#I'm literally so close to fucking giving it up

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

I'm still a little bit scared of a/b/o (LOL 🤣), but I am really excited to read this fic, because I LOVE fated mates/soulmates, and I'm also getting a little bit of forced proximity and grumpy/sunshine and I LIVE AND BREATHE GRUMPY/SUNSHINE 😂😊

Alpha. Your body instinctively recognizes his presence, as he’s suddenly there, hovering close above you with a divot between his brows and a frown marring his face, where thick stubble threatens to become a beard. Stern, dark brows are furrowed over his concerned eyes. His plush frown is framed by a stubborn-looking chin. Your gaze wearily travels over his handsome features, his short brown hair, the flickers of firelight that splash across the side of his face.

The physical description of Dean is SO good. The use of "stern" and "stubborn" as descriptors fits well for Dean.

The sooner he gets you medical attention and back to your life, the sooner he can get back to his—even though the thought of leaving you in anyone else’s hands almost stirs a growl in his throat.

Oh suuuurrrreeee keep telling yourself that Dean.

“Which means no one can come up here and get you,” he continues, “and even when this storm breaks, I can’t carry you all the way down the mountain back to civilization. Not with the snow as deep as it’s gonna get. Now…maybe I can go down by myself and bring help back with me.”

So what you're saying is... she's trapped in a cabin, she's got a broken ankle, in the middle of a snowstorm with no way out and no communications, with a ruggedly hot mountain man with gorgeous green eyes, a gruff exterior, and a mysterious past... Sign👏🏻 Me👏🏻 Up

Not to say that all alpha's are assholes, but you've had far too many experiences with the stereotype: arrogant, entitled, and handsy. Can't forget handsy. 

So ready for Dean to just obliterate all her other experiences with total jerks.

You were having a nightmare, reliving your fall, if he had to guess. You came out of it pretty quick when he carefully grabbed your shoulder. Every instinct in his body told him to gather you into his arms and cover you with his own scent and protective embrace to calm you down. 

I live for the after a nightmare comfort trope (if it is a trope? 🧐) and I am SO happy you put this in. Oh my goodness it was so sweet of him to come check on her, and for you to give us a little bit of insight inside of Dean's POV during those moments where she was terrified. This part stuck out to me, because the man is already hook, line, and sinker. He literally tried to go to a cabin in the middle of the woods to get away from it all, but fate really has an odd way of catching up to you. Can't exactly run from it Dean.

“Oh really?” You brighten with that scrap of information. “My older sister lives in Topeka. She moved there for a job, initially, but then she met her guy. He’s some kind of day trader. Which is just code for sits on his ass playing Call of Duty while she busts hers.” 

OOooooooOOOooooo shots fired. SHOTS FIRED... But did she stutter??

“They’re mated. Just haven’t gotten around to the whole getting hitched thing,” he explains. “But they’re happy. Dean Jr.’s growing up fast, already running full speed into glass doors.”

I'm losing it over the fact that Sam named his son DEAN Jr. 😂🥰 And also the bit about "running full speed into glass doors" is making me cackle lol.

“It’s full of pretentious douchebags, that’s what,” he says, his voice a dry whip. “Waxed up to the fucking eyeballs, smelling like Botox, Adderall, and sweaty desperation.”

This line is so Dean, it's PERFECT, and I really love that it was what made the reader try to snort her diet Pepsi.

And I just want to say thank you for giving Dean the kinda "homemaker" role in this fic. The fact that he's making food for the reader (I'm obsessed with men who can cook) and taking care of her is just:

There's a lifetime of blood, nightmares, and death that he just can't let you see behind his eyes. Hell, he's been trying to shove it all down for the past year—in booze and odd jobs and trips to nowhere, always coming back to an empty bunker. He still wonders how Sam's managed to do it, to move on, and build a new life for himself. If Dean's honest (and he's not), he feels a bit like this cabin; old, falling apart, and forgotten.

Oh no Dean, you're not like the Cabin in that way. The cabin is made of strong aged wood that keeps out the chill and is full of warmth! The cabin withstands the elements and doesn't fall no matter how hard the howling wind blows! Dang it, I have way too many emotions over that line. Alex, why did you have to do this to me 😭 It's SO GOOD!!

He never thought this would happen to him. He never thought someone like you was out there…for someone like him. He knows it though, deep in his gut. You’re meant for him. You’re meant to be his mate. Which means he’s already screwed. 

I also really like that he doesn't want to admit it and that he didn't believe anyone was out there for him. It seems very Dean for him to be in his head A LOT and being a little self-deprecating. And I'm not sure if you were trying to say that the reader was also a little skeptical about the true mates and if it is a real thing that happens, but I can't wait for part 2 to see if they actually admit it to each other or if they try to keep it a secret as long as they can! Also the song choice perfectly fits the vibes in this fic 👌🏻

My lovely friend, this was so good and I can't wait for part 2!!!

Against the Wind - Part 1

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: This is a canon ending-divergent AU, but still an Omegaverse story within the canon world. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, scenting, injuries, hints of angst, fluff and feels. 

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 1: In His Hands

Your body is mostly numb when he pulls you out of the snow.

You utter a sharp cry when something in your side twinges, waking up your entire body like a white-hot shiv. Your ankle begins to throb as well.

“Hold on. I’ve got you.”

You only half hear the voice, a deep, coarse rumble. His form is broad and dark and blurry, but his male scent is the only thing you register with perfect clarity. 

Alpha. 

A small treble of alarm runs through you. It’s an instinct you’ve had to learn, as an omega traveling alone in rural Montana. However, something else disrupts that anxiety.

It’s his scent. His scent is like the crackle and smoke of a warm hearth. 

Safe. Your body is heavy and stiff and doesn’t respond to your commands, and yet, you feel a measure of calm when he maneuvers you into his arms. It’s a baser instinct, rooted deep in your chest. He begins to carry you down the slope of the mountain, and your vision blurs white…

Like the flurry of snow falling heavy on his jacket.  

You wake up freezing and shivering in pain. A sensation of small sharp needles begins to travel all across your skin. Slowly, as you're able to blink, your view of the dark wood cabin clears and focuses. You realize that you’re bundled in blankets, and laying on a chaise in front of a large fireplace. Still, you’re too cold. A keening whimper escapes you as you try to burrow in.

Alpha. Your body instinctively recognizes his presence, as he’s suddenly there, hovering close above you with a divot between his brows and a frown marring his face, where thick stubble threatens to become a beard. Stern, dark brows are furrowed over his concerned eyes. His plush frown is framed by a stubborn-looking chin. Your gaze wearily travels over his handsome features, his short brown hair, the flickers of firelight that splash across the side of his face.

He places a warm, calloused hand on your forehead, and he mutters a curse. Your body trembles further with cold. You part your lips, but you can't yet force your voice to escape them.

