#superdeanlover

Hi @maxialae!

Not exactly sure what you’re looking for, but i’ll give it a go:

Seven Deadly Sins

Skip The Glory by ffairyy (Junghope, One-shot, E, PWP)

cardinal sins by lovinyoongi (One-shot, M)

The Seven Deadly Sins by superdeanlover (One-shot, G)

Chocolate Cheeks and Chocolate Wings by whalien101 (One-shot, M, Jikook OR Jungkook-centric)

apoplectic by sugodemic (One-shot, T, Seokjin-centric)

Demon

Death is Only a Minor Setback (Series?) by BTSsfc (kpopshipfics) (Namjin, 5 Chapters, NR)

one look and you’re mine (keep your eyes on me now) by uglytwinkz (Vmin, One-shot, G)

midnight illuminance by spacemarch (Yoonmin, 2 Chapters, NR)

Ambrosia by novilunar (Jikook, One-shot, E)

Book of Introductions by Bon_Voyage (Jungkook/Everyone, One-shot, M)

As always, it’s not exactly the prompt but sort of?

(If you’ve got Sterek requests, I’m in a mood. > Ask)

~500 words.

“Got everything packed?” Stiles is in the doorway, looking expectant.

Derek looks at Stiles, then back into his loft. He raises an eyebrow in question.

Stiles glances out and back in quickly. “Come on. We gotta go.”

And maybe Derek has missed some line of communication. He checks his phone, but there’s nothing. “What are you--”

“Now, Derek. Come on, come on.” Stiles walks in and rustles around for a duffle, shoves clothes into it at random. “We should already be on the road. Chop chop.”

Bewildered but feeling too rushed to give up, Derek and Stiles are back in the car less than a minute later and Stiles is driving them off to who knows where.

I am having health issues.

Today, I had an ultrasound done. In my last OBG exam, my doctor found a lump and sent me to a specialist for an ultrasound.

I prepared.

I googled an ultrasound, so I knew what to expect. I wore a dress that was easy to get out of so I could change quickly. I wore slip on shoes for comfort, and I had a full charge on my phone and clean undies.

I walked into the hospital scared, but ready.

Once, I was in the room, I found out I was getting a “traditional” ultrasound and a uterine ultrasound as well. (This is where they put a probe in your uterus to take pictures)

The specialist was very polite and clearly explained everything to me. They constantly checked on me to make sure I was doing well and was as comfortable as possible.

But I was terrified.

I am laying there bare for the waist down. There is gel on my belly as the specialist slowly runs the transducer probe over my abdomen. They took detailed pictures of my uterus, cervix, and ovaries. They measured blood flow/circulation to my ovaries and uterus. They set up scales to show the size of my cervix, uterus, and ovaries. They asked me to hold my breath as they measured circulation and got videos of ovaries.

I wanted to cry a few times, because I was scared but I took deep breaths and remained calm. I just stared at the ceiling as this thing happened to me.

Then it was time for the probe.

I scoot my butt to the edge of the table and waited for the “chaperone” to come into the room for the second procedure to begin. I got to say “nice to meet you” as I lay on my back, feet in stirrups with just a thin sheet to cover me.

I jokingly said, “I love to meet people like this.” Thankfully the specialist and nurse laughed. I was told to relax as this probe got put in me and we continued to careful picture taking, recording, and measuring.

I lay there as this thing happened to me. The truth is that I needed to happen, so I know what is wrong with me.

I am having health issues.

I don’t know if its fibroids, cancer, cyst or anything else that google might give me as an answer. I can’t fight what is happening in my body; because I don’t know what it is yet. As I did my best to keep myself calm, the specialist mentioned that I was such a good patient.

I had not complained. I had not asked for extra time to get used to anything. I was ready to help to get information/pictures so that my doctor can tell me what is wrong. As I cleaned up and got ready to leave, I realized that there is a huge difference between what happens to me and what I put up with. Going through this procedure was necessary. It HAD to happen to me, so I know what is going on.

But this is very different than having to put up with gender, racial, and social inequality. I know sometimes we have these experiences and my personal default is to accept that these things happen. It’s easy for me to accept that someone will say something about my race or gender in anger. I get surprised every time, but my default is to accept this as something that happens.

