There Are Two Types Of Men In This World

This is so disturbing.

I’m not sure about the source, but I’ll give credit… - Update: @avariea thank you for finding the source… and the credit belongs to @disneyunhappilyeverafter. Powerful stuff!

Why can I actually picture Stiles doing this?

a show of trust - steter

for @detektywpikachu who asked for steter plus stiles gets a haircut from peter                            

–

The first time it happens it’s a case of a necessary evil. Not even a “cut a lock of hair for a spell” scenario though. Oh no. It’s more of a “cut all the hair off before the gunk sinks into Stiles’ skin and melts his brain” kind of situation.

Either way, Stiles doesn’t give a fuck about how or who or what with. He’d do it himself if he had eyes on the back of his head to make sure he doesn’t miss a spot.

He rocked a buzzcut for years and although he’ll miss the “artful bed-head” - as his dad started to call it, - it’s a small price to pay for his continued ability to live.

So he glares at where Lydia and Erica are fighting over the scissors and comb, then ends their squabbling with one sentence.

“Peter,” he calls, addressing the man who’s been observing the situation from his usual perch on the stairs,“ will you do the honors?”

Peter smiles at him, pleased and triumphant in the face of Lydia’s and Erica’s protests, and follows Stiles to the bathroom.

Somehow, when Peter’s done, and Stiles’ hair is cropped short again he looks better than he ever did sporting a buzzcut.

–

The next time it happens Stiles’ life isn’t under threat any more than on any other regular old Tuesday and it’s Peter who offers.

Granted, the main reason for it could be the fact that Stiles sprained his right wrist in a fight two weeks ago and his hair was getting out of hand.

He could go to a barber. He had every intention to do it, too. But.

He’s sprawled on Peter’s couch in the man’s apartment, taking advantage of Peter’s Disney+ subscription. They are friends, these days, and binge-watching the Mandalorian and hanging out is one of the things they do.

And so is snuggling, which they both attribute to Peter’s pack instincts while ignoring the elephant in the room that is the thing growing between them.  

As it is, Stiles must have shoved his hair one time too many into Peter’s face because Stiles finds himself being playfully pushed away by the application of hand to face until he finds himself half sprawled in Peter’s lap.

Before Stiles can question the sudden change in position, all done in a way that somehow avoided him landing on his injured writs, Peter tugs at his hair gently.

“I’m sorry to say this, sweetheart, but this birdnest on your head you call hair needs to be trimmed down into something more suitable for your pretty face.” Before Stiles could protest, squawk, or even agree, Peter continued, “I can do it for you right now, if you want?”

Which is how Stiles finds himself in Peter’s bathroom, perched on one of the stools from Peter’s kitchen, the brush of the comb and snipping of scissors making for the ambiance.

It’s… strangely intimate, more intimate than hugging or cuddling somehow and Stiles can’t explain why.

He’s been nose to chest with Peter before, they’ve been friends for years now, packmates. They train, they roughhouse, they sprawl over each other as they watched TV the same way Stiles does with Scott, Derek, Kira, Boyd and everyone else. Though he and Jackson don’t snuggle. Ever. There’s no proof.

But here and now, with Peter standing between Stiles’ legs as he cuts the hair at the front of Stiles’ head, his movements sure and precise because it’s just another thing he’s ridiculously good at–

There’s tension building up, and Stiles can’t be sure if Peter feels it too, how strange, how edge-teetering it is for them, suspended in limbo as they are between friendship and more and how to bridge the gap.

But maybe Peter feels it just as keenly in the silence that has befallen. Maybe he knows just as well as Stiles does that this could be the moment because he doesn’t protest when Stiles’ hands settle on his hips, holding him, squeezing gently. He doesn’t admonish Stiles to be careful when Stiles lifts his head to look at Peter, the scissors and comb having already been put away so Peter’s hands are free to cradle Stiles jaw.

