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stileshale · 11 years ago

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rick grimes!~ (if you're so inclined)

The drug store’s eerily quiet as Stiles moves through it. He’d hear a creeper from a mile away— they make a weird groaning, growly thing that keeps him up at night— and without music, or the chatter of any shoppers it’s deathly silent.

Deathly, heh, is he allowed to find something awfully, hilariously ironic about that phrase now?

He’d probably have found it funny before, too.

Scott’d be rolling his eyes at him if Stiles shared the pun, but he’d gone left towards the supermarket (and the beautiful crossbow wielder Allison Argent Scott’s been following around camp since she arrived ten days ago).

Stiles is alone, with no one to share the joke with.

"Don’t move."

Okay, so, he’s less alone. There’s a gun pressed to the side of his head, and he’s got no idea how the fuck someone crept up on him so quickly.

"I don’t have any cash on me," he starts with, turns slowly with his hands raised, takes in the man beside him, and oh. “Shit, it’s you again?”

"How do you keep finding me?!"

Derek smirks, bites into a granola bar, and tosses one over his shoulder to Stiles as he begins sauntering down the aisle they’re in.

"Need to, for your own safety."

"Hey! I get along fine by myself, thank you."

Derek snorts, loud enough for Stiles to hear, and he unwraps his own bar huffily, follows him towards the back of the store where all the good drugs are.

"Not that I don’t enjoy our little chats when you leap out of the darkness at me, but seriously? Don’t you have your own collections to do."

"Nope," Derek swings over the counter, and my that’s a fine ass for Stiles to appreciate when Derek’s not looking.

Derek turns and catches him in the act, expression going irritatingly smug.

"Maybe I consider you my collection,” he says after a moment of them both staring at one another.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, stows his gun away in his back pocket, “Smooth.”

"It’s the end of the world," Derek shrugs, starts grabbing boxes of co-codamol. "I’d rather just cut straight to the point."

"Which is?"

Derek gives him a look, the same sort of look he’s been sending Stiles’ way since he first rolled into camp. He’d been with his sisters, both of them armed to the teeth and super pissed off when they had to give up their weapons to Boyd. Stiles vaguely remembers Cora snapping her teeth at him, and Boyd serenely ignoring her. But, he couldn’t tell you much more because he was too busy staring at Derek. Derek in a dirty, possibly— no, strike that, definitely— bloodied up shirt, full beard, piercing eyes, looking right past Stiles’ dad and up at Stiles. He’d been lingering on the wall, half watching for creepers, half fascinated by the newcomers. They’d all still walked with their backs straight, proud, alive and relishing it. Stiles had hurried to introduce himself, shown them around, felt Derek’s gaze on him the whole time.

Has done every day since. Whether they’re on the wall together, feet up, guns ready, trading stories of the Time Before; or sitting in the mess, Scott and Lydia bickering good naturedly beside them; or in the awful still of the night, when sleep won’t come and Stiles needs a distraction, finds Derek on his porch, opposite Stiles’ and they sit until dawn together; or even when Derek’s leaping out of the shadows and yelling at him for almost getting his head bitten off by a surprise creeper; he can always feel Derek looking at him.

It’s like having a very beautiful, reassuring, grumpy, somewhat smug, know it all shadow.

"Get condoms," Derek says into the silence that’s fallen between them.

Stiles chokes on dusty air, “What.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “People still want to have sex, Stiles. And, I’m pretty sure your father isn’t ready for a town full of crying babies— we’re barely surviving as it is.”

"That’s… logical," Stiles mumbles, backing away and scouring the messy shelves for boxes.

"And, we might need them," Derek says in his ear, suddenly right up behind him.

"Oh?" Stiles aims for casual, looks intently at a box of baby formula as Derek presses against him, runs his hands down Stiles’ arms to find his hands and lace their fingers together. "You plannin’ on, uh," he coughs when Derek lifts their joined hands above his head, wraps them around the top shelf and hums against the back of his neck. "Uh, on having sex sometime soon?"

