Prisoner003
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After the pack leaves Derek in Mexico no one hears from him the entire summer, although no one of them seems to mind, except Stiles. As the final year of High School fast approaches, he tries his best to keep the pack together as they are already all starting to lean towards different paths. Although Stiles' grades would benefit from a quiet year Derek's return to Beacon Hills set in motion things that Stiles could have never imagined. Although the rest of the pack aren't as keen to put college at risk to spend yet another year chasing the supernatural.
Bookmarked by Prisoner003
28 Mar 2025
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That dumb bitch. A stupid fucking witch. She just had to come to Beacon Hills after things had been quiet.
Luring the pack out thinking it was Stiles as if he’d asked the pack to meet at the preserve in the middle of the night. The pack stands, surrounding the witch in a circle. She looks at the pack before picking her victim. She runs to attack Stiles but Derek jumps in front of him at the last second.
“Derek! NO!” Stiles yells but it’s too late. The witch looks stunned before grinning; she cackles before punching Derek in the chest. A bolt of lightning shoots out of her hands and into Derek. He slumps to the floor growling. The pack runs to their alpha to stop the witch from doing more harm.
She stands over Derek. “You’ll kill your mate and your pack, you won’t be able to control the chaos inside. Too bad I won’t be here to see it.” She shrugs her shoulders before snapping her fingers and disappearing. The pack looks around to see if they can find her, when they turn up blank they turn back to Derek
Bookmarked by Prisoner003
26 Mar 2025
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Wherein an ill-advised floral arrangement leads to a whole new definition of obliviousness, accidental mate-bonds, and far more sex and tropes than one fic really needs.
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Five times Derek and Stiles didn’t notice how close they were (literally) and then a whole bunch of times when they did...
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Bookmarked by Prisoner003
26 Mar 2025
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A literal dick-measuring contest gone wrong (or right??)
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"Okay, if I win, it's unlimited booze and no kicking me awake for a week," Zoro says.
"And if I win, you're helping me with the dishes all week: that means three meals a day, snacks, beverages, and dessert, marimo."
"Fine, whatever," Zoro agrees with a grunt.
The two stand in just their underwear, squaring each other up in the shared baths. Sanji will admit that he'd taken a moment or two to reflect on the hilarity of the situation as they ran up the stairs to the bath, shoving each other as they went. But in those moments of reflection, the truth presented itself to him, simple and plain in its twisted, fucked up clarity. He just had to know.
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Basically my thought experiment here is to push the boundaries of how stupid they can possibly get around each other.
Bookmarked by Prisoner003
06 Sep 2024
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The last thing Sanji remembered was being sick. Though calling what he’d felt before he’d blacked out was doing the boiling fever, jarring migraine, and berserk territorial meltdown a *huge* fucking disservice. Zeff, and then Chopper, had warned him that suppressants were best used sparingly, and in reality, only for emergencies. An omega was supposed to manage their heats responsibly, and being on suppressants for extended periods of time could cause–
Shit. What if he’d hurt someone? What if he’d–?
A hand gripped Sanji’s arm. “Cook?”
No.
Oh, gods no. Oh, fuck no.
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Bookmarked by Prisoner003
20 Aug 2024