Today was a reminder that there is a lot I do not need to allow. There is a lot that doesn’t have to happen to me. There is a lot that doesn’t have to happen to many people in our society.

No one needs to yell a racial slur at me to “put me in my place.”

No one needs to make comments about my body to shame me into acting how they see fit or to live up to their standards.  

No one needs to downplay my concerns, worries or words.

I’ve watched 0% of Teen Wolf season 5. So. Uh. Here’s Sterek anyway. (And…if you want it, you might get a sequel/more.)

Before Derek disappears, he pays Stiles a visit. It isn’t the first time, but it is, too.

It’s the first time things go from talking, from just being in the same room, breathing the same air, to something wordless–but not soundless, no. The muffled sound of skin on skin, of breath catching, the slick back and forth slide of–

But then Derek is gone.

Stiles showers, scrubs his skin red and raw. He washes his sheets over and over again and hopes that none of the others will know.

He doesn’t tell them about the nightmares, but his dad knows. And that’s enough to keep them from asking too many questions about why he’s so meticulously clean, why he won’t let anyone touch him.

Stiles tries not to be obvious.

It’s Malia who tells him that he smells weird. They’re not really together anymore, except when they are. It’s a comfort thing, a need for some kind of contact. And Malia doesn’t make it weird.

She tells him that it smells like there’s been a girl in his room and he raises an eyebrow at her, as if that much should be obvious. She shoves him, says, “Not me.”

“Then who?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I guess…I guess it smells like you. But also…” There’s a look that crosses her face, but she shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles starts to feel off though. His nightmares morph into other things, start centering on something growing inside of him. He thinks it’s the nogitsune again, almost expects it even in dreams, but they’re wolf claws that finally puncture through the skin of his stomach, prying their way out.

It’s Derek who stands in front of him. Faces away from him.

He reaches out, but then he curls in on himself, crippled by the pain in his abdomen.

It still hurts when he wakes up and he clutches his stomach, buries his face in his pillow so he won’t make any noise.

Stiles doesn’t want his dad to worry.

So, in lieu of seeing an actual human doctor, Stiles ends up going to Deaton.

With Deaton, he can be honest–about the dreams, if nothing else. Deaton knows. And Stiles tells Deaton all that he thinks to say, anything that seems pertinent.

Deaton approaches it with the same kind of serious concern he approaches everything else, especially given their history. “In the dream,” he starts, looping his stethoscope around his neck, “it’s something inside you?”

Stiles nods, swallows, taps his fingers under the edge of the metal table he’s sat upon.

Then, Deaton’s getting out those things that vets don’t need–strange herbs and objects Stiles can only guess the purpose of–and Stiles whispers, meek and helpless, “Please tell me it’s gone.”

He means the nogitsune, but Deaton’s face is carefully blank as he performs some sort of ritual that Stiles is literally too freaked out to pay real attention to.

“It’s not the nogitsune,” Deaton says, and Stiles doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief.

“Then what is it?”

Stiles can’t leave after he hears the news. He sits in his Jeep, hands glued to the steering wheel, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Get rid of it,” he’d told Deaton, voice rough, the sound punched out of him.

But here he is. Here it is. The curious part of him itches to reach down to his abdomen, to feel if it could really be there, but he clenches the steering wheel instead. “Goddamn it, Derek,” he murmurs under his breath.

Eventually, he drives home, locks himself away from his dad and Malia and Scott and anyone else who might try to talk to him. Not that anyone comes, not tonight.

He has an intense nostalgia for Derek dropping by, can see it is his head: Derek climbing through his window, Derek appearing behind him soundlessly, Derek sitting at the edge of his bed and unable to make eye contact. Stiles blinks away tears he didn’t realize had been forming. Derek was only the latest in a long list of people leaving, but it seems particularly unfair. After all, they had finally found Derek and then he had left. On purpose.

And Stiles is left with this– His hand hovers over his abdomen and he finally presses down. This is one of many marks that his life has left on him, but this is one left by Derek. Not that Stiles isn’t to blame.

