Thank you nmydreamz for pre-reading, and Sue273 for betaing for me even though it was a holiday. Thank you 35nanou for the cheering and motivation, and BregoMellonNin for constructive feedback and critisism. Much love to all of you.
A few days ago 35nanou showed me a cute gif (you can find the link on my AO3 profile), and I immediately became inspired to write a winter version of Summer in Beacon Hills. Then it was snowing outside and everything looked like a perfect, winter postcard here. The trees were heavy with white cotton, every sound muffled, and when I walked, it made a crunching sound under my boots.
Stiles loves waking up on Sunday mornings with his bare skin snuggled tight against his boyfriend's thick fur, knowing they have all day to themselves; time to do just what they feel like, together.
In late December, it's still mostly dark outside when he awakens—as a born werefox he's always been an early riser—but there's a hint of a gray-orange ray of sunlight seeping through the window, and he can hear the birds hoarse, morning chirp; the preserve is about to wake up around them.
Stiles pulls the comforter over, which his boyfriend hogged during the night, to cover them both and then twists, warming his cold back against the radiating heat beside him. A protective paw sneaks up his stomach and settles against his chest, effectively pressing them together as tight as possible. He feels the werewolf's morning wood by his bare ass, and he wiggles his behind against it, just because he can.
The paw on his chest stiffens when Stiles grabs his boyfriend's hard-on from between his own thighs and immediately presses his legs together, grinding back and forth in a slow motion. He smiles to himself at the low whine the wolf makes against Stiles' human ear, its breath coming out in short puffs by now.
He's undecided on what he wants to do first. He's made a lot of plans for them, hot plans, sexiness . . . and later, maybe some cocoa, if one of them has any energy left to make it.
He fingers the round, swollen cockhead peeking out from under his own balls, playing with the slit, feeling the wetness coat his forefinger, which he brings to his mouth, smacking his lips when he tastes the wolf. "Mmm," he moans as he feels the paw on his chest hold him like a vise, his boyfriend's body starting to move against his, and a long, wet tongue licks his ear. Derek's definitely awake now, too.
Stiles grins.
He needs to make an immediate decision on the endless possibilities. In just a couple of breaths he'll be completely engrossed in the feeling of Derek, his rational thought thrown out the window. His boyfriend always has that effect on him. All he has to do is send Stiles the look, and Stiles becomes a mindless puddle of goo, especially when he's in heat. But Stiles being in heat or not usually doesn't make a difference when it comes to Derek. He always gets Stiles hot and bothered.
Right now, the wolf's tongue sweeps up Stiles' neck, and Stiles is gone.
"God damn," he mutters, flipping them over onto his stomach. Derek's dick is still squeezed between Stiles' thighs, and the wolf instantly takes advantage of the sudden leverage, hoisting Stiles' hips up with his front paw, and starts fucking his thighs in earnest.
Derek could easily have mounted him then and there. Stiles isn't in his heat right now so he's not self-lubricating, but he's still slippery from last night's fun, so he won't get hurt. But Derek seems set on rutting against Stiles' thighs, and it's hot.
Derek, in wolf form, is a sight to behold: thick, shiny fur; a well-fed, content alpha's winter coat, and a huge frame of solid muscle.
Even in Stiles' euphoric state, the thought of buying a mirror for their bedroom wall forms in his mind, and he wishes he could see them right now. His own creamy, human skin, covered by Derek's huge, dark form—his boyfriend—finding his pleasure by practically jerking himself off on Stiles, so driven by his impulses, by the need to breed with Stiles.
It's mind-blowing.
Derek pants above Stiles' head while rutting mindlessly,as if Derek is in heat. Stiles can't do anything other than hang on, his face pressed down in the pillow, which smells of them both. It's not exactly the scent of Stiles and Derek, but a smell all its own—of them as a couple—a smell completely unique: StilesDerek.
Stiles loves it.
He groans against the pillowcase, completely overtaken by the situation, being Derek's to take; to use.
Derek speeds up, shamelessly handling Stiles like a ragdoll, and it makes Stiles gasp, burning desire coiling in his gut as he turns his head slightly to breathe. But then, Derek's paw is on Stiles' dick. He's sure it's dripping onto the sheets at this point, making an even greater mess on the already filthy fabric. It's so good, like he's swimming in their pheromone cocktail. The paw pressure is right where he wants it, under the head of his cock, and it just happens. Stiles is unable to stop himself from coming, his hips jerking uncontrolledly against the paw and mattress, his groan muffled by the pillow.
Derek's responding howl echoes through the forest, mixing with the preserves' morning sounds.
It lets their world know without a doubt, no uncertainty about it: he can make his mate come undone with little effort. He's wolf enough to take care of what's his.
