Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/527976.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Gore, Dubious_Consent, Mindfuck,
      Stiles_is_a_little_bit_cracked_here_but_I'm_not_sorry, neither_is_Peter,
      sigils_and_blood_and_gore_oh_my
  Series:
      Part 7 of Teen_Wolf_Drabbles
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-03 Words: 455
****** Nocturnal Rites ******
by scrapbullet
Summary
     The boy that runs with wolves does not rest easy in his bed, not when
     he yearns to join them.
     No, not them. Him. Just him, and although it's been but a few nights
     since Peter had parted flesh like the red sea Stiles can't stop
     thinking, dreaming, becoming-
     Becoming other-
     Come to me. Dig down deep, past the mud and ash and excrement, find
     me.
He is split open like red fruit, viscera wet and gleaming where his soft
insides nestle against one another, safe-and-sound, squashed in tight with not
a single space between. The rope of intestines twined within the abdomen is
slick to the touch, yielding beneath his fingers, but he's careful, so careful,
lest he rupture delicate organs and cause further injury.
Peter is not yet living, and it's such a shame.
What is a spell but mere belief? Belief like the dripping maws of a man-come-
wolf, fangs yellowed and growling deep within the chest like the warm amber
liquid his father drinks. Belief like the swollen belly of the moon and the
howls of delight that accompany it in the night, when Stiles turns and rests
his weary head upon his pillow, listening.
The boy that runs with wolves does not rest easy in his bed, not when he yearns
to join them.
No, not them. Him. Just him, and although it's been but a few nights since
Peter had parted flesh like the red sea Stiles can't stop thinking, dreaming,
becoming-
Becoming other-
Come to me. Dig down deep, past the mud and ash and excrement, find me.
Below his fingers Peter becomes alive. Sigils, drawn into Stiles' very skin,
lends power to his will; rise, rise because I want you to, because I need you
to, because I need-
Fingers retract from within the bloody chamber, and flesh knits to flesh, once
grey and dead now pink under old skin, burnt and blackened, under old blood,
old life. Peter's chest rises and falls, and Stiles kisses his mouth, tasting
the stale and smoky air that stagnated within deflated lungs.
Peter does not return his entreaty. It doesn't wound Stiles, no, not when Peter
cups his bloody hands and licks at the thin web between his fingers, sucking at
the knuckles until the scrape of teeth makes Stiles wince. Who needs a kiss
when there is this?
Who needs a kiss, a kiss of lips and mouths like a two-legged human, like
civilised people, when the Wolf has other ways of showing affection?
"I chose well," Peter says, and his breath is rancid, chapped lips pulling
upwards into a mockery of a smile. His teeth are smeared with blood and soot,
but Stiles doesn't mind, doesn't mind at all, nuzzling against Peter's cheek
like a whimpering dog. "You're such a good boy."
Stiles hums, pleased. The praise makes his face flush.
He dons red, then - like the gore caked under his fingernails - and Peter
follows on steady feet, nude, hair slicked back with sweat and soil; Lamb and
Wolf.
Later, when the pack howls at the moon Stiles doesn't feel so alone.
He doesn't mourn.
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