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Daddy's Girl

Chapter Text

It starts like this.

It's almost summer break, and hot, and Stiles leaves her window open. Which is not an invitation, but the werewolves in her life seem to take it that way. She's wearing a BHHS lacrosse tank that was originally Scott's, long enough that it's practically a dress, and her skin's tacky with sweat against the night air, slick and too-hot where her back-ass-thighs press against the cheap vinyl cushions of her computer chair. She groans, spreads her legs a little further apart, plucks at the front of the shirt to draw a wave of air underneath the fabric. It doesn't help.

She turns slightly to reach for her delicious ice-cold Mountain Dew and yelps when she sees Peter standing by the window, watching her silently, like a creeper.

He's breathing heavy, almost panting, and his eyes keep flaring electric blue on every inhale.

“Dude, what?” she demands.

He takes two steps toward her, then drops to his knees with a heavy thump, shoulders his way between her legs and sticks his head under her shirt without saying a word.

“What the fuck, Peter!” she screeches, heart pounding, and she slaps at his head ineffectively.

But she doesn't try to close her legs, or punch him in the throat, or kick him. She doesn't reach for the homemade wolfsbane mace that is on her desk right next to her laptop. She doesn't scream for help. She doesn't say stop, when he shreds the crotch of her panties with his claws and then sticks his tongue in her cunt.

He pulls her hips forward and licks her clit until she's sobbing and oversensitive and her vision whites out, and she never tells him to stop.

Or maybe it starts before that, with Peter's resurrection. Because he's weird around her. Not all the humans, just her, and he's always been weird around her so she doesn't even have a real baseline for it....he's just kind of stalkery. Even with the scale already recalibrated for 'werewolf.'

He hasn't threatened her. He hasn't done any one overt thing that she can point to and say, 'There. Definitive proof that he's a creep!' It's more a bunch of little stuff that, taken collectively, make her side-eye him pretty hard.

Sure, he tried to kill her, that night at the school, but so did Scott, like way more times. He was so careful with his strength the night of the winter formal that she didn't have a single bruise the next day; there was only the mark of one of his fangs on the inside of her wrist, a thin brown scab like from a cat scratch, over a wound not even deep enough to be painful. She's had way worse from all the other werewolves she knows, except Boyd, and only because the two of them pretty much don't interact at all.

Maybe the thing that most weirds her out is that Peter's the only one who's ever apologised. Like. He sent her tulips. In a big white box with a silk bow. She loves tulips, and no one's ever sent her flowers before, not even sorry-I-kidnapped-and-menaced-you flowers. Also, she did help set him on fire, so shouldn't they be even? Stiles thought they were even.

Just. Weird. Still and always with the weird.

Or maybe it starts with four words.

(You must be Stiles)

Afterward, Peter seems to take her one-time lack of objection as blanket permission. Stiles doesn't know if it's a wolf thing, like why bother with words when you can smell whether someone objects, or just that Peter is a creep with consent issues (Maybe both? Probably both.), and there's really no one she can ask. Derek's the only one who might be able to give her an answer, and Derek has been looking for any excuse to rip Peter's throat out (again).

And Stiles likes orgasms. Even ones that start out with Peter crawling into her bed and fingering her while she's sleeping. Him being dead would probably interfere with that.

Or maybe not, zombie wolf that he is.

He never fucks her. She feels that he gets hard, but Peter's dick is never involved in the proceedings at all. At first she is secretly glad, because for all her bitching and moaning about still being an undated unkissed loser virgin at the ancient age of 16-and-a-half, she's not actually sure she's ready for full-on penetrative sex.

After a couple of weeks, she realizes that he's waiting for an invitation. That he'll push so far and no further.

(Do you want the bite? Yes or no?)

He'll molest her in her sleep, but won't fuck her when she's awake. She thinks, not for the first time, that Peter has some seriously skewed morals.

“You're having sex with Peter,” Derek says after asking her to stay behind at their next pack meeting.

“Yes,” Stiles replies, because werewolves, there's no point in denying it, or splitting hairs with Bill Clinton rules. “That is a thing that I am doing. Guess what? You're not the boss of me and I don't care what you think.”

“I am your Alpha,” Derek snarls, flashing red eyes like that will intimidate her. She doesn't have the heart to tell him that they look like blinky Christmas lights.

“True. But if you keep treating me like a misbehaving child, I will have sex with Peter on every flat surface in the loft, and you'll have to smell it.”

Derek makes a screwed-up face of utter disgust and Stiles sits back with a smirk.

“Peter is a terrible person,” he says, very solemn and serious, as if imparting information she doesn't already fucking know.

Stiles laughs in his face, because what, like she's a saint?

The first time, the one that 'counts' according to bullshit social constructs of virginity, is right after a skirmish with the Alpha pack that's been lurking around, that kept Boyd and Erica long enough to traumatize them (more) and then let them go running back to Derek with their tails between their legs.

Stiles parks her Jeep and stares at the interminable distance between the driveway and her front door. Despite the fact that she is covered in pine needles and dirt and blood and what is possibly bits of Isaac's pancreas or something, from packing his bony ass out of the woods after he got half-gutted, she seriously contemplates falling asleep where she sits.

“Well, no one died,” she reminds herself. It is possibly the only positive thing to be said about the encounter. “Woo. Go team.”

Two things force her inside-the thought of her Dad finding her unconscious and spattered with viscera, and whatever-it-is that she does not want to identify that's trickling out of her hair and down her cheek. It's thick and warm and globby, like snot. She really really hopes it's snot, which is both the most unlikely and also the least disgusting option.

It's probably actually what was left of Kali's eye after Peter clawed it out, because that seems to be how Stiles' life goes lately. If it was on her hands, she could deal. Hands are made for touching things, even gross things (like dead bodies, let's be real, if Stiles had found Laura's other half that night in the woods she definitely would have poked her once or twice). But in her hair? Ewwwww.

So when she gets upstairs, and Peter's in her room, she just closes her eyes for a minute, like if she can't see him he'll disappear. She opens them. He's still there. “Not in the mood,” she grits through her teeth. Because tonight, even if he was acting in their defense (for once), she saw the monster who bit Scott, who tormented Lydia. The monster who crawls into her bed – all the better to eat you with, my dear – and she not only lets him, she likes it.

He gets up from her desk chair, brushes past her, and she hears the soft tha-thud of his footsteps on the stairs. For a moment, she thinks he's actually leaving.

