It starts with a dead bird.

Specifically, a dead blackbird that Stiles finds outside his bedroom window.

He gets home late from his business writing class on Tuesday, trudging up the too many flights of stairs to the not-so-derelict loft apartment he rents from Peter.

Peter bought Derek's entire building three years ago in a sort of passive aggressive attempt to force them to interact with one another without avunculicide in the mix.

Everybody had protested and grumbled, had flashed fangs and claws at Peter's blatant attempt to weasel his way into the group. Derek's scowl had reached new levels of eyebrow-intensity.

That all changed pretty quickly after most of the pack graduated high school.

After all, rent isn't cheap in California.

And, mass murderer he may be, but goddamn Peter Hale sure knows how to flip an abandoned building. Stiles is 96% sure that the man was an interior decorator in a past life. Either that or Genghis fucking Khan.

He's also a pretty decent landlord. And because Stiles started making some serious money as an online supernatural consultant and researcher (thank you Deaton—well, Deaton's contacts—for finally being useful for something), he was the first to take Peter up on his offer.

Everyone else caved soon after.

So now most of the pack that didn't move out of state for college lives on top of one another, with Derek, hilariously enough, squeezed in the middle. Derek had gotten kind of misty-eyed when Stiles first made his "always a middle child, eh?" observation.

But that was a year and a half ago. Stiles is now in his second year of college and he's trudging—still goddamn trudging—up to his top-floor apartment.

Stiles thinks Peter put him there on purpose. The elevator never seems to work.

He makes it to his floor, unlocking the door and tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. Stiles shrugs off his backpack and walks over to the sink. Filling up his rickety old watering can, Stiles wanders around his apartment watering his various poisonous plants.

Wolfsbane, foxglove, belladonna, hemlock, jimsonweed, mistletoe—he's got it all, and lots of it. Hell, he's even got a few poinsettias just in case.

Just in case what?

Exactly.

He and the pack have run into too many Creatures Of The Night™ that require a little something extra to stay down, so Stiles took it upon himself—as he did with the books and the research and the fucking Sumerian language—to be prepared.

Stiles is about to step out onto his fire escape, trusty watering can in hand, when his phone vibrates. He climbs out onto the platform and starts spraying the mistletoe. Stiles unlocks his phone and the screen becomes a beacon in the night for literally every gnat in town.

It's from Chris.

Did you get home safe?

Stiles's heart starts beating faster and a dopey smile spreads across his face. He swipes over the contact and dials.

Chris picks up on the second ring.

"I'll take this as a yes, then, shall I?" Chris asks, deep voice smooth and amused. "Unless this is Stiles's kidnapper about to give me his ransom demands?"

Stiles huffs. "You really think I'd get kidnapped on the way home from school?"

There's a pause. "You say that like you haven't already been kidnapped three times."

Touché. "I hate it when your arguments don't suck."

Chris laughs, low and guttural. Stiles's eyes flutter closed at the sound.

Goddamn his stupid crush.

It's really not his fault, though. Ever since the sasquatch incident two years ago, Chris has slowly wormed his way into becoming an important part of Stiles's life.

It started with Chris carrying Stiles out of the woods and bringing him to the hospital. Chris remained by his side for so long that the only clear thing that Stiles remembers—head trauma is a bitch, after all—is the comforting feeling of Chris holding his hand.

After that, Chris always volunteered to pair up with Stiles for romps through the woods and other monster-hunting activities.

Always.

He forced Stiles to start learning hand-to-hand combat.

He dragged Stiles to the gun range, and upon learning that Stiles already knew how to shoot, Chris forced him to learn how to handle a bow and arrow.

He started jogging with Stiles.

He bought him his first potted wolfsbane plant.

He cooks dinner for Stiles every Friday.

This has been going on for two fucking years, and Stiles is in love.

Opening his eyes, Stiles looks down at the window box and continues watering his plants.

"You still there, Stiles?"

"Yeah, I'm still here, I just…" Stiles trails off when he spots a lump in the corner of the platform. "Hold on a second, would ya?" Then he turns on his phone's flashlight and shines it at the lump.

There's a dead bird on his fire escape.

He crouches down and studies it.

Shiny black wings are folded against the bird's body. It looks relatively peaceful, like it's just lying on the metal grate for a quick nap or something.

