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Must Be This Tall To Ride

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“I am not afraid of heights.”

“You are, you’re totally afraid of heights. There is no other fathomable reason for you to not want to go on a Ferris wheel,” Stiles insists. He plucks a piece of blue fluff from a half-decimated mound of cotton candy and motions to the gaudy glow of the wheel. “It’s not even that big,” he adds, before grinning indulgently and casting an expectant look Derek’s way.

Derek sucks in a slow breath through his nose and arches an eyebrow.

“That’s what she said,” Stiles supplies for himself, and lets his blue tongue gleefully loll out of his mouth a moment before swiftly sobering. “Seriously, though. It’s not even one of the ones with the open swing chair of death. They’re cozy little pods. We could get cozy.”

“No,” Derek repeats, his tone firm enough to deter anyone else. Stiles, naturally, refuses to be swayed.

“So you’re saying you don’t want to get cozy with me.”

“No, I’m saying I don’t want to ride the Ferris wheel, Stiles. Why don’t we do the Gravitron?”

Stiles lifts the cotton candy to his mouth and idly pushes his tongue out against it, brown eyes fixed on Derek from over the cloud.

“Stop it,” Derek warns.

“I don’t want to ride the Vomitron. You’re afraid of heights.”

Lips pressed in a thin line, Derek casts a glance away to the dizzying pulse of carnival lights. “Have you ever seen a wolf climb a tree?” he asks, and swings a knowing look back to his boyfriend.

“I knew it!” Stiles crows. “God, you are so predictable. I should have bet you money on it.”

“Are we done here?” Derek bites out. “I’ve still got nearly sixty bucks’ worth of tickets in my pocket and it’s already ten.”

“Oh, so that’s what’s in your pocket, I thought you were just—”

“Stiles.”

“Come on, then,” Stiles blithely continues, and steps toward the carny waiting at the rickety gate around the Ferris wheel.

“Stiles, what—” Derek begins, stepping instinctively after him. “I just told you—”

“Look,” Stiles says, and when he turns to fix Derek in his deceptively earnest gaze, his eyes look almost gold in the glow from the fair. “I love Ferris wheels, you’re afraid of heights. I’m happy, you face your irrational fear. It’s a win-win.”

“Last call,” the carny says at Stiles’ back with a questioning motion their way. Stiles immediately begins unconsciously bouncing on the balls of his feet like a small child in need of a restroom.

Derek frowns, huffs out a sigh. “Fine,” he grits out, and he’ll be damned if he acknowledges the fact that Stiles’ beaming, toothy grin makes his own discomfort entirely worth it.

He doles out the six tickets required for them to ride and climbs into the little metal gondola after Stiles, who immediately stretches out across the bench seat like he’s on his sofa at home, apparently oblivious to the disconcerting creaks and scrapes the thing is making.

“Dude, I haven’t been on one of these things for years,” Stiles says as he peers around the interior of the car with keen interest.

“It smells like piss and stale beer in here.”

“You used to live in a derelict train car,” Stiles calmly replies. “You don’t get to make those judgment calls.”

They begin their slow ascent with a sudden jolt, and Derek gets a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the seat. Stiles is sprawled across the car from him, still absently picking at his cotton candy as he stares out at the night and watches the lights and people shrink beneath them. When he glances back, his expression of soft contentment is immediately replaced with wide-eyed shock.

“Jesus, Derek, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says. “I thought you were just—”

“It’s fine,” Derek bites out with a quick shake of his head, and part of him actually believes it, too, until the gondola rocks to a stop at the apex of the wheel. He must look ready to kill someone, because Stiles scrambles to hold up both hands, palms forward.

“This is totally normal,” he says. “The guy’s probably just trying to give us our money’s worth.”

