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Stiles propped himself on one elbow, observing his sleeping husband. Peter was on his back, an arm thrown up above his head and the sheets pulled down around his waist, showing off his muscled chest, tanned a gorgeous golden brown from their week on vacation. Peter’s hair was a mess of curls and in desperate need of a cut, and he had four day growth that was edging into actual beard territory—and he was still hotter than sin.
Stiles gave in to temptation and leaned in and teased one flat brown nipple with his teeth, feeling the nub harden under his tongue as Peter squirmed and sighed. Stiles hummed, laving a wide stripe over Peter’s nipple and grinning when Peter gave an involuntary shudder.
He proceeded to kiss his way down Peter’s abs and under the blankets, where he settled between Peter's spread legs and took Peter’s rapidly hardening cock in his mouth. He’d long ago discovered his husband’s weakness for being woken up with a blowjob—“Would you stop calling it a kink, Stiles! It's a preference, that’s all”—and since today was a special day, Stiles intended to start it right.
He licked up Peter’s length and a strong hand clamped on the back of his head. A sleep-rough voice said, “Mmm. More.”
Stiles grinned and increased the suction as he set about taking Peter apart—one wet, filthy lick at a time. He sank down as far as he could, then set up a steady rhythm, first twirling his tongue up and down the length, then pressing the tip against Peter’s slit in the way he knew drove his husband wild. It took under a minute before Peter bucked his hips up, clutching Stiles’s hair, fucking into his mouth and holding him in place as he tensed, shooting his load with a loud grunt.
Stiles swallowed, eyes watering from the sharp sting of having his hair pulled and his throat filled, and nursed Peter through the last of his orgasm before pulling off, his own cock hard and aching.
He nuzzled the crease of Peter’s hip and pressed a kiss there, tasting the salt on Peter’s skin, his arousal growing more urgent as he soaked up the happy purring sounds Peter was making and the rich, heady scent of sex and satisfaction that rolled off him. He wrapped a hand around his shaft and stroked, a moan escaping, and it took barely half a dozen pulls before his own climax washed over him like a breaker on a distant shore, relentless and irresistible.
Then strong arms were dragging him up the bed while he was still gasping and shaking, and Peter cupped his face in both hands as he kissed him, long and deep, before rasping out, “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
“Mmm. Happy anniversary,” Stiles murmured, falling back against the pillow. “How has it been a year?”
Peter propped himself on one elbow. “Something about having fun?” he suggested, one eyebrow arched in that way Stiles loved.
“That must be it,” Stiles agreed, still fuck-hazy. He sprawled himself across Peter’s chest, drawing whorls and patterns idly in his chest hair and floating in the afterglow, until the need to pee finally overrode his desire to snuggle and he was forced to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom at their villa.
He took care of business, splashed cool water on his face, and wandered back out into the living area, taking a moment to admire the view. Giant glass doors led onto a deck that overlooked the ocean—their own private beach, in the Bahamas, where they'd spent a good part of the week relaxing in the sun, splashing in the waves, and fucking in the deckchairs.
It had been a good week.
Stiles smiled as he contemplated once again how, despite their shaky beginning, he and Peter had turned out to be a perfect match after all. This vacation seemed a perfect way to celebrate that. He stepped back into the bedroom to find Peter half-asleep again, the fingers of one hand splayed over his abs, a single fingertip giving an involuntary twitch. Stiles shook his head fondly—the only thing Peter liked better than getting woken up by a blow job was indulging in the hazy sleep afterwards—and quietly pulled the small parcel from the bottom of his carry-on luggage. It was a token gesture, something fun. When Stiles had seen it he’d been reminded of the first courting gift he’d given Peter, and when he’d imagined Peter’s expression—half outrage, half amusement—he hadn’t been able to resist.
“Stop staring and come back to bed,” Peter mumbled.
“Nope.” Stiles clambered onto the bed and straddled Peter's waist, bopping him in the chest with the parcel. “I’m awake and it’s our anniversary, which means I get to give you your present.”
