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"Have you had a chance to look at our menu?" (Masterlist!)
This is a multi-fandom account. I write for myself mostly, but I love sharing my writing with you! Fair warning, I have little in the way of order and propriety. You’re more than welcome to ask me questions; I also love receiving feedback and ideas!!
𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?
➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.
➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...
quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily…
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here
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Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers.
When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end.
The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.
If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in.
On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.
In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…
Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being.
Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.
A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.
Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights.
He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.
When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years.
So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you.
Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night.
The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.
He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky.
He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself.
The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.
Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.
“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV.
“Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?”
“No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact.
Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.
He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.
Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.
You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level.
You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough.
A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take.
A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.
“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans.
“I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle.
“Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.
You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.
“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.
Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.
You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose.
Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.
With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…
His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes.
“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”
Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you?
He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”
You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”
There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?”
The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it.
When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest.
Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets.
You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you.
He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide.
You both sit in silence for a minute.
But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.
Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.
He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist.
He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass.
Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes.
Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.
You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin.
That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.
You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his.
“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.
A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving.
Fuck.
Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck.
Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core.
Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.
Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears.
This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.
Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left.
Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.
He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.
Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.
Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”
It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in.
This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.
He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.
“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal.
Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body.
He feels feverish. You want him. You want him.
The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants.
“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards.
Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking.
Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet.
You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.
Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.
He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet.
Just one thin layer now.
Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress.
God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.
His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan.
“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side.
You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words.
Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam.
Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth.
Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is.
He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.
Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.
He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed.
Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there.
“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”
Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.
Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time.
His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.
Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones.
He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view.
He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.
Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.
But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.
You were just so responsive to him.
He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.
Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.
He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.
“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.
“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”
Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again.
Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.
Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you.
Neither of you can stop moaning.
His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.
Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that.
He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.
“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat.
“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”
Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….
A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake.
“Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself.
His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.
Did I just have a fucking wet dream?
Yes. Yes he did.
Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.
That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself.
Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.
He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.
Jesus Christ.
The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…
Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this.
The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver.
He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.
Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly.
I am in so much trouble.
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Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle.
If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!
And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚
[#yearning, we're so up; coworkers to lovers?; not proofread; Lots of references, lmk if you catch 'em!!; 3.3k words] The Library shows you what you need to see to make sense of things. even the things that should be obvious.
AN: Does anyone gaf abt The Librarian?? HELLO??? I'm gonna be so fr with you guys, this has nothing to do with the actor. I grew up watching The Librarian and this idea is perfect for Flynn. Quest For The Spear Flynn btw. More editing to be done l8r. Enjoy! (also shoutout to the ppl on tt who said they'd read this ily)
This work belongs to me, luckypunklemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.
“Where’s, uh…Flynn this morning?”
Your finger drew imaginary circles on the antique wood of Judson’s desk–an extinct kind of tree it was made from. “Oh, running from big men with big knives, I’m sure.” You cocked your head. “Scotland, I believe.”
“Ah. Sure. Listen, I’ll be doing my rounds in the Large Collections Annex, check on Nessie, then maybe clean the Ark a little.”
Judson’s head shot up, “Of the Covenant or Noah’s?”
You laughed, raising your eyebrows playfully.
You turned and walked off, making your way into the center of the library, a long walk to the Large Collections Annex. You liked trying to explore the library every time you walked through. Given its enormity, there was almost always something you hadn’t seen before. This hallway had glass cases of legends and paintings thought to be lost forever. One of your favorites was half burnt, darkening the subject’s direct gaze at you. You took the hem of your jacket and wiped a glass case clean, housing the mythical Seven-League Boots.
