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calaofnoldor · 4 years ago

Text

What’s Mine

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 7,595

Summary: The secret you and Sam are hiding from Dean is threatened by your inability to keep your hands off each other.

Warnings: 18+ no actual smut but plenty of implied smut, pre-smut, and smut adjacency lol, secret dating, enemies to lovers, jealousy and possessiveness (exhibited by both sam and reader), slight obsession with sam’s big ass hands (i blame this largely on @walkerboy290‘s glorious hand porn gif sets), and language

A/N: inspired by and written for @thinkinghardhardlythinking bc she’s been bugging me to write smut and using her birthday as a bargaining chip, so i hope you’re happy sai. happy (belated) birthday babe! i suppose in my subconscious need to truly honor you, this became the longest one shot i’ve ever written... that and this is now also a little birthday gesture for the brilliant and beautiful @sams-sass (damn your close birthdays!) even though she never asked for smut (if you hate it, i’ll write you something else!) happy birthday to you too, darling!

also written for @superbadassnatural‘s 333 badass followers celebration with the prompt “___ and I are together.” “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa.” and @writethelifeyouwant‘s 300 follower fic challenge with the prompt “All the pretty girls like Samuel” (both prompts are bolded in the fic) i’m sorry i’m so late! congratulations to both of you and thanks for letting me enter your challenges!

[basically i have a lot of people to blame for this disaster 😂]

Square Filled: Secret Dating for @spnfluffbingo and Enemies to Lovers for @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo

MASTERLIST

The waffles on your plate are surprisingly good for a sketchy, 50’s-themed diner, but unfortunately your attention is elsewhere. In fact, the two distinctly masculine voices behind you have been obnoxiously impairing your ability to savor the buttery, syrup-doused carbs since their owners sat down in the adjoining booth. It’s the topic of their discussion that disturbs you, and nips at your conscience until you realize you can no longer take off without imparting a few words to your oblivious colleagues.

Turning your head subtly to the side, you try to catch a glimpse of the men you’re about to confront in your peripheral vision. From what you can see, they’re both rather burly, a little rough around the edges, and from what you’ve heard, recklessly cocksure. You know the type all too well. Being a lone hunter of the fairer sex for most of your life means you’ve long since learned that the best way to combat their kind is with a steadfast façade of thick skin and unwavering confidence.

So you sigh and put on your best smile before turning around, crossing your forearms along the top of the booth seat, “Listen fellas, I hate to interrupt, but I really wouldn’t bother with the bamboo dagger and Shinto priest if I were you.”

“And who the hell are you?” the one with shorter hair demands. He’s a bit stockier than his companion and has a face that looks like it was designed by Abercrombie and Fitch - well that explains the arrogance.

“I’m the person who’s about to save your asses evidently,” you respond with a smug grin, trying not to let their absurdly good looks deter your act.

Abercrombie’s partner, the Fabio wannabe, releases a quiet scoff, “And how are you gonna do that?” he questions dubiously.

“By letting you in on a little secret…” Throwing him a tight smile, you lean forward and lower your voice, “That ōkami you’re after? It’s not an ōkami, it’s a ghoul.” Sitting back, you await the outrage.

“What?! But that’s not possible, I checked the lore. And it’s obviously got a type.” Fabio’s glossy chestnut locks fall across his delicate features as he shakes his head in disbelief, and you almost snort out loud. How did this amateur expect to hunt with hair like that?

You look him over, taking in the broad shoulders and muscled arms, as well as the obvious height advantage he’s got over Abercrombie even whilst they’re both seated. To be honest, you’re surprised he’s referencing lore at all. Guys his size always assume they can either outman or outgun whatever obstacles cross their path, and they almost never take women like you seriously, despite your ample years of acquired knowledge and invaluable experience. It’s this experience that surmises a bit of antagonism here is inevitable, so you might as well get a head start.

“Yeah well maybe you should check again, big guy,” you glance down at his hands, your first mistake as their sheer size render you speechless and subsequently agitated at yourself for the momentary lapse of visceral lust, but the show must go on, “Make sure those giant, lumbering hands of yours don’t fumble over anything important or you might miss the connection to Isabelle Harding. You see it’s not ‘a type’; it’s revenge.”

“Wh- Bu- I looked through the files. I wouldn’t have missed that,” Fabio insists.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you type ‘Isabelle Harding’ and ‘1987 school bombing’ into your search bar and see what comes up?” you gesture towards the laptop on their table with a raised brow. Minutes later, both men are dumbfounded by the revelation on the screen, staring between it and you with their mouths agape.

You chuckle silently at their faces, “Don’t worry, there’s no need to thank me. Although you rookies might wanna go home and let the more experienced hunter finish up here.” As you’re about to bid them farewell, you dip back in to add, “Oh and a word of free advice, maybe don’t discuss supernatural monsters quite so loudly in public spaces next time. It might invite unwanted attention.”

With that, you turn around and slap some cash down next to your unfinished waffles, before grabbing your jacket and strutting out the door.

Sam is left in utter confusion. The sudden animosity you had spouted his way seems completely baseless and unwarranted. Had he somehow offended you? Sam generally considers himself a highly respectful and fairly easy-going guy, not quite as hot-blooded as his brother, and thus not as likely to provoke such antipathy from a complete stranger. To make matters worse, he certainly can’t deny that something about you had registered within his subconscious as inexplicably attractive, despite the way you’d embarrassed him. In his flustered and slightly aroused state, it had been all he could do to remain awestruck in his seat and stare blatantly at your ass as you walked away.

The next time Sam sees you is only twelve hours later and no less humiliating. You’re mid-swing in the killing blow against what you had accurately predicted to be a ghoul as he and Dean tumble in. Despite the low lighting, Sam is once again stupefied by your raging beauty, augmented by the incredible skill you’re displaying in a much more physical sense this time around. Before he can drag his eyes away, there’s a collective shout of “watch out!” and suddenly you’re right in front of him. In a blur of events, you somehow manage to push Sam out of the way and successfully decapitate the unexpected second ghoul that had been sneaking up behind him, with only a slice across the arm to show for it.

“Didn’t I tell you two to go home?” You’re panting from the exertion and Sam’s gaze lands on the neckline of your shirt, skewed from the fight and revealing a good amount of cleavage. He quickly averts his eyes. What is happening? Sam can’t remember the last time anyone had evoked such a staggering reaction from him. He feels as if he’s a mere spectator in his own body.

Across from him, you press your hand against the wound and curse when it comes back covered in blood. At your groan of pain, Sam finally finds his voice again, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I don’t know how I missed that other one. I- that normally doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls, huh?” you reply offhand, still a bit out of breath.

It’s easy for Sam to dismiss your mocking given that he feels terribly guilty for being the cause of your injury. From where he’s standing, the cut looks deep. “Here, at least let me stitch it up for you. It’s too awkward a position for you to do it yourself,” he offers, holding out his ginormous hands to you like he’s waving a white flag.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, haven’t you, big guy? At this point, I’d rather Abercrombie over there be the one behind the needle.”

“Who- what?” are the first words Dean speaks since the action has died down.

You turn to face the shorter guy, “Oh don’t look so surprised. You might as well be the model for a slightly older Ken doll. Are you up for it or not?”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as he tries to determine whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

“Uh- actually, I’m better at stitches than my brother,” Sam butts in.

“With those jumbo, fumbling hands? Yeah, sure you are, big guy,” you decline skeptically.

“It’s Sam,” he states through a clenched jaw.

“OK, Sam. Since I just saved your life, you mind making yourself useful and burning those bodies while your bro puts my arm back together? You know, as a ‘thank you’ perhaps?”

Sam is stunned for the third time that day. No one has ever belittled him (whilst gratuitously attacking his size) insofar without any apparent reason. It seems as though his very existence upsets you and the arbitrariness of your contempt has caused an anger to stir beneath him, but beyond that lies bewilderment and irritation. How had he managed to accomplish two such massive mistakes in front of you in the span of so short a time? Perturbed and bitter, Sam silently sets to work on the bodies.

Meanwhile, you’ve come to a surprising realization as Dean begins to cut the fabric of your flannel away from your damaged arm, the name ‘Sam’ and the words ‘my brother’ resounding in your head, “Wait a second- there’s no way… you’re not… the Winchesters, are you? Sam and… Dean?”

“The one and only, sweetheart.” He sends you a dazzling smile that is as perfect as you’d expect, but within his eyes is an underlying poignancy that you recognize as clear as day: an indication of a traumatic past and a lifetime spent plastering on tough veneers. You notice as well how gentle his touch is and how his stitches are practiced and prudent. Perhaps you had judged him too hastily.

Through an incredulous chuckle, you retort, “Well I can’t say I didn’t expect more from you, but at least this’ll get me a free round of drinks at the hunters’ pub tonight.”

Dean laughs with you before sobering at the thought of how his baby brother must be feeling, “Hey listen, take it easy on Sammy, alright? I don’t know what’s gotten into him today but he’s not usually like this. He’s actually the smart one, believe it or not.”

