The Wolf and the Fox Sterek AU for my dear Becky.
Derek always says that he should have known that Stiles was a fox, of course, how had that not been as glaringly obvious as possible - and Stiles always gives him a crooked grin in return, pokes Derek in the ribs and says smartly, what’s that supposed to mean?
But Stiles loves it, loves the feeling of his skin stretching taut as his muscles bunch and shift and his too-large hands curl into paws almost small and delicate. He’s not nearly close enough in size to Derek’s wolf, not nearly as strong or with the same kind of stamina. But he likes to pretend he is. Likes to tangle himself between Derek’s front and hind legs to trip him up, heart racing at the sound of Derek’s jaws snapping at the back of his neck as Derek falls into pursuit.
Sometimes Stiles will change back mid chase, bare feet pounding against the forest floor and cheeks flushed red with excitement, hair all askew. It never takes long for Derek to catch up, to throw his solid arms around Stiles’ naked shoulders and yank him back to a full stop, their bodies tumbling to the ground as Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs into the warm press of Derek’s mouth against his own.
Stiles doesn’t heal quite as fast as Derek can, and that makes Derek fret and mutter worried curses under his breath as he tends to Stiles’ (minor) scrapes and bruises. It’s all too easy for Derek to gently manhandle Stiles onto the couch, Stiles’ body all soft and pliant, tuckered out from the day’s chase.
"You worry too much," Stiles says, voice sleep-tinged as he arches his throat and tilts his head back onto the pillows, lets Derek touch and feel and make sure Stiles’ bones are sewing back together as they should.
He hears Derek sigh, feels the couch dip beneath the weight of Derek’s body as he settles in close. Stiles hums, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded as he snuffles his face against Derek’s throat and finds the heat trapped there, the mixture of sweat and spice and the richness of earth still clinging to Derek’s skin.
Derek sets his large palm against the back of Stiles’ neck, holds Stiles’ wriggling body still against his own.
"I’mma fox, remember?" Stiles mumbles, words slurring thickly around his tongue.
Derek huffs out a soft laugh, drags his fingernails up the shape of Stiles’ scalp.
"Is that a fact," he muses, rests his thumb at that tender spot behind Stiles’ ear and Stiles goes predictably boneless against Derek’s side, a blissed out whine stirring in the back of his throat.
Derek smiles, allows himself to sink deeper into the cushions, chin tilting against Stiles’ forehead.
"Go to sleep, silly fox."