“I’m not getting my money’s worth until I’m back on solid ground,” Derek snaps, then feels instantly guilty when Stiles startles in reply. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s okay, this is traumatizing. I get it. It was a stupid idea,” Stiles quickly replies with a shake of his head. “We just have to wait it out. We should talk or something, distractions are good, right?” He hunches his shoulders up as he casts for a topic. “…how about those Mets, eh?” he asks with a weak laugh. Baseball season ended almost two months ago.

“You’re really bad at this,” Derek points out.

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles genially replies with a thumbs-up. The pad of his thumb is covered in a blue, slightly furry cotton candy film, and Stiles focuses briefly on the digit before shifting his gaze back to Derek. “Distraction…” he murmurs again, almost to himself, and before Derek can ask him to please save his scheming for another time, Stiles has popped the entire thumb into his mouth, all the way down to the first knuckle.

“Stiles…” Derek quietly says, a warning that trips disconcertingly into a whimper when Stiles twists his wrist and then extracts his thumb with agonizing slowness, leaving a deliberate swath of saliva across his bottom lip and chin. Stiles smiles, the wicked little shit, and Derek’s heart and cock both jump on command.

“Have I ever mentioned,” Stiles casually begins, and pauses to briefly suck on the tip of his index finger. “How much I love it when you fuck my mouth?”

Derek hitches in a quick breath and huffs it out on a shallow laugh. “Maybe I’ll oblige you later, then.”

“No, I really think you should oblige me right now,” Stiles says and pins Derek with a heavy gaze from across the car. Derek waits for the punchline, but one never comes.

“Here?” Derek asks, and Stiles hastily climbs across the car and positions himself between Derek’s spread knees in answer.

“Don’t you want to fuck my mouth, Derek?” he asks, upturned face an obscene mix of innocence and innuendo. There’s still a sheen of spit on his bottom lip. Derek swallows hard.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Getting fucked in the mouth?”

“There isn’t time to—” Derek makes a low, frustrated sound as Stiles’ hands slide over the tops of his thighs. “There isn’t time.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Stiles replies, just before he ducks in to fit his mouth over the shape of Derek’s cock where it arcs away from his zipper. There’s warm promise where spit soaks through the fabric to the skin beneath, and when Stiles sets deft fingers to quickly pulling open Derek’s pants, Derek doesn’t sound any further protest.

Unfortunately, the Ferris wheel chooses that moment to begin moving again, and Derek braces a hand against Stiles’ shoulder, stopping him with his parted lips just touching the pink head of Derek’s cock. For once in his life, Stiles forgoes speaking, and instead watches Derek intently as he idly pushes his tongue out against the head, mimicking his earlier tease with the cotton candy. The car swings to a stop at two o’clock and Derek pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he says.

“That is absolutely true,” Stiles agrees. He hasn’t moved his mouth, and the words curl wispy and warm over sensitive skin.

“Your fingers are sticky.”

“That’s what she—”

“No.”

Stiles grins, delighted. “Could make them more sticky,” he suggests with all the gleeful aplomb of a twelve year-old.

“Is that supposed to be sexy?” Derek asks with an unconvinced lift of one eyebrow, and then immediately chokes on a moan when Stiles abruptly pushes past his slackened restraint and pulls Derek’s cock into the slick heat of his mouth. The world immediately reels, and Derek drops his head back with a shuddering breath.

At some point, he notices, their car had swung down to four o’clock without his knowledge.

“Stiles,” he murmurs as he skims fingers across the velvet of Stiles’ buzzcut, wishing not for the first time that there was something a bit more substantial there to grab hold of. Stiles hums contentedly, the reply reverberating from Derek’s cock to his fingertips, and then arches up enough to make a show of taking Derek nearly to the hilt.

Derek, who was approximately three seconds from coming down his boyfriend’s glorious throat when the Ferris wheel began moving again, reminding him of how close their car was to the bottom.

What began like a carnival-themed porno immediately becomes a comedy of errors: Derek startles, choking Stiles, who falls coughing onto his ass. There’s just enough time to hastily zip up before they’re swinging down to six o’clock and Derek is hailing the ride’s operator to let them off.