Scoffing, you can’t help but smile back at Dean and soon find an easy rhythm with the older Winchester, despite your awkward introduction.

From several yards away, however, Sam looks wistfully back to see you smiling lightheartedly at something Dean’s said, the two of you huddled in close proximity as his brother’s hands drift across your bare skin. Something akin to envy bubbles within his chest although he’s aware it makes no sense, so with a frown, Sam does his best to shake it off and get back to work.

But it’s not easy to forget you. And just as Sam is beginning to think he’s rid that awful day from his memory, you pop back into his life three months down the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the overgrown hunter extraordinaire Sammy Winchester.” The sarcasm that oozes from your otherwise beguiling voice has him gritting his teeth in no time.

“It’s Sam.”

“So you here to mess up my hunt again, Sam?”

Although he wishes he could have been the bigger man instead of surrendering to the resentment you roused within him, after a couple repeated hatchet burying attempts fall through, Sam just can’t resist the little game you’ve started.

Over the next few months, you and Dean form a fortuitously close bond and the older Winchester develops a habit of calling you up when faced with a troublesome hunt, and vice versa. Despite Sam’s fabricated displeasure, a show he puts on mostly for Dean (since any other emotion would seem illogical given the way you treat him), Sam is peculiarly and begrudgingly excited to see you every time. But the match never ends. In fact, Sam lets it intensify each time you work together, always astounded by how you manage to get him so worked up.

“I’m telling you, it’s a rugaru!”

“Right, because the last time we listened to you, things worked out so well,” you remark sardonically.

“The lore says-“

“Ooh, quoting the lore again now are we, Mr. Know It All?”

At this point, Sam is about as huffy and puffy as the big bad wolf and if he were a cartoon character, there’d surely be steam erupting from his ears. “Look, Y/N, this isn’t about who knows more or who’s right; this is about saving those people’s lives!”

“You think I don’t know that? Was I not the one who saved your life the first time we met?”

“OK, alright, just shut up you two!” Dean finally shouts above you, “Would it kill you to just get along for two seconds?”

“No,” Sam admits.

“Probably,” you say at the same time, causing Sam to shoot you his overly perfected bitch face.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“What the fuck?!” Dean’s booming voice echoes throughout the bunker and moments later you and Sam come flying into the kitchen to answer his call, guns at the ready.

“What? What is it?” you ask while Sam scans the room.

A whimper is the only the way to describe the sound of Dean’s reply, as he points toward an unseen object on the floor. Edging toward him, you lower your gun in the direction of his finger until you discover the source of Dean’s distress.

With a sigh, you look toward Sam who is also exhaling in relief at the sight of the entity in question. The two of you share a moment of wordless conversation before simultaneously dropping your guns with a conclusive nod.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” Dean’s tone is still timid and appalled, and you nearly laugh at the idea of a grown-ass man looking so aghast because of a used condom.

“Because it kinda is…” you supply unhelpfully, earning yourself a small glare from the man beside you.

“Dean,” Sam begins with a deep breath, “There’s something we have to tell you… Y/N and I are together.”

The snort that escapes Dean is full-bodied and borderline psychotic, “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa!”

You wait till his snickering subsides, “No, it- it’s true.” Your voice is hesitant yet hopeful, “We’re not joking. We’ve kinda become… a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, well you know, I don’t wanna have to put a label on it or-“

“Y/N’s my girlfriend,” Sam declares with conviction as he reaches out to curl his long fingers around your waist and lasso you towards him.

“-Buuuut, that is the one I’d use if anyone asks,” you quickly affirm with a stiff pat to your boyfriend’s abdomen, wincing at the unversed attempt of PDA and missing the dimpled grin that crosses Sam’s amused features.

“Well, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe either of you.” Dean’s sturgeon face comes on strong as he shakes his head and points a challenging finger at you, “Kiss him, right now,” he dares with perked brows.

The eye roll you respond with is so dramatic your entire head moves with it. But then, without a moment of pause, you turn your body into Sam’s, reach up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down for a searing kiss. Now this is something you’re well-versed in. The reunion of your lips starts off relatively slow, but it doesn’t take long to escalate into something more fiery that involves tongue, the eager push and pull movements of your bodies, and Sam’s enormous hands cradling your head.

After a moment of shock, Dean objects, “Alright, alright, I get it! That’s enough of that!”

Unwilling to recede just yet, you linger in the kiss for a little longer, delaying your separation by nibbling down on Sam’s lower lip and tugging gently, only releasing it as you pull away torturously slow. When the two of you finally open your languid eyes, it’s to stare into each other’s dilated pupils and ponder the moment for an indiscernible minute.

“What th- I said, I get it! Now could please stop ogling each other before my lunch comes back out the wrong way?!”

But the way Sam’s smiling at you is addictive and you can’t bring yourself to look away until he forces a break by leaning in to plant a tender kiss upon your forehead before tucking you into his side as he faces his brother again.

Dean’s face is covered by his hand, “I’m gonna need a minute. I just-“ His features leap through a range of expressions as he tries to find the right words, “When the hell did this start anyway? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other?”

“Yeahhh, that was mostly an act. Although we bought it at first too,” you explain with a shrug.

“We weren’t pretending the whole time. It just kind of happened and we didn’t really know how else to act around each other by then,” Sam adds.

“Right, basically it turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate... and that line is hardcore yearning.” Your words bring a chuckle to Sam’s lips but his brother still looks out of sorts.

Shaking his head with closed eyes, Dean sighs, “Alright, can someone just explain to me exactly how this happened, because I’m still not computing here. But spare me the details and try to keep it PG-13,” he emphasizes with adamant hand gestures.

“How do you know it’s not PG-13?” you inquire with a held-back laugh.

“Ha. With the way you two were playing tonsil hockey just now, I can tell you’ve been around the bend way more than I wanna know. My little brother doesn’t kiss like that on the first date.”

It’s impossible to hold back a giggle at the memory of your ‘first date’ and the way Sam had kissed you, “OK well, that would be hard, considering the story involves a lot of sex... You wanna give it a go, big guy?” you pass the ball over to Sam with a quirked brow and lowered voice, to which he responds with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a little warning glance that you’re well aware means ‘save it for the bedroom’ but you simply smirk up at him.

‘Big guy’ used to be a term you called Sam in contempt, but when the feelings between you evolved and a sexual relationship developed, it became an innuendo, such that calling him ‘big guy’ in front of Dean or in public almost always results in glorious sex. In fact, sometimes you believe the nickname has held a slightly obscene connotation for you since the beginning.

Afterall, your carnal longing for him has been present from day one, although at the time you had believed it to be purely physical. Sure, you had dreams about having him in various positions in your bed, but you figured those were merely betrayals of your subconscious mind. That was until one day, a heated argument in a rare moment alone had ended up in a violent make out session, after which the two of you had just barely gotten the last of your clothes back on before Dean walked in. One look at your worked up and frenetic states alongside the disordered condition of your surroundings, and he immediately assumed you’d been fighting again (which wasn’t terribly far from the truth), chortling as he asked if you would have killed each other had he returned a bit later.

With a clearing of his throat, Sam begins to recount the tale, “Uh, well it started in that motel in South Carolina, while you were out getting food…”

“Look, all I’m saying is there is no way he’s using the hospital as a dump site! It’s just not feasible!”

With complete disregard for the peace and quiet of the other residents within this thin-walled motel, you and Sam once again find yourselves in a shouting match.

“Oh right, I forgot! You’re Sam Winchester! How could you POSSIBLY be wrong?! Mister ‘look at me, my IQ and LSAT score match my fucking height! Oh and I also happen to have the physique of an Adonis without even owning a gym membership!’” you roar bitterly, gesticulating with your hands to help better communicate your pent-up indignation.

“Right and you’re Y/N Y/L/N, so how could YOU possibly be wrong? Miss ‘look at me, I never went to college but I’m a genius AND I can kick ass! Oh and I also happen to look effortlessly stunning through it all!’” Sam suddenly seems bigger than ever as he towers over you, that panty-soaking deep voice emanating from his diaphragm and infusing itself throughout the entire room until all you can see, hear, and breathe is Sam.

The fury takes over and you don’t notice your feet taking you closer to him, “Oh yeah because you don’t make EVERYTHING you do look so unnecessarily hot and make me wanna rip your clothes off all the damn time!”

“Fuck! And you don’t always drive me crazy when we have these stupid arguments and your chest starts heaving and you look so insanely delectable I just wanna pick you up and fuck you against the closest surface!” By now, the distance between you is essentially nonexistent and your brain is no longer run by reason.

“So why don’t you then?” are your famous last words, prompting Sam to grab you wildly by the back of a thigh, lifting slightly and driving you to climb up him like a spider monkey fleeing from a grounded predator, while his other hand pushes your hair aside to gain better access to your face. Your mouths clash in a fierce battle and before you know it, Sam’s huge hands are cupping your ass as your legs wrap around his waist and you rut into him, hands flying from his shoulders to his hair. Those divine chestnut locks that you’ve always dreamed of running your fingers through. They’re somehow even softer than you imagined and the revelation, in conjunction with the way Sam’s tongue is becoming increasingly aggressive causes a fresh surge of libidinous energy to rocket through you. As a result, you give his silky strands an irresistible tug and drink in the moan he makes, the sinful sound reverberating straight down to your core as you clench around nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam groans as he grudgingly forces himself to pull back as much as he can, “Are you sure? Is this what you want? Cause I can’t- Y/N I won’t be able to stop myself if we keep going.” His eyes squeeze shut as if the notion of stopping or the act of keeping his lips away from yours is causing him genuine pain, and the entire gesture moves you.

