#this is about maximus decimus meridius

[wildsaltair]

where is MY big strong warrior husband who is kind and loyal and gentle and handsome and strong who will love and protect me endlessly and let me shower him with all the love and affection in my heart

[streets-in-paradise]

Gladiator (2000)

Troy (2004)

Maximus/Hector parallel on loving their wives-missing home.

For @wildsaltair

[thekenobee]

Do not ask me about my thoughts on the parallel between capturing Maximus outside the walls of Rome and arrest of Jesus in the Gethsemane

It might be too much to ask for

[theromaboo]

The Third Day of Julius Caesar

What was Julius Caesar's *real name*?

People often think that Caesar's name is just Julius Caesar, nothing more nothing less. His first name is Julius and his last name is Caesar. And that makes sense in a culture in which Julius is a valid first name.

But was Julius a valid first name in the time of Julius Caesar?

Usually not!

Generally, Roman men at the time of Julius Caesar had to have at least two names, a praenomen and a nomen. A praenomen is like your first name, your given name. A nomen is like your family name, it showed which gens (your extended family) you belonged to, and it usually ended with an -ius (like Claudius, Valerius, Vipsanius, Vergilius, Flavius and... Julius!)

There was a third type of name, called a cognomen. It was like a legal nickname, or it could also be a name that showed which branch of your gens you belonged to. Not all Roman men had one (such as Marc Antony!), but many did, including Caesar.

Generally, the order was like so: praenomen, nomen, and cognomen (fun fact: Maximus Decimus Meridius probably should've been Decimus Meridius Maximus. But who can trust Gladiator to be accurate?).

So we know Caesar's nomen, Julius. And we know his cognomen, Caesar. Wait, what about his praenomen? He needs one!

Julius Caesar actually had three names; we just don't usually call him by his first name. His full name is Gaius Julius Caesar. His father's name was also Gaius Julius Caesar, and his father's, and his father's! (but Julius Caesar's great great grandfather's name was actually Sextus Julius Caesar)

So yeah, Julius was not Caesar's first name.

I've met a few people who say "Actually, no. Julius Caesar's *real name* was Caius Julius Caesar with a C instead of a G!"

Nope!

The reason we sometimes see Caius for Gaius (and why Gaius was abbreviated as C.) wasn't because Gaius was actually Caius or the ancient Romans pronounced Gaius like Caius. It's because in earlier Roman history, those poor guys didn't have the letter G! They had C, K, and Q (which all made the exact same sound) but they didn't have G. They had to spell Gaius with a C and they had to abbreviate Gaius with a C because they had no G.

This was because the Latin alphabet came from the Etruscan alphabet, and Estruscan didn't have a distinction between the C and G sounds and therefore they didn't need two separate letters. Latin, meanwhile, did have a distinction and did desperately need two letters.

Anyway, Romans later got the letter G and then they could write all your favorite G words, like Gay and Gaius. They still commonly abbreviated Gaius as C. because old habits die hard.

If you say that we should write Gaius as Caius because that's the original way to spell it, you might as well say we should write Gaius as CAIVS. Don't cherry pick your archaisms!

[battertv]

cause what y'all know about maximus decimus meridius 🤨

[opspro2005]

Gladiator - Maximus Decimus Meridius

I’m watching “Gladiator” for about the 124th time, and fighting the urge to order myself a Roman Gladius short sword.

[esterzach]

I'm grateful that I get to watch Shogun and it seems pretty good so far. Apparently, I had some sort of image about Blackthorn in my head, because he definitely looks odd to me at the moment. Not exactly a fan. The odd part is his voice sounds sort of like Russel Crow, and I half expect to see him or hear something like "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son. Husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next." But why does everything have to be so FAST! I need more of the culture, of how little things look like, like the reactions to the different cultures. Toranaga though - I love him so far! Also Rodriges - I loved the several minutes we had with him.

Also reading Shogun made me realize a lot about The Last Samurai

[frankendykes-monster]

In the wake of the recent election in America, I’ve been thinking a lot about the politics of nostalgia, the yearning to return to some imagined perfect past, and how that overlaps with the broader culture of nostalgia that defines so much of modern media.

