The terrible reality of being Stiles Stilinski is that he tells the truth constantly.

Really. He does.

It's just that no one ever believes him.

Sure, Stiles talks around issues, avoids certain topics, and suppresses the shit out of a lot of traumatic shit—but the thing is, he tells the truth. Yeah, maybe all of his wordplay and general jackassery make it seem like he doesn't, but he does.

In fact, he learned to talk in circles because he can't lie.

At all.

Stiles can't lie for shit. Growing up under the discerning eye of Johnny Law, Stiles understood pretty early on just how much a good stare made him sweat and spill his guts. He became a sarcastic little asshole as a matter of self-preservation.

Also, because it's fun.

Stiles is the worst liar in existence, so he learned how to avoid having a conversation at all costs and how to berate people until they finally just give up and stop asking questions.

It's a weakness he's learned to work around because, in all fucking honesty, he's the kind of person that needs to be a great liar, what with all of the sketchy shit he does on a daily basis.

So he learned how to say the truth with just the right amount of sass, and apparently, no one can tell the difference.

And now that his life is a series of increasingly crazy and fantastical shit, the fact that no one ever believes the words coming out of his mouth is becoming more and more obvious.

And irritating.

So fucking irritating.

It starts, as most things do these days, with a small sasquatch.

It's been six months since he and the little beast reconnected, and Stiles is out on his fire escape. Specifically, he's sitting criss-cross-applesauce and trying to teach the tiny yeti how to clap out Miss Mary Mack.

His life is officially downright strange.

But it fucking rocks.

The sasquatch—who Stiles has taken to calling Chewie because he's a nerd and how could he not?—is crouched in front of him and staring at where their palms meet and separate with an intense sort of delight.

"I think you're getting the hang of this one," Stiles declares. Chewie chirps at him and sticks his hand into the bucket of sliced sweet potatoes Stiles had set out for him.

Stiles watches in morbid fascination as Chewie gnaws on one of the potato chunks, the Sasquatch's other clawed hand holding Stiles's hose.

"You better be thinking of drinking from that," Stiles warns, eyes squinted.

Chewie huffs around his potato and wiggles the hose, giving Stiles his wide-eyed innocent look. Which, Stiles has to admit, is pretty damn effective.

"Uh-huh," Stiles says. "We'll pretend you have no idea what I'm talking about. Sure, okay."

Chewie gives him another huff and then squirts some water into his mouth.

Stiles is about to recount all of the past hose-related "accidents" where Stiles ended up soaking wet and wrestling Chewie for the hose, when all of a sudden Chewie grumbles and turns toward the open window.

Before Stiles even comprehends what's going on, Chewie is spraying jets of water into Stiles's apartment. And from the shriek that follows, Stiles guesses he got someone pretty good.

"Argh!" the poor bastard yelps. "Stiles!"

Ah. Scott.

"Chewie," Stiles sighs.

The sasquatch just jumps up and down and continues to spray.

"Chewie, put it down."

Chewie pouts, but ultimately relents. He turns the hose around and squirts some more water into his mouth before picking up another potato.

"Thanks, buddy." Stiles gets up and puts one leg through the window. "Give me a few minutes and then I'll come and teach you Double Double."

Stiles steps into his apartment and holds out a hand to a spluttering Scott, who's laying in watery defeat on Stiles's floor, dazed and definitely confused.

"What the hell was that?" Scott groans as he stands up. He looks over at the window and rubs his hands over his eyes frantically. "Stiles, what is that?!"

Stiles walks over to his linen closet and starts gathering towels. "What?"

"The thing that just hosed me down!" Scott yells, arms gesturing to the window with perfect what-the-fuck incredulity.

Stiles tosses him a towel and furrows his brow. "Chewie? You know who he is, I talk about him all the time."

"That's the sasquatch that attacked you?"

"Yeah. He also brought me a bunch of dead animals, too." Stiles starts mopping up the puddles of water. "I'll tell you, now that? That was a bad habit I had to break. It took forever to convince him that I didn't eat rodents and birds." Stiles squints thoughtfully. "I told him I'm a vegetarian, so I have to eat my shame-cheeseburgers when he's not here." He looks back up at Scott. "So don't tell him that. I think he'd be offended to know that the problem is that I don't like his meats."

"Yeah…I mean—yeah," Scott looks faint.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Why do you look like that?"

"It's nothing," Scott says. "It's just…Ididntbelieveyouaboutthesasquatch."