The only reason Stiles knows it's dead is because the neck is twisted too far in the wrong direction. It must've broken its neck flying into his window.

It'd be really sad if it wasn't so fucking gross.

What the hell is he supposed to do with a dead bird?

He doesn't know, so he asks Chris. "What are you supposed to do with a dead animal?"

Chris coughs. "Uh, what?"

"I just found a dead bird on my fire escape. Is there like…an etiquette? For finding a dead animal? Do you think they make tiny coffins, or is a shoe box fine? Should I even bury it at all? It feels rude to just toss it onto the street or chuck it into the forest, and I am not setting it on fire, like who does that? What am I—?"

"Stiles," Chris interrupts. "Just breathe."

Stiles breathes. "I really don't want to touch it, Chris."

"I don't remember you being this squeamish when that Yara-ma-yha-who exploded and drenched you in blood."

"Are you kidding me? I showered for five hours straight after that! I went through three whole bars of soap! I burned not only my clothes, but also my shower curtain."

"I want you to know that I'm trying very hard not to laugh at you right now."

God, Stiles loves him. "I hate you."

"Stiles."

Stiles harrumphs into the receiver.

"Do you want me to come over and take care of the bird?"

He freezes. "You'd do that?"

"Of course," Chris replies, like it's no big deal—like he wouldn't have to drive out to Stiles's apartment from the suburbs and climb all those stupid stairs and bury a dead bird at 10 PM on a Tuesday just because Stiles is unsure.

"I'd appreciate it," Stiles whispers.

He hears the jangle of car keys through the speaker. "I'm on my way."

It starts with the bird, but it doesn't end with the bird.

Two weeks later, after waking up from a post-midterm power nap, Stiles finds five dead rabbits on his fire escape.

Honestly, Stiles hadn't even thought about the blackbird after Chris had taken care of it—he'd filed it away under "Birds Die, Shit Happens" and moved on.

But he can't just overlook a bunny massacre fifteen floors up. It's not like he can rationalize that they flew into his window.

He's blinking away the sleep from his eyes, hoping that his efforts also blink away the sight of five bunnies with their necks slashed lined up underneath his windowsill.

Stiles drops his watering can and just stares.

Whipping out his phone, Stiles takes a picture of the murder scene and sends it off, ducking back through the window to start his coffee drip.

He needs something to drink if he's going to have to deal with this shit.

His phone starts playing "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates, so he scoops it up and answers as he watches his coffee percolate.

"What the actual fuck, Stilinski?"

"That's my question, Princess."

"Why would you send me that?" Jackson growls into the phone.

"You're on a roll—that's my question."

"What—what are you trying to say?"

"You tell me. Isn't this payback? Some sort of savage revenge?"

"For what?" Jackson spits, outraged.

"You know what. Last week. Your birthday cake." Stiles pours himself a cup of dark roast and waits. All he can hear is Jackson's angry breathing. "You vowed vengeance. Didn't expect you to go full psycho Elmer Fudd on me, though."

Jackson's 20th birthday was last week. Lydia had planned him a party, delegating various tasks to everyone in the pack.

Stiles had been given detailed instructions on acquiring a cake.

He may have…taken a few liberties with its design.

Jackson's birthday went pretty well. It had plenty of booze, food, and presents.

Oh, and a twenty-candled, Harry Potter themed birthday cake depicting Hagrid and a green, scaly Jackson with the words Yer a lizard, Jackson written on it in oozing black icing.

Scott almost had an asthma relapse from laughing so hard. Stiles was—is—quite proud of it. Cake design is now his fallback in case forensics doesn't work out.

The seething on the other end of the line quiets. "Stiles, I didn't kill any bunnies."

Stiles grips the handle of his mug tighter. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Tense silence.

"Shit," Jackson mutters.

Stiles chuckles grimly. "Again—my thoughts exactly."

"—so twice is a coincidence, right? And as we all know by now, three times is a pattern. There hasn't been a third time, and I don't want there to be a third time, but I know—right down in my fucking bones—that there's going to be a third time! Like, can I ever just catch a break? Does it always have to be vampires and trolls and fucking bunny massacres? It's been a week, so obviously something else is going to be murdered on my fire escape in just a few days! What's next, some ducklings? A unicorn, perhaps? Where does the universe draw the line at bad luck? Do I have to be struck down by lightning a few times for things to get better—I mean, I've already died, what more does it want?" Stiles stops angrily waving his arms around and turns back to Chris. He's still standing in the doorway, eyes focused intensely on Stiles.

