
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1053225.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Kate_Argent/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent/
      Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Sexual_Violence, Sexual_Assault, Sexual_Abuse, Dark, Trauma,
      Psychopathology_&_Sociopathy, Villains, Pain, Loss_of_Virginity, Torture,
      Questioning, Interrogation, Rope_Bondage, Angst, Pre-Slash, Tragedy,
      Implied/Referenced_Character_Death, Sad, Depressing, Cliffhangers,
      Suspense
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-21 Words: 2030
****** Burnout ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Kate captures Stiles.
===============================================================================
 
It's not like Stiles hasn't fantasized about getting rope-burn in an erotic
context, because let's face it, he's a teenager and his whole brain is an
erotic context, but getting tied up by a psychopathic undead super-villain in
the basement of an abandoned grocery store wasn't exactly what he'd imagined.
Getting tied up by delicate math geniuses with strawberry-blond hair? Sure. Or
even stubbly, leather-clad werewolves with control issues? Yep.
But definitely not Kate Argent. Jesus Christ. He's going to be turned into
human meatloaf.
"Look. Killing me is, like, totally pointless," Stiles says. "Torturing me is
equally pointless. I don't know where Derek is."
"Don't you?" Kate's eyes are narrow. They glitter in the semi-darkness, and the
smile she wears - if it can be called a smile - is mad and malicious, thin and
sickle-sharp. She's unnaturally pale, which neatly confirms Stiles's pet theory
that she's some sort of vampire and/or zombie that's been mysteriously
resurrected. Man, with the number of mysterious resurrections in Beacon Hills,
Stiles could start a new religion. Christ returned from the dead, too, didn't
he? Not that Kate believes in turning the other cheek. More like flaying that
cheek into a bloody mess. Eek.
"I don't." And while Stiles is technically telling the truth - Derek
never told him where he went when he got that call from Cora - Stiles is still
kinda obfuscating, because he has a pretty good idea of where Derek is, based
on a series of logical deductions that he isn't going to share with Kate
fucking Argent.
"You're a bad liar, kid," Kate says, and then steps closer to where Stiles is
secured to a pillar.
Stiles only just manages not to flinch. Any distance between him and Kate is
too close, to be honest. "Why're you so convinced I know where Derek is,
anyway? It's not like I'm even in his pack. Hell, Isaac and Peter probably know
more, since they're official Betas and everything."
"Not in his pack? Aren't you his mate?" Kate sneers when she says the word,
like it's an insult, and Stiles - 
Stiles gapes. "Uh," he says, and this time, he isn't hiding anything. "No, I'm
not. That's not - where did you even get that from?"
"From the way he looks at you," Kate says. "What, hasn't he fucked you, yet?
Are you too young for him? I must have traumatized the poor thing, deflowering
him at a tender age. And now, he wants to do bad things to another child, a
child just like he used to be. Oh, how he must hate himself. How he
must agonize over his lust for you."
"His... lust for me," Stiles echoes, dumbly. "Derek Hale's lust for me. Derek-
Hale-the-sex-god's lust for me. Right. That's absolutely believable." He shakes
his head. "If you're trying to fuck with me - "
"You haven't seen me trying to 'fuck' with you, Stiles," she says, her voice
honeyed, and Stiles feels a swoop of dread that makes him ill, because he must
be imagining the emphasis on the word 'fuck', mustn't he?
"Whatever you do, don't touch me."
"I think I will. I think I'll screw around with Derek's mate-to-be a bit more,
maybe put him in a murderous rage when he does find out, hm? Like my Daddy
always told me, a distracted werewolf is a dead werewolf."
"Please, don't say ever 'Daddy' again. It grosses me out. Like you gross me
out. Don't. Come. Near me." And yet all Stiles can do is struggle futilely
against the ropes as Kate reaches for him, cupping his face in an ice-cold palm
that clearly belongs to one of the undead. Another plus for the vampire and/or
zombie theory.
"You can't stop me, pretty boy," she breathes, and Stiles literally breaks out
in goosebumps, because it's so freaky and wrong and... and freaky. Also, since
when is he pretty?
"What're you going to do to me?"
"Leave my mark on you," she says, with a sweetness that could've been affection
in another person but in her is sheer poison. "On your body and your mind. No
number of kisses from Derek will heal you, even if he has the courage to try."
Kate's nails are sharp. Very, very sharp. So sharp that Stiles can feel them
through his T-shirt as they rake down his chest, scraping painfully against his
nipples.
Stiles shuts his eyes. He can't stop what's happening, but that doesn't mean he
has to watch it. A distant part of him wonders whether it would be better if he
did watch, because then he could equate the sickening quality of these touches
with Kate's face, and not react the same way to anyone else's touches, in the
future. If he lives long enough to experience anyone else's touches.
Derek's touches.
Oh, god.
He opens his eyes.
And looks detachedly at the swing of Kate's hair, but it doesn't hide her
expression from him, doesn't hide the way she licks her lips, like she's been
waiting for this, been wanting it -
No. Just, no. The thought of Kate fantasizing about how to get back at Derek
and somehow deciding that raping Stiles is the way to do it is... Stiles can't
even wrap his head around what it is, except that it scours him hollow.
When Kate unbuttons his jeans and takes him into her hand, he's completely soft
- of course he is - but that doesn't discourage her from doing her best to make
sure he isn't.
He doesn't harden all the way, not even after god knows how many minutes of
Kate stroking him.
