#but it has paul soooo

[eighthwholove]

A few promo shots of Paul McGann as Eugene Wrayburn, from Our Mutual Friend (1998) that I have stumbled across...

[sammaggs]

3x02 Eclipse | Text

[reputable-opportunist]

[rammingthestein]

my favourite rammstein member? the one who just does not stop talking 🗣🗣🗣🗣

[aliusfrater]

[teresafolchart]

ok but with the recent success of adaptations like shadow and bone, the sandman, lockwood & co, good omens, his dark materials, and percy jackson coming soon, etc. it’s about time we get a new inkheart adaptation. i’m just saying

[baconcolacan]

I can’t draw fanart today cause I’m stuck with studio work in the meantime, but I’m having thoughts about Paul again.

m,,,,maybe,,I can draw him as a Katipunero,,,,,,,👀💦💦💦💦

[stinkrascal]

i hate that the only characters i can find voice claims for are the side characters i dont care that much about. anyways max villareal's voice claim is whoever voices shikamaru in the naruto dub

[obsessivelollipoplalala]

I’m still utterly disgusted.

I’ll say it again: it takes so much for Brian to give up on someone, let alone hate them, but no wonder he loathes Paul to this day.

[mann-walter]

So, I've finished Chapter 7 of All Quiet on the Western Front, and now I must take a rest.

It's nothing tedious or infuriating. On the contrary, it's one of the most emotionally stirring parts so far. The fact that it wants action: no battle, no dramatic "war is evil" death, makes it even better.

In this chapter, Paul, our protagonist, is on leave; he goes home to his sister and his ailing mother (cancer, it seems). There is not much happening outwardly compared to previous chapters, yet the conditions inside can't be more different.

Leave, going back home, should be every soldier's dream, right? It should make them happy, right? It's a return to safety, to normalcy, away from the ridiculous business of war. But for Paul, it doesn't bring any of those. It used to, he mentioned, when he was stationed in quieter sectors, but it does no longer. Now, there's a wall to separate him and the world.

He feels irritated by the people around him, a pretentious, know-it-all, inconsiderate bunch. They appear sympathetic, but Paul knows better now: it's either ignorance, naivety, or a grand show of self-righteousness. He tries his best to reconnect with this old world, to regain his past, his dreams, his passions, but he can't. His hometown, its people, his family, even his own possessions and personal spaces - representing his most private self - have become alien to him. They're his past, while the front and the war are his present.

If I could've given this chapter's theme a name, it would be nostalgia. Paul wants to go back to what used to be, yet he can't. His feelings are torn by it. In the end, he concluded that he shall never return home (basking in the past) but rather return to the front (focusing on the present and immediate future).

P.S: I want to take a moment to say I'm incredibly in awe of Remarque's ability to paint all these emotions, these bitter thoughts, the feeling of losing something, that strangeness that surrounds change in general. It's A FEAT. It's like a masterfully woven tapestry: complicated, dynamic, affecting, and yet harmonious and incredibly beautiful.

P.P.S: Nothing, and I mean it, can beat how emotionally overwhelming the last part of the chapter is.

[f0point5]

i NEED jealous Max. Please 🥺🥺🥺 I love jealous/possessive guys haha the feminism just leaves my body

Me too! GOD. Me, too.

It took me ages to decide how to go about this because I had soooo many ideas but I hope you like it!

✨set during the Miami GP weekend 2022✨

Everybody wants you, but I don’t like a gold rush

Max glances down at his watch. 17 minutes. 17 minutes you’ve been standing in the gallery area of the garage, fanning yourself with a magazine - with Max’s face on the front of it, no less - in the Miami heat, talking to some freakishly tall guy in a Louis Vuitton denim jacket and aviator sunglasses. He’s so painfully American that Max wonders what you even have to talk about for…eighteen minutes.

