A note on this chapter: I didn't tag this as dub con or non con, because I wanted to leave that up to the reader. It could read as non con, but it could also be a game. It's your decision.
The Stilinski kid is a twitchy little bastard. Not that Chris can blame him, really. He’s been thrust into a world he doesn’t quite understand–who does?–and he’s the weak link in a group of kids who are all stronger, faster, and better than he is. Still, he turns up to every fight with squared shoulders and his trusty baseball bat, and Chris finds something very admirable about that.
He’ll be dead before he graduates high school, but still. Admirable.
Chris keeps an eye on the kid.
He’s a study in contradictions. Intense and focussed when he absolutely needs to be, but mostly he never keeps still. Always moving, always talking. Even when everyone else is wrecked from a fight and slumped on couches in someone’s living room, Stiles has always got a leg still jiggling. Too much energy. All that adrenaline, and Chris has never seen him crash.
He’s smart, too. Ninety percent of what comes out of his mouth is pointless, relentless bullshit, but it’s almost worth it for the ten percent of time that he offers something razor sharp. Smart, and the others hardly even notice. They treat him like comic relief most of the time, and he lets them. Maybe he doesn’t know his own worth, but Chris sees it.
He isn’t the only one who sees it.
In the summer, something changes.
There are dark circles under Stiles’s eyes, and he wears a guarded expression. He’s a little quieter, a little more subdued, and nobody notices.
Except Chris. Chris notices.
It bothers him enough that one night that he follows Stiles home. Parks a block away and walks to the Stilinksi house. The sheriff isn’t home. The house is in darkness apart from one light on upstairs. Stiles’s bedroom, possibly.
Chris lets himself in–home security is no problem for a hunter like him–and treads quietly up the steps.
He hears the quiet slap of flesh on flesh, and then, just when he’s about to turn around and leave the kid to it, a shuddering breath and a low, amused laugh that does not belong to Stiles.
Chris’s skin crawls.
“No, no, don’t… I don’t want to…” Stiles’s words fade into a groan.
By the time Chris pushes the door gently open, Stiles is gagged. He’s naked too, pushed over the end of his bed with his pale ass in the air, long swathes of skin offered up to the night.
“Chris,” Peter Hale says, smirking. “I wondered how long it’d take you to sniff this out.”
Stiles’s eyes are wide and frantic. He shakes his head and tries to push up off the bed, but Peter holds him there easily with one hand on his lower back and one on his shoulder.
“Close the door, Chris,” Peter says.
For a moment Chris is struck with indecision. He stares at Stiles’s trembling body, at Peter’s fingers digging into pale flesh. Guilt burns through him, leaving just a shell behind. He meets Stiles’s eyes, looking for an answer to a question that he’s too afraid to ask.
Peter huffs, and releases Stiles’s shoulder for just long enough to turn his head away. Stiles makes a sound that could almost be a sob, and Peter’s smile sharpens.
Chris steps inside and closes the door.