Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski’s life hadn’t been normal since he was 16 and learned werewolves weren't just a terrible horror movie cliche. Though he gave them mad props for being so much cooler than anything Twilight could give the masses. Granted Christina Ricci as a werewolf in Cursed...well hollywood at least knew how to give the masses hot werewolves. Even if they couldn't seem to get it right. And Hugh Jackman as a werewolf? That was so something he could get behind.
It’d all started when a psychotic rouge alpha decided the sleepy little haven of Beacon Hills was the perfect place to start losing his furry shit completely. He only bit Scott at first, though he didn't fucking stick around to explain anything. Like the sudden molecular changes going on in his best friend. No, that was all on Stiles to figure out.
Of course, Stiles did everything he could to help his best friend out. The guilt alone made drove him to near obsession. The only reason they’d been in the woods that night was because of Stiles. He wanted to go looking for the other half of some dead body. (Which disgusts Stiles to no end now. She was someone’s daughter! Someone mourned her!)
It was his fault they were stumbling around in the dark. And it was his fault he lied to his dad instead of pulling Scott out of the bushes and dragging him into the same trouble Stiles had gotten into. At least then they both would’ve safely gotten home. Of course, Scott, the freaking idiot saint he was (and still is) never blamed him and that had made the guilt that much worse at the time. He was actually pretty happy to be without his asthma.
The woman ended up being Lorelei Haskoli, a local college student and avid hiker. To this day, no one knows why the alpha ripped her in two but spared Scott with only the bite and a few scratches. Stiles will always be grateful though. He would have died along with Scott, even if he hadn’t been there physically.
The deaths continued, as did the bites. The frequency and choices never making any sense. After Scott, the alpha bit Jackson Whittemore (and oh wasn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic. Teaching the douche what he knew when he knew so little? Thank you Scott for being the muscle. Getting him to submit? That had been so much fun though. No really, he had enjoyed it so fucking much. And teaching him control visavie a heart monitor, lacrosse balls, and insults. So many insults.)
After Jackson (and an alarming amount of deaths, thankfully not all human or human adjacent even) their constant fucking nightmare bit Lydia Martin and brought the Argent family to town. They learned two things; banshees are a thing that exist (and cannot, in fact, be turned) and that the reason the world thinks silver can kill werewolves is because of an idiotic mistranslation.
You see, Argent means silver in French and as long as there have been werewolves, there have been Argent’s hunting them (by their “code” of course).
When Danny was bit, Stiles started to think the alpha wanted an invite to the cool kids table (mostly sarcastically). It did have him concerned about who would be next because the elite three were the powerhouse of the high school social standings. Where would one go from there if that was the alpha’s goal? And the murders? They were even more strange and erratic (and working his father into the fucking ground).
In the end, the young huntress fell in love with the forbidden werewolf (he refused to make a Romeo and Juliet comparison because they would not end up dead), Stiles learned the pack needed an alpha and became just that, and together the 6 of them put the rouge alpha down.
As a pack.
6 16 and 17 year olds, complacent in what could be considered 1st degree murder since there was definitely premeditation with malice aforethought, though with some serious self-defense thrown in there for good measure. Stiles had dealt the killing blow though. He didn’t want any of his pack trying to live and breathe with that holding onto them. The funny thing was, he never felt once that crushing weight he was expecting or waiting for.
The man he’d killed had hurt his family (because that’s what was pack, period) too much. Stiles would never feel guilt. He deserved what he got.
That was all in the past though. All a part of what got them all here today sure, but he, and the pack, fought fucking tooth and dirty nail to get where they were today. He just wished there wasn’t so much blood on all their hands.
Even if none of it was innocent.
They were a powerful, albeit strange, pack. That meant enemies and Beacon Hills was a beacon in and of itself. The blood spilled would always bother them but the reasons would make it better. They had to protect themselves, their loved ones, the town, and all it held.