Hey gays-I mean guys! It's bro-inski here. Back from the dead after a few years of mucking up my clusterfuck of a life. It's been fun and all, and I've done some great drugs and screwed some fantastic people-man and woman alike, I'm an equal opportunities kinda girl after all- on my three year long hiatus. I'd like to say I read a million and two books and wrote awesome stories while I was gone but really I read about thirty books, sat on my ass and said woe me for a while.
Why the new pen name? Everyone is my bro, all of you, all of me, the person outside my window making a ruckus. Really, let's be honest. I love everyone. Also I smoked a lot of weed. Weed is good. Do weed.
Don't smoke weed. If not for your brain, do it for your wallet.
I spent my last dollar yesterday buying expired cookies at my college vending machine. I'm a broke woman who got a perfect score on her HiSET writing test. Going to brag about that for all eternity folks. I had twenty dollars before that but I own three parrots and four cats so I had to buy bird and cat toys and the twenty before that on a piece of coral because I need to look at pretty things like my reef aquarium or I feel homicidal.
I was voted most likely to be a serial killer for a reason.
I'm so stressed I haven't slept more than an hour at a time in two weeks so this is what my brain cranked out. I like this story actually. Lots of sexytimes later on ;)
Warning: There will be dub-con and non-con. God knows I've been abused to many times to actually write a healthy sex scene but I'll try. (I tell my problems to strangers so I don't have to tell my therapist) I'll be honest about that up front, my dub-con looks like regular sex to me.
Please excuse me. I try.
So yeah, bad touch sex. Not by Derek. Let's be honest, Derek is probably a teddy bear inside. But there will be rape scenes later on, mostly references to past non-con though. Self-harm, suicidal ideology, big time drug abuse. Derek probably spoons, maybe he's the little spoon even.
Ignore my babbling, on with the Stiles hurting, I mean sad Stiles, I mean-you know what, fuck it. Just read my story.
He hated winter. In the summer, the blistering heat made his vision wonky and his stomach roll threateningly with every breath but in the winter the roof would creak and curve further down with every snowfall and remind them that their home was temporary. Already three worn tarps were nailed over a gaping hole the size of a compact car that was lined with shattered wood beams and dangling shingles. Only the desperate came within five feet of the hole. The regulars knew that when the wind blew hard enough the shattered wood would start to splinter off and drop down on anyone sleeping beneath the tarps. Then again, enough heroin in your system and you stopped caring what happened to your body anymore. Stiles knew that personally, a lesson hammered into him from nights he had wandered off in a daze or just sat down and shot up and woken to the beating of fist or shoes on all the soft parts of his body.
This winter was the worst though by far. His body ached fiercely and endlessly. Every round of pain tapered off to bring another round back again. It was a never ending cycle of hurt that he had become well accustom to. The furthest corner from the original door of the house-not one of the dozen punched out of the wall and covered up with flea infested and stained blankets held to the inside wall with rusted nails hammered in with rocks- had become his semi-sanctuary over the past week between pathetic highs that got progressively weaker as his body was overcome with sickness. He was sure someone had slept beside him two days ago, the time guessed by the shine of light on the wall beside him and the suffocating darkness. He remembered listening to the sounds of the floor creaking under the man and the groans as he thrust in his hand. His stomach still turned at the phantom slip-slid sound of his dick moving through his hand and the drawn out groan as he reached completion. He was sure if he turned over the floor would still be stained, the only proof that anyone had come within a few feet of him in close to a week. His body ached and his body creaked when he moved though and the thought of using what little energy he had left to turn over and see the evidence of his visitor was a pointless one.
All he could feel was the cold touch of air against his exposed lips, the only part of him exposed to the elements. The rest of his skeletal body was hidden under layers of moldy blankets and jackets pilfered from the dumpster behind the thrift store. A used needle had rolled in front of his face, visible out of the tiny corner open for him to see through. The orange cap lay less than a foot away beside the burnt up aluminum foil crisp that smelt faintly of ashes and metal. A bloody smear marked the tip of the needle, the only sign that the needle belonged to him and wasn't one of hundreds that probably littered the condemned building. His hands had shook like leaves in the wind when he had pressed the tip into his skin after a few tried and pushed the plunger down to inject ice into his veins. He had amused himself for a few minutes the other day trying to push the needle away with his breath but he'd broken into a coughing fit that ended in dribbles of vomit and mucus trailing from the side of his mouth. After that he'd slept fitfully, time only marked by the time between his nightmares.
