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
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 silentinevitability 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
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
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.
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.
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.
You, I know you now, you are a destroyer. You detest men because you detest yourself. Your purity resembles death. The revolution you dream of is not ours. You don’t want to change the world, you want to blow it up.
After a hunt gone wrong, Y/N Winchester, the 17 year old half-sister of Sam and Dean Winchester, her older brothers, and Castiel are transported to Riverdale, a town in a different universe. While Sam, Dean, and Castiel attempt to find a way back home, Y/N struggles to fit in in community of Riverdale. In a universe with no monsters to worry about, there’s so many questions that need answering.
Can she ever try to be normal after hunting for all of her life? Who’s the good-looking, mystical teen with the beanie who’s always at that diner? And will anyone discover that secret she’s been hiding for the last year and a half?
As you walked to school the next morning, you looked around at the small town of Riverdale. The walk was a little more than half a mile and you had left early in order to get a head start. You pulled your school schedule from your jacket pocket, rereading it again. You tried to memorize it, not really keen on looking like the clueless new kid roaming the halls. You would be a perfect target for someone to rush over and try and help you. And you didn’t want that. They may mean well, but you weren’t there to make friends. As soon as your brothers and Castiel figured out how to get home, you were out of there. Best not to get close to anyone in the meantime. Despite your intention to memorize your schedule, you found yourself staring off into space as you walked, replaying the events of the previous night.
You had arrived back at the motel a little over two hours after you had left it. When you returned, your brothers and Castiel were waiting for you anxiously. Dean had gotten you your favorite food, Chinese takeout, but you weren’t in the mood for it. Before you could mumble out a “No, thanks,” Sam held out a motel key for you. You were confused until he told you that they rented out the room next door for you. Just for you. Said that you probably didn’t want to be cramped up in a room with your brothers and an angel. You took the key with a silent “thank you,” gathering your backpack (which had been filled when you were gone with the supplies Dean and Cas got you,) and walked out of the motel room without another word, ignoring the bag of Chinese food in Dean’s hand. When you entered the room next door, you saw that a wide variety of tank tops and tee shirts along with three pairs of jeans and multiple plaid jackets were all folded up on your bed.
Castiel knew what had happened with you. Why you were gone for the last year. He didn’t tell Sam or Dean about it, and he didn’t ever question you about it. And for that you were thankful. When you were ready, if you would ever be ready, he would be there to talk to you. In the months since you’d been back, he’d do little things for you, whether it was making your bed or trying to cook you your favorite food every once in a while. In this case, it was getting you clothes for the days or even weeks that would follow. You debated going back into your brothers’ motel room to thank the angel, but decided you’d just tell him tomorrow instead. You kicked your shoes off, and gently placed all the folded up clothes on the ground so they wouldn’t get messed up as you slept. You crawled under the covers, sleep quickly claiming you.
You sighed as you recalled the way you had snapped at Sam the night before. You knew he was only trying to help. But you didn’t want help. You didn’t need help. If you could handle what you went through in the last year, you could handle the aftermath.
But could you?
Eventually you came to the front of Riverdale High, stopping and looking at it and all the kids hanging out outside of it. You took a deep breath and continued on, walking through the doors. Immediately you felt everyone’s eyes on you as you entered the main hallway. You held your head high and marched onto your first class which was English. The bell rang just as you walked into the class only to find that everyone was in their seats. All the students quieted down, looking at you. Before you could look around to see who was in your class, the teacher called your name.
“Hello there! Y/N, right?” she asked.
You nodded. The older woman smiled brightly as she got up and made her way over to you.
Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me—
She reached out and gently held your arm.
Oh God, why?!
“Welcome to Riverdale, sweetheart,” she said softly.
You forced a smile for her although it looked more like a grimace and she turned to the class.
“Class, this is Y/N Winchester. She’s new so I expect you to do your best to make her feel welcome here,”
She turned back to you again.
“Y/N, why don’t you take a seat next to Jughead over there?”
You furrowed your brows.
Your teacher pointed to an empty seat in the back and it was only then that you saw the familiar blue-green eyes staring back at you from the seat next to it.
Oh, not him!
