[The master has spoken. And yet his pet—wily and disobedient—does not submit. Stiles hums thoughtfully, as if considering the demand, before turning his face away. The aphrodisiac is liquid fire inside his body now, but arousal is not all it dredges up from the depths; something casually cruel curves his mouth in a crooked smile, drawing inspiration from a dark spirit long gone. Fingers walk idly up Tyki’s chest, a teasing pressure, only for his hand to slide gently along the column of a neck. It could have been called a caress, if not for how the thumb suddenly presses into the windpipe.]

Did you know…?

[There’s a dreamy quality to his voice, low and soft for only Tyki’s ears. Glancing out of his periphery back at the man, the smile widens.]

Only eleven pounds of pressure on the carotids is necessary to knock someone unconscious. It’ll take a few seconds, but…

[The thumb rubs a hard circle.]

Less than four-and-a-half pounds when on the jugular, [continues Stiles conversationally,] and thirty-three to close the trachea.

I’ll let you in on a secret.

[The teen leans in, lips brushing the shell of an ear where dark hair curls. He exhales, a hot breath of air stirring those elegant locks.]

I’m more fox than puppy these days.