Sure, I’m typing this out having just seen Gladiator II, but I could just as easily have articulated these same thoughts after The Force Awakens, Ready Player One, Justice League, Ghostbusters: Afterlife, The Rise of Skywalker, the third season of Star Trek: Picard, Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire, Alien: Romulus, the Frasier reboot, Deadpool and Wolverine, or so many others. Of course, one doesn’t like to pre-judge movies, but one gets the sense that this might be just as applicable after seeing Fantastic Four or Superman next year. It is not so much any one thing as it is every thing.

This particular thing just happens to be Gladiator II, a sequel to a film that was itself a nostalgic throwback to the swords and sandals epics of yesteryear as the studio system found itself on the cusp of a digital revolution. That was hardly the most original production, but it was at least nominally fresh. Gladiator II is reheated leftovers that were already well-aged. In some ways, it’s not fair to lay this criticism at the feet of Gladiator II. After all, Gladiator II is a better film than many (really most) of those projects I listed. It’s just the project that happened to have the misfortune to cross my path as I was thinking this through, as this thought was pushed to the front of my mind.

There is a tendency to get a little bit defensive about the argument that a given film “speaks to its moment”, particularly when that film is a genre exercise or a nostalgia cash-in. There is a way of thinking about movies that equates timeliness with a hierarchy of importance or quality, and which bristles at the implication that a film like Gladiator II might capture the spirit of the moment despite (and maybe even because) it is not very good. Still, Gladiator II speaks very much to this moment. It feels like a movie in tune with this very strange moment.

Ridley Scott is fascinated by decadence. It’s tempting to tie this grim view of human nature to the tragic passing of his brother Tony, an event from which Ridley - by his own account - never recovered. However, just consider Scott’s first three films: The Duellists, Alien and Blade Runner, all portraits of cultures that seemed stuck in decline. It is a theme that becomes particularly pronounced in his recent work: the decay of powerful families in All the Money in the World and House of Gucci, the deconstruction of the historical fantasy of a time of “honour” in The Last Duel and Napoleon, even the inevitable rot of humanity itself in Prometheus and Alien: Covenant.

Gladiator II is not about Rome. No historian is needed to acknowledge that. This is a world of homeless encampments, graffiti, newspapers, water coolers, civil protests and blockbuster entertainment about sharks. This is a world where the characters talk about “the Roman Dream”, but nobody ever talks about the backs of the slaves upon which it was built. In short, Gladiator II is about contemporary America. In particular, it is a film about the inevitable moral reckoning that comes for a society that is unable or unwilling to engage with its own past beyond nostalgic spectacle. Empires fall, Emperors too. The fish rots from the head. A house built on a foundation of quicksand will surely sink.

There are some smart touches in Gladiator II. The film opens with an echo of Gladiator, depicting an epic battle against a “barbarian” horde. This time, however, the audience’s sympathies are asked to align with the conquered, not the conquerors. The entire film is built on the foundational assumption that Maximus’ sacrifice at the end of Gladiator meant nothing, that it changed nothing. No hero is coming to save Rome, as Rome is itself rotten. It’s telling that Gladiator II doesn’t really have a character like Maximus, instead splitting the character’s function across multiple characters like Lucius and Marcus. It’s also telling that Gladiator II deconstructs the romance of Marcus Aurelius, revealing that - for all his enlightened ideas - he kept and branded slaves. 

Scott is genuinely vicious here. Paul Mescal is a charming young performer, but he is no leading man in the style of Russell Crowe. Instead, Scott gives the movie over to Washington’s charismatic villain, who makes the argument that “Rome must fall.” The audience intuitively understands that they don’t want Rome to fall - such is the logic of these sorts of films - but it’s very telling that Gladiator II never offers a counterpoint to Macrinus. There is nobody as charismatic as Washington, and there is no counter argument to be convincingly offered against his criticisms. Scott has always been cynical, but there is something especially bleak in Gladiator II. This is a movie that finds the time - in its over stuffed climax - to show beloved character actor Derek Jacobi being stabbed and murdered. Poor old Claudius, he wouldn’t last a moment in these vicious times.

