QUICK NOTE: This story was inspired by the art from tumblr user stiles-wtf
Before you read this, please check out this post: because it has all of her lovely art with Stiles with tattoos and being a badass and it's the only reason this story exists and that I ever even could imagine Stiles as a badass werewolf hunter in the first place. The cover image for this story is hers! All hers! I take no credit for it. So go check out her stuf. It will make reading this story 100x better if you see the pics, promise!
Ah-woooo! Ah-ah-ah woooo!
Stiles pressed down on the button once more, the small, thumb-sized silver device in his hand emitting the cry of a wolf in need of aid. Smirking to himself, he slipped the device back into his pocket before reaching down to pull up his black jean pant leg to get at the knife strapped to his leg.
The sharp, metal blade glinted like jewels of light on the ocean's top, the full moon reflecting magnificently against it. Without any hesitance, Stiles brought the blade across the bare skin of his ankle, slicing just deep enough to draw a line of blood, watching as it pooled first beneath the skin, a dark, amassing promise underneath pale flesh before slowly oozing through a brilliant red.
With the tips of his fingers, he swiped up the blood before sheathing the knife and standing back up. Taking no precautions to hide his presence, he swaggered through the forest, trailing his bloodstained fingers across tree trunks, bushes, and leaves.
It was only a few minutes before he heard the animals in the forest around him go silent.
Game time.
Stiles rolled his shoulders back, the finely trained muscles pushing together and pulling apart in a seamless wave. He leaned his head to each side, stretching his neck, small cracks and pops emitting from the effort before he reached for the red bandana that hung around his neck, pulling it up to cover his nose and mouth.
Another minute passed. The animals going quiet, sensing the threat of a greater predator around them, always alerted Stiles to a werewolf's presence, but that was only one of the tricks Stiles had learned to make up for the limited ability his human senses provided him with.
The careless snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves as the wolf approached, also not finding any need to hide his presence, thinking himself the biggest beast in the jungle, let Stiles know without a doubt when they were near. Just as it did now.
"Hereeee puppy, puppy, puppy, puppyyyy," Stiles singsonged into the darkness. His nerves were bouncing, his fists curling and uncurling, nimble fingers itching to be put to use as they anticipated a good fight. His ADHD was buzzing impatiently, making it hard for Stiles to wait, to not just move forward and attack. It was one of the biggest hurtles Stiles' had had to overcome in his training, but it also had its advantages too, giving him almost a never ending energy level to go toe to toe with the biggest and baddest.
A snarl up ahead and to his left had Stiles instinctively shifting towards the noise. The snarl soon turned to a laugh though as a man, not a wolf, stepped into the moonlight. The man's features though, were wolf-like: ears elongated and pointy, fingernails sharpened into claws, and large fangs hanging over a thin bottom lip.
"What's a lonely little human doing all by himself in the woods on a full moon? Didn't grandma ever teach you not to mess with the Big Bad Wolf?" the man said, voice still slightly hoarse from the transformation from full-fledged wolf to human.
"I must have missed that memo," said Stiles conversationally, like he was having a chat with a close friend and not a good-for-nothing supernatural mutt.
The man laughed again, more heartily this time at Stiles' nonchalance.
"Funny, though," continued Stiles, making a show of picking at his fingernails as he leaned lazily against a tree, "that's what your mom called me in bed last night."
That cut the werewolf's laugh short. His eyes flashed a dangerous blue, the color immediately fanning a long burning flame within Stiles. Blue. That meant the man had killed another human being.
"What'd you say, you little shit?" the man spat venomously, baring his fangs at Stiles.
The man was a good two or three inches taller than Stiles, and buff with muscles like a pile of boulders, where Stiles was lean and lithe like a jaguar. Stiles didn't even flinch. Instead, he moved away from the tree, his nerves buzzing like live wires as he reached into the backpack that hung off his shoulders. He grasped the handle of his trusty bat and pulled it out.
"I said your mother has quite a creative vocabulary," Stiles said, twirling the bat around his arm, flipping it to his other hand. "She moaned all sorts of names for me while I was giving it to her good last night. 'Mmm, yeahh, you're so big. My Big Bad Wolf, yes, yes, just like that.' Stiles moaned, closing his eyes and sucking on his bottom lip.