Again, he quite literally takes the problem into his own hands. He peels away the thick blankets just to slide himself in behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you feel their tempered strength when they cage you in against him. You manage to turn your head and rest your cheek against his chest, covered by red plaid. Thank you...

Almost on reflex, you breathe in his scent deeply.  The earthiness of it calms you, warms you from the inside. Your shivering eventually calms and turns to purring in your chest. 

“What’s your name, Omega?” he asks. His voice is deep and gruff, and it threatens to make you shiver for a different reason as the timbre of it washes over you. 

It’s difficult, but you manage to speak, clearing past your parched throat to give him your name. He nods, as if rolling the sound of it back and forth across his mind.

“Was somebody out there with you?” he asks.

You shake your head, even though the thought elicits a painful twinge in your heart. 

“Who…” you try to speak again, even though it hurts a little. “Who are you?”

You feel him take a deep breath. He hesitates, like he’s reluctant to give it to you. 

“Dean,” he says. 

You roll the name around in your head, over and over. Dean, Dean, Dean…

You smile slightly. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“What?” he says. You hear the raised brow in his tone. 

“You sound like a Dean,” you say, perhaps a little delirious. 

Anyway, that’s when your eyes close on you again. You fall back into the warm lull of sleep, to the sound of a crackling fire, and a feeling that permeates throughout your body.

Safe.

Can’t fucking believe this, Dean thinks, as he holds you. Just when he thought his life was done throwing him curveballs.

He tips his head back against the sofa cushion with a tired exhale. It would just be his luck to find a stray omega wandering his stretch of Big Sky. Montana can be gnarly in the winter, but for the past couple of years, Dean has learned to survive here in this rental cabin for a couple of months at a time, when wandering an empty bunker gets to be too much. At least here the quiet’s peaceful, if still a little unnerving sometimes. 

He glances down at you. Now that you’re warm and sleeping again, he should find something to wrap your ankle and ice it down. It’s swollen, and he wants to take an inventory of your other injuries, so he can determine how to get you back down the mountain and through the woods, back to civilization.

The sooner he gets you medical attention and back to your life, the sooner he can get back to his—even though the thought of leaving you in anyone else’s hands almost stirs a growl in his throat.

And that last part unnerves him, makes him anxious. He begins to untangle himself from you, but his movements falter when your sweet scent filters through his nose again. Cinnamon apples, with a hint of something floral. 

Fuck me.

It’s almost too sweet to be true, but Dean does his best to ignore it…and what that alluring sweetness probably means. 

Dean leaves you in the morning to revisit the site where you fell. He digs through the snow and manages to find your backpack, filled with your clothes, supplies, and your phone and wallet. He returns just in time. 

The falling snow becomes even more intense, until it becomes a quiet roar outside. You watch the snowstorm through the impact windows in the kitchen, and you know what this means. You’re snowed in with a stranger—an alpha, no less. 

You also have a bum ankle, which he wrapped for you. Doesn’t feel broken, he’d said, but it could be fractured, or at the very least sprained. You also likely have a couple of cracked ribs. 

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” he asks, while pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “This ain’t exactly hiking season.”

While you drink some hot chocolate he made you with a bit of whiskey splashed in (for extra warmth), you explain.

“Well, I guess it wasn’t my best idea in hindsight,” you say with a weak chuckle. “I was trying to find my way back, and I…well, I was a bit lost.”

He raises his brows wryly, still sipping.

“And to make a great situation even better, I thought I heard a wolf howl nearby,” you say. “I know most of them would rather run from us than attack us, but you can’t be sure, you know? I had my rifle on me, so I was turning around, trying to pinpoint what direction it was in…and of course, my foot slipped on something.”

You fell down that hill. You think you even hit a tree on the way down, which would explain your ribs. Everything gets a bit swirly, cold, and dark in your memory after that. 

Dean shakes his head. “Gotta say, going out there alone wasn’t a great idea either, especially now. This time of year, there’s no telling when a blizzard like this is going to come through.”

He waves haphazardly toward the storm raging outside. Your gaze falls to the mug in your hands. You don’t really want to talk about your reasons for taking that risk, but maybe giving him a little honesty will get him off your back.

“My dad and I used to hike up here every year,” you confess. “A few months ago…I lost him. So I guess this was just something I needed to do.”

You blow on your hot chocolate before you take another sip. This time when you glance up, Dean’s judgy expression has evened out into something more sympathetic. He lowers his glass.

“Well, hate to break it to you, but there’s no cell service up here,” he says.

You give a humorless huff. “Believe me, I know.”

“Which means no one can come up here and get you,” he continues, “and even when this storm breaks, I can’t carry you all the way down the mountain back to civilization. Not with the snow as deep as it’s gonna get. Now…maybe I can go down by myself and bring help back with me.”

“But another storm could snow me in,” you realize, with growing apprehension at the thought.

Dean nods. “It’s either I take that chance, leave you by yourself. Or we wait for you to heal up.”

He leaves the choice up to you with a gesture of his hand, the one still wrapped around his glass. You weigh those options with a tilt of your head. On one hand, you don't want to impose on him longer than you had to, but on the other, you really don't want to be left alone in this cabin for God knows how long while he scales the mountain by himself, for your sake.

“I think it would be better if we go down together, right? It can be dangerous, even when the storm breaks,” you reply.

Dean nods slowly, like that was what he was going to suggest too. “All right. Well, until you’ve got two working legs, you’re stuck here with me.”

“I figured as much,” you say. Your head tilts as you consider him. He has a gruff exterior, but all his actions so far have been kind, and far more than you’d expect from a stranger. And an alpha at that. 

Not to say that all alpha's are assholes, but you've had far too many experiences with the stereotype: arrogant, entitled, and handsy. Can't forget handsy. 

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, meeting his gaze, “and for…well, being a decent guy.”

Dean’s lips twitch. He nearly chuckles. Instead, he sits back on his side of the couch. 

“Yeah, well, there’s a spare room in this place for you, one bathroom. The kitchen is stocked. I’m a half-decent cook, if I say so myself, but help yourself.”

He gets up from the couch without preamble, to go to his room, you assume. It leaves you feeling at a loss, like he’s trying to get away from you. You know you’re a guest in his space, so you try to respect the way he wants to be alone for a while. He definitely gives off loner vibes. 

You look around and find a collection of vinyl records, and smaller collection of books on a shelf next to the fireplace. You find Gulliver’s Travels, Dune, The Odyssey, The Wizard of Oz—books you didn’t think a guy like Dean would be into. 

You take up The Wizard of Oz, reclaim your spot on the chaise, and start reading.

That night, your dreams are plagued by the crunch of dead leaves, your father shouting at you to run, and to keep running.

The coarse roar of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short.  

