like a greek god

anonymous asked:

can you please do a BTS reaction to after a one night stand you start getting dressed, they're afraid you're leaving, but you say "I'm gonna get a slushie, 'cuz I'm hot and thirsty, want one? Or food? Anything? I wanna treat you right." (My friend did this and the girl she was with cried bc she was so sweet)

sorry for having you wait this long (but i’m sure you must have forgotten about this already so). this is so cute!! thanks for dropping this in my asks!


Jin

You let out a small sigh of relief as you finally succeeded in safely navigating the huge apartment and spot your shoes (and the door, because you remember nearly nothing of last night) lying by the front door. you bite your lip as you tiptoe towards them and push a foot into one shoe, wondering whether you were using your thirst as an excuse to sneak away before your absolutely gorgeous one night stand wakes up and has to face the horror that was your morning face (or any face for that matter).

But no. You dismiss the thought with a shake of your head as you slip on the other shoe.You were a responsible person, therefore you would take responsibility for last night’s actions  (as much as you can’t seem to remember them), however awkward they may be.

Of course, it helps that the man you slept with looks like he should be on the cover of every fashion magazine ever published.

Deep in your thoughts, you do not notice the very same man when he pads towards you, half asleep but still concerned.

“Are you trying to sneak away?”

You swore as you jumped, your heart threatening to burst out your chest as his sudden appearance nearly takes the piss out of you. And of course, being you, it was only mandatory that your leap of fear would result in you tripping over your own shows and falling on your own face while your hot one night stand watches in horror.

The man jogs over and crouches, wincing at your whimpers of pain. “Are you alright? I must have scared you. Do you…–”

The rest of his words fade away as you take notice –really take notice– of his face. Memories of kind, understanding eyes and laughter from those lips float up through the haze that your memory has become.

He’s even more beautiful up close, and his gentle hands at your ankle only helped with that newly founded observation of yours.

“–…You seem a bit dazed. I didn’t see it, but did you hit your head? Oh no, do you need a doctor?” He sits back on his heels, worried. “Maybe I should call for an ambulance–”

“No!” You mentally smack yourself in the face in embarrassment. “I just need to…” Trying to remember what you needed through the enraptured haze of having him this close, your desperate gaze falls on your shoes.

The man’s eyes follow yours, and the corners of his mouth droop. “Oh. I’m guessing you don’t want to stay for too long.” He sighs, and moves backwards with the intention of straightening up. “Let me at least call you a cab. ”

“No.” You reach out and grab a wrist, shaking your head. “No, I wasn’t trying to sneak away…Jin.” Your heart thuds as you recollect his name suddenly. “I had a hangover and figured you’d have one too, so I thought I’d–” You squint at Jin’s face. “Are you laughing at me?”

Jin’s slight smile turns into a look of horror. “No! I was just glad. Glad you’re not leaving, I mean. And also because… ” He pursed his lips against another smile and looked down at his hands. “It’s the first time someone’s wanted to do something nice for me and not the other way around.”

He looks up and smiles even brighter when he sees you blushing. “The coffee downstairs is horrible and way too expensive. Maybe I can make you some?”


Suga

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and trying to your best to be quiet, slowly unzip the hoodie that you’d found somewhere on the floor and decided to pull on. The slight scent of the coffee you’d bought from the convenience store downstairs wafted through the air, tempting your nose.

You didn’t know (or remember) much about the man you apparently had an (amazing) one-night stand with,  but of one thing you were sure: boy, was he a deep sleeper.

  You were sure he’d wake up the moment you started a racket (hey, you just weren’t a very coordinated person, okay?) trying to figure a way out of the comfy (and bachelor-seeming, thank god) apartment.

You shrug the hoodie off one shoulder and was about to take it off completely, when a surprisingly deep voice you only remembered in snatches from last night interrupts you.

The man props himself up on one elbow. “Are you leaving?”

You turn and face the good looking (very good looking, now that you see him better) man, ready to explain, but he sighs before you get a chance. “I guess you were.” He flopped onto his back again. “And after all that, here I was, thinking we had a connection. Turns out all I have is a hangover.”

You bite a smile back at his dry sarcasm, recalling that it was this very quality of his that had attracted you to him in the very first place. You take the rest of the hoodie off and let it drop to the floor before plopping onto the bed next to him. You grin as he raises an eyebrow.

“Figured as much. That’s why I went downstairs to get us coffee. Believe me, the way you were passed out, I could have left five times and you wouldn’t have noticed.

He stares at you. Then he looks away again, gracing the ceiling with a reluctant but still beautiful gummy smile. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” You grin too and cross your ankles, turning your head to stare at the ceiling in something similar to subdued contentment. “Guess we do have a connection after all.”


Hoseok

It’s not every day you wake up to a man as beautiful as Jung Hoseok, so the moment you open your eyes and take in the simply ethereal being in front of you, you thank whichever god or fate that had made you choose the very bar you met him in last night.
It was just the way the lazy morning light straining through the curtains played across the angles of this man’s face, or the way the hair that (very artistically) fell across his forehead exuded a slight mischievousness that took your very breath away.