“Afraid of heights,” Stiles explains to the bewildered carny as Derek drags him out of the car. “Makes him crazy— Derek, we’re on solid ground now, you can— Shit,” he hisses as he stumbles and collides with Derek’s shoulder. “You can slow down now, I was joking about the crazy thing. Well. Mostly. I don’t need a demonstration, is what I’m saying— Seriously, where the hell are you going?”

“The car,” Derek answers, and he doesn’t even have to glance back to know that Stiles is affronted. This is supported by how long it takes him to formulate any reply.

“Is this— Are you—” Stiles finally sputters, and then jerks his arm free from Derek’s grip so that he can come to a full stop in front of the booth with the goldfish bowls. “Are you PUNISHING me?” he demands.

In his frustration, Derek is already scowling when he turns back, only to immediately feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Stiles is standing there, all gold and scattered shadows in the fair lights, parted lips still swollen and hurt lingering behind uncomprehending eyes.

Derek doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more simultaneously gorgeous and gutting.

“Stiles,” he says, and steps swiftly up to speak low against Stiles’ ear. “I was hoping to take you to the car because it seemed like a better place to fuck you than behind the Tilt-O-Whirl.”

Stilling, Stiles’ works his mouth a moment before he manages to speak. “Oh,” he finally says, and draws a hand across his face in a futile attempt to hide his abashed smile. “That would, uh. That’s a good plan, totally. It probably smells worse back there than it did on the Ferris wheel.”

“Can we hurry, please?” Derek asks, and directs a pointed glance down to his crotch, where his still very-obvious erection is pressing against the wet spot Stiles left on the front of his jeans.

“Yes,” Stiles instantly replies, and takes off toward the exit without another word.

 

“Remind me to never complain about your paranoid propensity for parking at the very back of the lot ever again,” Stiles resumes half a minute later.

In this instance the lot is more of a field, and distant though the Camaro is from the fairground, there are still a handful of other vehicles parked nearby. Derek hesitates upon approach, jingles the keys listlessly in his hand even as Stiles is clambering enthusiastically into the tiny backseat.

“Maybe we should just go home, it isn’t that far,” Derek suggests, casting a keen-eyed glance out at the darkness.

“Ohhh no, no you don’t.” Stiles’ voice drifts out from the interior of the car, and is quickly followed out the open door by his head. “A little harmless exhibitionism never hurt anyone, and you promised.”

“I didn’t promise,” Derek replies.

“You…stated intent. That is almost the same. Get in here and fuck me, stud.”

Derek frowns, deliberating, but doesn’t move. Stiles sighs.

“Are you seriously worried about someone seeing you?” he asks.

“No.”

“Oh, good, it’s my favorite game, Twenty Questions with Derek Hale. Who would want to be having sex when they could do this?”

“I don’t like sharing you, okay?” Derek grits out with a peeved little jut of his chin.

Stiles’ mouth curves into a bemused smile as he leans his cheek against the back of the headrest. “How do you do that?” he asks. “I’ve always wanted to know.”

Derek falters, and makes an utterly unsuccessful attempt at ignoring the obedient and slightly painful twitch of his cock. “Do what?”

Stiles reaches an impatient hand out and snags hold of Derek’s closest belt loop. “Be completely confusing and painfully attractive at the same time.”

“It’s a talent,” Derek replies, and allows himself to be tugged forward.

“You might be interested to know that I’m about ten seconds from jerking off right now,” Stiles adds, upturned eyes half in shadow but heartbeat steady. “I mean, my boner is confused, but my pants are definitely off.”

“Your boner has never been confused,” says Derek, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he reaches out, only to have Stiles capture his wrist midair.

“Okay, fair enough,” Stiles admits, and pauses with Derek’s hand hovering beside his face. “Maybe I meant yours.”

Derek’s retort falters as Stiles tugs his hand in and sucks the thumb past flushed lips. Instinctively, Derek splays his other fingers across Stiles’ cheek and jaw, eyes jumping from Stiles’ steady gaze to the wet slide of lips and thumb.

