Archive of Our Own ^beta

He was beautiful. 

Positively magnetic. 

Dripping an unspeakable allure that drew Stiles in.

And still does when Stiles digs for his smouldering body on the battlefield — the Hale Mansion slouching into the dirt in the middle of nowhere — a few years later.

Smoke clings to the site like a taunting reminder of its past, the tendril-like wisps of it covering everything he reaches, disturbed and stronger with his knees and fingertips shoved beneath the earth, crawling up his arms and sticking to him as well.

Corked bottles weigh down the bag he slung around his shoulder in a hurry, clinking against one another with his movement and shimmering as the moonlight hits them. 

He didn't check the labels of them too carefully, far more nervous about anyone barging in at any moment to stay in the backrooms of Deaton's magical vet clinic a second longer than necessary.

But regardless… One of them has to work, has to make this right again.

Burnt flesh and foliage penetrate his nose the further he goes, the stench of rotten, scorched remains filling him with the guilt of not coming sooner. 

He couldn't have. Too many questions to prepare for, too many witnesses to evade…

The extra time gave him an advantage though. Gave him a thought-out plan instead of the in the moment impulse damage control he'd need to do.

And now he's eighteen, grown. With his jeep ready to go and a stash of hidden cash in the glove compartment next to a map with a trail marked in red ink. With the determination to finally get out of this town, Peter in tow, and disappear from the face of the earth completely.

Stiles sighs. It's merely wishful thinking. But he has hope that this ritual thing could actually work.

Hope — the only constant in all of this.

His nails caked with mud, he clears the last few inches before a disfigured skull emerges, dirtied and yellowed in the time it had spent underground. 

Yet, as repulsive as the filthy and bloodied leftovers of him are, they're just as mesmerising with the elongated snout and dangerously pointy canines that promise a lethal bite to anyone (un-) fortunate enough.

Stiles finds himself oddly drawn to it. As he did when that voice followed him home, soothed his worries, anchored him to reality. When the owner of said voice kept him from immediately leaving Beacon Hills after the incident went down. Peter… 

It's always been Peter.

And he couldn't possibly go without him. Not like this.

Soon, it whispers, snaking around him in a touch that lets a bout of shivers explode down his spine. 

Soon.

Stiles cups the skull almost lovingly, an earthworm peeking up from the hole of the right eye. Following its sluggish movements until the worm unceremoniously drops straight into his lap, Stiles traces the side of the bone as if flesh and skin would knit itself together again if he merely wished hard enough, giving him the soft shape of the man he needs, craves. 

Determination flares within him. He'll make this right again.

In Peter's ribs, ivy has grown, entangling itself with the crevices of his chest cavity, filling the hollow space with its demanding presence. As if it had all the rights to it. As if Peter asked to be degraded to a glorified green house…

Further down, moss stains his heavy bones in a sickly green not so different from the remaining plants that haven't shed their leaves yet, ants and other little crawlers using him as their very own hideout. As a home. A mere silver platter to store,  preserve and serve their food. 

Rage boils within him. Peter didn't deserve this. 

You couldn't have stopped them, the voice says and Stiles knows, reluctantly allowing the tension to leave his shoulders. He'd heard it more than enough already. Swirled it around his mind and tongue far too often. Yet there's always that tang of bitterness regret to it.

Stiles wanted to. Even back then. But explaining it, arguing in Peter's favour, to keep the murderer alive… The words wouldn't have come. Not yet. Not the way they'd do now.

So he stayed silent, instead listening to the comforting timbre of Peter's words that somehow still echoed in the wind long after his embers faded out of existence while Stiles hid in the warmth of his blankets, finding enjoyment in that eery familiarity and the gradual forming bond.

Peter had watched him through the years, Stiles is sure of that. Saw him change, age, saw him imbued with power greater than he could ever imagine only for it to be taken away again, leaving him as a husk with a spark of magic, a spark of mischief that kindled within him ever since. 

Allowing him to master some supernatural spells himself, some basics. It was a start. Not nearly enough to work this resurrection without a more advanced magic tome or some potions.

Stiles absentmindedly worries his lip. He still gets phantom shivers at the memory of the ancient power coursing through him to this day, pleasant tingles crossing his whole frame in sparks of electricity if he focuses hard enough...

Resting Peter's forehead against his, he breathes him in, feels him, his being, his soul, the spark of life simmering beneath the surface, before he carefully settles Peter amongst his array of bones.

Reaching for the first few bottles in his satchel, he arranges them in a messy line that circles the heavy tome in the middle before lightly feeling along the textured spine with a deep inhale to ground himself.

