the fifth day, she hopped off her perch and edged up to the door, leaning into the frame and easing the door open wider. If he minded the attention, he didn't show it. Rather he just kept right on eying the two sides of his neck in attempt for symmetry. She lightly cleared her throat. "So, what inspired the beard?"
He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling at her using her tricks of the trade on him. Their eyes met in the mirror, and she waited for his response with her most patient expression, which only really served to assure him she was on the verge of twitching with edginess. His calm never wavered.
"I forgot to shave the first week you were gone, and by then it was easier to shape the scruff than shave. It came in nicely, didn't it?"
He turned and jutted his chin in her direction, turning his head with practiced ease to one side and then the other. She reached up with one hand and put her fingers into the depth of whiskers, which were rougher than the thick hair on his head and felt wholly foreign compared to the hair on his arms and legs. These were bristly in comparison, and almost hid his lips. She had always loved his lips, and access to them was a major boon in her opinion. She wouldn't even go into the shame it was to hide his strong jaw. When her hand fell away, she shrugged. "It's all right, I guess."
He gave her a tiny pout, but his eyes always gave him away. She saw playfulness there and knew his ego was far from bruised by her lack of enthusiasm. "People at work love it."
"People at work better not be kissing you," she retorted, which she thought might hold some weight as an argument, but it only served to prompt him to pull her in close and kiss her, without regard for her disdain of his beard. Hair tickled and brushed against her skin as his mouth covered hers, assuring her that his lips were most certainly still in working order. Her hands slipped up his warm bare back, and his towel did little to counter the more noticeable effects of their escalating kisses as she felt him harden under the terrycloth that was caught between their otherwise uncovered legs.
"You don't like my kisses?" he teased, nipping at her lip and then her cheek, moving onto her jaw and finally her earlobe. She gave an involuntary gasp and found she was now clutching at the top edge of where his towel was rolled and tucked together low on his hips with her right hand. He murmured into her ear. "Does this not feel good?"
She had never been sure if it was the timbre of his voice or the words he used, or just simply the fact that he was touching her, that turned her insides to jelly, but she could feel her limbs weaken and she held tight to him, her other hand now on his shoulder. She rested her forehead next to her fingers and did her best to keep from panting. "It's not that."
"You like it when I have a little scruff," he said, reminding her of her own words. It was true, his five o'clock shadow had never been a turn off and had served to heighten the moment by adding a different tactile feel to intimate moments. At the same time, being able to press her cheek directly against his in smooth contact after the next morning's shave was something she found she missed.
"I know, but this seems far more permanent than scruff," she reasoned, as they both caught their breath. "I never took you for a beard guy."
"I like it," he said as he ran a hand over his cheek. "Keeps my face warm."
"You're always warm," she said, noting that heat was rolling off his body in waves at that moment. They were still pressed together in all the right places, just far enough apart to look into one another's eyes. She knew their conversation was only a delay to some kind of pleasure, even though they both did have to get to work. Mornings were by far his favored time for shows of intimacy. She chose to find this endearing, but truth be told there was no other way she'd prefer to wake up than to his advances. It beat the hell out of a blaring alarm belting out Top 40 tunes to start her day.
"Ms. Gilmore, did you just call me hot?"
His ego didn't need to be bolstered, as it was quite healthy to the point of overfed at times. He didn't need to look in a mirror to know he was attractive to the opposite sex. He got plenty of reminders throughout his day. She thanked her lucky stars that he was not only ungodly attractive, but faithful and loyal to a fault. He had his bad qualities, but his good ones tended to overcompensate. As for his fondness for his beard, she was reserving judgment.
"Should I leave you and your beard to cool off?" she asked, teasing him now, trying unsuccessfully to peel herself off his frame.
His hands were fast, showcasing his swift reflexes and his toned muscles from all that running and early morning conjugal activity. He slid one hand to her waist and pulled them back together, while releasing his cinched towel with the other, letting it fall to the floor. "Problem solved," he winked at her before kissing her again, this time his lips insistent as his open palm pressed into her low back.
Her breath hitched, her thoughts shut down, and her knees gave completely as he walked them back to the bed. It was more aggressive than he'd been of late, and it was delicious despite the added loofah-like effect of his beard against her chin. His lips acted like heat-seeking missiles, hitting their targets and taking no prisoners. Her body unfurled for him, and it took her a lot of effort and willpower to remember that she had a point before all the partially naked kissing began. She put her hand on his cheek, tenderly at first, and then used the whiskers as a handhold to get his attention.
"About the beard," she said, her blue eyes half black with lust, but focused on him yet again.
His expression was pensive and his blue eyes were stormy blue as they narrowed in on her reluctance to let it go and lose herself to the moment. His disappointment was genuine—she'd never taken offense at any other physical aspect of him to that point in time. "You really don't like it?"
"I miss your face," she said in earnest. "You have a great face."
He let out a little growl, whether it was a noise of frustration or attraction, she wasn't certain. It didn't matter. He did some of his best work while frustrated—it was an expression of his passion, and he excelled in displaying his passion. He rested his head in the hollow of her shoulder for a beat before looking up at her with renewed resolve. "Give it a chance."
"If you say it will grow on me, I'll slug you. You know how I feel about puns," she warned.
He bit back a smile. "I am far more clever with my puns than that, and you know it."
She sighed dismissively, realizing she'd have to take a different tack. She wasn't quite ready to embrace the beard that easily. "What if I quit shaving?"
He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. "How shallow do you think I am? Besides, I've never complained about your winter hibernation habits."
Her mouth fell agape, thinking he was lashing out in a personal attack. "Excuse me?"