He let his eyes flash open, a mischievous glint playing across the pools of amber. "My second favorite was when she called me God right before she cam-"
That was all it took. The werewolf came charging at Stiles, blind with rage. Stiles was ready for him. Twisting the heal of his bat, spikes sprang from the wooden barrel. Neatly, Stiles dodged the wolf's first attack, swinging the bat expertly and catching the man's back with the spikes as he went sailing past him. Using his momentum, Stiles spun, following through on the rebound of his arm and catching the wolf one more time.
The man howled with rage and pain. Stiles twirled the bat by the handle, bouncing on his feet before taking a defensive stance.
"I'm going to kill you," the werewolf swore, the words ripping from his throat. "I'm going to strip the flesh from your body inch by inch and hang you out to dry for your mommy and daddy to see."
The playful smirk fell off of Stiles' face; his body stopped bouncing as he became eerily still, his heart only just daring to beat as his fingers gripped the bat so hard it made his whole arm ache.
That was the wrong thing to say to Stiles.
"Sounds like fun," Stiles bit out. "At least I know who you get your creativity from."
This time, Stiles was the one to make the first move. The battle went on for what felt like hours for Stiles but he'd later find out had been only minutes. It ended only because the werewolf set off the trip wire Stiles had laid earlier in the day.
Allison, who'd seen the last couple minutes of the fight, had called Stiles out on his bullshit later when he said that had all been part of the plan and that he hadn't forgotten the wire was there at all, and no, he had not been blinded by rage, like she'd insisted, and had not been careless and reckless and all the other 'lesses' because of it. He was a fucking professional, thank you very much, and he didn't need anyone telling him how to do his job.
If the trip wire hadn't gone off, Allison and Chris Argent would have stopped Stiles anyway. The werewolf, Matthew, according to the driver's license Chris had shoved into his face and made him read the next morning, was getting the worst of the fight. Stiles had his arm cocked back (just to knock the guy out, he'd insisted to the Argents and to himself later that night in the bathroom mirror) when Matthew stumbled back, his arms held limply out in front of him in defense before he was suddenly being whizzed into the air.
A second later, before Stiles could make another move, the rest of the hunters came rushing forward out of the woods, surrounding the werewolf and pulling Stiles back, taking the bat from his hand. Stiles had resisted at first, a red haze covering his vision, before he finally settled back down enough to get the other hunters to let him go.
Before Stiles let the others cut the wolf down though, he'd taken his knife back out and cut the shirt from the man's back. He was met with the sight of blank flesh. He'd pushed him away with disgust. After he'd been cut down and the Argents gave the whole spiel about staying out of their territory and warning him that if he came back and started harrassing the locals again, they'd kill him, Stiles walked back over, chest heaving, as he grabbed the guy around the neck from where he was kneeling, exhausted on the ground, forcing the man to look at him.
He'd tugged his bandana down, making sure the wolf had a full view of his face. "My name is Stiles fucking Stilinski. If I had my way right now, you'd be dead." That wasn't true. Stiles never killed if he could avoid it, and he'd very nearly done it that night, his rage sometimes getting the better of him, but it was a useful threat all the same. "So you're going to answer my question shit bag, and answer it honestly or I'll say fuck the Code and finish what I started, you got that?"
The man glared at him with pure hatred, but after a second, he nodded. Stiles let go of the man's neck and reached into his back pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it out. "Have you ever seen anyone with a tattoo like this on his back?"
Matthew squinted at the paper for a moment, but said, "No."
On the paper was the image of a triskelion, three lines that formed a triangle of sorts, their tops all curling into spirals.
"Don't lie to me," Stiles warned through clenched teeth.
"I'm not fucking lying, you little cunt piece of sh-"
That earned the guy another punch to the face before Stiles was being pulled back again. Stiles shook the other hunters off him before heading out of the woods and climbing into his jeep without a backwards glance.
Water trickled down Stiles' neck to his bare chest. He cupped his hands under the running faucet one more time before splashing the water onto his face. Gripping the sides of the marble sink, Stiles stared at his reflection, assessing the damage done from the fight a few nights ago.