He must have been asleep because someone was shaking his shoulder, making loud and frightful noises that grated on his eardrums and gave fuel to the headache that had lay dormant behind his ears. It roared to life and consumed his thoughts faster than an inferno, he opened his mouth to moan weakly. The sound was little more than a puff of air escaping parched lips. The world brightened to a reddish glow behind his closed lids and he feebly turned his head to the side to try to block out the light.
His bones gave an impressive creak as the world spun sickeningly around him. He clenched his eyes as tight as he could and wished himself awake. There was no red shoes, no witches and tornadoes and tiny dogs named To-actually he wasn't quite sure what the dog's name had been but his mind filed it away as irrelevant in the blink of an eye. There were arms under his body and someone was yelling even louder, filling up all the little gaps in his head where the boredom had settled over like a blanket while he lay wasting away.
"-fuck'n Bones, safe'st place, I swear over me momma's grave, ain't no harm come to th' boy-" Oscar, with his tobacco rough voice raised up to a pitch that seemed improbable in any other circumstance. Not that he was all that sure what the circumstances were at the moment. His head was cloudy and riddled with pain and his body was wracked in violent shivers. His body was being rearranged, arms moving to press him into a hard surface that radiated warmth like a furnace. He turned his head into the warmth, uncaring of what it might be and pressed his nose into it as forcefully as he could manage given his weaken state.
People were talking again, someone crying in heart-wrenching sobs and other mumbling. It only registered minimally as he was being moved. Heavy boots crunched glass under him and the noise forced his face to crunch up miserably in a grimace. Someone was worming one big hand into his blanket and jacket burrito and pressing the blissfully warm appendage against his chest. His shivering picked up intensity and his stomach muscles cramped trying to control it. Pain took a back seat to curiosity and he cracked open an eye just enough to see the stormy face of the man carrying him. Red glinted just beyond the icy eyes when they caught the winter sun and fear crawled up his spine. This was it for him, he was sure of it.
Sometimes people disappeared. No one ever said anything for there was nothing to say. There never was. Why would there be? Each and every one of them was on their own, struggling for survival or dying for release. He'd seen a little slip of a girl, barely fourteen, forced to her knees and choked to death in a gruesome display of sexual torture while he hid beside a dumpster riding out his high. He'd witnessed boys gang up on smaller fish and beat them under the only color left was red. There was nothing to it. The strong survived and the weak-well, they didn't. Not for long. Maybe he had been strong once, but it was only a memory. Like the memories of his father sitting at the kitchen table looking over case files with a glass of whiskey after a long night or long nights marathoning video games with bags of candy with Scott. Memories meant nothing anymore, they were wisp that danced before his eyes when life became to much for him.
The hand on his chest was spread out, pinprick pain at each fingertip. The breath rattled in his chest when he breathed but the hand gave it some semblance of warmth instead of the icy chill that he normally dragged through his body with each breath. Those eyes were looking down at him, settled and empty like the calm before a storm. His lips parted, skin tearing along his chapped and frozen lips. A drop of warm blood rose to the surface, proof that there was still warmth inside of him. He wasn't sure why he'd opened his mouth. He'd wanted to say something, but what had been worth saying escaped him. He gave up trying to reach for words and closed his mouth.
He risked a glance down at the arm the emerged from under his blanket wrap and followed it up to a boy whose face was pinched up in an unnameable emotion and brown eyes that were focused on him rather than where he was going. He noticed him looking and offered him a tight lipped smile that came off as a grimace, it didn't reach his eyes which were still dull with pain. His hand twitched where it was pressed to his skin, forming an anchor that held him to the waking world when he wanted so badly to sink back into oblivion and giving him enough strength to observe what was happening.