There are hints of a reckoning here, but they are constantly undermined by the film’s need to keep reminding the audience of Gladiator, in much the same way that Rome placates its citizens with mock recreations of famous battles, empty echoes of past glories. Lucius might be a “barbarian” from the colonies, but he is also “the Prince of Rome.” He cannot be a victim of Roman imperialism, because he has to be a legacy character. He has to wear Maximus’ armour. He has to inherit Maximus’ mannerisms. He has to hear and read Maximus’ words. He has to have his own catchphrase that mirrors and echoes that of Maximus. Gladiator II is trapped by the same nostalgia that it recognises as an inevitable byproduct of imperial decline.

There is an unresolvable paradox here. Gladiator II is a story about how Marcus Aurelius and Maximus failed to save Rome. As in movies like The Force Awakens or Ghostbusters: Afterlife or shows like the third season of Picard, it comes baked into the premise. Our heroes left unfinished business. Their children might not inherit a house or a good economy, but they will inherit the existential struggles against hostile forces that these heroes failed to properly vanquish. Somehow, fascism returned. It’s no wonder that this is the subtext of so many of these sequels, but it exists in conflict with the inherent romance and nostalgia for these properties. Sure, these are all failed heroes who ultimately left their problems for their children to face in their absence, but they are also fetishisation objects deserving of worship and adulation.

Gladiator II is not the first of these sequels to fail to square this proverbial circle. However, it’s very telling that the resolution of a film built around the failure of the dream of Marcus Aurelius has nothing more to suggest than “… maybe if we dream harder this time?” This is the real trap of these endless nostalgia treadmills, the dreams of a society that has given up on any thought of a better future, and so retreats into an increasing rotten past in the hope that it might at least offer an escape from the present.

[art-of-manliness]

10 Movies That Inspire Thumos

The ancient Greeks believed that the human soul, or psyche, was composed of three parts: reason, appetite, and thumos. While we still understand the first two elements of this triparite model, the concept of thumos has largely been forgotten in the modern day. Interestingly, there is no direct translation for this term in our language.  According to the Greeks, thumos was crucial for andreia (manliness) and was viewed as a complex and powerful energy. It can be described as a person’s life force — the force that instills a lofty spiritedness in the young and an evergreen vitality in the old. Thumos is a source of discernment. It’s related to gut feelings and intuition — what Jeffrey Barnouw calls “visceral thinking” — and also has a prophetic quality, giving you a sense of foreboding about where a decision may lead. More fundamentally, thumos is the motivation that drives a man to take action, strive for success, and fight for what he believes in. It also encompasses his courage, determination, and ability to persevere in facing challenges. It’s the “fire in the belly” that pushes someone to leave behind comfort and security, reject mediocrity, seek honor, and strive to be the best among his peers.  Thumos, in short, is heart. The ancient Greeks would listen to a poet recite the Iliad to fill them with thumos. Men living in Elizabethan times would likely feel thumos course through their veins while watching King Henry give his St. Crispin’s Day speech in Shakespeare’s Henry V.  Today, film is an artistic medium that can inspire thumos in the hearts of men. Below, we highlight ten films that show what thumos looks like when lived out, and more importantly, inspire thumos while you watch them. Whenever you need to get pumped up, queue up one of these films, and then don’t let the feelings they fill you with go to waste: put your renewed spiritedness to work in taking manly action.   Braveheart There’s so much going on in this film that stokes the thumotic fire.  The sweeping shots of Scotland. The stirring bagpipe music. Dudes in warpaint holding broadswords.  But what really sets one’s heart afire after watching Braveheart is seeing William Wallace rouse his men to battle and lead them in fighting for freedom, love, and honor even when the odds are against them. If thumos had a mantra, it would be the movie’s tagline and most famous quote: “Every man dies; not every man really lives.”  Gladiator General Maximus Decimus Meridius was a good man, and good at being a man.  He loved his family and his country, and he had the strength and skill to fight for them.  But most importantly, he was filled with thumos, a spiritedness that moved him to action and to know how to outmaneuver the morally bankrupt Commodus.  Maximus also knew how to inspire others with thumos. You can’t help but walk a little taller after hearing him yell: “What we do in life echoes in eternity!” Warrior Sports movies are prime for inspiring thumos, and perhaps no genre does it better than the boxing film, which places two men directly in the arena to battle it out mano-a-mano. Warrior is an excellent entry in this category and tells the story of two estranged brothers, Tommy and Brendan Conlon, who enter a mixed martial arts tournament for their own personal reasons. Tommy, an ex-Marine with a troubled past, seeks redemption, while Brendan, a high school physics teacher, fights to save his family from financial ruin. Thumos guides both men as they prepare for their climactic confrontation in the ring. Watching them will inspire you to tap more into your own thumos.  The Lord of the Rings  Most of the characters in the Lord of the Rings trilogy don’t have the masculine bravado of those that populate the other movies on this list. But the films still have thumotic verve, and it’s actually no surprise that they do. The author of the books on which the movies are based, J.R.R. Tolkien, was a scholar of the classics and understood the importance of thumos in helping a man do… http://dlvr.it/T2pVBq