If there were any lingering bruises or cuts, Stiles couldn't see them anymore, but that might have just been because of the extensive tattoos that covered 2/3 of his body. Both of his arms were fully covered. On the top of his left arm, near his shoulder, was the head and neck of a wolf, and then further down his arm were black bands with tribal markings, all of them meaning something special to Stiles. On his right arm, what looked like the scaled body of a snake spiraled around his shoulder and part of his bicep, and further down he had more markings, different animals in a unique design and other symbols. On either side of his neck were matching images of dragon heads going towards his throat, and then there was one of his favorite tattoos, the words "Bite Me" written in sprawling cursive at the base of his throat, on his clavicle.
The water dripped down his torso, past the wings and eagle heads that lined his sides, all the way to above his groin where the word "Here" was written in the same cursive, right above the Batman symbol that was peeking out from under his boxer-briefs.
Sighing heavily, knowing he'd have to go down and join everyone for breakfast and that he couldn't hide in the bathroom forever, Stiles ran a hand across his face, urging himself to wake up. He paused for a second, idly fixing his hand over his mouth. There was a black tattoo of a wolf's muzzle on Stiles' left hand, its mouth open and teeth bared so that if Stiles lined his hand up just right over his mouth, only his eyes peeking through, it looked like the wolf muzzle was a part of him.
A knock came on his door. "Stiles, you awake?"
It was Allison. "Yeah," said Stiles after a moment, grabbing a towel and starting to dry off his hands, face, and torso.
"Good, then hurry up and come downstairs. If I have to sit through mom and dad's passive aggressive conversations alone again when you're the one they want to be glaring daggers at, I'm going to set all of your comic books on fire."
Stiles barked a laugh. "Okay, okay, I'm coming. Just don't eat all of the waffles before I get down there, okay? Or I'll hang all of your Chinese daggers from the oak tree. Again."
"Try it and i'll hang you from the oak tree. With the daggers," Allison retorted, and Stiles could hear the smile in her voice.
The beat of silence told Stiles she had walked away, so he went over to his drawers and grab-bag picked a pair of jeans before slipping them on, grabbed a random shirt and slipped his purple hoodie over it before leaving his room and making his way down the grand, spiraling staircase.
Already, he could hear voices coming from every room of the Argent mansion. People walked through the halls, some on cellphones, others in groups, many with papers in their hands or manila folders. They all greeted Stiles with a nod or a 'good morning.' The only thing Stiles could muster up this early was a small nod of his own in acknowledgement before he pushed through the double-doors of the dining room.
The atmosphere in there was in sharp contrast to the steady, productive buzzing of the outside halls. A tense silence filled the air, except for the occasional clinking of utensils against plates and bowls. Stiles had no idea what they were upset about with him this time, but it seemed to be a reoccurring theme, so Stiles wasn't too worried.
Victoria sat at the head of the table, a beautiful vision in her grand, green and gold velvet lined chair, flame red hair contrasting brilliantly against it. Chris sat at the other end, more demure in his tastes and demeanor, his chair made of simple dark oak, though his piercing, ice blue eyes held all of the intensity he kept inside. Allison sat in one of the chairs placed along the side of the long mahogany table, looking fashionable in black leggings, a black skirt, and a vibrant blue sweater with a pattern of black hearts. She looked like she'd just walked off the streets of Paris during Fashion Week, while Stiles looked like he'd rolled out of bed, picking up a pair of clothes along the way and continued rolling until he'd ended up here. Which was nearly the truth of it.
Stiles plopped into his chair and went straight for the pile of sausages, scouting around for the pile of waffles. Victoria had already begun filling her plate, so it was okay for the rest of them to. He could feel her eyes on him as well as the rest of the Argent family.
"G'mrning," he said around a mouthful of bacon before washing it down with a gulp of orange juice.
Allison rolled her eyes and kicked him under the table, but a quick glance at her showed she was muffling a laugh behind her hands.
"Good morning, Stiles," said Victoria, sharp, cat-like eyes watching him closely.
