Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck and his arms stretched above his head, tied together at the wrists. His eyes are dry, gritty, it hurts to open them, and it doesn't help. He doesn't know where he is, only that it looks like an old busted up train car.

The last thing he remembers is getting out of the Jeep in his own driveway. His head hurts, throbs, and when he rubs the back of his skull over the dusty floor it feels like there's a lump. Someone must have hit him.

There's voices. Harsh, indistinct. A laugh, a girl, and he thinks, yeah, that's Erica.

"Derek," he calls, trying for loud, but the weak sound that escapes him will have to do. "Untie me, you fucker. My dad is going to shoot you for this and I'm not even kidding."

They make him wait. Hours go by and Stiles can hear them moving around outside the car, can see them moving by the open door. They fight—or train—sometimes one of them will hit the side of the car and it will shake with the impact, rocking Stiles as if to comfort him, but it doesn't.

More time passes where things go quiet, and then just as he is drifting off into an exhausted sleep, his body curled around the pole he's tied to, there's a step on the metal stair.

Stiles' eyes fly open.

He can almost see up Erica's skirt from this vantage. It's about as short as a skirt can get before it becomes a belt. He looks away.

"Derek's getting sick of waiting," she says, standing over him, her feet splayed wide apart. "He thinks Scott will join the pack if you're with us. He decided to give him the chance to make the choice but Scott's not very bright, is he?"

Stiles looks up at her, craning his neck in order to look past the hem of her skirt, up to her face.

She inhales quickly, her lips stretch into a smile. "Scott doesn't even know you're missing, Stiles."

His mouth is dry. Licking his lips does almost nothing and his voice is raspy when he speaks. "He's probably busy. With, you know, stuff. Important things."

When she laughs, she seems to spit the sound past her lips. "Derek said we could play with you a little. Rough you up a bit. Do whatever we like, he said, as long as we don't mess up your pretty face."

"I didn't know he cared," Stiles says.

Isaac appears over Erica's shoulder. "I wanna go first," he says, chewing on the corner of his lower lip to hide his smile.

Erica's smile turns into a sneer, and she steps back, out of Stiles' view. He shifts, pulling himself up to hands and knees because he wants to be ready. As he waits for Isaac to do something, kick him, he figures is most likely, he sees Erica and Boyd, sitting one each side of the aisle. Like spectators.

"Stand up," Isaac says.

Stiles looks over his shoulder at the boy who was his classmate, his teammate, and he pulls himself to his feet, tugging the ropes up the pole. He swings around behind it, thinking to put the pole between Isaac and himself as much as possible. Isaac steps up to face him, grabs his belt, presses his teeth hard into his lower lip as he pulls it undone, yanks it free of the belt loops.

"What the hell—" Stiles jerks backward, coming up short when his bonds catch on the pole.

Isaac comes round behind him, wraps long arms around Stiles, pops the button of his jeans open, pulls down the zip. "Don't fight it, Stiles. It won't hurt if you don't fight it."

"I.... I don't understand. This is crazy. You're not really going to do this." He pulls against the ropes digging into his wrists, but he's tried it all before. They're not going to budge.

Then Isaac pushes his jeans down, taking his boxers with them.

Stiles' face burns with embarrassment and horror as he looks into the rapt faces of Erica and Boyd. "This is so much worse than kidnapping," Stiles says. "You're not going to get away with this."

Isaac laughs, and it's high pitched, like a giggle. "They won't find us. Even if they do, they can't hold us. They can't do anything to us." He wraps one hand over Stiles' hip, the fingers of the other push down between the tightly clenched cheeks of Stiles' ass. They're already slick, and Isaac's strong, there's no stopping him. His middle finger rubs over Stiles' hole, pushes against it. "I'd relax if I were you, or else this is going to hurt like hell."

Stiles can't relax. There's no way, so when Isaac pushes his finger inside, Stiles cries out in pain. "I'll tell my dad what you are. I don't care anymore. I'll tell him how to kill you and I'll tell him what you've done and he'll do it. Isaac, please, stop...stop, it hurts."

Isaac has two fingers inside him already. He twists them, searching. "I'm not going to stop, Stiles. Relax. Enjoy it." He pushes deeper, touches a place inside Stiles that makes him grunt, shake with the jolt of sensation that flashes through his body. The pain was like fire, like a bolt of lightning searing him open, but this, this is more. It's pain and it's ecstasy, it fries his brain and makes everything like a dream and he'll do anything, anything, as long as it doesn't stop.

