
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4708880.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski/Malia_Tate, Theo_Raeken/
      Stiles_Stilinski, Theo_Raeken/Malia_Tate, Peter_Hale/Theo_Raeken, Peter
      Hale/Malia_Tate
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Malia_Tate, Theo_Raeken, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Polyamory, Stockholm_Syndrome, Confinement, Torture, Injury, Temporary
      Character_Death, Violence, Non-Consensual_Bondage, Daddy_Kink, Mild_Puppy
      Play, Amorality, Amoral_Stiles, Amoral_Malia, Amoral_Peter, Alpha_Peter
      Hale, Dark_Stiles, Murder_Husbands, Murder_Family, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat,
      Cock_&_Ball_Torture, Established_Relationship, Incest, Parent/Child
      Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-02 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2092
****** The Lord Don't Like It, But The Devil Don’t Mind ******
by pibroch_(littleblackdog)
Summary
     It might be the pain that wakes him, or the pleasure. He’s not sure.
     It’s all twined together in the same twisted, writhing ball of
     sensation— all of it agony and ecstasy, all of it too much.
     ---
     Set in imagined Post-5B. No matter how many horrible things he’s
     done, Scott still wants to keep Theo alive. Stiles can work with
     that.
Notes
     Oh god what am I doing
See the end of the work for more notes
It might be the pain that wakes him, or the pleasure. He’s not sure. It’s all
twined together in the same twisted, writhing ball of sensation, regardless—
all of it agony and ecstasy, all of it too much.
“Oh, there he is.” The voice is nearby, but not near enough to be the cause of
the fiery throbbing of his skin, as if his entire body is one raw, infected
wound. Or the hot, wet suction on his cock. “I said your mouth was magic,
didn’t I, babe?”
Theo forces his eyes to open, fighting the grittiness and the sharp, disgusting
tug where his lashes are glued together. Glued together with what? He has no
idea, and guessing is a waste of time. Nothing is clear. The world is a blur,
blinding spots of light and colour. The stench of blood is too thick to smell
anything else.
“There he is,” the voice says again, softer, but not kind. It sounds cooly
detached. Curious.
There are no dissonant clicks, or harsh, mechanized rasping, but his pulse
speeds up anyway.
Blinking helps clear his vision, but not enough. The voice is still just a dark
shape, prowling closer, closing in. Panic crawls up from Theo’s stomach, sour
and squeezing, and it only gets worse the moment he realises he can’t move.
“I can’t tell if he’s actually with us.” A hand grips his chin, blunt fingers
digging into his jaw, and Theo tries so hard to bare his teeth. To bite, to
snarl, anythingmore than the meagre little grimace he manages. “Ugh, he’s a
mess. Jesus. Hey, wakey wakey, asshole.”
The slap is sudden, firm, and unexpected enough to rattle his brain in his
skull. Theo blinks again, eyes wetter. The fire licking across his skin stings
white-hot across his cheek, blazing like a brand where he was struck.
He gasps, sucking in a desperate lungful of air that feels like ground glass
dragged down his throat. His muscles seize, and he thrashes violently against
whatever’s holding him down— bands of pressure on his neck, his chest, elbows,
and wrists. He can arch his spine, jerk his shoulders slightly, but everything
below the waist is pinned securely, not shifting a fraction of an inch. Every
move is a fresh wave of pain, lapping at him, relentless as a tide.
Through all of this, the mouth on his dick hasn’t let up, bobbing steadily,
tonguing around his foreskin and teasing the slit. And it is definitely a
mouth, he knows that now. Just like he knows that fucking voice.
“Hey there, handsome,” Stiles says, grabbing his jaw and jerking his head up
again. Things are coming into focus now. Theo can make out the grey and green
stripes of Stiles’ shirt, the pale column of his throat— he squints, trying to
force it, and he can see Stiles looking back at him. Brown eyes are so dark
they’re nearly black, glinting like chips of glass in the too-bright lighting,
and ringed with smudged, tired bruises. His cheekbones stand out sharply, like
knives pressing from beneath moon pale skin, swooping into deeply carved
hollows.
Stiles looks starved, wretched, half-dead. A corpse that doesn’t have the sense
to lie down.