"Depends," Derek squeezes his hands, and Stiles leaves them on the shelf as Derek trails his own hands back down Stiles’ sides, curves them around to slink under his shirt and rub at his suddenly very hot skin. “On you.”

"I— am— fuck—” Stiles rocks back into him, and Derek groans quietly, hands slipping lower to run along the waistline of his jeans. “Down with that. Yeah. If you— wanted—”

Derek makes a pleased noise, starts mouthing at his shoulder, shoves at his scarf impatiently to get at more skin.

Stiles moans when Derek pushes forward, hard line of his cock pressed against Stiles’ ass, and fuck, why the fuck is he wearing clothes.

"We should—" He turns in Derek’s arms, grabs hold of his jacket.

"We should," Derek agrees, and then he’s kissing Stiles, fast and wet and desperate, like he’s as frantic for this as Stiles; which, seriously, Stiles did not see coming.

"Stiles!" Scott pushes open the door, light cracking down the aisle and falling to their side. Stiles drops his arms with a frustrated noise. Derek buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck for a moment, and then steps away, slinks back into the shadows.

"Seriously?" Stiles hisses after him.

He swears he sees Derek’s teeth glint in a smirk.

Stiles discovers trees are not as comfortable to lean against whilst making out as movies made them seem.

He finds out about all the different kisses he missed when the world was burning— excited, secret kisses; happy kisses broken with laughter; dark, secret kisses traded in the dead of night; sleepy morning kisses.

Derek is not a morning person. He can only be woken before eight with the promise of sex. Derek eats out of date cheerios and Stiles runs around after one of the chickens Melissa McCall keeps for eggs. Cora survives on twinkies, mostly. Stiles sees Laura eat once. A mint. He doesn’t know she fucking does it.

Derek’s middle name is Christopher, after his grandfather, and he was going to be a college lecturer. He reels off lecture after lecture for Stiles when Stiles asks, teaches him shit about European history, comes out with odd facts about Napoleon, traces maps on Stiles’ skin with his fingers or his tongue.

Stiles gives Derek a clean notebook he finds in an empty study of one of the abandoned houses outside the wall. Derek kisses him like Stiles gave him the moon, instead.

He learns the noises Derek makes when he’s close, the trip of his pulse under Stiles’ mouth, his hands clinging to Stiles’ skin.

Derek’s bed creaks, and Laura banishes them from using the house. They make good use of Stiles’ bedroom while his dad’s at the front wall, and Stiles shows up for watch with dark bruises on his neck, bats Boyd’s hands away from tugging at his scarf when he teases him.

Derek doesn’t seem to care about hiding the marks Stiles leaves. When he helps build a new house on the end of the line, he does so shirtless and Stiles feels his face burn with a mixture of embarrassment and pride when he sees his bite mark on Derek’s hip.

It’s better than the other sort of bite mark.

He learns what total, all consuming panic is— he thought he knew what it was before— but it wasn’t even close. They’re in the woods— actually hunting instead of doing better things with their mouths and hands, more fun things, things he’d rather do all day. They get swarmed by creepers. There must have been a whole damn cave full of them— they always seem to stick together— and Derek goes down trying to lead them away from Stiles. Derek’s on the floor, and Stiles forgets all the training he’s done with his dad every day for two years. He throws himself into the mass of bodies, shooting whatever he can, clawing at what he misses until he finds Derek, drags him away.

"You asshole, you fucking—" Stiles is trying not to cry, hands shaking as he tears at Derek’s shirt, checks over his skin. "You can’t die, you can’t, you can’t— I won’t do it. I won’t shoot you. Please.”

"Stiles," Derek snaps, "Stiles, look at me."

Stiles blinks up at him, and Derek keeps their gazes locked as he grabs Stiles’ hand, runs it all over his chest and neck. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

"God," Stiles sits back on his heel, digs his hands into his eyes, "I couldn’t see you.”