You stepped softly into the Large Collections Annex. You’d learned quickly that the larger artifacts and things liked quiet. They were so used to it, being the only thing that size. It was something you admired and respected, even if they weren’t all sentient. You smiled up at the Colossus of Rhodes–the huge statue that a former librarian dedicated most of his life to finding its pieces and restoring. Having done your research of both the Lost Art and Cultures Annex and that specific librarian’s journals (you loved the librarians who kept journals; you’re trying to convince Flynn to take it up), you knew this Colossus of Rhodes well. It had fallen during the earthquake of 226 BC–one-hundred and eight feet tall and the reason why Rhodians were called Colosseans–and was never rebuilt or re-erected. Built after a successful defense from a common enemy with Egypt, it was their patron god, Helios, towering until its collapse.
The remains, so impressive still that people traveled to see them even broken, lay for over eight hundred years. It was destroyed further after and likely became coins or tools. The librarian whose journals you spent most lunches last year reading had traveled the world, using some magic tool to find the pieces, he’d filled his pockets with stolen coins and broken into museums to steal tools–of all things–from the Arab War. Bronze that had been loaded onto camels, who knows where it ended up. He found it and, somehow, restored the statue with reference to the texts of the era. It was a feat you were sure many librarians set out to do. To dedicate their time to not only saving the world, but to saving something like that–something lost. Melted coins and bronze chunks, and broken tools. It reanimated the Colossus here in the library. Accuracy was almost perfect, but there was no way to tell, of course.
You’d walked past the Supernatural Annex and shivered, still not quite knowing why some items were in there. Like, those angel statues or the mannequins or the ballet slippers. Such a large variety of everyday objects sat in that wing freezing in the still air. A static hovered and things were often moved. Ever since you’d become the “fresh meat” (The Library didn’t see many different faces), you felt as if you were being sized up by many exhibits and statues and magical ancient swords. So much of The Library was as unknown and undiscovered as the bottom of the ocean–where a former librarian had actually been the first and only man to explore, as you read in the old and countless journals of librarians before–to you. So many rooms you had not yet stepped foot in. Regardless, the most welcoming bunch of all so far were the quiet giants of the Large Collections Annex, and they knew you well. You spent much of your time sitting above the large lake where Nessie was kept reading. First, your favorite books. Eventually, though, you’d found the wing of journals that a select few librarians had kept. It was and remains one of your most frequently visited facets of The Library.
With all the time in the week to kill not researching in preparation for Flynn’s escapades or organizing or cataloging, you explored. After your duties were done where you stood at the feet of the bronze Helios, you decided to venture further than before past the Lost Art and Cultures Annex and down a long hallway. That’s how you found the room. Or, rather, it found you. Like all the others, except this particular door had an ornate plaque of gold, detailed with floral engraving and the words: “Billet-doux.” You smiled to yourself. If this job hadn’t taught you a bit of every language–including dead ones–you wouldn’t have been there. A common 17th-century French phrase. “Sweet letter.”
An ordinary archival room with a few displays, but mainly decadent wooden filing cabinets or glass frames. They opened smoothly with a warm dragging sound of the wood drawers. Love letters. A room chalk full of them. On display, in the cabinets, hanging in frames on the walls. You softly flipped through a few with your fingertips. The English alphabet separated them, but the cabinet beside this one was organized with the German alphabet. They were sorted by the name of the person writing it since not every letter was addressed to someone. According to the white filing cabinet in the center of the room, very little were even signed by anyone. Starting with ‘A,’ you picked one out. A familiar name, a musical artist. You mouthed the words softly, “My mouth hasn’t shut up about you since you kissed it.”
And you felt the words deeply as they described the feeling of being winded, “like when you slip on the stairs and one of the steps hits you in the middle of the back.” The idea that every cabinet in this room, every glass case housing stone, and every picture frame hanging on the wall said something so personal and human began to make your heart race. You felt much like how you imagined Flynn felt climbing Machu Picchu or some other historical landmark and seeing a part of the world that was known, but not yet known by you. This was your greatest discovery, and you hadn’t gone on a date in over two years. The irony was not lost on you
An hour later, teary-eyed, you stood from your spot on the floor where you had settled with a large file, a few scattered before you. You had made a lap, taking note of everything to discover when you had time to look more closely. You sorted them back carefully, holding onto the one you were still reading, and wandered out to the main part of the library, wondering why all that history, all that emotion, was so forgotten within The Library. Past the Lost Art and Cultures Annex and the Supernatural Annex–the eyes of angels peeking from behind their hands going unnoticed as you walked. Even the paintings seemed curious as you marched past. Upon seeing your red eyes, Judson stood.