There’s a twist of satisfaction in the centre of Theo’s chest, tight and
throbbing hot. He did this. Weeks of sleepless nights and haunted days, of
trying to keep one step ahead of Theo’s pack. Weeks of rising tensions, of
stress points fracturing, falling to pieces— Scott McCall’s perfect, precious
pack finally honing the razor edges they were meant to have, despite the
bleating of their useless, spineless Alpha. All they needed was a whetstone,
something to cut their teeth and sharpen their claws on, and Theo had provided
them with plenty.
Weeks and weeks of blood, rage, and death, and before that, all the fun he’d
had testing Stiles’ defenses, getting under his skin, prodding and poking at
any soft spot. Prying him out of his shell; baiting the monster Theo could see
lurking just under the surface.
Stiles’ hair is buzzed short now, hugging his skull like a shadow. It makes him
look even more skeletal and severe, but fragile at the same time. A wicked, red
cut slices over his scalp, from his left temple, back to his crown, and there’s
a gruesome row of staples holding it shut. It’s definitely going to scar, and
that’s only the most visible of the marks Theo has left on this beast in boy’s
clothing.
Whatever happens to Theo now, it’s worth it.
He can’t speak— his throat is too tight, and his tongue is strangely heavy in
his mouth— but he dredges up something like a smile. It pulls at his dry lips,
stinging as they split.
“Isn’t that pretty.” Stiles returns the smile, all teeth, then turns his
attention down to whoever is still sucking Theo’s dick. “You not bored yet,
babe?”
The mouth hums, pleasure sparks like electric shocks in Theo’s balls and up his
spine, but he can’t thrust forward like he wants to. He also can’t cum. A hand
wraps around the root of his dick, tightening like a noose. Air hisses out of
his nose, and his jaw clenches; it’s the only response he’s capable of at the
moment.
“I know, right?” Stiles looks up again, meeting Theo’s gaze. “She’s really good
at giving head. Like, intimidatingly good. I can’t even take all the credit— I
mean, before now, she’d never sucked anybody else’s dick except mine, and I did
give her a couple of pointers at first. But to be honest, a lot of this is just
natural talent and enthusiasm. She gets off on it, too. It’s great.”
There’s a filthy slurp, a wet pop, and Theo’s dick is suddenly left cold,
hanging free and split-slick.
“This is weird.” Malia. A little hoarse, but that’s undeniably the werecoyote's
voice. Theo is disturbed that he couldn’t identify her by smell, but blood and
the sourness of his own bile are still the only scents in his nose.
Stiles makes an encouraging noise, releasing his tight grip on Theo’s chin.
Without support, Theo’s neck can’t bear the weight; his head drops limply, and
now he’s looking down at his own body. And at Malia, kneeling at his feet. Her
mouth is pink and wet, and her eyes are on Stiles. She’s fully dressed, with
barely a hair out of place. The normalcy of her pretty floral blouse and
relaxed demeanour is slightly jarring, oddly dissonant considering the
situation, but it’s not nearly as much of a shock as the rest of the picture
spread out before him.
Theo is strapped to what might be a gurney, or some kind of examination table;
whatever it is, it’s tilted up, so he’s nearly standing, and hard under his
bare back. The restraints he felt when he first woke up are dark straps that
look like leather, but are holding him down like fucking titanium. Now that he
can see them, he struggles again, jerking his arms and ignoring the hellfire
that screams through his muscles and bones when he strains. He manages to
rattle the cuffs holding his wrists, but it’s pitiful. Barely a fidget.
He’s also completely naked, which shouldn’t be surprising. He hadn’t noticed
the weight of fabric on his skin, just air and that sharp, lingering soreness.
It feels as if he’s been scoured raw. He expects to see wounds to match the
pain, healing too slowly for whatever reason, but there isn’t a single cut or
bruise. His skin seems unmarked, despite what his other senses are telling him.
All he sees is bare, tanned flesh, with a few smears of dry, flaking blood. It
doesn’t make sense.
“It’s not really bad,” Malia says, but she wrinkles her nose, as though she’s
smelled something unpleasant. “It’s different, though. Am I supposed to do
something with this?” Without warning, she pushes his foreskin back, peeling
the head of his dick. It’s too rough, too sudden, but the discomfort barely
registers. It’s a blip in blanket of pain suffusing the rest of his body.
“Well, my first instinct is to tell you to bite it off.” The wrist restraints
rattle again, still just as weakly as before. Theo can’t help the reaction of
pure, blind panic, but he regrets letting even that much show when Stiles
laughs.
