#maybe i could do something with the time loop thing...

[isabelckl]

whiskey & honey 3

ranch girl ellie williams x city girl fem!reader

every summer since you were fourteen was spent in Ellie’s family ranch. your mothers are best friends, which only made it harder to understand why you and Ellie were never even friends. or maybe the question isn’t about friendship at all.

a/n: here it is! I’m currently on summer vacation back in my hometown, and things have been crazyyy. I’ve been sneaking in time to write whenever I’m not out with my cousins or caught up in the chaos. Hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Part 2

Celine was out in the garden when you pulled in, crouched over her tomatoes with sun on her shoulders and a floppy straw hat shielding her eyes. She looked up at the sound of the truck, hand resting on her hip.

“Back in one piece,” she called over the hedge.

“Yeah, well, she dents easy,” Ellie said, sliding out of the driver’s seat with a grunt and slamming her door like she hadn’t just made your heart do something stupid. “Gotta drive like I’m hauling crystal.”

You rolled your eyes and shot her a glare, but it didn’t quite land—not with the way your chest fluttered at the sound of her voice saying your name like that, even if she didn’t.

You hopped down barefoot, still holding your sandals in one hand. The porch steps radiated heat as you walked past them toward the house, but instead of going inside, you lingered — trailing just behind Ellie as she veered toward the barn.

“Hey,” you called after her. “Where are you going?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, expression unreadable. “Feeding. I forgot to check on Bramble this morning.”

You fell into step beside her, ignoring the ache in your calves from running in sand. “Can I come?”

“Lunch will be ready soon.” She reminded, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m not hungry yet.”

Ellie glanced over, her eyes trailing down your figure before flicking back up.

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “That’s kind of your thing, huh?”

You scoffed, half a smile tugging at your mouth. “I eat well,” you said. “You just never notice.”

She didn’t answer, just pushed open the barn door and left it swinging behind her. So you followed.

The air inside the barn was thick with the scent of sunbaked hay, leather, and the comforting musk of horses. Dust floated in the light filtering through the rafters, like tiny stars suspended in the heat.

Ellie disappeared into one of the stalls with a rustle of movement and soft huff from a horse.

You hung by the doorway for a second, taking in the quiet rhythm of the place, the creak of wood, the slow shifting of hooves. And then you stepped forward, curiosity pulling you closer.

“You don’t remember any of this, do you?” Ellie’s voice floated out from the stall.

You leaned on the edge. “Vaguely. I think I was scared of stepping in poop the last time.”

Ellie made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. She emerged a moment later holding a bridle, bits of hay stuck in her rolled-up sleeves.

“You want me to teach you something?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you just going to follow me around and talk?”

“Why not both?” you teased, shrugging.

That earned you a half-smile — one of those crooked ones she tried to hide.

She handed you the bridle, and it was heavier than you expected — the leather warm and smooth, the metal cool against your palm.

“Alright,” she said, stepping close. “This is basic. You hold it like this—no, not like that. Here.” She adjusted your hands, her fingers brushing yours, firm but gentle.

You tried to focus, but the warmth of her body so close behind yours was impossible to ignore. Her voice was low, the kind of tone that filled your chest more than your ears.

“Reins over here. Loop under here. You tuck this strap behind the bit. That’s it.”

You squinted at the mess of buckles. “I’m gonna break this horse’s face.”

Ellie scoffed lightly. “You’re not even on the horse yet.”

“I’m helpless,” you sighed.

“It’s cute,” she said — too easily, too naturally, like it slipped out before she could stop it.

You turned your head toward her, surprised.

She was already looking at you, close enough that your breath could’ve met hers in the space between. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she stepped back, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Try again,” she said, voice quieter now.

You fumbled through it with her watching. Not too close this time, but close enough that her gaze felt like a second set of hands guiding your movements.

When you finally got the bridle looped properly — or at least close enough — she nodded with approval and a small grin.

“Not bad,” she said.

“I expect a certificate,” you said, holding it up proudly like a trophy.

She leaned back against the stall door, arms folded, her smile still lingering. “You get a gold star. Maybe.”

You were about to reply when a faint voice called from the house. “Girls! Wash up! Food’s getting cold!”

Ellie pushed off the stall door with a sigh, brushing off her jeans. “That’s our cue.”

You hesitated, looking around the barn one last time, reluctant to leave the moment.

“Can we come back later?” you asked.

She gave you a look you couldn’t read, then nodded once. “Sure.”

The sunlight slanting through the window had just been so warm. The ceiling fan overhead whispered lullabies. Your limbs were heavy, your skin still tinged with salt and sun, and before you knew it — hours had slipped through your fingers like warm honey.

You stirred awake sometime past five, the golden light already creeping lower across the floorboards, stretching long and soft like lazy fingers reaching across the day.

Panic fluttered in your chest as you sat up too fast, your shirt sticking slightly to your back. The bridle lesson. The plan to come back. You'd said you would. You'd wanted to.

You groaned under your breath and swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor.

By the time you stepped outside, the sun was already sinking low behind the ridge, casting the yard in hues of burnt gold and honeyed orange. The breeze smelled like hay and honeysuckle, like open fields and somewhere far from obligation.

You padded across the yard toward the barn, adjusting the soft white shorts you threw on and tugging lightly at the hem of your yellow tank. The thin white cardigan you wore over it moved with the wind — cropped, gauzy, more for feeling than warmth. The kind of thing that slipped down one shoulder without trying.

You tugged it back in place as you reached the open barn doors.

Inside, the horses shuffled gently in their stalls, tails swishing, the air thick with the warm musk of animals and wood and old dust. Ellie stood near the last stall, silhouetted by the golden spill of sunlight through the open back doors. She was brushing Bramble with slow, practiced strokes, the horse’s flank glinting with a healthy sheen.

For a moment, you just watched her.

She hadn’t noticed you yet — or maybe she had, and chose not to say anything. Either way, she looked calm. Centered. One hand resting on Bramble’s side, the other running the brush in lazy circles.

You stepped forward quietly, the soft pad of your sandals barely making a sound.

“Hey,” you said, voice was almost sheepish. “I fell asleep.”

Ellie looked up. Her face was lit from the side — all soft edges and warm tones, her auburn hair glowing like a campfire. She blinked at you once, then offered a small shrug.

“Swimming takes it out of you.” She said simply.

Your cheeks warmed. “I just— I didn’t mean to ditch. I thought we’d come back here. I kinda—made it a whole thing earlier.”

Ellie chuckled under her breath, going back to brushing the horse. “You’re not that dramatic.”

You stepped closer, tucking your hands into the pockets of your shorts. “I might be a little dramatic.”

She glanced sideways at you, eyes flicking down — just for a moment — before returning to her task. “You’re wearing yellow.”

You looked down at yourself, surprised. “Yeah. Too much?”

“No,” she said. Her voice was softer now. “It suits you.”

You felt your face heat again, this time without any excuses.

You leaned lightly on the stall door. “I’m not great with… high-energy stuff. Swimming. Running. That sort of thing. Sometimes I just crash.”

Ellie gave a faint smirk. “I know.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking to hers. “You could just say you missed me,” you said, careful, like you were testing the water.

“I could,” she said, brushing the horse in one last stroke. “But you were snoring.”

You gasped. “I was not.”

She didn’t answer — just walked past you toward the tack room, her smirk growing.

You stared after her, flustered and grinning, and tried not to think about how the barn lights were starting to come on, one by one, blinking softly in the dusk.

You were right back where you'd started.

And somehow, it felt exactly right.

The opening credits rolled slow across the screen, a soft instrumental fading into the quiet. The living room was warm and dim, lit only by the soft orange glow from the floor lamp and the faint hum of the TV. You hugged a throw pillow to your chest, legs curled under you on one end of the couch, the wine glass loose in your fingers.

Celine had fallen asleep halfway through the last movie, muttering something about early morning errands before disappearing upstairs with a blanket over her shoulder. Now, it was just you and Ellie — both sun-drowsy and half full of pasta, your body warm and just fuzzy enough to feel a little braver.

You sipped the last of the wine, lips tugging into a sleepy grin.

With a sigh, you let your head fall back on the couch cushion. “God,” you murmured. “I just love it here. Can your mom adopt me?”

Ellie, tucked into the other end of the couch in an old T-shirt and gray sweatpants, turned her head to look at you, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

You hugged the pillow closer, voice playful. “She’s so cool. And I don’t know, it’s just… I love it here.”

Ellie leaned back, arms crossed, watching you like she was trying not to smile. “I love your mom. What’s wrong with her?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, gaze still on the wide flat screen. “I love her too, but she’s… pushy. Always asking when I’m gonna find a boyfriend like that’s a personality requirement.”

Ellie snorted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

You whipped your head toward her, glaring through your wine haze. “Hey, It’s not funny. Why would I need a fucking boyfriend?” You were pouting now. “I can live without one. I got, like, plants. Spotify. And air.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched. Her eyes danced with laughter as she reached for her water bottle. “Jesus. You talk shit when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you said, even though the way your head lolled slightly and how your limbs felt extra floaty said otherwise.

“You sure?” she tilted her head, sipping. “You’re one more glass away from making out with that pillow.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Well maybe the pillow is emotionally available.”

Ellie laughed — really laughed — and it made something flutter behind your ribs. You stared at her like you were memorizing the sound.

Then she added, between a grin and a shrug, “Too bad my mom’s pushy too. But I definitely don’t want you as a sister.”

You gasped, eyes narrowing. “You’re mean.”

Ellie shrugged. “You’re the one trying to get adopted into my family. Don’t be mad you ruined the vibe.”

“Whatever,” you muttered. “We’re like… basically sisters anyway. Our moms are obsessed with each other.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said slowly, side-eyeing you. “Let’s not unpack that dynamic.”

You turned toward her, shifting closer across the couch, still hugging your pillow like a shield. “You say that like we didn’t share a bed that one summer.”

“Yeah,” Ellie replied, her voice low and dry. “When you snored and kicked me in your sleep.”

You giggled, cheeks warming. “Okay, rude—”

“I still have the scar.”

“You’re lying.”

