Stiles had screamed himself horse by the time Gerard was finished with him.
But he hadn't cracked.
He hadn't told the crazy bastard anything. And it had pissed Gerard off something fierce.
After the cattle prod came the knives, after the knives came this whips, and after the whips came the drugs.
Yet he still hadn't cracked.
In fact, he hadn't said anything. It was probably the only time in the history of his life that he had managed to keep his mouth shut. Oh the irony. Get yelled at and threatened when he can't be quiet, get beaten and tortured when he is. The world really did hate him.
Gerard had left a while ago, but for the life of him Stiles couldn't tell how long ago that was. He didn't even know how long he had been in this basement for. All he knew was pain.
Sheer, unadulterated, unabashed pain. Everything burned. Everything ached. Even the fact that he was higher than a kite did not help to harsh throbbing of literally every muscle in his body.
But he hadn't cracked.
Letting his mind wander was about the only thing that had brought he some semblance of comfort over the hours of suffering he had just endured, but, in a way, it had also been worse.
The crackling of the cattle prod had reminded him of when his mother was still alive. Whenever a particularly bad thunderstorm came she would always take him out onto the porch where they would sit and watch the lightning dance across the sky and make up stories to explain where the lightning came from. The glint of the knife in the light reminded Stiles of the time his father used to tease their old cat Brady. Whenever Stiles was particularly bored, the Sheriff would pull out a DVD or something, line it up from the light streaming into the windows, and then tilt it just right so the little light that bounced off of the reflective surface bounced teasingly in front of the cat's face. Brady would go wild trying to catch it, and both Stilinski men would practically split their sides laughing.
Between beatings from the whip Stiles thought about his new found love of leather jackets. They were soft and warm and smelled of Old Spice and rain. He thought about the firm muscles they hid within their sleeves. Arms that held him tight at night and coaxed him to sleep. Fingers that caressed his skin while holding him firm. Lips that touched him in places no one ever had before. Dirty words whispered possessively in his ear. Words that would haunt his dream, both sleeping and awake.
Words that now sounded softly in his ear.
Stiles twitched as his mind came crashing back to reality. The softness was gone. His bed was gone. His room was gone. He was tied up and helpless. Pain flooded his senses. It was dark and it was cold and it smelled like blood and burnt flesh.
And Derek was gone.
Stiles would have cried if he had anymore tears left.
"That's a good boy, come back to me now little one." A voice breathed into his ear as something soft brushed against his face.
But…what…? Who? Stiles's eyes fluttered as he tried to open them, but they had swollen shut long ago. His drug addled mine worked instead on trying to make his other senses stronger.
The soft thing brushed against his face again, this time cupping his cheeks. Hands, that's what they were. He could feel the thumbs brushing the blood out from under his right eye. Stiles groaned softly and turned into the hand on his cheek. Whoever this hand belonged to, Stiles didn't care. They were soft and warm and caressing him like one would caress a lover. Like Derek would caress him.
Someone chuckled. A warm pair of lips pressed against his forehead. "Shhh," the soft voice cooed again, "you'll be alright."
Stiles tried to pull his head up, but it felt like lead and everything hurt. The person caressing him seemed to understand what he was trying to do because the hands on his cheeks tightened slightly in order to lift it up for him. He whimpered at the movement.
"It's alright little one." Lips were on his this time in a soft comforting kiss.
Stiles whimpered again as the other hit the split in his lip. Tilting his back slightly so that it rested on the pole behind him, "Who's there?" his voice came out horse and scratchy.
It can't be Derek. It can't be Derek. Oh please God, let it be Derek.
"Who do you want it to be?"
Stiles felt and emptiness settle over his heart. Not Derek. He took a shuddering breath and tears began to leak out of the corners of his swollen eyes.
It was too much.
Something warm and wet trailed up his cheek, following the path his tears had drawn, causing a stinging in the open cuts. "Don't cry little one, I hate it when my toys cry." Stiles shivered at the purely predatory tone in Drew's voice seemed to take on. Not Derek at all. Arms circled around him held him close as the supporting weight of the ropes suddenly disappeared and he fell forward. Pain exploded in every part of Stiles. He couldn't hold back the cry of pain. It was like reliving the past, however many, hours in stunning high def clarity. Colors exploded behind his eyes and a rushing sound filled his ears. For one horrible second Stiles was sure he was about to throw up. He knew his father would never approve, but he very nearly wished Gerard had given him more drugs. They had at least helped a little.
Instead, he was so blinded by pain that he wasn't even aware that he was being picked up and carried over to a mattress on the floor.
Drew placed the broken child carefully on the mattress, ignoring the way the pale body twitched and cried in agony. It didn't matter now. He had a job to do so there was no time to fantasize about what could have been. The boy was ruined now and there was no taking that back. That didn't mean that he wasn't disappointed as hell though. Oh well, at least he could have a little fun. Drew smiled to himself as he pulled the hunting knife out of his back pocket and carefully began to cut away at the bloody clothes. He whistled.
"You are more beautiful than I thought. It's a shame that the old man got to you first." He commented appreciatively. Stiles didn't say anything. "You know, the old man thinks that I'm out with the others, hunting for your lousy pack."
