in hopes that warmer weather will hurry its ass up...

[memety]

it's too fucking hot

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Prompts
01. I'm melting...
You're just outside. Ready to DIE. The air is hot, the sky is hot, you're hot, the grass is hot, even your sweat is hot. It's just. fucking. hot.

02. Fiery attitude
The heats gone up, and your patience is at rock bottom. You could say you're feeling a little hot headed. Anything pisses you off, and you're fine with expressing it.

03. Ice cream
What better way to cool off than with your favourite nightly desert. Maybe you'll have to chase down the ice cream man before you get it, though...

04. At the pool
Or, if ice cream doesn't suit your fancy, you can always take a dip in the pool; public, private, or maybe this isn't even your own pool. Whatever the reason, you just know you look sexy in this bathing suit.

05. Desert
It's not dessert. It's desert. It's hot, dry, sandy, and all sorts of things. Can you survive the weather?

06. Fuck. Clothes.
Ever get that feeling where it's just too hot to be dressed? Time to succumb.

07. It's all me
That hottie to your right? Definitely a steamy individual, almost uncomfortably so.

08. It's just you...
Feeling... feverish? Whatever the case, one of you is sick as a dog, and the temp is going up. At least you have a friend to help you out.

09. Party
Guys, it's great here, but I'm sweating balls. That or you could make fun of your buddy's stainage. Someone's having a little too much fun at the disco.

10. Free range, bro
New, improved, better idea happening RIGHT HERE.

Taken from here

Comments

what do you mean we already have a thread or nine. 6

[ex_question191]

[ clothes? clothes are for losers. it's hot as hell, hotter maybe, and stiles is home alone. he's pretty sure he's managed to drum into scott's head that he needs to text. first. and derek's off chasing jackson halfway across the country, so there has never been a better time to just strip down. ]

[ this is how he knows summer's really here. stiles kicks off his boxers and stands in front of the fridge, just enjoying the cool aura on his overheated skin. their central air is on, but it's struggling to fight the mercury-popping heatwave that has swept beacon hills. he hums the orange juice song and helps himself to the carton and cold pizza, leaning his bare ass up against the cool counter while he munches. ]

[ and then there's a knock on his back door. his kitchen door. his kitchen door that is like, thirty percent glass window. and as if that wasn't bad enough, when he automatically turns around? it's lydia freaking martin. ]

[ stiles is pretty sure he's had this dream. and sometimes it's embarrassing, and sometimes it ends surprisingly well, but either way, he has to pinch himself. you know, just to check. only when it's confirmed does he leap into action to find where the hell he left his pants. ]

nine is not enough.

[afieldsmedal]

[ it's 96 degrees and even short shorts and a swim suit top feel stifling. lydia had spent a majority of the day drifting between her living room, garage (the deep freeze was the most refreshing to stick her head in, and on her second trip, she'd discovered a box of popsicles), and her pool, slathered thoroughly with sunblock and rocking bejeweled sunglasses. it's fun — it's summer — or is until the popsicles are gone and she can feel the spf 50 melting off her forehead to drip into her eyes. she'd slept in past the time that her mother left for work, and while she enjoys having the run of the house, around 2 pm she's going a little stir crazy.

and around 3, she runs out of popsicles. the box had only been half full, and the greek salad she'd had for a late lunch had been plenty refreshing, but not filling. what she wants is something chilly, but everything in her freezer is potential dinners for the next month and frozen lean pockets. so she decides to walk to the store.

the hale house is conveniently in her back yard and much closer, but she'd walked to stilinski residence before. hadn't walked to the store since before she could drive, but the prospect of getting into the driver seat of her hand-me-down car that had been baking all day, and touching the metal of the seatbelt is so unappealing, she'd not even considered it as an option. besides, it's a nice day. she can walk. given it'd been about two years, she'd forgotten that stiles' house was along the way and is almost ambivalently surprised when she sees his jeep in the driveway. call it sunstroke that has her approaching the car instead of the door, walking along the driveway and into the back yard, but she lopes up the back porch steps and knocks.

though that proves to be a mistake. lydia knocks twice, tries the handle, and when the door gives a little she looks through the window — actually looks — and instantly regrets every decision she's made today because that was a good eyeful of stiles stilinski's bare ass cheeks. what was supposed to be a horrified gasp instead comes out like the whine of a dying cat, which is fitting as a bit of her is dying inside. she didn't want to see that. no one wants to see that. she'd just wanted to know if he had popsicles or ice cream or something, and instead she's slamming the door and staring out at the grey paneling of the house next door, blinking rapidly and lips pursed as her mind whirls to compartmentalize and not be emotionally scarred by this event forever. ]