You tighten your high ponytail while Paul Bunyon talks, his mouth wide with every word. Max studies your face for any sign that you’re bored. He’s bored of watching this, but he knows from experience that not looking isn’t a real option. You haven’t looked over at him once in those eighteen minutes, in fact you haven’t even been distracted by the mechanics moving around or the noise of drilling and clattering tools.

This guy must be really fucking interesting.

You smile at something Captain America says and Max feels his jaw clenched so hard he thinks a tooth is going to crack.

It’s like he’s thirteen again, watching you stand in the middle of the makeshift paddock at the karting track, swarmed by every one of his competitors, their parents packing up their stuff as they vie for your attention. He was the only one who stayed away, following his dad’s instructions on how to properly dismantle and store things while sneaking glimpses at the show you were running. He would win every race and still go home feeling like a loser.

It’s different now, of course. He doesn’t take your gregarious nature so personally now, and he can admit he understands what men see in you now, even if he doesn’t feel it. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t trigger something in him to see the way men react to you. It might irritate him less if you enjoyed it, but you’ve long since grown out of that. Now, you expect it so much that you ignore it, and Max has no choice to but to notice it, the same way you’d notice a rusty knife embedded in your side.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” GP says, which snaps Max out of his calculations.

“I’m listening,” Max says, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Drive fast, win race, I got it,”

GP frowns at his dismissive tone, and Max makes a point of looking at his water bottle, lest GP realise what actually had his attention. “Max, you need to focus. What are you even-“ It’s the sound of your laugh - high pitched over the deep bass of the music - that makes GP look across the garage. His features twist in disapproval as he turns back to Max. “You’ve got to be kidding me,”

Max looks down at his shoes, moving his foot as he inspects them. “What?”

Above him, GP groans. “I’m not going to say anything about the situation as a whole, because it’s waste of my time. But specifically now, she’s right there, she’s not going anywhere. Can we please just go through this once and then you can carry on staring?”

Max rolls his eyes, steeling his face as a cameraman enters the garage. He’s wearing a Red Bull shirt so Max doesn’t mind too much, but he can’t be captured looking as morose as he feels. The cameraman pans past him and onto you and the guest. Max watches you cringe as the guy throws up some hand sign to the camera, clearly at home with the media attention.

“Who even is that?” Max asks, unable to hide his rancour. He’s probably going to be forced to take a picture with Popeye later.

“I don’t know, some American football player?” GP says with a shrug, giving Max a helpless look. GP couldn’t give less of a shit about the celebrity guests touted around the gargae, and normally Max is his ally. “Are we done?”

Max nods, but not even a second later he’s looking again. It gets worse the more you talk, he can see this guy becoming more enchanted by the second. He wonders what kind of steroids they take in American sports leagues because the meathead is acting like a dog in heat. He leans towards you at an angle that is wholly unnecessary, his eyes fixated on your mouth, nodding too emphatically at everything you say.

“My God, why doesn’t he just lick her face,” Max says incredulously, more to himself than anything.

“Max,” GP sighs.

“Come on,” Max implores with a scoff, stopping himself from outright gesturing in your direction. “Look at him. That’s embarrassing,”

GP fixes Max with a deadpan expression. “Right, but you being sulky and jealous is the height of cool?”

“I’m not jealous.”

And he isn’t. Because Joe DiMaggio over there doesn’t have anything he wants. He’s not going to waste time being jealous of a guy getting half an hour with you when he has cats, and a home, and a life with you.

Finally, you look in his direction, but only because GP calls your name. “Can you come here?”

You give GP a thumbs up and excuse yourself, trotting over to Max without a second thought. Wannabe Tom Brady brazenly enjoys the view, and Max swears he hasn’t been that close to punching someone since Monza last year.

“What’s up?” You ask, slotting yourself between the two men as you lean back against the shelf.

GP hands you his phone. “Beat this Candy Crush level for me, would you? Been stuck for days,”

You look at him skeptically, but years of being filmed up close by cameras on the pit wall have given GP a hell of a poker face; he just stares back at you, and you give up with a huff.

