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Crowded House’s Into Temptation was playing quietly in the background on the kitchen radio. Rain roared softly against the roof and windows. The dinner dishes lay in the sink. Two pairs of shoes lay where they had been kicked off, half-under the coffee table, atop which sat two empty rocks glasses and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. It had been John’s turn to pick what they drank. Chris was more of a red wine person when it came to dates, but then again he was also the kind of person who liked to vacuum the lounge room at least once a month. There were just some things they did not have in common.
Chris hadn’t felt this hazily happy since the very first time he got drunk at the age of 15. He hadn’t felt this victorious since his first successful lone capture of an alpha werewolf at the age of 27. He hadn’t felt this lucky since the night Allison was born.
The little voice he’d never been able to shut off told him that, with John’s arm around his waist and his other arm under his head, and with his body pressed up against him the way it was, there were five different ways he could wrestle free in under two seconds and get him in a sleeper hold. The much bigger voice he didn’t want to shut off told him that John probably knew just as many ways to get out of a sleeper hold and anyway, cuddling on the couch was much more relaxing.
Chris ran his hand down his front and placed it over John’s wrist where it had half-tucked itself under Chris’s body. John’s steady breathing against the back of his neck told Chris that he had fallen asleep. The couch at the Stilinski’s house was larger and more comfortable than his own so he didn’t have a problem with staying there the whole night. Even if he did, he didn’t think he could bring himself to pull away.
Aside from surprisingly chaste kisses, they hadn’t shared anything in the way of physical passion. Neither of them was willing to throw themselves into a sexual relationship that, at their age, they both felt too hilariously inexperienced for. There was not enough insecurity to block out the simple joy of hands touching, however, and as long as snuggling felt as good as it did, they stuck to the proverb “slow and steady wins the race”. In the meantime they did independent and undiscussed research, deleting their browser history as they went. Just in case.
Stiles had found out by accident, after Scott commented offhand that his dad smelled like Chris’s aftershave. Where both fathers had had nightmares about whatever half-insane plots Stiles might cook up to keep them apart, in practice they were pleased to find that Stiles desperately wanted his dad to be happy. Chris got the shovel talk, and also got roped into making sure John kept up “healthy eating habits”, but nothing worse occurred.
Allison, naturally, was told on the same day by Chris because he needed to be the person she heard it from. John didn’t even ask why he left so quickly, simply nodded and told Stiles to ensure Scott didn’t say a word to her. It was one of many small moments that, combined, convinced Chris that maybe this really could work. That maybe it wasn’t an abysmal idea, and they weren’t out of their minds for thinking that they could make it as a couple.
The response from his daughter was drawn-out and took the form of four stages covering approximately a fortnight. Chris knew, because he had paid obsessively close attention to her and drawn up a chart in his brain.
First there was a frosty, tangible distancing that made Chris feel as if he was betraying her, a bitter distrust that partially extended to John, who decided to keep his distance or “give her the space she needs”. Then there was a confused reluctance, a refusal to understand. She had imagined that Chris might stay single for a few years, and that it was going to be just them. Chris wondered if she didn’t want to share him with anyone just yet, or if she thought he was moving on too quickly. She still missed her mother deeply. She thought he did too.
Then she seemed to try to compromise. Her friendship with Stiles had become strained in the meantime. She first made efforts to bond again with Stiles, then to speak to John not just as “the Sheriff”, but as “John”, the precursor to seeing him as a member of her family. A family that had rapidly grown smaller following the death of her aunt, then her mother, then everything that had happened with her grandfather. It was a visible effort borne out of the perceived inevitability of her father getting his way, and it made Chris feel as if he were forcing her to put up with something she didn’t want. It made him feel guilty.
Then, Chris came home to the apartment to see Allison and John talking quietly in his study, Allison sitting on the desk and John leaning against the bookcase. They were smiling at each other. Chris didn’t hear what they were talking about, and was never told.
And now, a month and a half after confessing their feelings, Chris and John were curled up together on the couch and Chris felt like the universe was apologizing for all the shitty things it had done to him this past year.
John shifted behind him, squeezing a little tighter around the middle.
‘What time is it?’ he mumbled, and a pleasant shiver travelled up Chris’s spine at the feel of John’s lips moving against the back of his neck.
‘Not sure,’ Chris said softly. ‘Past midnight, probably.’
John grunted dismissively and his knee pushed between Chris’s legs, as if he wanted to get even closer. Chris’s heartbeat quickened.
Experimentally he pressed himself back into John’s lap and they were connected from neck to ankle, so firmly joined that the line between intimate and sexual seemed to tremble and narrow until Chris felt the unmistakeable, hard shape of an erection through the back of his jeans, and surprised himself by pushing back against it.
