Seeing Hoechlin with his salt and pepper beard got me thinking about Derek Hale with beard mascara (That’s a thing, look it up) and then…
Like, Derek turns 30 and the pack is off doing god knows what at college, when one day he finds a grey hair in his beard and he gets so fucking insecure so he buys the beard mascara and he covers it all up.
Then one day, suddenly, Stiles is in his loft after he’s taken a shower and he walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and Stiles says, “Are those grey hairs?”
And Derek’s heart starts pounding because it’s Stiles and he didn’t want Stiles to see that, not just because Stiles likes to make jokes and poke fun at him but also because Derek might like Stiles a little. Or a lot.
And he says, “Let it go, Stiles.”
But Stiles, being Stiles, doesn’t listen and gets all up in his space and cups Derek’s face and tilts it and Derek knows what he’s seeing, grey hairs glinting in the light. He has to concentrate to hold his claws back and he’s so ready for Stiles to make a joke about becoming an old man, fucking tensed for it when Stiles says, “Oh my god, that is both hot and adorable.”
Which, what. What. That hadn’t been at all what Derek had been expecting, but now Stiles is staring at him, mouth open and pupils blown and Derek wants to kiss him so bad. So he does, and again, and again, and he laughs when Stiles runs his fingers through his beard, trying to find the grey hairs by touch, and Stiles laughs with him.
Note:Ahhh, I wrote this so long ago and I’m not sure if I still like it .But here! All revamped and made pretty for the masterlist so meh~
After standing alone in a unfamiliar living room for the last half hour, you were officially ready to kill Jung. It was no secret that you hated frat parties, favouring curling up in your second - hand (hey, it was cheap), worn chair with one of your favourite books or watching reruns to staying out late with drunk students. You could be quite shy around those you didn’t know, and hated being forced to down bitter tasting beer while drunk classmates would pull you into their sweaty embraces. Also, due to your dislike of alcohol, you were often the only sober person in the house, having to deal with your classmates drunk antics.
You would never forget that on the rare occasion that you went to a party, the boy who sat next to you in Art History had pinned you to a wall and tried to shove his tongue down your throat. Obviously he was too drunk to aim and ended up with a mouthful of hair rather than your lips, but it was enough to put you off parties even more than before. You hadn’t been able to look at him the next day, awkwardly nodding when he had apologised. However you did try to enjoy yourself on the weekends, earning it after the gruelling week. Sometimes you would invite some of your friends to your tiny dorm room provided by the school to go on a movie marathon. There had been a slight mix up with the rooms at the collage, meaning you didn’t have a roommate, and the school hadn’t assigned you one yet. However after a disastrous week, chock full of meetings and assignments due in, you were ready to get a pizza, hide in a mountain of blankets and fall asleep in front of the season finale of the crown. However when Jung had arrived at your door in the early evening, and almost broke down your door with her violent knocking, your plans had been thrown to the wind.
Gather round, darlings, and let me spin you a tale of hot, delicious love.
It was a dark and stormy night many moons ago when yours truly was cozied-up with a strong-but-silent type, finding our way to the bottom of a whisky bottle. Drunk on kisses with a warmth spreading between us, he breathed a wish for food into my ear to sop up some of the single malt. Perusing the kitchen, not finding much but the basics, I got resourceful and whipped up a batch of pancakes from scratch…and in a short while settled the stack of fluffy goodness before us just as the power went out. He went foraging for candles, I searched blindly for syrup.
Fumbling in the dark, I yelled for assistance and was told “It’s in the cupboard, just feel for the curves of Mrs. Butterworth!” and so I did, musing all the while about indecently fingering the poor woman without even a proper kiss.
Certain I was caressing her face, I gripped what I assumed was her waist and settled into a chair, unscrewed the cap and poured, in the dark, because he still wasn’t back with the candles and I was hungry.
She shot out of the bottle a little prematurely, and I wondered if he’d been thinning his syrup…to have more money for that lovely scotch we’d just consumed all entwined on the sofa. I learned not to question his quirks, as he so gallantly never questioned mine.
I dug in with a fork.
I shoved those honest-to-goodness cakes of splendor into my mouth and realized I’d made a mistake. a wonderful, soggy mistake.
There were tipsy hazelnuts dancing on my tongue. I laughed and almost choked. I was consumed by coughs. I was blind, half-drunk-everything-is-fine-in-the-world-happy. I took a deep swig from the bottle. I was still breathing.
Suddenly he returned with candles lit in his fists, concerned that i might be dying, shock on his face as he eyed the bottle in front of me and whispered “What have you done?” and i was still stuffing those sin-soaked pancakes into my face and laughing under my breath.
Casually, with my voice dripping in sultry tones, I eyed him up - “Why hello there, Frangelico…care to join me for vespers?”
Setting the candles down, he held my gaze for a long moment before he raised an eyebrow and bit his lip. Sigh. Turning, he searched the cabinets for Mrs. Butterworth and found her hiding, cowering in the dark as the thunder rolled on. He sat down and stared at me again, mirthful tears running down my cheeks and said it was probably a bad idea to cook in my current state of being and I replied through a glossy grin, “But…but, we now have pancakes! Drunken pancakes!” to which he grabbed the bottles in both hands, and poured with abandon as a subtle smile curled his delicious mouth.
I watched him closely in the candlelight, breath bated. He took a bite. I saw the workings of his chiseled jaw and felt a familiar warmth and weakness before he murmured he loved me more than he did before I cheated on Mrs. Butterworth. I giggled. We kissed with sugared lips, gluttonous and wanting, sloppy and possessive. Our eyes danced at the birth of knowledge. He tucked in. I swooned.
And as the rain pelted the windows, my eyes danced, beguiled by the bottles shimmering in the flickering candlelight, and I imagined the widowed Mrs. Butterworth taking a pilgrimage to Italy; to an ensconced monastery high in the hills where she might bake bread for the poor, atoning for her life-long sin of being too tempting, too sweet to the masses…and falling deeply for a tall, dark and oh-so-stunningly handsome Brother by the name of Frangelico.
Chaste meetings at first, theirs was a forbidden attachment, but when their hands touched while reaching for the little jars of honey at meals, there was no denying the electricity between them; saccharine-charged sparks that threatened to turn their fingers to rock candy. His vow of silence broken on a stormy evening just like this, with barely a whisper moving his angled jaw about wanting to butter her biscuits and glaze her pound cake…but she heard the primal need rolling off his tongue. And though he could not see it in the shadows that clung to the old, stone walls, her plump, dark cheeks flushed warm as if his words were sweet
spilling down her throat. Passion stirred and simmered slowly. His spirit danced and flowed freely whenever they were in the same room. Her blood thickened and bosom heaved when he was near. And soon after, unable to contain their treacly lust, they would meet in the kitchen while the others slept, love starved, and pour themselves into each other…until they were sticky and fully sated…pooled together, wrought with sweetness. Alive. Unrepentant.
I sighed and dragged my finger through the sticky mess on my plate in the shape of a heart.