"See?" Isaac's voice is like it's filtered through water. "You like that, don't you?" Then the feeling is gone, Stiles is left reeling, gasping, only an aching emptiness remains. Before he can catch his breath, gather his thoughts, the lightning comes again as Isaac pushes his cock into him.

"Fuck...you," Stiles gasps. "I'm a virgin." A dry sob racks his chest as Isaac digs his fingers into his hips, thrusts all the way inside. Stiles refuses to shed a tear.

Isaac stills, balls deep, filling Stiles completely. His breath washes over Stiles' ear. "Not anymore," he whispers. "Now you belong to us." He pulls back, slow, pushes in at the same pace. "We're going to fill you up, one after another. You'll smell like pack when we send you back."

Stiles blinks, takes a tiny measure of comfort from the knowledge that he'll live through this. He wraps his fingers around the pole, the only thing he can grip for purchase, and he braces himself. "Get on with it then," he says, squeezes his eyes shut tight and pushes back.

Isaac grunts, his hips jerk against Stiles' ass. "Yeah." He thrusts hard, fingers bruising Stiles' hipbones. "You want this, say you want it, beg for it."

Stiles moans, shaking his head, but still he pushes back, holding the pole in front of him, meeting Isaac's thrusts, doing anything he can to make it as quick as possible. "Come, already," he says under his breath, knowing that they can all hear him.

Claws prick Stiles' skin. "Ask for it, beg for it," Isaac hisses.

"Oh, god, okay," Stiles moans. "Come in me, fuck me, come inside me. Please."

Isaac growls, it rumbles through his chest, into Stiles' back, throughout his body. Isaac stiffens, shoves into him hard, Stiles can feel him pulsing inside. A tear wets his cheek, he wipes it away on his shoulder. He won't let them see.

He's not prepared for the sensation of Isaac pulling out. It's a sudden emptiness that makes him shudder, followed by a brief gush of fluid that drips down the inside of his thigh. Isaac just walks away, zipping up his jeans, and he stands behind Boyd like he's waiting for something.

He's waiting for Boyd to get up.

Boyd comes toward Stiles, unbuttoning his jeans. He doesn't talk or gloat or tease like Isaac did. He lifts his foot when he's behind Stiles, places it on the crotch of Stiles' jeans as they hangs around his knees, shoves them down to his ankles. "Get on the floor," he growls, and that's the last thing he says.

On his elbows and knees this time, Stiles gets fucked again. He's already stretched, loose, open, and Boyd is bigger than Isaac, but it doesn't hurt. This time he stares at the floor, at the rope around his wrists, and he waits for it to be over.

He's not prepared for Erica to join in. She slinks across the floor, drops down to her knees beside his hips, reaches beneath him. His cock is not hard, it hasn't been throughout the entire ordeal, but with direct stimulation it doesn't take long for him to get hard. He doesn't want to admit that being fucked is starting to feel good, refuses to come like this. He tenses up hard to stop himself.

Boyd groans and fucks him harder, faster as he comes. Stiles can feel semen leaking out around Boyd's cock with every erratic, rhythmless thrust. And then it's over, Boyd's cock slips free, won't go back in, and Stiles almost crows with victory.

He didn't come, Erica's hand leaves his cock, and she rises to her feet. Then he kicks him over onto his back, grabs his feet, yanks him so his arms are once again above his head, and she steps over him.

This time, Stiles can't help but see up her tiny skirt. She's wearing nothing underneath, and as she lowers herself she once again grabs Stiles' cock, lines it up, sinks down on it.

"Bitch," Stiles breathes. He's exhausted, and all his efforts to fight her only succeed in forcing his dick further inside her. She rides him hard, fast. He's sixteen and it's the first time he's had his dick in another person—he comes quickly.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, wishes he could cover his face with his arm, but he's tied up still. He just hopes it's over, wishes someone would cover him up because once Erica gets off him he's lying in a puddle of the come that's leaking out of his ass, and his cock is soft and wet and stuck to his thigh.

He doesn't look when the three betas move around the car, walk out the door, laughing, talking. They leave him there as he is, messed up, used, and still he refuses to cry.

The car is silent for a long time. Stiles refuses to open his eyes. He's afraid of who might find him like this, and he really, really hopes it isn't Scott.

"Stiles."