A month and a half. That counted as slow and steady. And it wasn’t as if they needed to light candles or move to the bedroom. Stiles was staying over at Scott’s place, as had become the norm since home dates became a thing, and it occurred to Chris that right now was probably the perfect time to do something about the sexual tension that had been mounting since they first started kissing and realized that their romantic feelings for each other extended to other body parts than just their hearts.
John made a barely perceptible sound and rocked his hips forward once slowly, then twice. Chris turned in John’s arms and they rearranged their limbs until Chris was lying on top, nuzzling John’s shoulder, pulling at his collar and popping open buttons to get to his bare skin. Their legs tangled and breathing became more laboured, and they didn’t talk about whether they knew what they were doing or wanted to maybe clean up first or something because the want was rapidly intensifying and neither of them had felt sexy or desired like this in years.
Chris felt a hand travel down his chest, and pushed himself up on his knees without removing his mouth from John’s collarbone to give the hand some room to undo his jeans. Then that hand, broad and sure and warm was cupping him, rubbing him and invading his briefs to wrap tightly around his cock and stroke him.
Chris pressed his forehead into John’s shoulder and breathed shakily for a moment, letting sensation take over, until his sense of manners prevailed and he searched blindly with his right hand until he found the front of John’s trousers, already open at the front. He slid his hand inside and relished in the way John exhaled harshly as he took a firm hold of the unfamiliar cock and slowly pumped, all the way from the base to the tip, pulling it out of his trousers and lowering his body so they were just touching.
Getting the message, John opened his hand and then they were rubbing together, hands negotiating the narrow space between them until they found a perfect rhythm, Chris’s hips twitching, John mouthing random kisses along Chris’s temple. Minutes passed, the frantic jerking slowing then speeding up, effortless techniques once only used on themselves working new wonders on each other. Chris learned that John was silent but kept his eyes open and watched their hands, watched Chris’s face, not hawkishly but glazed with pleasure in a way Chris found immensely flattering. John learned that Chris couldn’t be silent, that he moaned softly and involuntarily, and was just as flattered. He ran his free hand down Chris’s back to cup his ass, then back up to the base of his skull.
Even on top, even initiating every progression in their sudden frantic coupling, Chris melted into submissiveness at the grip of John’s hand at the back of his neck. He rubbed the tips of their cocks together as John jerked them, harder and faster, starting to shudder, and Chris gripped the edge of the couch and gasped John’s name until he came in thick spurts.
Feeling heavy, Chris relaxed on top of the hot, sweaty body beneath him, not caring about the cum staining the front of his shirt. He felt John’s orgasm and the sensual, arching movement he made, the bloom of wet warmth against his belly.
They recuperated for a couple of minutes, not able to bring themselves to feel embarrassed or awkward, not even when Chris struggled up to zip up his jeans.
‘Want to have a shower?’ John asked, croaking a little. He looked bleary, blissful.
‘Together?’ Chris asked a little too hopefully. Dignity hadn’t risen back to the top 5 on his list of priorities yet. Being clean was not enough of a priority either, not unless getting naked included John as well as soap.
John considered. Then he nodded. ‘Sure. So long as you don’t mind Old Spice.’
Chris, sitting up, realized he was straddling John’s waist and weighed up the pros and cons of saying “I’m on a horse.” Then he decided against it. Dignity had now floated up to at least a 7 on his priority list, two places above Making Dorky Gay Dad Jokes.
John was out of his shirt and socks by the time they reached the bathroom door, and Chris was itching to pick the discarded clothing items off the floor and put them in a hamper. John was an exasperated grownup 90% of the time, but the 10% that was still a teenager was unfortunately the messy 10% and, between John and Stiles, Chris was amazed the house wasn’t a bomb site.
Distracted by wanting to put his own dirty clothes somewhere that wasn’t the floor, Chris found himself backed up against the doorframe and then John’s mouth was on his in an insistent kiss, John’s hands on his waist, sliding up under his shirt and under the waistline of his jeans, gently massaging bare skin. Half-hypnotized, Chris let John pull his shirt off and then they were taking off the last of their clothing, jeans and trousers both falling forgotten to the floor, and even under the harsh bathroom light Chris still couldn’t feel self-conscious because John was in really good shape and Chris wanted to see what he looked like dripping wet and steaming.
The water took a moment to warm up, so Chris ignored his goosebumps and wrapped his arms around John, hiding a smile in the man’s shoulder and taking advantage of the lack of trousers to pinch him. John responded by slapping his ass, and Chris tried to pretend his cock hadn’t jumped at that.
John pulled back, but only to move the shower curtain and pull Chris into the shower with him, and the water was perfect and the kisses became increasingly messy and Chris could hear his own breath interspersing with sounds of pleasure, not quite moans and not quite sighs but somewhere between the two. He had always been loud, and Victoria had always hated it. If the feel of John’s cock against his upper thigh was any indication, it was more of a turn-on for John than it was an embarrassment, so Chris let it go, let himself express it.