You wake with a start, your body both cold and flush at the same time.

Dean is there once again. It confuses you at first, but then it all returns to you in a rush—the where and the why you’re here, once again with the alpha standing over you in concern. He grasps your shoulder and asks if you’re all right. Your breathing is too erratic for you to answer him, your eyes too wide, your body trembling.

Had you been making noise in your sleep? You blush in embarrassment at the thought. You also feel bad for waking him, and all those things get trapped in your throat.

Seeing that you’re most definitely not fine, he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezes your arm, and reminds you. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe here,” he tells you. His tone is deep and even, reassuring.

You meet his steady gaze and manage to nod, trying to catch your breath. 

“I’m okay,” you say, with a shaky nod. He gives you a measuring look, both a question and a confirmation. You give it to him with a firmer nod. “Thanks, I…I’m sorry I woke you up.”

He exhales through his nose, accepting. “‘S all right. Don’t worry about it.” 

You feel the loss of his touch when his hand eventually slip away from your shoulder. As soon as he came into your room, he’s gone. 

Dean leaves swiftly, trying to brush off how the scent of your fear had tugged sharply at his gut even in his sleep. It not only woke him up, but compelled him to kick his blankets off and get out of bed to go to you.  

You were having a nightmare, reliving your fall, if he had to guess. You came out of it pretty quick when he carefully grabbed your shoulder. Every instinct in his body told him to gather you into his arms and cover you with his own scent and protective embrace to calm you down. 

Through sheer willpower, he managed to ignore every single one of those instincts.  

Two days pass, in which you and Dean say very little to one another, besides when he asks you what you want to eat, and how you’re feeling. The alpha seems genuine, but guarded any time you ask him about him; anything that’ll give you a clue into who this guy is, and why he’s here. 

You try again to strike up some kind of conversation over dinner one night. 

“Do you live here year-round?” you ask, around a mouthful of burger that’s absolutely delicious. He wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a good cook. He even made the fries himself.

“No,” he replies. “No Netflix, no internet? Think I’d die of boredom. I just come up here to uh…take a beat, I guess.” 

You smile. “I don’t blame you. Sometimes you just need a break,” you say, even though your tone is heavier than you meant it to be. Your gaze, a bit distant in that moment, sharpens and focuses back on Dean. “Where are you from, then?”

“Kansas,” he offers.

“Oh really?” You brighten with that scrap of information. “My older sister lives in Topeka. She moved there for a job, initially, but then she met her guy. He’s some kind of day trader. Which is just code for sits on his ass playing Call of Duty while she busts hers.” 

Dean huffs, then crams more burger into his mouth. He hasn’t been giving you a lot to go on while you two have been talking. Unfortunately, you have the tendency to ramble and fill the silence before it becomes even more stifled. 

“She works at a bank. Smart, driven, always knows what she wants. Meanwhile, I’ve had about seven jobs in the last three years, none of which were even remotely related to my almost useless degree in Communications.”

“Yeah, doubt you need a degree in communicating,” Dean remarks, popping another fry into his mouth.

 You purse your lips at him, but the glint of teasing in his eyes makes you fight not to smile. 

“All right, smart guy. So, what about you?” you ask.

Predictably, the man’s walls firm back up. “What about me?”

“Well…why’re you up here alone? Do you have family?” you ask.

Dean quirks a half smile. “I’ve got a brother.”

“Okay. Younger, I’m guessing?”

He tilts his head at you, a bit amused at your guess. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I can’t imagine you with a brother who’s older than you.”

His lips twitch. “You callin’ me old, sweetheart?”

You begin to blush with embarrassment. But also, sweetheart?

You shake your head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean like…”

Dean saves you with the return of his smile.

“Yeah, he’s younger,” he says. “But he’s the one with the quasi-wife and the apple pie life.” 

“Quasi-wife?”

“They’re mated. Just haven’t gotten around to the whole getting hitched thing,” he explains. “But they’re happy. Dean Jr.’s growing up fast, already running full speed into glass doors.”

His smile is genuine when he talks about his brother, just tinged with a bit of melancholy, you think. 

“Dean Jr.?” you ask in amusement. Dean Sr. laughs a little, and you enjoy the sound, the way it lightens up his face and pulls at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, can’t say I wasn’t surprised myself to get that honor, but…hey, it works for the kid. He’s got my chin,” he remarks.

He digs into his pocket to show you a picture from his cell phone. Even though it doesn’t have service, you can still view the many pictures of the adorable infant in his camera roll, courtesy of Sam and his mate, Eileen. You coo at the chubby cheeks, the bright little eyes, and the swirled tuft of dark hair on his head.

“Where do they live?” you ask.

“Out west, a stone’s throw from the City of Angels.” Dean’s smile dims. “He just had to go back to California.”

“What’s wrong with California?” you ask.

“It’s full of pretentious douchebags, that’s what,” he says, his voice a dry whip. “Waxed up to the fucking eyeballs, smelling like Botox, Adderall, and sweaty desperation.”

You splutter laughing so bad that your diet coke escapes you in a spit take. It partially goes up into your nose, burning, stinging your eyes, but it’s made worse by the way Dean waves a hand up incredulously. You’ve just gotten half his sleeve wet.

He meets your gaze, and you can’t help but laugh even harder. 

“Wow,” he says. 

“God, I’m sorry,” you say, still giggling. You get up, hobble over to the kitchen counter, and rip off a paper towel to try and pat his arm dry. He takes it from you and helps you back into your seat.

“I got it, Spit Take. Just finish your food,” he says, if with a dancing gleam in his eyes.  

From then on, it becomes easier for you to pull the alpha into conversation. Besides reading, napping, and staring out the window while it snows, you don’t have much by way of entertainment. Not to mention the pain of trying to get around without crutches, as it also jostles your ribs. Dean often has to help you from one room to another, which of course, you get embarrassed by.

“I’m sorry!” you yelp, when he saves you from another crash landing in the hallway. You’re fresh out of a shower, and it had taken you twenty minutes just to figure out how to wash your hair on one leg, let alone dry yourself off and get your shirt and borrowed sweatpants on. The main problem in getting back to your room happened to be the pants themselves. Their length and bagginess made you slip.

At least Dean’s learned to ignore your apologies. He now holds you by the waist, having pulled you against his chest on reflex. With furrowed brows, he notices your pained hiss when you grab onto his arms for balance.

“You okay?” he asks with a note of alarm.

“Ribs,” you gasp. They’re throbbing sharply with his hold, especially after being rattled by the near fall.

He immediately adjusts his hold lower, holding your arm and hip to support you. His hands are strong, but gentle. The warmth and pressure of his touch rattles you more than almost falling into a heap. Cliché as it might be, your heart is beating faster, what seems like in and out of rhythm. A feeling you can’t name stirs and tugs at your lower belly when you hazard looking up into his eyes. They’re a nice shade of green, like a forest floor in the spring.