Then he comes back up, and he's got a black garbage bag in one hand and a container of Clorox wipes in the other. The container sloshes – he probably added more bleach to it. She's done that before, cleaning up blood.

He takes off his own bloody, torn clothes and shoes and puts them in the garbage bag, then starts stripping her of hers. He's not wearing underwear. She just stands there and lets him, too exhausted and numb to do anything else.

He herds her into the bathroom, then into the shower, the big stall with the bench that they'd replaced the tub with when her mom started getting sick. If Stiles was anything like herself she would make a sheepdog joke.

(If she was anything like herself, she would have made him bleed when he started taking her clothes off. Probably tomorrow she will. She kind of gets the impression that Peter considers it foreplay.)

At first he just lets her stand under the spray for long minutes, water nearly hot enough to sting.

It devolves when he starts washing her hair, and she makes some noises that are borderline pornographic, because her scalp is really fucking sensitive okay? And then the next thing she knows, he's on his knees in front of her and she has one leg hooked over his shoulder and he's eating her out, with fangs, which doesn't sound like it should be good but it really, really is.

His tongue is raspy, and so long, and he uses his hands to spread her pussy lips so that his upper fangs are just holding her open for his tongue, hard pressure on thin skin. The teeth on his lower jaw are resting delicately just above her asshole, and he could rip her open with a twitch but the thought just makes her whine and gush blood-hot slick all over his face, for the third time in ten minutes. She's always been easy for him, but this is just ridiculous.

She fists two hands in his hair and yanks, and he growls, and the vibration makes her shudder and he snarls again, but fuck it, she had a plan. She has to actually dig her fingernails into the shell of his ear and twist to get him off her, and he glares up with wolf eyes.

She's not going to say the words, partly because he never has either but mostly because she thinks if she tries to speak she'll start screaming. It's been a really fucked up night....month....hell, year, and she just wants to feel good and stop thinking.

She tugs Peter to his feet, and he lets her. She knows he wouldn't move an inch if he didn't want to. She puts her arms around his shoulders and that's enough leverage to wrap her legs around his waist, although she flails a little and accidentally kicks the glass shower door in the process. The BOOM echoes through the room and makes her wince but it doesn't break or anything, so...kind of a win?

Peter holds her up with one hand under her ass and just looks at her. Waiting. Such an asshole, like it isn't obvious what she wants.

She hitches herself a little higher and bites his chin, hard, watches it bleed and bruise and then heal like time-lapse photography. He makes an interrogative noise deep in his throat, and she answers by holding tighter with one arm tight on the back of his neck, and reaches down between them with her right hand to position his cock. His eyes flash from electric wolf-blue to stormy grey-blue and back again as he glares at her, but he must not be married to the idea of making her beg for it because his other hand slides out of her hair and down her back, until he has an ass-cheek in each palm and is tilting her hips to a better angle.

It hurts. She doesn't know why she expected different, maybe because everything they've done has been so good. She's ridden three of his fingers without so much as a twinge, but this is different, wider and hotter and less...yielding, somehow, and she winces and digs her knees into his ribs.

He huffs at her and pulls out, moves her legs one at a time so instead of being wrapped around his waist they are hooked over his arms, her knees on the crooks of his elbows, and she is pinned against the tile wall and spread wider than she's ever been before. He rubs the length of his cock along her flushed and swollen pussy and laughs when she pulls his hair again, impatient.

He pushes back inside, and she already knew weres ran hotter than humans, but it feels like he's scalding her, even hotter than the water streaming down on them both that's turned her skin the same rosy pink as a sunburn.

Her head knows he won't drop her, but her stomach's not convinced, and it swoops uneasily every time he draws back, hind-brain screaming a warning and making her clutch at him. It's distracting, and it's keeping her from getting off. He must smell it or something, because eventually he pins her firmly against the the tile and just grinds his cock into her, the easy rocking motion rubbing his pubic bone over her clit. “I can do this all day,” he whispers against her neck, following it up with a bite, and she's not sure if it's a threat or a promise, or which one she wants it to be.

Her cunt tries to clench up like a fist and can't, Peter's dick stretching her wide, but it feels so good that she does it again, and he groans and grinds against her harder, hard enough to bruise the insides of her thighs.

After that it's like a feedback loop, she squeezes down on his cock and he rocks against her like he's not already as deep as he can get. He's got human teeth dug in the meat of her shoulder and is growling so loud it makes her bones shiver. The next squeeze turns into the ripples of an orgasm and he takes one hand off the wall, leaning back and reaching between them to rub his thumb over her clit, it's too much sensation but she can't get away, he's got her pinned and when she squirms it just makes it worse, or better, or something that has him putting fangs through his bottom lip like he's biting back a howl. Her heart is racing and the steam is so thick in the air it's like trying to breathe through a straw, and somewhere in there she blacks out.

She wakes up dried off. She's lying on top of her comforter on her bed, her hair is wrapped in a towel and Peter is pulling a pair of plain black cotton panties up her legs. Legs that are shaved now, when she hasn't bothered with that in weeks. How the fuck long was she out?

She gets with it long enough to lift her hips off the bed so he can pull them up all the way. She thinks about asking how he shaved her legs, and why he bothered, and seriously how he managed it without dumping her on her head or making her bleed, seriously, the physics just doesn't work, even with werewolf strength.

He presses an open-mouthed wet kiss to her mons, breathing hotly through the thin cotton fabric, and then gets back up.

He digs in the very back of her pajama pants drawer, past the flannel purple star ones that have been too short for years but she keeps because they were her mom's, and pulls out a man's v-necked pullover in charcoal gray that she had no idea was in there.

When Peter pulls it over her head, she can smell cedar forest and leather and expensive soap and man, and something else musky and wild that she thinks of as 'werewolf smell.' Peter put his worn-and-not-washed shirt in her dresser with her clean clothes. Trying to scent-mark her without her knowledge.

She doesn't have any idea why she's surprised. If it was any other night, she would rip him a new one over it, because she is not his property dammit, and also because it's Peter, and if she gives him an inch he will take approximately twenty-seven miles. But the shirt is sinfully soft and long enough to come down to her thighs, and she has apparently been Stockholmed to the point that Peter's scent is comforting, so she wants to just enjoy the moment without thinking about all the reasons why she shouldn't.

