three jeans

Can someone please tell France to CENTRALIZE ITS GENEALOGICAL RECORDS DEAR GOD

This is how it works in France in case you don’t know:

  1. Jean is born in France. His father’s name is Jean. His grandfather’s name is Jean. His three older brothers are named Jean. His wife is named Catherine. Her father’s name is Jean. Her mother’s name is Catherine. The witnesses at their wedding are named Jean and Catherine. The vicar who married them is named Jean. They have ten kids: Jean-Claude, Jean-Pierre, Jean-Philippe, Jean-Jacques, Jean-Alain, Jean-Sebastien, Jeanne-Yves, Jeanne-Marie, Francois, and Francoise.
  2. Fifteen other families in the same town have the same name and are somehow not related.
  3. All of this is written in a book in a church that burned down in 1880.
  4. The church was in Alsace, which was not a part of France but actually a part of Germany from 1871 to 1919.
  5. Good fucking luck!

I want to see Greek gods in the modern era.

I want to see Zeus in a tailored suit and shaggy beard, a walking disparity of the loud, brash, post-graduate frat boy variety who can’t pass a woman on the street without catcalls, who has more one-night stands than he could possibly keep in his head, for whom adultery comes as naturally as the weather he predicts on the Channel 4 News—with startlingly accuracy, and an endless wealth of charisma.

I want to see Hera walking tall, six-inch heels and not a wrinkle in her skirt, knowing her boyfriend is cheating, and knowing with equal certainty that she is better, stronger, fiercer than he will ever be, a wedding planner with an eye of steel, spotting vulnerability, slicing it open, teaching every woman who crosses her path to value themselves over any mistake made in the name of men and love.

I want to see Poseidon in Olympic prime, a gym rat who skives off class to shatter backstroke records, who spends his summers lifeguarding at the city pool, who keeps an ever-expanding aquarium in his bedroom and coaxes all the pretty girls up to visit his fish, his charm as impressive as the earth-rending temper he generally uses to fuel his competitive nature.

I want to see Hades, big, hulking, quieter than his brothers would ever think to be, who dresses in neat dark clothes, and polishes his boots, and spends more time reading than fighting, who debates eventuality and ethics, who stoically reminds everyone how enormous, how terrifying, how inescapable a thing like silent inevitability can be.

I want to see Hermes in a beanie, with watercolor splashes of tattoo crawling up his arms and holes in his Chucks, a bike messenger with no helmet, no regard for the rules of the road, all cataclysmic laughter, lock-pick tricks passed along to every kid who thinks to ask, thumbing through his iPhone without a care in the world.

I want to see Athena with reading glasses pushed high on her head, six books in her bag and a switchblade in her back pocket, her clothing as neatly ordered as her mind is feverish, brilliance and temper clashing and blending, doing her best to look dignified—even when her brain chemistry rockets ahead of her well-intentioned plans.

I want to see Apollo splattered with acrylics, board shorts and Monster headphones and a beautiful classic car, busking on street corners, not because he has no choice, but because the sunlight catching on a sticker-patterned acoustic is summer incarnate, because music is blood, because the act of creation is the ultimate in sublime.

I want to see Artemis in ripped jeans and haphazard topknot, star of the soccer team, the track team, the archery team, who rides a motorcycle, and keeps a tribe of girls around her at all times, and does not care for men, for expectation, for anything but volunteer hours down at the local animal shelter and falling asleep under the stars.

I want to see Aphrodite in sundress and scarf, homemade jewelry and lavish amounts of bright red lipstick, who is excellent at public speaking, at theater auditions, at soothing bruised egos and sparking epic fights, who kisses as easily as she breathes and scrawls poetry onto bathroom stalls.

I want to see Ares all but living in the boxing ring, cutoff shirts and sweats, red-faced under a crew cut as he punches, punches, punches until the noise in his head dims, a warrior with no war, all crude jokes and blind fury, totally incapable of understanding what it is to sit, think, plan before running screaming into the fray.

I want to see Demeter with the best garden you’ve seen in your life, with a lawn care business she runs out of her garage, a teenage prodigy grown into a joint-custody single mother, who teaches her carefree daughter all she knows while scaring off the hopeful neighborhood boys with the pet python draped across her shoulders.

I want to see Dionysus with a joint in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, baggy hoodies and three-week-old jeans, who brews his own beer in his basement and greets all visitors with a fresh pack of Oreos and half-stoned theories of the universe, of birth and death and partying mid-week, because why not, man?

I want to see Hephaestus with a workshop taking up the majority of his house, whose kitchen is overrun with blowtorches, whose bathrooms are home to all manner of hodge-podge invention, who walks with a cane and forgets his laundry for weeks at a time, and strings together the most beautiful steampunk costumes at any convention at the drop of a hat.

I want to see wood nymphs fighting against climate change, waving their signs and pushing for scientific progress. I want to see epic heroes sitting down to Magic: The Gathering tournaments, poker brawls, Call of Duty all-nighters with beer and snapbacks. I want to see Medusa working a women’s shelter, want to see Achilles training for deployment, want to see Prometheus serving endless community service stints for what he calls providing necessary welfare with stolen goods.

