how i learned to stop giving a shit and live mindless self indulgence

itsagameioftenplay  asked:

If you're taking prompts, I really think we need more Sterek+zombies!au's. And I mean all out apocalyptic setting's with them staying with a really small group of people who live in a, I don't know, awesome ass tree house or underground cellar or a really tall building, and being all around bad ass.


“No, don’t you dare. Don’t fucking dare. Derek!”

Stiles slams into the door a second late, fists crashing into cool metal that refuses to give. Because Derek had locked it. Derek had locked him out.

And is turning back to face the herd of undead on his own.

Fuck you, Derek! I swear to god, if you get yourself bit I am not even gonna shoot you!” He slams his fist into the door again and then forces himself to go quiet – Derek needs to concentrate right now if he wants to survive, and Stiles screaming through a door at him isn’t going to do him any favors.

He pushes off the door and stalks a few steps backward, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his shouting hasn’t drawn in any ganks from this side of the wall before sizing up the building. Weighing his options.

It’s a supermarket – one of those oversized superstores that’s basically a warehouse, with windows about twelve feet in the air and running along the length of each side wall. Stiles knows from their time inside that part of the ceiling has caved in, but even if he could make his way to the roof, the drop would leave him totally incapable of actually helping Derek once he got back inside.

He allows himself one breath, another, and then he’s moving. Hitching his bow up on his shoulder, dropping the backpack of scavenged supplies, and darting for the left side of the building.

He hears the sound of fighting - impacts and rasping snarls and the occasional gunshot – as he grabs the abandoned shopping cart, shoves it up on top of the tall dumpster, and hoists himself up after it. He tries not to think about it, about how there’d been at least thirty of them in there, a whole nest of hungry, relentless, mindless monsters. Instead he focuses on the motions – on flipping the cart wheel-up and bracing it against the wall, on pulling himself on top of it and reaching up to push at the dirty glass of the window.

No latches, no hinges; they don’t open at all. Of-fucking-course not. He scowls at the crusted glass for a second before hopping back down to the top of the dumpster, drawing his handgun, and shooting the glass twice. The sound and the wasted ammo has him wincing, but he’s already back in motion: stripping his overshirt, climbing the unsteady shopping cart again, and punching the weakened glass with a flannel covered fist.

And then he’s pushing at the shattered remnants of glass, laying the flannel out along the bottom of the frame, and pulling himself up and inside.

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