Peter slips one hand under the hem but doesn't cop a feel, just does the veiny painsuck thing as soon as he gets bare skin, and Stiles feels her limbs go all noodly. The absence of pain teams up with the neurochemical aftermath of multiple screaming orgasms to slam her eyelids shut without her permission. He smooths the shirt back down and tucks her comforter around her.

The last thing she registers is the tender press of lips on her forehead.

Chapter Text

When she wakes up the next day at the crack of noon, the bathroom, her Jeep seats and her desk chair are cleaner than they've been in...ever, and reek of bleach even to her human nose. The bag of bloody clothes is gone. So is Peter.

Well, she thinks, okay then. No one died. It's all cleaned up (bandaged up, healed up, fucked up) like the previous night never happened. It's fine.

She doesn't give Peter the cold shoulder at that night's pack meeting, even though she kind of wants to, because she knows enough about strategy to be aware that the two of them need to continue to present a united front against the force of the pack's disapproval, to prevent either Scott or Derek from doing something drastic.

As a side benefit, her fucking Peter has given Scott and Derek enough common ground in their utter disgust that they can actually work together, giving the Alphas the false impression that Beacon Hills has one relatively cohesive resident pack instead of a group of people who don't particularly like each other all keeping the same secret.

“Are you even listening to me?” Derek's growly demand interrupts her train of thought.

Stiles rolls her eyes, because no, she stopped when he repeated himself for the third time. “I'm Rodney Dangerfield with the way I get no respect, when I was your age we went to pack meetings bare-pawed uphill both ways in the snow, get off my lawn you damn kids-”

Derek puts his hand over her mouth. She licks it, enjoying his resultant expression of baffled disgust and the way he grimaces as he wipes his hand on his jeans. There's no point in biting him, he'd heal it in half a second. Gross-outs have staying power.

He looks like he might genuinely wolf out from pure frustration, though, so since it's two days until the full moon she decides to cut him a break. A tiny one. Miniscule. “Alpha Pack dickbags want to have some kind of nicey-nice 'state dinner' where we pretend like we haven't all tried to kill each other multiple times. Sounds like a great idea. Right up there with 'I've been shot, cut off my arm.'”

Erica snickers and tries to mask it with a cough.

“Much as I enjoy watching you malign my idiot nephew, darling,” Peter drawls, “he's right. They've already established that they could kill us if they wanted to, but we have shown them that we work together well and their victory would not come without cost. Traditionally, at this point, adversarial packs engage in truce talks.”

“Are you sure I can't trap them in a ring of mountain ash and light them on fire?” she asks with a sigh. They've been practicing for weeks, and she can throw a fistful of mountain ash and have it land in a ring in less than a second. The only reason it didn't work the other night was because stupid Isaac went all rage-blackout and missed her signal to scatter. With him trapped in the circle with the Alphas, Stiles had no choice but to break it.

(Well, she could have let him die and called it collateral damage, but Scott would have made that face.)

“Let's not risk a forest fire if we have better options, hmm?” Peter suggests mildly, like just the thought of being that close to out-of-control flames doesn't make him flinch.

And he's got a point. With how hot and dry it's been, she could rub two sticks together and accidentally burn down half the state. “Fine. Diplomacy it is.”

They meet up at a fancy French restaurant in Beacon Valley. They need three tables placed end-to-end to all sit together, and as soon as the waitress gives them all menus and flees, they sit in fraught silence, like the first one to break and actually say something will be ritually sacrificed on the tabletop and served for dinner, despite the fact that they're here to discuss truce terms.

Stiles takes the opportunity to study their opponents in proper lighting, and overall, she's not impressed. Deucalion, already creepy for the way she can feel his gaze despite supposed blindness, is properly turned out in a navy suit that emphasizes his shoulders. She suspects hand-tailoring, not because she knows anything about suits but because it looks like something Peter would wear, and the last time she popped two buttons getting him out of his shirt he bitched for an hour about how it was bespoke linen from flax that was delicately watered with unicorn tears and then harvested by sugarplum fairies, or whatever.

But the rest of the alphas? Second-rate goth band aesthetic garnished with way too much leather. Seriously, Ennis is wearing leather pants and a black silk shirt like he thinks he's David Boreanaz circa 1998, and Kali is wearing a flocked velvet damask corset. Why.

Speaking of Kali, her eye grew back, which is...interesting. Stiles guesses if werewolves can regenerate internal organs after being gutted and survive being burned to a crisp, re-growing an eye probably ain't no thing. And Derek's arm would have grown back. Maybe? Maybe not; he was a beta at the time, and there was wolfsbane involved, and Peter didn't fully heal from the fire until he was the Alpha. And it's not like she can ask. Derek wasn't exactly given to answering her nosy questions even before he got mad at her for having sex with Peter, and Peter just laughed at her and handed her a dusty book, all but daring her to figure it out herself.

Stiles sighs heavily. Werewolves are a real source of stress and confusion in the farce that is her life.

“Are we boring you, Miss Stilinski?” Annnnd that's Deucalion. Awesome.

“Yeah, a little, but it's okay, I can entertain myself.” Stiles lifts her phone, waves it. “Candy Crush.”

There's a tense silence before the Alpha of Alphas (alfalpha?) starts laughing. “Oh, darling, you are a delight.”

Peter snarls at Deucalion, eyes flaring gas-flame blue. Stiles flicks him in the forehead with her middle finger, and he stops, regarding her with disbelief. “Did you just flick me?”

“Did you just wolf out in public? Seriously, people are already staring at us, don't make it worse.” Don't fuck this up over a creepy serial killer I'd never in a million years be interested in, she doesn't say, because technically Peter's a creepy serial killer, so it probably wouldn't be as reassuring as she means it to be.

“You'll pay for that later,” he promises silkily.

Her cheerful response of “Counting on it!” is drowned out by Derek and Scott's simultaneous chorus of “Gross!” and Deucalion's laughter.

This is followed by an interrogation that feels like a nightmare combination of a blind date and the job interview from hell, that not even the excellent food can make up for. But when it's over, they skip both dessert and bloody battles to the death, and Deucalion gives Derek his card and mentions that they're leaving to investigate reports of a feral alpha in a suburb of Toronto called Bailey Downs.

There's no villain monologues or returns from the dead or even a showdown in a creepy abandoned building, it's all very anticlimactic. But Stiles is totally in favor of a lack of drama if it means she won't ruin any more clothes or acquire yet more new material for her already-bountiful nightmares.

And she still makes Derek take them all to Lulu's Diner for pie and milkshakes to celebrate.