“Miss?”
You started immediately, every thought in succession, “There’s a room, Judson, as I’m sure you’re aware, full of…of love letters. I can’t even fathom how many aren’t logged digitally. The most recent one I’ve found was last week! Could you imagine the emails we could store here?” You leaned on the edge of Judson’s desk; he wasn’t fond of that, especially when Flynn did it, but he allowed you a lot of things since he now shared the library with you most of the time. If Charlene caught you, though, she’d likely dock your pay. “I’ve documented love in art, and actions, and tragedy a hundred times over in my time here. Why haven’t I been shown that room?”
Judson’s face softened, “That room is to be found. Just like what it contains. It’s not forgotten. I, uh, admit, we have neglected its existence.” He sits back down, hands flat against the desk, chuckling once, “Or rather, it’s neglected ours.”
The light of the elevator behind the main desk began to pulse. Flynn was coming back down. You turned to Judson, finishing your conversation before receiving and documenting whatever shipment or artifact Flynn would bring back from this excursion. You pushed your shoulders back, “Well…I’d like to be the proprietor in charge of that sector.”
Judson’s eyes glinted, you think. Proud of you. “It’s really for the library to decide, since you’re not, uh, a librarian.” You nodded and looked down at a letter, smiling stupidly at a sentence. “I feel like the luckiest man alive, and I feel like a fool.” When the elevator opens, Flynn has the same breathless smile he always has when he’s succeeded in a mission. Judson adjusts his glasses and leans into the book sitting on his desk, unimpressed.
“Evening. No, let me guess–morning?”
“Hello, sir.”
“Flynn, look. I’ve found the most amazing sector of the library today.” Flynn turned to face you. Determined was a palpable look around you, not only that but inspired. He remembers the day you first really met The Library. You were almost afraid of the knowledge it held. Unlike him, he thought. He was like a kid in a candy store. A bull in a china shop. He was in awe, yes, but in the dorky way. You were reverent, like you knew exactly what it all meant the moment you set your eyes on it. That’s why you were so amazed, he thought.
His eyes fell to the letter in your hands and his mind seemed to flicker back on. He knew that one. 1899, a newly Civilized West. More of a tragedy than love story, really, but he’d read them all the same, and passion was what they all contained. Unmistakable. He took in a breath, watching your eyes scan the page above your awe-struck smile. His eyes flicked to Judson, who was smirking into his ledger. Softly, he spoke.
“Show me.”
Of course he’d already seen it, and his feet hurt from running across the glassy lava in the desert (where he actually was), but the look on your face…
The Library, whose favor you’d gained. Always told you the truth. Flynn? Maybe less so, and you were wondering what it was trying to tell you here. A new room wasn’t uncommon. Hell, close your eyes and point–you’d find something you’d never seen before. But why this one? Still pondering, you set the research part of you on the back burner while the regular sentimentalist in you continued. “Look–this one.” You showed him several. From papyrus, to stone slabs, to novels, to cocktail napkins. It was almost too much to bear.
There were consecutive files of romantic correspondence, war stories in between romance, and doodles vandalized beneath signatures on marriage licenses. One love note, you had set right next to you. Perhaps your absolute favorite. You thought it was all beautiful, despite Flynn never hearing of your affection for affection. This was a part of your interests that you’d kept to yourself until now. You hadn’t shown him yet, but he saw your favorites next to your arm on the desk. You were terribly predictable in keeping them close to you, subtly special, but he knew them anyway. Some of them were his favorites, too. You kept showing him more, and he silently kept re-reading. Everything you handed him.