[maxcuntstappen]

Title: next time, yeah? [WIP]

Relationship: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen

Chapters: 11/14

Chapter Name: prince maximus decimus meridius

Summary:

Daniel takes Max out on a date and goddamn, he is nervous. What if it’s just stilted conversations and painful silences? What if all the conversation topics he has planned as a fail safe, well, fail and then Daniel just fucking starts rambling to fill in the blanks? He knows that Max likes him and has for a while and has seen so many, too many versions of Daniel but even he’s got to have his hard limits. And Daniel really, really didn’t want to be crossing them on their first fucking date by talking about how he saw a cat pooping and the grimace it had on its face reminded him so much of Max or something equally horrifying as that. He would really like to ease into sharing all the ways Max occupies his thoughts, cat poop face and otherwise. And also preferably not be talking about cat poop at all on the dinner table.

Read on Ao3

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Rpg Anon: I've been a bit relatively moody lately and that's why I haven't done the class 77 Personas research lately. I still intend on doing it but still. Regardless, mod, if you have the time, what Personas do you imagine Makoto's class to have?

We already established Sayaka to have Miss Crane/The Crane Wife and Sakura to have Hercules but any thoughts you have of everyone else? Class 78 so far has the themes of their Personas not particularly being gods but more characters of popular stories and folklore.

P.s. if you want to give Kyoko Sherlock Holmes than you're gonna have to justify it cuz that's a bit too easy and direct.

//Hey, so I'm really sorry I got late to this. I'm sorry you've had some rough days and I apologize for not getting to this sooner.

//And then when I tried to do it last night, my internet provider went down right in the middle of it, so that pissed me off as you might imagine.

//It just took me a while to think about it, but I do think I've got some answers. Note that I'm not completely sure about all of them, I decided a lot of these based on the theme of, as you said, popular stories and characters from folklore.

//I'll try my best to explain each one.

Makoto - Antar: Antarah ibn Shaddad al-Absi, also known as Antar, was a pre-Islamic African-Arab knight and poet, famous for both his poetry and his adventurous life. I'm very wishy-washy on this one, but ultimately I focused on the fact that he started out as a slave before he became a knight, channeling his hopes and dreams to reach where he got to.

Sayaka - The Crane Wife: For reasons we have already established. However, I do wish it had a better, or more official name.

Junko - Nyarlathotep: A fictional character created by H. P. Lovecraft. The character is a malign deity in the Cthulhu Mythos, a shared universe. First appearing in Lovecraft's 1920 prose poem "Nyarlathotep", he was later mentioned in other works by Lovecraft and by other writers. He is also the main antagonist of Persona 1 and 2, and was picked for reasons already established.

