#this seems appropriate at the moment

[putoutallthestars]

"You don’t get to be racist and Irish You don’t get to be proud of your heritage, plights and fights for freedom while kneeling on the neck of another! You’re not entitled to sing songs of heroes and martyrs mothers and fathers who cried as they starved in a famine Or of brave hearted soft spoken poets and artists lined up in a yard blindfolded and bound Waiting for Godot and point blank to sound We emigrated We immigrated We took refuge So cannot refuse When it’s our time To return the favour Land stolen Spirits broken Bodies crushed and swollen unholy tokens of Christ, Nailed to a tree (That) You hang around your neck Like a noose of the free Our colour pasty Our accents thick Hands like shovels from mortar and bricklaying foundation of cities you now stand upon Our suffering seeps from every stone your opportunities arise from Outstanding on the shoulders of our forefathers and foremother’s who bore your mother’s mother Our music is for the righteous Our joys have been earned Well deserved and serve to remind us to remember More Blacks More Dogs More Irish. Still labelled leprechauns, Micks, Paddy’s, louts we’re shouting to tell you our land, our laws are progressively out there We’re in a chrysalis state of emerging into a new and more beautiful Eire/era 40 Shades Better Unanimous in our rainbow vote we’ve found our stereotypical pot of gold and my God it’s good. So join us.. 'cause You Don’t Get To Be Racist And Irish."

[princewhowaspromised]

MAIN CLUES THAT POINT TO DAENERYS TARGARYEN AS AZOR AHAI/PRINCE THAT WAS PROMISED

George R.R. Martin to Al Jazeera: Well, of course, the two outlying ones — the things that are going on north of the Wall and Daenerys Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons — are of course the Ice and Fire of the title A Song of Ice and Fire.

George R. R. Martin to Adria’s News: I mean… Fire is love, fire is passion, fire is sexual ardor and all of these things. Ice is betrayal, ice is revenge, ice is… you know, that kind of cold inhumanity and all that stuff is being played out in the books.

[crossedwiress]

spin around me like a dream

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 9: Love

I think that he forgot his love identity too… 💓💦

[lyculuscaelus]

So in Epic Poseidon rlly did give an ultimatum like you either “get in the water” or face the fate of all of Ithaca drowning along with his wife and son…

And Odysseus rlly did get in the water. Satisfied?

I’d say so. I’d say Poseidon in Epic was pleased enough to see Odysseus drowning. I’d say this is the moment where Poseidon did decide to leave his kingdom and family alone, since he’s got what he wanted already—Odysseus in the water, struggling for breath, for his dear life. The rest of the thing is just between Odysseus and Poseidon, with no one else as a price.

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

Recently been filling time by trying to think what the best possible course of action would be to prevent Kaito and Kokichi's deaths if I was plopped into v3 right at the beginning of chapter 5

[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.

[mtreebeardiles]

Been thinking about heteronormativity and how it gets regurgitated into queer media and I think maybe the conversation around it is missing some key understandings:

1) no one is saying that the more femme partner can’t be the bottom — just that it shouldn’t be assumed as some kind of “default”

2) no one is saying more femme peeps can’t be attracted to more masc peeps and vice versa — just that it is entirely possible for more femme folks to be attracted to other femme folks, for more masc folks to be attracted to other masc folks, and all the possible combos you can think of rather than **defaulting** to masc x femme as some kind of ingrained, innate dynamic

3) both straight women and queer men can write reductive, stereotypical MLM fiction — but there is an undercurrent of assumptions being made about these writers that are also tied to stereotypes. Critiquing a man in largely leftist spaces is treated as a morally correct given, but critiquing a woman in those spaces is often “men talking over women” or “putting women down” without actually considering the criticism and whether or not it has merit. “I’m not fetishizing gay men, you can’t fetishize gay men.” You can! The same way straight men fetishize queer women! Next!

4) related to 3, both women and men can write AMAZING MLM fiction — I know because I have read some pretty great shit, and some of that was indeed by women! But that doesn’t negate the very fair criticism that a lot of MLM media is largely written by women. Does that mean those women should stop? No! Absolutely not. But it does mean that maybe as a reader or heck even as a creator, it may be worthwhile to broaden your own horizons and read & promote works about queer men written by queer men. Not all of it is automatically good by virtue of the author being queer (again, see above), but we have this tendency in our broader society to assume woman= better at emotions and man= emotionally illiterate, treating it like some kind of innate, “natural” state of things. (It’s bioessentialism. It’s just bioessentialism, that tenacious foot soldier of patriarchy. Avoid this path lest you end up in TERFdom)

Unfortunately the article I was gonna cite here for this point is one I can’t seem to find again, but it essentially was this dude explaining why he’d chosen all women to work on a romance anthology (queer) over any queer men and literally said it’s because men can’t write romance as well/aren’t as “in touch with their emotions”

Idk seems spoken like some schmuck who hasn’t been up til 2 am sobbing over some werewolves from Green Creek but what can ya do