You internally groaned as you made your way over to the empty chair, making sure to avoid eye contact with this kid, this… Jughead. You took your seat, forcing your eyes to stay on your teacher. Why did you have to be seated next to the one and only guy at Riverdale High who couldn’t stop staring at you at that diner?
English class was a slow blur, but you managed not to look at Jughead the entire time. The bell rang and you had just put your notebook away when you heard a voice next to you speak.
“Hey, Y/N, right?”
You sighed, closing your eyes. You really did not want to deal with this today. Or any day for that matter. You placed your pencil case in your backpack, zipping the bag up.
“How can I help you?” you responded coolly, not bothering to look up at the boy.
“Actually, I was going to ask how could I help you?” he offered.
At his comment, you looked up at the standing teen from your chair.
“What?” you asked bewildered.
“Your next class. Need someone to show you around?” he asked.
You quickly shook your head.
“No,” you said bluntly as you got up, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I got a map,” you lied. “I can figure it out myself.”
Jughead’s smirk fell at your tone and he rose his eyebrow.
“Are you sure? I mean, it can get a little—”
“Positive,” you said, cutting him off. “Thanks anyway.”
With that, you walked out of the classroom, not bothering to look back. You felt a little guilty at your brazenness but quickly pushed it aside. What did it matter anyway? You’d be leaving this town, this universe soon enough. What was the point in making friends now?
You had managed to get to the majority of your classes without any problems. You had been late by a couple minutes to your Chemistry class, but had gotten a free pass since it was your first day. Before you knew it, it was lunchtime and you were outside, looking for a place to sit. Ignoring the people staring at you from the lunch tables, you walked over to a small oak tree. Putting your backpack down, you took a seat against the tree, pulling out from your bag an apple Sam had given you for lunch and Oedipus Rex from your mythology class. You had just opened the book and taken a bite out of your apple when you heard someone make their way over to you.
“This seat taken?” the familiar voice asked, pointing the spot in front of you.
Oh, hell no.
You looked up at the smirking sophomore in disbelief.
This guy just didn’t know when to stop.
“Are you looking to get hit or something?” you asked, glaring at him. “Because I can help you with that.”
Jughead rolled his eyes.
“Nah, that’s more of Archie’s job.” he joked, and turned around to point with his free hand at the table of teens that were in the diner yesterday staring at you.
They were still staring at you, except this time they smiled at you.
“See? He’s the one wearing the letterman jacket.”
You didn’t return their smiles and instead looked back down at your book.
“He looks like a douche.” you said.
“You’re not exactly wrong there,” he agreed. “But he’s still a good person. So are Betty and Veronica. You’d like them if you gave them a chance.”
“I’m not here to make friends.” you answered back.
“Does this mean I can’t sit here then?” he questioned.
You looked at the teen again, eyeing him up and down.
“You gonna stare at me again like you did yesterday?” you asked.
“You gonna let me?” he asked back.
This time you smirked, the corners of your mouth turning up for the first time all day.
“Touché.” you said and nodded towards the patch of green grass in front of you.
Jughead took the offer, sitting down.
“This doesn’t make us friends. “ you quickly clarified.
Jughead bit back a grin and settled for a straight face instead.
You nodded and silence enveloped the two of you. You turned your gaze back to your book, hiding your smile behind the pages.
Maybe one friend wouldn’t hurt.
A/N: Next chapter she meets the gang! That’s where the real fun begins. ;) Any theories of what the reader’s secret is? I feel like I might’ve made it too obvious, but oh well! As always, hope you enjoyed it, and please send me feedback!!
This prompt was so cute that I just had to get it out first. I hope you all enjoy! Set BEFORE The Westchester Incident - in a world where Jean and Scott got married and Logan was already off happy with someone else and not pining over her! Yay!
Prompt: You force Logan to go to Jean Greys wedding due to the fact that she’s your best friend, and when Logan sees you as a bridesmaid in the wedding party, he can’t help but think you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.
Each character’s song represents them, through and through. (I’m just doing the 6 from the GPF because know most about them (except maybe Otabek but like … we don’t know much about him #littlescreentime)
How? Well (TIME FOR SOME PROOOOOF)
This got hella long. TL;DR: the YOI creators knew where they were going with their characterizations and managed to convey this through each of the program’s music