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A Taste for Danger

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Chris has always been attracted to the wrong people.

He learned about the family history when he was thirteen, earlier than anyone in god knows how many generations thanks to a combination of curiosity, an ill-advised saturday lunchtime beer and a boy five years older than him who should have known better. Did know better, judging by the speed with which he leapt off the bed when the door creaked open. Chris was left exposed, a sweaty, hard-breathing mess wearing only his socks, skin unpleasantly cool where seconds before Anton's body had been sliding warm and firm against it.

He grabbed for Anton, frustrated at the loss, but Gerard beat him to it.

“A word, Christopher, when your friend has gone,” was all Gerard said at the time, but he had a lot more to say when they were in his study that afternoon. Chris didn't take it all in, not then. Not like he should have. The most simple homework question put to his father could turn into a lecture covering politics, history, literature, mythology, and anything else that came to mind, so when Gerard was able to hold forth on his favourite subject and obsession, well. It was dark when Gerard let him go, with a reading list and a research project on demonic possession, of all things.

It was only when Anton's family disappeared one night, presumed to have left town suddenly, that Chris put together “he's one of the Taylor boys, isn't he? Live on the edge of town, keep to themselves?” with the new information about his family and the full weight of what must have happened landed on him.

“You've a taste for danger, Christopher,” Gerard said, when Chris came home late that night with his eyes red and raw. “It doesn't have to be a bad thing, but you need to take care how you satisfy it.” He poured himself a large drink then, and smiled. “Now, tell me what you learned about demonic possession.”

“It's very rare.” Chris's head hurt, but he tried to concentrate, to think what else he had read. “Effects commonly attributed to possession through the centuries are nowadays assumed to have other causes, both natural and supernatural.”

“Such as?” Gerard asked.

“Insanity, toxic substances, lack of adherence to social norms, and sometimes curses.”

Gerard smiled again. “Good. Now, remember we have our own social norms in this family, more than most. Take care you stick to them.”

“Yes, sir,” Chris snapped out, before he could think better of it. “No fucking werewolves. I'll be sure to write that down.”

He headed for the stairs, half expecting a blow, or an explosion from Gerard behind him at least, but Gerard just laughed, loud and booming.

“No fucking werewolves! That's a good one. Maybe I'll add that to the family motto.”


Maybe Gerard was wrong, is the thing.

Maybe Chris is possessed, or maybe he was in the past. Because he didn't stop.

It wasn't always werewolves. It could have been, if they'd introduced themselves with a simple 'hi, I'm a supernatural creature of the night, wanna see my eyes glow?” but the training made Chris observant, and it came in handy. The Argents moved around a lot, always had, but for a teenager it wasn't hard to find the places that attracted the wrong sort of crowd – or the right one, depending on how you looked at it.

Gerard knew that, valued the places Chris could get into that he was too old to blend in and Kate a little too young for, even if she disagreed with that. She could certainly have passed for twenty instead of sixteen if she'd had to, but there was no rushing the training process.

It made Chris smile, in a way he knew wasn't nice, or right, and didn't make him anything close to being a good son or even a good hunter, that he visited these places with Gerard's express permission. It was his job, after all, to hunt out werewolves.

Just not, definitely not, for some of the reasons he hunted them.

A taste for danger, Gerard had said. Take care you how satisfy it.

He probably hadn't been talking about safe sex.

“I know what you are,” he told one of his conquests on a dry summer night that he never forgot, though its staying power didn't have much to do with her. He never even knew her name. Her grip on him tightened, her muscles squeezing down hard on his cock, and her heartbeat kicked into overdrive, hammering through him everywhere they touched.

“I don't--” she started, but her eyes were wide and shocked, and it wasn't just the way he was rocking and ramming her back into the wall that was doing that. “What do you--”

“Watch the claws,” he said, feeling the way her nails were about to tear through his shirt, and the last thing he needed on nights like this was questions about how one of them made it so close without him taking it out.

“How-- do-- you--” she said, panting harder now, and he hoisted her higher, angled his hips so he could thrust deeper, watch her bite her lip with just a touch of fang visible.

“It doesn't matter,” he told her, and it didn't, because those were short nails scratching at his back now, and that was a glimmer of amber in her eyes. “It's okay, your eyes, you can--” and he came with a shout that he couldn't hold back, because rebellion always felt good.

“Things are about to heat up around here,” he told her when she was straightening her clothes, and she looked puzzled. “If any of your-- well, if any of you are likely to cause trouble, you might want to think about moving on.”