“You just go ass over tea kettle at any moment, huh?” he quips, his lips tugging upward. “Come on. Where were you headed?”

“To my room, wise guy,” you say wryly, even as your blush heats your face and neck. “But this is a great taxi service.”

He snorts. “Yeah, call it the Winchestermobile.”

“Winchester. That your last name? Like the rifle?” you ask, while he helps you carefully down the hall. He nods in confirmation.

“That’s interesting. You don’t meet many Winchesters,” you remark.

“Yeah, well, ain’t that many left,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, easing you down onto the edge of the bed. His hands go to his hips as he scrutinizes your form for further injury. “You good? I was about to get cracking on some lunch.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s on the menu?”

“Nothing fancy. I’m thinking grilled cheese. Maybe some tomato soup, assuming I can find a can in the pantry,” he says.

“Honestly, that sounds awesome,” you say. “Haven’t had a grilled since…God, probably since I was a kid.”

At that, Dean smiles. “Well, I happen to make an awesome one. No less than three kinds of cheese.”

“If they’re as good as your burgers, then I don’t doubt it,” you reply. He seems pleased at that, and maybe a little bashful as his gaze falls away.

Cute, you think. Your smile grows.

“All right, well, stay tuned,” he says. He winks, tossing you a “gun for hand” gesture that makes you laugh. Dean wears a rugged exterior as easily as his winter jacket, but he’s also kind of a dork.

After lunch (delicious, as you predicted), you take the afternoon just to sort through Dean’s records and alphabetize them for him. You hunker down on the floor in front of the shelf, close to the record player. 

“I don’t need all that. I know where all my stuff is…more or less,” he says, with a lazy wave of the beer he has in hand. 

“Oh really?” you raise a brow. “Okay, let’s test that theory. Where’s Boston.” 

“Right next to the White Album, there on the left.”

Sure enough, you find Boston, as well as the White Album by the Beatles.  

“Oh my God, you actually have the White Album?” You open up the double-sided case in excitement to read the list of songs printed on the inside. “This thing is so expensive.” 

“Beatles fan, huh?” Dean says as he takes a seat on the couch. You turn your smile on him, and he stills in his seat.

“Uh, yeah. Who isn’t?” you say.

Dean shrugs with a smile of his own. “Put it on if you want.”

You bounce a little with excitement before you figure out how to turn on his record player. You put the vinyl album on Side B, moving the needle until you find “Blackbird.”

“Of course,” Dean says, slightly teasing. You turn to him with crunched brows.  

“What? ‘Blackbird’s’ a classic.”

“Eh. Everyone likes ‘Blackbird.’”

“That’s what a classic means,” you argue.

“More like a mainstream copout,” he says. You think it’s just to needle you, but you still purse your lips. 

“Fine, Mr. Music Snob. Then what’s your favorite?”

“On the White Album?”

“Any Beatles song.”

“‘Hey, Jude,’” he says, after a moment. There’s some kind of weight in his eyes, a note of melancholy. You don’t miss it, even though you don’t know why it’s there.

“Everyone likes ‘Hey, Jude,’” you quip, trying to lighten him. 

He smiles a little. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

Finally, the snowstorm breaks. Dean ventures outside and brings you back a long, sturdy stick to lean your weight on when you want to move around, though he claims he’s working on a better solution. Now that the snow has let up, he’ll be able to go out to the shed and do some work. 

Whatever that means, you think.

You watch him from the living room when he goes outside to chop some more firewood. 

He should really wear a hat. His brown hair is getting dusted white with snow flurries as he continues to swing down the ax. You notice the power in his tall frame, even covered by layers of his jacket, pants, and boots. You almost feel each chop of the wood resonate in your chest. 

Heat rises in your cheeks when he looks up, as if he senses he’s being watched. You bow your head and pretend to read your book.

His boots continue to crunch in the snow as he makes trips back and forth from the surrounding forest. Aside from the firewood, he brings back a few long, thinner logs that he takes to the shed. Soon you begin to hear the steady back-and-forth cutting of a saw. You wish you could go out there and take a look, but you can’t even get around the house that easily, let alone venture outside.

Your curiosity about this man knows no bounds, and you decide to use the walking stick he found for you in the meantime to get around without putting pressure on your injured ankle. You know it’s wrong, but you end up traversing the long, dark hallway, pushing open the door to the right, and venturing into Dean’s room. 

It smells like him, earthy and tinged with smoke. His scent is seeped into every part of it—the bed, the dresser and nightstands, the dark blue bedsheets, the desk and chair, and even the drapes. It makes you almost lightheaded at the pleasurable feeling of it washing over you.

A shudder suddenly runs down your spine and tugs at your core in arousal. With a sharp intake of breath, you have to shift on your feet, pressing your legs together against the slick already forming down below.

You’re shocked and embarrassed at first. You aim to bolt out of his room, but you stop short in the doorway as it dawns on you.

Your sister is a beta, and so is her husband. She’s never completely understood you as an omega. She never understood your parents either, or the bond they had. She always scoffed at the idea of “true mates.”

Soulmates. It was fantasy and myth, the stuff of cheesy Harlequin novels.

Growing up, you’d agreed with her, even though a part of you deep down always protested. It wanted to tell her not to open her mouth about something she knew nothing about, and would never know. 

The day you met Dean, you knew she was wrong. 

Your more logical mind tries again to reassert itself though. You remind yourself that you barely know anything about this man, no matter how attractive, kind, funny, enigmatic… 

And yet, you can’t shake that part of you that doesn’t rest until you see his face in the morning; until you make him coffee and eat breakfast together, and take any opportunity to pull more threads from him. It’s more than passing attraction. It’s more than just being stuck together in this cabin, unable to escape each other. You know, because the feeling scares you, and it electrifies your blood at the same time.

All these thoughts go through your mind when you turn back around. Slowly, you continue to look around his room, your whole body tingling. The room is neat, more or less, with everything in its proper place. It’s pretty bare though, décor wise. There’s a desk with a few scattered books and a journal sandwiched in between. A smile of surprise forms across your face.

No. Don’t tell me this guy is Mr. Dear Diary? you think in amusement. Though you wonder if it’s another way he passes his time here, especially when he’s holed up in his room.

You know you shouldn’t be snooping, let alone contemplating what you’re about to do…but you can’t help yourself. Biting your lip, you slide out the journal and begin to flip through it. 

You frown at the strange drawings and odd entries—dates, narratives, scraps of information on different types of mythological creatures, and even more strange, on how to kill them. 

What the hell is this?