“Fuck, you really are the opposite of everything I thought you would be,” you make a quick mental note to apologize later for your initially presumptuous behavior although you can’t find it within yourself to feel any remorse right now, “Yes, please Sam, fuck me. I want you so bad… I think I have since we met and I saw those gorgeous hands of yours,” you confess, biting your lip lightly.

Sam breathes out a low incredulous laugh, “What, these?” he asks, removing one of the aforementioned hands away from your butt to bring it into your line of vision.

“Yes, fuck they’re so big and beautiful and strong and-“

“Alright, I don’t need to know about your weird hand fetish!” Dean hollers abruptly, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he could somehow erase the image of you and his brother together out of his retinas. “OK, but that was like… four months ago. You mean you’ve been sneaking around behind my back this whole time?”

“Well at first we didn’t want to tell you because we weren’t even sure what it was ourselves,” you divulge.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to try to explain something that we didn’t understand yet,” Sam supplements, hoping his brother will understand the motive behind your secrecy.

You nod along, “But then… it got a little harder to hide.”

The apprehension behind Dean’s emerald eyes is unmistakable as he reluctantly inquires, “That’s why this felt like déjà vu?”

It’s with a grimace that you reply, hesitantly, “Remember the time you found those panties in the backseat of the Impala?”

Dean’s eyes grow comically wide and Sam ducks his head in preparation of what’s to come.

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that…”

The click of her heels against the porcelain-tiled foyer irritates you as the three of you stride through her front door. You’re posing as detectives sent to question this overdressed young woman about her late husband, but the moment she lays her eyes on Sam, you reckon she’s forgotten her beloved’s damn name.

“Oh my… lord and savior. Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she beholds breathlessly with a seductive bite of her painted ruby lips.

You cough loudly and Dean sniggers, thinking you’re annoyed about Sam getting such commendation and attention during a serious case.

“I know this might be the grief talking, but I would climb you like a tree,” she purrs, sauntering up to Sam with an exaggerated sway of her hips. With her half-lidded doe eyes adorned with dark, fluttery lashes and low, sultry voice, you have to admit she’s quite attractive.

Grinding your teeth as your nails dig into your palms, you glower at the woman unreservedly. She, however, takes no notice, running her hands along Sam’s forearms before gripping at his bicep to lead him toward her living room. “Please, come have a seat, detective. You can ask me whatever you want.” The wink she appends is somehow the final nail in the coffin.

It’s with zero hesitation that you feign the reception of a notification on your phone before declaring, “Oh would you look at that, the uh… Sheriff needs us back at the station, Sam. He says it’s urgent.” You try to keep your tone even, thankful that you all maintained your real first names for these aliases, “Dean, you’re good to conduct this interview on your own, right?” Without waiting for an answer, you trample over to snatch Sam’s other arm and ignoring the horny widow’s gaping mouth, proceed to haul him away.

Dean sends you a strange look but relents, “Uh, yeah I guess, OK.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, your hand shifts down to lace your fingers with Sam’s, marching him towards the Impala with a staunch and mighty purpose. Even Sam’s elongated legs stumble to keep up.

“So uh… when did you give the Sheriff your number?” There’s an edge in his voice that normally disappears when it’s just the two of you.

“Wha- I didn’t. Sam, I just made all that up,” you tell him as you reach the car and open its back door. Pushing Sam inside, you climb in swiftly after him, wasting no time as you straddle his thighs and begin to undress him, only pausing when he looks up at you in adorable, puppy-like confusion.

“Wait, what? Then what are we doing?”

That’s when it finally dawns on you, “Hold on a sec, were you… jealous?” You can’t help but smile, finding it amusing that he’s stewing in his own envy after what you just witnessed.

“No, I just- He was kinda all over you this morning.”

“You mean like the way Mrs. My-Husband-Just-Died-But-I-Wanna-Climb-You-Like-a-Tree was in there?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” Sam perks up, the hint of a smug grin ghosting across his lips.

“She was practically holding your hand!”

“That’s what bothered you the most?” He dips his head to catch your eyes and those variegated irises burn into you with an intense, questioning gaze, alight with mischievous curiosity.

“They’re my hands to hold,” you contend with a pout, subconsciously clenching your thighs around his as you seize one of his large hands with two of your much smaller ones, “Just like you’re my tree to climb.”

Sam’s head falls back in bright laughter, “I thought you said they were ‘oversized’ and ‘ungainly’?” he teases, quoting your previous slights.

“You know I only said that cause Dean was there.”

“I’m pretty sure you called them ‘fumbly’ and ‘lumbering’ the first time we met.”

Staring at his fingers as you play with them, you shiver at the memory of how they feel all over you. “That was cause I used to think all hunters with a Y chromosome were cocky, misogynistic assholes who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.”

“But I proved you wrong, right?”

“Fuck yes you did. So, so wrong. And now you’re mine, and I don’t like seeing other people touch what’s mine,” you growl before returning to your earlier task of removing his clothes, pouncing on him when your fingers finally land on bare skin. You kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprised grunts with glee, and as his hands start travelling from your hips up to your back, holding you tight against him, your lips move down to his pulse point, sucking, licking, and nibbling, “Mine.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker! You goddamn rabbits!” Dean squawks in protest as he begins to pace the floor, “Have you no decency?! And in my poor Baby! While I was busy doing all the work, saving lives!”

You roll your eyes at his melodramatics and can feel the tension in Sam’s abdominal muscles as he attempts to restrain his laughter. As if Dean had never taken a break during a case for a stress-relieving quickie before, or hadn’t been at least somewhat grateful to be left alone with a beautiful woman.

His next comment confirms your point, “Although, if I remember correctly that lady was a fox.” After a brief pondering pause and an introspectively appreciative smirk, Dean’s whining resumes, “But seriously! I can’t believe you two! Here I was feeling bad for forcing you to work and live together, hoping you’d eventually learn to get along when this whole time you were shacking up like animals and casually defiling my Baby just because what? Some girl touched Sam’s hand?!”

Feeling emboldened by the catharsis of this long-overdue airing of your dirty laundry, you decide to add to Dean’s exasperation, “Yeah and in the spirit of honesty, that might’ve happened more than once.” Sam tries to hold back his snort as he gives your hip a playful cautionary squeeze while Dean’s feet come to a full stop as he turns to give you a death glare. “Hey, it’s not my fault all the pretty girls like Samuel! And I’m pretty sure we wiped her down after.”

“I don’t even-“ Dean purses his lips and quirks his head with a dynamic expression of unbearable vexation, “You better be getting me pie every day of the week for what you did.“ He takes a deep breath before circling back, “Wait, OK so you’re telling me that a used condom ended up in our kitchen because- what? You two couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a bed? You know what, forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Did you at least sanitize the place after?? No, of course you didn’t, you left a fucking condom on the floor… I think I’m gonna throw up.”

But you hardly hear Dean’s rambling because you and Sam are far too wrapped up in each other, smiling as you recall the events of that morning.

Your eyes slowly drift open to find the most exalting sight in all the world: Sam Winchester’s sleeping face, blissful and serene. Lifting a hand to gingerly cup his cheek, the corners of your mouth curl up when he leans into your touch. It’s moments like this that make you wish you could wake up next to him every morning.

Only after you’ve traced his every feature and planted a soft kiss where his dimple would be if he were awake and smiling, do you carefully peel yourself from his side, slipping out of his hold as you quietly climb out of bed. Sam rolls over a bit and you freeze with bated breath, watching as his big arm extends out in your direction as if trying to reach for you in his sleep, before stilling again.

Mornings like this are rare and you want him to soak up all the restful sleep he can. Once you’re sure you haven’t woken him, you scan the room for something to cover your naked figure, until your eyes land on the flannel he’d worn the night before. Picking it up, you bring it to your nose and inhale deeply to revel in the residual scent of Sam. Another glimpse at his peaceful, sleeping form has you smiling fondly. God, you are such a goner for that man. It’s becoming hard to reserve your soft looks toward him for private moments alone.

You can barely remember how it happened, but over time, you’d come to learn that Sam is nothing like you originally imagined him to be. He’s kind-hearted and open-minded, the type of soul that can find hope and beauty in even the darkest of places, a far cry from the shallow macho man silhouette you’d expected him to fill. In fact, Sam routinely defies the expectations others have enforced upon him, proving his worth time and time again as he’s persisted through some of what must be the toughest challenges to ever face a single human. Yet through it all, his spirit remains intact, never once yielding to cynicism or resentment or apathy or even the building of walls as you and Dean have resorted to. He is truly the bravest man you know and infinitely more competent than your first fluke of a hunt with him had mistakenly suggested, both in the field and in bed.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you wrap yourself in plaid and head out the door. Dean never questions your use of Sam’s shirts because ever since Sam firmly insisted on giving you his flannel after your second encounter with them resulted in Dean cutting your own top apart, you’ve grown into a habit of borrowing Sam’s clothes. You always claim they’re more comfortable than your own and Sam’s feigned annoyance over you ‘stealing’ his belongings tides Dean right over.

