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thebigoblin · 2 years ago

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🥰 #10 "I give you permission...." for Sterek please!!

Hey! Thank you so much @princecharmingwinks for the prompt ❤️ Sorry for having taken so long (and I promise to others that I'm working on your prompts too, it's just slow going progress!), but I hope you like this!!!

This is written for my 300 followers celebration thing, from this list I believe. (I saw the “I give you permission” and I ran with it... it wasn’t until I was finished that I realized that wasn’t the prompt at all! I’m going to write that one too tho, because the prompt is so sweet, just not sure when).

This has also been posted on AO3 (for registered users) if that's more your style.

Relevant Tags: Angst With a Hopeful Ending, Pre-Slash, Self Love, (not the sexual kind), Flower Symbolisms, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski Is a Nice Thing

Achingly Infinite

Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski is prone to giving up easily.

Derek has known Stiles for, fuck, nearly six years at this point, and still he is entranced by Stiles' entire being. Every time he sees the human — now with a magical prowess that matches Derek's own level of comfort in his wolf skin, and he's a born werewolf — there is something new to behold. Skill, idea, movements, tattoos, a new facet of his personality — Stiles.

He's so much, means too much, and Derek is scared of the day he'll lose him.

Derek knows he's not relationship material. Unless he's being exploited, he's not worthy of being loved, and he believes this so wholeheartedly that when he sees Stiles look at him with that look, the soft look with his eyelashes fanning over tawny eyes, lips stretching into a smile, face and scent lighting up with happiness... he bolts.

He only has enough time to register the beginning of the souring of Stiles' scent before he's far away from the diner he and Stiles were supposed to meet at for lunch. Only then does he relax, and unlike normal people who would be ecstatic at knowing their love is reciprocated, he tries to come up with ways he can make Stiles hate him.

It's either that, or him destroying Stiles' life. And given any circumstance, he'll always, always choose the former.

Even though it will hurt. Will make him want to claw and cry and curl up in his bed. But that's the kind of love he has for Stiles — protective, overbearing. So much and so achingly infinite that his pain barely feels like pain when it's Stiles he's saving. Caring for, even in his own backwards way.

Derek isn't stupid. He knows this isn't healthy, isn't okay for him, but this is for Stiles.

For Stiles.

Derek manages to avoid Stiles for exactly a week before he's being cornered at the Sheriff's station, John himself standing guard outside his office while Stiles makes Derek stay with a flick of his hands. It's like being in a mountain ash circle, except there's no grey powder, or a circle.

"I thought this was an emergency," Derek utters when it's clear he's lost, that he's going to have to face this song if he wants the chance to dance the way he's planned meticulously over the past seven days.

Stiles fixes his steely, purple eyes on him. "It is," he agrees, "My Alpha isn't talking to me. That's a cause for concern, isn't it?"

Derek tries his best to not give anything away. Before he met Stiles' observant eyes, he used to have a mask so absolute he could have won billions in a poker game, but with each second spent with Stiles, he's lost it. Or perhaps Stiles has just gotten good with reading Derek, just as Derek has gotten good at reading Stiles.

He hopes to anyone listening above that he manages to pull the words, "Maybe he got sick of you," out so convincingly that Stiles will be hurt, will start hating him again, like he did when they first met. But all Stiles does is laugh, a hysterical, unbelieving sort of laugh, and Derek is confused. But he doesn't let it show. He scoffs. Says with enough contempt, "This. I tell you something, anything, and all you do is mock me. Ever think that's not what I need? That I need someone who respects my decisions and does exactly what I say?"

Stiles stops laughing abruptly. His eyes are their usual color now, a bright golden in the streaming sunlight from the window, his hair a wild mess, like he's been stressing out, pulling on his hair all day long.

Stiles says, "That's not what you want," and Derek bares his teeth.

"You don't know what I want, Stiles." I want you. But I can't have you.

"You want me." Startled, Derek lets his half-shift fade away, cursing himself mentally for being stupid and saying it out loud. He's been so careful these past years but now—

"Relax, you didn't say it out loud. And no, I didn't read your mind. I can't do the Charles Xavier thing, and you know that, Derek."

