rarrrr

You’d think Stiles would be cold, being a terrifying spirit of winter. But when Derek puts his fingers in that fur (snow-white, appropriately) it’s as soft as warm as Derek remembers his bed being when he was a child, refusing to leave the cover of the blankets.

“It’s actually paradoxical warmth,” Stiles says. “You know, it’s so cold your nerve endings just give up. You shouldn’t leave your hand in there for too long, you’ll get frostbite.” The air mists up coming out of his mouth.

“Werewolf,” Derek says, eyebrow arched.

“Still, you should—” Stiles squaks a little when Derek starts scritching his chest. ”Oh god you should never stop doing that.”

“Payback for that time you got me behind the ears,” Derek says smugly, and pretends not to watch Stiles’ face like a hawk as Stiles’ lips turn deeper blue, his eyes flashing pure white.