The summer is quiet, after that.

Her dad works a lot, because the station is short-staffed after the Kanima (and she knows, okay, that Jackson was just the weapon, that when somebody gets murdered you don't arrest the gun, but that doesn't mean a big part of her doesn't blame him for not listening to her, for filing a fucking restraining order and going off on his merry way). And Noah Stilinski works a lot probably because it means they don't have enough face-to-face time to broach any topics more serious than healthy eating habits and whether Stiles has actually been out in daylight or spent all weekend in a Call of Duty haze. They're not good at talking about things that matter. Never have been.

Scott spends the time he's not 'training' (it looks a lot like 'playing tag in the woods' but what does she know, she's not a werewolf) mooning over Allison, and Stiles is done with that. She had her bro's back when he wanted to date a girl from a family that makes the Mansons look restrained, let them use her as a human message service in the name of love, listened to hours of bad poetry about Allison's hair and her dimples and a gag-worthy level of detail about their sex life with minimal complaint, and all that loyalty got her was ditched and hung up on and kidnapped and assaulted. To top it off, in a stunning display of hypocrisy, when Stiles makes a less-than-optimal choice of significant other, instead of support she gets judgement and disgust and threats to tattle to her dad.

So Stiles makes the rule that, if Scott's going to be a jerk about Peter, then he's not allowed to talk about Allison when they're having bro-time. Scott makes the counter-rule that Stiles is not allowed to even mention Peter's name. Which she is honestly fine with, she's too mad at Scott for being a hypocritical ass about it to enjoy torturing him with unwanted details. But in practice, Scott is, it seems, incapable of going five minutes without mentioning Allison, and Stiles starts getting up and leaving every time he does.

So she's mad at him for being a hypocrite, he's mad at her for being 'unreasonable' in her expectations that he stfu about a girl he's not even dating anymore, and it's been two weeks since the Alphas left and they haven't hung out once.

Instead, Stiles spends most of her waking hours in Peter's apartment. About half of her sleeping ones, too, because his bed might legitimately be made out of clouds. She's not far enough into the stack of musty old magic books he keeps buying her to say for sure, but she thinks it might be a possibility.

They're watching Pirates of the Carribean. The first one, which in Stiles' opinion is the best one, but she's not entirely focused on the movie because Peter is sprawled next to her on the sofa only wearing a pair of lounge pants that lovingly cling to all his everything.

“You remind me of him,” she says when Captain Jack makes his triumphant escape.

“Do I?”

“Yeah, because you're both terrible people. Not Gerard Argent levels of terrible, maybe like 78% awful. But even though you're backstabbing backstabbers who lie and manipulate and kill people, you do have your own moral code, sort of, twisted as it is, and you so clearly revel in being bad and you're funny and charming and it makes it really hard to hate you for it.”

“Because a part of you does want to be like me. To join the adventure.”

“Yes,” Stiles admits in a very small voice, because they both knew she was lying that night in the parking garage. And another thing they both probably know is that if Peter had bitten Stiles that night in the woods, if he hadn't targeted two of the very, very small circle of people whose happiness and survival she actually gives a fuck about....she would have helped him set the world on fire, would have held Kate Argent down for him to torture with a fucking song in her heart.

“You knew exactly what you were doing when you killed Laura. Didn't you.”

“Of course I did. Derek thinks I killed Laura for power, you know. It's why he doesn't trust me.” He turns his head a little, so he's staring right at Stiles. “It wasn't about power, and while I would never argue that I was thinking clearly, I wasn't in some kind of mindless fugue state. She was supposed to be my Alpha, and she abandoned me in a human hospital. Trapped in my own body, half-burned, in agony, going slowly mad. Easy prey for any hunter who wanted to finish me off, and I would have welcomed it. It would have been a mercy, then. An alpha's first duty is to see to the safety and health of their pack. It's pack that makes us strong. We heal faster, better, the closer our packmates are, the Alpha especially. But she left. So I killed her.”

“After my mom died. I hated her, for a long time. Because she left. Even though it wasn't her fault that she got sick. Even though she held on for as long as she could. I hated her because she was supposed to be there and she wasn't. It's not the same thing, I know that.” Laura had a choice. Mom didn't. “But. It kind of is.” Laura was barely eighteen, grieving, afraid. She must have felt like she had no choice. But he hated her for it anyway. I hated Mom for it anyway.

Their eyes meet, and Stiles knows they're understanding each other perfectly. They're not even touching and yet it's the most raw and intimate they've ever been.

“You said you blamed Laura for leaving you. But you don't blame Derek?”

“I blame Derek for the fire, to an extent. I blame Kate more; he was just a child, after all. A stupid, naive child who trusted too easily. And I don't blame him for obeying his Alpha, for the same reason.”

“He was a child.”

“Yes. As for the fire, well. He's much better at punishing himself for that than I could ever be.”

Stiles thinks of how he lived in a boxcar like an actualfax stray dog, rejecting any and all overtures of friendship or caring, barely even allowing himself to have a pack. The only reason he got the sad loft of despair was because Melissa McCall made him get a legit address before she would help him get custody of Isaac. Stiles would bet cash money that he hasn't been hugged since Laura died, which was what, half a year ago? Yeah, Derek is aces at punishing himself.

That Friday they drive to Napa, far enough that no one will recognize her as the Sheriff's daughter. It's one of their rare 'traditional' dates, they don't go out in public much between Stiles being underage and Peter being technically dead, but later she knows she won't be able to say what she ordered if there's a gun to her head. All her attention is taken by the occasional brush of Peter's knee against her bare thigh, the graze of his fingertips on her mouth when he feeds her a bite of something, the way he's looking at her like he's going to snap and fuck her over the table any second.

It's probably good food. It's a nice restaurant. But her brain is already back in Beacon Hills, in bed with Peter. (Her brain spends a lot of time there, it's a great place to be, especially compared to the other options; School, Argent Basement, Maybe You're A Sociopath, Scott Getting Bit Was Your Fault, Your Dad Will Die Too Someday and Running For Your Life In The Woods.)

She's wearing clothes he bought her, matching bra and panties in cobalt blue silk trimmed with lace that's soft instead of scratchy, and a dark green dress that reminds her of the woods and barely covers her ass. Four inch heels with soles the same bright crimson as an Alpha's gaze. She can't move faster than a slow walk in them and they make her taller than Peter which feels weird when they kiss, but worth it for the way he looks at her like he's starving, eyes flaring electric blue. She runs the pointy black patent toe of one shoe up his thigh under the table and grins when he pops claws and nearly fumbles his wineglass.