“Prove it.”

You stared at her for a second. Then leaned in, just a little. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ellie raised her brows, amused, but her body didn’t move away. Her tongue flicked briefly along the inside of her cheek.

“You talk so much shit when you drink. I didn’t know that about you.”

You smirked, head tilted now, fully facing her. “Well, Ellie… there are things you still don’t know about me.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “So many things.”

There was a pause. The air thinned.

“Wanna find out?” You ask, soft.

Ellie’s expression shifted — subtly, but enough that your heart stopped for a moment. Her eyes dipped — not by accident — to your lips.

You saw it. She didn’t try to hide it.

“What do I get if I do?”

Her voice was quiet now. Low. Different.

Your breath caught. You blinked once, heartbeat spiking.

You swallowed the air between you and whispered, “What do you want?”

Ellie leaned in slightly, not enough to close the gap — just enough to tip you forward with her. Her gaze flicked between your eyes and lips slowly. Deliberate.

“Don’t ask that unless you mean it,” she said, the smallest hint of a dare in her tone.

You didn’t move back.

Neither did she.

But then, of course, without warning, Ellie looked away — just a glance to the side — and leaned back slightly. Her mouth twitched, almost smiling, almost not.

She stood up.

You watched her move toward the TV, the silence stretching again, soft but tight like a string between you.

She picked up the remote, clicked the screen off, and let the darkness settle. Only the lamp glowed now.

“We should sleep,” she said, not looking at you.

You groaned, slumping into the couch. “We didn’t even finish the movie.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away — she just walked past and reached out, ruffling your hair like it was nothing.

“Hey—!” you laughed, swatting her hand away.

She grinned as she started walking toward the stairs. You stood, hugging the pillow tighter, and followed.

You walked together, quietly, the floorboards soft under your steps.

Your rooms were across from each other, just a few feet of hallway between them. She stopped in front of hers, her hand now rubbing the back of her neck like she didn’t want to open the door yet.

She looked at you once before looking away. But then her eyes were all over you again.

You were just standing there — barefoot, holding the pillow like armor — your heart somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

Ellie sighed, her lips twitching like she was losing an argument in her head.

“…That’s your room,” she said finally, eyes flicking toward your door.

You blinked up at her. “Uh. Yeah. That’s…” You pointed to the door behind her. “That’s your room too.”

You bit your lips as silence enveloped the two of you.

Ellie’s eyebrows raised slightly, her mouth twitching again. “Incredible observation.”

You wanted to melt into the floor.

“Okay, alright,” you said, laughing under your breath, stepping back. “I’ll go inside.”

“You should,” Ellie said, but she didn’t move either.

You nodded again, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as a small smile escaped.

Turning, you slipped into your room and closed the door gently behind you — then immediately leaned back against it, heart pounding, grinning so wide it hurt.

You barely had time to let out a silent scream into your hands before a knock made your heart jump.

You opened the door quickly — too quickly.

Ellie was standing there.

“Yes?” you breathed.

She scratched the side of her jaw, her voice a little raspier than before.

“Goodnight.”

Of course she said it like that.

“Goodnight,” you said, trying not to smile like a maniac.

She gave you a small nod, then turned and walked back into her room.

You closed the door slowly this time, pressed your back to it again, and screamed without sound — body buzzing, heart in shambles, hands gripping your face like you were losing your mind.

Because holy shit.

She said goodnight.

And she came back to say it.

tag lists:

@wwefan2002 @sulliefimmie @the-sick-habit @c1sne @darkdanixoxo @elliewillamsgf @momoloverr @piastorys @jester-loverre @adoreasellie @nishikorru @wrappedinvines @madsxh1022 @st0nerlesb0 @elliewilliamscutofffingers @bellaramseysgirlfriend @autisticratbagtm @jujueilish @sophipet @starinhereyes @pearl4oli @meeeh234 @womaniza @gracie1234567891011 @oatmatchalatte @rjfjfufjfjfuc @elliesfavtoy @nut-button-baby @lilithyys @eriiwaiii2

[maudie-duan]

Fuck Monday Blues When You Can Have a Monday Blurb! Based on a request from @avas-daniel For our cute little Monday Blurb Series!!!

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning: Oh, what the mind can conjure when you think you've moved on.

It was one of those dreams, you know, the kind where you woke up with a longing, an ache for a past you thought you were over. The kind of dream where you knew deep in your gut that the reality of your day would be too much to bear, but god, you could have sworn it was real—the taste, the smell, all of it—all of him was real.

His gentle lips pressed to yours, his warm breath on your skin, like a fucking vision as you stared into his green eyes—a touch, a smile, the soft tranquil cadence of his voice, whispering words that once set fire to your skin, they were real, you swore they were, and then you opened your eyes, and peered over to his side of the bed—his space still empty—no longer his side anymore, but you knew this, the bed was yours like it had been for nearly a year now.

So, where was this coming from?

You felt the loss of his presence move like a trickle, a tiny leak, filling a bucket, slowly adding up throughout your day as these reminders appeared like ghosts from your past. It was the key that you left by the door, once his, now an extra spare that lay dormant, waiting for another to come and claim it, but here was the thing, you didn’t need someone else, you weren’t even lonely, or looking, in fact, when was the last time you even thought about him? 

And then there was the coffee shop, the one you both used to frequent. All it took was you peering over in the corner at a couple cozied up to have your mind reeling back to the time he held your hand for the first time, your shaky hand clutching his, in the booth that now existed for new memories, while yours slowly faded, and that was fine, because isn’t that why time exists? 

To move us forward?

Hadn’t there been enough time by now? Haden’t you taken every opportunity to fill your mind with enough new faces, and places to create the fucking distance that you needed to move on. You knew you had felt the space any time he randomly came to mind, and in those times, you could let it go. So what had suddenly changed? Because now, something had shifted, everything that once seemed familiar was miles away, but here you were thinking about him, your brain on a never-ending loop. 

Even your bestie, who never brought him up anymore, said she saw him at a bar. Was he haunting you? Because you couldn’t get the images from your dream out of your head, how everything about him had been a thousand miles away, yet somehow he still had his hands on you, and there was your mind playing out the motions over and over—his body curving with yours, limbs tangled, a shared breath. It had all been real once, and this was the part you knew you would never get over. 

This was the dull longing, the missing piece that left you incomplete. That desperate feeling where the lack of words filled your chest, but died in the silence when your alone, because you both knew there wasn’t shit to say, but here you were, and as you turned the lock in the door, forgetting the world behind you. He was the first thought that appeared.

And there he was, his presence in your mind so real you could almost smell the faded scent of his cologne when he would greet you at the door with a kiss, now lingering in your senses, like time had stood still all this time. Did he ever feel this way about you? Was there ever a time you haunted his day, or when he woke up from a dream, and he wished you were there? Do you miss him? 

Do you wish he was here?

It was a strange feeling, his absence after so long, almost like a stranger now, barely even a friend, more of an acquaintance if you can even call him that, but fuck, why did it have to feel this way, this agonising draw you couldn’t shake. Maybe you could call him up, but what would you say? “Hey, had a dream about you…Now, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Was it that easy? 

Where did you even stand with him? Now that the dust had time to settle, and the painful aftermath of your ending was barely a sting. Could you be friends? Did you want to be friends? Did you want to know the person he had become after you, if he even changed at all? What was he even like? What did he even think about anymore? What were the thoughts that filled his head? Were you one of them?

All these questions were stacking up as the reminder of who he was, settled over you. Did you leave a mark, like he left his mark on you, because as much as you wanted to ignore the feeling, it still lingered—a scab you wanted to pick just because you could. It hardly even hurt anymore, him being gone, but what was this torture? The funny thing about it all is, you were supposed to go to that bar. 

What would have happened if you did?

Now here comes the succession of the taunting what-ifs trying to steal your evening, but you couldn’t let it, you couldn’t let him have your night, not when he had your whole day, but how do you kill the voices in your head when you’ve given them so much power? And when you crawled into bed, back to where it all started that morning, your phone buzzed on the nightstand:

Harry: Hey, this is kind of random, but I saw Lola at the Blue Note last night. She told me you were supposed to join her. It’s too bad you didn’t would have loved to catch up. 

Suddenly, he was real, a tangible thing as you held your phone in your hand, a single thread of communication opening a whole new drawer of questions you had filed away in your mind. Now What? And as your mind starts to wander, you let it, rereading his message, until it took on a whole new life, the words saying something else entirely, a simple message taking on a new meaning.

And now you were wondering, just wondering about him, wondering when all of this will end.

If there was ever truly an ending.

Because you’ll be thinking about it, you’ll be thinking of him.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-daniel @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other Stuff<-

Have a request the Monday Blurb Series?? <-

[elamimax]

HELP. PARTNER CAR TROUBLE. BIG ONES. I GIVE GOODS FOR FINANCIAL COMPENSATION. CLICK HERE FOR GOODS.

24 stories.

Some big (10)

Some small (7)

Some in between (guess)

It's most of my best work, and it's all for like, €5 (okay, it's $6, so like, same difference). I promise if you like reading and you've managed to get this far in English, there's gonna be something in here you'll enjoy. Horror, science fiction, fantasy, drama, romance, action, surrealist action romance coming of age eldritch dramedy, you know, the *usual*.

Please enable my AWFUL habit of writing books and support my lexical addiction by giving this bundle a look and maybe just maybe please with cherries on top share and mayhaps give me a penny for it, I ain't askin' for much, please, Miss-Or-Mista'-Or-Perhaps-Neitha'-or-Both, jus' a penny, it ain't much but it'll feed me it will, I promise and thank you for y'r kind heart, thank you and a bloomin' good day to yas

Anyway here's the full list :3

Any Other Name is my version of the Magic School Novel. It's even set in the UK! The biggest difference is that the protagonist, along with friends, are the familiars to a various roster of witches, warlocks and wizards, and the emphasis is on exploring queerness when you're young, so expect some young gays, bisexuals, lesbians and a smorgasbord of trans people. And magic duels.