“Men are hopeless,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” GP says, his eyes pointedly on Max, who can’t even defend himself.

Desperate to avoid GP’s scrutiny, he glances over at the gallery, only to find the Yank looking at him. Well, not him, you. He’s got that curious expression as he assesses you fiddling with GP’s phone, one that says he’s trying to understand if he has something to be worried about. He doesn’t. You’re not his to worry about.

“Here,” Max says, pulling off his cap. You barely look up at him before he puts his cap firmly on your head, holding it steady with one hand while pulling your ponytail through the hole at the back with the other.

The brim of the hat obscures half your face, and Max turns so that half your body is shielded by his, which he tells himself is in case a camera comes by.

“It’s sunny,” Max shrugs in his own defence, when he notices you looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

You adjust the cap on your head but don’t take it off. “Why don’t you just give me your letterman jacket?”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” you chuckle, shaking your head at him as you pat his chest with an indulgent smile.

He takes the opportunity at the sound of a large wheel gun to glance over at the gallery, only to meet the eyes of the guy you were talking to. Now that you’re no longer next to him, Max does sort of recognise him. He plays for some team named after an animal. Max just looks at him - he’ll do this all day if he has to - until the guy shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls out his phone, starting to tap away. Yeah, go back to Raya.

Good riddance, Max thinks to himself as he turns back to you, only to find that you already looking at him. He wonders for how long.

He can tell by your smirk that he’s been caught. If he’s honest with himself you caught him five years ago, this was just one of the few moments he let you know it. And you know it. How could you not know?

He thinks for a second that you’re going to tease him, but you don’t. You shift on your feet so that some of your weight rests against his arm, and go back to playing on GP’s phone.

“Go on, GP,” he says, fighting a smile at the large number 1 on the brim of what is now your hat.

He knows from the way GP is looking at him that he’ll get an earful about this later, but right now, he just clears his throat.

“Right, so,”

[loving-jack-kelly]

@dream-rot literallyyyyy

i'm racking my brain for any apology video worse and idk if there has been one. like. you know it's bad when shane fucking dawson addressed more of his controversy than you. jesus christ ma'am. jesus christ.

okay so one of my toxic traits is that I keep up with internet drama like crazy like youtube drama is a favorite pastime of mine and I didn't know an """"""apology"""""" video could be as bad as what colleen ballinger just posted. lmao.

[drwormwithproblems]

was watching the excellent take me to church animatic again (really great everyone should watch it ), it doesn't show Camilla in Harrow's bone shield at the end, reasonable since the focus is harrow and Gideon's relationship and Gideon's terrible sacrifice. but it is soooo funny and also significant that Camilla is there in the books. she didn't have to be there! she could have got knocked out and stashed away earlier like coronabeth and Judith, but no she is in the bone tent with them, politely looking away as they declare their undying devotion to one another, catching on before harrow does what Gideon is about to do and not stopping her. there is one constant witness to griddlehark development throughout the series and that is Camilla (and sexpal once they are reunited). She sees Gideon die for harrow, she sees harrow has crippled herself to save Gideon's soul, she is watching Nona for signs of them, she gets hypocritically microagressed by the remnants of Gideon/Kiriona about her own codependent relationship. Palamedes has a different but also intimate understanding of the relationship, he is the one Gideon finally confesses to about what she thinks she did to Harrow's parents as a child, and implied confidences with Harrow that we don't see in gtn. honestly so pumped to see Paul interact with Harrow and Gideon in Alecto - they know more about this relationship than the people who raised Harrow and Gideon on the ninth. I think Paul is such a dumb fucking name (pam was right there!!) but I think will have referential significance as they become witness and possibly evangelist to the new order that griddlehark will create for good or ill (fingers crossed lol)

[fadedmunson]

like him | l. verus

pairings ; lucius verus x fem!reader

summary ; you find once he's captured. you attempt to strip away the gladiator mystique and find out who he really is.