Peter opened one eye and regarded him. “The wake-up sex wasn’t my present?”
“No, it was just awesome. This is the present.”
He tossed the parcel from hand to hand until Peter let out a sigh. “Fine.” He sat up, yawning and running a hand through his unruly curls, and Stiles was tempted to press him back into the mattress and rub off against him, maybe blow him again. But then his stomach growled, and he reluctantly decided it could wait till later.
“Happy anniversary.” He placed the parcel in Peter's outstretched palm and waited.
Peter flicked out a claw and sliced through the tape. The wrapping paper fell away to reveal a short, white midriff tee—more of a crop top, really—and Peter picked it up gingerly, shaking it out. His eyebrows rose as he read the slogan emblazoned across the front in gold.
Trophy Husband.
“I thought of you since, you know, you don’t technically work. You just sit around looking pretty all day,” Stiles said with a grin.
He waited for Peter to call him a little shit, or a brat, or an enfant terrible—any one of the dozens of lovingly crafted insults they reserved for each other. But instead, Peter broke into a delighted grin, and declared, “I love it! It’s perfection.”
What?
Before Stiles had time to object, Peter had slipped the shirt over his head and left the bed so he could admire himself in front of the full length mirror in the wardrobe—and who the hell needed a walk-in wardrobe in a beach villa, anyway? Peter turned this way and that, preening, as if he didn’t look patently ridiculous in a crop top with his bare ass still hanging out. “Now what to wear it with?” He dug in a nearby drawer and pulled out a pair of his jeans, the expensive ones that hugged his ass perfectly. A crease appeared between his brows. “Hmmm. Not quite.” After a moment his expression cleared and he folded the jeans and laid them on the bed, striding into the kitchen and coming back with a pair of scissors—because yes, they were staying at the kind of luxury resort that came equipped with scissors. Stiles couldn’t hold back a gasp as Peter cut the legs off the jeans, about an inch under where the crease of his ass would normally be.
“You ruined your ass jeans!”
“I repurposed them,” Peter said breezily, holding the massacred jeans aloft to show that they’d been transformed into some kind of cut-offs. He gave a nod. “These will do nicely.” Then he threw them on the bed and peeled out of the shirt before sauntering over to the bathroom and closing the door behind him, leaving Stiles wondering what the hell just happened.
When Peter emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, Stiles kind of wanted to wait and see if he’d been kidding about wearing the shirt, but Peter shooed him into the bathroom. “Hurry up and shower, sweetheart. I’ve made plans for today.”
“Plans?” Stiles paused with one hand on the door jamb.
“Plans,” Peter confirmed with a smirk. “It’s our anniversary, after all. We need to celebrate.”
Personally, Stiles thought that a week in the Bahamas in a private villa was celebrating plenty, but he also knew Peter got a huge kick out of spoiling him, so he wasn't exactly surprised.
Peter stepped forward and swatted his ass. “Shower. Now.”
“Bossy,” Stiles grumbled, but he went and showered.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open, because Peter was…
Well.
He was wearing the crop top, but he’d cut two inches off the bottom so it skimmed the top of his abs, and he’d sliced the neckline and transformed it into one of his signature v-necks. The shorts landed just under the crease of his asscheeks, clinging suggestively.
It was objectively a terrible outfit, which is why is was unfair how fucking good he looked in it.
Peter put his arms out to the side. “Well?”
Stiles swallowed and fought down the urge to drop to his knees, peel the shorts off, and suck Peter’s cock. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was, “Guh.”
Peter beamed, obviously pleased at causing Stiles’s brain to short circuit.
Stiles took a deep breath and tried again. “I never thought I’d say these words to anyone, but slutty eighties rentboy really works on you. You look hot.”
Peter smirked. “Of course I do. That's my job as a trophy husband, right? Now hurry up. We’re going out.”