Witches Loving Werewolves is a bundle of three supernatural novellas that all feature, if you'll be so good as to carefully examine the title, lesbians, be they of the witch, demonic or werewolf varieties. This one is cute and sweet and for all ages and was very much me writing slightly more high concept wish fulfilment.

Mxletoe is a one-shot about making a wish at christmas :)

Principles of Non-Euclidean Romance is what happens when you raise a trans woman on Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams and then ask her to write a romcom. It's about an Eldritch Abomination coming to earth to listen to the Vengaboys. It's about a time loop. It's about finding out you're a lesbian. It's very silly.

Further Principles: On the Dynamics of Interdimensional Emotional Support is what happens when you forget to tell the aforementioned trans woman to stop. It's a sequel, it's a fantasy, and it's about learning to love and accept love when you're a straight trans girl in deep deep deep denial. It's also a little bit about really wanting Senshi Dungeon Meshi to cook for you and tell you everything is going to be okay.

Icing On The Cake: What if you inherited a bakery and the new assistant was tall and hot and you didn't know you were a lesbian yet?

Clear Blue is, all things considered, the best standalone thing I've written. It requires very little preamble and no further context. Here's the core premise: What if you didn't have to be tired all the time? What if you could be loved? What if you could eat good food and dance in the warm evening air? What if you were good enough? And what if, maybe, just a little bit, you could be a mermaid? This one's a love letter to the audience.

Fey Tricks is about making a deal with a fey that doesn't really know what they're doing.

Love In Times Of Corona is short and sweet, about falling in love with your roommate during what is arguably one of the scariest couple of decades: 2020 to 2021.

Horns In The Library is an erotic novella, so that's, like, most of what it's about, but it is also an exploration of healthy sexuality for trans women. But it's mostly the erotica.

We Unmake Ourselves is a cyberpunk detective story with a cyberpunk twist :3

Can We Not Do This Right Now is about breaking up with someone shortly after you've been broken up with. It is exceedingly silly.

Okay. Meat and potatoes time. NEXUS ALPHA is sort of my magnum opus in that it's the one that kind of put me on the map with a very specific community. It's a hyperviolent, hyper-erotic cyberpunk action novel about giant robots, giant women, fighting to the death and having a lot (and I do mean a lot) of lesbian sex in between. It's one of the books that was there at the start of the resurgence of the mechsploitation genre in 2023 and it's still here. This one's got themes coming out of its ears, from consent to autonomy to explorations of late stage capitalism. This one's for the little freaks :)

NEXUS ALPHA 2 is more of the same, with a heavier emphasis on the plot (you know how it goes) though the characters are no less kinky or horny. Things happen. There's references. Lots of brain rot. Even more brain rot.

And then TEETH, which is something of a spiritual sequel. This one is themes first, really. What if, hypothetically, you had been told your whole life that the thing you know you are is a monster? What if someone forced you to be that monster? What if they loved you for it? It's about being trans and it's about female rage and it's about abusive relationships and it's about really wanting to eat someone but it's also a metaphor for sex, kind of. Teeth is a lot.

Penumbra is a superhero story about trans depression. It's a trans drama starring a superhero. It's about what if Eddie Brock was a trans lesbian. It's one of my earlier stories but I have a lot of love for it :)

Penumbra 2, is a sequel with a new protagonist. Where the first one is about depression, this one is about unlearning copaganda and killing the little police dad in your brain. If the last one was "what if venom was trans" this one is "what if spider-man said acab"

Loose Change is a coming of age heist thriller inspired by stuff like Ocean's Eleven and Pulp Fiction. It's silly and queer and exploring gender and sexuality from a very messy perspective. It's very much about the kind of shit we do while figuring ourselves out. It has characters being imperfect and using slurs and trying to understand who they are. It's also about robbing banks :)

Not So Different is a nonlinear cyberpunk action romance set in an infinite city that is also at the basis of a ttrpg i'm working on. It's not really about any deeper themes other than the usual "hey exploring your identity is good lol" but it has a 6'+ woman that's all beef and uses a giant hammer so like, come on, you know what you're about

Among Brighter Stars is a story with queer people but it is less about the queerness and more about trying to write an actual modern star trek but with my spin on it. Think of it as the first 4 episodes of a trek-style reboot :)

Plot Twist: It's Gay is probably my most realistic trans hatching story. Food, love and gender all come together in a novella about, well... read the title lol.

The Flesh Cathedral is a series of short stories that about violation. It's queer horror with the biggest and hardest emphasis on horror I can place. There are stories in this that are likely to make you feel Bad. There's a separate chapter just for CW's. Read at own risk.

And finally Campus Creatures is just a very queer little college coming of age story about various kinds of queer people, the only human beings coming together in a school for monsters. It's very heavy on the romance.

So yeah. Please signal boost and consider picking up the bundle. It'd mean the world, and you'll get a lot of proper books out of it :)

[storiesssbyhopfullysunny]

Not Sorry

Dean Winchester x My personal OC

This is my own personal work please do not steal it or use anywhere else! This is mine character within the plot line of Supernatural. All rights to Supernatural and its storyline belong to Warner Brothers. This is my first story like this and I’m very proud of it. Please be kind and compassionate.

Warnings: Smut!! And lots of it!!, fluffy Dean, mentions of blood, dying and hell, awkwardness, 18+ mature content, some funny moments

This is my first snippet of a bigger story with my original character Evelyn or Eve. It takes places early Season 4 after Dean returns from Hell.

Gif by @fallencrackships

——————————————————————————

I should've died. I would’ve died. If it wasn’t for Dean.

The thought kept looping through my head, quiet and insistent, like the ringing after a gunshot. Even now, back in the motel with the door locked and my body stitched back together, the ache in my ribs didn't compare to the way he looked at me in that field—blood on his hands, jaw clenched, eyes wild.

Dean hadn't said much since.

He stood by the window now, shoulders squared like he was ready to fight off the next attack, even though we both knew the danger had passed, for now. The lamplight painted his profile in gold and shadow, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I sat on the bed in one of his flannels, too long for me, warm in a way that made my chest ache. It smelled of gunpowder and leather. My hair was still damp from the shower. The room was warm and smelled like soap.

"You gonna look at me tonight?" I asked, voice low, timid. A softness I reserved for the Winchesters boy and not many others.

He didn't turn. "Not if I can help it."

That stung. "Thanks."

I couldn’t help the huff that left my lips. A beat of silence. Then he exhaled through his nose. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Dean?"

He didn't answer.

I stood, and walked over to him slowly. "You don’t gotta pretend with me Dean.”

He glanced at me, just once, but it was enough to see it. The fire. The restraint. The way his hands flexed at his sides like they didn't know what to do.

"I thought I lost you," he muttered. "You were bleeding out."

I stepped closer. "But you didn’t, I’m right here."

"That’s not the point," he said, almost too quiet to hear. "You could have."

My fingers brushed his arm. He didn't flinch, but he didn't move either. I could feel the tension rolling off him—too much want wrapped in too much guilt.

"I'm not made of glass, Dean."

"Didn't say you were."

"You act like if you touch me, I'll break."

He finally turned, jaw tight. Something burning behind is eyes. "No. I act like if I touch you, I won't stop. And that changes everything."

That landed somewhere deep in my chest. I couldn’t think before. "Maybe it should." Flew out of my mouth.

He looked at me then, really looked. His eyes were raw, dark, full of things he'd never say out loud. I reached up and touched his face. The stubble on his chin pricking against my skin. He caught my wrist gently, like he wasn't sure if he should hold me or push me away.

"I'm not good at this," he said, voice gruff.

"I know."

"You've been in my head since you showed back up at Bobby’s. Hell, since before that."

"You think it’s different for me?”

His silence told me everything I needed to know.

"I watched you die, Dean. You think I don't still wake up hearing that scream? Putting you in that grave?”

He swallowed hard, gaze flicking to my lips, then back to my eyes. "I'm not who I used to be."

"Neither am I."

"I don't want to be careful with you," he admitted, jaw tight. "I don't know how to make this sweet. I want to feel you, need you, like I've been trying not to for years. And if I do that..." He exhaled sharply. "There's no going back."

"Then don't go back." I wasn’t thinking anymore, the words that had sat at the tip of my tongue time and time again finally rolling off with no control. I carefully reached to put my hand on his cheek, fully aware he could push me away at any moment. I moved closer to him, carefully watching his every move. "I've waited long enough." The words were almost a whisper but sounded much louder in the silence of the room; but we both knew the weight they held.

Testing my limit I cautiously closed what little space was left between us looking up at him as I rested my hand on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his breath hitch against my touch.

He reached for my hips hesitantly before he settled them right below my bandage. I winced as his grip on my waist tightened, and for a second, I thought he'd pull away. I couldn’t help the thoughts that started to flutter through my head. He stared down at me intensely. Almost as if I’d disappear if he let go. Our difference in height glaringly obvious now that we were basically chest to chest.

My breath caught in my throat as Dean pressed closer to me. I could feel the heat of his breath fan over my face and it was then I realized how close Dean really was to me. His eyes flickered from mine to my lips. I shuddered under his gaze.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t pull away.

Just stared. Like he was memorizing ever inch of my face. I stared back taking in every single freckle or scar that adorned his face. He was beautiful.

“Dean…” I whispered, unsure what I was asking.

His jaw clenched. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something good.”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely steady. “You are.”

He exhaled through his nose, rough and shaky, like the words wounded him more than comforted him. Then, slowly, like he was giving me one last chance to stop him, he leaned in.

His lips brushed mine.

Just once.

Feather-soft. Hesitant. Devastating.

And then he kissed me again, harder this time. Like he’d given up fighting it. Like he needed to prove something in the way his mouth claimed mine.

I gasped against him, and that sound undid him.

His hands slid into my hair, threading through the strands as he kissed me deeper, fuller. My fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him against me. Every inch of his body against mine made me ache more. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

He pulled his lips from mine slowly and I couldn't help the soft, desperate whine that escaped my lips as he rested his forehead to mine, both of us breathless. My cheeks burning in emabrassment.

His mouth found mine again, this time with no hesitation.