genre ; kinda angsty-ish buuuut cayoot ending

notes; shocker! i watched gladiator II and it was complete eye candy soooo i finally got the paul mescal hype ><

wc ; .7k words! sorry so short :,(

"aren't you a sight for sore eyes," you purred at the unknown man

he blankly looked at you, feigning a look exhaustion you mistake for annoyance

you pout at his expression, slumping on the stone next to his sweaty and bruised body

it had to be around 35° celsius in rome; the hot sweltering sun beating down on the dehydrated gladiators that had them dropping like flies left and right

many of the roman "call girls" would linger around these parts, you being one of them

"tell me gladiator," you began

"what did they take from you?" you gently asked, while poking at his chestplate

he didn't reply, just stared blankly at your figure, before adverting his gloomy gaze

he thought you seemed gentle and sweet, nothing like someone would call a common "whore"

obviously the life you're living was chosen for you, he wondered who made that decision

you laughed at his lack of response

"ah, so you're the stoic type? we've had many of those," you reminisce

"they come and go so quickly," you breathe out, "a real shame."

"i've become well versed in losing the things i love. i'm sure someone like you has as well." he surmised quietly

you whipped your head to look at him clearly

he face was completely wiped of emotion, oh he's serious

you dawn a wry smile, "i have."

he leans in further into the conversation, almost like his desire is to actively listening to you

you notice this and pull back a little

"you're a busy man," you nervously noted, "shouldn't you be training?"

he looks around for a minute, seeing everyone else occupied on some other mundane exercise

"i think i can push my training by a couple minutes," he suggested, wearing a cheeky grin before giggling with you

oh gods above please never let this moment end

you talk for what felt like forever, come to find out it had only been mere minutes

"there's someone about him," you tell one of the girls in the brothel

"yeah, like what? his phallus?" she jeers playfully

you stay silent and just shake your head gently while helping her

there was a part of you that had yearned for a connection,but instead you're here, helping naive girl fix their makeup for men who do not deserve them

you stand up suddenly, confusion written on all their faces

"i'll be out until dawn," you say sharply

they all look at you with an unspoken agreement lingering in the air

you take a hooded cape and be on your way, you have to see your gladiator

in the dead of the night, you had arrived to the prison chambers that held the fighters

it was dirty and filled with little creatures, rusted blood on the metal, only illuminated by some rickety lanterns, you could hear the almost silent cry of some of the men, wishing they could return to their homes,

you were hastily let in, a loud BANG! heard before the gates shut completely

his stature completely melts when he sees your eyes, he knows it's you underneath the covering

you take a seat right next to him on his uncomfortable mattress, and you look at him deeply while he takes off your cloth hood

"i want to know you.."

"lucius," he whispers, his eyes moving all over your face to analyze every littlest feature

you hold his face in your hands and swipe your thumb over his cheeks "i desire to know you lucius."

"it feels like we've known each other a lifetime," he completely melts into you hands, placing his over yours

gently kissing your knuckles, he looks to you for comfort in an empire that wants to see you both dead

your eyes well with tears at the love you feel, its gentle and sweet, no malice or underlying lust

it's overwhelming and all you can do is stare at his while he admires you, treating you with such kindness that you think it's turning you nauseous

he confided in you, about his father, his life in numidia, and his desires in life

his eyes lit up thinking about what his future life could've been if it weren't for the literal chains that restricted him

your silence spoke volumes as you ran your hands through his rugged hair, nodding your head at every little thing he had to say

for the first time since being in rome, he's felt solace. only with you

[letsduneit]

can i just say i love how anytime paul uses his nerd brain to seem like he has preconceived knowledge of how the desert works everyone else is soooo impressed but the one time he tries it on chani with the "🤓☝️ um actually sandwalking is-" she just kills him with her eyes until he shuts the fuck up

[gingerhastoomanyobsessions]

the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all— but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?