At one point, you stood in front of the farthest wall, in front of a glass display case housing a red clay tablet with etching you recognized as cuneiform, but had not yet deciphered. You knew it was Mesopotamian, at least, and you’d decided to try and translate it when you next had time. Flynn’s eyes followed you, knowing how rapid your thoughts must be to fully explore the room and its contents entirely, but grateful for the speed at which you were forced to move so he could watch. The light mounted above the case was of course meant for the slab, but it cast across your hair in a blanketing glow, disrupted by a few stray strands. You were distracted by the foreign languages and unique phrases and familiar names. The unfamiliar names, though, everyday people, seemed to catch you, too.
After laughing with him about a very private back-and-forth between a Polish working woman in the 30s and her beau written inside a bony leather pocketbook, you picked up one piece of paper that had been beside your elbow. Close to you. You started to recite, another almost-tragedy included here for whatever reason:
“Aw, another sad one: Leaving is not enough; you must stay gone.” You began with a firm tone of voice, but it softened the more your eyes read ahead, “Train your heart like a dog, change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. Y–”
Flynn interrupted, “You lucky, lucky girl.”
Marty McConnell, of course. One of his favorites. There was a whole collection of his, the passionate show-off. He wondered, wisely, what exactly the room was trying to tell you, too. He wondered what he was trying to tell you, had been for a while. Casually inspired by the words wearing your voice, Flynn focused on the paper in your hands. The words continued in his head, but your fingers held the paper still. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid, McConnell says. A heart the size of this library, thought Flynn, and as difficult to understand.
Your eyes trained on him, as they had the day you first stepped into The Library. You understood what he meant before he even did. And, boy, was he trying.
“You knew about this room.” You observed. He nodded, looking around familiarly, perhaps avoidantly. He absently ran a hand over the back of his neck while you dawned an awe-struck look. He was undeserving, really. “And you didn’t say anything. For how long?”
“Stumbled face-first into the door, really. The day I met you.”
As if it were a secret.
Your head snapped toward him, a question burning in your eyes. Flynn figured he’d better get a grasp on this before it turned into something real. He had made an art of it, really, avoiding confrontation. “Flynn.”
“Hey, have you ever seen shoes melted from walking across hardened lava?” He was already stepping sideways out of the room, burnt rubber soles like some tragic demonstration of his feelings. Maybe that part of him was more useful fleeing Mayan temples or booby-trapped pyramids and not The Room of Love and Sometimes Heartbreak. Poetic, the scales of the moment tipping the more he struggled.
“There–just now, you did it again. You’re deflecting.” You folded up a middle school love note and stuck it on top of a filing cabinet. “Flynn Carsen, are you inferring you’re in love with me?”
“No–” Flynn ran a hand through his hair and spun to assess the room–or his exit. You raised an eyebrow when he chuckled, his hands making open shapes in the air. “Well…Not in so few words. My jokes don’t seem to land quite where they used to.”
He sighed when you did, both of you wishing he had a more direct disposition.
“Then you wouldn’t recognize this, would you?” You held up a wrinkled mess of paper. A torn-out page of a journal. A journal he’d gotten secretly after you’d suggested it, after he’d found you reading a former librarian’s aloud to Nessie in the Large Collections Annex with that smile on your face. He’d gotten so caught up in telling the truth in those pages that he ended up pouring his heart out in an entry late one night and a few shots of whiskey deep. One American humorist, an author, Kurt Vonnegut once put into one of his books, “I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.”
When he wasn’t translating ancient texts, he read for pleasure. Somewhat of a fan of Vonnegut, Flynn should’ve known better than to tell that paper he loved you. Because now, even after he’d gotten embarrassed in the amber light of an office he spent very little time in, in which there was very little room for embarrassment amidst the piles of books and paper and sharp artifacts, even after he’d torn the page out and smashed it in his hands and thrown it away, you held it up in your hand. The entire room smiled at him, shit-eating and hopeful.
