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Are Leprechauns Real?

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“Daddy, I'm so green !” Stiles' screech was loud enough that Peter winced, but before he could even speak in reprimand Stiles was barrelling into their bedroom and crashing full force into Peter's chest. He grunted, though he didn't move nor did he waste a second before he wrapped his arms around the excited boy who was all but vibrating against him.

Peter looked down and was only able to shake his head fondly. His baby was green, decked out in more St. Patrick's Day gear than Peter had ever seen on one person before. There was a hat that was getting sparkles into Peter's mouth and a pair of obnoxious glasses that Stiles was crushing against his neck. Peter was sure he'd seen a glimpse of green lipstick, and his baby's entire outfit was green as well, down to his sparkly shoes that curled up at the ends.

Stiles stepped onto his feet and raised himself onto his toes—he’d realized, the other week, that if he stood like this he was taller than Peter—and stared down at him with a smile so wide that Peter forgot all about the yelling. He ran a hand up and down Stiles’ back, letting his hand slip under the oversized—and obnoxiously green—shirt he was wearing to get at bare skin.

His boy made a happy noise, resting back onto the balls of his feet so he could tuck his face into Peter’s neck. His baby let his lips drag over his skin, leaving a wet trail behind that would mark Peter with his scent. Well, it seemed like his boy was feeling a bit older today. Peter let his hand trail a bit lower, his pinky slipping into the waistband of Stiles’ shorts before running back up his spine. He slid his hand back down, ghosting over the round curve of his baby’s ass.

Stiles shivered, and they were pressed so close together that Peter felt it, too. His baby made a noise, something sweet and needy, and he pressed his hips against Peter’s stomach. He was already hard, probably had been since he first planted himself against Peter’s chest, and Peter chuckled as he grabbed two fistfuls of his boy’s ass and squeezed. He moaned, and Peter tilted his head so he could press a kiss to his boy’s forehead.

It wasn’t often that Stiles was little and like this. Most of the time when Stiles was feeling younger, their time together was nothing but sweet. Peter took care of his baby however he needed, though, and he rumbled in his chest when the scent of Stiles’ arousal only got stronger.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, cooing when his baby continued to rut against him. He slid his hands under the boy’s tight shorts and pressed a finger against his dry hole. Stiles’ rhythm faltered even as he whined, and his baby pulled back to get a kiss.

It was mostly just Stiles sucking on his tongue, but Peter let him do as he wanted. Kisses were always tricky and it was easiest to let Stiles lead. His baby never seemed to mind, so Peter just hummed as he helped soothe his boy’s erratic thrusting into something smooth that would get him off. And get it off it did. A few minutes later his baby was crying out as he came, soiling his shorts as he shook apart in Peter’s arms. He smelt so sweet, and Peter growled approvingly as the scent of his spend permeated the air.

It only spurred on his own arousal, but he did nothing about it. If Stiles wasn’t going to initiate something, then Peter would make do without any sort of reciprocation. Playtime was about Stiles and what his baby needed, and Peter was more than happy with letting his boy lead them.

Stiles pulled back, and when Peter got a good look at him, he couldn’t help the fond chuckle. There was a mess of glitter around his eyes and an even bigger mess of green lipstick around his mouth, no doubt also smeared into Peter’s skin. He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed, not when his boy looked so sweet: his cheeks ruddied with his blush, his mouth hung open as he panted for air, and his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over.

Peter thumbed over his boy’s chin, smearing through the mess of lipstick, and then he held up his thumb for Stiles to investigate. “You need a bath,” he said, and he only smiled when he got the answer he expected: a long, pitiful whine.


Peter flipped a pancake before he shaped the batter that he’d just poured out, doing his best to curve the edges with his straight spatula. If anyone had told him he’d be here—standing in his kitchen in a sweater dubbed the Daddy Sweater and a pair of sweats, turning pancakes into green hearts—he’d have ripped their throat out. Now, though, he’d rip the throat out of anyone who tried to take this life away from him.

“Are they almost ready?” Stiles’ voice was sugar sweet, and Peter turned to him with an easy smile.

“Almost, baby.”

Bath time had gone over fairly well for what it was. There was minimum arguing, and it only took a little of his supernatural strength to get Stiles into the tub. Today he was the perfect age for a fun bath time, and they’d played with a few of their bath toys after cleaning the makeup from Stiles’ face and the glitter from the rest of his skin.

Peter had dried his baby off with their fluffiest towel and then peppered him with kisses. He knew he was being overly affectionate, but the last week had been hell at work and Stiles had spent the previous night with Lydia. He’d missed this, missed them, and he was being every bit the affectionate Daddy no one would ever believe him to be.

Now, he was cooking them a late dinner. Stiles had asked for pancakes, pretty eyes and prettier pout making it impossible to say no. Peter flipped one of the hearts onto a plate and brought it to the island, making sure that Stiles was still clipped into his seat, then he tickled up the boy’s sides to hear his giggle.

He smiled softly as he walked back to the stove, keeping his senses focused on Stiles. The sounds of him reaching for the syrup were easy to identify, and he chose to ignore the mischievous little snicker his boy let out; if Peter had to deal with a little boy high on a sugar rush before bed, so be it.

“Are leprechauns real?” Stiles asked, chewing on the bite of pancake he had just put into his mouth. Peter turned to give him a look, just a raised brow, and Stiles' shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Daddy,” he mumbled, swallowing his bite of food and then repeating the apology.

Peter smiled softly, stepping closer so he could run a hand down his boy’s shaved head—something he'd decided he wanted to do a few months back and then wrestled with for weeks, years of bullying making his boy hesitant to cut his hair the way he really wanted. Peter had told him he would like Stiles no matter how he styled his hair, and it had nearly broken his heart when the promise had surprised him.

“They are, darling,” Peter said, bringing a second pancake over and depositing it onto Stiles’ plate as he pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“That is so cool .”