He can do this. 

The imprint of a skull adorned by lillies graces the thick and weathered leather binding, looking promising enough as he flips to the front page that reads in elegant lettering — Ex morte ad vitam.

One after the other, he pulls the stopper free with his teeth and uncorks the bottles, spilling the bright emerald, indigo and purple mixture directly over the exposed remains that sizzle, crackle and pop upon the liquids coating them.

They cascade down the massive structure, collecting on the ground below and soaking the earth, coating it in a faint shimmer of violets that manifest in burgeoning blossoms that fill the hollows between his bones.

Okay, okay… 

Dropping the empty vials into the bag again, his nimble fingers speed through the pages, eyes merely skimming for that big bold text that'll warn him of the dangers of attempting such high level of magic, of the sacrifices that'll inevitably have to be made for this— 

There. Finally.

The corners of his mouth pull upward in an ecstatic rush, tongue wetting dry lips eager to mutter the following incantation after the success of the first step.

His hands shake searching for the words, sweating, heart pounding from pure adrenaline and the forbidden nature of it, from the anticipation of ultimately righting the wrong that's been hanging above him ever since as dark cloud, a cloak of dense smoke that curled around and seeped into him when Peter died at his hands…

Only one more thing.

With the stone, oh so perfectly laying to the side, jagged edges reflecting the dim moonlight, he snatches it and cuts across both palms, hissing in pain before exhaling in relief.

Placing his palms on the skull arranged neatly on Peter's ribcage, Stiles recites the words while his blood drenches the other's remains maroon, letting it flow down the bony structure of a weathered soul to give back the life Stiles once stole. 

Giving him form, giving him shape, a body, a frame, a mortal vessel to house his remains, to return his soul, his whole being, weaving flesh and tendons into a construct to hold feeble bones together in a wrapper of protective skin.

“Stiles.”

Flames, fire, the pyre of that night mirrors in his vision, his touch igniting, burning hot and bright, and he recoils at the burst of light, turning his face to shield himself, the stench of death, of rotten embers and decaying foliage, only mildly overshadowed by the bitter, herby scent of the potions.  

When the smoke dissipates, he rubs his eyes, peeking up from under his arm to scan his creation, a huge hunched-over, heaving bundle of mangled skin and fur looking back at him with piercing eyes. 

“Peter?”

Blinking, Stiles' vision clears, taking on crisp edges of someone in a permanent state of shift — deadly claws and fangs, yellowed and cracked with age, on full display, while the wind ruffles the ragged pelt clinging to his frame in uneven tufts, revealing nasty scars gracing each space between rippling with the shallow, shaky movements of breath. 

And then there are the irises tinted in a hue of blood staring right back into Stiles' soul.

Every bit monster that goes bump in the night, every bit folklore creature that strikes fear and terror into every child unwilling to come home when the sun goes down, that dares to wander too far into the unknown of a deep forest… 

And every bit perfect to Stiles. Every bit a masterpiece of his own making. 

“I knew you'd miss me once the moment died,” the voice rattles, teasing as ever, maybe a bit lower, rougher than usual, crawling into his ear, and Stiles can't look away from that searing crimson gaze burning into him, can't help it but submit. Finally. “Once the adrenaline wore off and the need to prove yourself to those misfits you called your friends in fear of what they might do if you don't. Once your little heart returned to its normal pace and your mind registered the flames leaving only my smouldering remains in its wake. Only then, it was too late, wasn't it? And then they forgot about you regardless of your sacrifice…”

Stiles' vision grows bleary and Peter — the one he magically breathed life into — tenderly rubs his cheek with a calloused, clawed hand gradually gaining warmth. “You've lost so much, my dear. You couldn't have known. None of my anger is directed toward you. My rage is reserved for those who made you do it.”

“I knew you'd come back to me,” Stiles merely says, his hand joining Peter's on his cheek to lean into the touch as a few hot streaks of tears wet his face.

“Always.” Peter reaches forward, claiming his mouth in a messy kiss that's more sloppy tongue than anything else with his wolf-like snout. Nevertheless, it still reaches the desired effect of transforming Stiles to putty in the other's grasp, the caffeine high dwindling, his mind easing into blissful submission.

Slowly parting, Stiles slumps against Peter, his weight resting against the other's scarred front as they slink to the ground, inevitably kneeling in the wet soil. 

“Did you see me put that sword in Scott?” Stiles chimes up, probably red and out of breath, facing the other just in time to see those dangerous eyes glint with glee, strong arms wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

Like this, their obvious difference in size sits as a quiet reminder between them, Stiles growing hot with Peter positively towering above him.

