#even as lovers id sass the fuck out of them and be a bitch back

[puppy-the-mask]

I was about to sleep and then got assaulted by the fact that Peng is my lmk equivalent of Mutt in that I hate them both and so think about them a lot and damnit they’re pretty to look at and I’m mad about it. I hate that I like them so much

And then immediately after I got bombed so hard I had to write this because Peng and Rant are the same fucking character- send help my precious best boy has the same personality as this dumb bird bitch. I find solace in the fact that my boy has depth, redeeming qualities, and an actual character arc. Yet I lament that they’re both sassy drama queens who would sell you out, not for a corn chip, but to see what happens when they do because they’re bored and think it’ll be funny.

[whispering-sumire755]

Stetopher Week//Notfic & Concept Fanmix···

[[Trigger warning  :: Suicidal Ideation, and Canon-Typical Violence]]

applejacks and sourpatch kids :: In a world where the supernatural is exposed by hunters- clans, groups, and conglomerates of hunters teaming up with the military to hunt every non-human down- the McCall Pack becomes a pocket of resistance, fighting for supernatural rights and lives. In the midst of things, Stiles, Peter, and Chris are separated from the rest of them, and Stiles' father gets killed.

Because they need to remain cautious, and they've all become integral to each others' survival- Chris with an ID that claims him hunter and allows them all to travel together as safely as the wartimes will allow, Stiles with magic enough to help them hide, from the humans, the supernatural creatures enslaved by them, and the trauma-crazed ferals now littering the land, and Peter with all his clever, his resourcefulness, underground connections, claws, and willingness to use them- they end up hunkering down (read: squatting) in random abandoned houses in the safest places they can find. Once, for as long as a month, once, for as short as an hour.

They're constantly moving, to stay safe, and sometimes the subterfuge it entails is extraordinary, especially when they're in territory completely held and controlled by hunters and militia.

In their effort to find the Pack they've currently lost, and their pure incapacity to stay out of it, they manage to become such a ruthless team that the military and the hunters dub them a terrorist rebel cell, codenamed, for fuck all knows what reason, sourpatch kids. Stiles blames it on Chris' resting bitch face and Peter's general Peter-ness.

With the constant pressure a world like this presents, with the memory of his father's limp body in his arms, everything awash in sanguine, drenched with the deep, pitch-wine color, horrifying, piled on top of the Nogitsune trauma, the incessant nightmares, sleep-deprived impossibility of rest, Stiles ends up in an anguished, terrible space mentally speaking, his will to live a pin-prick, barely-there thing, which worries both men, Chris explicitly, and Peter with well-hidden sass and caustic barbs and pretended indifference until Chris calls him out on it away from Stiles' hearing, half-begs him to help. The sincerity, desperation, tugs on the parts of him unwittingly building packbonds with these people, on the parts of him beginning to love them, and, finally, he manages to soften, both the men working together, in a way, to try and cheer Stiles up.

They end up in a rugged resistance encampment on the outskirts of some dusty desert city, dancing together to the manic music the local band plays, all desperate vocals and synthy-eclectic instrumentals, painted light with the fuzzy-soft glow of the sunset against a powder-blue sky, a sand-swept horizon, under a temporary pavilion, all wooden arches and pillars and billowing curtains of white-cotton decorated with wreaths of dried flowers woven together with autumn leaves. That night, in the tent that was provided them- frost swirling in the air, a lightly buzzed, tender-happy ambiance, a lift, for once, in the heavy of their lives- they fall into bed together, their laughter mingled with kisses soon eclipsed by breathless caresses and silken-throaty moans, whines, as they sink underneath each others' skin, lick every wound, and find a bittersweet joy, a serendipitous sort of solace, a good kind of ache, there, together.

After they move on from that place, their touching, bodies uniting, yearning, seeking, becomes something they just do. A habit they obtain, and don't care to break, even when Peter backslides, leans on old machinations instead of trusting them to understand, instead of letting them see what he is, letting them soothe all those jagged edges. Even when Chris is lost in thoughts of Allison, or, sometimes, too frustrated not to pull his gun, too frustrated to act the ally instead of the hunter. Even when Stiles is looking at their piles of weapons and contemplating using them on himself, or, with nightmare-acid clenched in his gritted teeth, throwing insults at the both of them while being far too reckless, thoughtless. They hurt each other as much as they heal each other, and they hold on just as ferociously as they fight, and, every night, they lie together, alive, finding a precipice in sweat-slick heat, a red-hot edge that they can jump from without fear of truly falling.

And then, only two years after the war started, it is over. They've won. There's still turbulence, and everything is still the very definition of chaotic, but it comes to this point—there are 'weres, humans, witches, and etcetera, this is life, now, the new normal, and we need to stop destroying everything just because it freaks us the hell out. Stiles suspects- or knows, actually, since some of it was his- that some heavy duty magic was involved in this worldwide epiphany, and he can only be thankful for it, when, now that all this is as over as it can be, for now, they go back home, and find their rugged, worse for wear, but mostly whole, Pack, there, waiting for them. The hug he shares with Scott is his heart shattering into a million pieces, red-soaked stained-glass transfiguring into butterflies, and reforming something new, fluttery, overjoyed.