(They're having wine. She's already tipsy. Underage drinking is the least of the illegal things she plans to do tonight.)

He smiles at her and his eyes seem to flare briefly red in the candlelight. “If you do that again,” he says, even and calm like he's commenting on the weather, “We'll end up getting kicked out of this very nice restaurant.”

And Stiles has never backed down from a challenge. Even when she probably should.

So she nudges his knees further apart with one foot and stretches her leg out, rests the sole of her shoe against his crotch, pressing down gently, just enough to make him growl at her.

“Finish your wine,” he orders.

She drains the glass obediently, even though the alcohol's gone to her head already and she doesn't think she'll be able to stand in the stupid fuck-me shoes she's wearing.

“You're going to get up, go to the bathroom, take off your panties and put them in your purse, and then wait for me like a good girl while I order our desserts to go and pay the bill.”

“What if someone comes in?”

He smirks. “You better hope they don't.”

No one comes in while she waits. Except Peter, after about ten minutes, already unbuckling his belt. “Pull up your skirt and bend over the counter.”

Stiles eyes the swinging door of the ladies' room uncertainly. There's no lock. Anyone could come in and see them. And the thought might give her a dirty thrill, but she knows there's nothing sexy about being arrested for indecent exposure.

Like he hears the worry she's too stubborn to voice, he says, “You're going to squeeze my dick like you did the first time I fucked you, try to get me off fast before we get caught. And don't forget to be quiet.”

She pulls up the hem of her dress. The makeup area of the fancy little bathroom has a deep marble counter under a triptych mirror with angled sides. Between that and the sink mirror behind Peter, her bare ass is reflected into infinity as she bends over the counter.

“Spread your legs,” Peter orders, and wow, that's worse, or better. More, anyway. Her labia are flushed red and so slick they glisten in the overly bright lights. She feels like a slut, especially when she looks at Peter's reflection and he's still fully dressed, tie perfectly knotted, just the fly of his pants open as he strokes his cock lazily. He's still wearing his blazer, for fuck's sake.

She shivers.

He presses the head of his cock against her and shoves in, a single hard thrust that makes her ache from the stretch, and she has to bite her lip to keep from making a noise. She's watching in the mirror, can't help herself, and he puts both hands on her hips and fucks her, fast and selfish. He's using her body to get off and it shouldn't be such a turn-on, but it is.

Knowing she drove him to this. Knowing the consequences of getting caught are all on his side, his eyes flickering from their usual denim blue to the bright searing flame of an acetylene torch when she clenches every muscle in her core as hard as she can, even her thighs straining.

When he comes inside her his eyes flicker red again, and this time she can't write it off as a trick of candlelight.

“Now you're going to pull down your skirt and walk across the restaurant with my cum sliding down your leg,” Peter snarls in her ear, and pulls out, leaving her on the edge.

She's not sure whether she's furious that he stopped or grateful they got away with it, until they walk out of the bathroom and there's a teenage boy in kitchen whites leaning against the wall next to the door, which bears a very official-looking OUT OF ORDER sign. He hands Peter a white cardboard bakery box tied with ribbon, and Peter hands him a hundred dollar bill, and Stiles' scales tip in favor of fury.

He speeds on the way back to Beacon Hills. She almost hopes they get pulled over – it would serve him right for being a fucking tease.

At this point, the only reason she doesn't stick her hand up her skirt and get herself off is pure stubbornness. She won't give him the satisfaction of thinking he's won.

Of course, he doesn't know that...

She pulls up the hem of her dress and rubs her clit. It's not exactly what she wants, but it still feels good, and the low, hitching moan she lets out isn't entirely for show.


“Peter,” she taunts.

“If you don't stop touching yourself, I'll pull over and spank you until you cry.”

“Promise?” she purrs, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. He's watching her with that starving look again, eyes back to gas-flame blue. What is going on?

“I promise you won't be able to sit for a week, and I promise you won't enjoy it.” There's a hint of growl in the threat.

“God, someone's toppy tonight,” she snarks. “I almost expect you to pull a Derek, all 'I'm the Alpha now!'”

“The next time you mention my idiot nephew while you smell like arousal, I'll slit his throat,” Peter warns her. “Now be a good girl for me.”

“If I was a good girl, I wouldn't be here,” she points out, but then there's christmas lights in the rearview and the whoop-whoop of a siren as a squad car pulls out of a fire lane overgrown by brush that apparently makes an excellent speed trap. Stiles sits up straight, digs her panties out of her purse and hurriedly pulls them on before yanking her dress back down as low on her thighs as it will go, which isn't very. “Shit!” she hisses. “Are we over the county line?”

“Not yet, I think,” Peter replies out of the corner of his mouth, fingers tense on the wheel as he signals and starts to pull over. Thankfully, the cruiser goes by with only a nod of acknowledgement from the deputy at the wheel, and pulls over a blue Jetta that had passed them when Peter slowed down, more interested in watching her lap than watching the road.

They cruise by the spectacle of loudly protesting drunk teenagers at a stately speed of two miles under the limit, and only once they're out of sight around a curve do they both crack up laughing.

Chapter Text


Peter uses his claws to slice through the silky green dress she's wearing and the lacy cobalt blue lingerie set underneath, leaving faint red marks on moon-pale skin as the fabric shreds over her hips. “You're replacing those,” Stiles grumbles, but her voice is breathy.

“Of course,” Peter replies easily, because he likes Stiles wearing things he chose for her, wearing proof that she's his. He scrapes his claws over the skin of her belly a little harder, nearly drawing blood, and she purrs against his neck. “I really don't think I should be rewarding you. You were a very bad girl at dinner. And in the car.”

“You fucking me until I scream when my Dad's not home isn't a reward for me,” she replies archly, and, well, she's not wrong, even though hearing the word Dad out of her mouth for the wrong man makes him want to snarl.

The only thing better than getting her scent all over his den is getting his all over hers, fucking her in her childhood bedroom, leaving his sweat and cum on her body and her sheets. He licks a circle around her areola and then blows gently on the wet skin, and her nipple hardens almost instantly. Stiles digs both hands into his hair and tries to push his head away, face scrunching up like she can't decide if the sensation is good or bad.

He repeats his ministrations on her right nipple. Just to help her decide, of course.