“You were amazing, darling. It was spectacular.” The tips of Peter's sharp nails dip below the hem of his sweater, intruding on the flesh of his warmed back and running soothing lines down his spine that elicit delicious goosebumps. “How I wish I could've been there in person. See his face contort in pain and the realisation of your betrayal. That no mischievous ghost spirit would want to see him dead as much as my perfect Spark scorned by their reckless actions. My, what a show that would've been.” 

Peter's hands stop mid-back and the serrated edge of his claws tease the skin, bending the surface, testing its resistance.

“I ordered the Oni to kill her too. Allison. Right in front of poor Scott. His agony... All for you.” Stiles breathes, deep, taking in his scent, his everything, his words soft, clinging to the other's newly formed flesh and digging his face into the crook of his neck as his face erupts in blossoming heat. “Fuck, Peter. If only I'd gotten to Lydia too. With you by my side...”

“You would've been ethereal. My angel of destruction all spread out next to the carnage, writhing oh so beautifully on my knot and claws.”

Said claws dig deeper, maybe a hair's width of the tip penetrating into Stiles already, drawing a pleasant sting and a hiss, warmth collecting at the source and in his abdomen. 

And there's that typical smirk again, that charismatic show of teeth even in this twisted version of him. “You want it too, don't you? You reek of it. My offer from then still stands. You want the bite? My teeth in you? Marking you as mine?”

“Yes. I need you, Peter. Fuck. Needed you so much…” He swallows, grasping at Peter's, fur tickling his naked throat while his nose presses against his cheek and claws rake across his back in one long, final, agonisingly long swipe. 

The action etches multiple deep grooves into his unblemished flesh, breaking, bursting him open for Peter's pleasure until his huge palms tenderly settle at his waist, his grip lighter yet just as bruising, claiming. 

Perfect.

The copper scent grows stronger as the cotton of Stiles' sweater soaks up the burning liquid welling to the surface, the pain of the fibres sticking to the fresh wounds twisting his gut in a way that causes his groin to throb.

He lets out a whimper as Peter gingerly cards a few bloodied fingers through his hair, the other hand supporting his chin with dripping digits that leave scarlet imprints as he catches him in another kiss, this one even more hungry, all teeth and tongue and pure need.

Before Stiles can react, reciprocate, get his brain to wrap around what's happening, Peter breaks off the kiss, turning him and pushing him into the dirt

Shoving Stiles' sweater over his head and his shorts and boxers just below his knees, Peter's teeth dripping with saliva roam over his neck and the side of his face, taking him in, testing his prey. 

And Stiles' dick stirs in the bunched up fabric of his pants from Peter's imposing presence pulsating against his blood-lathered back.

“Gonna gnaw on me, Zombie Wolf? Eat me?” he teases, turning his flushed face to see Peter's gaze glitter with something animalistic and utterly feral at the suggestion. 

Yet there's that last shred of humanity pulling Peter back, only allowing him to minimally indulge, rutting into the pools of red on his back in short bursts, mixing pre-come and blood.

Stiles licks his chapped lips, fingers twisting in wet grass and soil as he forces a sound past them. “Come on. Take me, Peter. Mount me. Rip me apart.”

And Peter lets out a bellow that vibrates through Stiles as well, shaking his lungs and rattling his bones as that monstrous glans catches on his rim, paving its way into his tight heat with the makeshift lube of blood and pre.

It should disgust Stiles, it really should. In some normal human reaction to being fucked open by ones own fluids and a mangled corpse on top of that. Yet he cannot bring himself to shy away and rethink his decisions when his hard cock speaks for his stance on the matter.

Every nerve in him sings as the searing pain of being ripped open mixes with the blinding pleasure of his prostate being hit, a garbled noise similar to that of a strangled kitten escaping him. 

Stile's knees and arms wobbling, Peter centres him with clawed hands on his hip and chest, surely feeling the vibration of his groans spilling out of his raw and overused throat as he's aligning him to his front in this perfect arch of his spine bending to his monstrous frame taking up every available inch of his body.

And when Peter's wet snout noses his shoulder in warm huffs, huge canines also testing his flesh, drool collects on Stiles' bloodied chin, his eyes screwed shut in preparation of what's to ensue.

The teeth cut into his nape, first only shallow and then, once Stiles all too eagerly throws his mouth open in a sound ripping at his vocal cords, his cock jerking in its fabric prison of boxers and shorts, far into the meat. 