From you place on the (ramshackle) bed, you avert your eyes and try to calm yourself down. You wish you could find something to drink, partly to cool the heat suddenly rising to your neck and partly to distract yourself from the snatched recollections of last night.

Water. I need a nice clear glass of ice water. But where?

You bite your lip and slowly prepare to edge yourself out the bed; just when a warm hand wraps itself around your arm, quickly travelling from your wrist to your upper arm. You look down to see Hoseok slowly blinking the sleep out his eyes. “Hey. Don’t leave.” He stretched, dispelling the last of the sleep in his system, slowly focussing on you as his thumb caressed slow circles into your skin. You try to pretend that this doesn’t affect you way more than what is considered healthy for a human heart, and let your head drop back onto a pillow with a floof. Hoseok smiles contently and dropped his hand to yours, firmly intertwining your fingers. “Thanks for not leaving. I meant what I said last night, ____.”

You smile and close your eyes at the memory, something you had dismissed as a whisper in a heated moment.  “I wasn’t going to leave. I just needed a glass of water.“ Hoseok smiles even wider at that and pulls you closer, the innocent gesture a wild contrast from what had transpired last night.

"I’m glad to hear that.”

You laugh. “Okay, but I still need that glass of water. Do you need something, Hoseok?”

He shakes his head, placing a kiss on a mark he himself had left on your shoulder the previous night, then tucks his head into the crook of his neck, the slight smile on his lips shaping themselves across your skin. “Everything I need right now is lying next to me already.”


Namjoon

Jeez, he’s beautiful.

You bite your lip and marvel at the way the sunshine played across the small dips and divots of the muscles in his arms and back. The tan skin that stretched across them seemed to have a glow of its own, a nice golden that reminded you of how heated last night was.

You suck in a breath. Last night. How on earth did you manage to find him?

You place your hands on your hips and swallow, realizing how parched your throat was. Maybe you should find a drink, something to get you ready for the difficult conversation you would have to face once the gorgeous man in the bed woke up.

You snatch your shirt off the back of a chair and slip your arms through it, thinking off what to say when he did wake up. Your mind remains blank, staunchly protesting against its excersise in the absence of coffee.

Sigh. Maybe I’ll just have to wing–

“Uh. ____, isn’t it?”

Shit. You swivel, the neck of the shirt still around your face. “Yeah…uh, Namjoon.”

His eyebrows raise when you remember his name correctly, a smile slowly taking residence over his lips and coaxing dimples out. Crap, he’s cute.

“Yeah.” He blinked at the awkward way you half-wore your shirt. “Do you need help with that?”

Blood rose to your cheeks, embarrassment quickly replacing your admiration of his cute nose. “Uh, no.” You pulled the shirt fully over your head, still flushing, and look around for your shoes. “Now, if I could just find shorts I’d be all–”

Namjoon looks up at you in middle of poking a (toned) leg out of bed. “You’re leaving?”

You pull a shoe out from under the bed and sit back on your heels to meet his eyes, blowing a strand of hair from your eyes. “Yeah, I just–”

Namjoon leaned forward, panic in his eyes. “_____, I know I might be a bit too forward in saying this, but if I didn’t, I’d never forgive myself.” He pulled his pants on and stood up, giving up on buttoning them in his haste. He raised his firm, bony hands in a helpless gesture. “Last night… was amazing. You were amazing. It isn’t just about the sex, but we clicked in a way I can’t explain.” He ran a hand through his hair, spiking it up in frustration. He was a (beautiful) sight, all shirtless, lean frame and unbuttoned dress pants, like a rugged Greek god.

“I know people say one night stands are no strings attached, that commitment has no place in it. But, ____, I for one, don’t want this to stop here. Let’s grab some breakfast and talk this out.” He raised earnest eyes to where you kneeled next to the bed, a shoe in one hand. “Don’t leave,  _____. Please?”

You gulped, and slowly stood up. “Namjoon.” You set the shoe down. “I was leaving to get some water from the kitchen.” You watch as realization, following embarrassment, blooms on his face. “Um, do you– do you want some coffee? With me?”


Jimin

“You’re very quiet outside the bedroom.” You jumped nearly a foot in the air. Clutching at your heart, you turn to face Park Jimin, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, watching you struggle to tiptoe across the apartment floor.

“Excuse me?!”

“I’m not a very deep sleeper, but you still managed to get this far without waking me up. Which is quite a surprise to me, since you were quite loud last night, _______.”

He remembers your name. Jimin remembers your name! “You weren’t so bad yourself, Jimin.”

He grins, perfect teeth catching at his lower lip. The smile transforms his face completely, turning him from a debonair one night standee to cute the-boy-next-door. “Touchè.” He ruffled his hair, and you smile at his cockiness. “We both were pretty loud last night, and a noise complaint from my neighbours is soon expected. But it doesn’t matter, since last night was great, as we told each other throught the course of it.” The smile dropped as he folded his arms, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “So why leave?”