Stiles stands up and puts his hands on his hips. "You wanna try that again?"

Scott sighs and drapes the towel forlornly over his head. "When you told me about how it came back and how you built it a bed and kept food out for it and tried to make it play Twister—I just, I didn't believe you."

"What? Why?"

"I thought you were just putting one over on Jackson. I mean…it sounds crazy, Stiles."

"Well of course it sounds crazy!" Stiles yells. "Everything about our lives is practically one big Dungeons & Dragons campaign." Stiles pokes him in the chest. "Scott," he seethes. "You're a werewolf."

Scott deflates. "I know, I know. It's just so hard to tell when you're being serious and when you're being sarcastic."

That sentence buries itself into the back of Stiles' brain for later. "Scott. Buddy." He puts both hands on Scott's shoulders. "It's both. I'm always both. For me, the two aren't mutually exclusive, they go hand-in-hand."

Stiles rubs Scott's towel over his shaggy hair and offers an olive branch before things get tense. "You want to meet him?"

Scott peeks out from the towel, eyes brightening. "Can he really give you piggyback rides?"

Stiles hooks his arm around Scott's neck and guides him towards the window. "Scotty, my boy, that is a wonderful question."

What Scott had said sticks with Stiles even long after his best friend goes home.

He's going over what happened, so lost in his thoughts as he washes up dishes that he doesn't hear the jingle of keys or the clicking of the front door's latch as it closes. In fact, he doesn't notice anything until a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist from behind. Only then does Stiles come back to himself, letting out a contented breath as he leans back against his boyfriend.

"Long day, baby?"

Stiles shivers at the feel of Chris's mouth ghosting over his ear. "You could say that." Stiles turns in his arms and places his palms flat on Chris's chest. "Scott didn't believe me about Chewie."

Chris narrows his eyes. "Does he not remember the hospital visits? Or the time where you bought seven bottles of Febreeze to get rid of the, and I quote, 'ungodly, festering dead skunk smell'?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, it wasn't about the attack. It was more the second thing." Stiles looks away. "He just didn't believe that Chewie kept coming back."

Chris grabs his chin gently and forces Stiles to meet his unflinching gaze. "And why is that?"

"Because apparently I'm never serious and I lie a lot," Stiles mutters.

"Stiles, baby," Chris soothes. "You're a terrible liar."

Stiles freezes, because yes exactly, but also because Chris is the first person since his dad to ever come to that conclusion.

"Yeah, I know," Stiles swallows. "Scott just hasn't quite picked up on that yet, I guess."

"And that's what's bothering you?"

"No. I mean, yes, sort of," Stiles fists Chris's jacket and then lets go. "It's just that if not even Scott can tell when I'm being serious, then how are we supposed to tell the rest of them about us?"

And there it is.

It's not like Chris and Stiles have been keeping their relationship top secret. They spend even more time together than they did before and they aren't shy about being seen coming and going places together.

Sure, they aren't super into PDA. But that's just because Chris is a little possessive and Stiles thinks PDA is tacky.

And, of course, being an experienced hunter and a fledgling emissary, both of them have ways of keeping their scents masked. But that's just because their lives are an endless series of supernatural horrors and any tactical advantage is something to stay vigilant about.

But beyond that, they haven't actually told anyone.

And no one's figured it out yet.

"Scott thinks that you're my mentor," Stiles continues. "My dad has this elaborate theory that you're trying to get close to him through me so that the sheriff's department agrees to renew their munitions contract with you again at the end of the year."

Chris hugs him tighter. "We can tell them anytime you want." He drags a hand through Stiles's hair. "We both agreed to give it some time to see where this is going." Chris nuzzles against Stiles's throat. "I'd say it's going pretty well."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes out, a small smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, it is." He licks his lips. "Are you sure?"

Chris kisses him, long and slow. Stiles feels hands wander over the curve of his ass and settle at the backs of his thighs.

Stiles gets with the picture, nipping at Chris's bottom lip and wrapping his arms around the man's neck.

Chris lifts him up, his gait strong and steady and he carries Stiles into the bedroom.

"Yes, Stiles," Chris growls against Stiles's mouth as he kicks the door shut. "I'm pretty goddamn sure. Now get on the bed and let me take you apart."

"God, I love you."

"I know, baby."

And in that room, there were no doubts that that was nothing but the truth.

Stiles makes his mind up to tell the rest of the pack about his relationship with Chris in separate stages.

