The first time Peter sees the baby Alpha, he’s at the park with Derek and Laura, Cora resting on his hip.
The little boy is in the sandbox, chattering as he plays with a bright eyed Alpha, which is strange, in and of itself.
Alphas don’t play together. Not even ones as young as they are.
He loses track of them when Cora starts crying, and Laura shoves Derek off the slide. He hates Talia for saddling him with the children. Omega or not, they’re hardly his responsibility and he’s not cut out to be taking care of small children.
Still, he calms Derek with a sucker, scolds Laura who huffs and flashes her eyes at him, gives Cora a bottle.
When he’s finally able to breath, and glance around, he’s startled to see the baby Alpha standing next to him. His expression is intent.
“Hello, there,” Peter says, smiling at him. His little playmate has disappeared and the baby Alpha climbs up next to him, sitting quietly next to him as Peter rocks Cora to sleep.
“She’s pretty,” he says, finally, and Peter nods. Smiles down at the baby in his arms.
“I think so.”
“You like pretty?” he asks, and Peter blinks, startled.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
The little boy flashes a blinding smile, and wiggles down, darting across the playground while Peter watches, bemused.
He comes back a few moments later, clutching a ragged clump of wildflowers, and shyly holds them out. “For you. ‘Cause they’re pretty.”
Peter hides his smile in the flowers that he takes carefully and his eyes are bright, taking in the baby Alpha’s delighted preening as he says, “Thank you, Alpha.”
The baby Alpha is named Stiles Stilinski, the only child of the sheriff, something Peter doesn’t pay much attention to. He sees the boy and his mother around town, on occasion, and he’s aware that the Alpha stares at him, eyes bright and assessing. Talia teases him, but Peter brushes it aside.
His baby Alpha is sweet, but no one puts any stock in children playing to their dynamics. It doesn’t mean anything, when Stiles brings him a smushed cupcake on his sixth birthday.
It doesn’t mean anything when he makes Peter a blanket when he’s eight.
It doesn’t mean anything, when he gives Peter his popsicle at the fourth of July fireworks when he’s ten.
None of the countless gifts of flowers and toys and food and clothing mean anything.
Stiles is twelve when the gifts change. He’s befriended Derek, and he’s spending more and more time in the Hale house. It’s amusing because now, there is no production to it. Stiles will slip in and rub his fingers over Peter’s shoulder before dropping his offering into Peter’s hand, before he’s trotting off to find Derek.
But the sweaty gummy worms, melting peanut butter cups, and jars of fireflies are being replaced now. The first time Peter looks up to smile at his baby Alpha and sees a book, he almost stops breathing.
The little shit knows too, his grin going wide and pleased, and his knuckles bumping over Peter’s cheek before he darts away.
The book is followed by a pair of movie tickets, a volume of poetry, a sandwich of tender roast beef and perfectly sauteed onion that Peter makes truly pornographic noises over. There is a watch, and a painting, small and lovely that Peter knows Claudia did, before her death, and it’s that--
It’s the painting that makes him begin to wonder if the baby Alpha’s offerings don’t mean something after all.
The thing is--Peter is not a normal Omega.
He’s courted, of course, all Omegas are. Deucalion comes around every year, like clockwork, and other Alphas drop by, with their extravagant presents and leering smiles and promises of a good life and plenty of pups.
For a while, Peter had worried that Talia would force him into a marriage he didn’t want, but she never had.
Who and when Peter took an Alpha, would be Peter’s choice.
It wasn’t just that he was an unbound Omega in his late twenties. It was that he hadn’t had a heat in over six years. It was that in six years he hadn’t that. Hadn’t wanted an Alpha to fill him and care for him during his heats. He hadn’t craved the sweet kisses and deep voice coaxing him to eat and the thick fullness of a knot in six years.
Sometimes, he thinks he’s broken.
He thinks he has to be, because Deuc smiles at him, all warm promises and Ennis kisses him and presses thick and hard against him and Kali runs proprietary hands over his shoulder, and he wants to shudder away from it, away from them.
He hates their touches, and hates even more the way he wishes he didn’t hate it.
“Does Stiles give you gifts?”