“I’ve never been confused about that,” Derek whispers, and he thinks maybe it was the wrong thing to say until he looks to Stiles’ eyes again, soft with sudden vulnerability as he draws Derek’s thumb from the pink flush of his mouth.

“Come here,” Stiles says, quiet, fingers tugging at Derek’s wrist imploringly as he retreats into the shadowy interior.

There is absolutely nothing for Derek to do but flip the seat forward and obey.

Like most sports cars, the Camaro’s backseat is ironically ill-equipped for sex, and this isn’t at all helped by how Derek’s need to get his hands on his boyfriend is increasing exponentially with every passing second. There’s a good deal of fumbling, cursing, and Stiles’ bare ass accidentally in his face before they’re anything like positioned reasonably, which still includes one of Derek’s knees jammed against a seatbelt lock and his adjacent foot wedged beneath the driver’s seat. From a certain perspective, all the breathless fumbling is hot, but Derek is perilously close to losing patience and his erection.

“Here,” Stiles says, and without warning flips a bottle over his shoulder. Naturally, it strikes Derek in the middle of the forehead before falling to the floorboard, and there’s some more fumbling as Derek retrieves it.

“Where did you get this?” Derek asks, hunched over with his head pressed against the roof, squinting down at what he now sees is KY.

“The glove box,” Stiles answers in a tone that implies Derek should have known this.

“…you put lube in my glove box.”

“Yeah, last week. I don’t know, I thought it might come in handy, and HELLO, it did.”

“You bought lube just to keep in the glove box.”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise and attempts to look at Derek over his shoulder. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of obsessed with your dick, dude.”

“I’m just…impressed, I guess,” Derek admits, and finds himself biting back a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, Stiles is a slutty Boy Scout,” Stiles replies, mirth tempering what he’d clearly hoped would sound like irritation. He ducks his head and then shifts to a more comfortable position, angling his shoulders down and ass up, one hand clasped firm over the passenger seatbelt to steady himself.

There are moments, seldom overt and more frequently than he ever could have imagined, when all Derek wants in the world is to live inside this boy. Even in the dim, even unintentionally, the perfect slope of Stiles’ spine is enough for Derek to instantly sober and hurriedly unzip, and when his cock springs free, he doesn’t have the patience to calmly slick either of them, but rather immediately slides it against the spread cleft of Stiles’ ass, breath held tight in his chest.

“I’m going to fuck you here,” Derek says, splaying his free hand over the small of Stiles’ back, “and then I’m going to take you home and fuck you there. Okay?”

Stiles draws a sharp breath and then shudders it back out again. There’s already precome beading at the tip of his cock; Derek can smell it. “If it were physically possible, I would have you fucking me 24 hours a day. There is no conceivable way I would not be okay with this plan. Just… fuck.” Stiles wedges a hand between his body and the seat and grasps a hard hold of himself.

Maneuvering is no less awkward now than it was a moment ago, and Derek makes a mess of the lube. It’s thinner than he’s used to and drips down the back of Stiles’ thighs, onto his leather seats, and trickles cold into the nest of wiry hair at the base of his cock. Better that than try to find the bottle in the middle of things, but by the time Derek settles his hands on Stiles’ ass, everywhere he touches is already sticky-slick.

“Derek,” Stiles whines, and bounces his ass imploringly beneath his hands. Big thumbs ease past muscle into that furnace heat, and it isn’t altogether unexpected when five seconds later Stiles bucks back and rattles the seatbelt, pleading openly to be fucked in a voice both impatient and unsteady. Derek still hasn’t figured out whether he always paces this part slowly more out of concern or conceit, but there’s no doubt both figure in.

“I swear to fucking god, Derek, if you don’t put your cock in me right now—”

Derek replaces his thumbs with the slick head of his cock and Stiles chokes, his threat devolving into a string of emphatic curses and pleas, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, yes, fuck fuck, fuck me, fuck me hard, please,” and there isn’t much in the way of leverage back here, but Derek grabs hold of the seat back and does his level best to oblige.