That look would have stopped most people dead in their tracks, their organs freezing over and giving Antarctica a run for its money, but Stiles only finished chewing and smiled back brightly before turning to look at Chris, who only stared unamused at Stiles' antics and his wife's response.
Stiles had always been closer with the matriarch of the family. His more...aggressive methods had always matched up more closely with hers than Chris', who was more reserved in his methods, who stuck closer to the Code. Allison followed after him, and because of that, they were closer. But Stiles knew that none of it mattered because both of them would always love Allison more in the end, seeing as she was their actual daughter and he was just some runt of a kid they'd picked up on the side of the road.
None of that bothered Stiles though, not really, because he also loved Allison more than he loved either of them. She was the sister he'd never had but always wanted. They bickered a lot when it came to hunting, and they had vastly different interests that they used to fill their free-time with, but in the end, they were just as close as if they did share a blood relation. Also, it probably helped that Allison could kick his ass more often than not, which put the end to most arguments if anything got too heated. She would be the next matriarch of the family, which ranked her higher on the chain than Stiles, and he had to respect her. Regardless of all that political bullshit though, Stiles respected the hell out of her anyway.
He continued to feel their stares as he ate, making it hard to thoroughly enjoy his breakfast of grease and eggy goodness, so finally, he let his fork fall onto his plate with a clatter as he held his hands up in front of himself defensively. "Okay, look, I don't know what Mr. Elderburg told you, but I wasn't the one who stuck a red sock in with his tighty-whities and turned all of his underwear pink, and I definitely wasn't the one who sewed all of it into a flag and stuck it on the roof for everyone who drives past to see."
Honestly, Stiles didn't know how anyone had found out about that yet. He'd done it in the middle of the night last night. Mr. Elderburg was the head butler at the house and he'd never liked Stiles. It may have something to do with the Stiles' colorful vocabulary, his tendency to make the house dirty in a matter of seconds, and the endless food he ordered after a long hunt. Stiles was always appreciative of the butlers' and maids' help though, was never disrespectful, and he liked to think the ongoing war between him and Mr. Elderburg was all done out of love underneath it all.
"No, Stiles, that's not what this is about," said Victoria.
Stiles slumped back into his chair in relief. "Okay, cool, what's up then?"
"Wait," said Chris, sitting up in his chair and blinking in disbelief at Stiles. "What did you do to Mr. Elderburg's clothing?"
Stiles' mouth popped open. Shit.
"We can discuss that later, dear," said Victoria to her husband. Chris looked from her, back to Stiles, and then back and forth once more, but said nothing else. But he gave one last look to Stiles that said they definitely would be discussing this later and that he better have a damn good excuse. Stiles only smiled wider at that. Chris was strict, but he always gave his lessons with care, and they usually ended with a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, or even the occasional hug if Stiles had gotten really deep into something.
"Finish your breakfast," she instructed to the table, "then we'll discuss business in the drawing room."
The rest of breakfast was more relaxed after that, Allison and Stiles engaging in playful banter while Victoria occasionally critiqued something and Chris smiled at the kids' playful jibs at him.
Once in the drawing room, Stiles took his usual seat on the couch closest to the fireplace, which already had a fire blazing warmly. Allison sat on the other end of the couch, while Chris and Victoria took their respective seats. Stiles wanted to go over to one of the shelves, find a good book, and curl up for a couple hours before starting training, but the occasional morning business meeting cut into that sometimes, and this one was all about him, he could sense, so he immediately went into business mode, not bothering to test the family's limits with playful or sarcastic remarks.
Chris pulled a file out of a tote bag that was thick with at least an inch of papers. Stiles straightened up in his seat. This was another mission. A very important mission if the already considerable size of the file was anything to go by. A part of him hoped as he always did that this was the lead he'd been waiting for, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing he'd get answers quicker if he just listened.
"We've been keeping an eye on a case for over a decade now," said Chris, looking between Stiles and Allison.
The blood in Stiles' veins began to thrum faster, his heartbeat picking up as his body started to vibrate with anticipation. This had to be it...
With a flick of his fingers, Chris opened the file, staring down at something on the first page before continuing. "The Hale family is one of the oldest werewolf clans in the world. We've kept track of their movements for just as long, but we opened a separate file after the fire that took out more than half of their pack."