“Stiles.” Malia sounds fondly exasperated, and doesn’t spare a flicker of
notice at Theo. It’s better than her teeth tearing into his dick, even if he
doesn’t relax one iota.
“Okay, alright, I’m joking. Mostly.” Stiles laughs again, but the cruelty fades
from the sound as he combs his fingers through Malia’s hair, brushing it gently
back behind her ear. “Remind me to read you this paper I wrote, back in
sophomore year. Or the highlights, anyway. History of the male circumcision.
Fascinating stuff.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Malia says, butting her head against Stiles’ hand. For a
few seconds, Theo thinks they might have forgotten he’s even in the room. Or
they don’t care. “Just tell me what to do with it. I know you know.”
“The wonders of the foreskin,” Stiles says dramatically, and Malia rolls her
eyes. “It’s just more to play with, really. Usually means the head underneath
is more sensitive, but that can depend on the dick. Everybody’s different.
Seriously, just play with it. Lick under it, tug a little bit, stuff like that.
Don’t be too rough, unless you want it to hurt.”
Stiles’ hand darts out, and a blaze of agony tears a croaky, broken howl from
Theo’s throat. It’s the first noise he’s made since he woke up, and it’s like
razorwire being yanked up from his stomach.
There are black spots dancing in front of Theo’s eyes when the pain finally
stops. After Stiles stops pinching his fingernails into the bare, wet head of
Theo’s dick and twisting it like he’s unscrewing a bottle cap.
“—practice all you want.” Theo only catches the tail end of whatever Stiles is
saying. He’s breathing too hard to hear the rest; the roar of his pulse is too
loud in his ears. “You’re the one who’s curious, so go for it. Have fun. It’ll
all heal.”
It’s all a plan to scare him, obviously. The McCall Pack may have splintered,
may have all but shattered completely in Theo’s hands before the end, but
there’s no way Scott’s going to let Stiles completely off his leash. Not after
Theo made absolutely certain that their resident True Alpha got a good look at
the monster he calls a best friend. His so-called brother has been baptised in
blood, filled to the brim with the darkness twining around his heart, and it’s
beautiful.
It’s the most beautiful thing Theo’s ever seen; Scott’s just too stupid to
appreciate it.
Theo gets his breathing under control, with some effort. He’s able to force his
head up a couple of inches, enough to look at Stiles through his lashes.
He expects to see the asshole smirking, or still ignoring him. What he gets is
the full-force of Stiles’ stare, steady and unblinking.
It’s the shadow of exhaustion and all the weight he’s lost that makes the whole
thing look so sinister. That’s why Stiles’ eyes are so dark, like empty sockets
in a skull. Theo knows better than most that Stiles is dangerous, but he’s
contained. Restrained, just as much as Theo is at the moment. Despite Theo’s
best efforts, Stiles is still tethered to Saint McCall and his idiotic ideas of
morality, even if those bonds are frayed to tatters.
“We’re all gonna have so much fun,” Stiles says quietly, reaching out and
hooking two fingers under Theo’s chin, lifting his face a little bit more. It’s
bizarrely gentle, but that’s all part of the game, to keep Theo on his toes.
Moments of mercy, to frame the brutality. Remind Theo of kindness, to make the
threats more terrifying. It’s so obvious, now that Theo’s mind is clearing.
It’s nearly disappointing.
A flicker of something strange and profoundly cold steals over Stiles’
expression. The best lies have an element of truth. Yes, Stiles is dangerous.
He’s lethal. But he’s also impotent, no matter how sweetly the remnants of the
Void whisper in his ears.
Theo doesn’t shiver, or look away. He’s survived worse than whatever petty
torments Stiles Stilinski is going to offer.
The McCall Pack isn’t going to kill him; he’ll survive this too. Theo has all
the time in the world.
End Notes
     Updates will probably be sporadic and sparse, but this will
     eventually contain all the goodies in the tags, with potential for
     additions depending on my inspiration. I’m working on this between
     other things, when I feel like being unapologetically gross and just
     rolling around in it.
     I expect each chapter to be a short vignette, detailing Theo’s
     experiences being trained by his new keepers. Because that’s where
     this is going, folks. Daddy Peter, his two little sweethearts, and
     their new puppy, who is very bad but may one day learn to be a good
     boy. Dedication and a firm hand can work wonders with naughty pups.
     Title from “Devil Do” by Holly Golightly & the Brokeoffs
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