He decides that he'll rip off the bandaid to the majority of them at the younger members' weekly dinner.

He decides to tell Derek and his dad individually because both of them will more than likely need an hour or two to yell at him.

And he decides to never tell Peter anything, ever.

So he has it all planned out. The first item on his agenda is bandaid-ripping, so in the middle of everyone eating Chinese food at Boyd and Erica's apartment, Stiles tells them.

He says it confidently, yet kindly. He makes eye contact. He insists that he and Chris are in a committed relationship and that they've now decided to tell people.

He doesn't even make any crude comments or give Allison shit about being her new step-daddy (that would definitely get him a knife to the jugular).

It goes great.

Except for the fact that no one believes him.

They think it's a joke, that he's being an asshole.

So the entire situation devolves into him, well, into him actually being an asshole.

"Oh, I'm banging him alright. I'm banging the absolute shit out of him," Stiles yells. "I'm banging him like a cheap screen door, like a bongo drum, like a…like—"

"Like Skrillex?" Kira adds helpfully.

Stiles snaps sharply and points in Kira's direction. "Exactly. I mean, technically that'd be more of a Bangarang—but, you know what? What the hell—yeah, like Skrillex." He leans closer and gives Kira a crisp high five. She returns the high-five enthusiastically and nods, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'm bangaranging him like Skrillex."

Stiles holds out his arms, palms up in irritated surrender. "And there's nothing you can say that will change that."

Jackson just snorts and goes back to eating his dumplings. "Uh-huh. Sure, Stilinski."

Lydia looks away pointedly and swirls her glass of wine.

Allison still looks like she's sucked on a thousand lemons, but she no longer has that disgusted glint in her eyes.

Scott does.

Isaac looks around the table in confusion and then meets Stiles's challenging gaze. "No offense, Stiles—"

Stiles hacks an obnoxious fake cough, loud whispers of "bullshit" peppered in.

Isaac's eyes go flat and he leans forward. "No offense, but Argent is way out of your league." He takes another look around the room. "I mean, we were all thinking it."

"What?" Scott yelps, voice high and incredulous. "Dude, that's definitely not what I thought was wrong with the story."

Stiles sighs and points a chopstick at Scott. "Okay, for one, it's not a 'story.' Stop trying to make it seem like this is some new YA romance novel coming soon to a Barnes & Noble near you. It's not fiction, it's reality." He brandishes the chopstick more threateningly and waves it at Isaac. "And for two, I know you're only saying that because you tried to ride his dick—"

Scott, Allison, and Erica all start collectively choking on their food. Isaac turns bright red.

"—and he rejected you." Stiles smiles nastily. "Yeah, motherfucker, I know about that." He rocks back in his chair. "You're just jealous I'm getting dicked down by that fine piece of ass on the regular." Stiles shrugs. "I would be, too, if I were you."

The whole room goes silent.

Allison's disgusted face has returned in full force, but it's now directed solely at Isaac.

"Dude," Scott whispers. "Is that true?"

The pout on Isaac's face confirms it for everyone. There's a loud gasp, a few groans, and Kira starts giggling into her orange chicken.

"Jesus," Scott wipes a hand down his face. "What the fuck is going on with our group?" He turns to Boyd. "Are you going to try and bang my dad?"

"Of course not." Boyd wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Your dad sucks. If I were going to sex up one of our parents it would definitely be Stilinski's dad."

At that everyone explodes—voices snickering, talking, shouting at one another about the most bangable parent.

Stiles pokes at his noodles, looking around the table and spotting Allison and Scott giving Isaac what looks to be a Very Serious Talk™.

Well, that didn't take a lot of convincing.

Everyone else is now distracted by increasingly more bizarre combinations of "Fuck, Marry, Kill" and Stiles can't help but sigh.

Well, on the bright side, no one got mad.

But that's only because no one believed him.

Because no one believes him at all.

Stiles tips back his head and pours the remainder of his lo mein straight into his mouth.

Idiots.

"And," Stiles pants out, fists buried in Chris's hair. "They just didn't believe me." He yelps as Chris expertly flips him onto his back, dislodging Stiles from where he was fucking himself on his cock. "Hey! I was riding that!"

Chris smacks his ass and Stiles can't help but moan. "You were just doing it to spite Isaac."

Stiles laughs breathlessly. "You know me so well."

"I really do, baby," Chris purrs as he sinks back into Stiles. They both groan when he bottoms out. "But I don't want you to ride me and think about anyone else, or because you're jealous." Chris gathers Stiles's long legs and wraps them around his waist.