If Derek weren’t what he is, Stiles would’ve left his fair share of marks, too–where fingernails had clawed into Derek’s back, where his teeth sank into Derek’s shoulder as he muffled a sob, a cry, a curse.

It had only happened once, even though Stiles had probably imagined it hundreds of times, perhaps thousands.

Stiles wonders if he could find Derek now, but he doubts it. The Hales are particularly good at disappearing, it seems. Hell, Derek hadn’t known one of his sisters had survived the fire until she had come back.

Lying back on his bed, Stiles tries to just breathe. “Derek,” he says, as if it will somehow summon the werewolf back to him.

He falls asleep in his clothes–jeans and shoes and all–on top of the covers.

He wakes up to tapping and, as groggy as he is, he thinks again of Derek.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes that it’s light out and that it’s his dad knocking at the door. He glances at the clock and swears under his breath. “I’m up!” he shouts.

The day doesn’t drag by so much as disappear completely in the haze of Stiles’s mind. When Scott nudges him, he grunts in response, nods when Scott asks him if he’s okay. Scott looks at him with concerned eyes, but he shrugs his friend’s gaze off, murmuring, “Don’t worry about it. No big bad wolf knocking on my door or anything.” Unfortunately, his mind so helpfully adds.

A month passes like this. Stiles is a few months in, he knows. And his body isn’t shy about telling him through various aches and pains, the stretch of his skin.

He doesn’t gain as much weight as he probably should, but, despite everything else they’re always going through, Stiles’s friends take note of the changes in him. After the nogitsune thing, he guesses they can’t afford to ignore boring, human Stiles anymore.

“What’s wrong?” “What’s going on?” “Are you okay?” “You smell different.” “Don’t keep secrets from us.” “Why haven’t you said anything?”

Much as Stiles normally loves to talk, he makes Deaton explain–and the idea has Scott even more freaked out because…if Deaton is involved, it must be serious. They come find him after, come to his bedroom and confront him with all their thoughts and questions and–

“Can’t you get rid of it?” Malia asks, blunt and oblivious to the shock it will cause.

Stiles opens his mouth, words caught in his throat: Don’t you think I want it gone? “Can’t,” he ends up saying, after shaking his head a moment, uncertain. “Deaton doesn’t know what that’d do to me, anyway,” he explains, as if that’s the entire reason he hasn’t tried. He doesn’t add, He doesn’t know what this will do either.

“Wait…” Scott starts, and Stiles braces himself. He knows that Scott has put it together finally, that thing that no one else has dared to ask. “Isn’t there…another person involved?”

Malia looks alarmed. “It couldn’t be mine, could it?”

Stiles can laugh at that, although it comes out sharp and bitter. “No. No, it’s not yours. God, is anyone else hungry?” he asks, deflecting. Malia and Kira are kind enough to go grab something, but Scott isn’t ready to let go.

“Who?” he asks, claws lengthening. It makes Stiles want to laugh again, but he just keeps sitting, knees pulled up to his chest, hiding himself. “Stiles,” Scott demands, with an anxious glance at the door, as if a werecoyote and a kitsune couldn’t hear them anyway.

Stiles lets out a long breath. “Who do you think?” he asks. He thinks it should be obvious, but his friend’s furrowed eyebrows say differently. His finger traces the initials out onto the bed, the ones that he had stared at on the wood. DH.

Scott’s eyes narrow, then widen. Before he says it, however, Kira and Malia return, arms stacked with everything they could find in the house.

“Oh, my god. Thank you,” Stiles tells them, and begins rooting through the selections. He was lying about being hungry, of course, but he can make a show of it for their sake. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s even capable of eating now.

Eventually, he convinces them to leave, although Scott lingers.

“DH?” he asks. “DH as in… As in Derek?”

“Goodnight, Scott,” Stiles says, and shuts the door behind him.

Stiles can never shake them at school after that. Everywhere he goes, he knows there’s a protective presence nearby. It’s almost like the old days, when Derek would show up to stalk him and Scott. He didn’t think he’d ever miss that.

Missing it now seems stupid, but this thing in him… This thing is part Derek and Derek will probably never know unless he comes back to Beacon Hills to die like everyone else has.

