Kings of the Moonlight

Give me Love

All I want is the taste your lips allow.

-

Derek loses track of time as he kisses Stiles. The kiss is sweet and chaste, deep and wanting - their mouths colliding in softness as their breaths catch on each other.

Rockets and firecrackers of radiance burst and fall in showers of ardour behind his eyelids and Derek feels like Stiles is too much and not enough at the same time.

So he kisses him, because Stiles tastes like coffee and light and everything that Derek could ever possibly want in a person. He presses his hands to the dip of Stiles' waist over his overshirt, like they belong there, and he kisses his mouth like he has any right to, making soft, low susurrations as if this isn't wrong at all.

When they both come up for breath, their exhalations mingling in the sweet air between them, Derek presses his forehead to Stiles', even as his mind begins to whiz with all sorts of unwanted tension. The apartment around them is silent, the sounds of Beaconian civility dulled by the double glazed windows and Derek swears that he has never felt more peaceful, here in Stiles' arms.

He licks his lips unhurriedly, tries to memorise the way that Stiles tastes and he watches Stiles, who has yet to open his eyes, smile breathlessly as puffs of air catch in the back of his throat. Derek watches the burning rouge spreading across Stiles' cheeks, the shimmering contour of his lips and the long lashes barely brushing the tops of his cheekbones.

Stiles, meanwhile, rubs idle fingers through the hair at the nape of Derek's neck, making him shiver and huddle ever closer. Stiles hums contentedly in the space between them; sighs restfully as he drops his head to Derek's shoulder, curls into him.

They stand like that for a long time, breathing together, chests pressing against each other each time Stiles' breath coils around the skin of Derek's neck, like a vapour. Yet reality makes an unwelcome presence and Derek can't describe just how much that kiss should not have happened.

Stiles lifts his head, with heavy eyes and searching lips. But as much as he wants to, Derek knows he can't kiss him again. So he places gentle hands on Stiles' broad shoulders and firmly nudges him back. Surprise flitters across Stiles' expression before he catches sight of the grim look of misery on Derek's face.

"We can't," Derek says quietly, despite wanting nothing more than to wrap Stiles up in his arms forever.

They stare at each other for a long time, and the silence that not so long ago had provided a sanctuary of warmth and comfort around their bodies now feels stifling and hostile.

He drops his hands from Stiles' shoulders and curls them into stiff fists at his side. He takes a step backward, trying to shuffle closer to the counter behind him.

"Derek?" Stiles says; an appeal and a question all rolled into two broken syllables.

Derek looks up and catches Stiles' wide and disbelieving gaze. He looks hurt, his mouth is trembling where he has pressed it into a tight line and Derek can see the tremors of embarrassment running over his pale skin.

Derek clamps down on the urge to avert his gaze from Stiles' face. He looks him squarely in the eye, sees the uncertainty and the awkwardness pooling there, and he says, "We can't, Stiles."

But determination makes a fiery return to Stiles' face and Derek almost wants to smile because this is just like Stiles. He never lets anything get him down for too long, not without wanting to break down whatever barriers and restrictions prevent him from achieving what he wants.

Derek can practically see the cogs in Stiles' mind turn and, like a well oiled machine, churning out ideas and ways of refuting Derek.

But before Stiles can even open his mouth to start speaking, a high, terrified scream tears its way through the fragile fabric of the silence around them.