Now his expression leveled with seriousness. "Rory, you didn't shave your legs last year from just after Christmas until just before Valentine's Day."
She frowned, more upset at the fact he'd noticed than because he was using it as a counter-argument. She thought she'd gotten away with something. It's darker in the winter and his focus usually wasn't on her legs. "I didn't realize you knew that."
He chuckled and grazed her nose with his. "It's not a big deal. You have great legs, even with a little hair on them. They still wrapped around me just fine, didn't they?" he added suggestively.
"What about other… areas?" she asked, being vague out of embarrassment. He had no problem speaking about any and every part of her anatomy with relish and zeal, but she felt there was not enough mystery left in the world. Besides, she was fairly sure it was possible to die of mortification and her embarrassment could actually be eternal. Dirty talk was not her forte.
He simply lifted an eyebrow and let his fingers roam to her hip, where they caressed and found the edge of her panties, her usual companion to the various tank tops she wore to bed. She squirmed appropriately as he dragged the pads of his fingers down over the zone she'd so vaguely implicated. "I never asked you to shave there, either."
She gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Please, all guys like that area attended to. It makes it easier to find certain landmarks," she said, her awkwardness shining like a freaking spotlight. Eternal mortification, party of one. She hoped it paid off, because she could swear she felt flames ready to erupt from her cheeks.
"You think I can't find my way around down there without visual cues?" he asked, his voice challenging. "Or am I not doing something you'd like me to do?"
She knew the conversation was in danger of taking an unintended turn. "I'm not saying you don't know where everything is."
"Damn straight," he affirmed, and with a turn of his wrist his fingers slipped further under her panties, as he sought to prove himself.
Her hips tilted involuntarily lower in response and his angle shifted to match. His eyes never left hers, and his hand had fully disappeared under her clothes. "I can't see what I'm doing, but I can feel you just fine."
Her stomach tensed and her toes curled. He was about to prove his point when his hand stilled, causing her to whimper and ball up two fists full of sheets. "The beard doesn't hinder me from anything. I think maybe you need a little more convincing. You like proof, don't you?"
"Tristan," she began, but became far more interested in watching as he eased her garment down from her hips until they fell onto the floor by her feet. She was left in the tank top she'd worn to bed the night before and nothing else. He slid down, kissing her exposed stomach below her belly button, which ignited an army of butterflies therein.
"If it's too distracting, I'll let you shave it off," he promised, kissing her a little lower, but not exactly where she'd hoped for. She squirmed again in anticipation.
His hands were already in play, one anchoring her and his other thumb gliding over and priming her for what was to come. "I'm not sure this is playing fair."
"Since when have I ever claimed to play fair?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer, because before she could open her mouth, he'd finally lowered his.
She cried out at the sudden heat that covered her. His beard kept him warm, and her as well it seemed. She knew she should have been trying to take note of any difference from the times past, but all she could really focus on was the way his tongue swept over her and trying not to cry out so loudly that the neighbors complained. She might not be good at the dirty talk, but she was even worse at keeping quiet.
Speed wasn't his concern, nor was showcasing his talent. He didn't have to show off. He enjoyed it too much, making her squirm and dig her fingernails into his shoulders and tug at his hair—he was always glad to have her mess up his hair or mar his skin with her nails. He held one arm across her hips and stomach, keeping her from bucking up out of his reach. Her hips rocked like a wave machine gone awry, unable to keep still as he licked and laved at her, savoring her. She was damn near seeing stars when he pulled away, letting cool air rush over her in his absence.
He pressed a single kiss to her inner thigh. Her teeth clinched as she waited for more, but instead he asked a question. "Did that tickle?"
Her eyes flew open and fixed on him. Her body was screaming at her. "Wh-what? No."
His smile was fueled by ego and victory. "Good. So, that's settled," he said, doing a push-up onto his forearms, as if retreating.
Her hair, which had been pulled back into a ponytail but was now just half free and teased from the way it had rubbed against the pillow in her fits of pleasure, fell down her shoulders as she too used her shaky arms to lean up and reach out for him. "Where are you going?"
"Oh, did you want me to finish?" he asked casually, his smirk firm and justified and fully recognizable even with the beard.
"Damn it, Tristan," she muttered, yanking him back down in such a way that he half landed on her. The whole affair was ungraceful, but it still put him back in the general proximity she'd been aiming for. "I can't sit through staff meetings like this. All I'd be thinking about all day would be," she trailed off, not wanting to say something so… well, dirty. She just wanted him to do the dirty, dirty things to her so they could get on with their days.
"My beard?" he guessed, teasing her more.
"Tristan," she warned, wishing she could claim that this little standoff was allowing her need for him to wane. He was smart enough to know better. He certainly knew her better than that. All the proof he needed about her state of want was the fact that she'd been hot and wet before his mouth had touched her.
"I think someone needs to admit that they were turned on by a guy with a beard," he coaxed.
"It's not the beard. It's you. I want you with or without the beard, apparently," she professed, squirming in an attempt to find friction between his body and the apex of her thighs.
He considered her admission and apparently deemed it worthy. He slid down her body with luxurious friction, settling himself back into the V of her legs, and pulled her down toward him by her waist abruptly before placing her knees over his shoulders. "It won't work, you know."
"What won't?" she asked hastily, momentarily tired of talking. She was ready for a whole lot more action, so much so that she was literally aching for his next move.
"You'll still be having dirty thoughts about me and my beard all through your staff meetings. I'll make sure of that," he promised before delving back into her with renewed vigor that jump-started her core and fast-tracked her orgasm. Not to mention the one after that.
So he might spend a few more minutes in front of the mirror, she thought. It really wasn't the end of the world.