the tender domestic intimacy... making something that you can share and enjoy together... getting to feed each other at the end... you want a love that is effortless and lasting, one where you are best friends as well as romantic partners. you want someone that understands how you feel before you even say anything. you want someone who can make you believe in soulmates, and where every kiss feels like coming home. sometimes you worry that effortlessness will turn into boredom, and that your romance lacks the passion you often see in others. let this fear go; your devotion is passion, and anyone who appreciates you properly will feel the fire in your connection.
“Oh, Gods, I’m terribly sorry, I must have the wrong—”
Jaskier’s heartfelt apology upon finding a handsome, green eyed phantom in the midst of a bath is ruined by some rather insulting name calling, which leaves him stuttering with reasonable offense.
“Jest—I beg your p—I am a bard, sir! And had you let me finish my apology, as I intended, then we would be happily out of each other’s hair by now.”
you hold your love in your heart. love is intrinsic, inevitable, love is the beating core of everything; love is also hard to talk about. your love comes out with more rareness, mostly shows up for the big things in a big way- this doesn't mean it doesn't beat for the small stuff, you feel it all, in fact you feel it more intensely than most which is why it's so hard to get out. you hold your love inside you because it matters, it might be the only thing that does.
tagged by: @kingofdirtandnothing
tagging: @talentedliarloki and anyone who wants to give it a try!
kingofdirtandnothing said:
❝ Do you know why the Gods demand blood? … Because the Gods don’t bleed. ❞
The Road to El Dorado
It all goes to hell in a hand basket in a matter of days, and Klaus cannot believe it himself, but it’s likely he would have been better off following Cortés to Cuba than staying in the relative “safety” of Tenochtitlán.
It may not have been a stress free environment, but at least they had a minimal guarantee of food and water while they were playing hosts to the actual Emperor of the city. A tiny occupying force surrounded by thousands of warriors, kept safe only by the walls of Moctezuma’s gigantic palace.
But with their leader gone, it was only a matter of time before stupidity and impatience won over. And it all comes to a head with de Alvarado’s brilliant plan to take “the savages” out during their religious holiday.
Because, clearly, thousands of warriors cease to be a threat the second they take a break to lay down their arms and worship their gods. Especially while their comparatively tiny Spanish (ish) force is holed up inside a palace, with miles to go to the edges of the city. Not to mention the fact that said city is in the middle of a huge lake, with only a few roads connecting it to the mainland.
Easy escape routes all around!
Klaus would have told them all this was folly in the extreme, but what does he know? He’s an Austrian-born sailor with little to no experience in battle. Nothing to counter the awesome might and strategic talent of the Spaniards.
Though, it seems, someone failed to make their hosts aware of the fact, as they are now rightfully enraged and trying to slaughter them all for the blood that was shed during their sacred holiday.
An eye for an eye is a world-wide concept! Who’d have thunk it?
Klaus is currently glad that he took a right instead of a left somewhere, as he can hear the clashing of swords and dying screams somewhere behind him. He’s also mostly glad that he didn’t have time to put on his ill-fitting armor, because that means he’s faster than the rest of the men who truly thought they could defeat an entire city of thousands of people from the inside.
He turns a corner into a narrow alley, and presses his back to the cool stone, chest heaving with every panting breath, his heart racing so fast in his ribcage he can hear it between his ears, like a war drum.
(Though, maybe those are drums.)
He closes his eyes as he catches his breath, blind to the chaos enfolding around him. Though, sadly, not deaf.
A terrified scream yanks him from his state of denial, and Klaus peers around the corner to find a small child crying. She’s tiny, barely old enough to stand on her own, let alone run away from the man who just cut her mother down in the street.
Klaus knows him. It’s Ibáñez. He was the first to stand with Pedro de Alvarado when he called them all to arms to attack a city in prayer. The woman bleeding out on the ground is unarmed, and he can see from the look in the man’s face that he has no intention of stopping for an innocent child either.
“¿Qué coño haces?” Klaus calls out before he can stop himself, running out of his hiding place to ram into Ibáñez. The weight of his armor works against him, and the man falls on his ass in surprise. But he’s all but foaming at the mouth with rage, and Klaus knows better than to think he’ll stop to discuss his actions.
He makes a decision before he can think twice about it, and picks up the little girl in his arms before taking off at a run.
The baby cries loudly, but Klaus can’t stop to reassure her, or slow down his run at all as he ducks into the nearest alley to get out of his former comrade’s line of sight. He avoids going in a straight line, but he will have to stop before long, or his legs will give out and that’s both him and the little girl falling flat on the ground.
He ducks into what looks like a hen house, startling several of their odd birds into gurgles, Klaus shushes them breathlessly and gently puts the little girl down in a mound of straw. She whimpers, and starts crying again, reaching for him with chubby little hands that just about break Klaus’ heart.