“Looks like the person who wrote that didn’t want it here, that’s for sure.”
And your own little love note to him: “I recognize your handwriting, Flynn.”
His face softened. “Really?”
Flynn had thought he was brave that night, writing it. Not ever thinking it’d end up between you two, called into question. Now, he saw that even after all he’d done in the name of history and love, bravery wasn’t a thing. It was fear or delusion or hope. All three sounded incredibly stupid at the moment, and his body weight shifted on top of bald rubber soles. He rolled a shoulder in his worn suit jacket, casually. Something he did because he was used to holding the weight of his satchel there. Nothing there now, just phantom weight or habit. He decided to wax poetic about a phantom feeling instead of speaking. After all, is it better to speak or to die?
Flynn had an answer to that question.
You beat him to it, of course and as always. He was afraid of your answer and he was delusional to hope that he could step out of the room and you’d forget. Maybe then he could go back to paying attention to the books you keep with you and where you spend most of your time, reading those books still warm after your hand returned them to the shelf and walking where your feet had just settled. Of course, as of this last year, that would mean spending a good deal of minutes at the feet of The Colossus of Rhodes cursing it and wondering why it was so special. He could do that, too, y’know. Travel the world to put something back together. Maybe he should focus on putting himself together back home, though. You turned to the far wall and crossed your arms.
“You’re an unbelievably awful liar and far worse when it comes to subtlety.” You handed the beaten paper outward without looking at him. Flynn took it gingerly, folding it up and sliding it into the pocket of his suit jacket, “I know.”
“It’s a wonder how I still get fooled by you sometimes.”
“I know.” He smiled and stepped beside you.
You were looking at the clay tablet, eyes narrowed. He almost felt ignored, willing you to look at him. You didn’t, and he followed your line of sight to see what was more important. The tablet. Your lips moved silently, then you spoke up, eyes still stuck on it. Your finger hovered over the glass, pointing to a trench of etching in the slab. “I can’t figure this part out. I’ve got this–” you point above, and smile as you point below, “And this. But…”
Flynn took a breath in, “Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet. You have captivated me. Let me stand tremblingly before you.”
“Feeling braver now?”
“What? No, that’s what it says–” Flynn shoved his hands in his pockets the second he looked up and saw you grinning. He never knew how to react when you messed with him. “That’s funny. I saved the world today–again--and you’re teasing me about a crush.”
“It’s my job, staying three steps ahead of you, Flynn. Figuratively, of course, and you should know better than to step on my heels.”
“More like seven steps.”
“Just making sure you stay on your toes.”
Perfect time to tell everyone on my blog that I think turtlewithhat’s Girl Dinner short film was more impactful on my accepting I also like women than Hayley Kiyoko’s Girls Like Girls, which I grew up knowing abt.
yeah victoria going to another rotation makes sense and tbh it probably isn't going to be handled that poorly. but on top of everything else it's kind of like well we're showing The Pattern again are we seeing that we're once again exhibiting The Pattern does anyone else see The Pattern
"And now I'm still hanging on
I was at the end of every tether waiting for what once was."
[Angst with a happy ending; Fluff; Friends to Lover to Exes to ???; not proofread; might be edited idk; Allison is alive here guys; 2.4k words] Ex Boyfriend!Stiles Stilinski remained in your life, and it's becoming a quiet disturbance.
This work belongs to me, luckypunklemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.
AN: MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU! (has nothing to do w that but he would've said it) lowk thought of this less than eight hours ago and wanted to write and get something out really badly. Haven't written in so long he started to feel like an ex boi.
“Why did you guys break up?”