Stiles lowers his arms and fidgets. "What?"

Chris quickly raises his gaze to meet Stiles's. "What, what?"

"You're looking at me strangely."

Chris glances down again and rubs a hand over his beard. "It's just—those are some…interesting shorts you're wearing."

Stiles looks down at his bright purple shorts and splutters indignantly. "What's wrong with them?"

"They don't look like they're comfortable to run in." That's what they're about to do, after all. Friday evenings consist of jogs along the hiking trails and Chris cooking them both dinner afterward at Stiles's apartment.

Plucking at the pockets, Stiles shrugs. "I'll be fine."

"They're quite…short."

"Easier to maneuver that way."

"The fabric looks rough."

"It's moisture wicking technology!" Stiles defends, pointer finger waving authoritatively.

"Stiles," Chris crosses his muscular arms across his stupid, muscular chest. "It's a swimsuit."

Stiles's shoulders slump. "Fine. You caught me. I haven't done laundry in a really, really long time." Stiles steadies himself. "With midterms and my client from Alaska and the recent omega sightings and the dead animals…I've been a bit busy."

Chris's eyes soften. "We'll do that when we get back, then."

Stiles snaps his head up and gapes at Chris. "Wait, what?"

Chris nods towards the door. "I'll help you out after we're done with our run." He pauses as he's about to step into the hallway. Looking back over his shoulder at Stiles, Chris says, "You can always let me know when you need help, Stiles. It doesn't have to be related to the supernatural. I thought you knew that by now."

"I—" Stiles's voice cracks. "I do know that." He swallows. "Honestly. I just wasn't thinking about it."

Chris considers what he says and nods. "Okay."

Stiles slides past Chris through the door, praying his erection away.

When they get to the trails, Stiles has to force himself not to sigh longingly as Chris peels off his tight, white t-shirt. God knows it's a sight worth sighing over.

They run the five mile loop, both of them easily keeping pace with one another.

Stiles doesn't know why he's so comfortable around Chris. Exercising, working, eating, talking—it's all so easy now. Their relationship—whatever the hell it is—didn't start out well, but it sure has morphed into something that Stiles doesn't think he can live without.

For the first time in his life, Stiles Stilinski is completely in sync with another person. And while that should scare the shit out of him, it just makes him want Chris more.

It's getting harder and harder to stop himself at platonic touches, to force his hands into his pockets rather than Chris's greying hair.

Looking over at Chris as they make it back to the trail's parking lot, a fresh wave of pure want washes over him.

Chris, glistening chest heaving and tattooed arms pumping, slows to a stop next to his SUV and begins to stretch. He bends at the waist, hands traveling to the ground in front of him, and then back up.

Stiles can't help but watch.

On the ride back to the loft, they stop by the grocery store and pick up ingredients for Chris to make spaghetti.

When they make it back to the building, Stiles does his usual routine of whining and moaning about the stairs, twirling around the corner of each landing dramatically until Chris finally smiles at his antics.

"Why don't you go take a shower while I get started here?" Chris asks, setting down the groceries by the stove and deftly navigating through Stiles's cabinets. "And then when you're done you can just worry over laundry while I take care of all this."

Stiles watches, entranced, at the sight of Chris commandeering his kitchen in nothing but a pair of ratty black sweatpants, the man's back still shining faintly with sweat (seriously, that's the only good thing Stiles gets out of those fucking stairs).

Before he gets a chance to tear his hungry gaze away, Chris turns around to grab an onion from the kitchen island. He does a double take when he sees Stiles still standing there, blatantly ogling him, and something like surprise flashes across his face.

Stiles averts his eyes and clears his throat aggressively. "I'll just, uh, go take that shower, then." He retreats from the kitchen and hurries into his bathroom.

Locking the door, Stiles strips down and gives himself a pep-talk as he steps into the tub. Stiles turns on the water—ice cold and right in his face, goddamn he seriously needs to remember to turn the water on before he gets in—and forces himself to relax.

It's hard—so hard—to do with the image of Chris half naked in his kitchen.

So he decides not to fight it.