Half an hour passes before Sam approaches the bunker kitchen to find you with your back towards the entrance, busy prepping breakfast in nothing but his plaid. He pauses in the doorway to stare at you for a minute, licking his lips with an irrepressible smile. For some, this may seem like a stereotypical morning after, but for a couple of hunters, it feels like a dream come true.

After finally returning to the bunker last night following the completion of a series of successful hunts, you’ve got no solid obligations and very little on your to-do lists today, although Sam’s got more than a few ideas about how to pass the time, and a couple more come to mind when you stretch up on your toes to reach for something, causing the hem of his shirt to glide up until its corner reveals just slightest hint of your incredible ass. Sam can’t suppress his little grunt of approval, which catches your attention and makes you turn your head, peering back at him over your shoulder.

You smirk at the blessed view of him standing there in nothing but the pair of thin grey sweatpants you’d bought him a month ago when you discovered the viral online phenomenon, “Hey, big guy. You just gonna stand there and gawk or do you wanna make yourself useful and grab another plate from the top shelf?”

Chuckling at your false animosity, Sam stalks toward you, “Good morning to you too.” One of his vast hands falls upon your hip as he presses the maximum possible length of his body into your back side, while his other hand reaches up over your head to snatch the plate you’d asked for.

“Good morning indeed,” you concur with a silent gasp when you feel the generous bulge in his pants.

“Oh that’s not morning, baby girl,” Sam husks into your ear, “That’s all you.” His powerful arms slink around you and his lips find their way down the side of your neck, lingering in that tender spot just behind your ear whilst you tilt your head and close your eyes, contentedly surrendering yourself to the moment. “I ever tell you how good you look in my shirts?”

Wiggling your butt back to tease him a bit, you’re pleased with the hiss it elicits. “No, but you made it very clear how bad I look in Dean’s,” you counter playfully.

The man behind you scoffs, “I didn’t say you looked bad; you could never look bad. I just… don’t like seeing you wear his clothes.”

“Oh, I know,” you turn around in his arms, “I just don’t understand how Dean doesn’t know yet. I mean, I think you’ve been very obvious.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m not the one who leaves hickeys in very visible places all over your body!”

Sam’s eyes glaze over in lust, an idea clearly forming in his head as he glances down at you. “Dean’s a hot-blooded guy; he needs to know you’re off-limits,” he alleges before attacking your throat with his mouth.

“So why don’t we just tell him?”

Without pausing his efforts, Sam reminds you, “Because you said you thought it was kinda hot, all the sneaking around. Mmpf, and because you said you wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.”

You nod while running your fingers through his silken strands and leaning back to give him more purchase, “That’s true. But in my defence, we always have this conversation when we’re doing stuff like this and I can’t think straight when your hands and mouth are on me.”

“Kinda like how I can’t think straight when you’re wearing nothing but my shirt?” His kisses travel down from your neck to your collarbone and shoulder as he slides his loosely buttoned flannel off to one side, “Fuck, you’ve got me so hard.”

Without warning, Sam seizes your waist and hoists you into the air as if gravity were an absolute joke, before plopping you down on the edge of the steel counter, his thumbs digging lightly into your ribcage.

“Sam! This is where we eat!” you protest with a laugh.

“Exactly. Which is why I’m gonna devour you here.” He dives back into your neck, continuing his work on a little pink mark that’s already beginning to form.

“Oh fuck… Wait, what if Dean walks in?” It’s through a great struggle that you manage to push him back an inch.

“He’s got a date with the Impala. He’ll be in the garage all day, trust me.” Sam’s gaze sweeps over your body suggestively, “Now are you gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

With an equally lewd survey of his extensive frame, you reply, “As long as you let me impale myself on what’s mine later.”

His eyes darken and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever wanted ignites a confidence within you, so in a rather swift motion, you grasp him by the shaft through his sweatpants – the delicious groan he emits at your touch is enough to turn your pussy into a slip and slide – and pull him back towards you until the clothed length of him is resting against your folds and your noses brush, while his hands settle naturally on your thighs.

Shivering, your breath stutters and for an instant you can do nothing but bask in the closeness of him. Sam seems to enjoy it too because he closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours with an elated sigh. For the second time today, you marvel at his beauty, whispering a string of gasping kisses along his lower eye socket and exquisite cheekbone, simply dying to breathe him in. All of him is so immaculate and sublime. Each time the two of you reconvene, you want to savor every fucking inch of him, but there are a lot of inches, so the task often overwhelms you. Still, you must try. Locking your ankles behind him, you use your legs to pull him even further into you and the friction makes you lose your mind.

“Fuck, baby girl, you keep that up I’ll be making a mess in my pants,” Sam grunts with his lips upon your cheek.

Your breathless laughter fills the air, thinking of the stain you've undoubtedly already left on his charming grey sweatpants. Nimble as he is, Sam takes advantage of your open mouth and plunges his tongue inside. After so much preamble, the kiss is heavy and full of need. When the pressure of his lips pushes your head back, your hands fly to his wrists for the sake of your balance.

From there, they journey upward across his vascular forearms to his bulging triceps, fondling his massive shoulders before sliding along his traps and up the gorgeous length of his perfect neck, until you finally reach the treasure trove of his impeccable locks. You tangle your fingers into the lush mane and yank, gently but zealously, making Sam growl into your mouth. His voice is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and the sounds he makes always drive you insane.

Never breaking the kiss, Sam’s colossal moose paws roam up to your back as he slowly lays you down on the counter, his member somehow still notched at your entrance and the new angle rousing a quiet moan from you. When he ultimately pulls away, you pitch forward to chase after his lips, but Sam only grants you a devilish grin and a quick peck to the corner of your mouth before moving down to your jaw and neck. While one palm kneads at your breast through his shirt, the other begins pushing and pulling at fabric to uncover more of your skin for his wandering lips.

“Sam! Augh!” you cry out as your head falls back.

“I got you, baby. I’m all yours. Gonna make you feel so good.” As if to attest his words, he rolls his hips into yours and a needy whimper escapes you. With your fingers still twisted in his hair, Sam leaves no part of you untouched as his mouth travels down your body. But upon reaching your navel, he pauses, those vivid, color-changing eyes peeping up at you to check for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, his thick tongue pokes out to lick a deliriously winding path from your belly button to your exposed clit. Then, pushing down tenderly on the insides of your knees to open you up to him, Sam directs you one last look that is both hungry and reverent, “I still can’t believe this is mine.”

Dean had stopped you halfway through your recollection, but it appears that was still too much for him, “What did I do to deserve this?! I feel like I need to go bathe in holy water for a week.”

You and Sam both open your mouths to respond but Dean cuts you off vehemently, “Ba-da-da-da!” His vocalized outcry is complete with animated gestures featuring an accusing index finger. “OK, before you two tell me another traumatizing story, that’s enough of the who, what, when, where, and how… I just need to know why. I mean, is this- are you- …?”

Sensing the protective wheels turning in his head, you decide to put Dean out his misery, “I’m not just with Sam because he’s an incredible lay if that’s what you’re wondering. We can skip the fatherly ‘what are your intentions’ talk. Yes, Dean, I am in love with your little brother… although ‘little’ is not exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”

“Sammy, could you please control your woman?”

“My woman?” Sam sounds mostly amused but you’re almost certain you can hear a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, I admit I’m surprised I didn’t see it until now. You two are kinda oddly perfect for each other, you know, in a weird, kinky way.”

“To be honest, we’re pretty surprised too. I mean, he doesn’t look it but this guy is kind of territorial,” you quip whilst cocking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t need to- Wait a minute, so all those bruises you told me were from hunts?” Dean’s eyebrows soar towards his hairline.

Chewing on your lip, you confirm his hypothesis with a miniscule nod.

“Yeah well that time you saw my back,” Sam chimes in vengefully, casting you a handsome grin full of mischief as he reveals, “that wasn’t a werewolf, that was Y/N.”

With eyes as round as dinner plates, Dean frantically shuts you both down, “OK, that’s it. Torture Dean time is over. I don’t wanna hear any more about your depraved sex lives! Look, I guess I’m happy for you guys, although mostly cause I don’t have to play referee anymore, but I’m gonna need you to follow some ground rules around here. Like rule number one! No sex in public places!” he starts counting with his fingers, “Always put a sock on it when you’re busy! And most importantly, no sex in Baby!”

Your laughter follows Dean as he wearily saunters out of the kitchen, an exhausted expression on his face. Turning to your newly outed boyfriend, you petition excitedly, “Does this mean we can have shower sex now?”

“Not while I’m around!” comes Dean’s snappy answer.

