Chapter Text
It has to be supernatural.
The blanket of heat that’s settled over Beacon Hills is an oppressive, sticky kind of hell so unpleasant that it can’t possibly be a natural phenomenon. It can’t. If it’s not supernatural, then it can’t be defeated, and if it can’t be defeated Stiles is going to have to live through it.
It has to be supernatural.
Summer is supposed to be over, and even at its peak the temperatures hadn’t spiked this high. This is Beacon Hills; it isn’t supposed to be like this. What’s worse, school is back in session, so Stiles can’t spend his days lounging in Lydia’s pool with the rest of the pack in between supernatural threats. There’s homework to do and classes to attend, and for some godforsaken reason Beacon Hills High hasn’t seen fit to upgrade its air conditioning system at any point within the last two decades.
Which is to say it’s hot.
Unbearably hot.
The air is so thick he can practically cut it. It’s stifling. Suffocating. No matter how many cool showers he takes, a couple of minutes later there’s a tacky sheen of sweat prickling uncomfortably over his body again, an unattractive flush rising on his skin as blood rushes to the surface in the vain hope of being cooled down. All he can do is fan himself ineffectually with whatever’s closest to hand and pray to whatever higher being might be up there for it to end.
It’s not just the heat, it’s the humidity. It might actually be driving him insane, and Stiles is pretty sure he isn’t the only one.
It makes no sense. In this climate touching anyone else should be the last thing on anyone’s mind, but things in Beacon Hills seem to have been heating up in more ways than one. It’s not enough that the town is hotter than Satan’s balls, the heat seems to be messing with people’s minds as well, burning away their rationality and overheating their senses until they reach boiling point and hidden feelings, secret urges start to bubble over. Everyone is pairing up, finding someone to press themselves up against in discrete corners, empty rooms, the middle of the damn hallways.
Everyone except for Stiles.
Scott and Allison are so hot for each other they seem to have taken up permanent residence in the supply closet during school hours. Yesterday he walked in on Erica doing unspeakable things to Boyd in the depths of the library stacks, and he’s pretty sure he even saw Harris sneaking into an abandoned classroom with the new school secretary at lunch.
It can’t be normal.
And this is why Stiles is sprawled in front of his desk, cursing his laptop for the heat it’s churning out into the sauna he now calls a bedroom as he throws himself into research. Magma creatures. Volcano spirits. Lusty heat demons. Something has to be causing this misery.
He plucks at his shirt where it’s clinging to his skin and gives it up as a lost cause, peeling it off over his head and tossing the damp fabric in the vague direction of his laundry hamper. Stiles isn’t typically one for casual nakedness - he prefers to leave all displays of general shirtlessness to the supernaturally enhanced members of his acquaintance - but needs must. It’s far too hot to be wearing unnecessary layers, especially in the privacy of his own bedroom.
He blames the heat for the gross oversight he makes here. Honestly, Stiles’ room hasn’t been anything approaching ‘private’ since Scott got bitten and his bedroom window became a general thoroughfare for those of a lycanthropic persuasion. It just didn’t occur to him that any of those werewolves would be gracing his window with their presence tonight - not with everyone as preoccupied with getting their rocks off as they’ve been since the heatwave settled over town.
He doesn’t know what Derek is doing here. Surely Derek has any number of places he could be right now, all kinds of people just begging to have him pressed up against them, touching them, spreading heat through their very bones. It makes no sense at all for him to be at Stiles’ window.
That’s exactly where he is, though. Not even knocking to be let in, just looking through the glass at Stiles like he’s not sure what he’s doing there either, but for some reason he couldn’t quite stay away.
Stiles has no idea what comes over him at the sight of Derek perched on the roof. It’s unexpected, but where usually he would flail and grab for something to cover himself, an unstoppable stream of words falling from his mouth on the topic of uninvited werewolves scaring the bejesus out of unsuspecting humans and the importance of privacy in a teenage boy’s life, this time he just doesn’t.
He stares right back, eyes locked with Derek’s, and he stands slowly to take the couple of steps over to the window. He reaches out to flick open the latch, and just like that Derek is pushing the window open, climbing through in a smooth motion and letting it fall shut behind him with a rattle that Stiles should probably be more concerned about.
It’s hard to be concerned about anything, though, with Derek staring at him like that. Like he can see right into Stiles’ soul, like he can see everything that Stiles has been feeling and wanting, and for some reason he wants it too.
Stiles couldn’t say who moves first. One moment they’re stood there in a suspended moment of silence, the next he’s pressed up against his desk, textbooks and pens clattering to the ground as they’re swept aside, laptop only just missing out on the same treatment as Derek hitches him up onto the desktop, lips crashing against Stiles’ in a rough kiss that all but takes his breath away.
It’s intense.