Derek looks at him, his eyes wide and appalled. “ No,” he says, scandalized. “Why the hell would he?”
Peter stares at his nephew. “Because,” he says, carefully. “You are his best friend, and--so far as I can tell--the only fucking Omega he’s friends with.”
Derek rolls his eyes in the way that only fifteen year old Omega’s could, all sass and impunity. “Just because he’s an Alpha and I’m an Omega, doesn’t mean he wants to knot me, Uncle. God, I thought you knew him.”
Derek stalks away, muttering to himself, and Peter falls back into the couch.
He thought so too. But then, his baby Alpha had been startling him since that day in the park.
Peter doesn’t let people in his apartment very often.
As Cora steps in behind him, she whistles, and he stiffens, remembering why he doesn’t.
“Damn, Uncle, did you let Stiles move in?”
He glances around. “Stiles hasn’t been here.”
She gives him a curious look, and then slow knowledge slips across her face as she looks around.
“Oh, Peter,” she murmurs.
When Stiles is seventeen, he struts into Peter’s office with dinner, and Peter’s head snaps up, tracking the Alpha’s movements.
Musky and sharp and mouth-wateringly good. Peter whines a little and Stiles freezes.
“Peter?” he murmurs, voice pitched low and curious and Peter blinks, shakes himself out of it, and forces a smile.
Stiles nods, and watches him as he settles across from the Omega, laying the food out and waiting patiently until Peter begins eating.
They don’t talk, but then they don’t usually talk, when Stiles brings him food, something he started doing when he was fourteen and realized how close Peter’s office was to the sheriff’s station.
It’s nice, Stiles’ presence soothing and calming. Sometimes, he stays and works on his homework after they eat, slipping out as night begins to fall. But most days, it’s just eating together before he darts away and Peter is left to finish his work day.
Today, Stiles lingers, sprawls across Peter’s couch and reads until he falls asleep there. He’s distracting, with his heavy scent and deep breathing and the deceptively soft curve of his lips, the lingering baby fat on his cheeks.
Peter’s gaze slowly tracks down, down, down over his sleeping form, and snags on his crotch.
He’s an Alpha, and he’s big , even sleeping and soft, and Peter’s mouth waters, a little, thinking about it.
He almost falls out of his chair as he jerks back, so startled that he curses and trips over his feet, and rouses Stiles.
What the fuck.
“Shit,” the Alpha groans, dragging himself upright. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He smiles sheepishly at Peter and the Omega licks his lips.
“It’s fine, sweetheart.”
Stiles smiles at that, the way he always does, when Peter uses the endearment. He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up to expose a thin line of his belly and Peter bites his lip to keep from whining. Then he’s brushing a hand over Peter’s shoulder, and walking backwards. “See you later, Peter.”
He’s gone before Peter can respond, or even figure out what the hell he’d say, and he almost collapses into his chair, the scent of his baby Alpha washing over him, and the undeniable urge to beg for Stiles’ knot still pressing against his teeth.
What the actual fuck.
That night, Peter comes with three fingers shoved inside his wet hole, and Stiles’ name on his lips and aches with an emptiness he can’t fucking fill.
The scent doesn’t go away. It gets thicker sometimes, and Peter bristles, when Stiles comes to the Hale house smelling like Omegas he doesn’t know. He wants to rub against Stiles, wants to cover him in his scent and bite his neck, claim him so every bitchy Omega knows he’s taken.
And that--that right there is fucking insane.
Stiles is a sweet kid, his baby Alpha who has been peppering Peter with gifts and affection since before he knew what the hell it meant.
But it doesn’t mean anything. It sure as hell doesn’t mean Stiles is his to claim.
It’s depressing as hell, and he spends a few miserable nights curled on his couch, wrapped up in the fluffy blanket Stiles made him when he was twelve, eating ice cream and hating the Omega who would be Stiles’ mate.
He hoped like hell they were worthy of his baby Alpha.
Stiles is eighteen when the gifts change.
There are still books, but now--
Peter almost swallows his tongue when he opens a silver wrapped box that smells deliciously like Stiles and finds a red leather copy of the Kama Sutra.
A week later, it’s a anal plug with a fox tail which--Peter laughs and wonders if this is something he should take seriously, or if Stiles is being a little shit.
