DEREK/STILES AND DYLAN/TYLER H POST!

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Previous prompting posts: round one, round one favorites, round two, round two recs and favorites, round three, spoilery prompt post, the other pairings post, and the gen and pack fic post.

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FILL: Time For Mourning [32/?]

[ziusura]

“Ugh, I dunno. I wanted to burn the house down all the way but Lacy said that was too much of a message. I thought it was poetic though, if you think about it. ‘We’re just like the Argents, your destruction if you don’t follow our rules.’ “

Thank God for Lacy, then. Stiles would rather not watch his skin melt off his bones, ‘cause chances were he’d be completely aware of the whole thing.

Their footsteps sounded louder and louder, and Stiles knew they were getting closer to the couch. Just a few more steps and-

“Oh, look what we’ve got here.”

A girl’s face appeared above him, soft features framed by short wild black curls and piercing red eyes. The other girl entered his frame of view shortly after, the same face with longer dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were brown, however, and there was a long scar that followed the path from her left eyebrow to the edge of the left corner of her mouth. And Stiles found that he was wrong earlier. These girls were identical twins.

“Oh, well what do you know? It’s the dead kid everyone’s been up in a tizzy about.”

Short hair smirked. “You think Derek’s into necrophilia? This thing has been preserved with so much care.” They laughed after that, heads thrown back and mouths open wide.

“Can’t see why else he’d steal a dead body from the morgue. Though if it is that, he’s into pedophilia as well because this kid doesn’t look a day over fifteen.”

If Stiles wasn’t so scared shitless about being found undead alive, he would have made an indignant noise at that. He would be seventeen in a few weeks. Well, he would have been if he hadn’t died.

“You think we should leave the message with him?”

“Carve him up like a turkey?”

“You bet.”

The grinned and Stiles nearly shit himself. Well, he would have if he had anything in his body to release. No, he did not want to end up like that Deer, innards spilled out for the sole purpose of being a warning, a message.

Scarface yanked up his shirt and he tried to be as stiff as possible because rigor mortis had a distinctive feeling and when Stiles moved it definitely did not feel like rigor mortis had set in to other people. Shorthair pulled out a knife and handed it to Scarface before pulling out another, a switchblade this time.

The blade was cold and he could feel his skin loosen and pull away from his bones, but other than that he felt no pain. He didn’t even feel juices slide over his skin, but then again he probably had a very small amount of that, considering that everything sort of just runs out before the decaying starts.

“Ugh, I forgot how difficult skin is to work with.”

“Dead skin, you mean. When they’re alive the blood makes things a little easier since it clots.”

“Whatever. You done yet?”

“Yeah.”

The girls pulled their knives away and eyed Stiles’ stomach thoroughly. Stiles was careful not to move, and he found that it was easier to stay still when you were dead.

They ran their eyes appreciatively over their handy work and the short haired one made a small noise.

“Time’s up?” Scarface asked and Shorthair nodded her head.

“Yeah. Message’s done. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Stiles counted to five hundred before he moved, half in an attempt to make sure the girls were long gone and half trying to gather his bravery to look at his mauled stomach. He found a small mirror in one of the bins in the bathroom, but he isn’t able to read what they drew into his skin. It’s falling everywhere to easily with no blood to clot and hold it in place.

The stitching supplies were slightly harder to find, but Stiles did find them. Actually doing the stitching was more difficult than Stiles thought, however. Trying to figure out which way your tattered skin was meant to fold wasn’t something Stiles ever wanted to do. His hands were shaky and at an odd angle so he could see the shapes in his skin.

When he was done he closed his eyes and picked up the hand mirror again. The stitches weren’t quite as nicely done as Derek’s were on his knuckles, but they did what they were supposed to. His stomach dropped. Stiles could read the words now too.

“One month,” he murmured to his reflection. Derek only had one month before they came after him, made him like Stiles and like the deer on the porch yesterday.