So, I paint my nails pretty regularly these days. I also work as a barista/cashier pretty regularly these days. A few weeks back, I had a customer come in, a fairly typical, sheltered, suburban soccer mom, and she ordered a latte from me. She saw my brightly colored nails and said, “Wow, you’re so brave! My son asked me about painting his nails, and if it’s okay for boys to do that. Now I’ll tell him there’s a cool guy who does it too!” It was a nice moment, very cute.
Then, last week, she came in again, and said, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here! I want you to meet someone!” She then brings her son forward, and says, “Okay sweetie, show him what you did!” And he throws his hands up, showing off his bright, sparkling blue nails. He shows them off, and I show mine off to him. He smiles. We fist bump.
Guys, I’ve only wanted to cry once at work before, and that was when someone ordered a large dry soy cappuccino on ice.
This time, though. This was a good cry.
but like imagine a very bored Derek waiting for Stiles to finish his homework so he plays the Sims or something and suddenly he just lets out a wail and Stiles nearly has a heart attack and Derek just looks at him with horror and goes, “I JUST TRIED TO MAKE MAC’N’CHEESE AND THEY’RE ALL DEAD!” and there’s a fire just tearing through his virtual house.
okay because an anon asked :
“Derek?” Stiles questions, lifting the window up and raising a brow at him as Derek ducks swiftly into Stiles’ bedroom. “I told you I wasn’t going to be free until after eight,” Stiles chastises, sighing.
“I got impatient,” Derek shrugs, collapsing into Stiles’ vacated desk chair. Stiles tips his head back and makes a dramatic sound of frustration.
“But you can’t be here!” He whines, “I have homework I need to finish and if you’re here then I’ll just want sex,” Stiles huffs. Derek gives him a look, “I didn’t come for sex,” he argues.
Stiles pouts at him, “you don’t wanna have sex!?” Derek just rolls his eyes and laughs, spinning in the chair.
“Ugh, fine,” Stiles gripes, moving around to flop onto his bed, dragging his calculus textbook towards himself. “But I really do need to finish this so just…entertain yourself.” He’s so not going to be able to concentrate, he’d give it up as a lost cause but he actually does need to finish this.
Derek shrugs unconcerned and turns the chair towards Stiles’ laptop and flips it open. It only takes about ten minutes for Derek to turn back around. Stiles can see him out of the corner of his eye, gets distracted enough to lift his gaze and stare at him in a way he hopes is chastising.
“How is that position comfortable?” Derek asks. Stiles raises his brows, he’s hunched over his notebook, face about eight inches from his paper, legs bent under him.
“You’ve fucked me in way weirder positions,” Stiles points out.
“Yeah well,” Derek tries, but can’t really argue.
“Play videogames or something,” Stiles tells him and Derek turns back towards the laptop. Stiles can hear the music for the Sim starting softly, filtering out of the headphones still plugged in and lying abandoned hanging from his desk.
It grows very quiet for a long while, the only sound in the room the soft squeak of the chair as Derek shifts every once in awhile and the scritch-scratch of Stiles’ pencil on paper, his barely audible mumblings as he solves his math problems.
Suddenly, the chair goes flying back, bouncing into the corner of Stiles’ bed, Derek is making a rush of incoherent shouts, and Stiles flies up off the bed, goes for the can of mountain ash he keeps in his headboard, ready.
“Stiles! Stiles! Oh God, I don’t know what I did, help!” Stiles falls off the bed, Derek struggling to help him stand as he gasps, “What! What happened! Who is it?” Looking out the window as though expecting to see swat teams and fire engines, ambulances barreling towards some unknown danger. Instead, Derek shoves the laptop into Stiles’ hands and cries, “Help them!”
“What?” Stiles asks, confused, heart pounding out of his chest as he looks down at the screen.
“Miguel was hungry! He just wanted mac’n’cheese and the whole fucking kitchen caught on fire! How does that even happen?!” Derek wails, miserable.
“Miguel?” Stiles questions, he collapses onto his bed, heart rate slowing now that he knows whatever danger is happening is only virtual.
“Our love child,” Derek explains. Stiles looks down at the screen as an adolescent with green eyes and brown hair runs frantically around his burning kitchen, while the Grim Reaper comes to collect the poor expired avatars of Stiles and Derek.
“You made us?” Stiles asks, staring at Derek fondly.
“Yeah, and then I killed them,” Derek huffs, collapsing dejectedly into his seat. “I fucking hate this game.” Stiles closes the laptop and tosses it onto his bed, laughing hysterically, Derek looking at him in irritation.
“It’s not funny!” Derek snaps.
“But it really is!” Stiles clutches at his side, moves to sit on Derek’s lap who looks put out but doesn’t argue, just crosses his arms over his chest and pouts.
“Hey,” Stiles wheedles, tickling at Derek’s ribs until he squirms and looks up at him. “You made us,” Stiles says, soft and pleased. Derek shrugs, lets Stiles cup his jaw gently. “With a kid,” Stiles continues and Derek flushes softly.
Stiles leans forward and kisses him hard, when he pulls back, Derek’s got his hands shoved up underneath Stiles’ shirt. “C’mon, lets fuck,” Stiles says, “don’t even a cheat code to see me naked.”
Every morning my grandmother feeds this squirrel a peanut, so every morning it shows up at her door. This was him today. via
Allá vamos! Ya empiezan #junoawards u are the best best best! ❤❤❤