In contrast, Sam gives you the same look he did on that dreamy morning, “Oh trust me baby girl, I’m gonna get you wet somehow.”

“Still within hearing distance! I think I liked it better when you guys were at each other’s throats.”

As you’re giggling, Sam leans down to whisper in your ear, “For the record, I’m in love with you too.” And just like that, you’re tempted to re-enact your previous kitchen escapades.

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antiloreolympus · 3 years ago

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10 Anti LO Asks

1. Ok so this is more of a proper comic book but if history, but there’s a DC heroine called Power Girl who is infamous for her oversexuslized costume, with the whole emphasis being on her overly hourglass shape, especially focusing on her breasts with a literal boob window as her costume. Since her introduction many decades ago people have critiqued it as grossly misogynistic and juvenile, but DC had the good sense to ignore it … until a few years ago where they tried to actually claim her oversexualization and boob window was actually the peak of feminism and empowerment with such excuses as:

She refuses to wear a Superman symbol on her chest, because she's her own woman. So her cleavage window is actually a mark of independence

She's never been able to find a chest emblem that truly fits with her beliefs and ideals. So her cleavage window is actually a poignant symbol of her search for identity

She uses it to distract people from her face, explaining how she keeps her identity a secret without wearing a mask. So her cleavage window actually has a practical purpose

As you can guess, absolutely no one buys this and find it’s rather pathetic they can’t admit to her actual purpose. Anyway, this exact sort of reasoning is exactly what I see from Rachel and her defenders over how they excuse how Persephone is depicted as an over-sexualized teenager, and how they want to try and hide under a fake veneer of “feminism”. They try to desperately claim that her constantly being naked without her free will, sexualized at every moment by Hades, and designed quite literally like a male sexual fantasy is somehow actually feminist and empowering, and think making up any ridiculous reason will somehow cover up the reality. No one would care this much if they were just honest they want to gawk at young, hot women, but maybe admitting your “empowering and feminist” series is actually only about how a man should basically control and consume a woman for his emotional and physical needs while she’s no more than his borderline underage sex prize with no life, goals, or relationships outside of him doesn’t exactly align with the marketing.

2. You know why stuff like PJO, Disney, and HADES isnt as critiqued as LO? It's because they're either all stuff that's more suitable for children or a grinding video game, but none of them claim to be an accurate retelling of the mythology (arguably PJO is the most accurate beyond the demikid stuff) but LO is trying to be for older readers and claims it IS accurate to the mythology, so when it fails doing so that's when it opens itself to massive critique. It's really not hard to get why this is.

3. lo hades def looks like rachel tried to make a Tumblr Sexy Man™️ without realizing the whole point to those characters is that people latched onto them bc they're often unhinged villainous weirdos with zero game and not overly confident capitalists who lust after barely legal young woman with a forced sob story about how his dick is broken. hes the exact opposite of a tumblr sexy man. he is anti sexy. even tfreaking he onceler figured out capitalism is bad at the end.

4. This new Canvas webtoon called P**** popped up, and I dunno if it’s just me but it gives me serious Lore Olympus vibes? Celestial beings with abnormal skin and hair color, huge height and age difference between ML and FL, ML is an old guy with a weird pointy nose and ending a relationship with a beautiful yet “petty and selfish” woman, ML not shown negatively for cheating, FL insecure with (hinted at) parental and abusive relationship issues, FL lead working at ML company, ML and FL meeting accidentally when one is drunk… are these just tropes or do you think it‘s an intentional rip off?

From OP: I censored the webtoon name so if you know, you know. But yeah, me and some other antis saw this and also thought it was way too similar to LO. The creator claims it’s not inspired by LO but I don’t buy it. Especially since in one of the character sheets, her ML’s image looked like it was traced/heavily referenced from one of the LO Hades’ panels.

5. i literally do not care whats happening in this comic. i just want to know how artemis' cat and murder wolf is doing. where is cerberus, wheres that one puppy persephone got then forgot about after all of an hour. i only care abut the pets.

6. if persephone buds off a kid or they adopt baby dionysus or smth the actual issue will be persephone will care more for the kid because just going off how he treated thanatos hades literally does not give a damn about any child in his care, especially if theyre not related to him. he at best is ok with hebe but thats because shes a mini hera. maybe if the budded off kid is a mini persephone clone it'll be fine but im not holding out for that. rachel is p clear he only wants mini hades so 🤷‍♀️

7. idk how anyone is shocked rachel's fancast as almost entirely white people. only white people would bemoan theyre the real oppressed ones while they have all the money and power, abuse anyone below them, only care for the "good" people in the lower class/races, corrupt the politics and justice system in their favor only while the rest get worse punishment for less, get away with murder, and own literal slaves. like that screams white people 💀

8. I have the impression that RS doesn't have an actual plot for the story, she has an obvious ending but no plot

9. am i reading this wrong or is it true the second lo book only covers 26 to 49, so 23 episodes down from 25? are they seriously going to milk this until its at best two episodes per book? the further it goes on the episodes only get shorter too, how exactly does that work to put LESS content in?

From OP: I don’t think it’ll get that bad. Also, not going to 50 was a good move in this case. The book will leave off on the eye thing which is a good ending point tbh (Episode 50 is a pretty big cliffhanger).

10. the stans need to get over the idea popularity =/= good. its very easy to made mediocre products makes sales/get high readership when it has a huge marketing campaign behind it. thats why when they actually out big marketing into other comics (like everything is fine and boyfriends) they also pop off in popularity. ask any random LO reader and they'll likely tell you they only found out about it via a Youtube/Instagram/TikTok ad. it's really not /that/ hard to put two and two together here.

#anti lo #anti lore olympus #lore olympus critical #lo critical

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verdandasrsblog · 4 years ago

Photo

So this week I got Annoyed™ at Kara-Meir and Garlandia’s designs (Partially due to @enkoro-rs suggesting I do Kara-Meir, after which I fell down a rabbit hole). Like with the Laniakea overhaul I’m going to put my reasoning/inspo under the cut for anyone that’s interested

Honestly, where do I even start with Kara-Meir? I guess I’ll just go top-down,

1) Hair - Based on the novel covers it seems like she was supposed to be blonde originally, and just have an absolute shit ton of hair. Since the flow of the in-game design’s braids didn’t make no goddamn sense, I found some ACTUAL braided bun hairstyles and combowombo’d them into one mega hairstyle. The pins in the buns with the danglies are really just to be fancy, but I also wanted to incorporate the bits hanging off her belt in her in-game model’s concept art.

pictured: whatever the fuck these are supposed to be

2) Skin/Face/Eyes - So originally I actually colour dropper her skin from the concept art and then realized she was maybe a bit tanner than the concept, but you know what? Fuck it. I tried to keep her face shape from the concept since the cover art of her is just kinda “Generic white lady” but honestly she got a bit pointier than that in the end. I’m also not sure what her canon eye colour is supposed to be; Zooming in on the ref just gave me brown, which is what I ended up using, but if that’s not correct and anyone has the novels let me know.

3) Clothing - So I restrained her cape to something someone could maybe fight in, but my main concern was her armor - She’s supposed to be a knight but what’s up with the bikini boob breast plate? She’s portrayed as wearing both chain and full plate in the cover art and is clearly a melee fighter, so changing her to plate armor seemed obvious. Since she can wield Sunspear (t75) it makes sense to me that her Def would be somewhere in the 70s to match, which with the rework means necronium.

So like, obviously Necronium is a particular aesthetic that didn’t seem quite right for her. Looking at her lore, she has a wolf theme in her backstory and since she's also supposed to have some smithing ability (she was raised by dwarves) I thought it'd make sense that she might make her own. She’s also been to Morytania in the books, meaning she could have access to Phasmatite (Her access to the Necrite is a bit more iffy but she is hanging out on Tuska after that event so she has at least some experience with the desert). I had tried out the red glow initially but it looked like shite and didn’t really fit her anyway, so I think the gold is a better compromise both character-wise and aesthetically.

4) Sunspear - So she canonically has a sunspear, and I ended up using the current in-game design for it since her concept art one just seemed... unstable

I get that it’s reforged or whatever but it looks like it’s gonna shatter on impact with anything

Truthfully, though? You know what she should have? One of THESE bad boys:

AKA just a Grecian-style spear head. It’d also be more believable that she thinks it’s a dagger if it looks like this. I still think the in-game sunspear is a bit more ~dramatic~ but it should just be a spear tip quite frankly

Okay, onto Garlandia:

1) Hair/Face/Skin/Eyes - I’m grouping the hair in here since I honestly just left it as the in-game version (At least from what I can see from her chat head, I can’t remember if there’s some BS going on on her back or not). Ancient Greek women did tend to braid their hair so that’s accurate-ish, I guess. For her skin though, she mentions in dialogue that “Her skin shed its colour”, but her model isn’t any paler than the other icyene in game. Accordingly, I made her significantly paler, and gave her a bit of frost bite damage on her extremities from the winter she had to endure after her wings were ripped off (I considered making it darker but there’s a point where they just need to be amputated since it won’t heal, so I went with something less intense to show that it’s healed since). For her eye colour, I zoomed in on her chat head but it wasn’t quite clear - 2/4 icyene in-game have blue eyes, but I went with gold to match the rest of her pallet.