Maybe it’s best if Derek stays away.

He decides this, reminding himself of it every day for another month or so, until even going to school is too awkward to bear and he has to tell his dad, has to stay home, claiming stress and trauma and all these truths that are not the truth.

Stiles has to tell his dad whose it is–his dad won’t let that go, no matter how hard Stiles tries to say it doesn’t matter.

“Derek’s, alright?” he finally shouts. “It’s Derek’s!”

He pushes even his dad away.

But one morning he wakes up and he’s…warm.

Stiles enjoys it for a moment–comfortable and groggy and always exhausted–but it doesn’t take long for him to realize it’s not right. Is it another dream? Is it… Who is it? His heart starts racing and he’s about to slam an elbow back just in case and–

“It’s me.”

Stiles’s entire body goes tense. “Derek?” he says, barely a whisper.

“Stiles,” Derek–Derek?–says.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Will he ruin it by turning around? It can’t… It can’t really be him, can it?

There’s a hesitance in the voice and the uncertainty reflects Stiles’s own. “Can I?”

A hand waits above his abdomen and Stiles gives a minute nod. Fingertips barely brush over his rumpled t-shirt before he hears the gasp and has to turn, has to see for himself.

“Derek?” And it shouldn’t be a question this time, but it is.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, presses his forehead to Stiles’s.

Generic pregnancy class stuff, okay.

“Breathe,” Dean tells Cas, as the instructor has told him and he has yet to fully grasp the concept of.

“I’m breathing,” Cas replies, and he sounds annoyed. He hisses and places his hand over Dean’s on his distended belly. He can feel their kid kicking away–strong and stubborn, just like Dean–and wishes Sam hadn’t convinced them to do this stupid class.

“Is there a problem here?” the instructor asks, and she sounds far too patient.

“Yes–” Cas starts, and Dean interrupts.“We’re great,” he says. “Perfect.” He nudges Cas. “Right?”

I owe you so many things. I’m sorryyyyyyy.

Metatron has taken his grace and Castiel can feel his tail changing, shifting into legs.

He’ll be able to walk the land.

(Metatron laughs, knowing he can do the same. Knowing what he’ll do to Castiel’s precious human once the time is right.)

Castiel drags himself onto the beach. Legs don’t work the same as a tail and it’s a struggle to haul his body onto a rock. He doesn’t have time to rest. He needs to find him.

To find Dean.

He makes it halfway to the castle before he realizes people wear clothes and manages to convince a guard that he’s been shipwrecked. He’s seen dozens of shipwrecked sailors, so it’s only as awkward as he is. Unfortunately, that means very.

Luckily, the guards assume his oddities come from exposure and near-drowning, taking enough pity on him to loan him a thing or two.

When the door of the castle cracks open, it’s him.

It’s Dean. Openly staring at the sight before him.

Castiel clears his throat. “Dean,” he says. It’s the most important word he can think of.

Dean swallows. “Have we met?”

“Once,” Castiel says. “I pulled you from the wreckage of your ship.”

Dean watches him another moment. “Thanks.” It sounds skeptical and Castiel takes a step forward.

“I want to protect you,” Castiel says, all in one breath.

Dean scoffs. “What makes you think I can’t protect myself?”

“Dean,” Castiel says again. It’s all he can think of.

Castiel staggers forward and Dean’s hand to his chest stops him.

They stare at each other a moment and it’s as if there are magnets drawing them together because Dean doesn’t think about it.

They’re a hair’s breadth away when a finger taps Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turns, expecting to see his brother, but instead he finds a stranger grinning at him.

“Hi,” the stranger says. “You can call me Metatron.”

Dean can't believe he's even here. Two years of community college on his little brother's insistence and now he's at a real university.

The orientation group moves along and Dean isn't paying a lot of attention to their guide--it's not necessary--but rather appreciating the fauna, as is what he considers a clever euphemism. He cringes, however, when he realizes how many of the girls look about eighteen.

Considering his time off, Dean is in no shape to date an eighteen-year-old. The age difference is...too much. It's too much and Dean doesn't want to be that guy.

It doesn't stop him from keeping an eye out, however.