When the increasingly jerky motions of the Ferris wheel inevitably grind to a complete halt, Stiles blows out a breath and slides a glance over at Derek, who's clenching his jaw so tight it looks like his teeth are going to be crushed under the force.
"Hey," Stiles says, trying for soothing. "It'll be okay, dude. They'll get us down from here. And, I mean, it sucks, but it's quite literally the least frightening thing we've ever faced together, right?"
"I'm not scared." Derek slants a half-offended look at him, then leans forward in their cart, trying to see what's going on below but his motion causes them to tip and Stiles can't stop a sudden gasp. Derek's head turns slowly and his nostrils flare pointedly before he sits back. "But you are."
"Well, I wasn't until you decided to try flinging my frail body to the ground hundreds of feet below us with abrupt stops every ten feet to ricochet off the thin strips of metal holding us up here!" Stiles scooches further into his corner of the cart, wrapping his right arm over the side and his left over the back. The flimsy strip of nylon that's loosely buckled over his lap isn't exactly going to keep him from plummeting to his death if the worst should happen.
"What?" he snaps, and he's not hyperventilating. He's not, okay? He's just... worried. And that worry translates to an increased pulse and slightly elevated breathing and--
The cart starts swinging wildly again as Derek moves toward him, making Stiles let out a very manly thank you squeaking sound. But Derek keeps moving, which keeps the cart swinging and Stiles can't let go of his death grip on the cart long enough to get him to stop. So Stiles just hangs on, feels his heart rate ratchet higher and his breathing come faster, more shallow, until he's gulping for every breath, each exhale a near sob as his vision goes all wonky.
"Hey, hey," he hears, and there are strong arms around him, wrapping him up and trying to pry him out of his corner, but Stiles isn't having it. They will literally have to break both of his arms to get him to let go.
And then, without warning, Derek's face is filling his vision and his mouth is covering Stiles' and this isn't going to work again, okay? It's just not. Stiles isn't attracted to Derek--
Derek's tongue swipes over his bottom lip.
--okay, maybe a little attracted but definitely not so much that--
Derek's hand is on the back of his neck, squeezing gently, as he slides his mouth from Stiles' to drag his stubble along Stiles' jaw and throat, placing sucking kisses right over the elevated pulse beating there.
--and Stiles finds his hands in Derek's hair, holding him there, because he's had so many dreams that are like this, so many dreams he woke from with soiled sheets and an aching cock--
Derek slides his other hand under the hem of Stiles' shirt, dragging his claw-tipped fingers over Stiles' stomach until he's rolling his hips up, trying to get more, lower. Derek growls in response, sharp teeth scraping the thick tendon in the side of Stiles' neck until he lets out a small, wounded noise, the front of his underwear getting all damp with precome.
--oh fuck Stiles is such a liar, he's wanted this since that first day in the Preserve when he saw Derek standing there all gorgeous and threatening, throwing off serial-killer vibes. With a growl of his own, Stiles knocks Derek back against his side of the stupid Ferris wheel cart. He's so absorbed in getting his shaky hands to open the fly of Derek's skin tight jeans that he doesn't even realize how wildly their cart is swinging, doesn't hear Jackson's catcalls from below them, doesn't register Derek gripping him that little bit tighter except that Derek's hands are holding him tight, dragging him closer.
Stiles finally gets his hand on Derek's cock, his mouth watering just at the feel of it, all meaty and thick in his grip, and Derek's muttering filthy dark words in his ear, things like finally and fuck and Stiles. Stiles turns his head, stopping those guttural words with his mouth, sucking them out with his tongue. He whines, high and needy, when he feels Derek's hand down the back of his pants, blunt fingers thick and rude as they push between the cheeks of his ass to drag rough and dry against his hole.
