Chris likes to study Peter, admire the pale skin and count the freckles on his back. Likes to run his fingers through the messy dark hair, so different from his own dirty blond locks, and watch Peter's eyelids flutter closed as he leans into the touch.

He likes to do this, tease Peter until the other boy's resolve breaks and he grabs Chris by the neck and presses the tips of his claws just so against the skin, not quite enough to bleed but certainly to bruise. Peter takes care to never fully shift, only to make it a little exciting, teeth and claws and growling, just enough to remind Chris of the dangerous game they are playing. Dangerous to both of them. At eighteen, Chris already knows fifteen ways to incapacitate a werewolf with just his bare hands. Peter could tear out Chris's throat with his teeth in seconds or simply overpower him with his superior strength.

But they don't.

Because they're eighteen and in love. Because the danger and the secrets and the thrill of the forbidden is like a drug. And because the sex is mind-blowing.
They don't care about the outside world, they have everything they need. In each other.