Confused, Stiles blinked rapidly up at Chris, wondering how this was connected with his dad's murder. Sure, he had heard of the Hales before; what werewolf hunter worth his salt hadn't? They were practically werewolf royalty, but no one had heard so much as a peep from them in years.
"Over the past year, one of the Hales, the new alpha, has amassed a sizable new pack." Chris picked off the first page, and laid it on the table, pushing it towards Stiles.
Stiles grabbed the sheet. On the page was a picture of a ridiculously good looking man, a careful cropping of thick black hair, a layer of stubble across a hard jawline, an angular nose, and fire-blue eyes. He also had eyebrows for days, Stiles noted, which were pulled together broodingly.
"That's Derek Hale, the leader and alpha of the pack, and one of the only survivors of the fire."
Something was tickling at the back of Stiles' memory. Something about the name Hale and the mention of a fire...But he couldn't put his finger on it, the thought dancing just out of reach.
Stiles looked up from the image after assessing the guy's height and weight (his eyebrow quirking up at the word "Bi" written next to "Sexual Orientation" and how the Argents even knew that and why it was relevant) wondering which sheet included his interests, like long walks on the beach, candle-lit dinners, killing innocent people under the full moon...
"Okay?" said Stiles, looking back up at Chris and Victoria. "So what do you want me to do?"
Now it was Victoria who spoke, something playing behind her green eyes that Stiles had never been able to guess at. "We want you to infiltrate Derek Hale's pack. We want you to get close to them, especially Derek, and find out what he's planning, why he decided to build a pack now after all these years, and find out what his suspicions are about the fire."
Again, Stiles was confused. "Why do you need me to go undercover? Why don't we just bring the wolf in and make him answer our questions?" That question was meant more for Victoria. That was her usual method. Capture the mutts, bring them in, lock them up, and question them until they got their answers. Sure, that method was usually reserved for werewolf's they already knew were guilty of a crime, but still, if this guy had something to do with his dad's murder...
"Because we only want to gather information, there's no need for more...excessive methods until we know anything for sure," said Victoria.
Something still wasn't sitting right with Stiles, a piece was missing.
"What does this have to do with my dad, though?"
Both Victoria and Chris looked at each other before Chris cocked his head to the side. "This isn't about your dad's case, Stiles. This is a separate mission."
The realization struck Stiles like a slap to the face. "No," he said, shaking his head and tossing the paper away from him. "I'm not going undercover. You know I don't do those kinds of missions. You swore that as long as I stuck to the Code and helped the family, I could look for my father's murderer along the way. How can I keep looking if I'm stuck in one place trying to cozy up to some dog? Just to what? Find out information on some fire that killed his family? Why do you care anyway?"
It was true, Stiles never stayed in one place for long. Ever since the Argents had taken him in at the age of 13 and started training him, he'd made it his mission to find the werewolf that killed his father, and to do that, he needed to travel. So when he was old enough to start missions, he first started going out of town with other hunters, and then when he got older, he went by himself, spending days and even weeks out of state if he had to, tracking down werewolves and completing missions. And each time he caught one, he'd check him for the triskelion tattoo and question them about it. So far, he'd had no luck.
But that was why he couldn't just stay in one place. He had to keep looking because while he was doing that, the person responsible was still out there, killing more people's fathers and sons and daughters and mothers.
"We haven't forgotten your mission, dear," said Victoria. Immediately, some of Stiles' anger started to slip away. It was rare for Victoria to use terms of endearment, and already she'd done it twice today. "But, if anything, infiltrating the Hale pack could bring you closer to finding your father's killer. They're one of the oldest clans, and they have connections that will introduce you to werewolves that you would never have any chance of meeting by just going hunting on your own. Gaining the trust of the Hale pack will almost guarantee you access to information as well as having their willing help in aiding you to find your father's murderer."
Stiles bit his lip, worrying at it as he looked down at his hands. That all sounded...reasonable. More than that though, it was a good deal, better, in truth, than just running around and chasing down every werewolf he could find. If the Hales' connections really ran as deep as the Argents were saying, then this truly was an offer of a lifetime...
