Chapter Text
The soap factory is already packed when Stiles arrives, drunk teenagers writhing against each other as far as the eye can see. Someone has set up a makeshift sound system that’s thumping out the kind of heavy bass Stiles can feel through his whole body, and if Stiles thought it had been hot outside it’s nothing compared to the thick humidity in here.
He makes his way over to the corner where the kegs are set up and pours himself a drink, making a face as he takes his first sip of unpleasantly lukewarm beer. He can already feel the sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down his back, and he wonders who the hell ever thought this was a good idea in the middle of a heatwave.
He’s here now, though, and he still can’t quite believe that for once he might not be going home with an overall sense of disappointed loneliness.
That doesn’t mean he’s not freaking out about it. Ever since he said goodbye to Derek in the school parking lot he’s been nursing a sort of excited terror that’s left his stomach churning with a general sense of queasiness.
What if Derek doesn’t show? It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s let Stiles down, and Stiles still can’t imagine exactly why Derek agreed to come here. All they’ve done so far is grab at each other and discover how long it’s possible to make out before someone has to come up for air. Surely Derek is going to remember that he doesn’t actually like Stiles and call the whole thing off.
Or what if he does show, but it’s all because of a stupid sex heatwave, and as soon as the temperatures stop soaring Derek will realize it’s all been a terrible mistake?
Stiles feels sick.
It probably isn’t helped by the over-warm beer that he’s just chugged, but he refills his cup regardless; he’s pretty sure he’s going to need a healthy dose of liquid courage tonight.
He casts his gaze around the room, eyes scanning the crush of people to see if anyone he knows is already here. He quickly spots Erica and Boyd right in the middle of what’s passing for a dancefloor, but there’s no way he’s going to go and say hi after the library incident. There’s a flash of strawberry blonde near the cobbled together DJ booth that can only be Lydia, but wherever Lydia goes Jackson is sure to be nearby so she’s out too.
His eyes catch on a familiar leather jacket, and his heart skips a little in his chest. Derek actually came. He looks supremely uncomfortable, standing right by the wall and sending some serious do-not-approach vibes out into the world as he hunches over the phone he’s tapping away at.
Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out.
Derek
Here. Where are you.
Stiles doesn’t bother to reply, just downs the rest of his shitty beer and starts to make his way over, pushing through the crowd until he emerges right in front of Derek, rumpled and slightly breathless.
“Hey,” he says, rubbing nervously at his neck, “you came.”
“I said I would.” Derek shrugs and casts an appraising glance over him. Stiles watches the way his gaze drifts over the marks still prominent on Stiles’ neck. His pupils dilate slightly as his eyes catch on the biggest one, the one right on Stiles’ collarbone, and Stiles would be lying if he said he hadn’t purposely worn this shirt to make sure it was clear to see.
“Yeah, but I know this isn’t really your thing. Hanging around a bunch of drunk teenagers and all that. I thought you might change your mind.”
“You asked me to come,” Derek shrugs again, reaching out to brush a thumb over the bruised skin of his collarbone just like he’d done to one of the other marks in the locker room earlier. It’s like he’s acknowledging the claim of it, and the very thought sends a shudder through Stiles at the touch.
“I did,” Stiles agrees, feeling a little struck dumb just from the contact. The touch feels so casual, yet so intimate, right here where anyone can see. It wouldn’t be hard to put two and two together for anyone watching, and Stiles knows that his self esteem needs a little work but he can’t quite believe that Derek is claiming that mark right here where everyone can see. “Uh, you want to dance?”
“Not really,” Derek huffs out a little laugh. “I’m not really much of a dancer.”
“Yeah, same.” Stiles is fully aware that his own dancing style is less coordination and more enthusiasm; inflicting that on Derek would almost definitely induce some second thoughts about the whole situation. Clearly when he suggested coming here he hadn’t really thought it through. There are pretty much only two things you can do at a party, and since one of them is out that really just leaves one choice - one which isn’t going to go far in proving to him that Derek is actually interested in Stiles. That doesn’t mean he isn’t up for it, though. “Want to go and make out in a dark corner instead?”
“Sure,” Derek says, letting Stiles tangle their fingers together and lead the way through the writhing crowd.
Boyd shoots them a knowing look and Erica catcalls them as they squeeze past, but they make it through to a little nook by a metal staircase that looks more rust than actual metal, and Stiles is quick to tug Derek towards him and drag their lips together.
Somehow this feels less awkward. He doesn’t know what to do with himself in a date-like situation, too busy second guessing himself and tripping over his own words to let himself feel comfortable.
This, though. This is easy. It’s touch, and it’s instinct and it’s lust.
He pushes Derek up against the wall, hand sliding under the stupid leather jacket that’s in no way suitable for the current climate, and he just goes to town. Who knows, maybe the heatwave will end tonight and this will be the last chance he gets.
Derek gives as good as he gets, and it’s only the pointed clearing of a throat right next to them that has them pulling back for air, both looking thoroughly debauched as they turn to see Scott and Allison staring at them.
Scott has a sort of glazed expression, like what he’s just seen might haunt him for the rest of his life, and Allison mostly just looks amused. “Hi Stiles. Derek.” She nods at them both, squeezing Scott’s hand in an attempt to break him out of whatever horrified trance he’s entered.
“Hey Ally. Enjoying the party?” Stiles can’t help the blush creeping up his neck as he tries to nonchalantly engage in small talk like they haven’t just caught him with Derek’s tongue down his throat and his hand on Derek’s ass.