Ultimately my point is: no, you don’t have to be a queer man to write about queer men. But as a queer man who loves reading about queerness (particularly romance cuz I’m a sap and I love that shit), my only real ask is this:

Consider how you’re writing the character and why. Are some patriarchal biases sneaking through? Are those biases YOURS, or are you giving them TO THE CHARACTER in a way that you want to explore? Because there is a difference there and I am not saying you can’t write toxic characters or toxic relationships

I’m just saying there is a difference between the writer crafting their story in a way that implies or heavily endorses toxicity as “default” or “natural” versus a writer who knows it isn’t and is exploring that toxicity with that awareness — an awareness that does, in fact, translate into the work itself

[dotthings]

There's a dark side to each and every human soul. We wanna be Obi-Wan Kenobi and, for the most part, we are. But there's a little Darth Vader in all of us. 'Cause the thing is, this ain't no either/or proposition. 'Cause we're talking about dialectics. The good and the bad merging into us. You know, you can run, but you can't hide.

My experience? Face the darkness. Stare it down and own it.

It's like brother Nietzsche says—being human's a complicated gig.

So, give that old dark night of the soul a hug.

And howl the "eternal Yes."

—Chris Stevens, Northern Exposure, 2x08 “Jules et Joel”

[holographicpansy]

“Ready to break a leg, Miriam?”

“Our lives for the theatre, April!”

[erics-meep-morps]

As I listen to Worthy by Casey Lee Williams on repeat, I realized there's a pattern to me obsessing over songs from RWBY.

First I see the episode where the song is played, think about how much I like the song, and make a mental note to look for the whole song later.

Days, weeks, or even more than a month later I look for the whole song and listen to it.

Between the first and third time I listen to the song I get hit with emotions like a ton of bricks. I then proceed to listen to it on repeat for at least an hour.

It's rare for a piece of media to have several songs that I love dearly, but when it happens it feels so good, and months and years later I'll think back to the moment I found those songs and how wonderful it was and still is to listen to them.

[princewhowaspromised]

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN’S STATEMENTS AND HOUSE OF THE DRAGON INDICATING THAT DAENERYS TARGARYEN IS THE PROPHESIED HERO OF A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE

George R. R. Martin: *associates Daenerys with the founder of the Targaryen dynasty who intended to unite Westeros in preparation for the War for the Dawn - she’s literally called “Aegon the Conqueror with teats”*

*has Daenerys dream about burning white walkers with dragonfire* 

*makes it clear that Daenerys is Azor Ahai/Princess That Was Promised* (“Azor Ahai shall […] wake dragons out of stone”/“No one ever looked for a girl. […] Daenerys is the one. […] The dragons prove it.”)

*confirms that Daenerys and her dragons are the Fire - which, according to his own description, symbolizes “love”, “passion” and “sexual ardor” in contrast to Ice representing “betrayal”, “revenge” and “cold inhumanity” - of A Song of Ice and Fire*

House of the Dragon (note that GRRM had more influence on that show than on Game of Thrones): *plays a song called “The Prince That Was Promised” - which was inspired by Daenerys’ theme songs - during the reveal of Aegon I’s prophetic dream (which came from GRRM himself)*

*has Aegon I name his dream ‘the song of ice and fire’ - which, as the GRRM himself already confirmed, refers to the Others and Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons*

*reveals that Aegon I’s dream (aka the song of ice and fire) is about a Targaryen king or queen - most likely Daenerys Targaryen - uniting humanity against the Others*

*has Daemon see the red comet (aka the herald of Azor Ahai) before it cuts to Daenerys (aka Aegon the Conqueror with teats, Azor Ahai Returned/Prince That Was Promised, the Fire of ASOIAF) and her dragons (aka Lightbringer) in his prophetic dream*

[aetherdecember]

Another snippet from my Flipping the Coin au. Probably won’t make it into the actual fic, but I’ve been obsessed with these two and keep finding myself writing moments like this ^^

…

Mordred was sprawled over Arthur’s chest, with his thumb tucked in his mouth, and blue eyes serious as he listened to the story with the gravity of a judge. The two of them are slumped in their favorite armchair, the red velvet blotchy from numerous spilled drinks, sticky snacks, and misguided attempts at crafts. It was too warm for a fire, but in the dim evening, with the lone table lamp for light and the window cracked open for a breath of air, it took Arthur back to countless evenings spent in another room. One built of stone and lit only by candle flame.

Aloud, Arthur read, “Because he was the king…”

Personally, it wasn’t his favorite retelling, but Mordred had seen his name on the cover and insisted on hearing it, so he had conceded. Maybe he should’ve waited until Mordred was older before telling him that there were stories about characters who shared their names, but in these last few years, the events from long ago had been so close to mind Arthur had wanted to share it. He assumed Mordred would fixate on the sword fighting and tournaments. Instead, Mordred had picked a book that started with babies being sent out to sea.

“Two by two, he carried—“

Mordred pulled his thumb out of his mouth. “Did you really do that?”