“We've lived here for generations,” she said, and of course they had. They almost always had, and they just weren't prepared for hunters who would interpret their behavior as a threat if remotely plausible. Not that Chris always disagreed, but sometimes. Sometimes he did.

There was nothing he could do beyond warn her, though. “You won't win,” he said, and he thought she believed him.

The streets were still full when he made his way home; it was barely midnight and the city was thirsty after a long, hot day, the under thirty crowd anyway. It might have been why he was still on edge, even after a shower, something prickling under his skin, unsatisfied.

Gerard was out, probably buddying up to some potential recruits, all beer and big talk and camaraderie. Next it'd be a few sessions with the shotguns, a few stories followed by a practical demonstration, and before they moved on there'd be a permanent base of operations here. That was just how his father worked.

The windows in his bedroom were still open, and he ignored the moths circling the light in favour of some night air. Maybe the air conditioning would be fixed before they left town, but he wasn't counting on it. Leaning up against his headboard he wrote up his notes from the night in lieu of a personal report, descriptions of a couple of mangy omegas that seemed to have teamed up as drinking buddies.

They were the threats here, not that girl and her pack.

“Mmm, do I detect an aroma of sweaty dog ass in here?” Kate didn't knock, as usual, just sauntered in and climbed up to sit on his legs. She took an exaggerated deep sniff at him as she flopped down.

“No,” Chris said flatly, not looking up.

Kate hummed under her breath and leaned forward to poke him in the ribs. “Because you showered, or because you struck out?”

He didn't answer, but he could feel the side of his mouth twitch, and his sister knew him far too well.

“No,” she said, clutching at his knees in mock alarm. “Really?”

That annoyed him, because he didn't always go for guys. “It's not like it's the first time,” he snapped, “so go fuck yourself, Kate.”

The thump she gave his leg was a little bit too hard, but Kate and moderation had never been on speaking terms. He still had a small scar on his arm from her eighth birthday party, when she'd stabbed him with a fork. He couldn't even remember why they'd been fighting now, but it was usually a good idea to check her for weapons before getting her pissed at him.

“No,” she said, her voice sly. “It'd only be a first if she was human, right?”

Chris slammed his notebook closed and dropped it on the bedside table. Gerard wasn't going to be back until the early hours, maybe not till after breakfast if it was going well. It could wait.

In one move, he flipped Kate off his legs and had her pinned down to the bed with his hands and one knee. “Remind me, little sister,” he grinned, keeping his face far enough away that she couldn't bite him or try a headbutt. Kate fought dirty. “Since you're such an expert. When exactly was your first time?”

She swore at him then, and struggled some more, but then-- she wasn't fighting him off any more. She was just looking, and there was something so unnerving about that speculative expression coming from his sister that he sat back on his heels and let go.

One of Kate's hands followed him, smoothing its way up his leg.

“I'm thinking... now would be good for me,” she said finally, her fingers reaching for his zipper.

“Kate,” he warned, and “No,” but there wasn't much conviction in it. There was still that tingle there, under his skin, and it needed something. Preferably something it shouldn't have.

“You'd really be helping me out,” she purred, and she had no business sounding like that, but god, part of him liked it. She pushed him back on the bed and shoved her hand inside his jeans, palm cool against the flesh that couldn't help heating up, that was responding in spite of how wrong this was. Because of how wrong it was.

He couldn't move, but she wasn't stopping him, not with her other hand just resting on his neck. He couldn't move, didn't move, because he wanted this, and it was up to him to put a stop to it as the responsible almost-adult in the room, and he was going to.

Kate licked her lips and fuck, was she serious?

She knew the second he gave in. “No Fucking Werewolves,” she whispered, laughing easily, and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips.

He had to laugh at that, because it was their joke, even if Gerard thought he got it too. “No Fucking Werewolves,” they repeated together, over and over, giggling their way out of their clothes, but when Kate straddled him, took him inside her, it stopped being funny. It felt more like they were... sealing a pact, maybe.

Even Kate seemed to feel that something had changed.

“Is it different?” she asked him, long after she'd slid off him and under his arm, and they were just lying there, watching the moths circle the light in crazy, fluttering orbits.

He hesitated, because he knew what she was really asking. Is it enough? Would it be enough, not with her, but with someone else, another human? Gerard had made it clear that at least one of them had to continue the family line, and he'd long ago agreed with Kate that it would be him.