Your grin falls from your face too when you hear his words. What? “Jimin, I’m not leaving. I mean, I’m not leaving, leaving.” You hold your wallet up. “I wanted to get some coffee for us, or something to eat from the deli I saw downstairs last night.” You bite your lip, slightly pleased (just a bit) at how upset Jimin has seemed when he thought you were leaving.

He raised hopeful eyes towards you, your heart already fluttering. “You’re not leaving?”

“Why would I?”


Taehyung
         
“You don’t have to jump from the window to make your escape. There’s a perfectly functional elevator in the building, and I’m not going to hold you hostage if you want to leave.”

You raise your eyebrows and turn away from the glass of the window, tearing your eyes away from the street below to the boy in the bed.

Still breathtaking, even as he knuckled his own head through a mass of bed hair and squinted at the light pouring in through the window. “The window’s too high anyway.” He said matter of factly.  You realize that he’s not even trying to be rude, Kim Taehyung was just the kind of man to speak his mind however he wanted to in that deep, sensual voice of his. “If you try that route, and break a few legs, I’ll need to take you to the hospital, and you’ll have to spend even more time with me.” He grinned and leaned back on his hands, lean muscles moving beneath the smooth tan skin.

You leaned against the windowsill, matching grin for grin. “Who said that would be a problem? Granted, I’d like to spend more time with you with both my legs intact, but as long as there’s more time, am I right?”

His grin grows wider. “Right.” He leans forward, and locks his hands in his lap. “So you don’t want to leave?”

You shook your head and resumed looking out the window, scanning the street below for what you wanted. “All I want right now is to buy some tteokboki from that vendor I saw hanging around last night, because I’m famished. That’s why I was looking out of the window, to see if I could spot my deliverer of glorious morning snacks.” You grin and bring your finger to the glass. “Speak of the devil.”  You smile as you feel strong arms go around your waist, a chaste kiss that was insignificant compared to last night being pressed to your neck. “Would you be interested in making a purchase with me?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”


Jungkook

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. How old is he?

You winced at the thought of him being too young. His muscles said otherwise, but his peaceful sleeping face and the small pucker of his (beautifu– ______!) lips told a whole different story.

You let out a small huff of breath and began looking around for your clothes. Be rational, ______. You’re not stupid. You would have known what you were getting into last night. Right? You raise your head too fast, almost throwing out your neck in the panic of considering the possibility that you hadn’t known what you were getting into last night. But you had right?

Your mind was too scrambled, too unorganised to think properly. It was too early, anyway, and the hangover that stood at the threshold of your senses mocked you further.

Coffee. That’s it. You pull your shirt on and straighten up, determined to find the kitchen and get some coffee on. Coffee for two, yeah. Maybe you and Jungkook could talk this over and clear stuff up. Maybe the two of you could even–

“No! Not until you know for sure!”, you reprimand yourself.

“Not until I know what for sure?”

You muffled a scream and whipped around, further startling Jungkook who was already doing a pretty good imitation of a bunny caught in the headlights. “Shit! You scared me!”

“Well– you scared me.”

You place your hands on your hips and concentrate on your breathing.

“Are you alright?”

Gosh, he’s cute– _____! “Hey, would you mind telling me how old you are?”

Jungkook folded his arms, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Ah. I’m past the legal age, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“You get asked that a lot?”

“Not much. I’m usually not the type to have one night stands.”

Your heart plummets to the bottom of your boots. “Oh. Are you- are you upset? That we did this?”

He played with the fingers of his hands. “Funnily enough, no.” He cocks his head. You observe that he’s very cute with a clear conscience for the first time. “Are you?”

You shook your head, a little breathless. “No.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“I wasn’t–” You look down at your half dressed state, the perfect picture of a one night standee that didn’t have the guts to stay around. “I wasn’t leaving.  I just needed some coffee to wake me up, so I was dressing to go check out your kitchen.” You offered Jungkook a tenative smile. “I want to stay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just for the coffee. And you, of course. I mean, if you–”

He grinned genuinely, and you realized he was fully beautiful, not just simply cute. “Okay. In that case, I shouldn’t give you these.” He shook a pair of jeans in his right hand. “If we’re staying in, then you’d look cuter without them, just like you do right now.”


why do I write so much?

also why do i write everything down on paper and realize at the last moment that i havent actually typed it all up?

jesus. 

p.s. if anyone of you are the ones requesting for english music from our boys: stop. you stan a kpop group. let them kpop.

anonymous asked:

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are so fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess Athena.”

Arachne tosses her head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall, “What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanches and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy. Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for her wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled hands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid, but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes and declares, “Athena should thank me, since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her and keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the crowd.

They will tell tales of her hubris. They will all be true.

~

The next day she bumps into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place, mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she says coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as a virtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers her to a weaving contest. She accepts.

~

Gods are not so hard to find, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” the baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking money from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag of sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders, “Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the first dozen times.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She grows hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to overwhelm her.

But Arachne does not believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales will be true.

She ties a scarf around her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and begins her slow ascent.

