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When they wake up the sky has come closer, quilted grey. The air is hot and sticky, crackling with static electricity. Malia calls it first, hanging out his window in her bruise-coloured panties and bare breasts.
"It’s gonna be hot today", she says.
He untangles sheets from his ankles, tripping to grab her and shut the blinds. He kisses her for a long moment, and then they’re messy and sweating, kissing hard on the floor until his father raps at the door. ”Stiles, what’re you doing in there?”
”Nothing, Dad, just changing”, he yells back, shaky because, fucking goddammit, he just came, and the cosmos has decided Stiles Stilinski doesn’t get orgasm afterglows apparently because Malia’s already hopping into her jeans, buttoning and zipping, and he already misses those panties.
"Nothing illicit, nothing illegal, keep your handcuffs away", he says and smuggles Malia out the window.
He’s never been a good kid, so when Dad cuts his eyes at him in the kitchen, it may be out of general existential suspicion or because he smells like Malia — he’ll never know.
Malia doesn’t smell like him when he finds her in History, she smells like the coconut of her shampoo. Her speed is unfair, out of balance,Stiles wants to drag her into some darkened office and rub himself into her skin.
He’s never been a good kid, but it’s even harder when it’s humid and Malia’s razor-tipped hair takes a jagged flyaway edge, dark blonde cutting into her bare shoulders. He takes the seat beside her, prays to all the gods to save his soul because Malia’s skin glows without all her layers.
Without all her layers, it feels like exhibitionism, her shorts so short he could have spotted the spate of bites he left along the insides of her thighs last night, if they hadn’t healed.
She turns to smile at him, mouth wet and dangerous as Scott slides into the empty desk behind him.
"Stiles, why-"
"Shut up, shut up, don’t talk to me while I’m fighting off a boner."
*
Her speed is unfair. Stiles doesn’t catch her all day, watching from far away the flex and stretch of her body until he needs to run water through his fingers and splash at his face and neck to calm his weltering blood.
He tries not to look when she stretches in Math, strip of curving waist peeking from where her shirt rucks up. Stiles drops his pen and tries not to think about touching.
It doesn’t work: he thinks about his sheets, tangled around her knees; he thinks about how she sweats, sheen across her forehead and down her neck; he thinks about how she licks and grinds, hipbone to hipbone; he thinks about how his bites open on her skin and how they close, how she twists when he bites her again.
He thinks about the lift of her hips and how she spreads her thighs for him.
He thinks about touching and touching and touching. She swallows and licks her lip and meets his look, eyes flashing like electricity.
*
She catches him, shoving him to the hood of the jeep as it turns into a thick, steamy night, threatening rain. He drops his Lacrosse bag,she dodges his mouth but he kisses whatever part of her he can find, which happens to be her jaw and that’s fine, that’s very fine - he licks down to her neck, she digs her nails into his wrists.
"You’ve been looking all day. I saw you."
Coherence is out of question because Stiles has found the cool skin of her hips and she’s found the shell of his ear.
"I can hear how much you want me", she says like she’s teasing, and Stiles finds her mouth.
*
He wakes up to cracking thunder, the slow burn of Malia’s nail-marks, her flitting breath in his ear.
Her arms go slack and around him while she sleeps so he can turn, and like instinct, Stiles turns to check for crumples of discomfort because sometimes Malia nightmares instead of dreams.
She’s okay.She sleeps with her mouth parted and inviting, hair sticking to her cheeks. Eyelashes like long, plastic bristles, (she’s so pretty), they flutter when he lifts away sweaty strands and she mumbles and presses in, skin to skin.
He doesn’t want to wake her, but his blood is rushing too hard again and then he needs to taste her. Her ankle knocks against his shin and he slides fingers down her belly, between her legs.
Stiles, she mumbles. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
He wants to stay like this for the next decade maybe, eyes dropping shut when Malia kisses him, long and slow, and wraps a fist around him. He wants to stay like this, leeching air off Malia because she leeches heat off him.
He rubs in slow circles, she strokes in tight pulls. They smell like each other; she smells like him, just like he wants, and traces of the coconut of her shampoo when he ducks his face to bite along the line of her shoulder.
The cracking thunder does nearly enough to cover their breathless noises of skin hunger.