"Are you really a teenager?" she says, impatience creeping into her tone.
"Derek used to be raring to go in thirty seconds flat."
"Th-that's because," Stiles grits out, wanting to kill her, "he thought
you loved him."
"Ah, yes. There was that. We haven't got any illusions about me loving you,
though, do we?"
"You hate me."
"That's right," she says, and leans in to whisper into his ear. "I hate you.
Fragile little thing that Derek finds so interesting."
If Stiles wasn't on the verge of throwing up, he'd blink in disbelief. "Are
you jealous? You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
Kate hisses, and digs her nails into him - grinning when Stiles chokes off a
scream, renewing his struggles. "Oh, look, you've gone down again. Did I hurt
you too bad? You're not bleeding, are you?"
Hot tears well out of his eyes, stupid and useless, and for a moment he
despises himself for not being stronger, for not being a werewolf, for not
having accepted Peter's offer of a bite, all those months ago. Stiles can still
feel the lines of fire where Kate had dragged her nails across - and into? -
his skin. He stares blearily down at his crotch and catches a glimpse of red.
Oh, fuck. He actually is bleeding. But not too much, he thinks objectively, not
enough. You can take this. Stop crying. Stop. Crying.
Miraculously, he does stop crying, and raises his chin in a surge of shaky -
but stubborn - defiance. His brain insists that he's being foolish, that the
more he stands up to her the more she'll want to break him, but he can't
tolerate the thought of pretending to be broken, just to keep himself safe.
It'll feel too much like being broken, already.
And he isn't broken.
He's not.
Whatever Kate sees in his face only makes her grin wider, a death-mask of a
grin, and she says: "Obviously, your dick isn't doing it for you. Too much of a
whore to come without being fucked, aren't you? I bet you finger yourself when
you jack off. Here, let me help."
She kneels in front of him, slipping her fingers between his thighs, reaching
back toward his ass. Stiles curses, but he's stuck there, unable to so much as
jerk away when she breaches him, a sudden invasion of two nailed fingers that
burns as much as it cuts. It's agonizing, and he has to clench his teeth to
keep from shouting. If his ankles weren't bound to the pillar he'd kick Kate in
the skull, but instead all he can do is take it and take it and shiver
uncontrollably, going into shock, sweat slicking his body as if he's got a
fever. It's the first time anyone's touched him like this, the first time
anyone's been inside him, and it hurts.
Don't cry, he keeps repeating to himself, like it's a mantra. Don't cry.
He doesn't. He remains dry-eyed through it all. He isn't sure how he manages
it, and something tells him that's making it worse, that he needs to cry, but
he won't. He just won't. Not now, not ever. Not for Kate Argent. She'll never -
Never -
He stifles a pained groan when she starts licking away the blood on his... the
blood where she'd injured him, and he can't even admit to himself that that's
what she's doing, although he can see her do it. A revolting vertigo sweeps
through him at the sight, at the gleaming flicker of her tongue, and his
stomach heaves. Bile sears the back of his throat. His mind teeters on the edge
of a precipice, and he has the distinct sense that if he lets it go, it'll
shatter itself into more pieces than he'll ever be able to gather up again.
So he doesn't let it go - hanging onto it with a desperate terror - and when
Kate seems like she's satisfied, she draws back, pulls out her fingers, and
gazes up at him speculatively. "Huh. That's a nice look on you."
What's a nice look on him?
"You're even prettier when you're suffering, all flushed and trembling and
humiliated by how helpless you are." She gets up, patting her jeans clean, and
leans in conspiratorially. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she says in a
hushed voice. "You might hate me for what I've done, but you'll
hate yourself the most."
Stiles watches her dully. He's strangely weary, like he's been exerting every
ounce of his mental will and is too tired to exert it anymore. His entire body
aches, not just the places where she's tortured him. Tortured, not fucked.
Because that was - none of that was about sex.
"Still don't want to tell me where Derek is?"
Stiles doesn't reply.
"I can do worse, you know. I can slice off your nipples and feed them to you. I
can wind barbed wire around your dick. Put varying sizes of not-so-blunt
objects up your ass. You think you're brave, now? Wait 'til I'm done with you.
You'll be screaming yourself hoarse."
Stiles doesn't know where Derek is. I don't know where Derek is, he lies to
himself, making himself believe it. If he believes it enough, he won't say it,
no matter what Kate does to him.
"Then again, why waste my energy? Derek's going to be looking for you, soon
enough. Might as well wait for him to get here. To find you. And then, when
he's too busy seeing red to think, I'll slit his throat. You can even watch.
Isn't that considerate of me? Oh, I know!" She claps her hands. "I'll set fire
to the place. Let the two of you burn to ash together, like the mates you never
got to be. It'll conveniently destroy any evidence, too. What do you think? Am
I brilliant, or what?"
She seems to expect him to answer, and when he doesn't, she shrugs.
"Just sit tight. It'll be downright poetic, reducing another Hale Alpha to
dust." With that, Kate leaves, waving at him cheerfully before closing the
basement door behind her.
Stiles's head reels with horror. He wants to escape, wants to warn Derek, but
it's too late for that. Maybe it's too late for both of them, unless Derek is
either extraordinarily lucky or unusually cooperative, and brings his Betas
with him. If Peter and Isaac and Cora are with him, it'll be fine. If
even one other werewolf is with him, it'll be fine.
Stiles tells himself that, over and over, as the minutes tick away.
 
===============================================================================
                                     fin.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
