[ fear has never made it into the equation, for him. many might argue it should have — that the shattered bones should have become more than a footnote in the memory, that there should have been concern for himself, too, not just for the person who'd ran away and left his heart shattered worse than any bones.
and yet, he's not afraid — hadn't been then, isn't now. fearing Peter has never made sense to him, not when there has never been a part of him that hasn't been fundamentally aware of the fact that Peter would never hurt him, not on purpose. never.
but he knows that out of the two of them, it is Peter who is afraid: of himself, of losing control. and so he's been careful, making sure to not push the boundaries of what Peter is comfortable with... but there are limits to it, how careful he can be, and right now, careful is the last thing on his mind. Peter's hand feels too warm against his skin, and his heart is making a good effort at trying to beat out of his chest.
stepping out of his jeans means stepping closer, close enough that Peter's hands would barely need to move to touch, close enough that he only needs to dip his head a little to place a kiss on the hollow of his throat.
yeah — words should probably go here, but just this once, Stiles is opting for actions before words, the hand that was resting on Peter's collarbone moving to cup the back of his head, fingers threading through the unruly strands of hair there as he places another kiss on the side of his throat, then another on his jawline. Peter may be able to stop himself from touching... but Stiles doesn't have that self-control, not right now.
he does, however, manage to whisper, ] Tell me to stop. [ because otherwise... he just might not. ]
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and yet, he's not afraid — hadn't been then, isn't now. fearing Peter has never made sense to him, not when there has never been a part of him that hasn't been fundamentally aware of the fact that Peter would never hurt him, not on purpose. never.
but he knows that out of the two of them, it is Peter who is afraid: of himself, of losing control. and so he's been careful, making sure to not push the boundaries of what Peter is comfortable with... but there are limits to it, how careful he can be, and right now, careful is the last thing on his mind. Peter's hand feels too warm against his skin, and his heart is making a good effort at trying to beat out of his chest.
stepping out of his jeans means stepping closer, close enough that Peter's hands would barely need to move to touch, close enough that he only needs to dip his head a little to place a kiss on the hollow of his throat.
yeah — words should probably go here, but just this once, Stiles is opting for actions before words, the hand that was resting on Peter's collarbone moving to cup the back of his head, fingers threading through the unruly strands of hair there as he places another kiss on the side of his throat, then another on his jawline. Peter may be able to stop himself from touching... but Stiles doesn't have that self-control, not right now.
he does, however, manage to whisper, ] Tell me to stop. [ because otherwise... he just might not. ]