~

The muscles in her legs and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body and drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her head and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts his head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” she repeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, looking at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweet bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are big enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaver Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”

~

They tell tales of Hephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad, angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face, and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire, replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?” he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up at the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me, girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack off her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have woven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“Yes.”

They will all be true.

With a gust of wind the oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest, richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,” she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully. It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges. The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part in surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take offense.

The goddess smiles and Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the goddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows. Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says, “She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber. Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says, “you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales of their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both happily married.

Gods hate being made to feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins the weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestus says, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at her reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says, not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite as the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.

~

The contest goes as expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goes red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the death blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.

~

She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe in defeat, in loss.

It was a terribly long journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke of allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.

~

It takes seven years for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s a large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as the sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t return to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looks onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skitters down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that a piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him, waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand –

His face slowly fills with a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  She jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landing in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that same breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes, that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exact moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, that Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at the web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,” she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in front of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” she returns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stays cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please come with me.”

~

Arachne weaves a dress for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take you somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at her loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Of course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at the goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your company equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of her hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

My reason of how I cannot draw Mark fuckin’ Fischbach’s facial Region.

I cannot draw guys for shit, no matter how damn hard I fuckin’ try. This guy’s got the face of what many would depict as a greek god, or like a roman statue. He’s got a very defined facehole, with a jaw that could cut the string of life like in Hercules. He has a chiseled jaw that could decapitate a stone statue’s head, and it’s just… 

SO FUCKING HARD

@markiplier HOW DO YOU LIVE WITH A FACE THAT WAS CHISELED BY THE LORDS OF THE COSMOS

HOW DOES YOUR FACEHOLE DEFINE JUSTICE

HOW IS IT SO… DEFINED

WHAT IS YOUR FECKIN’ SECRETS

I NEED TO KNOW

FOR 18 YEARS, I’VE BEEN SHEDDING BLOOD, SWEAT, SOUL FLAKES, AND TEARS TO MAKE MY ART NOT JUST DETAILED TO THE T, BUT TO MAKE IT ABSOLUTELY PERFECT

YOUR FACEHOLE FRUSTRATES ME, MARK

THE ONLY THING KEEPING ME TO YOUR CHANNEL IS DICK JOKES AND MEMES

THIS IS HOW FAR I COME

TO BE BESTED YET PLEASED BY A MAN OF DIFFICULT FACIAL REGION GEOGRAPHY AND FEATURES

I’M GOING BACK TO DRAWING HOOTTUBES SHITTING STARS NOW

anonymous asked:

What's your take on the world ending for the Greek Gods? Or when they cease to be relevant to mankind, and what happens to them? Would Athena, Aphrodite and Artemis take the streets and march for Pride? Would Demeter be the manager at a zoo?

Time passes. The world changes. Temples fall. People now speak their names as if they are fairytales.

The gods are dead.

~

Apollo’s chariot lies broken and forgotten in the ruins of a city no one knows the name of anymore. He watches the sun crawl across the sky of its own volition, without him to push it forward.

“Do you miss it?” Artemis asks him, appearing by his side.  They stand at the top of a sparkling glass building, almost the same as ever. She walks among the mortals more than he does, she always has, and She’s dressed like one of them. Tight clothes and half her head shaved, sparkling gems curling up the delicate shell of her ear. She looks like one of the teenagers that fill his concert stadiums.

He thinks of the way his chariot threatened to escape his grasp every morning, the oppressive heat of the sun beating down on him, the burns and the undercurrent of fear that one day he would lose his grip on the reins and plunge the world into darkness.

Apollo leans his head on his sister’s shoulder. The sun rises slower without him, but it rises just the same. “No. Not really.”

~

Hephaestus’s workshop has evolved with the times – from a volcano base to a modern lab, but always a workshop bursting with creation. The cyclopes are still his best assistants.

Aphrodite steps over discarded parts and expertly walks around frantic cyclopes carrying bubbling concoctions. Her dark hair is swept up in a bun and she wears chunky glasses and a blood red pantsuit that almost hides the fact she’s the most beautiful woman to walk the earth. “I have a client, try not to blow up the house. Again.”

“Yes dear,” he says, but doesn’t looks away from his soldering. She hadn’t expected him too. His prosthetics are off and on the floor besides him, and he’s seated on a too-tall chair to compensate for the loss of height.

She reaches out and carefully touches the corner of his eye. Crow’s feet have started to work their way onto his face. They’re getting old. “It’s the couple that’s fighting because he wants kids and she doesn’t want to carry any kids but doesn’t want to say that. It would probably be easier if I just told them to adopt and threw them out the window.”

“Yes dear,” he repeats, sparks flying. A few land on her, but she doesn’t burn. Of course.

She moves her hand up and pushes it through his hair and resists the urge to pull him from his work and abandon her own so they can make out on his worktable. “I love you.”

