Chapter Text
If you ask anyone, they would say Stiles Stilinski was mediocre.
He’s 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones with sarcasm as his only defense mechanism. He’s not a threat like the people he runs with. Not like the werewolves with fangs, glowing eyes and sharp claws. Not like a banshee with death draped over their shoulders like a cloak and a penchant for finding bodies. Not like a hunter with wolfsbane laced bullets, Chinese ring daggers and a whole basement of dangerous artillery. Hell, he’s not like the sheriff who carries a gun and faces dangers head on and fearlessly or the nurse that helps the pack whenever they get hurt.
Stiles was just there. He was just a hovering human, providing unnecessary commentaries at the wrong times. Often leading to him getting slammed into a wall or getting scolded with a glare and glowing eyes.
The pack and everyone that ever interacts with Stiles should be annoyed but instead, they just felt endeared. There was just something about the teen that drew you in. Yes, his mouth was always running but he was dependable. He was the glue of the pack, always there with information about whatever creature they’re battling and there when the battle is over, providing comfort and affirmations of their amazing performance on the field.
But even with all those amazing things Stiles did, the pack still felt something off about him. There was this underlying feeling they try to bury when they’re around him. Like there’s something that the teen was keeping from them, something scarily powerful simmering in his fragile body.
They knew that Stiles had some sort of spark. When they confronted him about it, all he did was grin and told them, “I’m something special.”
They should’ve believed him.
(shameless plug!! here's a lydia-centric wip: wailing woman )