Stiles bit down on his instinctive “dressed like that?” because he wasn’t going to tell anyone what to wear. He had a feeling Peter heard what he didn’t say anyway, because his smirk widened into one of those wicked grins that normally meant the best kind of trouble.
Stiles dressed quickly and Peter led the way along the path that led to the nearby township, giving Stiles a perfect view of his ass and the bare band of skin around his midriff. It was taking all his self control not to run a hand down Peter’s spine, or maybe press him up against the nearest wall and grind against that ass till they both came—and from the sway in his hips, Peter knew it.
When they got to town, Peter led him to one of the nicer restaurants, and didn’t even blink at the slow once-over the Maitre’d gave him before seating them. Stiles couldn’t stop staring, transfixed by the ripple of Peter’s abs where they peeked out from under his barely-there crop top, and the bead of sweat that was crawling along his exposed collarbone. Looking like Peter did right now should be illegal.
“Mimosa?” Peter said, one eyebrow raised.
Stiles swallowed thickly. “Yeah. That. Good. Yeah. Is it hot in here?”
“It’s the Bahamas, sweetheart,” Peter said. “Of course it’s hot.” He ordered for both of them, and once the waiter had departed he grinned and stretched his arms over his head in an exaggerated yawn, exposing even more of his golden tanned flesh—and that, that had to be deliberate.
Bastard.
Sexy, sexy, bastard.
“Peter,” Stiles said in an undertone, “Keep that up and I’ll be forced to drag you out of here and do all sorts of filthy things to you.” He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a promise.
Peter’s answering smile was sharp. “No. We’re having breakfast, and then we’re going on a boat tour.”
Stiles couldn’t help the whine that escaped him. “Fuck the boat tour,” he grumbled, surreptitiously pressing the heel of his hand against his rapidly filling cock.
Peter's smile got wider. “No, but if you ask nicely, you can fuck me,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Stiles to hear.
Stiles’s breath stuttered and his cock throbbed.
He could picture it—Peter bent over the back of the white leather couch at the villa, shorts shoved halfway down his thighs, panting and whining as Stiles plowed into him from behind—and it did nothing to help the growing situation in his shorts. Fuck, at this rate he really would be dragging Peter to the bathroom for a quick and dirty hand job.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, pressing the heel of his hand harder against his erection. It didn’t help. “Please can we cancel your plans?”
Peter hummed. “You don’t look like you’re in the mood for sightseeing today. I suppose we can skip the tour and go back to the villa. But there is one stop I want to make after breakfast.”
“Yes, fine, sure.” Peter’s agreement went some way towards easing Stiles’s desperation, and when the waiter placed his order of Eggs Florentine in front of him, he was able to eat his meal knowing that at least he wouldn't have to wait all day to get Peter out of those shorts.
Still as he got to the end of breakfast, he did linger deliberately over his last few bites, willing his cock to go down enough that he wouldn’t embarrass himself by sporting a boner when he walked across the restaurant.
Peter smirked at him and didn't help the situation at all, licking the last trace of egg yolk from his lower lip with deliberate slowness. Stiles closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying desperately to think unsexy thoughts until he had himself under control.
Once they’d paid, Peter led him down the main street for a couple of blocks, refusing to say anything about their destination except, “We have an appointment. It’s your gift.”
Stiles didn't miss the number of appreciative glances Peter got in his shorts and crop top, and his wolf grumbled with displeasure at anyone else looking at his mate like that, but another part of him preened, because yeah, his husband was hot as hell, and he was the only one who got to tap that.
Peter stopped outside a tiny storefront, and Stiles froze when he read the sign over the door.
Tattoos and Piercings
“Peter?”
Peter turned. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“I, um. I know you said it's a gift, but I've never wanted a tattoo or a piercing.”
It was a lie—when he was fifteen he’d briefly dreamed of a Pokemon tattoo—but it wasn’t something he wanted now, and he wondered why Peter had ever imagined this was a good idea.