Life gets busy, after that, overly political, all strategies and plans to prove themselves as people, not monsters, and, although Stiles still maintains closeness with Chris and Peter, they all, also, vaguely, stop. Maybe it's because the climate's changed, maybe it's because the reason they'd ended up like that in the first place is, mostly, gone, Stiles doesn't know, but... he knows them, now, in a way he didn't before. Not just their minds, but their hearts, their souls: Peter's survivor's guilt, his many masks, his visceral, actual horror for what he did to Laura, to everyone, his romantic poeticism, the steady thread of him underneath all that acerbic, sardonic, hard to swallow; Chris' mellow-fond smiles, breathless fierceness, near fanatical need to follow his late daughter's code, the kid beneath all that, manipulated and trained and turned into the perfect soldier, made into the perfect weapon, only now unlearning all the molten-silver that had been caging him, torturing him, and a little lost for it.

It takes longer than it should to realize that his seeking to subvert their new 'platonic' impasse, his wanting to get closer, to prove himself to them, to drag them all back into each other, matches the burning ache, the skipping beat of his utterly besotted heart, because he went and did the stupidest possible thing he could have done, didn't he? He fucking fell in love with them.

And he wants, so badly, to curl up with them, he wants to breathe in their skin, wants the reassurance of their hope, their minds and their logic and their reality assuaging his nightmares. He wants them to wake him and count his fingers with him and kiss and taste, wants them all living within the pulse of each other. He wants to grow, find himself, rediscover what living will be like within this strange new revolution with them; he wants to see them flourish, as they already are, and he longs so passionately it stains his lungs crimson, drags every exhale into a mist-laden sigh. But he can't say it, how could he possibly say it? There's no way he'd let that much selfishness bloom on his tongue, no way he'd allow himself to demand something they so obviously don't want.

And, besides, he has no confidence, he's still a wreckage of graveyard dirt and calamitous thunderstorms.

It ends up being Chris, who forces him to break the unspoken chastity their relationship has suddenly encountered, coming to them specifically with every intention of announcing a return to france, since he can leave the rest of his duties, here, to Braeden, who he's been working with to get this place truly safe for the supernatural community, for all the discrimination they're still bound to have to endure. The moment he says he's leaving, Stiles breaks down, and, salted rivers rushing down shame-hot cheeks, explains, choked, gasping through seas for air, that he loves him, loves both of them, and he's impossible, he knows, he's damaged, broken, an incurable spazz with ptsd and too much sarcasm by half, but, God, how he loves them, wants them, wants to hold them with all the strength his arms can muster, and it's okay, it is, that they might not want that, feel that, but he does, and he really doesn't want Chris to leave, and, God, that's so fucking selfish, but—

Peter swallows the rest with a biting, scorching kiss, Chris' lips following up on that reprimand with something more desperate, passionate, sweeping him away with the hype of confused emotion. Apparently, both these assholes felt the same and never said a damn thing. Oh, also, maybe he is a wreck, but he's their fucking wreck, and they're wrecks, too, goddamn it, and both of them seem perfectly willing to spend the rest of their lives raising his too-low opinion of himself.

Needless to say, Chris stays.

Everything's still kinda fucked up, and their Pack (no one more than Derek) is very surprised by the sudden coupling- which very quickly transfers into the three moving in together because, well, honestly, they're more used to it like this, anyway- but surprisingly accepting and supportive. They end up in Stiles' childhood home, the house he inherited from his dad, and, the Pack being far needier these days, they also end up being the host to many, many hangouts and sleepovers and, if we're being honest, most of the Pack low-key lives here with them.

There's a kind of astonished relief that comes with waking up, tangled in his lovers' bodies, on the tail-end of a sweet dream instead of a daunting, horrifying one; that comes with rising and getting dressed in warm, clean pajamas, heading downstairs to start the coffee as Scott and the others, all camped out in the living room, begin to stir from their places on the couch and the floor, his brother the second to rise after him with a jaw-cracking yawn and a sleep-dazed smile, comforter pooling in his lap, a sheet spread over the night-cool wood underneath him, Kira a limpet at his side.

Stiles grins back, and it's so refreshing, dazzling, dizzying, because it's the first time in three long years that he has felt, simply, good. Content and warm and saturated in tranquility.

His gaze wanders, finds a sun-soaked world outside the window, bustling, thriving amongst the subtle debris and pain of horrors and hatred finally passing. The air tastes crisp, clean, chilled at the edges with snowmelt frost.

When Peter and Chris come down the stairs with a kiss for either cheek, greedy hands in seek of mugs for the coffee, Stiles tells them he wants to redecorate, repaint the walls and polish the floors and clean out the vestiges of his parents' ghosts, make this, truly, their Pack's house, renewed, revitalized, a clean slate, a fresh beginning. He gets lovesick smiles and kissed silly for his troubles, their summer rain and sun-shattered icicle eyes aglow with delight as they agree, easily, and Stiles' nose scrunches, eyes crinkling with the width of a smile dripping honeyed joy; his lovers take that as an invitation to start laughingly coating his face and his neck and his hands with rainfall kisses, stippling him with caressing lips until their packmates start groaning and cat-calling and clapping at the sweetly affectionate display.

Not everything's alright, and it may not be for a long, long while, but he's good, and everyone he loves is here, with him, safe.

Call him optimistic, but... he's okay with this.

He's happy, in love, at peace in this moment, and that's... that's better than he could've ever hoped for.