Stiles' mind is swimming.
A whole pack of feral alphas could come storming through their door, and Stiles wouldn't be able to lift an eyelid.
His boyfriend crowds over him, accidentally slamming Stiles' head against the headboard, and ouch! Okay, he supposes he'd react if someone stormed their house, but that's not the point!
He's having a moment, here. Give him some space, all right?
Because it's awesome.
He forces the pillow from under his mouth up to his forehead, because he prefers to have sex without getting a concussion, and it's better. Derek is surprisingly quiet when he comes, like his orgasm isn't something that means anything to himself. It's not something to announce to the preserve; inconsequential.
The wolf flops down beside him, instantly covering Stiles' sweaty body with his large, hairy frame, and Stiles takes the moment to shift, to change into fox form, wanting to bask in the afterglow and smell of their coupling with his elevated senses.
He's much smaller as a fox than as a human, fitting nicely against the werewolf in an even better way than he does in human form. His boyfriend covers him like a wool blanket, purring deep, making Stiles' body vibrate against the rumble in Derek's huge chest.
If Stiles hadn't been so sedated right now—it feels like he's floating—he'd be wiggling his spine to make the most of the cozy blanket fort he's buried in. It takes him minutes to become conscious enough to realize something's different; there's something wrong in the world. He instantly sobers and tries to cock his ears toward the window, but they are squashed under the heavy werewolf paw; he lifts up his head, on high alert.
The paw tries to push him back against the chest again, but Stiles whines, wiggling free to jump down on the floor and onto the chair beside the window. He rests his front paws on the sill, peering outside. His breath instantly fogs the window in front of his snout, but, as a fox, he can still see everything clearly:
It's snow.
He stares outside in quiet wonder. Everything's so white!
Tiredness forgotten, a lazy, Sunday morning in bed out of the question, he jumps right from the chair and all the way over to the wolf still lying on the bed. Why does Derek even look like he's taking a nap? Doesn't he get how seriously awesome this is? The mattress bounces under him and his snout collides with his boyfriend's stomach, but Stiles just shakes his head, ignoring the stars dancing behind his eyelids.
He's excited.
He yips and bounces, nudging Derek's chin until the wolf squints at him. Yipping in a higher tone, Stiles sets his front paws on Derek's upper chest while staring into his boyfriend's eyes, making sure he's got his attention, before jerking his head towards the window. Look outside!
Derek woofs low, like a grunt, and Stiles fears he's going to turn around and go back to sleep, but his boyfriend knows him; knows when Stiles is this excited, there's no stopping the red, furry tornado.
Languidly, the werewolf gets up on his feet, stretching his spine in a bow while he yawns so Stiles can see every inch inside his red mouth. He sneaks underneath the wolf and sets all his strength on pushing his boyfriend off the bed.
The wolf doesn't yield an inch.
Fine, have it his way. Stiles is going out to play—right this second!
He darts out to the kitchen, jumps to catch the handle on the back door with a well-practiced move, then instantly freezes at the threshold, taking in the scene in front of him with reverence.
The ground is covered by a layer of white, the trees heavy with cotton, every sound of the animals in the preserve muffled. As he takes a cautious, first step into the snow, it makes a crunching sound under his paws. Everything looks like a winter-themed postcard, perfect December weather.
It's not often they have snow in the Beacon Hills preserve. In fact, Stiles can count on one paw how many times he's experienced it, and he's lived in the preserve his whole life. Okay, that might not be so many years yet, but hey . . . it's snow!
Sadly, this snow won't last for long, and Stiles wants to make the most of it, needs it.
He leaps into it, sprinting under the trees surrounding their house like an arrow, darting under low-hanging branches, getting his fur covered with snow. He circles around the house in silent awe, but sees something black from the corner of his eye, making him come to an abrupt halt.
Derek stands on the threshold, staring down at the snow, tentatively dipping his front paw into it. He shivers as a chill rips through him, the same way it did when they met months ago, when Stiles had lured him into the pond. Stiles yips, urging him on as if to say follow me, and the alpha takes a hesitant step, letting Stiles coax him into the whiteness.
Stiles yips again, excited and happy. There's snow! He's got a boyfriend to play with! Fun!
He darts under branches, leaps over stumps, and soon he hears footsteps following him—Derek's coming. He feels it throughout his body, the thrill of it all. But then, as he takes in the air, there's a sudden, distracting smell and he comes to a halt. Cocking his ears toward the source, he hears a low, scratching sound, and realizes it's a mouse, digging itself a protective room in the snow.
Stiles wants to chase it.
He pounces without a second thought, steered by his instinct to hunt, to bite.