He jerks his wrists against the ropes that bind them. He heard nothing until the voice. It's not Scott, he knows that much. He opens his eyes. "Derek?"

The Alpha werewolf keeps his eyes locked to Stiles', even as he tugs up Stiles' jeans and covers him. "I'm going to look after you," he whispers. "I'm going to make this right."

"You can't," Stiles says, his voice cold and hard. Even if Derek didn't condone what happened, they're his betas, they're his responsibility. "You know what they did to me."

"Yeah." Derek nods as he unravels the rope from around Stiles' wrists, rubs gentle fingers over skin that's been burned into welts. "They're all over you, their scent."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah. All over me, inside me. My dad, is going to kill them, and that's not hyperbole. He's going to shoot them. And then he's going to shoot you."

Derek shakes his head. "I've taken care of it. They won't bother you again." With an arm under Stiles' shoulders, he helps Stiles to his feet. "Come on. I'll get you cleaned up."

Stiles limps toward the door. He can barely walk. "It hurts."

Derek scoops him up into his arms. He carries Stiles to a small room, plain except for a single bed along one wall. It's clean, but the air smells stale. There are no windows. Derek puts Stiles down on the bed, then he disappears out the door.

He comes back with a stainless steel bowl of steaming water and a washcloth.

"Do you sleep here?" Stiles asks. He perches on the edge of the bed, taking his weight on his aching arms. He shouldn't be trying to hide how much it hurts, Derek should know about it, he needs to know about it, but Stiles is still trying not to cry.

"Sometimes," Derek says. He places the bowl on the floor beside Stiles' feet, and he kneels down. "I'm going to clean you up," he says. "I have to take your clothes off." He tugs at the hem of Stiles' T-shirt.

Stiles stiffens, but Derek is insistent, pushing his hands away, peeling the shirt off and over his head. Stiles crosses his arms over his bare chest, drops his chin into his chest. He just wants to hide right now, doesn't want Derek to see him like they did, but he feels disgusting. He's got their come in his ass, her fluids all over his cock and balls. So he lets Derek push him back, lie him down, lets Derek strip him completely naked. This time he covers his eyes with his arm as Derek moves the washcloth over the front of him, cleaning every inch. He buries his face in Derek's pillow when Derek rolls him over onto his stomach, and this time he whimpers and cries when Derek slides the warm cloth down over his stretched, throbbing, leaking hole.

Then he cries out and tries to shove away from the bed when Derek puts the cloth aside, lays his hand over it.

Derek shoves him back down onto the thin mattress with one hand between his shoulder blades. "I'm taking away some of the pain," he whispers, and the throbbing eases, the heat fades, and Stiles goes limp under this touch. He can't stop the tears now, there's no hiding them. "They can't touch you anymore," Derek says.

Then he plants a soft, warm, chaste kiss on the small of Stiles' back.

Stiles stiffens. "I need to go home," he says.

When Derek shakes his head his lips drag, side to side, over the top of Stiles' ass. "Not yet." His hands wrap around the sides of Stiles' waist, gripping tightly, pulling him backwards just a little. He dips his tongue into the top of Stiles' ass crack and out again. "I need to take care of you."

Stiles pushes himself up on his arms, tries to pull away. "I'm fine. Really. Completely good, thanks. I'll just—"

With one hand between his shoulder blades, Derek slams him back down onto the mattress. "You're not going anywhere." Then he slides his hands down Stiles' sides, over his hips, and uses his thumbs to spread Stiles' cheeks.

Stiles feels cool air hit his hole, then warm breath. "Please, Derek, please, I just want to go home, I'm not going to tell anyone, I just want to forget any of it ever happened. Please just let me go." Something hot and wet strokes over his hole and it doesn't hurt but that place is the center of what's been happening to him and he's horrified all the same. "You're not making it better, Derek. You can't fix it." Slow, soft, and—he doesn't want to admit it, but—soothing, Derek's tongue continues to stroke over his swollen asshole. He knows Derek's not going to stop, but it doesn't stop him trying one last time. "Please, Derek. I'll do anything, if you'll just let me go home."

"After," Derek growls, the sound vibrating against Stiles' hole and making him shudder and moan.

"After what?" Stiles asks. "After what?" His voice rises to a squeak. "What are you going to do?"

Derek growls again, long, drawn out, and he's still growling as he wiggles his tongue right inside Stiles' ass.