2) Clothes - This is a big one since I spent a lot of time staring at Greek art trying to figure out what a Greek-inspired character would wear when they never want to be cold ever again (It would make sense for her due to the trauma). Additionally, her skin is kinda fucked, and having it be uncovered would probably just lead to sunburn which is the last thing she needs. The shape of the middle woman’s chiton below inspired the hem of her dress, since I wanted to give her a very flowing, fashionable look:

She was supposed to have been a noble so like, fuckin’ Fashion, Baybee

I also turned her weird metal underpants into a girdle, since a waist band of some form or another isn’t uncommon in the images we have of ancient Greek attire:

Garlandia, why did you have metal panties?

Since she’s a bard (I THINK?) I also strapped on some extra storage for sheet music. Her jewelry was inspired by the following pieces, though TBH she could probably be decked out more, I just wanted to leave her hands mostly free for that good good harp playin’

3) Shoes - These get their own section because I did way too much research for it not to. Basically, most Greeks straight up didn’t wear shoes, never mind socks. Also, in her model, is it just me or do her shoes look uncomfortable as fuck??

Yikes girl are those cutting into your thighs?

Anyways, with her feet/toes being fucked up from frostbite, I wasn’t going to NOT give her shoes/socks, which meant I started looking at roman artifacts instead:

I found mention of romans wrapping their feet in fabric when it got cold, but the only “sock” I could find was from a roman fort in Britain:

So, like, needless to say after all that and also getting suckered into reading about the nuances of gladiatorial combat for like an hour I ended up going for something more modern:

So anyways they’re 0% accurate from what I could find but I like the vibe

4) Himation - So remember what I was saying about how Garlandia would probably hate being cold? Check out these bad boys:

Basically the ancient Grecian version of the Blanket Cape, and also used as outerwear in the winter! It seems like the winter ones would have been made from wool, I’d imagine she’d wear it most places except maybe the desert or Karamja since those are warm enough on their own.

Anyways thanks for coming to my fucking runescape character redesign dissertation, next on the chopping block? Who knows. Maybe Zuzu (I heard her voice acting recently since I never play with sound and YIKES YIKES YIKES YIKES I HAD NO IDEA OH GOD)

#runescape #runescape 3 #rs3 #kara-meir #garlandia #redesign

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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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March 9, 2021: Orpheus (1950) (Part One)

Greek mythology was my first mythological love.

And yes, that is ironically a very cliché thing to say about Greek mythology, since it’s by FAR the most popular and well-known mythology in the Western world, but...what can I say, I’m a sucker for the classics.

When I was 6, my mom got me a copy of the Odyssey, followed by D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths, and that book was my SHIIIIIIIIIIT. From the Titanomachy to the Trojan War, from Decaulion to Daedalus, from the Lernaean Hydra to Ladon, and from Zeus to Dionysus (my second favorite Olympian), I LOVE Greek mythology.

There have been countless adaptations of these stories over the last century of so, some better and more faithful than others. We got Blood of Zeus (which I...genuinely dislike) on Netflix last year, Lore Olympus is a fantastic webcomic and modernized retelling of the universe of stories in general (fuck Apollo, that’s all I have to say), Hercules by Disney is fun (though extraordinarily inaccurate), and who doesn’t like some Percy Jackson (the books, not the movies)?

Today’s entry won’t be the first of the Greek mythology stories this month; after all, it’s DEFINITELY fantasy, so there were going to be a few entries in here. Some will come pretty close to each other later this month, but for this one, we’re jumping forward 10 years from The Thief of Bagdad to 1950. Let’s get back to France, shall we?

Famous for his adaptation of Beauty and the Beast is Jean Cocteau, legendary French surrealist filmmaker. His stylings definitely capture a sort of practical magic, compounded with clever angles and fascinating visual and practical effects. It’s evident with the classic fairy tale, which I would’ve done this month had I not already seen it. So, instead, we’ll be looking at the middle film in a trilogy known as Cocteau’s Orphic trilogy. This is, apparently, the most important one. And that makes sense, since it’s focused upon...

Is Hadestown good? I’m real tempted to find a way to watch it, and it sounds like it’s just up my alley. I’ll probably check it out one of these days.

Orpheus was (maybe) the son of Calliope, the muse of poetry, and Apollo, god of music. Maybe. Parentage differs based on the retelling. No matter the parents, he was renowned for his charm and grace, as well as his voice and music. He was loved by animals, nymphs, and maidens alike. He was invited to be the Bard of Jason’s DnD group (AKA the Argonauts), and used Bardic Performance to inspire his comrades (and also helped them overcome the sirens by singing EVEN LOUDER).

But the one whom he loved most was his wife, Eurydice. Unfortunately, a satyr (AKA horny horned half-goat man) chased her right into a viper’s nest, where she was bitten and died. Orpheus was CRUSHED, and his song was so depressing that even the gods cried. They said, “Dude, go to the Underworld, get back your lady from Hades, please!” And he did.

Hades, the old romantic that he secretly is, agrees to let Eurydice’s soul, on one condition. That he doesn’t look back at her as she follows him out. Orpheus agrees, but the man can’t stop himself from looking back to make sure that she’s there. And she was...and then she wasn’t. So, our sad boi fucked up, and then...well, it’s spotty.

See, some people say that he stopped worshipping Dionysus (his previous patron), and the wine boi’s female followers tore Orpheus to pieces as punishment. Some say that these same women got a liiiiiiiiiittle too into the Bacchanalia (think orgies, but religious and violent), and ripped him apart in a frenzy. And some say that he only took male lover from then on, and women tore him to pieces for not paying attention to them (also, possible homophobia). You know, it varies. Still, we can agree on the ripped apart by women thing. His head could still sing, and as the women threw his body parts into a river, it sang a song so beautiful that the rocks and branches in the river refused to strike it. His instrument of choice, a lyre, was eventually interred amongst the stars as the constellation Lyra.

The story of a pained artist searching for a lost love and losing her is all over the goddamn place, with the crazy-ass Moulin Rouge being a solid example of it.

But OK, let’s finally begin Orpheus, or Orphée to be more accurate. Gonna be a weird ride, I guarantee it. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

The story starts with a recap of the original myth, and notes that it doesn’t need to be limited by time and place. This sort of story, after all, could happen anywhere and at any time. And in this case, that time and place are 1950s-era France, where we quickly meet famous poet Orpheus (Jean Marais).

At a café, he meets a friend, the Editor (Henri Crémieux), where they speak on Orpheus’ fame, which is not well-liked in a cafe frequented by poets. Also arriving there is a young drunken poet, Jacques Cégeste (Édouard Dermit), who is accompanied by his patron, known only as...the Princess (María Casares). Come on, guys, can we give our female characters names, please?

Anyway, Jacques quickly gets into a drunken brawl with other patrons, which leads to the arrival of the police at the café. They forcefully arrest him, but before they can, he’s hit by a couple of motorcycles, and potentially killed. The police bring Jacques back to the Princess’ car, with the help of her driver Heurtebise (François Périer). For unknown reasons, she summons Orpheus to help them. He agrees, and goes with them to the hospital.

Or he would be, if they were going there. Instead, as they drive off, Orpheus discovers that Jacques is dead already. They aren’t going to the hospital. Instead, they head to a mysterious mansion, as ominous and oblique poetry plays on the radio. They’re soon accompanied by the men on the motorcycles that killed Jacques, who work for the Princess. The plot fuckin’ THICKENS.

Back at her mansion, they bring the body of Jacques upstairs, much to the confusion of Orpheus, whom the Princess keeps calling stupid whenever he asks questions. However, he’s not proving her wrong, as she immediately convinces him that she’s actually dreaming at the moment. Although...maybe he is?

She sits in front of a mirror, which breaks...somehow. Frustrated, she commands Orpheus to wait there for her to return, as she goes to check on Jacques and her men. Like me, Orpheus is confused. This gets worse for me, though, as the Princess goes to the other room and tells the dead Jacques to get up. AND HE DOES. Well, Jacques’ a zombie, I guess. He identifies the Princess as “his Death”, which she agrees to. She tells him to hold on to her coat, and then...

...I got questions. I GOT QUESTIONS HERE.

They go through the mirror, and the Princess’ henchmen follow, just as Orpheus walks in. He also has questions, and he tries to go through the mirror, to no avail. Completely confused at this point, he passes out against the mirror, alone in the mansion. And then...he’s outside.

Yeah, he’s just outside now, and waiting there is Heurtebise, the chauffeur! Orpheus is freakin’ out, and Heurtebise has no answers for him, but has been told to take him back to town once he...arrived. OK. Still questions.

In town, the disappearance of Orpheus is being discussed by a police inspector, his wife Eurydice (Marie Déa), and her friend Aglaonice (Juliette Gréco). Aglaonice doesn’t seem to like Orpheus very much, as she’s trying to convince Eurydice that he’s cheating on her. And that’s hard to argue, since he was last seen with the Princess. However, just as there’s about to be a scandal reported by a spontaneously appearing journalist, Heurtebise and Orpheus arrive home.

