"You should go."
"What if I don’t want to?"
"Tell me to stop and I will."
Derek didn’t say a word.
Stiles’ heart is actually almost beating its’ way up his throat, threatening to pour out of his mouth, feelings dripping from his lips like an IV into a bloodstream. He shouldn’t be here, Stiles should not be here, but here he is, warm exhales passing from Derek against Stiles’ cheeks.
Derek’s not moving. He’s not moving away, which is good—but he’s not moving closer, either. Stiles doesn’t know if he should take that as a win or not. Regardless, he can’t let this pass, he can’t, because for some reason this feels like his only chance, panic bubbling at the pit of is stomach at the thought of losing it.
He doesn’t realize his fingers are trembling until he brings a hand up to cup the back of Derek’s neck, and Derek’s watching him through narrowed lids, slivers of pale green catching the flecks of Stiles’ amber colored eyes with every sweep of eyelashes against his cheek.
Derek’s so fucking beautiful Stiles chokes on it, can’t keep it down; he’s feeling so much it’s too much, never thought this could be possible, so he closes his eyes and pulls Derek in.
Stiles can feel the broken noise Derek makes before fingers dig into his hips, and Derek’s breathing words against his lips in between kisses, pressing them into Stiles’ mouth every time he takes a small inhale of air.
Derek’s licking into Stiles’ mouth as if he was the one desperate for it, not Stiles. Maybe it was a long time coming for both. The fact that Derek is kissing him as if Stiles could save him sends shivers down his spine, causes him to cling tighter, kiss harder, more.
Stiles has never been a hero, but he’s beginning to think that Derek can try to save everything, but he can’t really save himself. Derek kisses as if he’s never going to be able to again, which is ridiculous, as far as Stiles is concerned.
He’s not going anywhere.
The kiss slows to something less desperate but more heavy, and Stiles’ toes are curling in his socks because Derek’s licking into his mouth with something like worship, fingers loosening from their hold to rub gentle circles against exposed skin.
Stiles pulls away for air, but knocks his forehead against Derek’s so they share it, the labored breathing. It’s quiet except for harsh inhales and exhales, Stiles’ fingers running through the short hairs against Derek’s nape.
He tips forward to press something sweet against Derek’s mouth, revels in the way the tension drains from Derek’s shoulders.
Stiles has never been a hero, but the way he feels about Derek settles solid in his bones, permanent and necessary. He’s never been a hero, but Stiles thinks that should be enough.