[They could have had a nice time, Tyki idly considers as the teenager's hand finds his throat and rubs that spot against it. They could have enjoyed a pleasant session of kisses, perhaps some fondling, then called the game good and done—master and pet through the motions of a superficial bout of entertainment. Tyki would've enjoyed it. Then he would move on to the next game, the next person, to see what other diversions he could find.

This, though... No fear shows on the man's face as he's touched, and only laughter builds in his chest. His lips remain closed; the effect is a low rumbling, vibration felt with their bodies at close proximity.]

Is that so? A kit, then. [The hold on the leash abruptly tightens—and yanks back, pulling Stiles away from his ear, forcing him to sit upright to avoid strangling.] You must've forgotten who's holding the leash. I was going to be gentle with you, you know. But I see it's not working.

You want to know more about me that badly? What I am?

[The Noah's unoccupied hand lifts, and it reaches for Stiles' throat as if he is about to demonstrate what has been seemingly threatened—but then the fingers pass through flesh and collar both, and Stiles will feel the presence of his touch like a ghostly caress where it should not be. He plucks the boy's artery like a string, so feather-light all it will do is send shivers of wrong through his body without real pain or injury.]

What I am could rip this out of you much faster.