There was something wild in the way he kissed me now, like he’d finally surrendered to how badly he wanted it, wanted me. His hands cupped my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheeks as he tilted my head back and took his time. His lips feathered over mine and I swore to myself if his hands wearn’t holding me. His lips began to wonder, slow and searching, dancing over my chin and along my jaw. I gasped again.

My whole body lit up under his touch.

He moved carefully at first but when I slid my hands under his shirt and felt the heat of his bare skin, he groaned low in his throat and everything changed. My restraint fading alongside his.

He pulled me tighter against him, hands gripping my hips like he didn’t want there to be a single inch between us. I could feel how hard he was already, pressed hot and heavy against my lower stomach. The dirty thoughts going through my head were plentiful. He leaned further down burying his face in my neck and kissed along the skin there, teeth grazing lightly.

“Been trying not to think about this,” he muttered against my throat, voice rough and broken. “But you’re everywhere, Eve. Always have been.

His words sent a thrill through me, sharp and sweet.

I fumbled with the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward until he helped me pull it over his head, revealing the scarred, sculpted body I’d patched and stitched plenty of times.

I ran my hands down his chest, slow, tracing every line and scar. I breathed, studying him gently.

Dean froze for a half-second, shifting under my gaze. I leaned up, on the tips of my toes, and kissed the space over his heart. Where his tattoo laid.

He leaned into my touch.

His hands slid under my shirt then, pushing the fabric up until I lifted my arms to let him take it off. His gaze dropped to my bare skin, and his hunger sharpened, but his touch softened. His hand slid down my side. Calloused fingers traced the curve of my waist, then paused when they reached my ribs. He brushed his thumb over the ink there.

“You’re gonna wreck me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below my collarbone.

“Then let me,” I murmured, backing up slowly toward the bed, pulling him down with me.

He followed, every inch of his body lining up with mine, his mouth finding mine again, deeper now, hotter. His hands roamed, fingers skimming over my breasts, my ribs, my waist, across my thighs like he was learning me by feel. I gasped when his palm slid between my thighs, teasing, stroking.

“Dean—” The word barely made it out, my body jolting as his touch landed with devastating precision.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my skin. God, I almost crumbled beneath him. “Say my name like that again, and I swear—”

“Dean,” I whispered, slower this time, eyes locked on his, a wicked smile peeling across my lips.

He kissed me hard, almost bruising, and slipped his fingers inside me. I thanked myself silently for wearing the thin shorts.

He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, his eyes never leaving mine as he watched me unravel. My back arched and I couldn’t help the soft, desperate whine that escaped my lips as his fingers moved just right. The sound was involuntary, high-pitched and needy, and the second it left my lips, I froze.

Dean stilled, just for a beat, like he was stunned.

Then he groaned, head dropping to my shoulder like the sound physically hit him.

“Fuck, Eve,” he rasped. He looked up at me, eyes blazing, lips curved into the faintest, wrecked smile. “That little whine you just made? Cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard. And the hottest.”

My skin burned. “Dean—” his lips found the curve of my neck again kissing up my jaw.

“Do it again,” he muttered against my skin “Make that sound for me again.”

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All I could do was shudder in his grasp.

His mouth on my neck was maddening, soft, slow kisses that turned to open-mouthed heat, I could taste the hints of wishkey on his tongue, his stubble scraping just enough to make me shiver. One hand stayed between my thighs, working me open with aching precision, while the other pressed firm against my right side, keeping me close, like he needed me right there.

I whimpered again, barely a sound, and felt him twitch against me, harder now.

Dean groaned, deep and guttural. “Shit, Sweetheart, you have no idea what that does to me.”

I buried my face in his shoulder, another whine escaping my lips, fingers digging into his back as he curled his fingers again. A small smirck decorated his face “Dean, please…”

His breath hitched, He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by a thread. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice rough and wrecked. “Say my name like that. Beg for it.”

If I had any resistance left in me, it melted away. I arched beneath him, legs parting instinctively as he curled his finger again, making me gasp—sharp and breathless.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing mine. “Let go for me, Eve.”

I met his gaze, trembling, wrecked, and whispered, “Dean… I need you.”

And that was it.

The last thread snapped.

He hesitated, just for a breath.

Then he leaned in, voice low and wrecked.

“You already have me.” He curled his finger in that moment and I cried out, a sound that that seemed so far away but yet so loud.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, teeth grazing my lip before his tongue slid against mine and I groaned into his mouth. My hands fumbled with his belt, desperately, and he stilled me.

"Let me," he said, voice dark. He slipped his fingers out, and I bit back a whimper at the sudden ache of emptiness.

I let go, watched as he stripped for me, jeans, boxers, all tossed aside like armor. His body was scarred and strong, and God, he was beautiful in a way he'd never believe.

He knelt between my thighs and pulled off the thin bed shorts, slow and focused. His gaze drank in every inch of me.

"You've been killing me for years," he said. "And I let you."

He leaned down and kissed my chest, my stomach, trailing fire as he went. When his mouth found the wet heat between my legs, I gasped, hips rising. He groaned against me, tongue moving in slow, devastating circles until I was whimpering, fingers tangled in his hair.

"Dean—please—"

He pulled away just enough to speak. "You taste so good, Sweetheart." I whined again, this man would be the undoing of me.

He kissed his way back up my body, fingers guiding himself to my entrance. I looked up into his eyes, no fear, no hesitation anymore. Just a storm of need and something deeper.

He pushed in slowly, watching me the whole time. Every inch stretched, burned, filled, until he was fully inside me and I couldn't breathe.

We stilled there, forehead to forehead, hearts hammering.

"I've got you," he whispered. I whined in despiration jutting my hips against his in the slightest attempt to create friction.

And then he moved.

It was desperate. Raw. A rhythm forged in years of repression and longing. His thrusts were deep, rough, perfect. My name on his lips wasn't a word—it was a prayer, a curse, a confession. Something I had never thought I'd hear falling off his lips In a gasp.

“Fuck, Eve—”

His voice broke on my name, rough and guttural. I could feel him unraveling, feel the exact moment he couldn’t hold back any longer. His rhythm turned frantic, hips snapping into mine, deep and desperate, chasing the edge like he couldn’t stop if he tried.

And God, I didn’t want him to.

“Dean, oh my God, Dean,” I moaned, high and breathless, my nails digging into his back as everything inside me coiled tight, pressure building with each perfect thrust. “I’m—please, I’m so close—” I whined, giving in fully to the seering sensation run through my body.

He groaned into my neck, voice wrecked and trembling. “Come on, sweetheart… give it to me… let go…”

That name—sweetheart—sent me over the edge.

My entire body arched into his as pleasure slammed through me like a lightning strike, hot and bright and blinding. I cried out, loud and raw, his name broken on my lips.

He wasn’t far behind.

Dean cursed under his breath, thrust once more, then buried himself deep with a low, guttural growl as he came, shaking against me. “Fuck—Eve—” he rasped, clutching me to him.

We stayed like that, tangled and breathless, skin damp with sweat and aftershocks, hearts hammering in perfect rhythm.

And then—

The motel door creaked open.

“I got burgers. Hope you didn’t eat alre—”

Sam.

Dean froze. My blood turned to ice.

Sam’s voice cut off. Paper bags rustled.

And then a beat of complete, stunned silence.

“Oh my fucking God,” Sam muttered, and I could hear the instant horror dawned on him. “Nope. Nope. I didn’t see anything. Did not see a damn thing.”

Dean blinked, still inside me, then dropped his forehead against my shoulder with a groan. “Son of a bitch.”

I covered my flaming face with both hands as the door banged shut behind Sam. His footsteps pounded down the hall.

“I’m going to the Impala!” Sam’s voice called faintly through the wall. “I’m living in the Impala!”

Laughter bubbled out of me—delirious, mortified laughter. Dean shook with it too, his shoulders trembling, face still buried in my neck.

“Well,” I gasped between giggles, “at least we know he brought food.”

Dean looked up at me, eyes glassy and stunned, lips curling into a crooked grin. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

Dean's breath was heavy, chest rising and falling against mine, but there was something fragile beneath the fire now. The way his eyes searched mine, like he was trying to find a way to put all the words he couldn't say into just one look.

I traced lazy circles on his back, still slick and warm, and felt the tension in his muscles slowly ease—just a little.

"I'm sorry about Sam," I whispered, voice hoarse.

Dean snorted, a rough, tired sound. "He always picks the worst times. Like he wants us to star in some bad motel porno."

I laughed softly, the sound shaky. "Yeah, real classy."

He shifted, finally pulling out and rolling beside me, his skin prickling where it had been pressed against mine. The quiet between us was heavy but not empty. It felt like the space where everything we'd been holding back could finally settle.

"You good?" he asked, voice low.

"Better," I said honestly, my fingers finding his.

He gave a half-smile, like he wasn't sure if he deserved it. "Me too."

We lay there, hands tangled, for god knew how long. It felt peaceful for a moment. Something neither of us were used to. Dean was still quiet, but his gaze kept flicking to my face—like he was memorizing every line, every curve. Occasionally he'd reach over placing a soft kiss against my lips, making my heart flutter each time. Even after the most passionate night if my life I still couldn't believe I was here.

With Dean.

When I finally broke the silence, it was with a question I'd been holding onto for years. "Why’d you avoid me after you got back, Dean.” He winced, like he knew it was coming, but he'd hoped it wouldn't.

He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. "Cause I'm not good for you, Eve."

"You're wrong."

He shook his head, voice low but fierce. "I've seen what I can do. Hell... what I did."

Dean hadn't talked about hell, not to anyone else at least, I reached out, cupping his cheek. "You're here."

His hand covered mine, warm and steady. "That's not enough."

"It's all I need."

Next day

Dean was never good at mornings.

He never stretched or yawned, never lingered in bed the way normal people did. The second his eyes opened, he was up, defensive, alert, already half out the door before the rest of the world had caught up. Like rest was a luxury he wasn't allowed to want.

But this morning, he stayed.

I leaned against him, warm under the covers, as the motel air tried to sneak past the window seams. His arm was around my shoulder, his hand absently tracing the top of my thigh like he didn't even realize he was doing it. I could feel his thoughts spiraling—quiet, but relentless.