“No.” Arthur marked his spot with a finger and ruffled the thick, black curls. Still damp from the bath, they were in need of a comb. And soon, if Arthur hoped to avoid dealing with tangles. “I never did that.” Dipping his fingers to tickle the back of Mordred’s neck, he smiled as Mordred giggled and tried to escape. “I could never.”

Sitting up, Mordred’s knobby limbs found all of Arthur’s soft spots as he settled knees first on top of Arthur’s chest. “If you had to, could you?”

“Would you,” Arthur automatically corrected.

“Would I?” Mordred’s pitch went comically high. “Nooooooo! Would you!”

Arthur gave him a look, one that Mordred immediately leaned in and mimicked with a giggle. “Would I, Arthur Penn, a man far removed from the ancient past, cast a boat full of babies into the ocean? Absolutely not.”

“What if Merlin told you to?”

He’d never had to. History hadn’t played out like that. But Arthur couldn’t tell his young son that he definitely knew it hadn’t happened because he couldn’t even explain his own past and all that entailed. All Mordred knew was that his father was named after King Arthur, so that meant he’d been named after Mordred. Because they were father and son and that was how it was supposed to be. He didn’t know that in another life they hadn’t been related and that the first time Merlin met Mordred he had helped save him.

“Nope.” Arthur popped the ‘p’. Out of Mordred’s sight, he set the book on the ground. It was time for a better story anyway. “Not even then.”

“What if Merlin did it?”

“Listen, let me tell you about the—“ He almost said ‘the Mordred I knew’ but luckily stopped. Instead, he says, “—the story I heard. It took place when Uther was still king. The first time Arthur met Mordred he was only a little boy…”

[stars-inthe-sky]

So, hey. How did you and your family celebrate Passover when you were a kid? How about now?

My Rhode Island aunt and uncle almost always hosted a big family Seder, and it was the absolute best. A good Seder is educational, food-filled, and legit fun—it's a ritual meal that includes storytelling, singing, prayers, and a general focus on including and teaching everyone involved, regardless of age or even whether attendees are Jewish. (If ever you're invited to a friend's Seder, go! Do not bring a challah, which my actually-bar-mitzvahed brother-in-law did once as an attempt at a thoughtful host gift. We still make fun of him.)

And my uncle (the same one who officiated at my wedding, and the wedding of my other sister) may well be the greatest host/leader there is; over the years he compiled from a medley of sources what added up to his own Haggadah (basically the guidebook to the Seder—there are a million published and informal versions working off the same template, with readings and activities and interpretations that can go kid-centric or feminist or traditional or whatever). It was always just insanely fun, and warm, and joyous, with incredible food and an increasing array of baked-in, just-us traditions.

Since I went to college basically down the street from their house, and then lived just an hour away in Boston for so long, that was pretty much the heart of my and my family's celebration most years—right up until Passover 2020, at which point the pandemic negated what had been plans to travel from our new home in Illinois for it, and they also downsized and had their own kids scatter geographically and gain very little ones, so that particular tradition is at best on hiatus now.

But there are fun Seders everywhere—well, the Zoom ones of the pandemic years were a mixed bag, but we've found friends who've make a good go of it, over the years, too, if not quite as an elaborately planned out hourslong celebration as my uncle would do. When I studied abroad in Denmark, Boyfriend and I went to an Orthodox Seder that was in a mix of Danish and Hebrew, for instance—that was novel, and so much of the procedure and the Hebrew was familiar enough to follow along.

Still working on exactly where we'll be for those two nights this year (we haven't really met any Jewish families in Pittsburgh yet to garner an invite, and none of the Reform or Conservative synagogues seem to have community events, which is surprising? And I don't really want to go to Chabad?) but we'll figure something out.

That said, as fun as the Seders can and should be, the rest of Passover is a slog of not eating bread or adjacent products, and experiencing whatever it is matzah does to one's digestive system over the course of a week. It's a meaningful observance, and the fact that the relevant rabbinical boards have stopped including rice and legumes in the "no" column in recent years has been great, but...it's ultimately a holiday recalling the story of the Exodus, and how we were slaves once, so, like, there are some less-fun elements. But the freedom celebration parts usually outweigh that!

[mad-hunts]

lbr, johann would be fascinated with barton’s mask and compliment him on how well preserved it is.

❝ holy shit. i almost gave up hope with this stupid card, but it seems like someone is just my type, ❞ barton let out a loud incredulous laugh upon seeing that ALL of the boxes for this card were ticked. he was almost tempted to ask if johann was lying about some of them, but what would he really have to gain from that besides... his favor, i guess you could say? and the other didn't really seem like the type to try to manipulate him. at least, in this way. barton honestly was kind of speechless — he hadn't really planned for someone to be perfectly compatible with him, so what the hell was he supposed to do now?

marriage. that was the only solution.

[tacit-semantics]

Being very brave and starting a (supposed.) one skein shawlette with a labelless ball of yarn inherited from my grandmother this can surely only end well