Derek tugs at his wrists, kisses him on the bloody forest floor, takes him home and holds him so tightly after they fuck, Stiles would swear Derek was the one that thought he’d lost Stiles.

He thought he had a shadow before, he’s pretty sure Derek rivals Scott for stalker of the year after that. He doesn’t appreciate the title when told.

They make contact with Boston. An entire city alive. Stiles’ dad holds a vote, and most people choose to stay. It’s not always safe, but they survive. They got lucky.

They comb the stores nearby, and when supplies run low, Derek loads up a truck and Stiles sits shotgun, sticks his feet out of the window and watches Derek drive. They have sex in the bed of the truck and when they get back, Laura wrinkles up her nose and complains about them getting some when the world’s taken away her chance with Ryan Gosling. She chases Derek around the small town park when he comments that she probably didn’t have a chance anyway, and Stiles watches them in the sun, feels joy at the laugh on Derek’s face.

Chris Argent cleans his guns in the mess when Scott confesses Allison wants to move in with him and his mom.

Cora gets bitten. Stiles falls to the floor of the garage they’re in, horrified as his hands scrabble over her wrist, and she shakes her head, holds up clean skin.

"The fucking fuck," Stiles strides over to Derek where he’s loading up the truck half a mile away.

Derek turns, catches Stiles’ fist before he can get it in his face.

"Werewolves?!"

"I didn’t know if you’d believe me."

"I have seen you naked countless times, we’ve had sex like four hundred and eleven times!"

"You kept count?"

"Not the point! You could do that with me," Stiles shoves at his chest, "But, you couldn’t tell me this? Trust me with this?"

"I wanted to tell you, when we first met," Derek grabs his hands, yanks him close so they’re only a breath away from each other, "Stiles, I love you, and I do trust you.”

"Then why didn’t you tell me?" Stiles sags into him. "Why didn’t you—"

"People found out what we were and tried to use us for a cure. They thought if we— my alpha— bit them, they would be immune. I— we lost our entire family and I couldn’t," Derek squeezes his wrists tightly. "I didn’t know if you’d still want me, to be with me, if you knew what we were. You’re still so full of— of light, of hope, and I’m— I exist well in this world, but you— could have had better.”

"You dumbass," Stiles growls out, "I love you, Derek. I— if I’d had a normal life, if this was still a road leading to a working town, I would want to be driving it with you, on the way to dinner or something, shit. I would still want to date you. I don’t give a shit about creepers, or— Jesus, werewolves— I just want you. You make me happy.”

Derek presses their foreheads together, nods, “Me too.”

"Well, duh."

Derek laughs, kisses him softly, and then someone’s clearing their throat and Stiles turns back to see Cora standing ten feet behind them, arms folded.

"You watch all of that?"

"Yeah, it was very Love Story," she tosses her duffel in the truck, scrunches up her nose at them. "Can we get moving now you’re done confessing your epic love to one another? I have L M Alcott to get back to."

"I can’t believe you’re reading that again. Little Women."

"Fuck off," Cora socks him in the shoulder, "It’s nice, alright? They made the best of shit."

"Is that your special werewolf motto, too?"

Derek groans, starts the truck, “No.”

"But, there is one, right? And, like packs, are those real? Who’s your alpha? Can you get bitten like more than once by a creeper and you’re still fine? Could you give a select team the bite and make a bigger pack that could go out and fight the creepers? Oh my god, do you have mates? Am I your mate?"

Derek shoves a hand over his mouth, lifts an eyebrow, “I will answer some of those, now, the rest,” he glances back at Cora, and his cheeks flush, “Later, at home.”

Stiles tugs his hand away, twines their fingers together on his lap, “Okay, at home.”

They build a house, together, and the Sheriff officiates a marriage of sorts somewhere down the line. There are creepers, and sometimes Stiles still can’t sleep. But, Derek is there, a solid, warm weight beside him, and his pack is close, they survive.

#Sterek #meme thing #ficcery #libraryghost #asks for ts

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