"Good." Peter mutters, barely registering he was saying anything at all. His body is tense with pleasure and anticipation, shivering from need. The tugging in his hair makes him move, pulling out all the way, moaning too. "Stiles..." he gasps as he slowly slides back in, feeling the wet, welcoming hole of the boy. Waiting just for him and prepared just for him.

Peter's hand slides up to Stiles' throat to feel his pulse under his thumb. It calms him in some way. It's his. His movements are slow, but strong, like an animal stalking his prey. But he feels impatience and more need blooming in him as he's slowly taking Stiles. His other hand strokes the boy with the same rhythm.