Aphrodite turns to leave, but Hephaestus grabs her wrist and pulls her back. He holds up a single copper lily, the edges of the petals still glowing with heat it had taken to shape them. He carefully slides the stem into her hair so it sits at the base of her bun. He grazes her bottom lip with his thumb as he pulls his hand back to his side. “Yes dear.”

~

Demeter rages.

She makes imprudent deals to control an earth that no longer falls under her domain, and she enacts her revenge against the mortals in whatever way she can. They have forgotten her, forgotten the earth, and in their ignorance they seek to destroy it.

She shakes the bedrock and splits it open, but still they do not learn, and as the temperature of the earth rises so does her temper.

The sea is not hers to command, her power is of earth and of earth alone, and even now she gave more than could afford to lose to keep her grasp on it. But these mortals do not learn.

Demeter goes to the sea and makes an inadvisable bargain. She goes to the crumbling remains of Olympus and makes an even worse one.

Typhoons and hurricanes whip across the land. If they seek to destroy her, she will simply destroy them first.

~

Hera sits on a pure white couch in an elegant mansion, smiling for the journalist seated across from her.

“What do you think is the most influential decision you ever made?” he asks, “If you could pinpoint the success of your business to one moment, what would it be?”

She tilts her head as the light of the camera flashes. “Why, divorcing my husband, of course.”

“Would that be your advice to young women hoping to be as successful as you?” he asks, “To not get married?”

Hera thinks of thousands of years by Zeus’s side, and how little it got her. She thinks of Hestia’s men, and Artemis’s women, of Hephaestus’s love for Aphrodite, of the way Hades softened the sharpest of Persephone’s edges.

She says, “Do not get married to someone who makes you less than you are. If you are not a better person for being together than apart, then do not be together. It’s as simple as that.”

Simple, but not easy.

Leaving Zeus was the hardest thing she’s ever done.

~

Persephone isn’t forced to spend half the year on the mortal earth anymore. She goes when she pleases, which isn’t often.

Sometimes she’ll sit by Artemis’s side while she brings a new life into the world and holds the warm, wriggly child first. She visits hospitals and makes the flowers bloom out of season, and spends long hours sitting under the sun and feeling it’s warmth touch her face.

Hades left his realm rarely before, and even more rarely now. More people are being born than ever, meaning more people are dying than ever. Their realm is massive, comprising of all the dead of several millennia. Hades and Hecate spend their days as always – desperately trying to expand the realm so that they don’t all have to live on top of each other.

“Have you heard?” she asks one day, seated on his desk and leaning across it so he can’t work on the latest draft for another level of their realm. “The gods are dead.”

He gives up on attempting to tug it out from underneath her. “Are they? That’s odd, none of them are here.”

Persephone doesn’t bother to hide her smile. They haven’t figured it out yet. Maybe they never will. But when death comes for them, as death does for all, it will be to Hades and Persephone’s door they are brought. Hades himself will usher Gaia and Amphitrite into the underworld, when the time comes.

That time is not today.

“Darling, I really do need to work on this,” he ineffectually tugs on the map again.

She pushes him back into the chair, climbing on top of him and pressing their foreheads together. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees, and obligingly moves his head so Persephone can nibble at his neck. He manages a whole thirty seconds before going, “I mean, I really do, Hecate said if I didn’t have a plan by the time she leaves for the mortal realm tomorrow, I’ll either have to wait until she gets back or do it by myself, and I’d really prefer to do neither–”

Persephone kisses him to shut him up, twisting and pushing them through the realm so they land on their bed. “I’ll help you finish it later. Focus on me now.”

Hades doesn’t answer, but he does flip them so he’s above her and reaches below her skirt, so she’ll take that as agreement.

~

Hestia sits around a bonfire, watching a group of teenagers get drunk and dance around the flames. They’ll never be younger than right now, never feel as much love for each other as they do right now.

She is besides an old man who warms his hands from the fire coming from an abandoned trash can.

She lies on a bed as a girl lights two dozen candles around it as a surprise for when her lover gets home.

She watches a young man make dinner for his boyfriend for the first time and burn the chicken on both sides. They eat it together anyway.

She sits on the kitchen counter when a sister takes out a pie from the oven, made special for her little brother’s birthday.

She is there when a father ticks the thermostat up high in freezing dawn of morning so it will be warm by the time his wife and children awaken.

Most people don’t have hearths anymore. But there is warmth, and love, and for Hestia that is enough.

~

As their names fade from existence, as his name is called less and less on the battlefields of mortal men, the more Ares sleeps.

He falls asleep in too tall trees and on park benches. He sleeps in seedy motel rooms and naps in every one of Athena’s libraries. He sleeps curled up on a chair in Aphrodite’s office, and on the floors of a lot of veteran resource centers. As fast as he can tell, that’s the most they help any veteran.

Still, his favorite place to sleep is the underworld.

He goes knocking on Orpheus’s door, who is always willing to play for him. “Hades is here,” Eurydice says, “Would you like to me to go get him?”

He shakes his head, “Persephone is home. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Eurydice and Orpheus share the same look of faint disapproval, but neither of the say anything, for which he is grateful.