Stiles lets the spray pelt him in the face, skin prickling as the water warms up. Ducking his head, Stiles rests a palm against the shower wall and drags his other hand down his body.

He wraps a shaky palm around the base of his cock, long fingers tightening until Stiles can't help but gasp—because in his mind, it's no longer hishand.

The first stroke causes Stiles to close his eyes—eager to envision Chris at his back, the man's arms wrapped around his waist, his beard scratching at Stiles's neck as he whispers filthy nothings in his ear.

The fantasy is so clear that Stiles's hips stutter forward without permission, fucking helplessly into the firm grip of his fist.

Stiles widens his stance, giving himself more leverage as he starts to pick up the pace. The slick slap of his fist meeting his hips grows louder and louder, until Stiles knows—just knows—that it can be heard over the steady roar of the shower. His breath hitches at the thought that Chris might be able to hear him—that he's standing just outside the door, an eager ear to the door.

A steady stream of pre cum spurts from his dick at the idea. Biting back a moan, he works the crown of his cock, gently massaging his thumb into the slit and smearing the slick messily across the head.

It's so ridiculously perfect. His muscles are lax, his balls are aching, and the water's enveloped him in a world all his own—one where Chris is right behind him, waiting so fucking sweetly for Stiles to get off because he thinks Stiles is clever, because he thinks Stiles is fun, because he thinks Stiles is lovable and funny and worthy and beautiful.

And that thought—the ghost of Christopher's lips at his ear telling Stiles that he's everything he's ever wanted, that he's enough—is what finally pushes Stiles off that cliff to fucking bliss.

He comes with a strangled cry, chest heaving and knees deliciously weak.

When the buzzing in his ears finally subsides, Stiles busies himself with actually getting clean. As he finishes up, turning off the shower and snatching a towel from the rack, the only thing that he can think of is that he's sometimes glad that sex with Chris is only in his imagination.

Forget trolls or vampires or bunny murderers—sex with Chris would definitely be the thing that finally kills him.

He shivers at the thought, not entirely sure if it wouldn't be worth it.

"Holy ravioli, that was good!"

Chris grins around the lip of his beer bottle. "Wrong pasta, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head, unrepentant. "Don't even care—your noodles have absorbed half of my brain. Consider me struck spaghetti stupid."

The corners of Chris's mouth stretch even wider. "If anything, they've made you alliterative." He leans backward in his chair, one arm hooked over the back and the other still fiddling with his bottle. "But I have to disagree on the second part—there's nothing stupid about you."

As compliments go, it's pretty shit. That doesn't actually matter to Stiles's brain though, considering his cheeks are turning red and his heart is trying its very best to beat itself out of his chest.

Stiles takes their dishes up to the sink and starts rinsing them. Working his way through plates and pans calms him, up until he glances at his watering can. Taking care of his plants used to be fun, but now he's just expecting a slew of slain animals.

He can't stop looking over at the watering can—seriously, can watering cans…sit ominously? All Stiles knows is that his can sure can.

"It's getting late."

Stiles freezes, soapy washcloth in hand. He forces his shoulders to unwind and nods. Keeping his head down and his back to Chris, Stiles replies, "Yeah man, I've got it from here if you want to head home." He lets a spoon slip back into the murky water. "Thanks for helping me set aside the time to get my laundry done. I just kept putting it off."

"You didn't let me finish."

Stiles looks over his shoulder and finds Chris's unreadable gaze. "Huh?"

"I'd like to stay here for the night."

His mouth goes dry.

Chris stands up and wanders over, resting a hip against the counter. "I think it'd be a good idea." He glances at the fire escape. "You're spooked, aren't you Stiles?"

Stiles places the last dish in the drying rack and lets the water start to drain. "Figured that out pretty quickly, huh?"

Chris snorts softly. "You're not exactly subtle."

"No," Stiles hums, "I'm really not." He yawns and nods slowly. "Okay. Do you want to take a shower before going to bed?"

Stiles leads Chris into his bedroom before the man can answer, grabbing him a new towel—his fluffiest—before showing him into the attached bathroom. Pressing the towel to Chris's chest, Stiles refuses to meet his gaze. "I'll get you some clean pants." He looks over at his bed and then back at Chris. "And I'll take the couch."

"Stiles, you don't have to—"

Stiles scowls and waves him off. "When have you ever won an argument with me?"

