Ancient Rust and Crumbling Gravestones
Author: vampthenewblack
Title: Ancient Rust and Crumbling Gravestones
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Gen (pre-slash Sterek, but that's not evident here)
Character/s: Stiles, Derek
Summary: Stiles knows that he's dead already.
Warnings: MCD if you squint, but I don't count it.
Word Count: 387
Prompt: #54: Crossover
Author's Notes: Prequel to my Wake Up Dead series. Vampfic.
Stiles didn't see it coming. One moment he's bent over in the dark, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath, the next he's on his back, all the breath shocked out of him, white hot pain flaring in his throat.
He's pinned by the thing they've been chasing. He can't move, and his struggles do nothing. Already the tips of his fingers tingle and he feels cold. He stares up at the moonless sky, the only sound the noisy sucking as the mindless creature drinks his whole life away.
Stiles knows that he's dead already, knows, even as he hears the shouts of the pack that it's too late for him.
The last thing he sees is Derek's clawed hand, raised and golden in the glow of the street lights. The monster raises it's head and a jolt goes through Stiles' body. Something thick and cold and wet hits Stiles' face, his lips.
The last thing he knows is the taste of the vampire's blood.
There's a pounding in his ears, a steady beat that quickens as Stiles' eyelids flicker and then open. He's on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his own bedroom, and Derek is right there beside the bed, hunched over in a chair, elbows on his knees, eyes wide and fearful.
Stiles knows that it's Derek's heartbeat he can hear, he knows that his own will never beat again. His eyes flick over Derek, taking in the pulse at his throat, the hands clasped defensively in front.
He smells of blood, and caution.
Stiles sits up.
He moves too fast. Derek jerks back, the chair legs scraping across the floor with a sound that hurts Stiles' ears. "I'm sorry," Stiles says, reaching out, slower this time, careful. He takes Derek's wrist, pulls him back to the edge of the bed. His entire body is stiff and unyielding.
"I'm sorry," Stiles repeats. He looks down, and fascinated by the racing pulse under his fingers, turns Derek's arm over in his hands. There's movement under the skin, life he never paid attention to before. Blood, pumping through the veins in a steady rhythm.
"Stiles?"
Stiles tears his eyes away from the inside of Derek's wrist and looks up. "I'm hungry," he breathes. "You should probably stay away from me."
Title: Ancient Rust and Crumbling Gravestones
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Gen (pre-slash Sterek, but that's not evident here)
Character/s: Stiles, Derek
Summary: Stiles knows that he's dead already.
Warnings: MCD if you squint, but I don't count it.
Word Count: 387
Prompt: #54: Crossover
Author's Notes: Prequel to my Wake Up Dead series. Vampfic.
Stiles didn't see it coming. One moment he's bent over in the dark, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath, the next he's on his back, all the breath shocked out of him, white hot pain flaring in his throat.
He's pinned by the thing they've been chasing. He can't move, and his struggles do nothing. Already the tips of his fingers tingle and he feels cold. He stares up at the moonless sky, the only sound the noisy sucking as the mindless creature drinks his whole life away.
Stiles knows that he's dead already, knows, even as he hears the shouts of the pack that it's too late for him.
The last thing he sees is Derek's clawed hand, raised and golden in the glow of the street lights. The monster raises it's head and a jolt goes through Stiles' body. Something thick and cold and wet hits Stiles' face, his lips.
The last thing he knows is the taste of the vampire's blood.
There's a pounding in his ears, a steady beat that quickens as Stiles' eyelids flicker and then open. He's on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his own bedroom, and Derek is right there beside the bed, hunched over in a chair, elbows on his knees, eyes wide and fearful.
Stiles knows that it's Derek's heartbeat he can hear, he knows that his own will never beat again. His eyes flick over Derek, taking in the pulse at his throat, the hands clasped defensively in front.
He smells of blood, and caution.
Stiles sits up.
He moves too fast. Derek jerks back, the chair legs scraping across the floor with a sound that hurts Stiles' ears. "I'm sorry," Stiles says, reaching out, slower this time, careful. He takes Derek's wrist, pulls him back to the edge of the bed. His entire body is stiff and unyielding.
"I'm sorry," Stiles repeats. He looks down, and fascinated by the racing pulse under his fingers, turns Derek's arm over in his hands. There's movement under the skin, life he never paid attention to before. Blood, pumping through the veins in a steady rhythm.
"Stiles?"
Stiles tears his eyes away from the inside of Derek's wrist and looks up. "I'm hungry," he breathes. "You should probably stay away from me."