There were people around him, which he didn't like. People meant pain, people meant rejection. He would rather be alone by choice than alone by exclusion. A woman behind them who looked so achingly familiar. He racked his brain, trying to fight the foggy cloud that had settled over it months ago and never lifted. He had lost so many memories, so many faces from his life before. It hadn't mattered at the time as those memories just gave him heartbreak and reminded him of who he had been and the life he had lived before he lost it all. He'd give all he had right now for a name for the faces that surrounded him and the arms that carried him down the rotting front steps.
He tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket and watched the woman behind them flounce down the stairs as though she was walking a red carpet rather than trailing a drug addict out of a crack house. Her lips were ruby red and glossy in the crisp winter sun and her high-heeled boots crunched through the wet snow on the stairs and thumped on the rotting wood steps. Someone had already put their foot through the third step and she delicately side stepped it without breaking her stride while the man holding him and stepped over it. The hand pressed to his chest was pulled back and he moaned piteously at the loss of heat. All that left his mouth was a cracked sound of pain. The man who had his hand on his chest looked guilty and moved out of sight of him. The arms under him shifted and he rolled closer to the chest in front of him, which he didn't mind as it was still radiating more warmth than he had felt in the weeks since the first snow fall of winter.
The man holding him sniffed and his nose twitched. He looked down at him and drew his eyebrows together. Oh boy were those some eyebrows. Thick and fluffy and more expressionate than the man's face seemed capable of being, they twisted and shifted over green-blue eyes and added to the gruff, unfriendly exterior he had going on.
"You stink." He told him pointedly. The man who had walked beside them came back into view suddenly, his mouth hanging open. He looked stupid for a moment.
"You can't tell him that! What the hell-Derek. Derek!" The man holding him, Derek, picked up speed. His strides lengthened and he pulled away for the man and woman following them. He tilted his hand back and saw they were approaching a car. Car porn, seriously. Sleek, black and distinctively fast looking. There was a thin metal slim jim stuck in one of the windows, abandoned when they had approached. What a sight they must make. A puppyish looking man hovering to one side of a hulk like adonis carrying a skeleton wrapped in filthy blankets and a goddess trailing behind looking like a queen.
A regular motley crew alright.
Derek reached the car and growled deep in his chest when he saw the slim jim hanging out the car window. The growl reverted through him and vibrated under his head where it was rest on his pec over his heart. He liked his heartbeat, steady and calm through the strange event currently taking place. He knew he should be scared, he knew it. For someone like him, this almost certainly meant pain or death.
But death was creeping closer every day and pain was a way of life by now. He was warmer than he had been and he didn't hurt nearly as much. He was curious for the first time in a long while, thoughts niggling at the back of his brain, trying to fight through the fog in his head.
Who were these people?
Why were they so familiar?
The woman reached forward with one perfectly manicured hand and slid the slim jim out of the window, casting a glance at his face while she did. Her lips pursed and she pulled back. The slim jim clattered to the ground at her feet. The car door opened with a beep and he was shifted around so he could be slid inside where it was blissfully warm.
His shivers reach a peak as his limbs started coming back to life. His fingers and toes prickled with the start of pins and needles where they were curled into the blankets. He was pushed aside so the woman could sit down beside him. The door shut for a moment, locking the wind out and leaving him in a strange silence cut only by the woman's calm breaths and his own piercing whistle. His chest rattled sometimes and coughs racked his body and shook his frame at night but it hardly bothered him anymore. The silence was broken by the other two men get in the car. Derek slid into the drivers seat and the other slumped in the passengers, craning his head until his neck creaked to cast worried glances behind him.
"How's he holding up?"
"Fine, he's shivering. Can't you see?" The woman beside him snapped. Her voice wasn't as sweet as the rest of her, rather sharp as a whip and full of biting words. "Be a sweetheart, do something helpful for once and turn on the heater. Low, let's try not to toast him, yes?" Her voice had changed suddenly, going honey think and syrupy. She scared him the most out of the three of them, her sweet tone inciting a feeling of terror. It had the same effect on the man. He jerked as though he had been hit and surged forward to twist the heater on full blast.
