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You'll Like my Mother

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“I think you should meet my mom,” Stiles said. “I mean formally, you know.”



He gets dressed the next morning, all ready to head to the cemetery when Stiles surprises him. They trail down the Stilinski home’s stairs, go through a door and descend more stairs. It’s the kind of dark where everything is tinted a little grey even to his eyes. It’s a bit weird for a basement and Derek releases Stiles’ hand to look around. The main area looks like an old fashion police interrogation room complete with the hanging lamp. Boxes crowd the walls and he can’t see anywhere where a remnant of Stiles’ mother would be. It only smells of dust and dank so he glances back at the younger man.

Stiles has, while he was looking about, moved over to a door that remained unseen to him between a boxed Christmas tree and several plastic containers of miscellany.
“She’s in here.” Stiles says with a quiet reverence as he twists the doorknob.

As soon as the door creaks open Derek can smell it. Sickly sweet rot encroaches on the air with the perfume of death. He stiffens not knowing what at all is going on anymore and not entirely sure if he’d like to. However Stiles sees no danger so he brings himself to try and relax. Stiles steps through the threshold and a tinge of cinnamon tings through the scents. Derek walks closer as his boyfriend pulls a cord, activating a clone of the hanging lamp. The werewolf would admire the old fashioned furniture and the Victorian tilt to the room but his attention is otherwise occupied.
In a paisley and gold armchair lays a grotesque corpse. Thick half preserved skin the color of earthtone eyeshadow, a scalp with nary a hair to it’s claim, and hollow eye sockets greet him. The eyes sit in a jar almost innocently on the bedside table.

“Stiles… what”

“Well I know she doesn’t look her best and... first impressions…” He grumbles, revealing nothing.

Derek is too shocked to do almost anything. The smell of death clouds his nose and the sight just repulses him. Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulling out a knife, and Derek makes a grab for it before it reaches Stiles’ skin. It seems that time amongst werewolves has paid off and he dodges swiftly. A red slash is cut into his palm and reaches out, fisting his hand. A step closer and Stiles opens it above the bony brown-black palm of the body letting the ruby red blood drip slowly into his mother’s hand.
“Sweet mother, your child beseeches thee.” Stiles whispers into the corpse’s ear, stroking her- it’s face with his bloodied hand.

The blood is absorbed into the skin with a sudden soft swish but violently like if a sponge needed water to live. Stiles is smiling sweetly, seemingly ignorant of Derek’s discomfort.
“What’s going on?” The werewolf finally manages.

A creak sounds.

A crack and a crumble.

“You’ll like my mother.” Is all Stiles replies.