A boy, a cat and a skeptical chihuahua in motion.
Spencer: Mom, get us some paper, please. I wanna be creative.
On May 28th, my sister, Edna, turned 31.
Her mental age is about three years old. She loves Winnie the Pooh, Beauty & the Beast, and Sesame Street. Even though the below picture is unconvincing.
Edna and “Cookie.” I think she was trying to play it cool.
My name is…
Step 2: Reblog with
- which political box your result falls in
- what you consider your political beliefs to be
Step 4: Profit!
Anarcho-socialism! (mine actually fell right on the line with Libertarian Socialism)
99% of us in fandom have zero platform from which to effectively teach the people we stan how to not be racist, homophobic, sexist fuckweasles. Or even from which to teach them how to not say or do racist, homophobic, sexist, ableist, insensitive, appropriative things in a life of being pretty…
THIS. ALL OF THIS.
notenoughgatorade said: Zack and miri!!!
(Zack and Miri- Initiallly platonic friends filming porn for cash)
This took me so long to get to, sorry!!
Stiles has a mole on his inner thigh.
It’s kind of funny that he’s standing in a room with a lighting guy, two cameramen and Erica - who enthusiastically volunteered as director for the scene for whatever reason - about to get ass-naked on film, and the thing that’s fucking with his head the most is the fact that his friend has an adorable beauty mark next to the hem of his boxer-briefs.
Derek hadn’t known about the mole. He was pretty sure he knew everything about Stiles, down to the random, every day shit; that he likes his showers hot enough to turn his shoulders pink, that he has vivid dreams when he eats tunafish, that he’s a happy drunk and a philosophical stoner.
Stiles talks so much and spews such random bullshit that Derek was positive there hadn’t been a thought in the last 5 years he wasn’t made aware of the moment it passed through Stiles’ brain.
And then he betrays himself, thinking of all the people who knew this before he did. His thousands of viewers for the live cam shows, and Scott, probably - Derek is well aware the only reason he got roped into this is because for Stiles, sex with his closest and oldest friend would have felt vaguely incestuous. But there’s also the douchebag Stiles was dating when they met - the one Derek had to pretend to be a possessive boyfriend to get rid of, and Heather, for sure. Malia probably knew - they were casual, but they spent enough time naked with each other that it couldn’t have been avoided.
What else doesn’t he know? He’d never have thought Stiles would want to go this far, for a start. The cam shows, he’s been doing for about six months now, and Derek understands - he really does. The student loans he’d amassed weren’t going anywhere, and he’s never once judged him for cashing in on his undeniable appeal. Derek never watched, though - it was an unspoken respect for Stiles’ privacy he had no interest in betraying. For the first time, he’s wondering if he should have. Maybe then he’d have picked something up, learned something to make this better—
"You doin’ okay, bro?"
Stiles is tapping a staccatoed rhythm on his thigh, about an inch lower from the tiny, chocolate-coloured mark that’s ruining Derek’s life. He blinks, looking up at his face, and hesitates.
"I— yeah. Fine, you?"
There’s a look on his face that’s slightly pained, like Derek isn’t the only one being hit with what all this means. Stiles nods.
"Cool as a cucumber." he looks around the set. "You know you can back out, any time. I’m not gonna be mad, or—"
"No, it’s fine."
Stiles’ eyes look between his, and Derek must do a good job of looking sure of himself, because he smiles - sweet and relieved, and Derek reminds himself why he agreed to this for the hundredth time.
"Alright, we’re pretty much set up," Erica says, cutting into the moment. "We’ll just start slow - do what feels natural, okay?"
None of this feels natural, Derek thinks, but doesn’t say it.
He takes a breath and shucks off the robe, standing in the ‘bedroom’ in just his underwear, and adjusts the waistband.
There’s a whoosh of air released from Stiles’ lips, and Derek looks up to see him staring - pupils blown, that same fumbling movement with one hand growing more insistent. It’s all becoming real.
Derek sinks to the edge of the mattress, sitting beside him, and rests his hand over Stiles’. It’s strange - Derek has seen him nervous about dental appointments and presentations for class and each time his dad has a check-up - but never about sex, and never, ever about being on camera. “Just us, okay?” he says quietly.
Stiles nods, not taking his eyes away from Derek’s face, and turns his hand over, palm-up, to grip Derek’s.
It’s quiet on the set, and Derek knows they’ve started rolling, Erica in his periphery in her headset, watching it all. He closes his eyes, inhales Stiles’ bodywash and the mint on his breath, and leans in.
As first kisses go, it’s not terrible - a little chaste, for what they’re doing, and he can tell Stiles is holding back - but that’s the last thing he should be doing. Especially now.
"Dude. Yess…when you’re making out with someone, and they tug on your hair? Ugh… the best.”
It’s a random memory from a year back, when their cable went out and they were stuck watching whatever was on the hard drive Lydia had left in their apartment. Stiles had been drinking lukewarm PBR’s and was laying upside down on the couch, mostly poking fun at each movie, until a make-out scene elicited a dreamy sigh.
Derek unclenches his hand and reaches up carefully, sliding his fingers through the soft strands at the crown of Stiles’ head. There’s the tiniest, sweetest hitch of breath, and then the kiss isn’t chaste anymore.
Derek’s pulse picks up; each slow, soft drag of Stiles’ lips over his has him shifting closer, breathing hard through his nose, and everything is silent save for the touch of skin and the shared breaths and the lazy creak of the mattress.
The kiss breaks, Stiles resting his forehead against Derek’s temple, and there’s a heated flush booming prettily across his skin. “Fuck,” he breathes. “How did—”
His eyes flick sideways, to where the crew are standing, and he bites off the sentence. he lays an hand on Derek’s cheek and kisses him again, fingers rasping over stubble, and Derek wants to say you told me that’s what you liked - you tell me everything.
But instead, he leans back, taking Stiles with him, and the rest of the set melts away.
He touches only his back, because ‘my sides are ticklish’; drags his lips over Stiles’ pulse point because ‘neck kisses make me hard as a fucking rock’ and puts his mouth on Stiles’ dick, since ‘I think I could get off just by going down on someone, seriously’, and Derek - he wants this to last.
He eats him out, soft and precious, because ‘If I get fingered for too long I start to go numb’; and slicks up his cock because Stiles once confessed he prefers to bottom the first time he’s with someone. Derek knows these things; he knows them all - has been filing each fact away for years in anticipation of, what he realises with a jolt the second he slides home, finally getting to do this.
Stiles is boneless, panting, cursing and begging, and when his eyes find Derek’s in a moment of clarity, Derek is gone. He touches him exactly the way he needs, like he’s priceless; fucks him like they’ve got all the time in the world; kisses him like he needs to drink up every ounce of pleasure from his lips and drown in it.
When Erica has her shots, they lay together. Derek kisses the taste of himself off Stiles’ lips, facing each other in the sheets. Sweat-slick and flushed, he draws a blanket up over them both, because 'it's weird, I get all shivery after I come’.
Stiles watches him, uncharacteristically silent, and Derek shies away from the gaze, the one stripping him bare and fitting the pieces together; figuring him out.
Figuring out that Derek knows him, remembers everything he likes, touches him in just the right way because he knows how…
Figuring out that Derek is so, so fucked.