Then John got bossy again and Chris was going to have to make peace with the fact that he loved being shoved up against walls. Especially when John slid his hands up and down Chris’s chest, his arms and down his front, feeling him all over as if he were an interactive experience and not a 43-year-old man with too many scars and an over-compensating gun collection.
They were pressed together from top to toe, but there were no layers of clothing this time. Only a steady stream of water.
At the taste of John’s tongue in his mouth, Chris couldn’t stifle a helpless moan. He moved his hands to the back of John’s head and neck, let himself be explored and touched and felt all over, and when John spanked him again Chris let himself whimper and quiver. John’s right hand moved all the way down Chris’s back, and one finger stroked upwards, questioning, asking permission. Chris nodded, almost imperceptibly, and when John pulled back to look him in the eyes, Chris found himself saying “yes” before John could even ask the question.
John stuck his arm out of the shower curtain and fumbled about on the counter until he found a plastic container. A glance told Chris it was Vaseline. He was too aroused to care what it was. He wouldn’t care if John used spit. At the very thought he felt both dirty and sexy and when John raked his eyes over him Chris realized that some of it must be showing on his face, and it was a profoundly comforting thought, he’s just as turned on by me as I am by him.
Chris gasped and sighed and hooked one leg over John’s hip at the feeling of John’s index finger sliding in all the way to the knuckle, it made John push Chris back against the tiles, nuzzle his neck, still silent as he had been when they were on the couch, movements hurried and heart pounding right through his bones and muscle to thump against Chris’s chest.
The finger worked in and out, joined too soon by another. John bit and sucked at Chris’s throat as if leaving a mark there was an emergency, hitched Chris’s leg higher up to wrap around his waist and then used the same hand to reach up and tweak his nipple. Chris arched into every touch, crying out as a third finger was pushed, hard, inside him. John paused, and Chris reached behind to hold John’s wrist, tried to tell him breathlessly that it was okay, it was good, it was so good. John removed his hand and Chris made a complaining noise.
Then John manhandled Chris around so he was facing the wall, water gushing down his back, and nudged his feet further apart. He reattached his mouth to the back of Chris’s neck for a gentle kiss and his suddenly thick, huge cock was sliding up between Chris’s cheeks.
Chris tried to control his breathing. He brushed his fingers along Johns’ left hand when it reached around to cup his balls, moved it and brought it up to his chest. He arched his back, forehead against the tiles, and silently told himself that he was a slut.
It was fucking perfect.
At the first few inches, Chris had to grit his teeth. He could feel John panting against his back, going slow, fighting the urge. Then John was halfway inside and sparks went off in Chris’s head, made him flatten his feet against the floor and hold his breath, and as John inched forward, Chris pushed back, impaled himself, revelled in the grunt that produced, in the way John subtly punished him by jerking his hips forward to bury his cock in all the way to the hilt.
A choked-off sound, and John pinching his nipples, biting down on the back of his shoulder. Everything was sensation. He had never felt so open, so opened up. John was breathing heavily. Chris pushed back again, cautiously, felt the stretch and the burn and chased the throbbing deep inside that overwhelmed him, didn’t realize how needily he was pushing back until John straightened up, pulled halfway out and slammed back in, once, twice, the wet slap echoing against the tiles, slowing to a pace like waves against a boat, irregular but rhythmic, until Chris was slumped against the tiles like jelly. As soon as Chris steadied himself enough not to fall, John dug his fingertips into Chris’s hips and began fucking him in earnest.
Chris didn’t know how loud he was being. Only that he was being loud. John rammed into him again and again and again and it hurt, it was ecstasy, he needed to be fucked this hard, wanted bruises, wanted to still feel John’s dick fucking deep inside the next morning.
An especially jarring, violent thrust made Chris’s knees buckle and he barely caught himself, and again the voice in his head said whore, you’re a dirty whore, and without thinking he choked out, ‘tell me I’m a slut.’
John slowed to a forceful thrust, almost thoughtful as a movement, and slowed again until Chris could feel every inch of in – in – in – out – out – in – in – in. Then John’s right hand slid up open-palmed from Chris’ hip, and gripped his shoulder instead.
‘Tell me you like it first,’ came the reply, and Chris trembled and curled his toes.
‘I like it.’
‘You like getting fucked by me?’
‘Yeah.’
John rammed his cock into Chris abruptly, then pulled almost all the way out and stilled.
‘Do you like it rough? Do you want me to bend you over and fuck you like this, fuck you hard?’
‘Yes!’