Peter, though, didn’t look concerned in the least. “Well then,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, “it’s a good thing we’re not here for you.” And with that he swept inside, leaving Stiles to follow.
“So what are we doing to who today?” a heavily inked man asked, looking between them.
“Um,” Stiles said and looked at Peter.
Peter whipped his shirt off over his head.“Someone once told me I have an impressive rack”—he made air quotes— “so I’d like to decorate it. Rings, platinum, both sides.”
The man nodded appreciatively. “Yeah. I can see it. Normally I’d recommend barbells, but since you’re a wolf, you don’t need to wait for them to heal to switch out.” He led Peter over to a counter where he selected his jewelry, then towards a doorway leading out back.
Peter paused at the door. “Are you coming to watch, sweetheart?”
Stiles bit his lip. He was curious, but at the same time his wolf was already whining at the thought of someone intentionally hurting his mate, and he honestly didn't trust himself not to drop his fangs if he felt Peter was under threat. “Do you mind if I wait here? My, um. My wolf.”
Peter’s eyes widened with understanding, and the smile he gave Stiles was soft and somehow pleased. “Wait here, sweetheart. I won’t be long.”
Stiles let out a long breath. “Yeah.”
He paced the waiting area, fighting the urge to push through the door and see what was happening, and his claws did extend unbidden when he heard Peter let out a loud, “Jesus, fuck!” But it was followed by a low chuckle from the piercing guy and a breathless laugh from Peter, so he forced himself to sit down. When, a couple of minutes later, there was another sharp, “Motherfucker!” his claws stayed sheathed, so he counted it as a win.
It was a couple of minutes after that before the piercing guy walked out, peeling his gloves off and saying, “I don't need to give you the usual care instructions, so I’ll just say be careful not to get them caught on anything.”
Peter emerged behind him, looking down at his chest and rubbing a thumb over one nipple ring. It glinted in the overhead lights of the shop as it moved under his touch, and the whole effect was breathtaking. Peter caught Stiles’s gaze and smirked in a way that suggested he knew exactly how good he looked. “Do you like your present, sweetheart?”
Stiles let out a high pitched whine, because yeah, he’d maybe teased Peter a time or two about getting his nipples pierced, but he’d never thought he’d actually do it, and holy shit.
Stiles wondered briefly if werewolves could have heart attacks, because the way his was thundering right now at the sight of that gleaming metal against tan skin, it felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest. “I. Jesus, Peter.”
The piercer let out a hearty laugh. “Yeah, I think he likes it.” Peter beamed, like the smug fucker he was.
By the time Peter had settled the bill, Stiles almost felt like he could breathe again, but a thrum of want still ran hot through his veins. When they left the shop, Peter linked their hands and led him back to their villa, and the entire way all Stiles could think about was getting his hands on those metal rings, tugging them and making Peter squirm. It was only when he walked into Peter’s back that he realised they’d reached their destination.
Peter unlocked the door and leaned against Stiles, tilting his head back and exposing his throat. Stiles could tell by Peter’s scent that he wasn’t the only one desperate to get inside and, well.
Get inside.
He kissed down the side of Peter’s throat, and then hustled him through the door. Peter turned as soon as they were inside and flicked the lock, and then his hands were tangling in Stiles’s hair and he was kissing him, hot and wet and messy, and it was all Stiles could do not to come on the spot as arousal raced through him and his dick went from semi to rock hard in about three seconds. He pulled back and panted out, “Want to fuck you.”
Peter grinned, filthy and pleased, as Stiles walked him backward, fingers fumbling with the button on Peter’s shorts until at last he got them undone and yanked them halfway down Peter’s thighs, before bending him over the couch, just like in his fantasy. Peter made a move to take his shirt off, but Stiles caught his wrist and growled, “Leave it on,” because it looked so fucking good skimming over the tanned flesh of his back. Peter laughed softly and bent further at the waist, arching his back low and spreading his legs as far as he could in the confines of his shorts, leaving his ass on display.