“Yeah, it’s been pretty interesting so far,” Allison says, amusement clear on her face as she gives Scott another ineffectual nudge. “Scott said he needed to talk to you about something, but I guess you’re a little busy right now. See you later?”
“Uh, yeah. Later.” Stiles agrees as Allison begins to lead Scott away. They only make it a couple of steps before Scott snaps out of it, stopping in his tracks and whirling back around to face them.
“Wait,” he says, trying valiantly to look anywhere other than at where Stiles’ hand is still resting on Derek’s ass. “I actually did need to talk to you. I spoke to Deaton and there’s nothing to worry about. No freaky heatwave magic, It’s just weather.”
“He’s sure?” Stiles’ grip on Derek tightens a little, “It’s definitely just weather?”
“Yeah, he was sure,” Scott nods, offering Stiles a smile. “Have a good night. Catch up with you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sounds good man,” Stiles grins, turning back to face Derek as Allison drags Scott away to find their own secluded spot. “It’s just weather.”
“I could’ve told you that,” Derek murmurs, shaking his head fondly and leaning in to brush his lips against Stiles’ once more.
It’s perfect. A perfect moment where at last Stiles can be confident that Derek is here without any outside influence.
Derek wants this.
So of course that’s when the music cuts off to reveal the distinct wail of sirens outside, the flashing of blue and red lights just visible through the murky windows on the other side of the building.
“Oh shit,” Stiles says, heart pounding as adrenaline courses through his body at the realization they’re about to get busted. Derek’s eyes have gone comically wide, and the whole room seems to freeze for a moment before everyone bursts into motion, scattering in every direction.
Derek grabs his hand and drags him up the staircase next to them, sticking to the marginally less rusted side as Stiles stumbles along behind him. “Come on,” he says, ushering Stiles around a corner, “I know a way out.”
Miraculously, they both make it out of the soap factory and back to Stiles’ house without getting caught; Stiles can only thank his former self for having the foresight to park his distinctive jeep sufficiently far away that his dad won’t have caught sight of it.
He tumbles into his room still slightly breathless from all the running, Derek looking significantly more composed as he follows a few steps behind him, already shrugging off his leather jacket and draping it over the back of Stiles’ desk chair.
The sight of it makes Stiles’ throat go dry. There’s something about the flex of Derek’s forearms, the light dusting of hair over tanned skin that makes him want Derek to press him up against the nearest surface. He wants to feel the strength of him, that capable grip manhandling Stiles in ways he’s only dreamed about thus far.
A lot of things make him feel like that when it comes to Derek.
He kicks off his shoes, sending them flying haphazardly across the room before throwing himself onto the bed. It’s not dignified, but Derek just shakes his head fondly as he toes off his boots and arranges them neatly under the window.
“I really don’t know why I thought that party was a good idea,” Stiles muses, leaning back against the pillows.
Derek shrugs, curling his fingers around Stiles’ ankle in a touch so casual it makes Stiles’ heart pick up at the intimacy of it, “We didn’t get arrested, I think we can count it as a win.”
Stiles snorts an inelegant laugh, “I feel like ‘not getting arrested’ should probably be the bare minimum of expectations.”
“Maybe,” Derek acquiesces, giving Stiles’ ankle a gentle squeeze, “I had fun though.”
“You hated it.”
“Yeah,” the corners of Derek’s mouth quirk up in a little smile, “but it was still kind of fun. It made a nice change to not be running for our lives.”
“Speak for yourself,” Stiles mutters. “Pretty sure dad would kill me if he had to arrest me for underage drinking.”
Derek laughs, dragging his thumb across the jut of Stiles’ ankle bone in a gentle caress, “Thanks for inviting me.”
Stiles bites back the sound threatening to escape him at the sensation of Derek’s fingers on his skin. It’s such an innocent touch, but it’s driving him crazy one slow caress at a time. “Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you were going to.”
“I like spending time with you,” Derek shrugs. “I thought you’d figured that out by now.”
“Not really. You just kind of showed up here and then we were making out. Then you kept showing up and we kept making out, but we never really talked about it or anything and there was this stupid heatwave and I just… Yeah.”
Derek frowns, thumb pausing the gentle rub against Stiles’ skin in a way that makes Stiles feel a bit bereft. “You thought the heatwave was causing it?”
“Maybe?” Stiles suddenly feels a bit stupid. “I don’t know. It seemed plausible enough to check out at least. You’d never given any sign of being interested before.”
Derek sighs, shaking his head. “Stiles, I gave plenty of signs of being interested before. You just never seemed to want to see it. Then everyone else started hooking up and I figured it was now or never before I lost my chance.”
“Oh,” Stiles gapes, blindsided. “I’m an idiot. An actual idiot.”
“Maybe,” Derek agrees, lips quirking up in a smile as Stiles swats at him. “At least we got there in the end.”
“Yeah, I guess we did,” Stiles grins, sitting up so he can press a kiss against Derek’s jaw. “Want to make out some more before my dad gets home and tears me a new one for going to an illegal party in a condemned building?”
“We got out before he saw you,” Derek reminds him, turning to brush his lips against Stiles’ in a kiss that manages to be chaste whilst promising a whole lot more.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “but there’s no way he doesn’t know I was there. I reckon we’ve got at least a couple of hours before he can get away from the station, though. We should make the most of it.”
“Oh, a couple of hours is plenty,”
“I’m counting on it.”