He could have just said yes and left it that, because it was different. It was different that it was his own bed underneath them, that she was his sister, that she touched him so curiously; not tenderly, not really. Kate had never been tender. It was different too the next night, and three nights after that when she crept into his room despite Gerard sleeping down the hall, and different the morning when he woke up to find her sucking his toes to see what it was like. She prodded him everywhere, asked if she could lick his eyeball because some kid at school said it was gross and she wanted to prove him wrong, took him apart by riding him slow, then hard and fast, and Chris had never had that, never given up control that way.

She loved him too, and that was certainly new.

“It's better,” he told her next time she asked, and it was obviously the right answer.

“Yes!” she shouted, stripping off his shirt and tumbling him into bed. “I am awesome at sex!” She spent the next two hours with her fingers in his ass, turning him into a puddle of goo until he agreed, finally, that yes, she was an awesome sex goddess beyond compare.

It's one of his favorite memories of her even now, untarnished by the years that followed. That exuberent, gleeful teenager would always be the real Kate to him.


So you see, even with a long, happy and successful (for the most part) marriage behind him, there's not much Chris doesn't know about fucking the wrong people.

He looks, sometimes, at his neighbours. At the people on the street, at the checkout line in stores. What's your guilty little secret? he wonders, because the newspapers and the internet reassure him he's far from the only one with demons. But unless they get arrested for something nobody is going to know what they're doing, who they're fucking that they shouldn't. He can't lie; it drives him a little crazy.

But then... then there's Stiles.

Stiles seems to be everywhere lately. Everywhere Chris needs to go, there he is. Or maybe Chris is just noticing him more now, without Scott and Allison to keep a close eye on. He's counted the Sheriff as a friend ever since everything that went down with the Nemeton; the two of them and Melissa will be connected as long as their kids are, it's safe to say by now, and he knows he's as worried about Stiles as Chris is about Allison.

Stiles looks like the same old Stiles, sounds like the same old Stiles – not that he talks to Chris, or acknowledges him beyond a lift of his chin or maybe a twitch of his mouth that might grow into a smile if he returned it (he doesn't), but Chris has ears. And what he hears is a Stiles who is sounding very much like he's trying to be the same.

He isn't, though. He knows this from Allison, from Scott. They're not the same either, though it's easier for them at college. The three of them have worked out a system, a rota for time away and Stiles gets the first year of the arrangement in Beacon Hills, most of it carrying the whole burden of monitoring supernatural threats to the town by himself.

Chris isn't looking forward to it being Allison's turn, because the chances of his retirement surviving a twelve month stretch of that have got to be pretty low.

So it's not surprising that Stiles needs an outlet; Chris can understand that. He just didn't think it would be this.

“Stiles,” he says pleasantly, letting his eyes just skim over the bruises on the boy's neck, the scratches and indentations on his arms. “You're up early this morning.”

“Yeah,” the kid says, tugging his sleeves down to cover his wrists. “Couldn't sleep, you know how it--”

“Wait,” Chris says, raising a finger as if it's only just occurred to him. “Doesn't Peter Hale live in this block?”

“Um,” says Stiles, and looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, I called in to-- uh, see if he'd heard any more from Derek or Cora.”

“Before six in the morning?” Chris raises an eyebrow deliberately.

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles's hands are as fidgety as ever, and Chris has to restrain himself from stilling them. “I'm the earliest of birds these days, lots to do, you know?”

There's not much more Chris can say, not if Stiles is going to keep lying. He might be a friend of the family but he isn't the boy's father.

“Well, I hope you... caught the right worm,” Chris settles on, and as he walks away he thinks he hears Stiles mutter 'Me too,” under his breath.

He looks out for Stiles after that. There's something irresistible about knowing someone's secret, something they wouldn't want anyone to know about. But of course, now that he's looking, the kid is nowhere to be found.

He's not comparing packages at the grocery store with a frown that belongs on someone twice his age, or filling up that crappy jeep of his at his usual regular intervals, right before he makes his morning and evening patrols of the town's perimeter. He's not even lounging on Chris's floor when Scott and Allison are back in town, leaving a noticeable gap between Scott and Lydia in their usual movie night places.

“Stiles not joining you?” he asks, and he doesn't like the quick glance that Scott and Allison exchange. “What?”

“Umm,” Allison says, but Scott shakes his head, and she looks relieved.

“Can we--?” Scott gestures to the kitchen, and Chris is reluctantly impressed. Scott makes a good leader, and he would never have believed it of the kid he first met. Isaac and Lydia move in to bracket Allison, and Scott smiles at them all.