That’s when you hear the front door swing open. You bolt from his room as quick as you can, not realizing you took the journal with you in your haste. You stuff it up your sweater and pretend like you’ve just come out of the bathroom on the way back to your room. There you slide the journal under your pillow. You jump when Dean knocks on your door.

“Hey,” he greets.

The jolting pains your ribs, and your hand goes to your left side in a hiss. 

“You okay?” he asks, brows furrowing in concern. He takes a step into your room, but you turn to him with a nod and a placating hand.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You just scared me,” you say, with a bit of nervous laughter.

He gives a half smile. “Sorry. Just come ‘ere a sec. I wanna show you something.”

He reaches out a hand to help guide you to the living room.

There he presents you with two rudimentary crutches. Your eyes widen as your free hand passes over the smooth chestnut color of the wood. Dean keeps a light hold on your elbow, just in case.

“You made these?” you ask.

“Yeah, just a bit of woodworking. Picked it up over the last couple of years,” he says.

He’s downplaying it, but you’re nothing short of marveling. You set aside the walking stick in favor of picking up the crutches, and they’re even the right size to position them under your arms.

“Now you don’t have to hobble around like Long John Silver,” Dean quips. You meet the sight of his grin with a raised brow, but you soon begin to smile. When you get close enough to him, you lean the crutches against the couch and give him a warm hug, resting your head on his chest.

“Thank you,” you say. It’s something he was wholly unprepared for, but he hugs you back with a chuckle.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

Just then, he tries not to inhale your scent. He tries not to focus on the feeling of your body pressed soft and warm against his. You fit just right. 

After a beat, you have mercy on him and pull away. You take your crutches back up and continue to walk around the living room experimentally. 

“You think I’d be okay trying to go outside?” you ask on your way to the door. Dean tenses.

“Uh, I don’t think—”

But you’re already halfway out the door. He shakes his head and follows you with swift strides. He watches you step out carefully onto the porch like a baby deer. He cleared the snow this morning from the deck and the steps, but he’s more concerned when he sees you considering how you might step out onto the snow.

“Stay on the porch, all right, Bambi,” he warns. “You’re not wearing snow boots and it’s still pretty deep. Not to mention, I’ve been keeping an eye out for a bear that wandered through here last week—”

You turn to look at him over your shoulder in amusement.

“Okay, Alpha. Calm down,” you say playfully. “I’m not gonna go ass over tea kettle.”  

His brow twitches as he frowns. Alpha. He fights not to show his reaction to the way you said it; it calls to his baser instincts, almost stirring a rumble in his chest.

Cheeky little omega.

You keep to the porch, but regardless, you’re happy. You don’t even mind the cold. You see your breath on the air, and you tip your head back, closing your eyes with a smile as the sunshine warms your face. You inhale through your nose and let it out slowly in contentment. 

“It’s a good day, Dean,” you say quietly. 

You don’t realize that he’s watching you with a more reserved smile on his face. When he realizes it, he shakes his head at himself. He’s only been here a week with you, and it’ll probably take a couple more for your ankle to heal up well enough for you to walk again, let alone get down the mountain. 

He doesn’t want to leave you alone up here, so he’ll have to somehow keep fending off your probing questions into his past and personal life. There's a lifetime of blood, nightmares, and death that he just can't let you see behind his eyes.

Hell, he's been trying to shove it all down for the past year—in booze and odd jobs and trips to nowhere, always coming back to an empty bunker. He still wonders how Sam's managed to do it, to move on, and build a new life for himself.

If Dean's honest (and he's not), he feels a bit like this cabin; old, falling apart, and forgotten.

But he’ll have to keep taking in your brightness and warmth, continue arguing with you about music and other inane shit, and pretend that every small touch of yours doesn’t ignite his skin. That it doesn’t make him have to beat down every instinct he has to pull you into his body and blanket you with his scent, ravage you, claim you, and make you his. 

He never thought this would happen to him. He never thought someone like you was out there…for someone like him.

He knows it though, deep in his gut. You’re meant for him. You’re meant to be his mate.

Which means he’s already screwed. 

AN: And we're off! Special thanks again to Michelle (@luci-in-trenchcoats) for being my sounding board when I was first writing this series. Let me know what you think of Part 1! 💜

Next Time:

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed…

When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

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[charmwasjess]

Since it’s my birthday this weekend, I’m giving myself the gift of rewatching the original trilogy and I’m having so much fun, god, I love Star Wars.

I haven’t rewatched the OT as recently as I have the prequels or certain TCW seasons, and because I can’t look at literally anything in existence without thinking of Dooku (eg., a potato, a used piece of floss, an electric bill), I can’t not take a moment to compare and contrast Vader and Dooku in their respective roles as Sith apprentice. Namely, to reflect on how my fav is a kind of a sad loser in comparison. Just a couple random thoughts:

Vader is choking out disposable underlings over zoom whereas Dooku in TCW is the disposable underling getting choked out lol, F, sorry, bro, I wonder how close Sidious came to actually killing him in that one episode, you know he thought about it

Vader is on the Rebel's heels in the opening scene, first through the doors at Hoth, he’s a step ahead of the gang on Cloud City. So proactive! So competent! It’s an interesting contrast between that go-get-'em 110% attitude and Dooku’s constant refrain of “can’t someone else do it?” Dooku, being asked to do something in his job description:

You have to know the minute Vader started talking what-ifs about how Luke “could be turned, something-something, powerful ally!!”, Sidious was quietly thinking “oh not this fucking shit again” and getting flashbacks to Dooku bleating that about Rael, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, probably Sifo-Dyas

I found that same “the son of Anakin Skywalker” conversation between Sidious and Vader very interesting. And I'm not trying to make too much out of this, because, of course, they can't spoil the I-am-your-father reveal, so Sidious refers to Anakin Skywalker in the third person instead of "your son" and of course, Vader-is-Anakin is an in-universe secret, too. But they're in private in that scene, and I can't help but notice how differently Sidious treats the Tyranus - Dooku alter ego - also an in-universe secret. He might call Dooku Tyranus, but whenever Dooku's Jedi past comes up, Sidious consistently uses "you." Tyranus's past isn't dead to Sidious, it's something he actively throws in Dooku's face. I'm thinking about Sidious's sneering line in Dark Rendezvous about Yoda: "Did you love him?"

[tetric-electric]

tbh I think that the way Ashley Graves is so mischaracterized by the fandom says a lot about how people view grooming survivors (and autistic people). Let me explain:

Obviously, huge spoilers for Chapters 1 and 2 of The Coffin of Andy and Leyley. This is just a psychoanalysis of Ashley, however to do so involves a LOT of lore.

To start off, I'm just gonna put a trigger warning right here for LOTS of talk about grooming, as well as neglect and ableism. If you feel uncomfortable reading about these subjects you are more than welcome to click off. Please stay safe.