Derek rolls his eyes, and before he can stop himself, says, "If you wanted to, you could." Stiles smiles at him, and it's the first one since Stiles captured him in his father's office. The realization makes Derek's gut churn with anxiety, of having given up on his master plan to make Stiles hate him so easily.

Whenever he's with Stiles, his walls turn to dust, but this is ridiculous even for his standards.

Stiles seems to catch each one of his thoughts, because his smile keeps growing until it's a legitimate grin, so beautiful and breathtaking that Derek has trouble moving his eyes away. He just stands there, near the windows, in his jogging clothes — yoga pants and a tank top — staring at Stiles.

"You want me," Stiles repeats, and moves closer. Derek is frozen in his spot, sweaty palms at his side, his own heartbeat a war cry in his ears. "You've wanted me for a long time, Derek Hale... perhaps as long as I have you. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Derek doesn't nod, doesn't do anything in response to the fact. Stiles has stopped just a little away from him, enough that he's not encroaching so much on Derek's space. He continues, "I respect you. I don't always respect your decisions, because frankly sometimes they're just too careless, but I respect you, so I didn't say anything for the longest time. I figured you would come to me when it was the right time for you, but... it's been so long, Der." Stiles' voice breaks at those words, and instinctively, Derek brings up his arms to hug Stiles close to himself. Stiles doesn't resist.

Derek thinks about how to reply to that. To the newfound knowledge that not only Stiles loves him back, but that he's known for who knows how long that Derek loves him back, too. And Stiles has been waiting for him to further their relationship into the romantic territory, because it's Stiles, the one person who knows Derek best, especially his relationship with boundaries in general. He thinks about it, replaying the words Stiles spoke just now over and over, and finally, comes to a reply that is satisfactory, at least to him.

Stiles pulls back just as Derek opens his mouth, his face expectant and a little embarrassed.

Derek says, "I think you just answered your question."

Stiles' scent had never truly lost the tinge of anger, and at his words it rises again, like a wave in the ocean, rising with the pull of the moon. "What?" Stiles shouts, mouth twisting. "What the fuck does that even mean? Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you're pulling a Deaton!"

The comparison makes Derek's lips quirk upwards, but he pushes the feeling down, instead letting his eyes wander down to the wooden flooring of the Sheriff's office. He can still hear John's heartbeat outside, as well as a few officers, and he wonders what excuse John has given his officers in regards to all the noise coming from this room.

"Don't you smirk, douchebag. Answer me! I didn't plan this ambush for nothing, and unless I get some—"

Taking in a deep breath, his eyes still downcast, he says, "You said, 'your plans are careless,' and that's true. And that's where your answer lies." He looks up, and finds Stiles' confused face just inches from his own, the spark having moved forward further in his anger. Licking his lips, he explains, "You know me better than anyone, Stiles."

Stiles' face goes through a lot of expressions as he parses the meaning of Derek's unsaid words; confusion, more confusion, thoughtful, sad, anger, more anger, then sad again, livid, and the most damning of all... heartbreak.

"Derek..." Stiles says, voice so low it's almost impossible to hear. They stare at each other for who knows how long, and when Stiles finally unfreezes enough to come forward further, Derek steps back. Stiles' magic isn't stopping him, so he moves as far away as possible, stands at the door to drive home the point that he's done with this conversation.

He stares at the blindingly bright sky visible through the window as he says, "I don't deserve good things, Stiles."

As he leaves, he's grateful Stiles doesn't follow him.

Let it be said again: Stiles does not give up easily.

The day after the ambush at the police station, which he isn't exactly sure how either of the Stilinski’s pulled off, Derek gets a bouquet of flowers delivered to the Hale house. At first he thinks it's for one of the betas, so he picks it up from the porch — the smell of the daffodils overpowers the scent of the human, and it's so strong that Derek sneezes twice — and puts it on the center of the dining table. It looks good on the mahogany table, and after searching it for any cards at all, which he doesn't find, he shrugs and heads for his daily jog.

It's the one thing that takes his mind off of things easily, so he doesn't dare miss it. As he leaves he calls out to Boyd and Erica, "There's a bouquet here for you!"