A question you’d both heard a million times over. Something you both kept to yourselves for your own reasons. Of course, there were reasons you gave. Immaturity on his part, too guarded on your part. A problem many couples deal with, an easy solution, an opportunity to grow together. But the truth was you were both too scared to fix it. That maybe if you’d have worked through it, it would last forever. Forever looked insane to two young adults facing other forevers. So, you broke up. Even if you were perfect for each other, even if there was still something there. Existing like that was fine. You didn’t pretend to hate each other or avoid each other, but it wasn’t ever brought up–the relationship. The relationship that was so perfect, how crazy it was that you two clicked so well as friends that love came that easy. How easy the breakup came, too.
It was weird for everyone, how you two were together and then you weren’t. As if, for you guys, the step between friends and lovers wasn’t nearly as steep as it should’ve been. And it stayed like that, frozen in the space you both knew was more comfortable–more free, you thought. You stopped accepting his help. When he’d pop into doorframes in the morning with coffee how you like it, fill your water bottle, hold your things, you shook your head and held the burden for yourself. The burden of making your own coffee, filling your own water bottle, and holding your own things. You remembered to think that was only a luxury with Stiles and, if you didn’t want to be terrified again, you'd accept the loss. As if that was the loss.
An impromptu reunion. Scott texted you, you came to lunch where the group used to in high school. You sat across from Scott, adjacent to Stiles, beside Lydia, one over from Allison. Stiles always made a point to get your attention and wave. A white flag, a check-in.
Are we still friends? You always nodded back, softly smiling.
That’s how you all ended up at Lydia’s lake house, a much-needed break before the summer reached its height and you were all tied up with work or otherwise. The night you got there, you gathered around the fire and talked. The relationship wound had healed, you remember thinking as you fought yourself avoiding glances at Stiles. He wasn’t looking at you, either. It was normal again, you thought. And then you started talking about rooms. Lydia jumped in, “You can room with me.” Blurted out, really. Awkwardly. “Y’know. Since…”
You shook your head, “It’s fine. I know you have a really strict nighttime routine and a phobia of people in your bed. I’ll-I’ll room with Stiles. It’s not a big deal. Right?”
Stiles was staring at you awkwardly, “Yeah. Yeah, no–we’re friends, guys.”
Stiles was in bed before you. You brushed your teeth and stepped into the hallway. Lydia stopped you, apologizing for being awkward. You brushed it off and reasoned. “He’s still my friend, we’re still close. Just not romantic or anything. It’s fine.”
★★★
You woke up with the weight of Stiles’s head on your chest. His arm hugged you softly, but heavy enough that it comforted you. You rubbed your eyes, sighing, and slowly pushed his shoulder off of you. He stirred when you got out from under him, but collapsed back into the pillow when you got up. You turned to look at him in bed, cheek pressed against the pillowcase, arm still out like you could crawl back in bed with him if you wanted. You squeezed your eyes shut once and turned to the bathroom. When you came back, Stiles was awake, still lying down. You ignored his eyes as they followed you tentatively. You walked to the bed and picked up the blanket you had kicked off of yourself in the middle of the night and the pillow that had fallen to the ground. Folding the blanket, Stiles’s eyes remained on you.
“You used to push me off of you just like that.” He said it lightly, as if you were both on a completely different page. The one you told everyone you were on. What it meant was that you still pushed him off like you wouldn’t mind if he stayed and, this far out of what once was, it was dangerous. You shrugged it off, pulling at the blankets and beginning to–
“And make the bed around me when you knew you’d get up before me.” This time it wasn’t so light, he was running a hand through his hair and trying to brush the memory off, but it wasn’t happening.
You pressed your lips together, feigning a playful tone, “That was forever ago, Stiles.”
“Forever happened way faster than we thought it would.”
Which forever?
Stiles sat up, his shirt creasing as he twisted to stretch. His eyes caught yours as he stood out of the bed and walked out to the restroom. You made the bed in his absence and quickly relocated to the kitchen for some space. He was never so intense in the mornings. You wondered if that was him now, if he had different opinions on things or even feelings.