Chris sighs.

"Yeah, thought so. So don't try and break your streak now, okay?"

"As you wish."

Stiles blinks owlishly up at Chris. "Did you just—?"

Chris backs up into the bathroom, winking as he shuts the door behind him.

Stiles is just finishing up putting fresh linen on his bed when he realizes that he doesn't hear the water running anymore. He quickly wrestles the last corner of the fitted sheet—a design obviously sent straight from the bowels of the underworld—and spins around, wanting to be far, far away from a wet and sleepy Chris Argent.

He doesn't get very far.

About one whole inch, if he had to guess.

Stiles comes face-to-face with the man of his dreams, and he can't tear his eyes away.

Chris is standing right in front of him, towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets still beading down the ridges of his abdomen.

"I was thinking that I wanted to continue our argument."

Stiles gulps, loud in the silence of the bedroom.

"I've decided to try and break my streak," Chris continues. "Maybe use a few new tactics to convince you that you don't need to sleep on the couch." He reaches a hand out and gently runs a thumb along the curve of Stiles' jaw. "That I don't want you to sleep on the couch."

"You've decided, huh?" Stiles whispers, eyes growing heavy as Chris continues to pet his face. "Were you thinking about your new strategy in the shower?"

Chris chuckles ruefully. Stiles widens his eyes at the sound. "To tell you the truth, Stiles—" Chris spreads his palm to cradle Stiles's cheek, pressing his body even closer as he does. "I've been thinking about a lot of things."

And then he kisses Stiles, lips softly parted and so fucking sweet.

It takes a few seconds for Stiles's brain to kick in—for him to respond—and when he does, it's with a low moan, one buried down deep in his chest.

Stiles breaks the kiss just to get a glimpse of Chris, and the reality of it doesn't disappoint: the man's eyes are slits, his lips are wet with Stiles's spit, and he looks fucking starving.

Stiles leans into Chris's space, so close that they're both panting in each other's air. Dragging his hands up between their bodies, Stiles runs his palms over Chris's chest and then tangles them in the back of his hair and yanks.

Then it's Chris's turn to groan, his mouth opening against Stiles's enough for Stiles to stick his tongue in, for Stiles to taste the absolute sin that is Christopher fucking Argent.

Their mouths explore one another for what feels like hours. The dance of desire between them fluctuates from chaste pecks to stinging bites, from kisses so sweet Stiles's toes curl to a tonguing so sloppy he can't help but grind against Chris.

Stiles loves it all.

He'll take anything this man gives him because it's just him and Chris alone in a bedroom, and he never allowed himself to think that something like this would ever happen outside of his fantasies.

Chris kisses him like he feels exactly the same way, and it causes Stiles to calm down, to slow down to the point where he's able to say the smartest thing in the whole entire world. "Let's go to bed."

Grinning against his mouth, Chris replies, "My strategy worked, didn't it?"

God, Stiles hates him. "I love you."

Chris doesn't even hesitate. He wraps strong arms around Stiles and holds him close. "I love you, too."

Stiles shudders against Chris, eyes blinking back tears.

The sound of a towel hitting the floor prompts Stiles to meet Chris's gaze. Rough hands slide under Stiles's shirt, lifting it up and over his head. His pants and briefs follow shortly after.

Chris smooths his hands along Stiles's thighs before digging his fingers into the curve of his ass. Stiles hops up, wrapping his long legs around Chris's waist as the man walks them both over to the bed. Chris doesn't even bother with setting Stiles down—with separating them—he just plops them both onto the mattress in a graceless heap.

Stiles has never laughed so hard in his life.

Rolling over, Chris flicks off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness. He curls back into Stiles's side, throwing a sheet over the both of them as Stiles snuggles his head on Chris's chest and rests a lazy arm across the man's naked waist.

"How long have you wanted to do that?" Stiles asks, fingers idly stroking the dark hairs of Chris's happy trail.

Stiles feels the vibrations of Chris's answer when he murmurs, "For a lot longer than I should have." He wraps his fingers around Stiles's hip. "Now go to sleep, baby."

So Stiles does—and it's the most peaceful sleep he's ever had.

Stiles wakes early in the morning humping Chris's muscled thigh.