Hina - Maximus: Maximus Decimus Meridius was the commander of the Armies of the North and the Felix Legions under the Roman Empire. The greatest general of Rome during the 2nd century AD, he served loyally under Emperor Marcus Aurelius during his Twelve Year Campaign against the Germanic tribes at Vindobona in Germania. I picked this one because he's also the main character of the film Gladiator, a film about warrior sports, which fits Hina's sport related talent, her competitive nature, and her determination to see things through to the end. That said, this is by far the one I am the most unsure of, and wouldn't mind a second opinion.

Chihiro - Mulan: A legendary folk heroine from the Northern and Southern dynasties era of Chinese history. According to legend, Mulan took her aged father's place in the conscription for the army by disguising herself as a man. While I do think there could be alternatives, I ultimate focused on the similarity between Mulan and Chihiro's stories, where they disguise themselves as the opposite gender. Mulan does so to protect others while Chihiro did to protect himself, but ultimate came into his own to embrace his identity.

Sakura - Hercules: For reasons established. The strongest man in history serving as the Persona of the strongest woman in the world.

Toko - Maleficent: In PToH Toko obviously has Barrow, but that's more to fit with Komaru and them being a duo. In an alternative world, this Persona is based on a fictional character who appears as the main antagonist in Walt Disney Productions' 16th animated feature film, Sleeping Beauty (1959). She is represented as an evil fairy and the self-proclaimed "Mistress of All Evil" who, after not being invited to a christening, curses the infant Princess Aurora to "prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die" before the sun sets on Aurora's sixteenth birthday. However, more recent iterations of her character, such as her 2014 standalone movie puts the character into a much different light, revealing that she was once a kind-hearted fairy, who is deceived by the love of her life, Stefan; Aurora's father, and she places a curse on her in order to exact revenge. This is similar to how Toko spent a lot of her young childhood being kicked down, manipulated, hurt and betrayed by everyone, which led to the birth of her vengeful and psychotic alter ego, Genocide Jack.

Celeste - Jeanne d'Arc: A patron saint of France, honored as a defender of the French nation for her role in the siege of Orléans and her insistence on the coronation of Charles VII of France during the Hundred Years' War. Claiming to be acting under divine guidance, she became a military leader who transcended gender roles and gained recognition as a savior of France. Celeste (at least in the dub) poses as a French girl for the majority of her time in the game, and has a very similar empowaring, intellectual, yet also spiteful nature to Jeanne d'Arc.

Hifumi - Māui: A great culture hero and trickster in Polynesian mythology. Tales of Māui's exploits and adventures are told throughout most of Polynesia; they can be traced back as far west as islands off New Guinea. Some exploits common to most Polynesian traditions are stealing fire for humans from the underworld, fishing up islands with his magical hook, and capturing the Sun to lengthen the days. He's the kind of hero and righteous person Hifumi aspires to be, though the demigod is also a trickster, which can hint to how he can be sinister when he needs to be. Honestly not totally sure about this one either though, I'm just spitting.

Kyoko - Robin Hood: No, I didn't go for Sherlock, as obvious as it is. A famous English outlaw usually associated with the motto "Steal from the rich, give to the poor". According to legend, he was a highly skilled archer and swordsman. Robin Hood is also the initial Persona of Goro Akechi from Persona 5, who is also a detective. Though Robin Hood is a fake Persona used to mask Akechi's true sinister nature, Kyoko has no such sinister nature, and her sense of justice and nature of finding the truth and exposing the corruption, despair and lies, is genuine, and this Persona makes sense. Plus, I kind of really want to see a female version of Persona's Robin Hood, since I love it's design.

Mondo - Leonidas: a king of the Greek city-state of Sparta, and the 17th of the Agiad line, a dynasty which claimed descent from the mythical demigod Heracles. Leonidas entered myth as a hero and the leader of the 300 Spartans. The 300 Spartans and their successes served as my main reason to give this to Mondo, as they're a very similar concept to the Crazy Diamond Biker Gang that he leads.