"You're doing that thing again," I murmured against his collarbone. He shifted a little pulling me closer to him.

"What thing?"

"Where you disappear, even though you're right here."

He tensed for half a second. "Just thinking."

"That's always dangerous." I kissed his collarbone softly.

His breath hitched into a small laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. I leaned up on one elbow, searching his face.

"You regret it?" I asked gently. The fear, this would all be pulled away in a second, a faint buzz in the back of my head.

He didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, his hand stilled on my skin. For a moment, I thought he'd lie. That he'd brush it off or change the subject.

But he surprised me.

"I regret waiting so long," he said quietly. "But I'm scared shitless I'm gonna ruin this. That I already have."

My throat tightened and my heart skipped a beat. "You didn't ruin anything, Dean."

He looked at me then, really looked. "You think I don't see what this is? What you are? You're light. And I'm... hell."

I reached for him, fingertips brushing the mark on his shoulder, the one he never talked about but always guarded like it might burn through his skin.

"You're not what happened to you," I said. "You're not what they made you do."

"I was good at it, Eve," he said, the words low and rough. "Down there, I stopped counting. I didn't just survive it, I became it. I don't know how to come back from that."

My chest ached. He had been through so damn much. I touched his face, thumb brushing the shadow of his stubble. "You already are."

He shook his head. "I can't protect you and keep you and love you, not without one of those things breaking."

I didn't flinch, even as my heart skipped at the word love slipping out without permission.

"I'm not asking you to be perfect," I whispered. "I just want you to be you."

"I don't want to watch you die," he said, voice cracked and low.

"Then stop wasting time pushing me away."

We were quiet for a long moment. I could feel him unraveling beside me, inch by inch. Not dramatically, not all at once, just quietly letting the weight shift, letting it settle on both of us, instead of carrying it alone.

Finally, he reached up, fingers threading through my hair. He pulled me to him, slow and deliberate, kissing me like a man still unsure if he deserved it. There was no urgency in it now, just something tender and aching.

"I'm not gonna say it," he muttered against my lips.

"I'm not asking you to," I whispered back.

"But you know it's there."

I nodded. "Yeah."

He sighed, forehead pressed to mine. He leaned into kiss me again, this time more passionate then the last. Not quite the same sense of urgency as last night. I sighed into it giving in to his lips that swallowed mine in a searing delicious rythm.

But then, there was a knock on the door.

Not a pounding, not angry, but unmistakably Sam.

Dean tensed beside me, muscles going rigid as he pulled back, a airy whine leaving my lips from the loss of connection. His expression was caught somewhere between guilt and instinct. Like he wasn't sure if he wanted to cover me up or shield me from something.

"Dean," I said, voice still low from everything we hadn't quite said.

He looked down at me, jaw flexing. "This... this is gonna be a thing now, isn't it?"

I gave him a faint smile. "You mean reality?"

He huffed. "Yeah. That."

The knock came again, a little more pointed this time. "Dean? Eve? You alive in there?"

Dean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Barely." He knew his brother couldn't hear him but he groaned again letting his grip on me loosen.

I reached for the thin motel sheet and wrapped it around myself. Sliding out of the bed, and padding to the bathroom mirror to try and look like I hadn't just had the most emotionally and physically intense night of my life.

Dean was slower to move. He sat at the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling like he hadn't quite caught his breath since last night. The bruises on his side—old and healing—stood out in the soft morning light. He didn't bother to cover them. For once, he wasn't hiding.

"Are we opening the door?" I asked softly.

He looked up, gave a crooked, tired smile. "You're braver than me." He tossed the flannel I had been wearing last night at me.

I slipped on the flannel making sure I was completely decent before I crossed the room and kissed his forehead. "I've always been braver than you."

He chuckled as I turned to open the door. Reaching for the Nob.

When I opened the door, Sam stood there holding a paper bag and three cups of gas station coffee, his eyes immediately catching the state of me, hair a mess, shirt that wasn't mine, flushed skin.

His eyebrows lifted. "So... uh. I guess that explains the noise."

I froze. The emabessment burning hot in my ears.

Dean, from behind me, grumbled, "Jesus, Sammy."

Sam held up his hands. "Hey, not judging. Just—next time? Lock the damn door."

Dean came to stand beside me, now in his jeans but still shirtless, running a hand through his hair. "Next time, maybe knock louder."

I stifled a laugh, stepping back to let Sam in.

But as the three of us stood there in the tiny motel room, something unspoken passed between the brothers, and between Dean and me. It was a shift. A quiet, seismic one.

He didn’t deny it, didn’t make a joke to brush it off.

And when he looked at me, just for a second, I could see it. All of it.

The guilt.

The hope.

The terrifying possibility that, after everything, this might be real.

We didn’t say anything else. We didn’t have to. The silence between us felt less like avoidance and more like surrender, like we were both too afraid to speak the truth out loud in case it shattered the fragile thing forming between us.

Sam could feel it too, just in a different way.

Later

After the world's most awkward breakfast with cold diner eggs and forced small talk, and the lingering embarrassment of Sam walking in on us. Dean said he needed to hit the gas station for ammo and snacks, really just an excuse to get air.

The moment the Impala rumbled out of the lot, Sam gave me that look. Not judging. Just... knowing.

I sat cross-legged on the motel bed, sipping my second coffee of the day, trying not to meet his eyes. But of course, he waited. Patiently, like he always did when he knew I had something I wasn't saying. Sam could always read me like a book, some days better than myself.

"I'm not gonna give you the protective speech," he said finally, sitting across from me. "He's not exactly fragile."

"But?"

"But," Sam said, lifting his brows, "you are. And you've been in love with him since, what... 1998? Maybe earlier?"

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "God, was it that obvious?"

Sam chuckled. "You used to stare at him like he hung the damn moon.”

"I did not."

"You did." He leaned back against the chair. "And he was too far up his own ass to notice."

I smiled despite myself. I could almost still feel the heat of his hands on my skin. Big and calloused. "He noticed. He just ran from it."

Sam nodded. "He's good at that."

There was a moment of quiet between us. Something me and Sam had always been good at. Comfortable silence. This time though, He let out a sigh that broke throught the air.

“You okay?” I asked, standing from the bed I was sitting on an moving to sit next to him at the small table.

He half smiled, a faint hue of pink dusting his cheeks. “Yeah. Just… trying to unsee things.”

I snorted. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” he muttered with a wry smile, sipping his coffee. “But it’s fine. Honestly? I’m glad. He’s been… different since he got back. Not worse. Just… heavy. Like he’s carrying all this crap and pretending he’s not.

My throat tightened. I knew exactly what he meant. Hell wasn't exactly a vacation. I swallowed hard around the lump forming in my throat at the thought of Dean.

In that place.

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But with you? He breathes again. It’s like he remembers he’s still human.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not always easy with him.”

“It never will be,” Sam said, glancing at me, with a small reausrring smile.

“I know, but its worth it.” I said softly.

The door creaked open behind us. Dean stepped inside, the paper bag in his hand crinkling slightly, the smell of gas station coffee and something fried trailing in after him. His eyes swept over me, then flicked to Sam, lingering just a second too long.

“Got your crap,” he muttered, dropping the bag on the table. Sam reached for the bag, uttering a small thank you, before the room fell quiet.

Silence stretched between the three of us like a tightrope. I could feel Dean’s tension from across the room, saw it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way he avoided looking at me too long.

Sam stood suddenly, grabbing the nearest book off the cluttered table. “I, uh, should check something in the lore, something Bobby mentioned yesterday.” He backed toward the door like he was escaping a fire. Eyes darting from me who was watching Dean and Dean who was looking at him confused.

Dean blinked. “You can’t do it here?”

“Nope,” Sam said, already halfway out the door. “Need… better Wi-Fi.”

The door closed behind him with a click.

Dean looked at me.

I was already looking at him.

And the room, once again, was too quiet.

Dean hadn't moved much after Sam left, just stood there, leaning against the dresser, pretending like touching me hadn't just become the thing he needed most in the short gap of time.

But his eyes told a million stories. He watched me carefully as I got from the table and closed the short gap between us.

I stepped into him until there was no more space between us. My hands slid under the hem of his henley, palms gliding up the warmth of his stomach, his chest. He twitched at my touch, like even now he didn't trust that I wanted this.

"Still thinking?" I asked, voice quiet.

His eyes darkened. "Trying not to."

"Then don't."

I leaned up and kissed him before he could answer, deep, and a little greedy. Dean caught my waist with both hands, his thumb brushing absentmindedly, over the top of my tattoo peeking out over my jeans, gripping like he didn't know if he wanted to pull me closer or push me away. But I didn't give him the chance to run. I pressed against him.

His breath hitched when I bit gently at his lower lip. "Eve..."

I leaned back enough to meet his eyes. "You're allowed to want something, Dean."

"I always want you." The confession fell out raw, almost angry, like he resented how easy it came.

I slid my hands down his back, under his waistband, tugging him flush to me. "Then take me like you mean it." I couldn't believe those words had left my mouth. I had gotten a taste of Dean Winchester and I don't think I could ever go back.

That did it.

His mouth crashed to mine, all restraint gone. Hands gripping hard, almost desperate, he lifted me up a small squeal dancing of my lips, I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to the mattress. He laid me on the bed and I gasped, as Dean came down over me, hot and solid and everywhere.

His mouth dragged down my throat, stubble scratching, tongue chasing the marks he left like an apology. My shirt was gone before I even noticed him pulling it over my head, his lips finding every inch of skin like he'd never get enough.

"Been thinking about this since before Hell," he muttered, voice gravel against my skin. "Since the first time I let you walk away."

"You thought it was the right thing."I breathed.

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of my jeans, slow and calculated, his lips brushing my ear. "It wasn't."

I arched into him as he pushed them down, heat rolling over me in waves. He kissed his way down my stomach, every touch more worship than lust. But still—when he groaned against my thigh, I felt how hard he was holding back. For me.

I curled my fingers into his hair, tugging gently. "Dean."

He looked up, wrecked and beautiful. "Yeah?"

"Don't hold back."