He's wrapped around the man's body like an octopus, dick more awake than his brain and apparently very eager to discover what riding one out on Chris's leg would feel like. Stiles glances up guiltily at Chris, only to find the man's bright blue eyes already open and glued to where they're connected under the sheet.

Chris flicks the cover off and grabs ahold of Stiles's cock. "Well what do we have here?" he asks conversationally, as if Stiles isn't gasping—as if he isn't steadily thrusting into the warm grip of his fist.

He obviously doesn't expect an answer from Stiles because he continues, "I can't tell you how much I've wanted this." Stiles's cock jerks at his words, knowing—just knowing—that Chris is about to surpass every dirty daydream he's ever had. "You're so goddamn maddening Stiles, with your mouth and your hands and your long, long legs." Stiles whines as Chris rolls his balls in his palm. "I know what I want to happen right now, baby, but I need to hear what you want."

Stiles licks into Chris's mouth. "I want you to fuck me, Christopher." He bites the older man's bottom lip. "I want you to hold me, surround me." Stiles strokes Chris's beard. "All I want is your weight on top of me and your dick inside of me—I need it so bad, Chris. I've wanted you for so long."

Chris growls, rolling on top of Stiles and taking charge of their kiss. "You say the most beautiful things, sweetheart." Pressing their foreheads together, Chris says, "I'm going to make it so good for you, Stiles." Chris kneels and then slides off the end of the bed.

Nodding wildly, Stiles scoots himself sideways and hangs over the side of the mattress. He grabs his bottle of lube and a row of condoms and practically launches them all at Chris, who laughs until his eyes crinkle, delighted at Stiles's eagerness. Stiles chuckles with him, his laughter quickly turning into a squeal when Chris reaches across the bed and grabs his ankle, dragging Stiles roughly to the foot of the bed.

Chris maintains direct eye contact as he slicks up his fingers and slowly slips a thick digit into Stiles's ass. Stiles bears down—he can't fucking help it—and hitches his legs into the air, holding himself up by the backs of his knees, all nice and open for Chris.

They barely get to the second finger before Stiles is begging for Chris to just fuck him. "I need it!" Stiles groans, voice throaty and unrecognizably demanding. He looks up at Chris, eyes blurry and wet. "Oh, fuck! Chris please! It's not enough! I want it so bad, need you to fuck me so hard! Please, please, plea—"

Stiles mewls when his request is fulfilled, Chris's thick cock entering him fast and rough. "Yesss!" he hisses, legs shuddering and feet twitching as Chris sinks all of the way in.

"Fuck you're tight, baby," Chris breathes.

Stiles clenches around Chris's cock, making the man shout. "I'm no virgin."

An evil glint lights in Chris's eyes. He manhandles Stiles until his legs are running up his chest, ankles hooked over Chris's shoulders and around his neck. Leaning forward until Stiles whimpers at the burn in his thighs and the ache in his ass, Chris says, "I know that, baby."

And then he fucks Stiles, hard and steady. "Oh, fuck!" Stiles screams, head thrown back, knuckles turning white as his hands hold on tight to the sheets. Chris licks the sweat from his throat and starts slamming into his ass, taking the time to grind sensuously after each thrust forward.

"For future reference," Chris pants, withdrawing himself from Stiles and flipping him over onto his knees, "It's probably best not to remind me that other people have gotten to do this—" He ruthlessly works three fingers into Stiles's hole, massaging the rim mercilessly with his thumb. "Or this—" Chris grips the back of Stiles's neck and forces his face into the bedding until Stiles is writhing under him. "Or this—" He yanks his fingers out of Stiles and plants one sure foot on the bed, grabbing Stiles's hips with bruising force and plunging his dick back into his ass.

Stiles turns his head to the side, hiccupping into the mattress, his face bright red and drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. He meets Chris's wild gaze and then his furious thrusts, clapping his ass back to meet Chris's strong hips. "Don't remind me, baby," Chris grits out. "It makes me go fucking crazy." He lifts the foot propped up on the bed and steps on the side of Stiles's face, the pressure and the new angle of his hips causing Stiles's eyes to roll back in his head.

It only takes a few more pegs of his prostate and then Stiles, for the first time in his whole goddamn life, is coming, untouched and with a silent scream of pleasure.

