Stiles is a writhing, begging mess against Peter as the werewolf continues to thrust into him. The water has long since washed the blood, dirt and scent of the sea away, and though it's turned cool it doesn't dissuade him from moving or trying to turn the water off.

All he can think about, and feel, is Peter. His hands touching, seering into his skin, and the force of his thrusts as his mate continues to take him. His arms ache from their positions but he can't let go of Peter, not yet.

"Peter , I- nnngh, close," he pants out, hips rocking back against Peter, meeting his rough, hard thrusts.