Season Two’s fic writers branched out into genres that touched on many variations of Derek’s complex personality. There was something for every reader: humorous, domestic, tortured, feral, post-apocalyptic, and an epic story about fuckbuddies that turned into one of the fandom’s most beautiful portraits of friendship maturing into romance.
Stiles’ home economics teacher forces him to knit mittens. Nobody wants Stiles’ mittens, but then Stiles offers them to Derek, and Stiles is pretty sure Derek does these things purely to drive him crazy. What else could it be?
Stiles never knows if it’s worse when Derek Hale steps out of the shadows or when he slinks back into them; either way, Stiles never expected to have this many feelings about his stupid old yellow owl shirt.
Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter’s untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.
“Mistletoe was often considered a pest that kills trees and devalues natural habitats, but was recently recognized as an ecological keystone species, an organism that has a disproportionately pervasive influence over its community. In Norse myth, an arrow made of mistletoe was the only thing that was able to kill the god Balder. The goddess Frigg had asked all other things to vow not to hurt Balder, but she had ignored the mistletoe because it seemed too small to be dangerous.”
He has no idea what you’re supposed to say when you find one of your…werewolf acquaintances, completely out of their mind, growling like they’re about to see what your insides taste like. There’s no handbook for this. Stiles is thinking that if he survives he might write one.
Stiles is on his back on hard-packed dirt. He’s cold and there are leaves stuck to his neck and there’s a four inch gash in his side that he thinks he can feel his ribs through. There’s so much blood around him he feels like he’s floating on a pond and everything is so much dimmer above him than it was a minute ago, which is saying something because he’s in the dark center of the forest in the middle of the night. And the worst of it is that he’s alone, totally alone with the smell of his own blood drowning him and the soft side of him run through by a tree.As his eyes slip shut, the last thing he thinks is, “This is going to kill my dad.”