Give me modern mythology. I could play for hours in that sandbox.

  • Me: It's okay to be unsure of your gender/sexuality!!1! It's totally cool to be figuring yourself out!
  • Me @ me: except you bc u need to get ur stuff together and figure out what the heck u are right now immediately

The capstone to Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieślowski’s brilliant career, the Three Colors trilogy explores the principles of the French Revolution—liberty, equality, and fraternity—through a series of intricately layered human dramas, culminating in 1994’s Oscar-nominated Red. This gorgeously photographed meditation on chance, destiny, and the challenges of interpersonal communication follows a Swiss fashion model (Irène Jacob) and the subtle connections that form between her life and those of an emotionally alienated retired judge (Jean-Louis Trintignant) and a young law student in her neighborhood (Jean-Pierre Lorit). In the below excerpt from the latest installment of Observations on Film Art, a Criterion Channel program that focuses on the formal elements of cinema and how they are deployed by some of the world’s greatest auteurs, professor Jeff Smith examines the ways in which Kieślowski uses camera movement to suggest the fated entanglement of the film’s characters.

Camera Movement in Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Three Colors: Red

Hexed

Characters:  Dean x Reader, Sam

Summary:  Reader and Dean are…you guessed it…hexed.  Is it a sexual curse or something more?

Word Count:  2111

Warnings:  Lots of language, lots of smut (rough-ish smut)

As always, feedback is appreciated.  Tags are at the bottom.

Originally posted by holy-fucking-damn-shit

Hexed 

There is a time and place for everything, this is neither the time nor the place. Not for Dean to be looking at me like that, no sir. Had I always hoped he’d fix those ethereal green eyes on me that way? My mama didn’t raise a liar, so I’m not going to lie to you. Yeah, I want that man to fix those eyes on me just like that. Wanted him to for a long time now. There’s a lot of things I want from Dean Winchester.  That man is a walking wet dream, sex on bow-legs.

Things is, he’s not supposed to be looking at me like that. Sure as hell not right this very minute.  It’s not part of the plan. We’re working a fucking case for god’s sake. I’m not talking about research or footwork, interviewing and investigating. We are legitimately standing in this room right the fuck now and a motherfucking witch was just here with us. There is a blade in my hand and a gun in his. We had a job to do, one goddamn job.

Now that bitch of a witch is gone. Poof, vanished, adios amigos, just fucking gone. She mumbled some shifty spell work and now Dean fucking Winchester is looking like he wants to screw my brains out.

I’m looking right back at him and I got the same look in my eye.  

I don’t know what that piece of shit did to us, but my breasts are heavy, achy. My nipples are straining against the fabric of my bra and if somebody doesn’t touch them right this very instant and relieve that pressure, I’m going to scream. Or come. I don’t know which.  

There’s a burning in between my thighs, I’m squeezing them together hoping to ease some of the pressure but it’s only making it worse. Times infinity. My skin is all heat and fire, I’m consumed by need and lust.

Dean is a mirror, his eyes reflect back at me the same fever I’m feeling. I can see his cock - Jesus fucking Christ - swelling and straining against those blue denim jeans. In three short steps his crossed the room, a strangled sound leaving his lips before his lips press to mine. Our weapons clatter to the ground making one hell of a racket, but I give no fucks.

Keep reading

everything was perfecf

- three pairs of ripped jeans are you fucking kidding me daniel

- dan’s laughs and non stop commentary

- phil is so tall and his shoulders are so broad and his knees and arms and everything what a man

- he looked so cute and hot in the beanie i wanted to cry

- WHITE BOXERS

- dan saying he’s stealing the white trousers yes pls

- dan giving phil a ring sign me up for this premium content for 99.99

- phil acknowledging safiya’s impact and now i want a collab their personalities would work so great together and imagine dan and tyler laughing off camera!!!!

- *throws confetti everywhere* PHIL LESTER HAS MY HEART

2

“This booby is madly in love with Clawsette.”

Classicat #25: Meowrius Pont-Mew-Cy, Clawsette, and bonus confused dad Jean Meowljan, from Les Meowserables by Victor Mewgo

(Clawsette’s fur is naturally white. Meowljan’s fur turned white long ago from stress, so that many cats call him “Mewnsieur Leblanc”  Or “Mewnsieur The White.”)

In the book Clawsette and her father walk to a park every day, and every day Meowrius Pont-mew-cy walks to the same park. One day, Clawsette and Meowrius make Dramatic Eye Contact and spend the rest of their days nonverbally flirting with each other. Clawsette flirts by owning fancy clothes and makeup. Meowrius just acts like a  dweeb (he hopes Clawsette has noticed his new hat!!) Meowljan, meanwhile, is very confused. 

Basically: all the cats involved in this subplot are complete dorks. Meowljan has never loved anyone romantically, and Clawsette/Meowrius are experiencing romantic love for the first time– meaning none of them know what to do because none of them understand romantic love. So the whole subplot is an adorable mess of awkward