He's serious when they reach the kitchen, though. “Stiles is dealing with Peter,” Scott says, and Chris doesn't know what to say, because-- Scott knows? Do they all know?

Maybe they don't know everything.

“When you say 'dealing with',” Chris says, choosing his words carefully. “What exactly do you mean?”

Scott's grimace could be for distaste at Stiles having to kill Peter, or it could be something else entirely. “Whatever it takes,” he says firmly. “We have levels of intervention when it comes to anything that might be a threat to the town or the pack. Monitoring is enough for some potential threats, distraction for others, but we're ready to do more if we have to.” He doesn't say what 'more' is, but it's safe to assume lethal force is on the list.

“So you know that he's--” Chris trails off, because he's not sure he can say it. Not if it means Scott is basically confirming that he, that Allison would do the same if they thought it necessary.

He's not sure if that's the reason why Scott won't explicitly say it though, or whether he just doesn't want to think more than he has to about what Stiles is doing with Peter.

Scott just shrugs. “Distraction tactics seem to be working,” he says, vaguely. “He offered Stiles the bite once, you know,” he volunteers then, perhaps as a good will gesture, and Chris stares, because that's all the answer he really needs.


“Don't worry, Mr Argent,” Scott says, and god, a teenage alpha is giving him a reassuring pat to his arm, what the hell is going on? “We know what we're doing.” He grins then. “At least as much as we ever do.”

And all Chris can do is wave him away, back to the press of bodies that makes space for him in the middle, back to the chatter and laughter rising above the movie soundtrack, and sounding for all the world like any other bunch of teenagers.

They're not any other bunch of teenagers though, so he waits until Scott and Isaac take off for home before he strips down in his bathroom. He looks himself in the eye, examines his reflection. “You're ridiculous,” he tells himself, when all he can think of is that Peter is probably around his age. He wonders what Stiles thinks of a real body, an older man's physique. If he's... doing what he's doing out of some sense of responsibility, then there's no guarantee it's what he would choose for himself.

Maybe it's the werewolf part of it that attracts Stiles; Chris could certainly understand that. It's what he was planning to think about, let himself remember tonight, alone up here. It's why he waited, because werewolves and their too-sharp senses are best kept in the imagination when it comes to their involvement in his sex life. He strokes his cock idly at first; there's no need to rush. He can picture Peter's smirk at having Stiles on his knees, how he'd look fucking a young, pliable body in his bed, how Stiles might have earned some of those marks he saw on him, earned other ones that he hasn't even seen. Does Peter, Jesus, does Peter make him take his knot, keep him tied to him for as long as he can? His hand speeds up and it's going to be over soon, but he still thinks about how he-- no, how Peter might restrain Stiles, because making the kid beg, that would be something given the way he mouths off. There's nothing docile about that boy.

He can see why Peter wanted to bite him; he probably will one day, because if there's one thing Chris is sure of it's that Peter plans to be an Alpha again.

It strikes him after he's come all over the shower wall, that at least there is something he might be able to prevent.

He might not even have to come out of retirement again.


He can't exactly call round at the Stilinski house and ask to see Stiles without drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself, though he tries when he knows the Sheriff has a shift. The house remains silent, but Chris isn't sure he believes it's empty.

In the end he plays a hunch, and sure enough, making an appointment to see the Sheriff in his office produces the desired result. Stiles finds him at a coffee shop a couple of blocks away from the station barely twenty minutes after he books the appointment; that's quicker than he expected.

“You win,” Stiles sighs, and pays for both their drinks.

Chris raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't say anything when Stiles follows him to his usual table.

“I know it's not my dad you want to talk to,” Stiles says. “You don't need to book an appointment for that.”

“I might if I wanted to talk to him about a sensitive issue,” Chris hedges. “One that a parent would have a right to be concerned about.”

“Didn't buy the whole 'out for an early morning walk' scenario, huh?” Stiles nods to himself. “You caught me by surprise, that doesn't happen too often nowadays.”

“If he's hurting you,” Chris starts to say, because he can still picture those bruises, the red marks on his wrists. The only sign he can see on Stiles today though, is the telltale rawness of stubble-burnt skin around his mouth. He has a flash of Stiles under Peter, their mouths clashing over and over as their bodies arch and thrust. He can't help thinking about last night, the thoughts that had strayed into his head, that wouldn't leave.

He hadn't thought about them kissing.

Stiles is smiling down at his coffee, but he still seems to be listening.

“You know you don't have to do anything you don't want,” Chris says, because he's not sure he's made his point yet. He's not completely sure what his point is, except to say that fucking Peter is the most insane thing Stiles could be doing. But he's pretty sure Stiles knows that already.