“Stop being a fucking tease and get your dick in me already!” Stiles whines, squirming underneath him.

Peter slaps her inner thigh, hard enough to leave a red mark. “You have a filthy mouth, little girl. Ask me nicely.”

“Fuck you!”

“Rude girls don't get to come. Be polite to your Daddy or you get nothing,” he hisses, biting down on her nipple.

It's a risk, yes. She might shove him off, tell him he's a perv. Even as desperate to come as she is, Stiles is stubborn as hell.

But instead her heart stutters and she gasps, her scent blooming like blood drops in clear water, all lust and heat. “Daddy,” she whispers shakily. “Please, Daddy. I want it.”

The rush of pleasure is so strong it's like a baseball bat to the reward center of his brain. He suspects it's every bit as addictive and devestating as hard drugs would be to a human. “What do you want, baby girl?” he croons to her. “I can't give it to you unless you tell me.”

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. “Please fuck me,” she whispers. It's so quiet, if he weren't a werewolf he wouldn't hear it.

“Louder,” he insists.

She glances up at him, flicker of whiskey-gold eyes. Her scent changes, mischief and playfulness, and she teases, “Please Daddy, put your cock in my pussy and fuck me, you're the only one who ever has, no one else can do it right, I need you!”

Even knowing she's messing with him doesn't lessen the impact of her words. He doesn't need to steady his cock with one hand to push into her, she's still so open and slick from before that it's an easy glide. “I'm going to ruin you,” he promises. “Fuck you full and breed you.”

“IUD, dude,” she reminds him, wearing the WTF you moron expression he's used to seeing directed at McCall. “This baby factory is closed until further notice.”

He puts his head down on her shoulder and laughs, can't help it. “I know that, Stiles.”

“Is it a wolf thing?” she asks after a long, awkward minute.

“Sort of. Mostly it's a you thing.” He wants to own her in every way possible. Knocking her up is just one more, even though it's not smart or possible for a whole host of reasons.

“Oh. Sorry I ruined the mood,” she says, and the apology is even mostly sincere. So he blows a loud raspberry against her neck, making her yelp and start giggling. “What the hell is wrong with you, you're such a weirdo,” she says when she can talk again, sounding impossibly fond.

And he's still hard, so the mood isn't completely ruined. “I want to try something.”


“I want to knot you.”

She whips her head to the side to look him in the eye so fast that she almost head-butts him. “Wait, what, that's a thing? When I asked Derek about it he told me to stop reading shitty Twilight fanfiction! That asshole!”

“Only for male born wolves,” Peter corrects her. He subtly draws in her scent and has to bite the inside of his cheek not to wolf out. He's always had flawless control, and she messes with it without even trying, especially when she smells like she does now, all ripe and wanting. “And what did I say about mentioning Derek when you're turned on?”

“So I should never mention him ever again, is what you're telling me,” she snickers. “Besides, after all his wall-slamming and threats about ripping my throat out with his teeth, maybe I want him to be on the other end of it.”

Peter growls. “He did WHAT.”

“Whoa, snarly monsterness! Chill out, Lon Chaney, he was kidding. I think.” She doesn't smell certain, though, and Derek was raised to be gentle with humans. That he could make that threat, convincingly, to Stiles who has saved his sorry life multiple times...

Peter won't kill him, if only because of the distant threat of the Alpha Pack. We'll be watching you. But that doesn't mean he can't teach his nephew a lesson.

Stiles squirms under him, drawing him away from thoughts of well-deserved revenge. “Are you really gonna knot me?”

“Do you want me to?” He's always been morally flexible, but this is ingrained. Never knot a partner without their verbally stated permission. When he asked why it mattered so much, his father broke his arms and legs in answer, and that was enough to make the lesson stick.

She scoffs. “No, dude, I'm asking because I'm completely disgusted by the idea. Obviously.”

“Don't call me dude.”

“Sorry, dude.”

He growls against her throat.

She cards through his hair with the fingers of both hands and corrects, sounding contrite, “Sorry, Daddy.”

“That's my good girl.” He rolls them so she's straddling his hips, free to move as she likes, pull away if she wants to. Knotting is intense, and it's not for everyone. Even among wolves, some partners just don't enjoy it.

“How long does it take? How long does it last? Will you cum so much it makes my stomach bulge and I look like I'm pregnant?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Okay, now I'm the one telling you to stop reading shitty Twilight fanfiction.”

“It was Supernatural fanfiction, thank you,” she corrects him faux-primly. “And it was actually really hot. You must think so too, since you're still hard. Daddy.”

“I'm hard because you're sitting on my dick,” he points out, and the scent of arousal flares. Oh. Well hello there bulletproof kink. “Does my sweet little girl like it when I talk dirty to her? Are you going to ride my cock until I pop a knot for you, Mieczysława?”

She blushes and shivers when he says her real name correctly, then plants both hands flat on his chest for leverage and lifts her hips. “Don't close your eyes, look at me. When we start to tie I'm going to hold you down, keep you pinned on my dick so you don't hurt yourself. And then I want you to lick your fingers and touch your pretty clit, rub it nice and gentle the way I showed you.” The way that makes her shiver and squirm, feathery-light touches the antithesis of how hard she presses down when she's getting herself off.

She shakes her head. “No, I can't!”

“Yes you can, you're going to do it just how I tell you to, you're always in such a hurry but you won't be going anywhere when I've got my knot in you. Pinned and helpless and if you don't do as you're told I won't let you use your fingers at all.”

“Unh,” she gasps, and the fresh, heady burst of arousal might as well be a neon sign.

He grips her hips tightly, lets her feel the slightest threat of claws, and then arches up off the bed, thrusting up into her even as he slams her down on his cock.

“Oh my god,” she says, grinning down at him and flexing her pelvic muscles. “I can feel it. I can feel your knot in me, Alpha,” she coos, and she's a vicious tease but it still makes him snarl and fight not to shift.

When they're locked tight, it's clear it's too much of a stretch to be purely pleasurable for her, but Peter can barely focus on that for the way she tightens like a grasping fist around the swell of his knot every time she tries to adjust. His eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Alpha,” she calls him again, like she knows something he doesn't.

Stiles winces and then leans forward, one hand braced on the pillow beside his head and the other digging fingernails into her thigh. She must find the perfect angle because her expression clears and she starts rolling her hips in tight little circles.

He starts to draw her pain and she slaps the back of his hand. “No, it's good, let me feel it.”