And this time, he didn't.

His mouth was everywhere, his hands grounding me as the room spun. It was hot and rough and so slow, the kind of build up that made my legs tremble long before he even moved inside me.

When he finally did, when our bodies locked into something deeper than rhythm, he pressed his forehead to mine, breath ragged.

"Tell me this is real," he whispered.

I kissed him hard, “It’s real, Dean. I’m yours.”

His breath hitched the moment I whispered I’m yours.

Dean groaned, wrecked. His hips surged forward, deeper, more desperate. His rhythm shifted, no longer controlled, but needy.

His hand slid between us, fingers finding the ache between my thighs like he already memorized the path. He circled that spot with maddening precision, each pass making me cry out, breathless.

My hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down muscle and scar as I arched into him. My body was trembling, overwhelmed, begging.

Every sound I made only seemed to push him further, like he couldn’t get enough of it, of me.

“Just like that,” he murmured, lips brushing mine. “I’ve got you, Eve.”

The heat built fast, coiling low and sharp. I couldn’t bite back the soft, desperate whines tumbling from my throat.

Dean shuddered.

His forehead pressed to mine, gaze locked with mine like he needed to watch me fall apart.

“Let go,” he whispered.

And like I was waiting for his permission I did.

My whole body arched, hips bucking, the climax tearing through me in a flood of heat and sound. I gasped his name dragging him over the edge with me.

He groaned voice catching as he thrusted into me one more time before he stilled deep inside me.

“Fuck… Sweetheart—” The word tore from his throat as he came. His whole body trembled with it, breath ragged against my neck.

Something in me cracked wide open at the sound of it—sweetheart—said like it meant everything, like I was everything. He had said if last night but it felt bigger in that moment.

I held him tighter, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist like I could keep him there forever.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just breathed into the curve of my neck, chest heaving, like the world had finally gone still.

And for once, it did.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to rest his forehead against mine. Our skin was damp, sticky, warm. Our breathing still unsteady. But his hand found mine in the tangle of sheets, fingers lacing through like it was instinct.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You okay?”

I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak at first. Then, quietly, “Yeah. Are you?”

He gave the smallest huff of a laugh. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

I smiled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “You called me sweetheart.”

He froze for a heartbeat. “Yeah… I guess I did.”

My heart swelled. “I like it. You did it last night too.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me. Whatever shield he usually wore, it was gone. There was nothing in his eyes but warmth, exhaustion, and something that scared me in the best possible way.

Something close to love.

But he still didn’t say it.

Instead, he eased onto his side, pulling me with him, pressing kisses to my shoulder and jaw as we settled into the aftermath. His arms wrapped around me like a cocoon.

I traced slow, idle patterns across his chest, just feeling him breathe.

“You always make those sounds?” he asked eventually playful but serious.

My cheeks burned. “Dean—”

“No, I’m serious.” His hand slid down my spine. “Thought I was gonna lose it the second you started whining like that. It—” He stopped, biting back the rest.

I smiled into his chest. “Good to know.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Gonna be thinking about that forever.”

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Just… holding each other. I didn’t know what we were now. What would happen tomorrow, or next week, or what would happen when we walked out that door.

But right now?

Right now, we were this,a tangle of limbs and bruised hearts and shared breath. And it was enough.

His fingers danced along my spine. There was a kind of poetry in his hands, each scar a stanza, each line a memory of battles he had fought before, but yet they still held a softness. Something I hoped would be reserved for me from now on.

Dean moved slowly, careful as he slipped out of me, and I let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the loss. The ache between my thighs was sharp and sweet, the kind of soreness that would linger, but I didn’t regret a single second.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I managed a breathless smile. “I’m good.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You’re literally shaking,” he said, eyebrows drawing together as he looked me over like he was checking for damage. “And not in a fun way.”

“I’ll live,” I said, trying to sit up, and immediately flopping back with a wince. The pain in my ribs once a forethought now aching up my left side.

Dean gave me a look that was part smug, part worried. “Jesus. I broke you.”

“You didn’t break me.” I let out a breathy laugh.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of guilt behind the teasing. “Stay there. I got it.”

He got up, still shirtless, jeans tugged back on haphazardly, belt undone, no shoes, and headed for the bathroom. A moment later, he returned with a warm washcloth and a bottle of water. No fanfare, just doing what needed to be done. That was Dean: save the world, clean you up after he wrecks you, pretend like none of it mattered too much.

But it did.

He knelt beside the bed, not saying anything as he cleaned me up with slow, careful hands.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, reaching for the water.

He handed it over without looking up. “Yeah. Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.”

I snorted. “Five-star treatment.”

“You know it.” His lips twitched. “Warm towel, fine linens, and a free concussion if the headboard gets involved.”

I laughed, breath catching, and he finally looked at me.

Something quiet passed between us. Something heavy.

He climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up over both of us, and settled behind me, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist. His chin dropped to my shoulder, breath slow and warm against my skin.

For a while, we didn’t say anything.

I could feel the press of his body behind mine, the weight of him. His fingers traced lazy shapes on my stomach, dipping low, then back up, like he couldn’t stop touching me, even if he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Dean?” I asked after a minute, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Mm?”

“What happens now?”

His hand stilled.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted, pulled me a little closer, like that was the only answer he had.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “We check out of this crap motel, hit the road, probably almost die again by Thursday.”

I smiled faintly. “Sounds romantic.”

He huffed against my neck. “Best I can offer.”

“You say that like this wasn’t…”

I didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t make me.

Instead, he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”

I turned in his arms to face him.

“That you’ve got me,” he said, voice low and rough. “You still do. But if we go out there—back to all the crap waiting for us—I don’t know how long I can be this guy.”

“I don’t need you to be anyone else, Dean. Just this… whatever this is. It’s enough.”

He stared at me like he didn’t believe it. And then he kissed me again, slow and deep, like it was the only thing that made sense in a world where nothing ever did.

We stayed wrapped up in each other. The clock ticking by, the sun rising, but neither of us moved. Not yet.

Because out there was reality. Monsters, death, guilt.

But in here… it was just us.

And for once, neither of us were ready to let it go

Eventually, the silence turned too deafening to ignore.

Dean sighed behind me, long and reluctant, then pressed one last kiss to the bare line of my shoulder.

“We should… probably move,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Before Sam gets back and starts asking questions I don’t feel like answering.”

I hummed, not quite agreeing, not quite disagreeing. Reluctantly I moved to let him slide out from behind me. He stood up stretching and I couldn't help but admire the way the muscles in his back flexed.

“He walked in on us mid-” I gestured to the bed, that laid in disarray once again. “Trust me, he knows.” I couldn't help but laugh a little as I said it.

Dean shot me a look over his shoulder as he reached for his jeans for the second time today. That earned a laugh out of him, weak but real. I finally sat up, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the warmth we’d wrapped ourselves in moments ago.

We dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, like pulling on armor. Every zip, every fold of fabric was a reminder: time to go back. To the road. To the weight of saving people and the truths we carried with us.

I missed the smell of his flannel as I shrugged mine on over the tank top I had worn yesterday now crusted with dried blood, I almost forgot about.

Almost.

Dean tossed me my bag from the chair in the corner and I caught it with a small nod of thanks.

Neither of us spoke much as we moved around the room, packing up, brushing teeth, gathering weapons and laundry and the pieces of ourselves we’d left scattered across the sheets.

He paused once, watching me fold a shirt, something unreadable in his expression. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

I looked up. “‘I’d like that .”

He gave a single, solemn nod, then grabbed the last of the duffel bags, just as the door creaked open.

Sam.

Hands full of books, hair tousled like he’d had one too many close encounters with a stack of dusty books.

“Hey,” he said casually, stepping inside. “Library was dead. Found a few things that might help with that case in Canonsburg”

Then he stopped. Noticing the half-zipped bags, Dean’s flushed face, my hair still vaguely wild despite my best attempts at taming it.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Oh,” Sam said, voice catching with secondhand awkwardness. “You guys are… packing.”

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “What gave it away? The packing?”

Sam blinked. “Right. Okay. Cool. Well—I’m just gonna…take this back to the car then. Call Bobby.”

He was gone before either of us could respond, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

Dean snorted. “Think he needs a second to bleach his brain.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed, trying not to laugh. “Think he’ll ever look either of us in the eye again?”

Dean tossed the last bag toward the door and crossed the room to stand in front of me, brushing my hair behind my ear with a tenderness that nearly undid me.

“Eventually, Doesnt matter,” he said. “I’m not sorry.”

I looked up at him, heart pounding. “Me neither.”

He bent down and kissed me again, soft, sure, the kind of kiss that said: We’ll figure this out. I couldn't help but melt into him. He felt like home like Ive belonged here the whole time. Like I was made for him and him for me.

Then he pulled back with that half-cocked smirk and offered me a hand.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” I tried to hide the shiver that ran down my spine but he noticed a small chuckle flowing from his lips. He grabbed our bags with one hand and opened the door with the other, ushering me under his arm.

I could feel his eyes burning against my back as walked down the hallway and into the parking lot.

Sam was already in the passenger seat so I slid in behind him tossing my bag on the seat next to me. Dean climbed into the drivers seat firing the impala up and pulling out of the lot.

And just like that, we were back on the road.

But something had changed.

This time, we were gonna do it together.

[sowhatwereyousaying]

A Promise - Part 7

summary: Maybe it's time for you to finally have what you needed

warnings: age gap (reader is in their 20s and gong yoo is in his 40s); fake dating, pr

It had been three days since the gala. Three days since Gong Yoo leaned in, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing, and said the kind of thing that changes the temperature of your blood.

“Maybe I don’t want it to be fake anymore.”

He hadn’t said anything after that. Just smiled, all maddening mystery and moved on to the next guest like he hadn’t just cracked my brain in half.

I, on the other hand, had spent the last 72 hours doing one of two things: 

Replaying that moment on loop and avoiding every attempt he made to reach out.

Texts. Missed calls. A ridiculous flower delivery with a note that just said:

“For someone who almost ran me over with a shoe. Call me, menace.”

He was giving me space, which I appreciated. Kind of.