“Yeah,” Stiles says then. “I know that.” He drains his coffee, fiddles with his phone, and stands.

“Take care, Stiles,” Chris sighs, but Stiles doesn't move.

“Can we go to your place?” Stiles asks him instead. “I-- we can talk, but this is a bit--”

It certainly is too public for a frank conversation, or one full of cryptic references to werewolves. “We can take my car,” Chris says, and he follows Stiles out.


Chris has barely shut the front door behind them when Stiles crowds him against the wall.

“Stiles,” he says, before Stiles slots their mouths together, and then he's too stunned to protest for a few moments. Stiles kisses like there's four or five of him fighting for control of his body, like they all want to taste a different part of Chris's mouth, and he's not sure how that's even possible. “Stiles, stop.”

Stiles pulls his face away, but his hands are still tucked under Chris's jacket.

“This isn't why I wanted to see you,” Chris says, but Stiles just snorts.

“You keep right on pretending that and I'll pretend to believe you.” Stiles pulls away and picks one end of the couch to sit, leaving the other open in an invitation Chris studiously ignores.

“You don't know anything about me,” he says instead.

Stiles's laugh is a short, sharp bark that makes Chris jump. Jesus, he's so on edge just from having Stiles here. This was a terrible idea even before Stiles kissed him.

“I know I remind you of someone,” Stiles says, and that sends a jolt through Chris, because it hadn't even struck him consciously, but Stiles is right. “I don't know his name, but I know Gerard caught you with him, and you never saw him again.”

It still hurts, just a little bit. That had been his fault, all of it.

“I know your marriage was an arrangement between hunting families, but you loved your wife anyway.” Stiles keeps going, even when Chris gives in and sits down. “I know you've often wondered if Gerard picked her because she reminded him of Kate.” Stiles looks over at him and Chris can see it, see that he knows.

He shakes his head, but Stiles is relentless. “And you wonder if he knew about the two of you, if he ever guessed.”

Chris's heart gives a lurch then, and with good reason, because this? It's impossible that Stiles knows all this.

“If it helps,” Stiles says apologetically, “I don't think he did.”

“You can't know these things,” Chris argues, in spite of the clear evidence that Stiles does, in fact, seem to know everything.

Stiles sighs. “Do I have to go through all the werewolves you picked up as well? Or the reason most of them were guys?”

“No,” Chris says. “Please don't.”

“That's nothing to be ashamed of,” Stiles says, and there's a faint smirk on his lips. “I totally get the appeal, I love the--”

“Stiles, please.” Chris will already take the image summoned up by Stiles's implication to the grave with him, and if Stiles gives him the graphic details he might be halfway in it by the time he's finished.

“No.” Stiles's voice is sharp. “You started this conversation, but it's not up to you when it ends.”

Chris realizes after a few moments that Stiles is waiting for him to acknowledge that, so he nods. He couldn't speak if he wanted to right at this second, his jaw is so tightly clenched.

“The creatures that have been passing through, attracted here, those have been mostly small fry,” Stiles says, his fingers tapping restlessly on his legs, and Chris wouldn't argue with that. His concerns have mostly been about what might turn up, not what he knows has shown up so far. “I get pointers mostly, you know, driving around town. Being near things, people too, it means I pick up--” Stiles waves his hand as if to say 'who knows what'. “Images, impressions, that kind of thing.”

“Only from threats though, surely?” Chris isn't sure where he fits into this, but he has a bad feeling about it.

“Yeah.” Stiles stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets, but it doesn't seem to calm them much. Chris can still see them moving; it looks like they're picking at the inside of the seams. “See, that's the thing. Peter was like a big bleep on the radar, a giant disaster waiting to happen, and yeah, I know, right? No biggie, not exactly news.”

Chris has to smile at that. “Scott mentioned you'd been monitoring him.”

“Yeah, that's the first stage.” Stiles nods. “And I learned, oh god, so many things I never wanted to know. He's a real piece of work, you have no idea. But other than some plans, which he really enjoys refining and making ever more convoluted, he doesn't have too much outright evil going on right at this minute.”

“So, distraction,” Chris says, because he can see where this is going.

“That part was pretty easy.” Stiles flushes when he says this, just a little pink appearing at the top of his cheeks. “Peter likes me, for some weird reason. And now he knows I know everything, he's kind of... pleased, I guess? Scott thinks he won't kill me because he's still planning to bite me one day--”

“I have to agree with Scott on that,” Chris has to say. “He's dangerous, Stiles.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Stiles shrugs, as if he's already been through all the pros of cons of his current plans, and Chris guesses he probably has. “But so are you.”

