kasumi yoshizawa my beloved
shes literally eating chipotle next to me . down BADDDDDD
SURVIVED MY FIRST IN PERSON CLASS IN FOREVER
i need cherami leigh to narrate the progressive novels
why did i dream that jake was my boyfriend :( im so upset now
StackedNatural Masterpost: [x]
January 18, 2022
Written by: Matt Witten
Directed by: Charles Beeson
Original air date: January 18, 2007
Sam and Dean investigate a Connecticut inn run by a single mother where mysterious deaths are taking place. They find evidence of Hoodoo, and try to figure out who is causing the chaos.
Creepy hotels, giant doll houses, they “look the type”, spooky little girls, Sam has a guilt complex, Dean makes a promise he will absolutely not be able to keep, not-so-imaginary friends,
This is one of those pre-Cas episodes that for some reason I’ve seen a bunch of times. Like when I think about seasons 1-2, I think about Playthings, Dead in the Water, and Bloody Mary. It’s good stuff! Nice to have an episode for the Samgirls to balance things out a little.
The think I love about Sam’s character, especially in the early seasons when the writers were better at doing his plotlines, is how when he’s faced with a perceived failure on his part, he tends to go all out on trying to prove to himself and others that he’s a good person, where Dean hits the self-destruct button a little more. It’s an interesting character contrast.
Also, I think Sam should get drunk and call Dean short more often. I like when he gets to be funny.
I was trying to find a post that was going around a while ago from someone who hadn’t seen a lot of Supernatural but had been working under the assumption that Dean was queer just based on the scene where Sam says people think Dean is overcompensating, but I couldn’t find it. If anyone knows which one I’m talking about let me know and I’ll link it here later.
The point is, that sure was an acting choice, huh? Sam doesn’t give a shit beyond the fact that he doesn’t want people to think he’s having sex with his brother, but Dean is a bit fixated on why people think they’re gay, and then when Sam casually throws him under the bus as siblings do, he shuts down and looks away and doesn’t respond in kind. And then in one of the scenes immediately following, he retaliates by giving Sam the more effeminate hobby of doll collecting.
Other than that, I really like the design of this old hotel, I like that the bar reminded me of The Shining, I liked the young actress playing Maggie, and I liked the accidental Scoobynatural foreshadowing (although as we’ll see, Dean is going to be way more into Fred than Daphne by then). Supernatural has a bad habit of getting absolutely everything wrong about any cultural mythology that isn’t white (and even some white cultures, too), but at least the hoodoo in this episode was used out of love for protection rather than for evil. I like that the ending is kind of sweet, that at the end of the day Maggie was a child who was acting out because she felt abandoned and alone.
“Might even run into Fred and Daphne while we're inside.”
“Of course, the most troubling question is why do these people assume we're gay?” “Well, you are kinda butch. Probably think you're overcompensating.”
“You’re bossy. And short.”
“The more people I save, the more I can change! [...] You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever... turn into something that I'm not… you have to kill me.”
“Yeah, what are you gonna do, poke her with a stick? Dude! You're not gonna poke her with a stick!”
Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: [rating]
IMdB Rating: 8.4
13x10: Wayward Sisters
Written by: Robert Berens & Andrew Dabb
Directed by: Phil Sgriccia
Original air date: January 18, 2018
When Dean and Sam go missing Jody Mills calls Claire Novak and tells her to come home they need to find the Winchesters. As they search for Kaia the dreamcatcher who opened the rift Jody is worried about Patience's vision.
The GOOD backdoor pilot, the team comes together, if not love at first sight than something, Dreamhunter ship origins, brotherly bickering in a blue hellscape, oofta, Claire gets a flamethrower, Kaia “dies”.
GOD this backdoor pilot had so much potential, it’s criminal that it didn’t get picked up. I so badly want the girls to pick Jack up post season 15 and be like “Sam and Dean and Cas are on a hunting trip and they haven’t come home in a while” and all of them go on adventures together. Imagine it! (Yes I am open for fic recs.)
I don’t really remember Alex and how she joined the crew, but she’s so steady under pressure, it’s amazing. Add in Patience’s visions and anxiety and Claire’s fire keg, and it’s a great mix of characters. Plus, we get more exploration of Jody’s character and how her driving force is her love for her dead son and her adopted daughters.
I’m also a big Donna girl, and she is a total badass in this episode. She’s really come into her own in hunting in a big way, which is super satisfying to see.
The monsters are kind of charming in that they look like Doctor Who characters, but the giant looks ridiculous. If you don’t have the budget to do good cgi, you shouldn’t do cgi. Half the reason the earlier seasons look better is that they use practical effects more often.