He lies in the soft grass of the garden Persephone made, and lets Orpheus’s playing lull him to sleep.

Later, he’s woken by strong arms picking him up and holding him against a familiar chest. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know who’s holding him. “I can go,” he yawns, his actions at odds with his words as he pulls himself even closer the warmth coming off the king of the underworld.

“No,” Hades says. “Stay.”

Ares lets out a content sigh as Hades presses his lips to his forehead, and he’s not great about touch, about people laying their hands on him and getting in his space. But Hades has always felt safe, felt like home.

He stays.

~

The gods are dead.

Long live the gods.


gods and monster series, part xiv

read more of the gods and monsters series here

9

all your gods are teenage girls:  aura, goddess of the breeze and early morning air

How the campfire actually went down

Luke: “ F is for friends who do stuff together, U is for you and me! N is for anywhere at anytime at all, down here in the deep blue sea!”

Luke: “now you try Chiron!”

Chiron: *clears throad*

Chiron: “my dad ate me. ”

Luke: *sweating* “OKAY ALL TOGETHER NOW”

Art School Stereotypes I’ve observed*

Animation

  • N e r d s
  • Unhealthily obsessed with video games, anime, Disney, or some sick combination of the three
  • One of the most sleep-deprived majors, but also surprisingly chipper (there are exceptions)
  • Instantly recognizable by their triforce t-shirts or Pokemon Go snapbacks
  • In spite of everything, they have the highest population of straight-edge asexuals
  • If you weren’t straight edge and celibate before, then prepare to be, because you’re about to disown all bodily urges and dedicate your life to drawing cartoon animals

Illustration

  • Like Animation majors, but cooler and much better taste in fashion. A little less tech-savvy, though
  • Comic book nerds

Painting & Drawing

  • A friend of mine once said, “People who love animation go into animation. Then they realize it’s a ton of work and switch to illustration. Then they realize THAT’S a ton of work and switch into Painting & Drawing.”
  • Highest percentage of colorful hair and weird tattoos/piercings
  • grunge
  • Listen to music you’ve never heard of
  • Smoke a LOT, asthmatics beware

Ceramics

  • Kinda stereotypical stoners or high level artsy kids, but not that pretentious 
  • Somehow even more conceptual and indie than P&D
  • Behind the ceramics building, there’s a sculpture garden of all the sculptures of students past. Every night, the campus closes at 4AM. They say it’s for security, but I say it’s because the sculptures all come to life at that point. I mean, think about it. The whole “spooky midnight hour” is so cliche, I don’t know anyone who DOESN’T stay up till midnight at least once a week. But 4AM? That’s the true witching hour. The hour that belongs only to the living sculptures (and architecture majors I guess)

Glass

  • Frankly, the least hygienic major
  • All the males and most of the females have a rank odor after being sweatily hunched over the steaming hot forges for too long
  • Might be stoners, but the chill, easy-to-hang-out-with stoners
  • Probably the most like a real family. I always walk by the Glass Studio at night and feel the breeze of warm air from their fire, catch a riff of tasteful classic rock, and hear the echoes of genuine laughter from within. It must be nice to have a home.

Jewelry

  • I dunno, I’ve never met one. They put on some sick gallery shows, though.

Graphic Design

  • In spite of Graphic Design as an art not being super emotional or indie compared to, say, Painting, the GD majors are probably some of the most tortured souls I’ve met
  • I used to be best friends/date a GD major and watched before my eyes as she was crushed by the world around her from Freshman to Junior year. Honestly I’m not sure if she still goes here. We don’t talk anymore, it’s too painful. I miss her, or rather, I miss the person she used to be. The person she used to be before Graphic Design.
  • I’m now roommates with a poor little GD Freshman, and I worry about her every day. Not as a lover like with the last one, but as a parent. What will happen to her? How long will she last? Cheyenne, if you’re reading this, run away while you still can.
  • Gets excited about fonts and kerning.
  • I don’t really know what kerning is.

Photography

  • Outdoorsy and nature loving hippies
  • The chillest major, I envy them
  • Photography IS hard work, don’t get me wrong, but come ON! You travel to a beautiful mountain spring, snap a few pictures, and call it a day
  • Never need to pull all-nighters
  • Seriously, I deeply respect Photography as an art and all BUT

Film

  • Some of them are also outdoorsy and nature loving hippies, the rest are hipSTERS
  • “I don’t watch ‘movies.’ I watch Films.
  • Apparently they have something of a drug problem, i.e., half the class comes in stoned
  • My friend Chris said one of the film teachers plays Porno he made in class, I’m not sure if he was messing with me or not

Architecture

  • Oh boy, Architecture
  • The coldest hearts of any major
  • The only nice Architecture majors are the first years. After that last final, something inside of them breaks. At that point they either crawl to a different major in submission, or become as sharp, straight, and lifeless as the buildings which they spend so much time designing
  • They literally do not sleep
  • Seriously, I was pulling an all-nighter last week (since the Architecture place is the only place open 24/7) and I swear to god there was an entire CLASSFULL of the Architects up and jamming from 10pm to 7am. I tried to sleep, but the Architecture majors just wouldn’t quit. Also, it was so cold there. So cold. Cold from the hearts of fifth-year Architects. I’m bringing my winter backpacking sleeping bag next time.

