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you got the soul (and you know how to use it)

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Derek's sitting at a bar, it's a cliche version that you'd see in every paradise hotel in Mexico. There's straw on top of it, the bartender is a young woman with chocolate eyes and perfectly tanned skin, dark hair curled and falling over her shoulders with a bikini top and long flowing skirt.

There's a small stage and a dance floor and tables and chairs, a clear blue pool sitting off to the side. There's a few people floating in it, a few others dancing. Most everyone had retired for the night.

He suddenly catches movement on the dance floor. It's Stiles. He'd met him only a few hours ago, and immediately found himself hooked on whiskey colored eyes and that smile, that laugh. Of course it had to be Derek's last night here.

They'd talked for hours, and Derek only left him to tell Laura goodnight. When he'd came back down Stiles was no where in sight, so he settled at the bar for a drink.

Now though, now he's watching Stiles move his hips. It's a tempting roll, so perfect like Stiles is used to dancing to the rhythm of the drums that's playing on the stage. Which he probably is, Stiles works at the hotel here. Derek doesn't exactly know what he does, but he's always fluttering around with this wide smile, and big eyes. Eyes that are locked on Derek. He's smirking because he knows that Derek's watching, probably drooling honestly.

He doesn't exactly know when Stiles got so close that Derek could smell him. He smelled like the sunscreen he'd rubbed on earlier, like fabric softener on that soft looking blue shirt he's wearing, like a little bit of alcohol and mint. "Dance with me?" He says, his long fingers curling around Derek's hand, and he's helpless to practically fall out of his chair and follow Stiles to the dance floor numbly, all while Stiles smiles that smile.

It takes him a second to finally snap out of whatever trance he's in and he curls an arm around those sinful hips to pull him closer. Derek leaves tomorrow morning, he's going to show Stiles a move or two while he still had the chance. Stiles grins cheekily at him, "I didn't actually think I'd get you out here to dance with me."

Derek feels long fingers gliding over his chest, down his abs before they curl over his hip and Derek feels like he's fucking losing it. His heart is racing because of Stiles, like there's nothing to it. Like it's so easy for Stiles to make him go crazy. This confident, long limbed, barely out of his teenage years, native who Derek only just met yet somehow feels like he's hooked around Stiles' finger.

From there on, it's tantalizing. Stiles knows how to move. He knows how to twist and roll his hips against Derek's, how to listen to the music, listen to the soul, and actually use it. Where he was all awkward limbs earlier he's completely sex on legs right now and it's tearing Derek apart.

And the worst, or maybe best part is that Stiles knows what he's doing. He's got a smirk playing on his lips, he's touching Derek anywhere he can-- pointedly on his pulse points where he's positive the other can feel his pulse pounding.

He doesn't know how long they dance, how long their bodies roll together or how many times Stiles throws his head back and laughs, or buries his smile in Derek's shoulder or acts completely, ridiculously sexy.

He isn't sure what time it is whenever his hand finds Stiles' and he laces their fingers together before dragging him from the dance floor, to the short distance to the sand where the waves are crashing against the beach and how beautiful Stiles looks in the moonlight and decorative lights hanging outside the hotels.

Why wouldn't Derek want to stay here?
One more night wouldn't hurt, could it?

Somewhere between then, he feels those plush lips against his own. A whispered promise against his lips whenever those long fingers slide against his again and they take off running down the beach, kicking sand underneath their feet.

It's a short distance, but finally all that surrounds him is rock and water and sand and Stiles. No hotels. No drunk yells and laughter. No lights. Just Stiles and the moon and the waves crashing against rocks. They tumble into the sand, all wandering hands and hot kisses, grinding bodies and pleas.


He wakes up to the sun warm on his skin and sand irritating him, under his shirt and shorts and it's so frustrating because the one thing that he complained about was all the sand on the trip. But Stiles is tucked against his side, mouth wide open and still a little swollen, bruises and love bites litter his neck, and if you stripped him down you'd see them all over his body, too.

He doesn't know what time it is, where Laura is, if she's waiting for him at the airport or angrily waiting in the hotel room. He looks down at Stiles in his arms, brushes his fingers through that brown, messy hair and makes his choice.

He lets the plane fly away without him on it.