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Stiles takes one look at the motorcycle parked in the driveway and feels his stomach swoop with dread.
“Nice, right?” Derek is saying, running his hand over the polished chrome, and Stiles just—
“Are you deeply unsatisfied with your life?” Stiles asks, urgently.
Derek blinks at him. “Am I…”
“Except, it’s a little early for your midlife crisis,” Stiles continues; “but, we did just lose the kid in the supermarket again last week, and that probably aged you an extra five years, at least—you’ve got grey hairs, even, did you know? And it’s normal to feel smothered by domesticity at some point, I’ve always heard, but I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t talk to me about it because we can work through this!”
“You’re having this entire discussion without me,” Derek says, leaning grumpily against the handlebars. “Also, happy anniversary.”
“Oh shit, I forgot again,” Stiles says, dropping his face into his hands. “I guess that’s why you pawned Sammy off on my dad tonight.”
“Mmhm.”
“I thought it was because you wanted to be free like an unfettered desert breeze on your sexy Harley,” Stiles admits. “Which, okay, you still haven’t explained the sexy Harley.”
“It’s just rented,” Derek says. “I thought maybe I could take you for a ride; there should be a good view of the sunset up at Inspiration Point.”
“When you say a ride, do you mean a ride or…” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “A ride?”
“Both,” Derek says firmly, and Stiles wants to lick him for being so adorable.
“Derek Hale. Did you plan a sexy teenaged fantasy motorcycle date for our anniversary?”
“I’m regretting it now,” says Derek.
“Nononono, I’m down, this is awesome, I’ve always wanted to be a biker babe.”
“You have not.”
“I have unfulfilled fantasies you’ve never dreamed of, buddy,” Stiles corrects. “Gotta roll ‘em out slow, or the marriage’ll get stale. Ooh, that’s right. Swing your leg over the bike. Do it slow.”
“Oh lord,” Derek sighs.
“Now say something biker-ish, like ‘hop on, babe!’”
“I absolutely will not do that,” Derek says. Instead, he twists on the seat and pulls Stiles onto the back of the bike with one arm, which is, admittedly, way hotter.
::
“Teenagers don’t actually come to Inspiration Point anymore, right?” Stiles says—brokenly, because he’s bent over the motorcycle seat and Derek is opening him up slowly with the lube he’d stored in the saddlebag. “Like, we’re not gonna—fuck—get arrested for this, or—ohgod don’t care, faster.”
“Slower,” Derek says. It’s unseasonably cold for August, but they’ve worked up so much sweat at this point that it hardly matters. Stiles glances back and swears he can see actual steam coming off Derek’s bicep, bulging as he holds Stiles down by the back of his neck.
“Please, come on, please,” Stiles gasps. “While we’re still young, Derek.”
“Oh, right, what was that you said about grey hairs?”
Stiles huffs out a shaky laugh.“That they look super hot on you?”
“Damn right they do,” Derek says, and then he lifts Stiles’ hips a little more and presses in.
“Five… years,” Derek says, panting for breath a little as he moves—even though he’s going at a torturously slow pace, if you ask Stiles. “Can you.. believe.”
“Did you think, ah, yeah, okay wait—” Stiles pushes up and twists a little, gets one knee bent up onto the seat, and wow. “Okay, you can go—ooh.”
“Did I think,” Derek prompts, looping one arm under Stiles’ stomach to help him stay up. “What?”
“Did you think it would still be this good, that you, that we, Derek.”
“No, I thought we’d get sick of each other pretty fast,” Derek says, his dry tone lacking the usual bite now that his voice has gone all soft and breathy like it does. “That’s why I married you.”
“Mmm, you did,” Stiles groans deep and satisfied. He reaches back, gets his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. “You married me for keeps.”
Derek’s hand slides down Stiles’ stomach and comes to rest at the top of his thigh, fingers digging in a little as his thrusts deepen and the bike starts rocking more precariously. “We w—won’t be able to do this when I’m 60.”
“Challenge motherfucking accepted,” Stiles says. “Also, I’m, fuck, not entirely sure we can do this now, even, because I feel like we’re about to tip the bike over?”
“Got it,” Derek says. He pulls out, which is the worst, but then he straddles the bike and helps Stiles climb onto his lap, so it all works out in the end. Stiles hums happily as he sinks onto Derek’s cock, letting himself fall back a little to brace his shoulders against the curve of the seat. He knows they won’t topple, that Derek can hold his weight—Derek, whose face is all planes and shadows in the moonlight, and Stiles doesn’t even know what to do with himself when he looks at him. He feels like he needs to write sonnets or something.
“Derek, you’re too hot,” he complains. “They should invent a new word for how hot you are, you know?”
“Shut uuuuup,” Derek says, sliding an arm behind the small of Stiles’ back and yanking him up so that he falls against Derek’s chest. “Just… mmm.”
“God I love you,” Stiles sighs into Derek’s neck, scrabbling for a better hold on his shoulders while Derek guides his hips in a maddeningly steady rise-and-fall.
“Shh,” Derek says, but before Stiles can get offended about it Derek’s kissing him, sliding his hand gently into his hair, his mouth slow and soft and exploratory like it’s the first time ever. Like they’re still new.
Stiles moans into it, high and helpless, and then just wraps his arms tight around Derek’s neck and tries not to do something embarrassing, like cry.
(He does cry, but only a little bit.)
::
“Happy anniversary,” Derek rasps afterward, his nose pressed into Stiles’ cheek.
“Fuckin’ sap,” Stiles says, wobbly-voiced.