That was a down right lie. Gerard knew exactly where he was. Knew exactly what he was about to do. But that was all a part of the plan.
In Drew's experience, everybody had a breaking point; all it took was the right conditions. Like the promise of freedom. The life of someone else. Being pushed to far by pain.
Or the promise to keep them away from another who would cause them more pain.
Drew smiled wider. Positioning himself so that he was straddled over the boy Drew allowed himself a moment to relish in the power he held over his helpless victim. Then he got to work.
Stiles swallowed reflexively. He could feel him. He could fucking feel him. The pervert might not have been touching him, but Stiles could feel him. Like a big black mass of dark energy, hovering over his body, waiting to strike.
The sixteen year old felt his body shiver, and it wasn't all from the cold. He jumped viciously when hands were placed on his sides groaning at the pain it caused.
They were not the same. Those hands. These were hard and cold and sought out every cut and bruise on his body. Derek's were warm and soft and careful to avoid such places. He had always hated to see Stiles in pain.
The lips were wrong as well. Chapped and broken, they left, not nerve igniting kisses along his stomach, but hot, slimy saliva that stung and burned as it made its way into the open wounds.
Stiles didn't want this man. Stiles wanted Derek.
He wanted his Sourwolf.
He wanted his lover and friend. His champion and protector. His heart and his soul.
He tried to picture Derek's face. Those beautiful eyes that changed from green to blue depending on the light. Those soft, raven black locks that Stiles loved to bury his hands in. That tattoo that Derek would trace on Stiles stomach while the teen pretended to sleep.
He tried to find Derek's warmth, but with every stroke of that man's hand upon his body, Derek's seemed to disappear. With every kiss the scratch of Derek's stubble seemed to be whipped away. With every grunt and groan, Derek's possessively loving growls seemed to be swallowed up.
Derek was gone.
Something inside of Stiles cracked.
The hands, which had been steadily moving up and down his thighs, moved to his knees and started pulling them apart.
Stiles wanted to yell, to scream and cry and beg the man on top of him to stop. He wanted to rip out that blonde hair and shove his thumb through the bastard's eye like his mother had taught him to do long ago.
But he couldn't move. He was in too much pain. Not to mention his hands were still tied behind his back. And he was higher than hell.
All he could do was whisper. "Please, please don't." in a voice so dry and crack it would have put the Sahara to shame.
Hot breath suddenly wafted past his ear, "Who would you like me to be Stiles?"
The teen didn't answer.
Drew slid between the boy's legs, an annoyed look on his face. This was not what he wanted. The boy was supposed to be crying, screaming for mercy and asking God to save him or some stupid crap like that. He was not supposed to be just lying there placed as fuck. Where was the fun in that?
Drew snarled under his breath, cursing the old man to the darkest layer of hell. He had waited, for five long ass goddamn years, to be able to break something again. To be able to prove his superiority over another being. To turn them into nothing more than shells of their former selves. It was the only reason he had joined these hunter freaks in the first place.
Gerard had promised him a new toy.
But instead of the lively little spitfire that he had literally had to work to get in here, that he had been promised, Drew was left with a broken angel. And Drew was not happy. He couldn't even pretend with this one. All his gears had already been stripped from him. His wings were crocked and broken, his voice box missing its movements, his halo smashed and splintered. What was once a beautiful angle was now nothing more than a dirty piece of broken trash. No one in their right mind would want to play with it now.
And no one ever would.
"Such a shame," He tutted, "I was so looking forward to playing with you, but it looks like you're all used up."
Stiles's thighs twitched.
Drew sighed in frustration, "I guess there is no point in keeping you now. But that doesn't mean I am just going to let you go." He added when Stiles relaxed a little. "The question now is; what to do with you?"
He might have sounded quizzical, but Drew's voice took on a devious quality.
"Why don't we just see what's in my bag."
The bag Drew was talking about was his treasured bag of "toys" that he took with him on all his playmates. In it was exactly what he needed to deal with the boy. He moved himself so that he was out from between the boy's legs. Grabbing his bag and flicking it open Drew quickly gather up his supplies.
"Now then, little one, let's get you dressed up. After all, you are going to see your precious Alpha."
Stiles's voice quivered, "What…what are you…?"
There was a loud ripping sound. All at once a hand gripped Stiles's cheek and wrenched his jaw open. He cried out in pain as fingers bruised his already abused face. For the second that night he nearly chocked as a cloth was shoved violently into his mouth. When the fingers had finished shoving the cloth in his jaw was shoved shut. Tape was then slapped over his lips.
"That's a good little toy, nice and quiet." Drew placed a kiss over the bound lips. "I wonder what that filthy werewolf will think when I drop a pretty little dish such as yourself right in his lap."
Stiles swallowed as best he could with the gag in his mouth. He felt Drew grab his ankles and pull them together.
He really couldn't find a good way for this to end.
Don't read that wrong; he really, really didn't want to be raped. But now Derek was in danger. There was no way the alpha wouldn't try to get to the injured boy if he smelled his blood.
He was going to walk straight into a trap where Stiles was the bait. And there was nothing the teen could do about it.
Yup, the world really did hate him.