"Oh god," Stiles moans. It hurts, just a little, but the vibrations flow through his body, into his balls, into his dick. "I don't like this, I don't, I don't." He's getting hard anyway. He shoves his face into the pillow. It smells like Derek. He soaks it with his tears. "Please."

Derek's tongue starts to thrust inside him, slow, deep. Stiles can't help himself, he starts to moan, shake from the effort to remain still and not arch back into Derek's face, not thrust against the mattress. It's wrong, there's no way he should be getting off on this, but his dick is hard, trapped between his belly and the bed, leaking onto the sheet below him. Derek's growl becomes a hum of approval, he can smell it, of course he can smell it, and he pulls his tongue out, licks his lips over Stiles' hole, kisses it, sucks gently before thrusting back inside just one more time.

Derek lifts his head. "Good boy," he whispers, blowing gently over Stiles' hole. "You like that, don't you?"

Stiles shakes his head, face still buried in the pillow. He doesn't trust himself to speak, it's hard enough just to keep his body still, not push back, searching for Derek's tongue again.

"You do. Don't lie to me, Stiles. There's no point." Derek shifts, grabs Stiles by the waist again. He pulls back, lifting Stiles to his knees. "Stay there."

Derek climbs off the tiny bed. Stiles lifts his head off the pillow, watches in horror as Derek peels off his shirt, kicks off his shoes, unbuckles his belt. The whole time his eyes don't leave Stiles' body.

"Are you going to fuck me, too? " Stiles asks, his voice weak, quivering."I don't want it. I don't... I don't want you to. You know that, right?"

"Shhh." Derek pushes his jeans down, steps out of them.

Stiles stares at Derek's cock. It's long, thick, uncut, the foreskin stretched around the shiny head. Hard, twitching, it stands straight against his stomach. Stiles swallows and drags his eyes away. "Please don't."

Derek climbs back on the bed behind him. "Be good, Stiles. I'm not going to hurt you." He presses the head of his cock against Stiles' asshole, puts just a little pressure on it.

Tears escape Stiles' closed eyes. "Please," he whispers, one last final effort to get Derek to stop. He knows it's pointless, a waste of time to try, but he has to try. Then he grits his teeth and braces himself as Derek pushes forward.

Slowly, inch by inch, Derek's cock pushes inside. He doesn't use lube, but Stiles is still so full of the betas come that there's almost no resistance at all. He can feel it oozing out as Derek pushes in, sliding down his perineum, dripping off his balls.

Derek's hips meet his ass, Derek rubs his back, one hand stroking up and down his spine. "So good," Derek whispers. "You're full of me, I'm going to give you more, going to make you mine. No one else can touch you, ever again. You'll keep coming back, won't you, Stiles?"

Stiles shakes. He aches deep inside. "I never want to see you again."

Derek laughs, a short sharp huff of breath, he pulls out, slow, and then slides his cock back in. "You will." He pulls out again, quicker this time, and slams himself back inside hard. "You'll beg for it, again and again. You won't be able to live without it. You'll come looking for me, begging me to fill you, to fuck you, because I own you, do you understand?" He fucks into Stiles, hard, fast, brutal, and all Stiles can do is lock his arms and hold on, all he can do is take it and pray that it'll be over soon.

Derek pounds into Stiles' body over and over again, so hard, so fast. The bed shakes beneath them but Stiles can't care that it might collapse. He just wants this over, he wants Derek out, he wants to go home where it's safe.

He wants his dad.

"Hurry up, god, please hurry up," he chants, more to himself than Derek, but he knows Derek can hear.

Derek's thrusts begin to lose all rhythm. They become erratic, still hard and fast and violent, but stilted. He grunts, his body jolting with each jerk of his hips. And then he stops.

"Thank god," Stiles breathes. He waits for the pulse of Derek's cock, waits to feel the rush of heat inside him, but it doesn't come. Derek's cock jerks once, Derek's hips shove against Stiles, never pulling out, just shoving in, still grunting, long, drawn out, his hands fisting Stiles' hips.

Then, and Stiles can't figure out how it's possible or what's happening, but Derek's cock seems to get bigger. Not just swelling before he comes, but getting thicker, impossibly thicker. As Derek jerks his hips, his dick tugs at Stiles' rim, burning and stretching all over again. "What are you doing?" Stiles says, voice high pitched in his panic.

Derek's cock gets bigger and bigger, at least, it feels that way. Stiles' insides are so full he's certain he's about to tear in half. He's going to die, Derek's killing him. He starts to scream, yell, scratch and tear at the bed, tries to get away.