I love watching Sam and Dean sit in a hellscape and bicker. It’s just very funny to me that all they did this episode was eat hot lizard and get captured.
Kaia and Claire are a great ship and I really wish we got to see them interact on screen more. It’s awesome that Claire’s queer status is going to be confirmed in reference to Kaia later, but it seems crazy to me that we never see their reunion. They hit so many good romance tropes in this episode and then it gets kind of abandoned. They showed each other their scars! They want to protect each other from danger!And hey, speaking of Kaia coming back, is there any explanation of how she survives that stab wound? It seems like it should have been extremely fatal without serious medical intervention, especially since Dark Kaia removed the impaled object which is a big no in first aid. I guess Dark Kaia could have bandaged her up before going through the portal, but she should have major damage to her internal organs.
The colour palette of the Bad Place is hysterically bad. You need to balance it a little better when the fire is practically green onscreen. Phil Sgriccia’s weird shaky-cam-fast-zoom-reality-tv style directing makes another, slightly more subdued appearance, but it’s taking down my enjoyment of him as a director significantly. Rewatch the scene where Patience comes back into the house after trying to leave and tell me that he was making good choices.
“I kill monsters. That’s who the hell I am.”
“It's Sam and Dean, they’re missing. [...] They were on a hunting trip and I haven’t heard from them in a few days.”
“This is just all way too freaky. I mean, your mom’s out burying a monster in the backyard.” “Well, §you gotta bury him somewhere.”
“If you go, I’ll go with you.”
“Donna, I cannot lose another child.”
“I’ll protect you.”
Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 9.0
IMdB Rating: 8.3
In Conclusion: These episodes are a really interesting look at how much the show has developed from early to late seasons. The colour palette is worse, but I love when it allows itself to be an ensemble show.
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steve rogers x f!reader (angst and fluff)
summary: steve finds you miserable at peggy’s party.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: drinking, reader accuses steve of being drunk but he isn’t really, not super peggy-positive, reader’s parents have passed away
a/n: NOT ME WRITING A PREQUEL for the oneshot that definitely needs a sequel lol. i’ll get to it one day?? maybe? this is a period piece, but do NOT assume this reader is white. fellow WOC are more than welcome :)
If you concentrate enough, the shuddering flames and pleasant crackling can command your full attention. Draw it away from the raucous laughter and thudding music beyond the wall, or from your empty heart, you don’t know.
The door cracks open.
The dull heat of the fire hadn’t managed to dry the streaks slashing your cheeks. Your unfocused gaze wanders to Steve, hardening into a stare. The bright lights and glinting wine glasses behind him brighten his pale hair, but the dull orange of the antechamber’s fireplace stains the rest of him. His palm twists the knob back and forth, his bottom lip jutting out. “Why’re you crying?”
“I am not crying,” you say with hardly-convincing grace.
He slips inside the room, the thunk of the kicked-closed door making you flinch. “You’re quite pretty when you cry,” he comments with a subtle grin, stepping around your discarded shoes. The tips of his boots stop an inch from your bare toes.
You stare at his shins. “I ought to slap you, Steven.”
Your eyes jump away when Steve slumps to the ground, cross-legged, pillowing his head on your skirt and practically offering his cheek to you. “Tell me.”
“I won’t tell you while you’re like this.” You settle for tenderly flicking his forehead.
“Ow,” he responds, noncommittally. “Like what?”
“I hate talking to you when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, I’ve been drinking. There’s a difference,” he proclaims, his back bolting upright like a soldier’s.
His hand snatches the armrest at the other end of your cushioned seat, launching himself upward and throwing his feet onto your lap. You scowl, smacking his legs—and then, since he doesn’t budge, unlacing his shoes.
Steve crosses his ankles, draining the last of his alcohol. “I agree with your tears though, this party of Peggy’s is particularly awful. My mother will not have a grand time, cleaning it all up tomorrow morning.”
You nod curtly, carefully weaving a haphazard knot in his leather laces.
“She’s been asking about you,” Steve adds, halfheartedly attempting to swat your mischievous fingers. “There’s a new lemon pastry she wants you to try, I forgot what it’s called.”
Your mouth waters at the thought, as you hadn’t eaten anything since arriving at Peggy's celebration. You hardly remembered the cause for this occasion, but it was apparently not special enough for Sarah Rogers to debut a batch of her newest recipe.
Your hands continue, bridging one shoe to the other by slipping the string over and under and around.
“I think you’d like it,” Steve adds.
The stinging heat building behind your eyelids rivals the fire before you, which has simmered to a few lazy waves. The blackened logs sputter.