He leans down and kisses Stiles, biting along his jaw until he reaches Stiles's ear. "I want you to ride my cock because you're thinking about me," he growls.

Chris rears back and kneels up on the bed, dragging Stiles's pliant body off the mattress. He fucks into Stiles until they're both gasping for air. Stiles whines when Chris pulls all of the way out and takes himself in hand, smacking his cock against Stiles's slick ass. "When you fuck yourself on my dick, baby, it better be because you love being my little slut."

Stiles groans. "Yes, Chris! Fuck, you're right. I love it. It's never for anyone else." Stiles uncurls his hands from the sheets, reaching down to cup each cheek in his hands. Stiles spreads himself and can't help but arch against the bed, body twisting in ecstasy at the thought of how fucking dirty he must look. "Just for you, Chris." He throws his head back in pleasure as Chris spanks his used hole again and again. "Jesus fucking Christ, it's all for you."

"That's right," Chris murmurs as he thrusts back inside. "It's you and me, Stiles." He maneuvers them until they're lying down with Chris's chest flush against Stiles's back. Chris lifts Stiles's leg and fucks in and out of Stiles. "Don't worry about anyone else. We'll take care of all that later."

"Later," Stiles slurs, his hand stroking his cock furiously in time with Chris's harsh thrusts. He turns his head to pull Chris down for a sloppy kiss. "Later's good."

Chris grunts in agreement, placing his hand on top of Stiles's as it works his dripping cock. "Sounds like a plan. Now, baby, I'm going to need you to come on my cock—need you to squeeze my dick nice and tight. What do you say? Then we'll do this all over again. How does that sound?"

"Yes," Stiles croaks as Chris's hand travels up to his throat and holds him there. They stare into each other's eyes as Chris fucks into Stiles. Stiles pants through his mouth, his whole face and chest turning red as Chris lightly chokes him. "Oh, fuck, yes! Chris!" he breathes out as he orgasms, Chris's strong hand releasing him as Stiles cums all over his belly.

Stiles sucks in air, not giving either of them enough time to come down as he untangles himself from Chris's hold and climbs on top of him. He pushes Chris into the mattress and works Chris's cock back into his ass.

Chris moans when he sees that Stiles's dick hasn't gone soft.

"Fuck yeah, Chris," Stiles says as he finally seats himself back on his cock. "Look at what you do to me." He leans down and gives him a kiss full of promise. "Now what do you say we try this riding thing again?"

Chris runs one hand through Stiles's wild hair and the other down the length of Stiles's spine. "I fucking love you, Stiles."

Stiles gives him a wicked smile. "I know, baby."

And then he goes about proving it, over and over again.

Stiles tells his dad.

For him, it's not a question of whether or not he believes Stiles, but whether or not he allows himself to believe Stiles.

It takes an hour, but he grudgingly agrees that as long as Chris treats him right it's none of his business.

Oh, and that the sheriff's department wants to contract with Argent Arms for another three years.

Yeah.

Stiles loves his dad.

Stiles sends out a mass text to the pack.

Lydia tells him to send Chris's nudes or it didn't happen.

Allison blocks both of their numbers.

Scott calls him to tell him that it wasn't funny the first time, but that it's kind of funny now.

Jackson tells him to shut the fuck up.

Stiles tells Derek when as he's setting up the guy's new TV.

He finally talked Derek into treating himself to a modicum of 21st-century luxury, and he's just finished hooking up all of the cables when he shouts across the room to Derek that he's dating Chris.

Derek rolls his eyes and tells Stiles to get back to work.

Stiles doesn't know why, but this reaction disappoints him the most.

Stiles doesn't tell Peter.

Anything.

Ever.

"So just your dad, huh?"

Stiles moans.

"No wonder you're so…tense," Chris says lowly, strong hands working over Stiles's naked back.

Stiles practically melts as Chris's fingers dig into the small of his back, the heating oil lighting up his nerves deliciously.

"I was starting to think that maybe they were right," Stiles whimpers as Chris straddles his hips. "That maybe I really was losing it and it was all some sort of elaborate hallucination."

Chris trails his hands down Stiles's back and dips both of his thumbs lower until he's massaging the rim of Stiles's hole. He leans down and bites at Stiles's shoulder. "Not a hallucination, baby. And if you want me to talk to them, I will. I just thought this was something you wanted to do yourself."