"You're an idiot, Scott." She snapped and reached forward to lower it. The man flushed and hung his head, turning away from them to look out the window. Derek stayed silent and his face gave away nothing as he switched gears and started pulling away from the hellhole.
His head flopped to the side and his temple smacked against the window and left a smear of dirt across the pristine glass. He hopes it's dirt, unlike the stinking substance he knows is crusted to his body and clothes and leaving awful painful sores on his skin he is finally starting to feel again. He ignores it and watches the world whip by. It feels like a bad high. Out of control and overwhelming. He's still not sure what is happening to him but his skin itches for the first time in the two days since he has shot up last. He wishes he was still freezing cold and huddled on the ground again, he didn't have the craving then. The need was so far away in the face of his rapidly fading mortality.
His breath catches painfully in his chest. It hits him than how close he was to dying, how close he still is. He'd considered suicide before, of course he had. It was certainly better than what he was doing with his life now. It had been a while though and he hadn't really considered this. That he might just fade away, no pain or fear involved. No messy suicide.
He hadn't even needed to procure a gun even. It would have been the easiest way to go. He had to go, what he was doing wasn't living, it was procrastinating death until he had enough of a backbone to hurl himself over the edge of the nearest cliff.
The scenery is changing outside the window, the only indication that he's losing time again. He does that alot now. There are days he doesn't remember living. Days he isn't even sure that he did live, maybe he just blinked out of existence for a few hours. It's hard to imagine his body walking around doing things without him in it. The warmth has settled into his skin and the pins and needles are fading. He sends signals down to his fingers urging them to move. They don't. He feels disconnected from the rest of his body and wonders if he'd become paralyzed. He sees the reflection of the woman beside him in the window. She's watching him with narrow, critical eyes that make him feel like he's being stripped naked in front of him, stripped right down to the bone. He wants to ask why she's watching him like that, like he holds all the answers in the world but he remembers that he's become paralyzed and his mouth doesn't work like it use to.
He wants to scratch his nose. There is a horseshoe ring flipped into it and it's ice cold inside him. He doesn't know when he'd gotten it but he'd been high enough that it had taken days to come down and stay sober long enough to realize that there was metal stuck through his face. He had shrugged and moved on, unbothered by it until pus ran down his face and sat bitter and putrid at his lips.
He had soaked his nose in cheap vodka for a while, an experience he would bend over backwards not to have to repeat again and thanked whatever deity was hanging around when the pus stopped and his nose healed enough to stop putting burning alcohol up his nose. It had probably dripped back and fried his brain.
That'd be his luck.
"Stiles, we're almost there." He rolls his head against the glass until he can see her out of the corner of his eye. He knows who Stiles is. That is who use to live in this body, when it still housed a person worthy of living in this world. Stiles was the brave mostly stupid boy who fought alongside werewolves, consulted with witches, and faced down death with a defiant grin. That isn't him, he's nobody. He doesn't tell anyone who use to live in this body. That name was someone worth being and he isn't even worth the oxygen he breathes. He doesn't know how she knows it and he doesn't like that she calls him that. He wants to move and grab her by the shoulders, yell at her as loud as he can that he's not Stiles. Stiles was good. But his mouth doesn't move, his fingers don't move. He's living in a corpse, he's sure of it. He died and got trapped and now they're gonna put him in the ground and maggots are gonna eat his body and he's gonna sit there stuck inside his empty bones for all eternity.
He means to meet her eyes. Try to convey the truth to her so she doesn't believe the lie but time skips again and the car is pulling up to a big house surrounded by forest. Sections of it are charred and the mentally conjured scent of smoke drifts through the air and chokes him up when the car door opens.
Derek's eyes look down at him and cut right through him like knifes and he wants to flinch away but Derek is leaning down and scooping him up into strong arms again. He whines a bit, finally capable of sound again when the frigid air hits the exposed skin of his face. He feels a brief flicker of annoyance because he was comfortable, goddammit. And now he's cold and being carried towards the house where he can see curious eyes staring out of a few windows.