Taka - Odysseus: In Greek and Roman mythology Odysseus is a legendary Greek king of Ithaca and the hero of Homer's epic poem the Odyssey. He was also the original creator of the infamous Trojan Horse. I picked this because it relates to Taka's desire to be a leader, a public figure, a hero, and someone people can depend on.

Byakuya - Arthur: Legendary British warlord/king said to have united the Britons against the Germanic invaders, with the support of the Knights of Camelot. He is also the protagonist of a folk tale where he pulls a sword from a stone, which decides his fate to be the newest English king. This is primarily why I picked this, as whether it was through fate or effort, Byakuya views himself as a chosen one, and that he earned the right to stand above everybody.

Leon - Siegfried: The legendary dragon-slaying hero in Nibelungenlied from German mythology. Both characters share the trait of being heroic figures who have accomplished greatness, but died as a result of their own misgivings as opposed to in battle or elsewhere better. Honestly, this one is a stretch though, so I wouldn't mind a second opinion.

Mukuro - Yog-Sothoth: A fictional cosmic entity and Outer God created by H. P. Lovecraft. He, like Nyarlathotep, Junko's Persona, is a core part of the Cthulhu Mythos (which Lovecraft would refer to facetiously as "Yog-Sothothery"). Born of the Nameless Mist, he is the progenitor of Cthulhu, Hastur the Unspeakable, and the ancestor of the Voormi. Though not siblings, both Nyarlathotep and Yog-Sothoth are offsprings of Azathoth, creating a familial connection between Junko and Mukuro's Persona's, but still having Junko be the more superior of the two.

Hiro - Twm Siôn Cati: a figure in Welsh folklore, known for being robber and trickster, nicknamed the Welsh Wizard. The character has many tall tales, and the Welsh Wizard title is in reference to both Hiro's scamming money-grubbing nature, his susceptibility to fall for traps and misadventures, and his talent of a fortune teller, which is mystical in it's own way.

//Again, a lot of these need work, I'm really unsure about most of them, but I am equally as proud of some of them.

-Mod

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[streets-in-paradise]

Fun insane concept:

You can sort of fix both Troy and Gladiator if you do a swap stripping Achilles and Maximus from their socio-temporal contexts to make them switch places.

In one hand, Maximus has too much integrity to be a commander of Agamemnon. However, he is a humble man that knows how to serve the cause of an empire. If he teams up with Odysseus, he would do perfectly fine. Maybe even bring the best out of Agamemnon, that side of him that believes to be part of a bigger civilizatory mission.

Commodus won't handle a clash of egos against Achilles, that man would get the worst of him to the surface. He wouldn't even pretend to respect him, in the eyes of Achilles the son of the emperor is pathetic and he would make him very much aware of this at any given chance. If he has an oportunity to brag superiority before Commodus he would take it, he would laugh in his fucking face then go win one more battle like it's no big deal.

Achilles would humilliate Commodus just for funsies. The prince may have a psychotic break before even getting to kill his father.

[thekenobee]

I can see, your running a blog of great quality

I mean I can now finally fill the lack of Russell Crowe characters on my dash, so THANK YOU.

Also expect me to drop in in your asks/messages to talk about fandoms.

And, if you haven't try watching Mystery, Alaska. You can thank me later...

#sorry not sorry for bothering you and promtoting my fave movie

OMG HI, YOU BEAUTIFUL OP WHO FUELS MY OBSESSION?! How do you do! (I'm doing terribly well because I have received an ask!)

Ok, so I was afraid that my re-awoken obsession with Russell CROW(N)E(D) king of my heart TM would go unnoticed but THANK GOD NO

I'm still recovering from "A Beautiful Mind". I feel as if I was pushed off the plane but *sobs* I'll be better. Someone mentioned Mystery, Alaska and I think I'll watch it in a few days to cheer myself up a bit ( oh boi doesn't he LOOK GOOOOOOD there).

Oh and by all means, please drop in! I love talking, in asks and in general(maximus decimus meridius) ! Fandoms are pretty much my life.

✨🌟*counting stars sound* 🌟✨