What made me decide to do this rant:

A few months ago, I got a text from someone who was upset about me having Ashley as my PFP. I was initially like "okay, they don't like TCOAAL, so what", and then immediately after I got a text from them responding to an Instagram story I had basically saying that Ashley was "so me fr fr".

"Let me guess, you also kin Valentino"

Valentino, from Hazbin Hotel, as in the blatant physically + verbally + sexually abusive piece of shit who is in no way redeemable.

I had brushed this off as "maybe they just don't like Ashley", until they listed why.

...all of the reasons they gave fell under the main categories of "she's clingy, she's flirtatious with Andrew, and her sprites are made for the male gaze."

The male gaze thing was because she didn't appear to be wearing a bra. Which like... sexualizing much? For fuck's sake, she's locked in an apartment about to die, do you think wearing a bra would be a priority?

Secondly, her behaviour.

Admittedly, she's not a great person. But that's because she never learnt how to be.

In-game there is so so so SO much emphasis on how she acts childish, and how literally no one gives two shits about her. It doesn't take a professional psychologist to figure out that she never was able to develop properly. That's why she's so clingy, because Andrew is the one person who at least pretends to care about her. And then there's her flirtatiousness.

It's revealed in several flashbacks that the only way she could ever get Andrew's attention is to do something fucked up, as seen by her as a child killing Nina. Andrew then gives her attention for this, which establishes the connection that homicide -> attention, and attention = care and love and affection.

Due to the fact that she never had any friends, she never was able to have any type of love (whether that be platonic, romantic, etc.) reciprocated. Except for Andrew.

Andrew, throughout the game, proceeds to subtly encourage Ashley's flirtatiousness. She has no reference of this type of stuff not being okay, and thus her social isolation made her the perfect target.

Social isolation, gaslighting, coercion, threatening to hurt the person if they don't do the desired behaviour. You know what those are?

Textbook signs of grooming.

I realized that people hate Ashley so much because since she's not aware of her situation being bad, she's unable to come to that realization. She's not perfect, let alone a 'good victim'. She only sexualizes herself because that's how she learned she can get affection and care.

So... where does the whole "Ashley is autistic" theory come from, then?

As stated by Renee Graves, Ashley was "a lot of work" as compared to Andrew (guess what, kids take work). Now, this alone wouldn't be any indicator. However...

It's shown that she was unable to make friends because she was "weird" and clearly didn't have an understanding of social cues and rules (which honestly hit close to home for me). It's also shown that she problem-solves differently (or at least differently than Andrew, who is seen as the "logical sane one") and also seems to be more of a hands-on learner (I forget if there's any actual proof of this, however upon analysis she is an ESFP, and ESFPs tend to be more hands-on (yes I'm aware that MBTI types are the psychology equivalent of horoscopes, but there is some truth to them)).

Not to mention how she's shown to have extreme emotions, and tends to have meltdowns (I apologize if this isn't the right word, I'm not sure what the term would be). The extreme emotions part can be part of how blatantly of a pwBPD she is, but BPD also tends to have a higher frequency of showing up in autistic people, especially autistic women.

In conclusion, people hate Ashley Graves because of how well-integrated ableism is in society, as well as the concept of a 'perfect victim'.

[fishbananasstuff]

“I’ll do anything for you”🎀

Additional tags: fem!reader pov, the reader is HORNY AS FUCK, age gap, asphyx!at!on, d!rty talk1ng, thr3at3ning (the reader likes it), violence, hair pulling, br€€ding k1nk, humiliation, heavy degrading, rough s€x, verbal humiliation, my first time writing smut please don't attack me guys

I was your student, a high achiever who tried her best to complete all quizzes, tests, and finals with a near-perfect score. Under that nerdy cover, I am head over heels for you. You’d trust me enough to let me be alone in your classroom, little did you know that—I secretly sniff your trench coat, your tie, your jacket, and your shirt while pleasuring myself with my vibrator. I buried my face into your clothes muffling my moans while inhaling your intoxicating scent. One day you asked me to help you set up the lab materials for the next class. I planned to wear a white blouse, dark grey mini pleated skirt, and black stockings then throw on a white lab coat showing off respectability but under that coat, is this:

(technically I changed my outfit the moment you tell me to come to your classroom)

I enter your lab but you’re not here. Kind of disappointing but I start to set up the laboratory equipment for my classmates.

*door unlocks*

I turned around looking at you ready to say ‘hello!’ instead of seeing your serene look, your face was dead serious not in a good way. The silence grows louder but then breaks by the sounds of your footsteps walking toward me.

"Heyyyyy. How are you doing? I'm almost done setting things up. Want to drink something?" just me pathetically trying to ease down the awkwardness in the room.

"I have something interesting to share with you sweetheart"

You grabbed the collar of my white lab coat scanning it for a second then rip my coat peaks causing the buttons to yank apart. You don’t even give me a chance to react…you cupped my cheek—

“You thought I don't know your little perverted scheme? Hm? Inhaling my clothes, touching yourself—Oh not to mention about that little journal you accidentally left it last class. I found out a lot of interesting things about you…to know more what is going on in your mind” Couple of days ago I lost my small notebook, I was in distress trying to look for it everywhere, straight fear shoot up my brain hoping that no one will look into it but I didn’t expect that it would be you. Tears start to form around the corner of my eyes as I kneel before you in fear, “Please—please don’t tell my parents!! I’m begging you please I know what I did was wrong—I’m sorry I couldn’t help it!” It’s so gut wrenching to get exposed like this especially with my own teacher, I feel like jumping off a bridge right now. You pull a chair over to sit down in front of me

“Are you really that desperate?”

“Y-yes…”

“Anything?”

I nods, small droplets of sweat trailing down my neck

“Well then—prove it” Your shoes nudge between my legs my cunt “Grind on my shoe. Only cum when I tell you to. If you cum without my permission, I’ll make sure you’ll suffer in the worse way possible” I hug your leg and then begin to grind. I don’t care if this is unethical I have been waiting for this moment to be this close to you, feeling my wet cunt against your shoe; riding it. You continued to make eye contact with me so I nuzzled against your pants hiding my face but it was just another excuse for me to inhale your scent.You smell heavenly divine it drives me fucking insane—and I don't mind being perverted as long as it comes to you. I will let you humiliate me anyway, degrade me, inflict any kind of physical pain on me, verbally abuse me, spank me, slap me, slut-shame me, threaten me—literally destroy my—

. . .

Oh.

I slowly turn my head up to look at you; just pure disappointment written on your face.

“Wait—I’m—

I yelp from you stepping on my cunt

“Huh…usually you would successfully complete any tasks that I gave you”you grabbed a fistful of my hair—“you truly have disappointed me. Take this punishment as future references so I don’t have to see this pathetic effort of yours”

Your tone completely changed,“Get up and lay your back on the table” you take off my tie and tied my wrist together.