Peter’s smile is soft, barely-there and so much more real for it and somehow it’s the easiest thing in the world for Stiles to tip his head a little higher and meet Peter halfway.

–

“Did you plan it?”

“I hoped.”

–

pls reblog

hey if ur ever feelin shitty use this

Ambreigns: When Stephanie said Dean was Romans sidekick.

Stephanie: When are you gonna stop riding Roman's coat tails?

Roman: He doesn't-

Dean: The only thing I ride that belongs to Roman is his di-

Stephanie: What?

Roman: What?

Dean: What?

How Animals Eat Their Food

Yemen has the worlds worst humanitarian crisis right now.

Here’s a good organization to donate to: https://www.savethechildren.org/us/what-we-do/where-we-work/greater-middle-east-eurasia/yemen

A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”

And, like a fool, you give it to him.

If you call pedophilia a kink please unfollow me and never talk to me again

Your Grave

I put off visiting your grave for a long time, honestly. Partly because of the money it would cost to travel to where they buried you. And partly because I thought I was okay without.

But now that I have the money, and now that I’m here. I can’t do this. I can’t look at your grave and remember all the times we could have had, or all the times we did have. I can’t handle knowing that you’re dead, and that box that’s buried in the ground with a urn in it, I can handle that it’s you they’re holding.

I can’t handle that I’m never going to see you again, never see you smile, never hear you laugh. I can’t handle that you’re dead. I just can’t. And most of the time I can hide that- I can bury that feeling that suffocates me.

This is your grave. Your final resting place. You should have lived. That cancer should not have gotten that far. If your stupid family hadn’t said no to your radiation, maybe you would be here right now. Maybe you’d be visiting the old friend you’re buried next to, and maybe it wouldn’t be me mourning the lost loved one.

I was fine- I was excited to see your grave, honestly. I wasn’t excited about your death- no, not at all. But I was excited to finally see your grave simply for the fact that I could stop worrying about the fact that I hadn’t visited. That I hadn’t gotten to your memorial.

And I could stop hurting about the fact that the only memorial of yours that I’ve seen is the obituary online. Or the old stuff of yours that’s laying around my house.

But as I got to your grave, and as I saw it- it hit me hard, it hit me like a truck. I’d been bottling it up for so long and when I finally saw your grave- I just shattered.

All of those tiny little pieces of my walls I’d struggled to put up and mend daily just broke. Your grave to a hammer to them and knocked them down.

I couldn’t handle it. I left almost as soon as I arrived. I’m never going to be able to handle it, I think. It’s just one of those things that I’ll bury until moments like this where I’m writing about it and sob in silently to myself.

Because I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. And I’m never going to see you again. And with that I realise how many photos of you I actually have. And that’s like ten.

I ignored you too much, I was a teen, always busy. Never had the time to hug you when I saw you, or to really say hi, or bye. I never really cherished the moments I spent with you because the thought of you dying- a person filled with such life and happiness- just the thought of you dying is so foreign. It feels wrong.

And when you were in the hospital on and off, it still didn’t really hit me. Only in the one moment we shared together it did.

I said, “I don’t want you to die.”

And you just smiled softly, a reassuring thing, I’m sure, but through my tears I was not reassured, not in the slightest. And you said, “Everyone has their time. Everyone dies. And this is mine.”

What is a young teenager supposed to do with that? I wasn’t going to take it to heart. And I didn’t. I didn’t when my mom woke me at 2:30 in the morning to tell me that they’d called to tell us you’d died. I didn’t, not until I’d seen your grave.

Sure, in passing moments I did, and I cried. But the full force really hit when I walked up to your snow covered grave, the snow crunching under my feet, that, that is when it hit me. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

It shouldn’t have been your time. You should still be here at Christmas, Thanksgiving, my birthday, all of those moments. You should still be there to laugh and make everyone else just as happy as you were.

I miss you so much. I miss you so so much.