You sniffle, and his lighthearted stories continue; with more intention, you think, although his voice only becomes softer.
“I got new watercolors a few days ago. They’re much higher quality, and it doesn’t take me nearly as long to—”
“I’m moving to France, Steve."
You finish the neat bow with a flourish and finally blink at your old friend, feigning nonchalance. A little v-shape forms between his brows, narrowing while he thinks on your announcement. “When?”
As if he didn’t hear you the first time. “Paris.”
The confusion on his face sends your shoulders shrugging. “To teach English.”
Now, you frown. “French children need to learn English.”
“Why all the way across the world?” His calves, still draped over your body, tense into a rigid band when you attempt to rise from your seat. “There must be stupid children everywhere worth enlightening.”
“Don’t call them stupid,” you snap.
His jaw ticks. “You’re already attached,” he accuses, “You’ve already gone.”
“What do you care?” A good shove sends Steve’s boots thunking to the floor. You beat the dirt off the fabric of your dress and huff at him. “You’ll miss me for a month and then never again.”
He glares at you, beginning to rip his threaded laces apart. “You cannot say that as if it’s true. It’s not.”
You laugh to dispel the bitterness inside your mouth before reaching for your shoes. “You have so many friends.” Dozens of people pulling Steve from corner to corner of Peggy’s house, asking his opinion on an important matter and then lightly chiding his inevitably clever response. “What’s one less?”
“You can’t go to France.” He manages to free the boots from each other, yet he continues picking at the tangle with a grunt.
His flame-blue eyes meet yours. “Because I don’t want you to.”
You spin away from him.
It is exactly what you wanted to hear.
Why isn’t it enough?
“Let me go get Peggy, we’ll convince you together—” Steve nearly stomps his foot as you remove your coat from the hook on the wall. “Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry to have ruined your night.” With weariness, you watch him kick off a shoe, tilting toward the firelight to see better. “I’m going,” you say. “You don’t need to follow me.”
— — —
“You’ll come down with a cold!”
You groan. “I’m not a child,” you shout behind you, glimpsing Steve’s silhouette as you march the gentle downslope from Peggy’s home. He wobbles back and forth, yet not out of drunkenness. He’s deliberate, his footsteps landing in the imprints you left on the fresh-fallen snow.
You turn from the ridiculous sight, remembering afternoons where Steve knelt on the ground by this very path, carving out squares with a stick. With rich dirt underneath his fingernails and a smile gracing his face, Steve offered his hand, as gentlemen do, and helped you balance while you played hopscotch all the way to the Carters’ front porch.
How light and simple life had seemed then, your cotton dress billowing in the summer wind instead of being dragged by the snowmelt.
“Leave me alone—”
When Steve catches you, when he cradles you against his chest and swings his heavy cloak onto your shoulders, rubbing feverishly at your goose-bumped arms—you burst into tears.
He shushes you. "I'm right here."
— — —
“She didn’t even wince before telling me about all the beautiful Parisian places I should visit.” You dig your fingers into the loose-fibered blanket on your lap. “That she has these friends who might find me a place to stay.” Grimacing, you let a faint English accent color your mocking tone: “She’ll write to them and ask. She needs to practice her French writing anyway, and this will be a good chance.”
“And?” he asks hesitantly.
“And nothing else.”
You've already gone. If only you could travel back in time to tell Steve how wrong he was.
You couldn’t count the number of times you’d willed Peggy to notice the grammar textbooks you pored over the last few months. Or contemplated starting a conversation about her short-lived girlhood in England, leading to a casual mention of your excursion.
The easiest thing might have been to tell her and Steve simultaneously, but in the face of their joyful company, you always clamped your lips shut for fear of sounding like a dullard, or worse, garnering even more of their pity.
You wanted Peggy's understanding, her approval, even her enthusiasm. But when you finally told her, prior to the party—its instantaneity felt like a dozen pinpricks to your heart.
Steve blows a long puff of air, disturbing the much smaller fire heating his socked feet. He wiggles his toes. “She’s just distracted. She didn’t mean it.” With a distant look and the poker in his palm, he nudges a blazing log closer to your side. “Let me speak to her.”
“No.” You take the metal from him and jab the ashes, feeling foolish. “You’ll only make things worse between us, you always do.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have no tact, Steven.” You bring your knees to your chin, imagining that his clothes must have dried by now. “You may return to the party, if you promise not to speak to her. Or tell her I’ve fallen ill.” You’re anxious for him to return, picturing the offended expression twisting Peggy’s face upon discovering that her two best friends left her party, together and unannounced.
Steve chuckles. “Well, I can’t get drunk over there knowing how sad you are in here.”