Chris rides out the clench of Stiles's orgasm, only slowing his pace once Stiles goes boneless. He gently pulls out and pushes Stiles up the mattress, rearranging them until Chris is kneeling behind him on the bed and Stiles's head is lolling on Chris's shoulder.

Wrapping an arm around Stiles's chest and another around his thigh, Chris begins to fuck him again—only this time, it's slow and oh so fucking deep.

"God, I love you, Chris—I love you so fucking much." Stiles slurs, cum-drunk and not even remotely ready for this to be over.

"I know, baby." Chris mouths against his neck, teeth digging in deliciously.

They fuck like that, easy and slow, for what feels like forever. Stiles comes again, with Chris at his back and the man's calloused hand wrapped around his cock.

Stiles stops Chris before he's able to cum. "I want it in my mouth."

"Fuck," Chris grunts, looking wrecked. He pulls out of Stiles and tosses the condom onto the dresser. Stiles rolls onto his back and pats his shoulders. "I want it like this."

Chris, chest heaving and eyes bright, straddles Stiles's shoulder and sinks into Stiles's waiting mouth. Cradling Stiles's head in his hands, he begins to fuck down into Stiles's throat. When Stiles doesn't gag, he groans in delight.

"Shit, Stiles—look at you, swallowing my cock."

Stiles gurgles, stroking up and down Chris's thighs, urging him to continue.

"So. Fucking. Beautiful." Chris gasps between thrusts. "Do you want it?"

Stiles nods, bringing his hands around to Chris's ass and digging his fingers in.

That bite of pain sends Chris over, back hunching and cum spurting from his cock. "Fuck, sweetheart! Yeah, swallow it all—oh fuck!—that's a good fucking boy!"

Stiles swallows, slurping around Chris's dick until the man's legs begin to shake.

When he pulls out, Stiles coughs a bit. Chris spreads himself out on top of Stiles's body, nuzzling into his neck. "You're mine now, Stiles Stilinski," he whispers gruffly.

Stiles smiles, content. "That's all I've ever wanted to be."

The second time Stiles wakes up on Saturday, he can't help but grin. He turns his head and watches as Chris continues to sleep peacefully next to him.

Stiles stretches like a satisfied cat, quietly untangling himself from Chris so that he can go to the bathroom.

When he's done, Stiles stumbles out of his room and wanders into the kitchen. He fires up his coffeemaker, scratching his chest and yawning as he measures out coffee grounds. Stiles is just letting his brain wake up, letting his eyes zone in and out, when he sees it.

A flash of movement, of brown fur on his fire escape.

Stiles yelps and runs to the window, grabbing his trusty bat on the way.

He freezes, bat overhead, when he sees what, exactly, is standing outside his window. Stiles stands there for so long that Chris has time to rush out of the bedroom, stark naked and with a gun in hand.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Stiles can't look away from his window. "There's a baby bigfoot on my fire escape."

Lowering his gun in confusion, Chris's brow furrows. "There's a baby—?" he shoots the window a quick glance, his question dying mid-sentence.

They both look at each other and then back at the sasquatch, who upon seeing Stiles, chirps happily and starts jumping up and down.

Stiles drops his bat and walks closer to the window, on the look-out for the kid's very, very protective parents.

He's not sure what he's supposed to do in this scenario—most of his reactions to the supernatural being more stab!stab! than idle curiosity—and at 8 AM his mind isn't exactly what one would consider "all there," so he goes with his instincts.

He waves.

What can he say? Stiles has pretty terrible instincts.

The sasquatchling gargle-growls and fucking waves back.

"I think you've got an admirer," Chris huffs, amused.

"I can't believe he found me!" Stiles exclaims, completely bewildered. "Just…what the fuck?!"

The sasquatch bares its teeth in what seems to be a semblance of a smile and leaps off of the fire escape. Stiles scrambles after the kid, unlatching the window and hurrying onto the platform. He races over to the edge, but he can't see anything.

"Shit, that thing's fast," Stiles grumbles. He's not sure whether he's more annoyed that it came or that it went.

"Uh…Stiles?" Chris calls.

He whirls around from the railing. "What?"

Chris just looks down at Stiles's plants.

There's a dead skunk on his fire escape, a fistful of wildflowers resting on top.

"Goddamnit!" Stiles shouts.

Chris, the bastard, just laughs at him. "Don't worry, baby. I'll take care of it."