The very first time Stiles murdered someone, she was 15 years old and still covered in the blood of her homecoming date.
"Get back!" she had shouted frantically, stumbling out of Jackson's Porsche. Once Derek and Scott were a safe distance away from the rampaging alpha that was Peter Hale, Stiles wasted no time and lit the Molotov cocktail clutched in her trembling hands. An outside observer would have assumed that they shook due to fear, but they would have been wrong. Stiles had been seized by a rage so primal, she could scarcely see anything wrong with attempting to set a burn victim on fire. Again.
When Peter caught the beaker, just before it made contact with his mottled fur, he had the nerve to look smug. The look of triumph quickly morphed into one of fear when a vicious smiled curved Stiles' lips. With a quickness to rival a werewolf's, she pulled her dad's .327 magnum revolver from the waist of her jeans, clicked off the safety and fired off a shot that shattered the glass. Immediately, the elder Hale's arm was enveloped with a fire that he couldn't shake off.
If anyone had asked, Stiles would have told them that sound of Peter's shrieks and the smell of his burning flesh felt like victory. She would have told them that he deserved that agony ten times over for even thinking about hurting Scott, that she would have ripped his flesh from bone if she had the strength to do so. Instead, she would have to settle for watching Derek slash his throat to ribbons.
Good thing no one asked.
Afterwards, once all the deaths were tallied, Scott gently sat her on the freezing forest floor and whispered into her hair, "I'm so sorry you had to do that."
"I'm not," she uttered so softly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
A few days after Lydia's love had made Jackson into a real boy, Stiles found herself standing on Scott's front porch. She waited for what felt like hours before he finally opened the door.
"Stiles, do you know what time it is?" Scott grumbled sleepily. He was only dressed in low slung Batman pajama bottoms and Stiles had to take a moment to appreciate that.
"I dunno, a bit past midnight?" she muttered with a shrug. "Can I come in, please?"
For the first time since he opened the door, Scott looked at her, really looked at her, and was immediately shocked out of his drowsy stupor by the sight of her. There she stood, casual as you please, as if she weren't drenched in blood.
"Oh my God, Stiles, are you okay?!" Scott exclaimed, probably waking up half the neighborhood. He reached out and tugged Stiles into the house and into his arms.
A soft huff escaped the girl as she sank gratefully into her best friend's embrace. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just had a bit of an accident," she murmured quietly against the too hot skin of his chest.
"Come on, let's get you changed out of those clothes," the wolf whispered. He pushed the front door quietly, so as not to wake his mother. She wouldn't have responded positively to a teenage girl covered in carnage dripping blood onto her hardwood floors.
Later, when they were wrapped around each other in Scott's bed and Stiles' head was tucked under his chin, she spoke for the first time in hours.
"Gerard wasn't very nice when he held me captive for those few hours. He beat the fuck out of me, all the while asking if that was what a human who ran with wolves was made of. It took me a little longer than expected, but I finally gave him my answer."
"And what was that?"
"He was only conscious for so long after I had ripped his intestines out, but he lived long enough for me to tell him that we're made of gunpowder and lead. Then, I put a bullet between his eyes."
"I'm sorry you had to do that." Scott's arms tightened around her.
"'m not." she yawned, pressing closer to his warmth. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
Stiles was very much tired of arrogant, self-serving, possibly psychotic alphas coming into her town and threatening what is hers. Peter Hale was bad enough when he was on his misguided and poorly executed plan for revenge. But now, this deranged, blind "alpha of alphas" had dared to come to her town and attempt to steal Scott away from her. Deucalion was operating under the assumption that Derek and what was left of his pack would be his strongest opposition. He hadn't considered that the spastic, slip of a human girl in Scott's shadow would pose even a minor problem.
They never do.
"It would seem, Mr. Demon Wolf, that you have mistakenly underestimated the lengths I will go to in order to keep Scott out of your Braille reading hands."
Bright, red eyes tracked every calculated step of the tiny human pacing before him. It was quiet in the warehouse they stood in, aside from the oddly calm thud of her heart. The girl seemed so at ease in the presence of a predator, as if she weren't two missteps from a violent death.
"And how do you figure that, Miss Stilinski?" Deucalion asked politely, his tone vaguely disinterested. He had things far more interesting than the token pack human to be dealing with in that moment. But, he had nothing but time on his hands and she was an obstacle between him and obtaining what he had come to that God forsaken town for.
In lieu of responding verbally, Stiles simply smiled in that sweet way that she was wont to. She raised her clenched fist, the right one, and opened it to reveal a handful of powder. Deucalion raised an eyebrow in amusement and adjusted his grip on his walking stick.
"Is that mountain ash and wolfsbane I smell, little human?" he inquired lightly. Perhaps the girl was far more clever than he gave her credit for. Not that it mattered in the long run because, "What do you plan to do with it? That's not nearly enough to trap me. But, I'm sure you knew that."
"That it is," Stiles responded placidly. "However, you shouldn't make assumptions; it makes an ass out of you and me." She looked at him, expecting at least a chuckle, but received a deadpan expression. "Hey, fuck you, I'm funny." Stiles snarked with a frown. "But, we are getting off topic, aren't we? Do you think I'd honestly come all the way out here, on a school night, to meet you unprepared? Far from it, good sir. You would be surprised what a retired emissary is willing to teach you under threat of death."
Before Deucalion could take time to process that statement, Stiles closed the short distance between them in a burst of speed he hadn't expected from her. She did not hesitate and blew the powdered concoction into the alpha's face. He yelped and began to paw uselessly against his burning skin and finding that he could not remove it due to the mountain ash. There was nothing he could have done to stop what happened next, because Stiles was many things and ruthless was one of them.
"I figured that you would a bit harder to kill," Stiles admitted with a casual shrug of her shoulders. "So much for that, though." She lifted the aluminum bat gripped in her left hand and swung it forward with all her strength. There was something deeply satisfying about the sound of her bat connecting with the alpha's skull made. So, she did it again and again until the contusions stopped healing and he stopped screaming.
Once she had disposed of the body, Stiles went home and changed out of her bloody clothes before heading to the McCall residence.
Hours later, when the last campaign on Call of Duty was finished, Scott set down his controller and turned to face Stiles who sat next to him on the couch.
"Wanna explain why you smell like you just bathed in the blood of your enemies?"
"Deucalion was a problem that had to be taken care of because he wanted to hurt you and I couldn't let him do that. So, I caved his skull in and left his corpse on Derek's porch as a gift. He was robbed of people important to him, too."
Leaning over, Scott pressed his lips gently against hers. "I'm sorry you had to do that," he murmured once he'd pulled back.
"Don't be. I'm not," Stiles laughed softly. "There isn't anything in this whole world that I wouldn't do for you."