"It was," Stiles whines, Chris's wicked fingers continuing to pet his hole. "But they're all idiots and I don't know what else to do." He relaxes into Chris's comforting weight. "And you know what? It's not my problem. I told them the truth. My dad knows. We're happy together. That's all that matters."

"Whatever you say, baby."

Stiles sighs happily.

Then he winces.

"You should probably tell Allison, though. She's your daughter, after all."

Chris hums in agreement before biting him again. Hard.

"Hey!"

Chris nips him again. "You make a valid point, but don't mention my kid when I'm fingering you."

Stiles bursts into hysterical laughter. "Agreed."

So Stiles gets over it and life goes on.

Of course, that's when someone that isn't his dad finally gets a fucking clue.

It's a month after Stiles went on his quest to tell everyone about his relationship, and now it's some sort of running joke that the whole pack likes to get in on.

Chris thinks they're all idiots and stops showing up regularly to meetings at Scott's apartment.

The pack thinks it's confirmation that Stiles's "joke" annoys him. They think that he's plotting a mysterious accident to befall Stiles.

Stiles stops showing up, too.

That's even more confirmation. They think that Stiles is embarrassed that his joke backfired.

The joke's on them, though, because they're just banging the hell out of each other seven floors up.

Which is what they're doing right now.

"Oh, fuck!" Chris gasps out, one hand buried in Stiles's hair and the other white-knuckling the back of Stiles's couch.

Stiles, naked except for a pair of tight, white boxer-briefs, pops off of Chris's cock with a wet slurp and starts jacking him slowly. "You want it fast or slow?"

"Slow," Chris says immediately. He bites down on his lip as he watches Stiles tongue at the head of his length. Chris melts into the couch and watches Stiles blow him like it's the greatest pleasure he's ever known. Stiles loves giving Chris head, and they both know it, so they try to make the most of it when they can. "Your mouth is meant to be savored, Jesus Christ, Stiles!"

Stiles hums around Chris, lowering his mouth steadily until Chris nudges at the back of his throat.

He locks eyes with Chris as he goes down even further, gagging slightly as he takes Chris's cock deeper until he's completely buried in his throat.

Chris locks down his twitching hips, holding himself back from fucking into Stiles's mouth. He sighs as Stiles swallows around him, letting go of Stiles's hair and spreading both of his arms wide along the back of the couch.

Stiles hums around his dick, shallowly fucking his face up and down Chris's dick. All Chris can feel is the tight, hot clench of Stiles's throat working around the sensitive head of his cock, and the tiny, aborted movements of Stiles's clever tongue along the underside of his length.

Chris spreads his legs even wider, sprawling on the couch until he looks completely debauched. His jeans and boxers are around his knees, Stiles is practically naked and wanton, kneeling between his thighs. The slick gurgling sound of Stiles's mouth working Chris's cock and the harsh panting of Chris's breaths fill the apartment.

For both of them, this is heaven.

So much so, that neither of them hears the metallic whine of the elevator as it begins to move. Or of the low hiss as it stops at Stiles's floor.

Neither of them notices as the doors open and a pair of expensively booted feet swagger quietly into the living room only to freeze at the sight of them.

"Your fucking mouth, Stiles!" Chris hisses, his head thrown back. "It's criminal, baby. Just look at you—" and Chris does, opening his eyes to look down at Stiles only to be distracted by the sight of Peter Hale slumped against a support beam, breathing heavily and looking like a truck just ran him over.

Chris holds his heated gaze for a few tense moments before looking down at Stiles. He runs one hand down Stiles's face and taps gently at Stiles's cheek.

P-E-T-E-R

Stiles's dilated eyes widen a fraction in surprise. He takes a moment and then winks up at Chris. Stiles bobs his head up and down a little faster, making himself choke on the thick cock in his mouth.

Chris looks back up and is somewhat surprised to find Peter still standing there watching Stiles like he was every good dream he'd never thought to have had.

Chris could empathize with that feeling.

He notes that Peter's claws are out and there's a distinct bulge in the crotch of Peter's tight jeans.

He could empathize with that, too.

So Chris wraps his hand back up in Stiles's wild locks and holds his head still for a second. "Okay, Stiles," Chris growls, his tone heated and possessive. Stiles arches his back and Chris watches as Peter follows the movement like a hawk.

He waits for Peter to meet his gaze again before smirking smugly at him. "You can go faster now. Show us what you can do with your filthy fucking mouth, baby."

And then Stiles shows Peter.

Everything.