They don’t talk about the gifts, when Stiles brings him food. Stiles chatters about graduation and school and the Alpha courting Derek--he likes Braeden, but after Kate and Jennifer, both of them are wary of anyone interested in Derek, and Stiles is an overprotective Alpha to his very core--and leaves with a quiet brush against Peter’s shoulder. Sometimes--most times--he leaves a cluster of flowers, a coffee or small framed picture, but never mentions the silky lube, or black lace panties, or slim dildo, or even the vibrating plug that Peter wears when he knows Stiles will be by.
Stiles isn’t playing anymore, and yet it still feels like a game, and the disparity in the gifts--the sweetness balanced against the blatantly erotic, is making his head spin.
The day Stiles leaves a snapshot of fireflies in the Preserve, Peter realizes the truth.
<Peter> my heat is coming next week.
<baby A> what
<baby A> peter, what??
<baby A> answer me!
<baby A> fuck you so much, Peter, i’m coming over.
Stiles doesn’t knock, he batters at the door, and Peter exhales as he opens it.
His baby Alpha has never been to his apartment, never asked where it was, but it’s not surprising that he knows.
Stiles knows everything about Peter--favorite food, favorite movie, prefered lubricant, the kind of chocolate he eats when he’s sad and the fluffy socks he adores but only when he’s reading. He knows when Peter’s sick and when he’s angry, and when he’s so overworked and tired he’s going to be sick and angry.
He’s been caring for the Omega for longer than Peter ever realized, and it’s not surprising, not even a little surprising, that Stiles is here, without ever asking where he should be going.
“You don’t get heats,” Stiles says, urgently, pressing pass when Peter lets him in.
“I haven’t, not for years,” Peter agrees, and his voice is shaky.
It feels surreal, having Stiles here.
“Then what the hell--”
“You’re going into rut soon,” Peter says, cutting him off.
Stiles goes still, staring at him. Peter licks his lips. “Why--why have you always given me gifts? Fed me, provided for me? Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” Stiles says, simply, with the quiet assurance he’s always had when he’s talking to Peter.
Like this is set in stone, an irrefutable fact.
“You were never playing,” Peter murmurs and Stiles’ eyes go wide.
“You thought I was?”
“Most Alphas do!” Peter insists and Stiles snorts.
And looks around, like he has to look away from Peter.
His eyes go wide, when he sees the snapshots clustered on the wall, the tiny painting under the larger one he gave Peter when he was sixteen. The jars on the bookshelf, and the seemingly endless clusters of dried flowers.
The mountains of books and movies and rocks of all fucking things--the three months when he was seven and brought Peter rocks every damn day was a hard phase to get through--and he looks at Peter, his mouth open and eyes shining. “You--you kept them. My courting gifts.”
Peter nods, looking at twelve years of gifts that fill up the life he’s built, and thinks how it was never strange, keeping them.
How odd and wrong it felt, when he considered keeping any of Deuc’s or Kali’s gifts.
“Of course I did,” Peter whispers and Stiles crowds into his space, hands gentle as he presses him against the door.
“Why are you going into heat, Peter?” he demands, breathless.
“Because my alpha is finally going into rut,” he answers, and Stiles groans, kissing him hard and desperate, and Peter whines into it, melts under it, clinging to his baby Alpha and kissing him back.
When his heat hits, Peter is a panting mess, and Stiles licks down his body, spreads him open and licks the slick dripping down his thicks, up and into him while Peter curses and thrashes.
When he fills the Omega, Peter screams and comes, cock hard and dribbling against the sheet.
“More,” he begs, and Stiles smiles against his shoulder. Peter bites at the wrist braced across his chest. “ Stiles, more!”
His Alpha gives him more, fucks him open until the Omega is sobbing with it, until he’s shoving back mindless for the knot he’s suddenly desperate for, and Stiles give it to him, shoves in and shouts, biting at Peter’s exposed neck, tieing them as he comes, shuddering and shaking through an endless orgasm.
“Mine,” he slurs, licking at Peter’s throat. “My Omega.”
Peter sighs, and nods. Smiles into the pillow, and says, soft and happy, “My baby Alpha.