Starting a morning routine, you began to make yourself breakfast. You turned on some music on your computer, almost silent but enough for you to hear while you cooked. With how early it was, you figured you’d get your own breakfast made and eaten before anyone woke up to see you. Stiles would probably go back to sleep, and you’d get the small moment of peace you had planned for yourself. That was until Stiles rounded the corner. You only turned one light on, so it immediately cast itself over him when he walked quietly into the kitchen. You ignored it, grabbed a coffee mug, a pan, a–
He was throwing you off–your routine. You hated it. You hated waking up next to him and feeling like maybe it wasn’t that long ago. You set the mug down, put the pan on the stove to heat up, took out a plate, and kneeled by the fridge. The extra light illuminating the groceries Scott and Allison had grabbed for everyone. The drinks you had all asked for in the group chat. Stiles’s choice staring at you, Root Beer. You grabbed an egg out of the carton, set it on the plate by the stove and turned to start your coffee.
But your mug was gone, and you registered the sound of the coffee machine running. Coffee was filling your mug slowly from across the kitchen, and Stiles was grabbing a cereal from the top of the fridge. It was his turn to pretend your eyes weren’t on him, studying. You continued making your breakfast, and you’d turn to find something you were just about to get right in front of you. When you found your mug of hot coffee sitting on the counter next to you, you turned to face Stiles. He was eating his cereal at the table, his eyes innocently looking around. Shaking your head, you opened a cabinet to look for sugar.
“S’already in there. Two spoonfuls, right?”
“One and a half.”
“Oh. Might wanna dilute it a little or something.”
You looked down, stirring the coffee. “What are you trying to do?” Stiles looked up from his cereal, tilting his head while he chewed. He took a beat, a breath in. Then out with difficulty.
“I just…want you to know I’m here…for you.” His brows pinched and his shoulders shrugged. Your heart sank with the weight of your feelings for him. Old feelings. What he went through, you went through it, too. But you two were past all this.
“I’m sure there’s a way to do it that doesn’t bring the past into this, Stiles.”
“Not that I can think of.”
You turned away, back to the stove. A sharp sensation on your skin, longing. Your eyes burned and you focused on the food, the music. The soft guitar you heard somehow, over your beating heart. You weren’t used to the intensity in his eyes, especially since you broke up. He always made it easy, as did you. No guilty looks or lingering touches. Easy. It scared you, the thought that everything he’d been doing these past two years was with you in mind when you tried to stray the furthest from him you possibly could. Of course, it didn’t work. Stiles got up to wash his dishes. You stiffened, offensive, like your thoughts needed to stay your own. It never used to be a problem with him.
He dried his hands and leaned on the counter, laughed to himself. “Y'know...Everyone can tell I’m waiting on you.”
He noticed the deep breath you had to take, the clenching of your fists before you delivered reassurance calmly. Always doing damage control for his sake. Softening the blow with ‘that’s just how it is, isn’t it?’ “Maybe it takes you longer to move on, Stiles.”
“Maybe.” He nodded, and your fists unclenched. Thinking maybe he’d be okay with you being so scared of the future that he’d give up on you. He leaned on his arms and watched you crack an egg into the pan. “Maybe I did. Maybe I went away, got a job, lived a little. And maybe I didn’t mean to, but I saw a life with you, and I don’t want to unsee that.”
If your heart wasn’t racing before, it was now. You had all battled fear before, in very physical forms, but this…this was way different. A fear that fed off of closeness and hope; the parasitic kind that ate at old photographs and childhood homes. You knew by the time the edges of the photo were worn and torn, or the house was a skeleton of itself, that it was too late. You didn’t want to be standing inside when you realized, so you walked away. Stiles knew that fear, and he believed exactly as you did, that the best bet was to loosen the reigns. You were still just kids, and the thought of something that should be forever starting so soon made you sick. Forever is supposed to be a long time and a long way’s away.
