Prompt Post 01
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Big plus for purring Stiles!
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There’s a smell in the air, something he knows he’s smelled before. The smell grows stronger and Stiles tries to focus on it, to hold it, but he can’t remember where he knows it from. He sniffs heavily. It gets thicker as Derek moves closer, and a sudden burst of panic hits him -
He wakes up with a shout when a hand closes around his forearm. He tries to pull away, tries to escape, but the hand is strong, holding him still.
“Stiles! Knock it off, it’s just me,” Derek snaps. Stiles freezes, opens his eyes. Derek is kneeling over him, still gripping his arm. His expression is hard, angry.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, trying once again to free his arm.
Derek finally lets go and stands up. It’s only then that Stiles realizes it’s already dark outside, his room pitch black. Or it should be. But somehow he can still see Derek perfectly, can still see everything in his room as though it’s midday. But there are no lights on. But he can see in the dark. It makes his head swim and he has ( ... )
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He should have put it together earlier, goddammit. When Scott was bitten, he healed faster than humanly possible. But Stiles wasn’t bitten by a wolf. Stiles was bitten by a fucking stray cat.
Somewhere halfway between embarrassment and determination, Stiles sits down at his computer and Googles “werecat”. To his relief and dismay, he actually gets results. Heart in his throat, he skims through the Wikipedia article.
It all seems ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. The whole idea that there might actually be such a thing as a werecat - let alone a werecat in Beacon Hills, of all places - is laughable. Insane. But then again, before Scott was bitten, he could’ve said the same thing about werewolves. Before, the idea was just fantasy, make-belief. A fairytale. But now - well. Stiles rubs his hands over his eyes, leans back in his chair. Hypothetically, if werecats really were for real, and he really was bitten by one, then - he shakes his head, exhales heavily ( ... )
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He tries picturing a cat, tries holding the idea of one in his head and willing himself to change into it. But he keeps coming up with weird imagery, like how he’d look with a cat’s head, which just makes him laugh.
Defeated, he heads back to his room and flops onto his bed. Derek’s scent still lingers in the air, faint. Stiles breathes it in, tries to dissect it. Now that he knows what it is, who it comes from, it’s easier to understand. There’s just something so undeniably Derek about the scent - masculine, heavy, but not overpowering. There’s also a canine aspect to it, threading through the human smell - not like a dog, exactly, but close. Wolf. It’s like fresh earth underneath claws, like warm fur, a little like blood. There’s a lick of heat that curls through the whole thing, sharp and full, separate from the base scent, sort of like an - an emotion? Is it anger? Frustration? No, it’s not - it’s not that ( ... )
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