John slammed his hips forward so hard that Chris was only saved from hitting his head against the tiles by bracing his forearms against them. John’s mouth was at his ear then, breath hot against his neck. He swore he could feel a pulsing vein in John’s dick, feel every long inch, rigid and thick and burning inside him. John’s voice, a guttural whisper in his ear.
‘You’re my filthy slut.’
Chris almost collapsed. John’s hands, at his shoulder and his hip, were the only things stopping Chris from dropping to his knees as John relentlessly hammered him toward orgasm, clutching his body slippery with sweat and water, the sound of Chris’s cries mingling with John’s low, near-growls, calling him a cockslut and a bitch, and hearing it out loud from that reserved, silent man made Chris bend with his feet apart and his eyes squeezed shut and holler yes, fuck YES until he came hard, shot all over his belly and the wall and wailed as John kept fucking him through it, until with a couple of sharp, brutal movements, something slick, John’s come, filled Chris and made him squirm with exhausted, blissful, wet delight and he dragged himself up – more of an effort than ever before – and tilted his head back for a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss. John wrapped his arms tightly around Chris’s waist, cock still jutting deep inside him, and held him up.
The water slowly washed away the sweat and saliva, and they massaged each other’s shoulders and arms and kissed languidly, lips and cheeks and necks and shoulders, and when John knelt down to pick up the loofah where it had dropped, he sucked the head of Chris’s cock into his mouth and licked the tip, kissed the shaft like it was an afterthought, and when their eyes met standing and facing each other through the steam, John winked and promised more as soon as they reached the bedroom.
‘I thought the point of a shower was to get clean,’ Chris murmured against John’s kiss. John nipped Chris’s bottom lip.
‘Well we could always not …’
‘No, I want to,’ Chris interrupted hurriedly, and grumbled half-heartedly at John’s responding chuckle.
They got out of the shower when the warm water was all used up, towelled themselves off half-heartedly and left their clothes all over the floor, ambling naked to the bedroom. Chris walked close behind John with a hand on his waist.
John turned as soon as the bedroom door was closed, picking Chris up and dropping him unceremoniously on the king-size bed chuckling again when Chris grabbed his arms and yanked him down to join him. They battled groggily, embracing and rolling until John was on top, covering Chris’s chest and belly in kisses, moving down with intent that demolished any reservations Chris had about his own desirability and making him tremble freely at the very thought of what John was willing to do, what he was volunteering to do.
John reached his cock and brought it back to full hardness with a few unhesitant and targeted licks.
He then swallowed Chris right down to the root, making Chris wonder briefly how many burgers he must shove down his throat when Stiles wasn’t looking in order to get rid of his gag reflex before his mind went blissfully blank. Then John shoved his legs apart, slid a hand up between his thighs and Chris planted his feet on the mattress and rode John’s fingers, both sore and frantic, panting like a dog and begging too.
He lasted for about five minutes. John swallowed. Chris told him before his senses came back that he wanted to be handcuffed to the headboard next time.
‘Want me to return the favour?’ Chris offered, running his fingers down John’s side when John dragged himself up to lay beside him.
‘I honestly don’t know if I can manage another round tonight.’
Chris felt mildly rejected until John kissed his cheek and entwined their fingers together. They lay in sleepy silence, pulling the sheets up to their waists and letting themselves doze.
‘Do you think any of the werewolves will be able to tell we had sex in the shower?’ John asked tiredly. Chris couldn’t stop himself from laughing. John followed, and it was several minutes before Chris calmed down enough to think about it.
‘Scott probably will. He’s here often enough, and knowing Scott’s usual level of tact, you might have to deal with accusing looks for the next couple of weeks.’
John looked resigned. Then he grunted and rolled half onto Chris in an obvious gesture of wanting to go to sleep.
Chris wrapped his arms around John’s waist. It was the first time he’d had sex with a man, he dimly realized, and he didn’t feel different. He felt intensely satisfied and exhausted, but he assumed that was just John. He felt special, a little bit joyful. He assumed that was just love.
By the time Stiles got home, the clothes would be off the ground, the dishes would be done, the bottle of Jack Daniels would be back in the cupboard, and the only sign that the pair of them had had a date would be the two cars parked out the front.
Chris sighed involuntarily, rubbing John’s back when he mumbled. He wanted to leave a lasting mark. Not just on John’s neck, or on his body. He wanted to have his own plain blue mug in the cupboard, he wanted to know how to work their crappy old washing machine, he wanted his kid and John’s kid to have separate bedrooms at the far end of the hall and he wanted to snuggle up to John on cold nights, just like this.
He wanted to sit across from John when he was going through files on the dining table and help find clues.
Chris forcefully put an end to the thoughts falling about in his brain and decided it was definitely high time he went to sleep. John breathed softly against his neck, held him down with his weight, made him feel secure and safe. Home.
They fell asleep to the rhythm of the rain.