Industrial Design

  • Mostly foreign exchange students, especially Chinese, Indian, and Korean
  • I don’t speak Chinese, Indian, OR Korean so I can’t say much else
  • Vaguely like Architecture majors, only they appear to have a normal spectrum of human emotions 

Interactive Design

  • What is Interactive Design? Honestly I don’t really know. Like making Apps or some shmuck.
  • Tech
  • Graphic Designers who love themselves

Fashion

  • Mostly female
  • Obviously they’re very very VERY nicely dressed
  • Calm, confident, but also have fun sides

Textiles

  • Most of the textiles students I’ve met are just stop-motion loving Animators
  • I think the ones that aren’t are probably like grandmas that love knitting or something

Furniture

  • Honestly I didn’t know this was a major until like last semester
  • The only furniture major I’ve met was this Norwegian dude who looked like a greek god 
  • We were once assigned to do a group project together but then he blew me off to go surfing so I had to do it myself. Seriously? Surfing???? Like I’d be mad but that’s a cool reason to blow someone off. Hell, I’d blow people off surfing if I had the easy life of a non-animation-major

Writing

  • “We have a writing program?”
  • They’re cool though
  • Get really excited about books. I’ve read only about three or four books so I kind of just smile and nod while they talk
  • Seem genuinely interested in other people’s stories

Community Art

  • I’m not entirely sure what this is
  • Passionate about social justice and teamwork

Disclaimer: No offense to any of them (except architecture majors)

*At California College of the Arts from my relativley limited perspective as an animation major who frankly has only had minimal interactions with the others

i want a reality show about the gods of olympus. like every week, there’s yet ANOTHER thing that zeus does and hera gets angry but cries in the talking part that i never know what to call. 

the camera people follow hades around and are expecting to be turned away, but he gets really excited and loves talking about his work. persephone, however, likes to play tricks on the camera people to get them to leave her alone. these often involve fake sacrifices. (hecate loves to help)

ares always shows up e x h a u s t e d and can barely stay awake while he talks about whatevers happening.

athena is often found in the library and the camera people cant talk to her there. (she’s always in the library and the camera people are trying to figure out what she’s studying so intensely) ((she’s not studying anything, she’s avoiding them))

and they can never find time with zeus to talk to him or ask him questions, but he’s almsot always seen in the background doing weird things??? and anytime one of the camera people yells “ZEUS!!!” to get his attention, he turns around and then disappears???? (but you can always find a white animal on set in various scenes) “WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU GET A WHITE PHOENIX, JOAN?! WHY IS THAT EVEN HERE?!?!”

hermes is always talking over his shoulder because he’s always moving. being the messenger boy isn’t easy, especially with the traffic in the city. “gods, don’t even get me started on trying to fly. ONE TIME i was late and all of the sudden im this guy called superman and everyone wants me to save the city. ONE TIME!”

hestia works in a foster system and helps find homes for kids. she’s really good at it. but she a l w a y s talks about her kids when she’s at home and hera looks at the camera like “oh my gods kill me”

so every few months there’s this dinner they have, with all the 13 gods of olympus and they are FUN. this is really the only time you can see zeus not doing weird things in the background, but he loves to make jokes.

hades always brings persephone, which gets under everyones skin because “she’s not one of the thirteen” and hades always tells them “well the underworld chose her, yall chose me, so we’re both here.”

“FOURTEEN IS A WEIRD NUMBER HADES, IT HAS NO MYSTICAL MEANING!”

“athena no one gives a fuck, we don’t have power over the world anymore.”

“ares, be nice to your sister.”

“w h a t e v e r, mom”


( @shanastoryteller i thought you’d enjoy this)

fictionandmusic  asked:

wow your writing in the gods and monsters series is amazing! i've always loved greek myths and you bring them to life and add a different twist that makes it better than anything i've ever read about mythology!! if you have time, could you do a continuation of the Hades and Kore story? Kore/Persephone is one of my fav goddesses and i can't wait to see where you take her story!

(continuation of: x, x)

The first time Kore throws herself into the River Styx, she is reckless and stubborn and feels like she has so little left to lose, only an overbearing mother she yearns to escape.

The first time Kore throws herself into the River Styx, she fights and swims and survives. She is picked up on the shore and carried to safety in Hades’s arms.

The second time Kore throws herself into the River Styx, she is reckless and stubborn and feels like she has everything to lose. She lets the water take her, and she drowns.

The second time Kore throws herself into the River Styx, it kills her.

~

Kore wakes up after falling unconscious while being carried by the King of the Underworld. Her skin is fully healed, no longer blistering and burning. She’s naked under the soft blankets, but she was naked when she dove into the river, so she’s not too worried about it.