He relents; he can always take the edge off in the afterglow when she's half asleep.

Stiles scrunches her eyes shut and bites her bottom lip when she comes, and it's the same face she made last week when Melissa McCall stitched up the gash on her thigh from a Harpy's claws. She clenches down desperately on his knot and keens like she's being tortured as she comes so hard she gushes blood-hot slick, and the sweet-tart smell of it makes his fangs drop.

She's gorgeous. His sweet baby girl.


It takes him longer than he would ever admit to catch on.

He bit the boy because he smelled like Pack, like he already belonged to Peter. That night in the parking garage, Peter was able to keep from biting Stiles only because his nose told him that she was already his.

It isn't until after his resurrection and return to what passes for sanity that he's able to process all the blood memories he gained from being Alpha, and narrow it down to the memories Talia had taken from him when he was sixteen.

(Not the only memories she took. Far from. And the betrayal of it burns worse than the fire ever did. Like mother, like daughter, he thinks with a sneer.)

A party. A pretty co-ed with an engagement ring, a soft pink mouth, and whiskey-gold eyes, who'd had a fight with her fiancee and too much to drink. And the only reason for Talia to take that memory is if there was something to hide. Someone to hide.

The longer he watches, the more he sees himself in Stiles in little ways, mannerisms, like how she rolls her eyes with her whole body when she's irritated, the fidgeting of her long elegant fingers with pens and shirt-hems, something Peter used to do before he trained himself out of the tic that exposed his boredom, impatience or nervousness to others. And her mouth, both the shape of it and the sarcasm.

At first he hates Talia for taking the knowledge of his daughter from him. And he hates Noah Stilinski for keeping her, for seeing all her firsts.

But Talia is dead, and Claudia is dead, and the Sheriff works too much and drinks too much, and McCall is too tangled up in his Romeo-and-Juliet melodrama with the littlest Argent. Derek is disturbed by her scent, too familiar and packfamily, and avoids her when he can, or snarls at her until she smells of angerfear instead.

There is no one to keep her from him now. All he has to do is hold out his hand; sooner or later she'll drop into his grasp like a ripe peach.

Peter smells Gerard Argent and pain and blood and angerfearhate on his girl the night of the Kanima's death and resurrection. While the others are scrambling to find Derek's runaway betas, Peter tracks the eldest Argent and kills him slowly and painfully.

The only reason Derek is spared the same fate for his transgressions is because he's so much better at torturing himself than Peter could ever be.

He sends her flowers.

Mostly because he can picture the exact dubious, what-the-fuck expression on her face when she opens them – even before the fire, he was a troll – but also because the sound of her cheekbone hitting the trunk of the car still haunts him.

He doesn't believe in regrets, but he has things he prefers not to think about, and that night is one of them. He knows he didn't injure her, would have smelled the burst capillaries that signalled a bruise even though he was in the ground by the time it would have been visible. But he was violent and he scared her, and with what he knows now, that's almost as bad.

The note he sends only says, With my sincere regrets for the evening of the 14th. Anything else would certainly draw undue attention from the Sheriff; just this is risk enough.

A week later, he gets a delivery for 'W. Zevon' from Plants Direct, at the apartment downtown he bought under a false identity and had professionally warded so his idiot nephew can't find him there.

Wolfsbane. Specifically, the Bressingham Spire variety. Because it was cultivated for use in cottage gardens, it's not strong enough to do him any harm other than a very undignified sneezing fit as he carries it to the trash chute.

There's no message, or rather, the delivery itself is the message. Peekaboo, I see you.

He feels a completely unwarranted burst of pride. He may not have had any hand in raising her, but she is so clearly his girl.

The night of the Strawberry Moon, he finds himself outside her window. He tells himself he's just checking, with so many new 'wolves in town, teenagers all, full of raging hormones and shaky control, it's only prudent to make certain she's safe.

Just a single heartbeat in the house, which is dark save for her bedroom window. An open window. He climbs onto the porch roof for a better view. She's seated at her computer desk, humming along with the video playing as she licks cheeto dust off of one finger.

She's right there.

She's right there, and he can smell her, sweat and health and girl-musk. She's wearing a loose barely-there tank of thin wash-worn cotton that clings to her breasts, one strap sliding off her shoulder. He's taking deep breaths through his nose, enjoying the way the smell of her saturates the room.

She spreads her legs and groans, he nearly groans too. She plucks at the front of the shirt and it slides up her thighs another tantalizing inch. In his mind, he's across the room and between those thighs, and it's only when she yelps that he realizes he's still by the window.

“Dude, what?” she snaps.

He moves.

Chapter Text

The Pack's out hunting Harpies. Stiles is benched because of what happened last time, even though it barely needed stitches and she's all healed up now anyway. Peter is ostensibly 'guarding' her, but it's more that no one trusts him for anything other than research, and only that out of necessity.

It seems Derek forgot what she said about him treating her like a child and how she planned to retaliate. They've already fucked on the kitchen table, now they're having a snack break while the muscles in her legs de-jellify. She's currently debating whether round two on Derek's bed will be going too far (she hasn't bothered to ask Peter, she already knows he'll be all for it).

Peter is shirtless because she's wearing his, and is poking at the diagonal crosshatch of slowly healing knife wounds on his chest. He knotted her without asking, so she sliced him up while he couldn't get away. (Flashed red eyes during, again, and sooner or later they'll have to talk about that.)

“I think it's mountain-ash infused,” he says, purely clinical observation. “If you're using it on an enemy, either dip it in aconite oil first or go for the eyes.”

“I expected something like that. Chris Argent knows if he gave me something deadly and didn't tell me, I'd use it on him when I found out.”

Peter rests his head along the back of the couch and lets out a noise that could almost be a giggle. “The look on his face if he knew...can I be the one to tell him?”

Stiles laughs too. Chris gave her the knife a week ago, pretending concern but not quite able to hide his disgust. “He's supposed to meet the Pack at the nest site...if he comes back with them, go for it. I want to see too.”

He steals the water-bottle she's holding, drains it.

“It doesn't bother you?” Stiles asks, finally. She's not even sure what she's asking, they've never really talked about just how not-normal their sex life is.

“Sweet girl, you'd never get anywhere near me with a sharp implement if I didn't want you to.”