After a rough encounter with the journalist, he arrives home to a relieved Eurydice, and an enraged Aglaonice, whom Orpheus also dislikes heavily. He’s apparently forbidden her from entering his house, and tells her off. The Inspector leaves too, and asks Orpheus to come to his office to discuss the matter of the missing Jacques.

Eurydice reminds Orpheus that Aglaonice is dangerous, as she runs...the League of Women. Well...I think we know what role Aglaonice is going to play by the end of this. Her and her League of Bacchanalian Women, get me? Yikes. Anyway, the conversation turns into an argument, when the EXTREMELY ornery Orpheus basically just storms off, being a DICK to his poor wife. And when he goes upstairs to his room, he actually sneaks out of the window.

Meanwhile, Heurtebise comes into the house to offer an alibi to the pained Eurydice. While she doesn’t quite believe it, the two share some time together and seem to bond. However, when he smells gas from the stove, Heurtebise lets it slip that he committed suicide by using a gas stove. He covers it up before Eurydice notices the slip-up, but...OK. So, “the Princess” is death. Going by the traditional Greek myth, she’s some form of psychopomp, and the world beyond the mirror is the Underworld, I can only assume. OK...I can dig it.

Orpheus, meanwhile, is at the car, listening to the strange radio poetry and writing it down. The, uh, “Princess” is busy as well. Like a ghost, she walks into the household and watches Orpheus as he sleeps. A narration refers to her as Orpheus’ death. Funny, I’m pretty sure that’s going to be Aglaonice’s role.

Two days later, Orpheus is increasingly obsessed with the poetry from the mysterious radio and its odd messages. While Eurydice seems to mock this obsession, Orpheus also seems to be far too enraptured in it. But, interestingly, the messages seem to be coming from nowhere known. However, it’s all beginning to affect their marriage greatly.

On the phone, the Inspector comes calling, and Eurydice asks Heurtebise to answer the phone. He does so, and soon after, we see the phone float into place, as if placed there by a ghost. That’s confirmed as Heurtebise phases to the outside from nothing, where he meets Orpheus and informs him of the message. The two decide to head to the Inspector in his car, rather than the mysterious talking car.

While Orpheus goes through town, looking for the Princess rather than the Inspector, there’s something that I wanted to mention here. Call it an interpretation. Apparently, Heurtebise is often considered an angel by critics and interpreters. However, I’m gonna suggest that he’s actually supposed to be a representation of Hermes, the messenger god and a psychopomp who escorted souls to the Underworld. Not sure about the Princess yet, but Cocteau apparently never meant for her to be portrayed as actual death. Interesting.

Meanwhile, at the Inspector’s office, both Aglaonice and Orpheus’ poet friends (supposedly) are accusing Orpheus of being involved in Jacques’ disappearance. The Inspector turns them away, just as Heurtebise and Orpheus reconvene in town. While Orpheus didn’t find the Princess, Heurtebise says that she came by, saying that he could stay with the married couple for now.

Speaking of the Princess, we see her at night, staring over Orpheus. And her eyes are...strange. They seem artificial, and it bothers the EVER-LOVING SHIT out of me. And the whole affair isn’t helping Eurydice either, as she’s tired of Orpheus’ obsession with the car, and is planning on going to Aglaonice for advice. Heurtebise tries to stop her from doing so, but she insists. But when she goes...the motorcyclists come for her. And she’s dead. As proven when the Princess arrives through the mirror.

Alongside her comes Jacques, acting as the Princess’ servant. She notes to him that their work isn’t easy, and couldn’t be done if she were dressed in the way the humans portray her. So, she is seemingly Death, or at least an aspect of Death. Obviously, as we’re talking about the Greek story, we can assume that she’s meant to be Hades in particular. But, we’ll see. It’s also confirmed, by the way, that the mysterious messages are indeed Jacques’ poetry, recited by him on the radio waves from beyond the grave. Neat.

Heurtebise is clearly upset with what’s just happened to Eurydice. He asks if the Princess actually had orders to kill Eurydice. She avoids the question, and guesses correctly that Heurtebise has fallen in love with Eurydice. He confirms this, and counters with the fact that the Princess has seemingly fallen in love with ORPHEUS. The plot fucking THICKENS.

Good place to pause, I think. Halfway mark and all. See you in Part Two!

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chuckling-chemist · 6 years ago

Text

A Study In Novels

((The second piece I wrote for the @fantrollszine! This one a little more comedic than the other piece I wrote. And don’t forget, if you like it consider buying me a coffee or checking out my AO3 -- where both of these short stories will be going eventually))

Dontoc wasn’t one for reading romance novels.

Maybe it just wasn’t for him. Dontoc much preferred subversive fantasy steeped in lore and original wiggler’s tales from before the Empire found and censored them. Books that praised the Empire or grounded themselves too close to reality weren’t likely to catch his eye. That’s not to say a romance novel couldn’t be subversive or fantastical -- Dontoc’s sure they existed somewhere -- but his experience in the genre was limited to whatever books he acquired secondhand from either his moirail or his hivemate. Which, to be fair, Dontoc held as little interest in books describing in excruciating detail the ins and outs of traditional interstellar subjuggalator pailing that his moirail found morbidly interesting as he did the godawful romance self-published stories his hivemate regularly printed off from some blog and left sitting around on tables when she got stuck on something in the lab.

Then again this current one he attempted to slog through, recommended by his matesprit to give him a good example of the genre, wasn’t any better. It felt less like a novel and more like a subpar lecture on the importance of keeping quadrants filled and separated, combined with a bizarrely saccharine tone out of place for a novel that critics heralded as “diving into the dark, twisted secrets of forbidden flush love between two castes”. It was no more than yet another creepy realistic-fiction that tried to play off the caste difference as something inherently disturbing.

His so-called matesprit, to give the kindest words to a troll forcing their relationship on life support through thinly veiled threats against his friends, lamented his apparent lack of interest in romance novels indicated a lack of romanticism. Had Dontoc not had sufficient evidence to the contrary, he might have believed her.

I reach across the desk, over to the looming seadweller on the other side and he snatches it out of the air. I flush, face turning impossibly teal under his watchful gaze. How did he know I would try to grab it?

“Okay, that is enough of that for tonight,” he said with a groan.

“Enough of what?”

Even knowing the voice instantly to be the chirpy lilt of his hivemate, Pallia, her sudden entrance into the mainblock still made his heart skip a beat. She plopped down on the seat next to him of the black couch, peering over half-moon glasses to grimace at the book in his hand. She didn’t have to say anything to exude the level of judgement he felt from her.

“You, lover of subjuggalator documentaries, cannot possibly be judging me for reading something bad,” he said lightly.

“Oh come on, Dontoc there’s bad and then there’s this.” She glanced down at the book again. “What’s it even about anyway?”

He shook his head with a sigh, letting the finger holding his spot slip out of the book. “Certainly you could wager a guess.”

“Oh a puzzle?” Pallia shifted around in her seat, turning to face him with crossed legs. She was dressed for ultimate relaxation in a pair of sweats and loose sweatshirt, with her hair pulled up in an unusually well-kept bun thanks to a few well-placed pencils. She contrasted him, tall and fully dressed in a three piece suit with his perpetually unkempt short hair, quite perfectly. Her teal eyes sparkled with mirth from behind the glasses. “Do I get any hints?”

He smirked playfully. “You have not somehow ingested enough bad media to hazard a proper guess?”

“Not for romance.” Pallia crossed her arms and huffed. “God Dontoc, I only have one quadrant. Do I really strike you as the romantic type?”

Did Pallia strike him as the romantic type? Dontoc wasn’t actually sure. With her only having one quadrant, he couldn’t accurately say for sure if such were true, or if he simply never had the chance to see her interact with a quadrant proper. She might not be the same affectionate, teasing troll who went out of her way to make sure he felt included around a quadrant. His doubt might just be his own long-time, latent flush crush on her causing him to project.

After all, he did have a flush crush on her. That much was certain. A sweep or two ago, he might have tried to deny to himself, but by now there was no other way to explain the way being around her made his whole body feel ten pounds lighter and pointlessly giddy at any little thing. His other friendships, even his actual matespritship, failed to elicit similar reactions. The closest was his moirail, Valeba, who always always brought serenity with her presence, but even that wasn’t this bizarre effervescence that floated him away from his anxieties. Not that he’d ever tell Pallia any of this. Managing to get a best friend whom he adored, despite their caste difference, was more than acceptable. To ask anything more was selfish.

“You simply strike me as the type to have read enough bad media, regardless of genre, to take some sort of guess,” he said. “Or have I somehow misread that one and you happen to unironically enjoy ‘Subjuggalating Mentor to Highbloods is Put Under Great Scrutiny after Explaining to Bluebloods the Importance of the Mirthful Messiahs Upon Inquisition. When the Bigoted Seadwelling Upper Staff Wish to Cull Her, She Goes to the Courtblock to Defend Faith In Schoolfeeding, Alongside a Plucky Tealblood Looking for His Big Break’?”