It breaks skin and flesh apart, pulling on tendons to make place for his overgrown teeth just like his cock made a place for itself inside Stiles, forcing him to take, stretch and bend with every thrust pounding against his prostate — the precision more sheer luck and coincidence than any calculated movement.

It surges straight through Stiles in blinding flares of pleasure that wet his pants in streams of pre that Peter surely scents as well, the grin noticeable even in his current state of attachment to Stiles' shoulder.

Still thrown forward with every push inside, Stiles braces himself with his elbows against the soil and leaves, but to no avail, the desperate attempts of stability of his frail frame only driving his face into the mud. 

Eyes watering, lashes fluttering, and rabbit heartbeat thumping in his ears, he bites down on his fist, his body drowning in adrenaline to cover the ecstatic sting of teeth and claws breaking him apart from above, taking what's theirs.

And, as the moonlight bathes them in this otherworldly glow, Stiles' magic spark rears out to meet Peter, calling for him, inviting him in, inviting that knot, that lock and those teeth to burrow themselves in Stiles' very core and Peter obliges. 

He bites down further, tugging, tearing, shredding, until his whole maw closes fully around Stiles' flesh, the site gushing with a hot, wet warmth that cascades down, lower, to his throat, over his bobbing Adam's apple…

“Tear me apart, big guy, come on.” The plea slips past Stiles' chapped mouth without much thought to it, all of him running on instinct, on want and carnal pleasures that need to be fed in this hazy daze of rapture burning him from the inside out, bleeding into every crevice of his being.

And then silence as a stomach-churning rip and a snap, accompanied by wet little squelches and beautiful crunches, reverberate through the clearing, everything else muted out with the rush of blood thundering in his ears and his heart pounding in his throat, pants soaking with his release, a tremble coursing through him.

Yes, yes, yes.

Stiles falls forward, boneless, moved by the force of it and the might of Peter's knot popping into place in his eager walls, flooding his insides while tears slide down his cheeks and over numb lips bitten raw.

Wet splotches of what must surely be a mixture of spit and blood dot his spine as Peter messily chews and swallows, before leaning in and licking it from his tingling skin and the wounds he left earlier while clawed fingers dig into his sides again, feeling bruises that'll last

And Stiles' mouth pulls into a loopy grin despite the saliva and dirtied leaves stuffing it, the acrid taste of burnt foliage and decomposed remains overwhelming his tongue, reaching down to his airways. 

The smell of it burning in his nostrils, he lays there, blissfully spent, come turning tacky between his thighs, eyes glassy, vision blurry, pain only an afterthought of the pleasure that engulfed him, scorching rivulets of blood gushing over his back, down his shoulder and soaking the dirt just as Peter lets out a howl of claim, of victory.

But the sound of it is muffled when it arrives, a whisper, a caress, the only sensation left the throbs of his lover's knot pushing even deeper, pulsing in time with the spurts of come still filling him.

He allows his eyes to close, exhaustion finally taking over him, strength leaving his limbs, his mind swirling like feathery wisps in circles around this very moment, the remnants of magic within him burning, cresting in a blinding white explosion.

Until it all goes dark.

He wakes again only minutes later, it couldn't have been any longer, to a rough tongue caressing his nape, a rumble reverberating in Peter's chest that almost sounds like a purr if he didn't know any better.

“There you go, easy… The first few hours are the worst,” he says and Stiles wants to ask why he'd say such a thing until it comes back in a rush of clarity, his eyes widening.

His chest heaves to cough up the mud and leaves, his fingers flexing to hold onto the earth with little claws of himself. 

“You?—” Stiles asks, torso tilting up to Peter, the action pulling on where they're still locked together and drawing a hiss from both.

“I promised I'd give you the bite, didn't I?” Peter leans over him, snout smeared with thick, gooey blood that dribbles onto Stiles' face and his hair, his hand finding itself on Stiles' jaw, the other on his throat pulling him closer. Only inches apart, the overwhelming scent of Peter, of iron, of forest and its inhabitants flood Stiles' senses. “My perfect creature.”

The strong copper taste on Peter's tongue washes over him in an instant when they meet in an upside-down kiss, Stiles' groin growing warm again, stirring with the thought of what transpired, of the beautiful reality those gorgeous teeth got to live through digging into him, crushing, chewing, feasting on his flesh, nourishing on his spark, his magic, his meat destined for Peter alone…

“I love you,” Stiles mutters when they part, slurs it through overgrown canines he can't control yet, chasing the remaining taste of it on his teeth. “I don't need them. I don't need any of them. Traitors, liars… I only need you. Let's go somewhere no one can disturb us any longer.”