It’s all fingers tangled in hair, hands sliding against skin, gripping at each other, pulling each other closer as they breathe heavily into each other's mouths between kisses. There’s tongue and there’s teeth, and it’s the single hottest thing that has ever happened to Stiles all condensed into one glorious moment.
At some point Derek loses his shirt as well, flung across the room and left to hang precariously from the edge of Stiles’ bookcase as Derek presses biting kisses down the column of Stiles’ neck. It’s going to leave marks that Stiles will have a difficult time explaining later, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. That’s a tomorrow problem; right now he’s more concerned about getting Derek to move things over to the bed, because as hot as this desk situation is in theory, none of his fantasies ever included how uncomfortable the edge of the desk jamming into his ass would be.
Luckily Derek seems to be on a similar wavelength, and in a truly impressive display of werewolf strength he has Stiles’ legs wrapped around his waist and is maneuvering them across the room to press Stiles up against the wall instead. Up until now Stiles would never have thought of himself as having any sort of manhandling kink, but in this moment it becomes pretty clear that he absolutely does because that particular move is really doing it for him.
He can feel the flex of Derek’s muscles under the steadying hand he’s placed on Derek’s back, and the movement lines his crotch up with Derek’s in a way that leaves it pretty clear how much Derek is enjoying this as well.
Stiles can’t help the groan that leaves him at the sensation, but it’s quickly kissed away by an insistent pair of lips against his own. Derek’s grip on his ass tightens; a large hand squeezing one cheek is the only warning Stiles gets that they’re moving again, and moments later he’s flat on his back with Derek’s considerable bulk pressing him into the mattress, hips shifting together in a way that has him moaning out Derek’s name.
“Fuck, yeah, just like that.” His voice sounds wrecked, but he can’t bring himself to care. Derek rumbles his approval in a sound that’s definitely more wolf than human, hips grinding against Stiles’ again as Stiles uses the legs still wrapped around Derek’s waist to urge him ever closer.
It’s still too hot, but Stiles kind of gets it now. He sees why the whole town has been coupling up, how they can stand to have someone in their space despite the soaring temperatures. The feeling of Derek against him is addictive - a welcome distraction from the heat that had been so impossible to ignore before Derek got his hands on him.
The sensation of Derek’s skin against his chest should be disgusting, slick with sweat as they are in this heat, but Stiles doesn’t even care. Mostly he just wants more of it. Derek’s hands are burning hot where they trail down Stiles’ sides, but they stoke a fire in him that Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of as Derek deepens their kiss.
Their hips are shifting together in a dirty little grind that's more instinct than intent. Much as Stiles would love to finally say goodbye to his virginity, he doesn’t want this to ever end. He’s pretty sure he could stay here making out with Derek until time doesn’t make sense any more, until this moment has warped and expanded in the heat like everything else, stretching into an eternity.
Derek kisses his way back down Stiles’ neck, biting down on the jut of his collarbone in a way that makes Stiles hiss at the heady mix of pain and pleasure. There’s going to be one hell of a mark left there, Stiles thinks as Derek sets to work bringing a bruise to the surface. It’s something so animal, Derek marking his territory right there on Stiles’ flesh. It worries Stiles a little just how much he likes it.
“Derek,” he groans, sliding a hand up to grip at Derek’s hair, holding him there against his skin as Derek traces the mark with his tongue, pleased with his handiwork. He can feel Derek’s fingertips pressing against the curve of his hip and he imagines a little constellation of bruises in their shape there too. Derek isn’t gripping hard enough for that, but he could, Stiles thinks. If he lost just a little more control in the heat of the moment, Stiles would be able to trace the path of Derek’s touch across his body in little marks and bruises that would perfectly fit the shape of Derek’s mouth and fingers.
The thought makes him shudder, and he feels the curve of Derek’s smirk against his skin as lips graze up to press a kiss against the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.
“What do you want, Stiles?” Derek’s voice is low and rough, and Stiles has never heard him sound quite like this. It sends a thrill through him, the thought that he’s seeing a side of Derek he never believed he’d get to have.
“Fuck,” Stiles drags his fingers over the naked skin of Derek’s back, uses the sensation to ground himself a little. He already feels like he’s on the verge of flying apart. “Anything. Everything. You.”
Derek kisses his way back along Stiles’ jaw, lips grazing a burning trail across Stiles’ skin before drawing him into another kiss. “Yeah,” he agrees, eyes dark with want. “Ok.”
The front door bangs open downstairs and the moment is over as quickly as it started, leaving Stiles reeling in its wake as Derek flies back out of his bedroom window and his dad’s voice echoes up the stairs.
He would almost think he’d imagined the whole thing were it not for the trail of hickeys blooming across his skin and the shirt still hanging from the corner of his bookcase.