“I didn’t know you were a goddess,” someone says, and she turns her head to see a little girl sitting by her bedside with black skin and grey eyes and hair. She’s glaring at her, “I wouldn’t have tried to kill you if I’d known. You shouldn’t touch my water – it’s not good for you. It will kill you. It does not care what you are.”

“It did not kill Achilles,” Kore says, pushing herself up so the blanket falls to her waist.

The young Lady Styx huffs and gets to her feet, pushing open the long wardrobe on the other side of the room. “It did, actually. What my river takes, it keeps.” Kore raises an eyebrow. Styx doesn’t explain further, only places a dark blue gown on the bed. “Hecate put some of her old things in here for you. She’s taller and thinner than you are. But you are a goddess. You can make it work.”

“I can,” Kore agrees, amused. She pushes herself out of bed, and her hair falls into her face.

Her hair has been a dark brown her whole life.

She strides over to the wardrobe and pulls it open, starring at herself in the mirror.

Her hair has turned pure, snowy white. The hair on her head of course, but the rest of it too. Her eyebrows, the light hair on her arms and legs, going down her navel, the hair between her legs – all of it white.

“You’re lucky nothing worse happened,” Styx scolds. “My river usually does much worse than that.”

Kore touches one of her new, pale eyebrows. “That is an excellent point, Lady Styx.”

With some clever magic, Kore pulls on the now perfectly fitting gown. Hecate doesn’t tend to bother with them, only dresses up if there’s some sort of celebration that requires her attendance – something that hasn’t happened in a long time, ever since she irritated Zeus and Poseidon to the point that they called for her head on a spike. The gown is old, even by their standards, but its beautifully crafted, stars plucked from the heavens and sewn into the bodice, waves from the seven seas curling around the long skirt. “This is very valuable,” she says, “Is Hecate sure she would like me to have it?”

Styx shrugs, “She said it was a young woman’s dress, and however she may look, she’s not a young woman any more. It’s my favorite dress of hers – I was quite cross that she gave it to you, but I did almost kill you. So I suppose that’s fair enough.”

“Ah,” Kore says, not quite sure how to respond to that. “I see.”

Styx grins at her and grabs her hand. The child goddess’s skin is freezing to the touch, but Kore doesn’t flinch back out of fear of being rude. “Come with me now. Hades wants to see you.”

The girl leads her through the twisting hallways to a polished wooden door. It’s not the throne room, where Kore thought that the girl would take her. She’s seen the grand inner chambers of Poseidon and Zeus’s homes before, of the lesser gods even, and Kore braces herself for something just as grandiose and intimidating.

Styx opens the door and pushes her inside before vanishing.

Kore blinks and looks around.

The room is smaller than she expected. It’s lined with shelves packed with scrolls, and mounted on the opposite wall is large map that’s constantly shifting and changing, and it take her almost a full minute of looking at it to realize it’s a map of the underworld.

“You’re looking better.”

Kore’s eyes snap down, and it’s only then that she notices the figure of Hades, King of the Underworld, hunched over his desk. His hair pulled in messy low ponytail, and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s in a simple black chiffon, one no more presumptuous than any mortal noble would wear. He’s the most unassuming, unremarkable thing in already unassuming, unremarkable room.

Suddenly, she feels over-dressed.

“Thank you,” she says, not knowing what else to say. She feels – awkward, almost, in front of him, which isn’t something she’s ever felt with anyone. She wants to climb into his lap and rest her head against his shoulder. She wants to force him into some proper clothes for a king. She wants to put him to bed and make him sleep until he loses those bruises under his eyes.

She’s never wanted to do any of those things for anyone before. She doesn’t even know him.

Although – she knows he came for her. That he found an intruder into his realm and picked her up and soothed her, carried her to safety and washed her of the corrosive water of the Styx. He placed her in his palace and did not touch her as so many other men would have touched her.

So perhaps she does know him. At least a little.

He rests his chin on his hand while he looks at her. “Hermes came with a message from your mother, demanding your return.” She doesn’t even have the time to panic before he continues, “I denied her. If she wishes to speak to me in person, I told her she is welcome to step into my realm herself.”

“She won’t do that,” Kore says, “She fears your realm. She fears how her power means nothing in your domain.”

Kore had never known her mother to fear anything – except the land of the dead. She’d grown up thinking Hades must be a hulking, formidable figure to pull fear from her mother’s breast, but that’s clearly not the case.

He smiles, and it’s the first hint of sharpness she’s seen from him. “I know. There will be consequences, of course. But those are my concern. You are a guest of my realm, Goddess of Spring. Walk where you please, and do as you please. No one will stop you.”

He’s already looking back down at his papers, eyebrows drawing together as he scratches out a series of numbers and rewrites them. It’s a clear dismissal, but Kore can’t bring herself to move.

She’s never met this man before. Yet he stands against her mother, yet he welcomes her to his realm, yet he permits unrestricted access to his home, yet he grants her every freedom he’s able.

“Thank you,” she says again. He gives an absent nod, already reaching for another scroll.

She leaves as quietly as she came.

Keep reading