This Is The Ending We Deserved.

May the 10 of Pentacles bless your account with more money than you can spend. 💵✨

“If you won’t date him after that proclamation of love (Y/N), I’ll date him instead.”

This would totally be Stiles and Derek.

In fics involving one person doing CPR on the other, there are two kinds of ships:

The “You have to wake up! Please! Don’t leave me! I need you! I-I love you.”

And the “Breathe you piece of shit! You still owe me ten dollars!”

Steve: “With whom are you texting?”

Thor: “Eh .. just a friend.”

Steve: “You’re smiling every time a new message arrives.”

Thor: “You got me there. It’s Y/N.” *texting*

Steve: “Oh really? … What are you two talking about.”

Thor: “Nothing special.” *texting*

Steve: “Something funny?”

Thor: “Kind of.” *texting*

Steve: “ … so … about what exactly?” 

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

Uptown Girl: Part 1

Notes: Bit of sexual tension, Lots of fluff. :) Feedback is appreciated. Tags are at the end :)

Keep reading

Period and Dads. -I was dying of laughter.

In fics involving one person doing CPR on the other, there are two kinds of ships:

The “You have to wake up! Please! Don’t leave me! I need you! I-I love you.”

And the “Breathe you piece of shit! You still owe me ten dollars!”

Touch

Character: Francis (Ajax) Freeman Summary: was kind of worried to write this dude cuz he’s an asshole and tortures people and fucked Wade’s life up but then again he’s kind of cute so… don’t judge me and don’t judge the chick/dude that requested this, without further adieu- this thing is essentially Francis spontaneously being able to feel thanks to the reader (idk how man, it’s a fan fiction, just roll with it) Words: 700

“I swear to god, if I die wearing this I’m going to come back and haunt everyone’s arses!” she called out, struggling against the metal chains that bit into her bruised skin, the cool steel table digging into her spine as warm blood trickled down her face and arms. There was no answer from the damp grey room, just the consistent dripping of water in the corner and the scurrying of rats underneath her. Her hair stood on end as a breeze brushed against her from the vent in the roof, the metallic taste of blood and the scent of urine and sterile medical equipment choking her slightly. Everything ached and she could hardly move, tears of frustration pricked at the back of her wide eyes, but she refused to let them fall. They could torture her all they wanted, but she refused to cry. The burning of her wounds only added to the angry fire pooling in her stomach; how dare they do this to her, to any of them. She hadn’t even been one of the idiots that agreed to this, they’d taken her from her apartment (while she’d been on tumblr in her pink unicorn onesie no less). A flush spread across her cheeks as her jaw worked, scowl marring her pretty face.

“Now now sweetheart, no one said anythin’ about dyin’, well…unless the tests don’t work that is,” a smug British accent sounded from her right and she whipped her head over, wincing as her ears rang.

The mans face morphed into surprise for a mere second before schooling back into a smug smirk.

She supposed he would’ve been attractive; he had those pretty pale blue eyes that shone like glass, killer cheekbones, and was at least 6 foot 2. He would’ve been attractive, if he hadn’t been holding a giant scalpel and if he hadn’t been responsible for putting her in that hell hole.

“You’re really laying it on thick you know,” she wheezed and one of his eyebrows shot up. “Abandoned warehouse, blood stained lab coat, god you’re even British! Why are all the bad guys English?”

His smirk twitched into a smile for a second, before he paced towards her, shoes clicking loudly on the cement floor. “Let me guess, you’ve got some tragic backstory to go along with it too? Some shitty reason for you turning evil?”

He chuckled, before nodding lightly and leaning against the metal bed that creaked under his weight. “I suppose you could say that. Got my mutant genes activated, unfortunately for me, that fried the fuck out of my nerve endings. Can’t feel a thing anymore.”

“Wow. Sex must suck, or well…not suck I suppose, no point in sucking anym-OW! Hey, what was that for?” he dragged the scalpel down her arm, blood welling up around it and staining the tips of his fingers, which lightly brushed against her skin until-

“What the fuck,” he breathed out, hand snapping towards his chest as he cradled it, staring at her with wide eyes.

Everything was still for a moment, even the scurrying rats stopped moving. With a shaking arm he reached towards her face, palm cupping her cheek and she heard him take in a sharp breath, swearing quietly. “I-I can feel you.”

His fingers were rough and calloused, but his palm was warm and comforting in an odd way. Having been locked away for what must have been a week had really deprived her of human contact, she supposed, if she was enjoying the touch of some crazy guy.

“Does this mean you’re not gonna kill me or…?” The chains on her bed were ripped off instantly and she was flung into a warm, hard muscled chest as his arms wrapped around her, face pressing into the crook of her neck. His hot breath caused a rush of goose bumps to erupt and she silently prayed that he couldn’t feel that, his ego evidently did not need another boost.

“Sure, won’t kill you, just…can you hug me for a second?”

She had to bite back a grin.

“The bad guy likes hugs? Who would’ve known,” her hair ruffled as he huffed out a laugh, squeezing her tightly.

I DON’T CARE HOW MANY TIMES I REBLOG THIS.