And it hurts. Stiles feels like he's been struck by lightning, and he stops fighting, goes limp. Derek's hands jerk him backward, he groans and then goes perfectly still.

It pulses inside him. Derek's cock pumps inside Stiles' body, he feels the liquid flow of heat, feels it filling him further and he waits for it to stop but it doesn't. "What is it?" Stiles whimpers as he feels his insides stretch to capacity. "Please stop, it hurts."

Derek doesn't stop. He does lower himself over Stiles' back, his arms pressing into the mattress either side of Stiles' waist. "Don't struggle," he breathes, his lips close to Stiles' ear. "You're mine now. Nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do."

Stiles stares at the wall in front of him. It's a scratched wood paneling, dirty, grimy, covered in sticky dust. There's no sound except for the faint creaking of the bed, the slow even breaths of the man on top of him, in him, and Stiles' own shaking, shuddering breath. "Please," he whispers. "Derek. Just... Let me go. Get out of me, I can't—"

Derek lets out a shaky laugh. "Can't get out of you. It's the knot. It means you're mine. I'll tear you open if I try to pull out and you don't want that. I don't want that." His cock pulses again inside Stiles, like he's still coming and Stiles can't understand. He's exhausted, just wants to sleep, wants this all to be over. Derek pushes down with his hips, Stiles collapses beneath him, goes down under Derek's weight. It shifts Derek's cock—and the knot—inside him, and it presses against that spot inside him, that place Isaac hit with his fingers, makes Stiles moan and jerk.

"Feels good," Derek breathes. "When you squeeze around me like that." He pushes down, Stiles feels it again, can't help the grunt, the shudder, the clenching of his body.

Derek keeps grinding against him like that, stimulating Stiles' prostate with constant movement and pressure. Stiles' cock grows hard again underneath him, he can't help humping into the mattress. "Don't make me come," he begs, but it's no use. He doesn't want this to feel good, it shouldn't feel good, none of it should, but his body floods with pleasure, with hot sparks of ecstasy, his hands clench into fists, his toes curl, his limbs jerk uncontrollably and then he comes, soaking the sheet beneath him. His ass clamps down on Derek's cock painfully, he jerks and shakes and cries out, a strangled moan that's ripped from his throat before he goes limp, pressed down into the mattress by Derek's weight.

Stiles can barely breathe and he almost doesn't care. He closes his eyes, waits until his lungs start to burn before he forces himself to gasp for breath. Derek's knot is still pressed into that spot, so sensitive as to be painful but as long as he doesn't move and as long as Derek doesn't move, he can just lie there, and wait.

And hope that it goes away.

Derek holds Stiles, rolls half off of him, taking Stiles with him. His breathing slows. Eventually he lets out a soft snore. Stiles' eyes fly open wide. He wants out, but Derek's cock is still hard and huge inside of Stiles. It should go away eventually, he's sure.

Slowly, the pressure eases, Derek's cock softens. Stiles moves slightly and it slips out followed by a flood of fluid. The sensation is sickening, Stiles gags, swallows bile as he carefully maneuvers himself out from under Derek and off the bed.

His knees go out from under him and he collapses to the floor. Derek's come runs down the inside of his thigh, pools behind his knee and Stiles sobs, his chest spasming, he holds his breath because he doesn't want to wake Derek, he wants to get out, get away, get home, somewhere safe.

He manages to get to his feet, find his clothes, get dressed. Every time he glances up to check on Derek he's still sleeping, eyes still closed, chest still rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

Just as he's about to walk out the door, he looks back one last time. Derek's eyes are wide open, he's staring right at Stiles, but he makes no move to chase him. His mouth twitches up at the corner into a smile. "You're mine, Stiles. Next time, you'll come looking for me."

Stiles shakes his head. "No," he says, and he's so quiet the word barely disturbs the air. "Never."

fin

Originally posted anonymously, I de-anon'd once this was far enough into my backlist that I didn't have to see it too often. I wrote it, I'm not ashamed of it, but I don't like it very much.

Any responsefic should NOT be posted in the comments, but on your own account and linked back by using the 'this work inspired by' function AO3 provides. Add it to the Anonymous collection if you don't want your name attached.

You have my blessing to write whatever ending you choose, just don't do it in the comments.

This story inspired a fix-it written by another author. Follow the AO3 crosspost link to find it.