Until the knock came.

It was a Thursday evening. I was wearing mismatched socks because I was too lazy and drained to find the other one and one of those oversized tshirts that had survived five years of laundry trauma. The knock came again gentle, like he knew I was standing on the other side, heart hammering.

When I opened the door, there he was. Baseball cap. Hoodie. Takeout in his hand. Like a very casual hallucination.

"Before you slam the door," he said, holding up the bag, "I brought dumplings. And I promise not to say anything confusing or vaguely romantic. Unless you want me to."

I blinked. Then stepped aside.

"You're lucky I'm hungry."

We sat on the floor like we’d done before dumplings between us, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, mine still drowning in that tragic tshirt.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was... thoughtful. soft.

"I meant what I said, you know," he said, after a while, gently. "At the gala."

I nodded slowly, eyes on the food. "Yeah. I figured."

"But I also meant it when I said no pressure," he added. "I’m not trying to make this weird."

"You’re doing a terrible job," I muttered, and he laughed.

There it was again that thing he did. Made everything feel easy and heavy at the same time. Like gravity, but warmer.

"So what do we do now?" I asked, finally brave enough to look him in the eye.

"This whole... ‘accidental relationship that might be real’ thing?"

He looked at me like I was a question he liked trying to answer. And then, without saying a word, he scooted a little closer. Just enough for his shoulder to brush mine.

"I thought maybe we could just get to know each other," he said. "You know. Wild idea."

I laughed softly, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks. "Okay. Fine. What do you want to know?"

He tilted his head. "What’s your comfort movie?"

I blinked. "That’s your question?"

"It’s important," he said seriously. "Says everything about a person’s soul."

We went back and forth like that for hours. Comfort foods. Pet peeves. Weirdest injuries. First crushes. Each answer peeled back another layer. Each laugh felt closer.

By the time I realized how close we were sitting, his knee was brushing mine deliberately, steadily and my heart had lost all sense of rhythm.

At one point, the room went quiet again. The kind of quiet that means something.

He looked at me, that soft half smile playing on his lips. And this time, when he reached out fingers barely brushing my cheek I didn’t flinch.

The laughter had quieted to a comfortable hush. That kind of stillness where the world feels like it’s leaning in; listening.

Outside the window, the city glowed in soft, flickering lights. Inside, everything else had dimmed except for the warmth sitting between us.

Gong Yoo looked at me, really looked at me, like he was cataloging every micro-expression, every quiet shift. His eyes weren’t full of questions anymore. They were full of quiet certainty.

"You still look like you’re trying to run," he said gently, his voice just above a whisper.

I swallowed. "I’m not." "I just don’t know where I’m running to."

There was a flicker in his eyes then something tender, something sure. And instead of saying something slick or teasing, like he usually did, he leaned forward, closing the space between us inch by inch.

"Then stay here," he murmured. "Just for a little while. Just with me."

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t have to.

Because my body moved before my brain could trip over all the reasons I shouldn’t, and I leaned in first.

It wasn’t a fireworks kind of kiss. It wasn’t rushed or clumsy or dramatic.

It was… careful. Warm.Unfolding like something delicate.

His hand came up to the side of my face, slow and steady, like he was memorizing the shape of me. His thumb brushed my cheek once, and I swear I felt it in the soles of my feet.

I kissed him back with the kind of hesitation that comes from wanting something too much and the kind of wonder that comes from realizing you might actually have it.

He didn’t try to deepen it right away. Didn’t pull me closer too fast.

He just stayed there close, soft, like he was letting me decide how much to give.

And when we finally pulled apart, just a breath away, his forehead rested gently against mine.

"You okay?" he whispered.

I nodded. Then I laughed breathless and small.

"I think I forgot how to function for a second."

His lips brushed against my temple, and I felt him smile. "Same."

We didn’t talk much after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because everything that needed to be said had just passed between us in silence, in stillness, in that impossibly soft kiss.

I curled up beside him on the couch head resting on his shoulder, his arm gently wrapping around me like it had always belonged there.

And somehow, the chaos of how we met… didn’t feel so chaotic anymore. Not here. Not now.

Because this didn’t feel like a game. It didn’t feel like a PR stunt.

It felt real.

Slow and uncertain, sure but real in the way that mattered most, and for the first time since this wild thing began… I wasn’t scared of what would happen next.

a/n: So, I am aware that even if the story says that it was three days after the event, it's been much much longer than that and I am extremely sorry for that. It's just that life hasn't been "lifeing" recently and I just honestly haven't been able to be the best version of myself. This was written a while back, when I said I was going to be posting it but then, I came back home and it's not been the best. I am working on Part 8 as we speak and I PROMISE you guys that it will be out in a days time hehehe. I hope yall enjoy this and THANNK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE!!

taglist: @preppyfella @muchwita @shadow-tumbler @dyingswanpavlova @ririgy @lariem-blog2 @uurtekass @elliette-laine1 @breakmeoff @sarah-bear706318 @voxslays @celestialstar111

[emeraldtied]

{➹} – IT WASN'T AS though the hedgehog's own world didn't have issues as well. One thing he would admit to, though maybe not easily, was that he had a habit of seeing the best in things and overlooking some of the bad. He was always one of the first to praise his own world, his home, but he knew more than most people that it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. Despite what some of the brochures might have tried to convince others of.

He had seen it himself; the underbelly, so to speak, of things. Had done a brief stint in it even, though that was never a story that left his lips those days. Crime was relatively low in most areas, but not devoid of it. At the end of the day, it was how people could act that always threw him for a loop. How callous, cruel...that much he had seen far too much of and it had taken a lot of time for him to realize that it wasn't anything he could fix.

That not every lousy thing, or person, out there was something he had to work out.

"That's a big amusement park, right? I've heard of it but...eh. I don't think I'd do too well with the crowds even if it was a Mobian thing. 'M a bit of a homebody," he admitted, no shame at all. He still loved exploring, mind you, but he didn't do it as often as he had when he was younger. He had far better reasons to stay home those days.

But today was one of catching up with an old friend with just a touch of new adventure, it seemed. And he was perfectly alright with that as he followed after her, giving a hearty laugh at her question.

"Eaten one or two in my lifetime, yeah. We also have things like cakes, pastries an' other sweets like them." He couldn't help but tease a little, his own stride calm as they went. "'S funny though, since I was a kid I've never really cared for sweets. Maybe one here or there but 'm not as int' them as others."

              WERE HE TO HAVE STARTED ragging on humanity… even on her specifically, cat wouldn’t have argued. perhaps a shrug of the shoulders, but when it came to MONSTERS, she felt like people took the cake. they could be manipulative. cruel. harsh creatures with an inability to follow through on empathy and kindness. something they were m o r e than capable of. it’d be one thing if they were like animals; creatures of sheer instinct. they weren’t.

       a being that could save others doing the opposite… that was a treacherous thing. a horror that far too many had the torment of dealing with. murder and abuse and fear… it was more common than it ought to be. though cat was also aware it wasn’t as frequent as it could seem.

                      most people lived their lives with relatively minor problems in the grand scheme of life. a break up, a lie, cheating on a test… but she wasn’t p r i v y to those things. she lived on the streets where selfish natures had to prevail, and taking advantage of kindness or opportunity could be the different between freezing to death or survival or going hungry or whatever.

       so she festered in that sort of reality.

                   "heh, i get it. mostly. don’t even understand why adults take their toddlers t'disney world or the like.” an IRONIC thing for her to say if she were to dwell on it. how much she had begged and hoped to take such a trip while young… but that wasn’t anything her mind intended to ponder over within the present moment.

        head would nod at the next question. “place not too far from here. pretty low key, but they make lots of flavors… pretty sure they’re fresh, too, but i tend t'be a sucker for them so long as they’re not blatantly stale.”

           having standards wasn’t really viable. she started to lead, legs swinging wide in unusual strut for no reason other than an occupation of her limbs. “y'ever had a doughnut, are those available where you’re from? or a'least where you’ve been?”

[len-the-neverending]

And without further ado, time for the Minlace post because I don't feel normal. To be clear, this isn't one of those ships where I think it is canon or want it to be canon: I think their relationship works great as it is. However, that said, I am OBSESSED with the idea of these two being girlfriends. Partially because they're my 2 favorite characters in Wolf 359 and I love that they're also awesome together, but also, oh my GOD, their dynamic.

The sheer RESPECT between the two of them, for starters. In S2 they're competing over who gets to be in charge, but in S4 they're absolutely on the same team and it's a glorious thing. The fact that when Minkowski doesn't trust herself to run the station because she feels like she's lost control, when she's at her lowest, it's Lovelace she trusts, Lovelace who isn't even *human* but who she knows will take care of her and her crew... the fact that Lovelace, who is terrified of losing control again because the first time that happened everyone died, is *desperate* to give command back to Minkowski because she *trusts* her... Lovelace knowing in the S3 finale that Kepler won't win because he's up against Minkowski... one of my favorite traits in a ship is the feeling that they're on each other's side and respect each other's capabilities, and hoo boy do they have that.

They know each other SO well! In 49, Lovelace knows that Minkowski is scared to retain command, and Minkowski knows that Lovelace is too eager to be a martyr, and then in 53 when all Lovelace has to do is look at Minkowski to know she isn't okay...

Speaking of 49, OH MY GOD THE TIME LOOP. The idea that Minkowski was the only one who had ever been stuck in one before this, and she felt alone and couldn't even tell Eiffel and Hera, and then Lovelace gets stuck in a time loop and tells her about it and Minkowski is the only one who believes her... my girls have so much in common, even aliens fucking with them.

Lovelace in the season 2 finale pushing Minkowski out of the way of the shrapnel and almost getting herself killed. Yes, I know that's just Lovelace being her self-sacrificial self, but it's also a GREAT moment for Minlace.

The treadmill scene in 50! The passive-aggression with an undercurrent of trust and respect running through! Minkowski trying to help Lovelace realize that she's just hurting herself! "It's not your fault." God, I love that scene so much.

I also LOVE them in 61. Second base is going to kill an evil CEO with guns together. And then Lovelace breaks free of Kepler's commands because she can't hurt Minkowski, and they have this whole scene. God, this broke my heart.