Stiles reached down the side of the couch, pulling out the lube that was still there from the day before and working Peter open quickly on one, then two fingers until Peter was pressing back against his hand and moaning. Stiles slicked himself up, fitted the head of his cock against Peter’s hole, and pressed forward.
He draped himself over Peter’s back as he sank inside him with one long, slow movement, and Peter let out a low, filthy groan. Stiles echoed it, because Peter was hot and tight and fucking perfect, and Stiles wasn’t going to last.
He slid his hands up under Peter’s shirt, searching out the new piercings. He gave an experimental tug and Peter made a sound that was half pained, half surprised. Stiles almost let go, but then Peter's hand clamped over his, and he growled out, “More.”
Stiles grasped the nipple rings between his fingertips and gave a sharp tug. Peter’s back arched, his ass clenched, and he threw back his head and howled, loudly enough that Stiles broke out in goosebumps. Fuck, that sound was always going to do things to him.
He rocked forward into Peter in short desperate movements, already on edge, knowing this would be over almost as soon as it began. Sure enough, it only took three or four well-placed thrusts before Peter was shaking under him, and one more pull on his piercing and he was tensing up, his ass tightening around Stiles's cock as he came with a choked-off snarl, and Stiles couldn’t have held back if his life had depended on it. He slammed his hips forward, closing his eyes as colours exploded, his cock pulsed, and everything went vaguely fuzzy.
He slumped across Peter’s back, his breathing harsh and unsteady, and waited through the aftershocks. Beneath him, Peter’s sides heaved in and out, and Stiles kissed the back of his neck, overwhelmed with affection. Peter huffed out a shaky laugh. “That,” he said, voice hoarse, “was phenomenal.”
“Mmm,” Stiles agreed, not quite able to speak. He was aware that this must be hell on Peter’s back, werewolf healing or no, so he reluctantly pulled out. He took a moment to savour the sight of Peter, bent over the couch with cum dripping out of his ass, and knew it was one he would treasure. He grinned and pressed a soft kiss to Peter's ass cheek. “Thank you for my present.”
“Trust me, baby, the pleasure was all mine.” Peter stretched his arms in front of him and arched his back before standing, then he shucked out of his ridiculous shirt, pushed his shorts off, and took Stiles by the hand. He led him over to the bed, where they both fell onto the mattress. Peter lay on his back, one hand idly toying with a nipple ring, a satisfied expression on his face, and Stiles watched him, enchanted all over again.
Peter caught his gaze and propped himself up on his elbows, a tiny smile appearing. “Just so you know, I really did like the shirt, Stiles.”
His heartbeat didn’t falter, and Stiles’s brow creased. Peter had actually liked it? “Really?”
“Of course I did. Everyone knows the trophy spouse is the pretty one. You basically told the world you think I’m hot.”
“Well, duh. You are hot.”
Peter’s smile widened into his usual smirk. “Of course I am. But it was nice to know you think so too. Plus...” His eyes danced with mischief and he reached behind the headboard and pulled out a small parcel and handed it to Stiles, looking at him expectantly.
Stiles pulled at the wrapping paper, and broke into a grin when familiar lettering stared back at him from a white background. He laughed, and swatted at Peter with the paper. “You did not!”
Peter shrugged. “You’re my hot younger husband. I thought it fitting.”
Stiles laughed again, and held the shirt up against himself. “Great minds think alike, I guess.”
Peter leaned over, cupped his face, and kissed him, soft and sweet, but there was nothing sweet in his tone when he murmured, “In that case, you can probably guess exactly what I want to do to you while you’re wearing this.”
Stiles grinned and glanced over at the couch. “Probably. But I might need a minute to recover from last time.”
Peter rolled him onto his back, pressed him into the mattress, and kissed him again. “There’s no rush, sweetheart. After all, we have the rest of our lives.”
And that, thought Stiles as he kissed his husband back, was the best gift of all.