She snorted. “Please. I don’t think a single person unironically enjoys that. How can anything fall face first into every stereotype while acting like it doesn’t? There’s never been a more--” she paused to slap her forehead with an amused groan “--oh of course! The book’s hemoist isn’t it?”

Dontoc grinned. How could he not? “Oh, extremely. The highblood is the dominant one in the relationship, and he is honestly worse than you would expect.”

“Tall, well dressed and…” she tapped her finger on her arm in thought… “indigo? That strength is attractive to a lot of trolls.”

“You are not far off. Think higher.” He gestured upward toward his own twitching fins. “Much higher.”

“Violet? Really?” She looked at the cover again doubtfully. “But this looks like some kind of rich businessman type of story. I thought the violet caste normally keeps to themselves.”

“Oh they do. This book bypassed such a problem by saying he simply moved onto land when he was very young, shortly after his lusus was culled by extreme hemorebels, to get ‘more out of life’. Or perhaps it was not. Honestly, the backstory was brushed aside in favor of having the two stare blankly at each other.”

Pallia raised her eyebrows. “Is the protagonist’s backstory any clearer or is it just as bad?”

Dontoc shrugged helplessly. “If I tell you her backstory, I assure you it will give away her caste immediat--”

“Oh, so she’s a tealblood. Probably ten sweeps old, if they’re playing off twenty sweeps as young somehow. Tiny waif of a troll too, I bet.”

Well. That happened. Dontoc blinked owlishly at her assessment. Every single piece was completely true, down to the size of the tealblood. There’s no way she read the book. He would’ve seen it somewhere. “Um...how...how did…”

“You said if you tell me the caste, it gives it away. Teals and jades are the most rigid in jobs, but jadeblood romance is mostly always two women, while this love interest is male.” It was her turn to smirk, pointy fangs poking out from underneath her lips. “Despite your best efforts, you still gave away way too much.”

“You asked for a hint,” he pointed out.

“You said you weren’t giving it to me.”

He hummed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. My mistake then. Perhaps we can try this again the next time Careen insists I do some reading.”

Pallia’s amiable expression dropped into a far more worried one. “She insisted? Really? That’sss abssolutely…” she trailed off with a shake of her head. “Ignore me. That’sss not my place.”

Dontoc set the book down on the floor, shifting so he could face Pallia better. She must’ve scooted closer at some point. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed how close they were? It was only a loveseat after all. “Are you certain? After all dear, I--”

“It’sss fine. Ssserioussssly.” She gave him a reassuring smile. It looked somewhat forced, but it was clear she didn’t want to talk about it. Better to just move on. “So, anything else to guess about the book?”

“Hm? Oh, yes right. Let me just, ah...” He reached toward the empty space in his lap for the book, but Pallia got to him first, stopping him with a soft hand. He looked at her with a puzzled expression, a stark counter to her amused one.

“Dontoc you put the book on the floor,” she said with a chuckle.

He glanced down at the floor, realizing with growing horror he most definitely did put it down on the floor. Heat pricked up his neck, causing his lips to twist into a sheepish grin. He wiggled his hand out of Pallia’s to run through his hair instead. If nothing else, the action helped calm his nerves. “So...so I did. My apologies,” he said finally.

She shrugged. “None needed. Do you even need the thing, or is the book that forgettable?”

“I ah...well, poorly constructed story or no, it is comforting to some degree to hold it. After living in what may as well have been a library alone I suppose it just...it just happened.” He sighed, a mixture of bittersweet and wistful. Memories of his childhood flooded back in waves. The lonesome library ran by a kindly jadeblood. Her impeccable ability to find whatever he should read next. The other kids trying to steal and damage them. His instructor taking his copy of The Grimdark Narrator’s wigglers tales and insisting it was inappropriate for him to read it.

Thank God Pallia was there to keep the focus, or else who knows how long he’d reminisce on the parts of his life he’d rather forget. “So you said it’s a violetblood right? And a tealblood? Not any other mid-caste.”

“Erm...yes.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Though I am not sure why that is important. It is just a caste gap. From what I understand, those are quite common in romance.”

“Oh they are. Totally common. Which is funny, considering it happens anywhere else and people can’t take it.” She pointed down at the book on the floor, the cover of which showed a lone desk covered in papers. “But that’s beside the point. So the teal is probably some personal assistant to him?”

Dontoc nodded slowly. That much was hardly a guess. While in reality tealbloods got well-to-do, white collar jobs, it seems any time a tealblood actually showed up in media, they were subservient to some higher caste. Not the same way the lowbloods were, how many of them were maids or butlers at best, but the paid equivalent of such didn’t feel like much of an improvement to him. “Of course. Did you not know that teals are little more than suck-ups to the Empire? Constantly following around the Empress to compliment her and give her the newest gossip on the common folk. After they round up all the little bad trolls, of course.”

Pallia crossed her arms, smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Did Careen let you in on that hot tip?”

“Oh no, someone far more reasonable in such a regard. Someone with a good head on their shoulders, you see.” Pallia seemed to sag in disappointment until he added, “It was Pothos.”

“Oh my God!” she squealed. Her whole body convulsed with laughter as she fell back into the couch. “You are not allowed to do that again!”

“...Make you laugh?” he asked cautiously. He didn’t think she was upset, but at the same time her worried look when mentioning Careen earlier had him on edge. “You are ah...you are--”

She heaved herself up and nodded, bun askew and grin plastered on her face. “Oh I’m great. I cannot believe you got me to think about that bumbling idiot. Did Careen tell you about when she thought we’d work as a quadrant?”

Dontoc shook his head: she hadn’t. While Careen was always eager to do nothing but complain about Pallia, and had been downright enthusiastic to tell Dontoc all about when his hivemate supposedly expressed flush interest in Pothos that he didn’t return, she never gave any more details. The whole story felt off in a way he couldn’t fully explain (in fact, it was another one he was willing to brush off as him projecting his crush -- sure, he can’t imagine Pallia wanting to be with a troll who truly thought skull shape indicated intelligence but maybe it was only wishful thinking), but he never told Careen such. It was good to know he had every right to be suspicious.

“How did it go?”

Pallia snorted. “About as bad as you’d expect. He learns I have a hint of an interest in something, and just starts talking over me like he’s suddenly the expert. He knows the chemical formula for table salt. That’s it. Wouldn’t know a stem cell from the stem of a plant.” She paused, eyes suddenly going wide. She wasn’t looking at him, not anymore. Her gaze was pointedly focused on that book. “Wait a second. This is her book right? Does Careen have some kind of thing for violets and teals?”

Dontoc rolled his eyes. “I doubt it. She has an odd hatred for teals. Jades too, to a lesser degree. She will not voice it, but it is present. Besides, if she really wanted you to be paired up with a violetblood to conform to her romance tropes, there are far better options.”

Pallia chuckled. “Yeah, at least if it’s like...us, it subverts that ‘teal employed by violet’ thing.”

Whatever train of thought he had immediately crashed. His face burned, and fins fluttering in embarrassment or not, there was no cooling it down in time to reduce the flush. “Ah….uh…” he swallowed harshly, realizing as he spoke his mouth was suddenly dry as sandpaper, “excuse me dear, what?”

“Oh you know. Technically speaking, you’re my research assistant. Not the other way around.” She paused, closing her eyes with a sigh. If she recognized how flustered he was right now, she wasn’t saying anything. “Then again though, considering the whole Preypal thing...maybe that doesn’t count? But sponsorships don’t count as employment. This might be more complicated than I thought.”

“You’ve thought about this before?”

“Well yeah. I mean…” They locked eyes, and he only just noticed the blush creeping on her own face. “I get bored waiting for the ion spectroscopy to finish. The logistics of how our lives would function within a work of fiction is far from the weirdest thought experiment I’ve had. I think that one started with a conversation I had with Aisral? I dunno.”

“But you have thought at length about the logistics of us...uh…”

“Ssssort of? In the same way I’ve thought about like...I dunno, me and Aisral or something. Purely hypothetical. Don’t worry. I realize you’re with Careen and talking about it’s probably strange to think about dating your hivemate...” Pallia trailed off, letting out a quiet, awkward laugh as she rubbed her neck.

“Oh impossibly so, but continue.”

“But seriously, it’s not the most unlikely thing I’ve heard. More likely than anything in that book, anyway. If that makes any sense. Sssorry for worrying you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Okay. So it’s only that they’d make a better story than whatever dribble Dontoc was reading. That’s probably true. While not the worst novel he’s come across, there weren’t many worse. His fluttering pulse calmed down enough that he actually felt he could breathe again. “If it helps, I would much rather read about us than this couple.”

Pallia smirked. “Even the pailing scenes?”

Dontoc’s face fell. He erased those from his memory, too. “Okay, we’re finished here.”

#fantroll #homestuck #hiveswap #fanfiction #fantrolls #ft #fantrollszine #homestuck zine #my writing #dontoc #pallia

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