I know we're all butch Lovelace truthers here and I respect it, but I always imagine Minlace as a butch/femme couple, with butch Minkowski and femme Lovelace. I don't know why. It brings me joy. I'd totally draw it if I could, but unfortunately my art skills extend to stick figures and that's it.

To conclude, Isabel Lovelace is the only one good enough for my girl Renee Minkowski, I love them, and I hope they meet back up and go to the theater sometime when Lovelace gets back from her well-deserved tropical vacation.

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[thatfriendlyanon]

i think part of my problem is i lived with my best friend for two years of my life and have been searching for the same feeling of joy & acceptance & support ever since

[cursesavior]

There's a flicker of hope in his chest when she agrees that it's a good idea - so he's not just crazy, then. Shoko, Nanami - that's what they all need, right? A way out. A way to exist as a sorcerer without being forced into violence, into cleaning up messes they didn't create, sacrificing themselves for a cause that would never come to fruition, people that would never appreciate what they gave up for their sake. Nanami has been distant ever since Haibara died - like Shoko said, halfway out the door, crawling out of the grave that jujutsu society had dug for him, refusing to be buried. Would he still go back to living with monkeys if he had another choice? If he extended his hand to his underclassman, would he take it? Would he come with him, or was the very idea of sorcery already tainted beyond repair for him?

But then she questions his words, the way he wants to go about things, and that ember of hope burns painfully in the hollow cavity behind his ribs. She said herself that this place was miserable, that the higher-ups made her do the unthinkable - wouldn't she come with him? Or was she too trapped by her duty here, the people that would inevitably die if she wasn't here to heal them? He won't give up, though. That just means it's time to brainstorm, think it all over and over again - come up with the perfect plan. Because he could save them all if he tried hard enough, right? He wasn't Satoru, but he used to be called 'the strongest', too. A title that used to be an honor, then a curse, and now - now it could be his weapon.

"You and me, Shoko. We could leave this place. We could make our own way." He insists, the manic edge returning to his voice, something desperate - he would do it alone if he had to, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want Shoko to be left here, caught and crushed in the cogs of this awful place. "I know you weren't trained to fight, but you can do things nobody else can do - you're as much of an asset to the higher-ups as I am, maybe even more so. And more than that, you're my friend. I want you to be free, too."

She's right that there has been too much bloodshed already, that war would be unpredictable. But they have to get rid of the higher-ups at some point. They just have to turn the tides in their favor first. He's pacing again, gaze fixed on something only he could see, staring through the concrete floor at his vision of the future. "I'm not saying we need to go to war right away - you're right that some time for peace is what a lot of sorcerers need more than anything right now. But I can't let the higher-ups continue on like this forever. As long as they have any power, they'll continue sending young sorcerers to their deaths. I have to do something - even if it's years from now."

Maybe this was where their paths would diverge - maybe this was where all the weight would rest on his shoulders, a burden only he had to carry. He could do that. If he had enough time, if he gathered enough curses, he could take out the higher-ups on his own. Ideally enough people would be on his side that it wouldn't erupt in an all-out war - he would hope that most sorcerers would be able to see reason and take his side. But the clans were run by old fools, too - wiping them all out would cause even more trouble. "Getting rid of the clans entirely wouldn't be a good idea, no. It's just that someone else needs to take charge of them - if I gained enough allies within the clans I could stage a coup, replace the old, tradition-bound leaders with some forward-thinkers. People who would act in the best interests of the future generations. It wouldn't be easy, but it's not impossible, is it?" It feels more tangible with every passing second, less like an idea and something he has to do, a mission, a purpose amongst all this wreckage -

His pacing stops in its tracks again as his thoughts loop back around to his other problem - monkeys. The ones creating all these curses. The one part of his plan he can't speak out loud - openly stating that he wants to exterminate most of the current population would make it a lot harder to get people to join him. Even if Shoko was with him up until this point, he's sure he would lose her the second he said something like 'let's kill 90% of the population and completely destroy modern society as we know it'. Would it be enough to rework the system so that sorcerers didn't have to fight, and leave the curses to feed on non-sorcerers all they want? But then again, the strongest of them would still inevitably end up hurting sorcerers... There's no way to work around it, is there? Like Yuki said, they need to prevent curses from ever being born in the first place.

Maybe that can be the next phase of his plan. First, shift the tide of jujutsu politics in his favor and overhaul the system - and if by the time that happens, Yuki still hasn't figured out how to teach monkeys how to control their cursed energy, he'll stock up his curses and do it all himself. He's well aware that everyone will think he's gone crazy, that he'll be remembered as a monster who snapped and did something unforgivable, none the wiser that this was his plan all along - but he doesn't care. There's no price to hefty when it comes to the freedom of sorcerers. He'd do whatever it takes, even if it costs him everything.

The mania settles, his shoulders relax - he's made up his mind. He's going to do this, regardless of whether anyone would stand with him or not. He turns back to her with a small, tired smile, the storm in his dark eyes softening when he looks at her. "I understand if you don't want to be a part of this - you have enough on your plate as it is, and it's going to be difficult, and messy - I might even lose, in the end. But I know what I have to do... And I'm going to fight for you, too. If I succeed, I'll make sure you're free, too." Maybe he's completely lost his mind, but he doesn't care - he finally has a purpose again. There's a reason for him to keep on living, a reason to believe the future could be better - he just had to have the strength to make it happen.

Shoko’s tears had begun to dry in thin, uneven trails by the time Suguru finally took a step back. The surge of bright, invasive memories—the ones that clung too tightly to color and sound—had released their pressure, but not without leaving her hollowed out. Usually, a cigarette helped in moments like this. It had been a week since her last one. She’d been trying to quit for the past year, and some days—like today—it felt like trying to hold back the tide with a paper umbrella.

As Suguru paced before her, voice pitched somewhere between conviction and something more frayed, more unhinged, the craving hit her like a freight train. The phantom click of a lighter echoed in her mind. The warmth of flame. The sting of that first bitter inhale—punishment and relief braided into one ritual. A cigarette promised her distance, control. Just five minutes where her skin wouldn’t feel too tight, where her thoughts wouldn’t claw at her ribs.

Her fingers twitched, almost unconsciously, toward her coat pocket—only to curl into a tight, white-knuckled fist.

She breathed in slowly, steadying herself, eyes fixed on a spot just past Suguru’s shoulder until his words started to resolve into meaning. Her face stayed unreadable, though the tension in her jaw betrayed her restraint.

“I think that’s a great idea,” she said finally, voice even and dry, folding her arms tightly across her chest—not out of skepticism, but necessity. A barrier. A distraction.

Her gaze dropped slightly. Head bowed. Eyes shut softly, just long enough to recenter her focus.

“Providing a safe space for sorcerers who disagree with the current politics—it gives them a choice. An out. They could walk away without sacrificing everything. Their livelihood. Their name.” She paused, letting the thought breathe. “I’ve spoken with Nanami. He’s already halfway out the door. Wants to try white-collar life. I wonder how many more are thinking the same.”

Another breath. This one sharper. Her eyes flicked up to meet Suguru’s again, the calmness on her face barely concealing the disquiet inside.

“We?” she echoed, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “Who’s we, Suguru?”

Her thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, where a cigarette used to rest—just another ghost in the room.

“I’m just a healer,” she murmured. “I wasn’t trained to fight. The school made sure of that. I patch people up—I stitch them back together and try not to wonder how many more I’ll lose.”

A lock of her short brown hair slipped free and tickled her cheek. She brushed it behind her ear with a flick of her fingers, her composure momentarily frayed by the minor irritation.

“And war?” she repeated, voice tinged with disbelief. “With the clans? You think we could control that? That it would end anything?”

She turned slightly, arms still folded, looking past him now.

“Wouldn’t it just postpone the chaos? Stir it deeper?” Her words grew softer, but heavier. “Shouldn’t we wait? Let them draw first blood before we drown ourselves in it?”

Her eyes lowered again, the scent of blood and antiseptic lingering in her thoughts. “I already see too much death as part of the curriculum. A few years of peacetime would be nice.”

[nikolas-ghostbusters-fixation]

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how everyone thought Egon had gone insane. What Happened that made them think that. They've fought a gigantic Stay Puft Marshmellow Man TWICE (counting the 2009 video game because iirc it's canon? Correct me if I'm wrong), fought an interdimensional god, fought a blood thirsty ruler that killed thousands and was hated by all that was trapped in a painting (and managed to get in to beat him by making THE STATUE OF LIBERTY start walking down the street with slime that reacted purely based on vibes), found an underground abandoned transit system full of the moodslime, had a bathtub try to eat Dana and her baby, fought a giant murderous black widow lady, fought the fisherman ghost who turned an entire hotel floor into the bottom of a ocean, and that's not even mentioning them getting trapped on an island that randomly raised up from underwater that had been abandoned for decades created by Ivor Shandor who worshipped Gozer. So what did he do or say that made everyone else think he'd gone insane?? All I can think is maybe he was acting strange / eratic before, but he's always been like that to some degree.

I don't know. It's something that I've been thinking about. The correct answer is 'it's not that deep and they needed a reason that the others weren't together anymore and weren't aware of Egons death or know what was going on,' but also. What Was He Saying that prompted everyone, including Ray, to think he lost his mind when he'd been right almost every time before that.

I'm genuinely so curious as to what he was up to before this. What was he doing. What insane idea was working on prior to this or was he even working on anything at all??

Also want to clarify this post isn't negative 😭 I really love the newer movies and their lore / the newer storyline / characters, I just like thinking about small stupid things like this. Gives me something to think about / speculate about / figure out an answer to.

[psychopomp-namine]

.

[anarchypumpkincowboy]

Someone put the blonde man in a time loop

[doctorwhoisadhd]

theres just so many interesting things you could do if you staged chimes of midnight tbh....

[mackthecheesy]

rip to the person in my dream last night who i was in a time loop trying to save </3 woke up before i ever could

[frogatz]

smth abt fark waiting for spark every time . explaining it all however many thousands of times they met like that