Which is true enough. Between that and the sounds he makes when she bites him, that's definitely an answer. She even knows the right word for it – masochist. Just like she knows there's supposed to be hard-limits and safewords and explicit consent, and a lot of other things they've never done and probably won't start now. There's really only one other thing she needs to know. “But you do it to me, too.” With teeth and claws. He leaves bruises and scratches like proof of his presence, so even when she's at school or alone in her bed, she can press on the marks and savor the ache and know who she belongs to. Who belongs to her.

“People are rarely unidirectional. I'm not a sadist in the traditional sense; I don't derive sexual pleasure from inflicting pain. But I do relish the suffering of anyone stupid enough to cross me, and I enjoy leaving my marks on you. On the other hand, you, dearest, are definitely a sadist.”

“No I'm not,” Stiles lies, then sighs when he gives her a completely unimpressed look. In her day-to-day life she's actually pretty good at lying to werewolves, but it's never worked on Peter, who notices everything. “Okay, fine. I maybe have a bit of a weird fascination with werewolf healing.”

That's true, as far as it goes. Scott wouldn't let her slice him up to see how long it takes him to heal, was actually horrified that she asked (back when they were still talking). It's not like she would have cut very deep, she knows he's not into that. He's such a baby sometimes.

With Peter, it's more than just a weird fascination, and not at all in a scientific-curiousity way. She wants to cut into him like a rare steak and peer at the strata of skin and fat and muscle. She wants to stick her hands in his chest and touch his beating heart.

Not to kill him; she just wants to mark him. Hickies don't stay, but if she digs her fingers into his lungs and squeezes, he'll heal over the mark and carry it with him forever. She's so hungry for him, it's not enough to touch his skin; she wants to crawl inside it.

It freaks her out, because that's not a normal urge to have. Neither is wanting to go looking for half a body in the woods, but these are the kinds of urges serial killers are made of. Maybe it's good that it's Peter she feels them for, because no one else would understand.

Stiles would gag before actually voicing the word 'relationship,' but she is aware that their relationship is objectively terrible. She gets why Scott growls like an angry lawnmower whenever he gets within smelling distance of Peter, despite thinking he's a hypocrite for it. She gets Derek's...Derekness, about the whole thing, Kate and issues and ugh. If it was anyone else, if it was Isaac and some rando twice his age, Stiles would be right there in it, spearheading the intervention. (Even though she sometimes wants to feed Isaac into an industrial shredder, scarf-first, he's still Pack.)

But it's not anyone else, it's Peter and it's Stiles, and the others trying to interfere just tends to make Stiles homicidal. (More so. Than usual.) She sulks and kicks Derek's hideous IKEA coffee table, and it wobbles alarmingly. “We're super messed up, you know that, right? I mean, individually and collectively.”

Peter shrugs one shoulder and snarks, “I'm aware,” then tilts the Reese's 3-pack they're splitting in her direction and lets her have the last one.

She takes it and laughs and licks chocolate off her fingers, then straddles him and lets him lick it out of her mouth, and maybe she knows they're messed up, that this whole thing is weird, but she decides as long as it works for them, she doesn't have to care.

It seems like stray Hales are just coming out of the woodwork. First Cora, and now this Malia girl.

Stiles hates Malia.

She doesn't want to, tries to hide it, feels like even more of a shitty failure of a person than usual for resenting a girl who could rival Derek Hale in the Tragic Backstory Olympics. But the very instant Scott says to Peter, 'She's your daughter,' Stiles is filled with rage.


It helps, a little, that Malia doesn't seem to want anything to do with Peter. (Well, or any of them, or table manners, or wearing shoes, but mostly Peter.) It helps more when Peter pins her down on her childhood bed, on the Star Wars sheets he bought for her, and growls in her ear, “Come on Daddy's cock.”

But weirdly, what helps the most is when Stiles tells her father that she's spending the long weekend at Scott's, and Scott that she is going to San Francisco by herself, sans Peter, promise to see a witch about some wards, and to cover for her...and he does.

And instead Peter takes her to Disneyland and tells everyone who will hold still long enough that it's a birthday present for his baby girl's sweet sixteen, and waitresses, and park staff, and even the desk clerk at the hotel coo over how adorable they are, and how much she looks like her Daddy.

And every night Peter fucks her in front of a mirror and points out, “She said you have my cheekbones, sweet girl, look, I think she was right,” and “Look how tall you are, your lovely long legs, longer than your mother, Hales are always tall,” and “Your hands are just like mine, the fingers all blunt except the index that's tapered, and the pinky curves inward just a bit,” picking out all these little, insignificant details that don't actually mean anything. Like how when they were kids, she and Scotty claimed they were 'fingerprint twins' because their loops and whorls, no arches for either of them, were on the same fingers like mirror images.

Every word still gives her a naughty little thrill, to look and pretend, imagine that she has a claim on him in every way you can own another person, that he has the same on her.

She loves it.

“Oh, if only they knew, if they could see you now, my darling daughter all dripping wet and begging, they'd be horrified, wouldn't they Stiles, they'd try to take me away from you and we can't have that, you know Daddy loves you best.” The last five words come out in a near-growl, dark and posessive.

Stiles reaches back with one hand and digs her fingernails into his ass and moans, “More!”

“More fucking?” He punctuates the question with a particularly brutal thrust that slams her hipbones against the desk he's got her pinned face-down on. Hotsharp white shock of pain, she knows there'll be bruises later and that he'll pull all the ache out so he can admire his marks on her while she's all limp and blissed out and pliable, cruising on endorphins with no actual pain to harsh her buzz.

Stiles turns her focus back outward, at the gilded mirror hanging on the wall like it's framing the world's most obscene painting, the two of them in profile, her mouth open and pink and gasping, where her head's turned sideways to look.

“More talking?” he purrs against her nape, before sinking his teeth in lower, over the wing of her shoulderblade where a t-shirt will hide the mark. “Do you want to hear all about how Daddy's going to take such good care of you, Princess?”

“Yes!” she insists.

“Always,” he assures her. “You'll always be my best girl. I'll never love anyone else as much.”

“She's not my daughter,” Peter tells her in the afterglow.


“Malia. She's not my daughter, I'd be able to smell it. McCall should, too. Not to mention, she's a coyote, that's a completely different species.”

“Why haven't you said anything?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It's tactically advantageous. McCall and my idiot nephew are bleeding hearts, and they'd never kill me knowing poor Malia has lost so much already.”

Stiles isn't quite sure that's the reason. But for right now, she'll focus on how he's her Daddy and she doesn't have to share.