You smile, shying when he reaches to readjust the blanket so that it conceals your half-bare legs. “What ever will you do?”
“I’ll stay, if you want.” He lays his head on your shoulder. “Though maybe my inebriated ramblings will only aggravate you.”
At the sound of his mother’s footsteps, you shrug to jostle him away, but his spine has already straightened, and he’s on his feet to help her with the pastries. “I’m sorry my love, they’re better fresh.”
You make playful grabbing motions in Steve’s direction, cooing at the dust of powdered sugar and pristine yellow color when he lowers the platter. “Oh, they’re perfect.” One of them is the perfect size to be consumed within two bites, but you pile the entire thing inside your mouth, humming at the richness of the custard and the crackly layers. “Thank you.”
Sarah pinches her son’s waist for immediately snatching three of the treats. “Would you change anything?” she asks you.
You grin. “More lemon.”
“I knew you would say that.” She lifts the plate from Steve’s hands. “Go get some firewood, son, she’s shivering.”
You weren’t. With a cozy hearth and closely-huddled bodies, the smaller interior of the Rogers’ home created a warmer and more welcoming space—your refuge since the death of your father. That, combined with Steve’s insistence that you’d freeze to death had you not traded the worst of your soaked clothing for a large knitted blanket, and you were sweating.
Your cheeks get hotter at the thought of Steve crouching by your side to help remove your skirt earlier, grumbling good-naturedly about the small ties besting his clumsy fingers. Not even his adoring mother would approve of that scene.
Still, Steve bows obediently before finding his winter clothes and bounding out the back door.
“I overheard,” Sarah says.
You take another bite of pastry, avoiding her blue eyes, a touch more piercing than Steve’s. “He’s right, Peggy must have a lot on her mind.”
“Aye. But so do you.” Sarah sits on an upholstered chair behind you. “I know that faraway look.”
You wrinkle your nose. “What do you think of all this?”
She heaves a sigh, pulling the end of her baking apron onto her lap as you lean against her knees. “I don’t like you going to that cold empty house every day.”
You pinch your tongue between sharp teeth. Your family didn’t leave you with nothing. You had money to spare, recipes to follow and an oven to cook them with. A few relatives lived only three towns north, and would check on you weekly, not that you needed it.
Yet, a few nights each week, you found yourself inside the houses of Steve or Peggy, neither out of necessity nor out of fear of being on your own. Truthfully, you resented the possibility of burdening them, so you diligently assisted in preparing food, making trips to the market, and sweeping the floors.
More than anything, you appreciated the noise. Peggy’s piano-playing, Sarah’s cheerful whistling, and the scratching of Steve’s pencil against paper.
Her impossibly soft hand gives your cheek a firm squeeze. “You know, my Stevie’s willing to give up his room.”
“The Carters offered their extra room, too.” You smile at her, though it quickly blinks out of existence. “But I can’t do that forever.”
“No, you can’t.” She folds forward to kiss the top of your head. “But France is so far, and I’ll miss you so.”
When you wipe away a tear, she pats your shoulder and stands. As she returns to her kitchen, Sarah maneuvers past Steve, armed with several small logs and a flushed face. “Thanks for the sweets, Ma.”
He positions a couple pieces below the dying fire before undressing and reclaiming his place next to you.
You wonder how cold it gets in Paris.
“I’m sorry for how Peggy made you feel,” Steve offers after a moment, using the poker to crush a blistered nugget of wood.
“You didn’t know.” Sighing, you rotate the blanket, deciding that it’s better to share the length of it with Steve, even if your toes are left exposed. “You have never been lonely in your life.”
He laughs, and the sound squeezes your heart with want, and so much jealousy at the ease with which he lets things brush past him. “Only because I have always had a friend like you.”
You are unsure of how to respond. “This is why I hate talking to you when you’re drunk.”
“Because I speak the truth?”
You roll your eyes.
“Do you expect moving across an ocean will make you feel less lonely?” he asks seriously. No hint of sharpness or accusation: a pure question.
“I don’t know.” You pout. Despite the hesitation bubbling inside you, you hug his arm to your chest, so you can rest against his solid weight and rub at his chilly fingertips. “I want to find out.”
Then he’s quiet for a long while, the sound of his even breathing almost soothing you to sleep.
“Would you like to see my watercolors?”
You wish he’d stay like this, but you adore his boyish look too much to disagree as he gets to his feet. “Alright.”
“I’ll paint you an American picture to hang on the walls of your classroom. That way you’ll always be thinking of me. And everyone here.” He nods decisively. “That way you’ll never be lonely.”
— — —
It's probably been said a thousand times but Giles is the best adopted dad ever *sobs*