"Why me?" Stiles finally asked. The unspoken question was 'why not Allison?' Stiles was hot headed, bold, and reckless. Sure, he could be extremely stealthy and could handle basically any mission, but Allison was born to go undercover. She had the type of personality that endeared people to her, made them want to tell her things. Maybe once, before his dad's murder, Stiles might have been the same. Maybe he had been likable, surprisingly charming, and fun to be around. But not now, not anymore. He had more important things to worry about than winning Mr. Congeniality.
The Argents were silent for a moment, and Stiles realized that whatever they were about to say next was the cause of the tension in the room at breakfast that morning. "What?" he prompted when they didn't speak.
"We chose you for the mission because the Hales are from Beacon Hills, and that's where Derek has started building his pack."
Stiles' eyes narrowed. "Okay...," he said, slowly. Sure, Beacon Hills wasn't the number one spot he'd like to vacation at. It was his hometown, where he had lived with his mother and father before they died, but going back wouldn't be much of a hardship, and that still didn't explain why he was being chosen over Allison.
Sure, the Argents were a well-known hunting family, one of the oldest, just like the Hales, but Allison was always careful to keep a low profile, making sure not to hit any werewolf's radars. Unlike Stiles. For a moment, he flashed back to a few nights ago when he'd tugged his bandana down and spat his name at the werewolf Matthew, making sure the guy remembered his face and name. It was stupid to do, but Stiles was angry at the guy for mentioning his parents even though he couldn't have known, and really, Stiles was the one who'd started it.
Still though, Stiles was usually very careful at keeping his identity concealed, especially because his numerous tattoos would be an easy identifier. He always wore long sleeved shirts and pants and fingerless gloves though to conceal the markings. Which was all a particularly good idea for Stiles, because his methods of taking down werewolves was becoming a bit more brash, a bit more trademark with his bat and aggressive, though extremely skillful, tactics.
Chris pulled another sheet of paper from the file and slid it to Stiles. "That's a list of all the known members of Derek Hale's pack."
Scanning the list, Stiles saw names such as Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes...
And then he saw it.
Scott McCall.
A sweeping sickness rushed through Stiles' stomach, and he had to grasp the arm of the couch to keep from swaying forward. Iron rings seemed to clamp around Stiles' lungs, squeezing the air from them, his muscles all locking up at the same time.
"Scott?!" he finally managed to croak out. "Scott's a werewolf?"
No, no, no, no, no. That couldn't be true. There was no way his childhood friend could be one of those hideous, awful, merciless beasts. He couldn't be...
A look of sympathy was splayed across Chris' face, his eyes apologetic. Victoria though, remained cool and collected. "Yes," she said. "Which is why we need you to do it. You're the only one who can. You will return to Beacon Hills and reconnect with your old friend. Gain his trust again, and through him you will infiltrate the rest of the pack. The Hales were an extremely intelligent family, one not easily duped or pulled in by fancy or flashy things. It's why they survived so long, and it is likely that Derek Hale is no different. He would never let an outsider in without extreme and arduous consideration. It would take Allison years to get close enough. You, however, will have Scott as a reference."
"I'm not - I'm not," Stiles sputtered, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his old best friend was a werewolf now. "I'm not the same person I used to be. I'm not that kid anymore. I was - I was a dork. I could barely walk across a flat surface without tripping, and I sure as hell wasn't covered in tattoos."
"That's why you've been trained every day for the past six years. You have the skills to fight, but you also have the skills to deceive, to use your extraordinary talent to get the information you need. It doesn't matter who you are now because you will become someone else, you will become the person you have to be to befriend Scott McCall again. You will reconnect with the adolescent version of yourself and become him again. Become the person you would be now if your father hadn't been killed."
It was then that Stiles' realized his chest was heaving, and he was nearly at the point of hyperventilating as he listened to Victoria speak.
"Do what you have to do to infiltrate the Hale pack, or you'll never find the man with the triskelion tattoo. You'll never find the man who murdered your father."
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, if you liked it or anything. I'm wanting to continue it because it was a lot of fun to write, but if no one's interested, I'll just keep it to myself ^_^
Also, like I said, please go check out her art, it's seriously awesome