“I'm not--” Chris starts, because really, what? Stiles hasn't drawn a weapon or anything, so there's no reason why he should feel so vulnerable... except for the fact that Stiles has somehow seen or learned his deepest, darkest secrets, and maybe this is how Peter felt too, when Stiles confronted him.

And that's when he gets it.

“I was monitoring you too, yeah.” Stiles isn't apologizing for it, Chris realizes. “And then avoiding you, because I know that drove you crazy, and that kept you busy for a while so I could come up with a plan.”

“A plan.” Chris is still slotting everything into place, but he can see it now, the pattern.

“Peter's probably the deadliest force in Beacon Hills, and you're the second.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “And I need a team, because if we get anything more deadly than a mildly grumpy fairy passing through here with just me on call, we are probably screwed.”

Chris isn't so sure about that, but he takes the point.

“It doesn't pay well-- okay, it doesn't pay at all,” Stiles admits, “but there are some benefits.”

If Chris has any doubts what Stiles means by that, the look Stiles gives him blows them away. He hates that he has to question it, but he'd be the worst hypocrite if he didn't, and Stiles's opinion of him must be low enough as it is.

He's surprised that matters to him, but it does.

“You don't have to do anything,” Chris tells him. “I'll help. You don't need to--” His attempt at being a responsible adult ends there, pretty much, because Stiles straddles his lap and puts a hand on Chris's shoulder.

“I want this,” he says, so seriously that Chris has to believe him. His other hand hovers over Chris's crotch, but he's not touching, not yet. “Do you want this?” he asks, as if he doesn't already know the answer, and Chris appreciates the consideration.

“I want it,” Chris says, and proves it by pressing Stiles's hand down, letting him feel how much he wants this.

“Oh, thank god.” Stiles is so fervent that Chris has to laugh, even though it breaks the moment. He has his hands inside Chris's jeans in moments, urging him up awkwardly so he can tug them down. “This is going to be quick, sorry.”

Chris can't see what there is to be sorry about, not when there's a hand on his cock that isn't his own for the first time in a while. It's been a hell of a lot longer since there was another cock joining in the fun too, and he despairs for his own stamina when Stiles wraps both their hands around them and he can't hold back a deep groan.

“I wish you could read my mind,” Stiles murmurs, leaning in to rest his forehead against Chris's. He's controlling the rhythm, setting a steady pace, but Chris can feel the tension in his arm, the sweat on his brow, and he knows Stiles was being honest, he's not the only barely holding on. It helps, knowing that.

“Tell me,” he grits out, because it's taking all his efforts to delay this, but if there's a chance they can do this together, he's okay with that.

“I want to watch,” Stiles breathes, and Chris doesn't need to ask what he means, but Stiles is going to tell him anyway and it will be the death of Chris. “I want to watch Peter give you what you want, what you need. I want you to know what it's like when you don't need to rush, when you can take it slow and feel every inch, every stretch and burn as it swells up inside you, until you can't remember your own name because it's just so good.”

Chris trembles under Stiles's hand, but Stiles just strokes his neck, pets his face. “It can last for hours, you know, if you do it right. Long enough for you to get hard again.”

Chris groans, but Stiles isn't finished yet. “I want to suck you off,” he says, and his fingers clench around Chris's until they both buck up into their combined grip. “While you're stuck there on Peter's knot, I want to make you come for me, as many times as I can.”

Stiles might be overestimating Chris's potential performance, given his age, but he knows what he's doing with everything else, so Chris is going to trust him. Stiles can tell, he thinks, because somehow, that's when they both let themselves go.

“Anything you want,” he says, when their hands are sticky with come and he has to accept the fact that this, this just happened. And it's going to happen again, with much more besides. “I'll do anything you want.”

“I want everything,” Stiles tells him, arms out in an expansive gesture, so wide that he almost loses his balance. “But we can start with that, right? Because you have no idea how crazy that's making me, just thinking about it.”

And Chris should be worrying what it says about him, not just that he's apparently going to be involved with a boy younger than his daughter and a werewolf wannabe super-villain, but that he's going to break his self-imposed ban of more years than he cares to think of, banish that voice that says no fucking werewolves, whether it's a joke or not.

But he's going to do it. He's going to do all of it.

“Yes, Stiles,” he says, and seals the deal with a kiss. “We can start with that.”