And Peter quirks into the most beautiful grin he'd ever seen before he rests their foreheads together, his palms tracing tender circles on the arcs of Stiles' cheekbones. “Oh, Stiles, darling… How did I deserve you? Such a delicious offering of loyalty?”

He kisses a trail from the base of Stiles' head to his shoulder, not bothering to keep his teeth out of the way. “Knowing your sharp mind, you've already crafted a plan, haven't you sweetheart?”

And Stiles preens with the indirect praise. “Of course. We're all set to leave right now. Never turn back.”

“No… not quite,” Peter nibbles on the place he'd feasted on earlier, saliva dripping onto the sore skin and the throbbing bone. “I've waited so long darling to finally taste you, let us revel in it first. Let me savour my gift first, hm, sweetheart? You only get resurrected once after all.”

Stiles nods with an eager grin, his heart slamming in his throat with the promise of what's to come, and Peter's doesn't differ much either. “Dawn then.”

“Exquisite.” Peter smiles into his skin, the action prompting thousands of currents to explode in his limbs, crackling through his veins like holy fire burning him from the inside out as dangerous canines gingerly carve out a place for themselves within him again, but this time as a tender reminder to who he belongs.

“Or…” Peter lets off him, instead laving the bubbling mark with a gentle tongue, his gaze far away, a blazing sun with pure, poisonous rage. “Let's burn them, sweetheart. Let them suffer the same fate they inflicted upon us. In the place where the hunters planned to have me die back then.”

Peter's eyes shift to the side, to the old and rotten structure of once grand and luxurious wood that creaks and groans with the breeze also rattling almost bare branches. 

Oh, the beautiful irony of it all…

Peter leans down to his face, kissing his temple with a red-stained muzzle that promises him the world. “No more running, no more hiding from our past. Merely peace for us both, my fallen angel.”

Stiles reaches for Peter's hand, intertwining his fingers with other's slightly trembling ones. “Let's do it.”

“At the old Hale Mansion. Can't get out. Need help.” 

Such a simple message with such a great effect.

They rounded up themselves without knowing, trickling into the premises with the careful precision speaking of experience. 

That's what Stiles would've said, if they hadn't just herded themselves like sheep readying themselves for slaughter.

The scent they tracked was his bloodied sweater he put around an old cushion and stuffed into the furthest crevice of the basement with the broken phone he used to send the message. Tracking it down would ultimately prove to be a futile effort. Seeing as they wouldn't be coming out of there alive regardless.

But they were all too busy tearing the place apart to notice the faint hint of gasoline sticking to every surface of the brittle structure. Probably assuming it to be the remnants of the old fire. Not anticipating this mansion far out in the woods to be a trap… Not a second time, at least.

Amateurs, all of them.

It was so easy. Too easy.

The Wolfsbane and Mountain Ash mixture was Peter's beautiful, chaotic idea. The invisible shield it creates, following the spiral shape, the perfect barrier to keep the little mice trapped for their end.

Getting out of there would be impossible.

The lit match was just the icing on the cake. And the crackle of swallowing flames bursting high into the night sky even better. Especially since they drowned out their pitiful screams.

What did they say about having a cake and eating it too?

Golden oranges and blazing reds reflect in Peter's intent gaze, his face manic, heart a fast gallop of unbridled excitement. Stiles must surely look the same. He doesn't mind.

But then, almost thoughtfully, Peter's gaze lowers until he faces Stiles, something like worry cinching his brows. “Do you regret it? Knowing that you've done this?”

Peter doesn't let the for me? at the end leave the guarded chambers of his mind, but it lingers in the air, heavy in its implied presence. 

Stiles' mouth presses together in a hum as he thinks, but not long, the answer already at the tip of his tongue. “Nope. Not one bit.”

“Your father will look for you too once we're gone. He won't stop. And the station won't either when it comes to the kid of the sheriff.”

“I'll do what's required of me for this—” he motions between them “—to work. Whatever that may be.”

Peter takes it at that, sharp smile returning to his maw as they face the fire once more. “I corrupted you.”

Stiles threads their hand together and leans on the other's shoulder, dozing a bit in the mellow hues of early morning and the gilded glowing embers of sweet revenge. “You merely sparked it. Made me see my potential. Want more.”

The scents of the other's slowly dwindle with the acrid smoke swallowing them whole.

And right there, in this little secluded spot dipped in the consequence of their desires, they revel in it. In this power that flows between them. And the one that's snuffed out just a few feet away.

And it was beautiful, in every poetic sense of the word.

Truly a happy end.