Cait. This is a “multi-fandom” blog and by multi-fandom,
I do of course mean an orgy of feels, photos, and fantastic ridiculousness

inspired by (x) the dancing dylan from the internship bts and this song (x)

It’s summer and they’re parked out on the bluff on the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve. It’s hot and they’re alone, Stiles blasting Kishi Bashi, blaring from the speakers, windows rolled down.

He’s smoked a bowl on the drive up and they share another sprawled out in the flat bed of the pick-up truck Derek’s been leasing while he fixes up the house. 

It’s not long before Stiles pulls himself to his feet, limbs looking impossibly long in the tight skinny denim shorts he’s wearing. His t-shirt pulls tight across his chest, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, slicked with sweat.

He’s wearing a knit hat, his hair coming out in spiraling tufts from beneath it, and it looks soft, Derek wants to run his fingers through it but doesn’t, lets them twitch by his side as he repacks the bowl and watches.

Stiles jumps out of the truck, a little more gracefully than Derek would have expected and then he picks the broom up that Derek left crammed in the side of the flat bed, next to the balled up tarp and the dustbin.

Stiles’ fingers stutter over the plastic handle as he dances, imitation of a guitar solo. Derek drags himself into a sitting position to watch, the way Stiles moves, unabashed, rhythm a little sloppy but it doesn’t detract from the visual.

He smells like sweat and deodorant, like good weed and the snickers bar he ate just before they drove out. His t-shirt bunches at his waist and underarms as he gyrates on the uneven ground of the forest.

He laughs at himself, smiles up at Derek, loose and content, and Derek shifts in the truck, scoots out until he’s dropping to the ground in front of Stiles. Stiles tips his head back, long, pale slender neck stretching and Derek tumbles forward.

Stiles shimmies towards him. When he’s close enough to touch Stiles lets his forearms drop lax against Derek’s shoulders, sways his hips back and forth along Derek’s, grinning down at the space between them.

Derek’s fingers catch at his waist, pull him in. It’s hot, and they’re alone, and Kishi Bashi blears from the front speakers, I haven’t been this alive in a long time

And Derek pushes himself into Stiles’ embrace, tightens his arms around Stiles until his hands catch at the sweat damp dip of his lower back.

Stiles tastes like caramel and weed when their lips finally meet. 

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