Down in the wet snow he buries his snout, getting cold wetness into his nostrils and mouth, but he doesn't care. He's on a mission, here! His claim is in sight. Well, he can't really see anything under the snow, but he can hear it—it's within earshot.
He wiggles his snout deeper, down to the warm little bundle. He finds it easily and opens his mouth, but slowly retreats.
He can't do it; can't bite the little thing.
The mouse probably has a family, and it's scared of big Stiles with his sharp canines. The poor thing is trembling down there, right under Stiles' whiskers.
Derek's sitting on his hind legs observing him when Stiles retreats, shaking his fur free of snow. He uses his front paw to dry off the ice, which has formed on his whiskers, and makes a grimace at the wolf. It's supposed to be a smile, a grin. He can tell Derek understands it, because the wolf makes a soft bark from his stomach.
Stiles wants to play with him again and thinks about pouncing on huge Derek instead of the tiny mouse, but Derek would win easily. Stiles decides to go for the unpredictable, like he always does. He shifts into his human shape, forms a snowball with his hands within seconds, and throws it—right at the werewolf's face.
He takes the time to delight in the stunned expression on his boyfriend's face before he darts. He runs like the devil is on his heels.
It's not easy to run with bare, human feet in the cold snow, the trees impossible to move under in this form, and when he risks a glance over his shoulder—he can't really hear Derek well now, with his human ears—he sees the wolf is at his tail.
Stiles cackles, knowing Derek can't throw a snowball back with his wolf paws—he needs to shift.
But what he hasn't had the time to think about is Derek's not going to throw a ball back at him . . . he's going to rub Stiles in the snow.
Stiles' breath escapes his lungs like a whoosh when Derek jumps him, easily making Stiles fall onto his back, by flopping his paw at him. Then, when Stiles lies on the cold, wet forest floor, seeing the sky's changed from gray-orange to clear blue, Derek slowly creeps up his body, lapping his tongue over the nakedness. Warmth slides up Stiles' legs, up to his privates, which are not exactly at their largest form at the moment, but Derek licks up Stiles' balls, over the head of his cock and up his chest before he stops, his front paws on either side of Stiles' head, and they are eye to eye.
Stiles shudders a complete body tremor, toes to ears, and the previous excitement for playing in the snow—the glee—turns into another type of excitement: want.
Stiles can tell Derek senses it instantly. The wolf deliberately takes a deep breath with his snout in the air, turning it right and left as Stiles' arousal soars into the air between them; humming as he smacks his tongue. Derek lowers his head again, his gaze meeting Stiles', and it'sblack.
Stiles groans loud, feeling himself flush down his neck, and he wants them to have sex outside, in the snow.
He spreads his legs without thinking, his mind already far ahead, but Derek twists his head around, yanks Stiles' body up from the cold ground and flops him over his shoulder like Stiles is a sack of potatoes.
Stiles tries to wiggle free at first, but soon stops, knowing it's futile.
He rests his chin in his hand, hanging over Derek's shoulder as he watches the pretty preserve and concludes it's probably for the best, anyway. Lying in the snow in his human form without any clothes is, while tempting at first thought, perhaps not such a good idea.
They're soon back on their threshold and Stiles slips down from his boyfriend's shoulder, instantly shuddering without the warm fur against him. Derek shifts to human form, rubbing over Stiles' arms with his hands, looking at his face before he takes his hand and leads him to their fireplace.
Stiles sits down on the soft rug they keep there, and Derek hands him his favorite wool blanket from the couch, draping it around Stiles' shoulders.
Stiles watches his boyfriend start a fire, adding more crumpled newspaper under the kindling, making it crackle and spark. Derek turns to Stiles, smiling, and Stiles smiles back at him, a contented warmth settling in his stomach.
White bunnies bump Stiles in the shoulder, slippers Derek got from little baby Argent-Lahey a week ago. Stiles looks up the pyjama-covered leg, and up to the chest wearing the sweater Stiles gave him for Christmas. Derek hands him a cup of warm cocoa, which Stiles gratefully accepts, setting it in front of the rug. He lifts his head to make room for Derek's thigh to slide under it.
He must have fallen asleep in front of the fire for a minute. He feels warm and happy, and pulls the blanket he's covered with up to his chin to snuggle, wiggling his head against Derek's thigh. He looks up at his boyfriend's face as Derek takes a sip from his own cup, wincing when he doesn't have the patience to wait for the cocoa to cool enough to drink, and sets it down. Derek slips on his glasses and opens his book at the dog ear, combing his fingers into Stiles' hair gently. Stiles will drink his own cocoa soon, but he needs to close his eyes again, just for a short while first, listening to the fire crackle in the background while sighing contently.
The End
Thank you for reading!