“Close your eyes.” I feel the fabric brushes against my skin as my surroundings fade into darkness. My calves are tied I’m terrified of what you’re gonna do next but some part of me is kind of into this dominating stuff. I feel your cold hands groping my thighs beneath my red stockings as well then the coldness starts to trail up to my cunt. You forcefully rip out my soaking wet panties, I heard you playfully scoff seeing how horny I am for you. *zip* Oh god. It’s so..huge…I’m now even more terrified. I feel you rubbing the tip against my clit using my juices as lubricant, as if you’re teasing me.

“Huh. H-Hold on—”

You wasted no time in shoving your cock inside me. I let out a deliberate yelp but I remembered I had to stay quiet since school was still ongoing so I bit my lip hard. I listen to you grunting as you thrust deeper, I can feel my cervix being violated. It’s so fucking big I can’t hold in my moans anymore—

“Shhhh…sweetheart don’t be too loud now.”

I feel you pull your cock out and slam it back into me making my head jerk back. I feel like my womb is dripping out—

“Sweetheart…be quiet now~”

A slap delivered on my face after I continued to moan like a bitch in heat

“Aw…does that hurt? You're so cockdrunk that a slap is not effecting you at all—I guess I have to shut you up by force then—”

A strong hand wrapped around my neck with a sadistic smirk, you tighten your grip on my neck even to make me squirm and gasp for breath. My body arches off the table, my chest heaving against the cold, hard surface. Your other hand starts to grope my breast through the fabric of my shirt, eliciting a muffled cry from my constricted throat. My face begins to turn blue as foam and drool start to drip down my mouth. I land some soft pats on your hands to loosen up a bit. You lean in closer, your cock still buried deep inside me abusing my cervix with each thrust, “You like this, you wanted this. I’m just making your fantasy a reality but don't worry, I'm more than happy to oblige. If you can hold your breath for one minute—I will reward you. Don’t you want that from your favorite teacher? Hm?” I continued to main while being to choked like a dragged doll.

“Choking while moaning…What a–” you slap my thighs “–fucking pervert. I would've never thought my student would be an undercover slut” 

You lean back still grinding into me also giving me a moment to compose myself, my heart races as I take a deep breath and nod, willing myself to endure the coming torment. Your hand squeezes around my neck once again resuming violating my hole. You start to count out loud, each number punctuated by a vicious thrust of your hips. The pressure in my lungs builds, and stars dance in my vision. You're relentless, holding my tied wrists while thrusting deeper and harder, each thrust increases my lust for you. “Four... five... six…” I'm getting dizzy, my body desperately craving air, but I hold on, thinking of the sweet release I'll get if I can just last a little longer. “Seven... eight... nine…” Fifty seconds in, “Almost there, sweetheart. “C’mon, you can do it…Imagine me filling up your tiny womb, claiming you, making you mine in every way” The sweet words send a shiver down my spine causing me to clench around your cock involuntarily. 

 “Oh, you like that, don't you? The thought of being my little fucktoy, being used by me in every way possible to the point when I am the only person that you can think of when you’re horny. I am the only person you need in this life when I tell you to get down on your knees, you’ll get down on your knees, when I tell you to take my load inside you, you’ll take it without defying me. Do you understand?” I nods multiple times. Tears stream down my face wetting the blindfold, but I refuse to disobey you. You finally finished counting "Fifty-nine... sixty." You release my neck, and I start coughing violently, drool traveling down to my chin and dripping down on the table.  “Good girl…” you praise me with a tone filled with lust. 

“Here’s my reward for you, a big one.” With a final powerful thrust, you release a deep groan filling me with a hot thick load of cum. My body convulses in pleasure and pain; I can't help but cough and moan at the same time. Looks like we found your new favorite pastime," you sneer, pulling out of me and leaving me trembling on the table still gasping for air. After you've had your fill of my trembling body, you finally withdraw from me, your cock glistening with my juices and your cum. You remove the blindfold, and I blink against the harsh light, my eyes immediately drawn to your handsome face. You wipe off my face full of tears, drool, and cum that you shove to my mouth; a stark contrast to the pristine lab coat I wore when I first walked in. You smirk, taking in the sight of me, pathetically sprawled over your desk with my wrists still bound. “Look at yourself,” you murmur, your voice thick with satisfaction. “Such a pretty little slut, all used up…” My cheeks burn with embarrassment, I try to look away, but you grab my chin to meet your gaze. “Don’t be ashamed of yourself, I think I like this side of you�� Sweet reassuring words just make me fall head over heels for you even more. “And we're going to have extra tutoring at my place. Be there on time, don’t make me wait, okay?” you land a kiss on my head as an extra reward, I assumed? The reality of my new role sinks in—I'm going to be at your mercy, subject to whatever depraved desires you have. Like an obedient dog who is satisfied with whatever the owner give to them ♡

[thisismycorneroftheinternet]

Fucking how tf am I supposed to not feel like shit and always anxious if shit never fucking improves?? I am not that fucking self-deluded to fool myself into thinking this is still a good situation somehow. Yeah sure, there's always deeper in the hole, thank fuck I am not literally digging through the trash for bones to get some protein in my meals like the poor in this city that got featured in that grotesque, horror circus-style magazine story I remember reading about in the pandemic, but that sort of thought does not make life any easier when you're still having to rely on free food that takes you a total of 2h to get, per meal, and now donations from your sister's fiancee to get by the month.

And then yet I have to deal with my sister fucking throwing a hissy fit at any time I fucking complain about (1) thing, but also debase any fucking medical help I'm trying to get because apparently according to her, I'm not that bad off and should suck it the fuck up and "learn to manage (my) own stress better" while being completely unhelpful on that front besides telling me to meditate, which doesn't fucking solve shit??? And then she also gets mad when I have to whine and cry to our mother to not let her try to cut off our little assistance, because apparently that's begging and I should not be begging I should be demanding, when our parents are literally sinking into debt more and more and our mother can barely afford to pay the taxes for her freelance job??

Like, I'm going to fucking walk in on Tuesday to the health clinic, and update them on my deteriorating mental health, and it's going to fucking be the same fucking old adage of "you should exercise for your anxiety, you should learn to organize yourself better, you should manage your ADHD without meds, you should stress less" which is so fucking unhelpful as well. Platitudes like that I already get from the fucking web as well, Instagram loves to fucking show me WellnessTM posts on the greatness of exercise and being thankful for life, why am I fucking taking hours of my day every other month to hear that as well from people I was trying to seek some sort of further help??