The car is bouncing, windows fogged, and when Stiles flings a hand out for purchase and leaves a streaky print in the condensation, Derek doesn’t know why a peal of uncontrollable laughter follows, Stiles’ shoulders shaking now more than his ass.

“Oh god,” he gasps, an involuntary shudder still underpinning his words, “I’m— I’ve just become Kate Winslet.” He gives the seatbelt another rattle and then startles Derek out of his rhythm by crowing, “I’LL NEVER LET GO, JACK!” and dissolving into more wheezing laughter.

Despite himself, Derek ducks his head and follows suit, because he hasn’t seen nearly enough movies to keep up with Stiles’ constant pop culture references, but he has at least seen that one.

“I had a good rhythm going there,” he maligns.

“You did,” Stiles agrees between chuckles, and gives his ass a wiggle. “I have faith that you’ll find another one.”

“I’m not calling you Rose,” Derek says, and grabs hold of Stiles by the shoulder with a forward snap of his hips.

“Ah well, my— fuuuuuuck.”

“Your fuck?” Derek asks, laughing again.

“My— Fuck fuck fuck me, your dick is distracting.”

“Thank you.”

“My heart, and hopefully your cock, will go on,” Stiles manages on a breathy little laugh before his head drops between his shoulders with a full body tremor. Unable to lean fully over without pulling out, Derek instead splays his hand at the nape of Stiles’ neck and thrusts hard enough to rock the car.

“Come for me,” Derek pants, gooseflesh rising beneath his fingers. Stiles whimpers and then jerks, cheek pressed against the side of the seat, elbow waving as he pumps a furious, graceless hand over himself and does as asked.

The sharp, musky scent of him hits Derek like a sledgehammer. He lasts an impressive minute more until his breath catches hard and his own orgasm shudders from him harder than expected, muscles seizing and shivering in the cramped space.

“’M sticky,” Stiles slurs the moment Derek has stilled, and then abruptly kicks out one foot, knocking Derek in an already-strained thigh. “Cramp, m’bad,” he adds. If he could slump down on the seat any further than he already has, Derek feels certain Stiles would. “I can’t move, have to keep your cock in me forever. Soooo soooorryyyy.”

Derek can’t feel his right knee, but he laughs anyway and skims a yet-unsteady finger down the length of Stiles’ spine just to watch him shiver. “I should have known this would happen back when you said you wanted my dick in you 24 hours a day.”

“All part of my master plan, it’s true,” Stiles replies, and then pauses. “I think my entire leg is asleep. I lied. I’m letting go, Jack.”

In a flurry of movement that involves Derek being elbowed once and smacked by flailing hands twice, Stiles manages to right himself in the seat. He wiggles against the leather, pulling his shirt down as Derek carefully tucks himself back into his jeans.

“I would like to apologize in advance for the looks you get from the people at the car wash,” Stiles says as he fumbles into his underwear. “Only not really.”

“Who said I was going to have the car detailed?” Derek asks as he settles onto the seat beside him.

“But it smells like—” Stiles stops, pulls a face. “You are so weird. Freaking werewolves.”

Derek shrugs and takes hold of Stiles by the back of the neck. “I like the way you smell.”

“Here,” Stiles says, and wipes his hand against the front of Derek’s shirt as he leans in. “Now you can smell Stiles fresh all day long. I’m pretty sure there’s some bonus cotton candy in there, too. If nothing else, my stench will go on.”

“Let no one ever accuse you of not being romantic,” Derek says, and draws Stiles in for the best sort of kiss, languid and warm and punctuated by smiles. When Stiles draws back, he’s still close enough that Derek can feel his breath and watch his eyelashes as his gaze darts from Derek’s eyes to lips and back again.

“You still have those tickets, we should go back on the Ferris—”

“Stiles.”

“Just kidding.”