They call out in confusion, but Derek doesn't turn back around. He figures it must be for Isaac or Cora or Jackson.

He doesn't realize how wrong he is until he's picking up the fifth bouquet of daffodils off of his porch on the fifth consecutive day, the gifts devoid of any name of the person who is sending them. But by the fifth day, Derek has a pretty good guess who it might be.

He hasn't been to Stiles' house for days now, for good reason, but he's a wolf on a mission. So he swings inside Stiles' bedroom through his perpetually unlocked window, takes one whiff of the room, and flashes his eyes red at the spark sitting innocently on his desk chair, arranging the sixth bouquet.

"I told you—"

"You told me, and I quote, 'I don't deserve good things, Stiles.' And see, I can't just accept that. You should know, because as I've also told you, I love you." Derek looks away from Stiles' beautiful face, and Stiles tsks. "Oops. I said I wanted you, right? Eh, same thing. I want you, I love you. I love you, I want you. Anyways. What was I saying?"

Stiles says the words as easily as he's breathing air. Like loving Derek isn't a chore, isn't a part of a well executed plan that he needs to play perfectly for some ulterior motive. Like loving Derek is just... a thing that happens, one Stiles loves that it has happened.

It's too much, so much for him, and he just wants to leave. Wants to push Stiles away so that he doesn't end up making Stiles bleed with him. But he's transfixed, as he always is when he's watching Stiles; his fingers work quickly, deftly as he plucks away the extra leaves on the stems, the little blue bow adjusting nicely on the bunch as Stiles lowers it inside the little plastic, then the vase.

Derek takes said vase numbly when Stiles hands it to him. "Since you're already here," Stiles explains.

Derek wants to ask why Stiles loves him. How can he love him? Doesn't he see how Derek destroys everything he loves? But instead of all that he asks, "Why flowers? Daffodils, specifically?"

Stiles beams and excitedly tells him, "Daffodils symbolize new beginnings! And I wanted you to start a new journey. It seemed fitting. So." Stiles shrugs, like it makes perfect sense.

"Stiles," Derek says, pained. "I can't—" I can't ruin you, is what he wants to say. "I can't."

Stiles' beam turns into a small smile; a little sad, a little encouraging, and all Stiles. "I know," he says like he heard what Derek couldn't say, "I know. I had other plans for you, actually."

Stiles' heart stays steady, so Derek forces himself to ask, "What did you have in mind?"

Stiles' hands wrap around Derek's, both their hands wrapped around the vase. New beginnings, Derek hears in Stiles' voice, at the same time Stiles says, "The most important journey is the journey of loving one's own self. I want that for you, Derek. I want you to love yourself, so that one day—"

"I can love you and not be afraid of it?"

Stiles' smiles brightens as he admits, "I'd like that." Derek can't help but smile at thought: In a distant future, when he'll be Stiles' and Stiles will be his, and he won't feel bad about it. "But more than that, I want you to love yourself because I want you to see that you deserve good things. Things that you want."

They stare at each other for a moment, Derek's eyes following Stiles' tongue as it darts around to wet Stiles' lips. In that split second, Derek thinks about leaning forward, the vase being crushed between them as they kiss. He thinks of not waiting for who knows how long for the day he can call Stiles his, for going in right now and never resurfacing. But then he flicks his gaze back up and into Stiles' eyes, which are earnest and fond, bright and beseeching.

Stiles wants Derek, but he wants Derek to believe he deserves Stiles in the first place. Because if Derek is being honest, Stiles is the nicest thing he can have — if only Stiles will have him back in return.

And Derek wants whatever will make Stiles happy.

So he says, "Okay," and cradles the vase carefully in his arms.

"Is that you giving me permission to do whatever it takes to make you love yourself?"

Derek doesn't know what the future holds, but he does know that Stiles won't ever lead him astray, so he agrees readily. "I give you permission to do anything to make me love myself." He frowns. "But no Disney movies marathon. Last Christmas was more than enough."

Stiles' laughter follows Derek all the way home, the vase of Daffodils held gently against his arms.

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