And like, in general, I feel like I am going circles, and nothing ever gets better, only worser and worser, and like, I am really grateful for my sister's fiancee's kindness, but like, I've been the entire month trying to not get to this. Yes, because it's humiliating, yes I'm fucking prideful and I feel like I am an able enough adult that I should not need to depend on others' kindness to eat! But also because like, I am able enough to work, I have all sorts of skills, and I am more than fucking willing to do whatever it takes, but no one wants me regardless. And worse, it's pointless to seek a full-on job because university fucking gets in the way of everything, because I fucking switched to day classes because of my family's insistence, because I entered university in night classes originally and that offended them enough that they bothered me about it, and now I'm paying the price.

And then I talk to my one university friend, and she's like "yeah I'm struggling as well" and I try to commiserate with her, because that's what one does, it's like, I realize I'm struggling way more with way less than her. Yes, sure, she had to drop university twice, but also, she's doing 40h a week of classes, and undergrad research, and was sleeping like, 4h a night. No fucking wonder she snapped twice. Meanwhile I can barely get above 14h of credit/hours without flunking something, and even when I pass it's barely scraping by. How come she's being more seriously contemplated for ADHD and anxiety and all than I am?? I guess it's because I have to rely on the free clinic, while she's on her military daddy's insurance plan. God, I don't want to resent her, but I came so close to snapping at her in the group chat when she told me that she's struggling because she can barely sleep, and sure she's seeing stuff like I used to when I slept little, but she "just ignores it and it's fine!" while I used to be terrified I'd get killed by the fucking Balloon Boy from FNAF and shadow demons when I underslept.

God, fucking hell, I swear to fucking god, I am trying so fucking hard to act normal and be normal and not be a fucking mess but even that's hard and worsening my anxiety. And yet I don't get any help that sticks.

[elvisqueso]

Pocahontas (1995): 3 times Pocahontas is compared to her mother + 1 time she's recognized on her own merits.

rambling lil meta under the cut

see, what's crazy about this whole situation is that it makes me wonder what exactly pocahontas's mom was like to have left such a massive impression on literally everyone in their community? there's that outright statement that "yeah, your mom's spirit is in the wind, basically, and our people venerate her as a spiritual guide (at the very least)." we know that she's the main connection between pocahontas and grandmother willow, and there's an implication in there that whatever leadership role she held in the village is expected to fall on pocahontas's shoulders someday.

i am so convinced that this role is some kind of spiritual leader/shaman position. wise-woman, priestess, whatever it's called. we don't see anyone else besides kekata performing any kind of spiritual rites, and even he isn't seen acting in direct contact with spiritual entities. kekata has to perform chants, provide offerings, and use a medium. pocahontas can just fuckign. talk to the things. how is she doing that? why isn't anyone else really able to do that? john smith could talk with grandmother willow but would he be able to if pocahontas wasn't there (i actually think he could but that's a different post)? has she ever done that for literally anybody else? nakoma never mentions grandmother willow. nobody mentions grandmother willow. apparently, the only two people who knew about her before pocahontas brought her new bf over was pocahontas and her mom.

i'm losing track of myself here, but the point is pocahontas is Highly aware of the ghost she's expected to live up to. and it sucks. and there's a lot more to her character arc about this but the eventual come-around to accepting that she has a responsibility to be more than herself and more than her mother's ghost is so heartbreaking because it also meant she had to let go of her soulmate at the same time so i c ry

[rustycottoncandy]

I should draw my fursona more often

[motherhenna]

So today was my first day teaching an after school elective theater class (10+ 2nd 3rd 4th grade girls) and holy shit y'all I have even more respect for teachers now than ever before because that was BRUTAL lmao it was like they could smell my fear and knew they could trample all over me. Maybe my viewpoint is skewed, seeing as I was a really meek, easygoing kid at that age, but I can't fathom just...blatantly ignoring the teacher when they tell you not to do something. I get theater is a bit more loosey goosey but damn I can't imagine treating any of my past theater teachers (or any adult for that matter) with such disregard. Hoping that they were just crazy because it was their first day back at school after summer break and they'll mellow out a tiny bit by next week.

There were two super sweet and responsible 4th graders that I'm probably going to have to lean on to get through to some of their classmates. Like appoint them "team leaders" or whatever.

Either way, no more Ms. Pushover next Wednesday--Miss Helen is gonna lay down the fucking LAW lol I'm going to print out a set of class rules and expectations and have the kids repeat them back to me, and I may invest in a fucking whistle to cut through how loud they can get. If any of y'all have a background in teaching or otherwise dealing with large groups of children, feel free to drop any tips or suggestions you might have to get a handle on a rowdy crowd of munchkins and gremlins without yelling or being overly strict.

[ladyseidr]

william "me and my Perfect Societally-Idealized Family" af.ton vs. jayne being a polyamorous lesbian who regularly scandalizes people on purpose and knows william is bullshitting himself ( even if he won't hear it )

[dianetastesmetal]

I've started this diet MONTHS ago and it appears I haven't lost any weight, god, I'm so fucking sick of this, I just want to be thin :(

[cinturon-cadena]

WTF Does This Show Think It's Doing Being This Fucking Good and Trauma Dumping Everything I'm Not Crying You Are!!!!

S3E19 Memoria.

I am Actually Upset. I am crying. This is legitimately Sad. Genuine childhood trauma and repressed memories and it's just so Real. Not, 'oh my poor blorbo/baby boy' real, but like, 'this could be an actual real person who had this shit happen to them' and it's actually so horribly sad and depressing and good thing I don't have work tomorrow because it's going to take me at least a day to recover from this.

I am genuinely devastated. It hurts so much because I know there are Real People out there me who have to deal with repressed childhood trauma and this just hit so hard for me.

Also is it just me or is Clark a major asshole in this series? Like, just tell them the goddamned truth you fucking prick!!!

FUCK!!!

[ectonurites]

almost 4am can't stop thinking about the meaning of the idiom 'to have blood on [someone's] hands'—to be responsible for a person's death—combined with the fact that Zach is the one we are specifically shown with Daryl's actual blood on his hands (once for real and once in a dream)... Not Josh who had been holding the sword Daryl fell onto, but Zach who took the sword out.

[confinesofmy]

i hate the gradual excision of a bad relationship you thought could be salvaged. i hate the months or even years long discovery process as you create more and more boundaries trying to end up with something worth saving and then in the end failing to keep anything above "acquaintance." absolutely miserable.

[anotheruntitledsong]

i did like the hidden palace but (SPOILER if anyone hasn't read it?) i'm genuinely so annoyed at how Arbeely is handled like... I wish i could be sad but i'm just fucking irritated. I was overly invested in him and that's def why but i just feel like they did him dirty

[eosofspades]

i hate how difficult making massive projects is when it comes to art i am having the GREATEST idea for a video game but the only way it can come to actualization the way it needs to be to make it work is if i could get it picked up by a triple A studio

[lightningfilledsaber]

I'm just so fucking glad to be alive