“You know I love you, Stiles.” He waited for a shutdown, the kind that would send him sulking to the room, but you just kept making yourself eggs. As if that was enough for today.
“Why did we break up?”
“Stiles.”
“I know what we told everyone. What we told ourselves, but what was your real reason?” You stood silent, eyes cast down. Stiles continued, “I know those reasons we said were true, but I was really just focused on getting out. I thought if we stayed together, you might never forget how scared you could be. No matter how safe I kept you.”
The reminder of what happened to both of you. It was a valid reason. He stepped closer, knowing how you felt about crowding, knowing how nervous it made you feel. Knowing how it used to make you feel better if it were him.
A different hot sting shot through your hand and you flinched away from the pan, holding your finger. Immediately, you squeezed at the pain, grabbing the pan with your free hand and shaking the hurt hand. You dumped the eggs onto your plate and put the pan in the sink to cool, tears pricking at your eyes. You cursed and Stiles finally took over. He set the plate further away from you, took your hand and ran it under cool water. You blinked angrily at yourself, it was the easiest emotion to reach. A kinetic frustration that his tenderness only fueled. Stiles held one of your hands in both of his.
“This is my fault. I’m sorry.” He shook his head and looked over the small burn. It made the emotion stronger, anger. But it was short-lived and it fell at the feet of sadness.
“Just stop, Stiles. Please.” You cried. His hold on your hand faltered, unsure of how to hold such a confusing love in such determined hands. His face looked tortured at how you’d broken, at how much this contained. You let him keep that physical connection, though. As the cold water ran, you let tears fall and looked down at the pink mark on your finger. “You…You want more than I could give you.”
Regardless of confusion or elaboration, Stiles took a deep breath in, praying you’d mirror him. When you did, through tears, he set his mind on being that person for you. The one who could get to you through tears. You wiped your cheek again, but Stiles took over for that eventually, too. “I plan and I worry, and you plan and you expand. I can’t keep up with that.”
You sniffled. Stiles dipped his head lower, “I can slow down. I can learn, you know that.”
“Stiles, you can’t learn to stop wanting things you really want.”
“I can, though. I can try.’
“You can’t even stop wanting me.”
He bristled, searching for a counterpoint. Your eyes were guilty when they shouldn’t have been, “You want a life with me. Who knows what that’ll become if we let it happen? What if you want kids, Stiles? What if you want something I don’t? If I can’t give that to you, I can’t be with you. What you deserve–”
“I would never ask you to be something you’re not. I would never put you in a place to sacrifice your happiness for something I want. I don’t–” He turned the water off. His face was hardened hearing you speak. “You think I’m going to change my mind on what I want someday. And that what I want will somehow be something you’re not.”
He found a towel to dry your hand, the faint sting of the burn surfacing in the warm air. “I know that ‘cause I know you. And I love you, and I just want to be with you. I’m not gonna increase the price on what it takes to get that because there isn’t one. You never had to go through what we went through for me to love you. It just worked out, okay? And I’ve been hoping this whole time it’ll keep working out, so just let me work it out.”
You were still angry. At yourself. He’d done all this soul-searching, in a place where he was scolding you for shallow, insecure thoughts. To be fair, you both were pretty out of your depths with love. Heights that you couldn’t even surmount, let alone fall from. Stiles held you into his side, kissing your cheek and parting from you to look for the first-aid kit. You stared at him as he applied ointment to the burn. As you let him start to work things out.
The kind of fuckass song they’d play when Stiles and I are having issues on Teen Wolf and he turns the Jeep around the find my car in the rain, yelling at me to pull over so he can kiss me
I have a crazy good fic concept for The Librarian but y’all aren’t deep enough to know the vibes. Someone sound off before I turn it into a Doctor Who thing and everybody’s upset