They reach the door in what feels like a millisecond and he starts freaking out and twisting as much as he can in Derek's arms, which in his current state is admittedly not much. Derek's arms tighten while Scott jiggles the key in the lock. Its jammed. He can hear it clicking, tumblers refusing to fall into place. The cold can jam locks can't it? He thinks so. Either way he takes it as an opportunity to try and tear himself away. Derek isn't having any of it though and he growls threateningly and tightens his grip hard enough he swear he hears his bones creak in protest.
This is it, these people are totally gonna take him inside and carve him into little bitty pieces.
He doesn't particularly want to ever be in more than one piece. People come in one piece, the end. The lock finally clicks and Scott swings it open.
A blast of warm air hits him in the face like he just stuck his head in the oven and he cringes back from it. There are to many people in the room and he feels suffocated. There is a couple on the couch, the girl curled up into the curve of his body like they are trying to meld into one person. There is a lone woman on the other end of the couch, looking anxious and uncomfortable. Across from her is a curly haired boy with glass cutting cheekbones who has gotten caught in the middle of giving anxious couch girl the stink eye. He immediately doesn't like him. Cheekbones seems to be an asshole, but not as much so as the man sprawled across an armchair with his chin at an angle like he owns the fucking place.
Everyone zeros in on him in a second. Not even twitching when the terrifying woman from the car slams the door behind them and passes them to perch on the arm on the chair the mega asshole is sprawled in. Douchbag. He wilts under the attention. He's not a fan of attention, it ends with him getting mugged in an alley with his pants around his ankles wondering what the fuck just hit him. Scott notices his discomfort and whines pathetically beside him. Derek's eyes cut over to him. And there's the growl again. Scott backs off at the clear warning and collapses in on himself beside cheekbones, who turns to nuzzle his face against Scott's shoulder. He's surprised he didn't leave a trail of blood on his shoulder from running those cheekbones against skin.
He should think nicer things of these people. He still doesn't want to be murdered. Maybe if he says nice things about them they'll just beat him up a bit and toss him back outside.
He licks his lips and looks up at Derek, who shows no inclination to put him down anytime soon. Everyone is looking at him, waiting for some kind of signal maybe. The anxious couch girl shifts and clears her throat.
"Stiles-" She starts but Derek cuts her off sharply.
"Don't. He needs a bath. Then sleep." The girl visibly deflates. He feels bad for a moment, he knows what it's like to be cut out of something. But then he remembers, probably gonna be murdered by her, and doesn't really feel that bad for her anymore. Derek's words sink in after a moment. Maybe he needs a bath and clothes for some kind of ritual. They're gonna sacrifice him to their satanic gods. He groans. He doesn't want to be sacrificed. There's always sharp, scary looking knifes involved with sacrificing people.
Derek is carrying him away from all the people, down a hallways that is cut almost clean in have by fire damage. On the left side in burnt up rooms with tarps stapled over caved in ceilings and walls and on the right is clear signs of fresh renovations. The walls are painted, the windows are clear and holy mother of- yes that is a bathtub he is being carried towards. A big tub, set halfway in the floor and big enough to hold two people comfortably.
Derek carried him into the bathroom and sets him down gently leaning against the side of the tub. The impact is soft and silent, but still jars his body that has been curled up on the floor for to long to handle all the motion he's being forced to go through today. Derek disappears from view for a moment and comes back when he has the tabs running behind him and a thick and ridiculously fluffy towel set down beside them on the floor.
He reaches for his face, rough hands pulling his chin free of the blankets and tilting his face up to meet his eyes dead on. He swallows hard, unsure under the scrutiny of Derek's gaze. He doesn't say anything, but the feeling that he knows Derek and everyone in this house triples. He's sure of it, their faces swim in and out of his head. Flashes of thoughts and memories just out of reach.
"It's going to be alright now." His attention snaps back. Derek's eyes are hard and determined, his face set in concrete. "You're with pack now, Stiles. It only gets better from here." And for one heartbreaking moment, he almost believes that's true.