"Have to taste you," Stiles gasps, ripping his mouth from Derek's and shifting around on the seat until his ass is scrunched up in the air, knees almost to his chest to give him room to get his face in Derek's lap. He mouths at Derek's dick, can't stop licking and sucking at the head even when Derek hisses and curves his fingers, the one he'd been prodding at Stiles' ass with popping through his hole all dry and obscene.
Stiles lifts his head long enough to beg Derek to fuck his mouth -- the angle is all wrong for him to be able to get enough of Derek's cock in his mouth to satisfy him -- and then Derek's hips are pushing up while his fingertip in Stiles' ass moves in hot little circles. Stiles moans, ass curving back while he forces his head down as much as possible, neck already aching deliciously.
"Fuck, Stiles, fuck I... Stiles I'm gonna..."
Stiles keens around his mouthful, begging with his whole body for Derek to do it, to come in his mouth. He tightens his lips, tongue digging into Derek's slit, and that's it, that's what punches the low groan from Derek's chest and has him curving forward over Stiles' head, his abs twitching against the side of Stiles' face as he comes and comes, filling Stiles' mouth until he has to swallow or risk it dripping out.
As soon as Derek has stopped pulsing against Stiles' tongue, he's pulling Stiles off, not removing his hand from Stiles' ass, but using the other to drag Stiles' whole body into his lap so he can eat at Stiles' mouth, tonguing into it all loose and needy, sucking all the traces of his come that Stiles didn't swallow out. It's sloppy and wet; they've both been reduced to panting into each other's mouths, noises they'll be embarrassed by all they can form.
Derek's finger is outright plunging into Stiles' ass, the dry drag of it so fucking good, so perfect, but then his other hand is ripping into the front of Stiles' pants, curling around his dick and jacking Stiles so tight and perfect that it feels like the entire world is jolting with each movement of his hand.
"Come for me, Stiles," Derek moans into his mouth, and Stiles is a really obedient guy, so he does. Just comes all over Derek's hand, his clothes, the side of the cart.
His head is still swimming, the world still gray and fuzzy around the edges, when Stiles feels Derek gently tug his finger out of Stiles' ass and tuck him back into his underwear and pants, buttoning him back up. He's a mess of come and sweat, knows he is, but he can't even be bothered to care because holy shit he just had sex with Derek Hale.
He's still going to be riding this high when he's eighty.
The funny thing is, the world still feels like it's spinning, which doesn't make sense at all until he opens his eyes and sees the bottom of another cart above theirs instead of the stars that had been there before. They're moving. They're moving, holy shit!
Stiles pushes himself up, scrambles to help Derek put everything back to rights -- including the thin, useless seat belt that was, uh, oops, a little ripped down the middle now -- and is sitting as primly as possible considering how much come is drying on the front of his underwear by the time the cart comes to a halt at the bottom.
He knows it's going to be a little awkward -- or a lot awkward, who's he kidding -- when they finally get off the ride, but he's not expecting Derek to hop up from the cart, sending it swinging so wildly Stiles can't get out. But then Derek's reaching in, grabbing him and tossing him bodily over Derek's shoulder until he's hanging upside down, eyeball to ass.
"Uhh?" Stiles grunts, the wind punching out of him when Derek hops down to the ground. The rest of the pack is there, Stiles can hear them laughing and joking, but Derek just walks around all of them. Poking Derek in the side, he mutters, "Where the hell are you going, dude?"
Derek smacks his ass, which, unfair, and hitches Stiles up on his shoulder more firmly. "Well, I figure the purpose of the fair is to take home a gigantic prize, right? I got mine. Time to go home."
Stiles can't help laughing at that, even as the blood rushes to his head. "I'm a prize? That's not what you were saying last week."
"Last week you were covered in demon guts. Now, shut up. Unless you don't want to go try that again in a nice, comfy bed?"
Stiles feels the tightening of Derek's shoulders under his belly, hears the slight hesitation in his voice, and circumvents Derek's concern by tucking his hands into Derek's back pockets and squeezing his nice, firm ass. "My prize is bigger," he says. "I win."