This is all wrong. This is not why Klaus left home. This is not what he wanted to escape towards.
His throat feels tight, and he shushes the little girl with a shuddering breath, looking into those big dark eyes and hoping to God they’re both safe here. He just needs to make sure there’s no bad men outside, as he informs the little toddler. She doesn’t understand a word, he knows, but she stays blissfully quiet as Klaus stands to check the streets outside their temporary shelter.
That’s as far as he makes it before the cries start again, and Klaus looks over his shoulder to try and shush her gently.
He doesn’t see the man approaching until he feels the toothed bite of an Aztec blade tear into his chest, and Klaus’ hitched breath gurgles with blood as he falls onto the bed of straw and bird shit.
The baby keeps crying, and Klaus turns his head as agony ripples through him, green eyes clouding over as he reaches for the little thing, trying to shush her softly through a mouthful of blood.
He should have stayed home. Should have followed his father’s wishes and become a priest. Should have stayed and listened to his mother sing Spanish lullabies.
Klaus Fuchs dies with a heart that aches for home, and tears that drift from glassy green eyes and paint tracks over dirt and blood all the way onto the straw.
His last thought is for the little girl. At least she was found by one of her own. At least she’ll be safe now.
kingofdirtandnothing asked:
❝ If I believed in fate, I wouldn’t be playing with loaded dice. ❞
The Road to El Dorado
“I would like it noted that if you’d just agreed to a nice game of Gwent, we’d be well on our way by now.” Jaskier rubs his fingers nervously as he hisses at the stubborn witcher. “And with heavy pockets to boot.”
But Geralt is still glaring holes into the tabletop as he shakes the pair of dice in his hand.
“Slap down a Villentretenmerth, destroy that chum’s defenses, and we’d be rolling in coin.” He hums, looking mournfully into the distance. “A decent room, with a real bed...real dinner...a bath...”
But the dice are cast, and Geralt, predictably, wins to a chorus of disappointed, drunken groans from their adversaries of the night. Jaskier’s lips twitch, almost a beat too late before he jumps into very surprised cheers.
“Alright, gentlemen,” He rubs his hands together, “Toss those coins to my witcher.”
Oops. Slip of the tongue. Sorry, Geralt.
But the coins are clinking down on the table, and they officially have enough for a lovely night at the inn. Jaskier waits for the drunken louts to leave, and turns his eyes to look at Geralt, propping his cheek on his hand.
“So, you really don’t think a visit to Cintra is in order?”
WHICH TRAGIC CHARACTER FROM GREEK MYTHOLOGY ARE YOU // Peter Parker
Antigone
you are antigone, from the theban plays by sophocles. you are bold, unwavering in your morals and your passion, an unstoppable force of nature. but when you go head-to-head with an immovable object, your ideals can lead you to self-destruction. you are stubbornly resilient and fearless to a fault, and aren't afraid to stand alone in the face of death. antigone, in your quest for justice, don't forget: you are allowed to step back, to love life a little, to be young once more before soldiering on to the very very end. be selfish in your fierceness, just once.
tagged by: @kingofdirtandnothing
tagging: Any and all who wanna do it! (I’m not sure who’s been tagged and who hasn’t)
you want to be thought of with intent, for someone to sit down and want to share their thoughts with you specifically. and their thoughts about you, even more. for someone to Know you, or at least desire the knowledge. for them to write it out in a way that you can read as quickly or slowly as you desire. that you can reread again and again, or lock in a box and never read after that first quick consumption. you crave that tangibility. and the small moments that lead up to the letter being in your hand. to be told, 'it's in the mail' and then to have the simple joy of checking the mailbox to see if it has come today. to hold the envelope and feel the love within. there is a purpose of intent within physically written words, and it patches the parts of you that feel like you aren't worth thinking about. my darling, know that you are. you are worth intentional thought and cursive letters and an envelope sealed with a kiss.
The pot is left on the balcony's ledge and Anakin's spirit is obvious in all of it. The plate it rests on, the gentle mound of dirt the seedling has stretched out from, curling towards the sun. And on the pot, scribbled in marker: WATCH ME GROW. I'M A SURPRISE.
Max has been taking gentle care of the seedling since he first found it on his balcony, heart warm with fondness and a spark of amusement every time he sees the writing on the clay pot.
His first instinct was to cheat, to gather magic at his fingertips and wake the little seedling ahead of time. But Anakin put thought into this gift, and before long, its care becomes a quiet and calming part of Max’s day.
And with every date and dinner that they share, the seedling grows a little taller. A long, narrow stem, with leaves that are almost fern-like and keep to the ground while the stem continues to rise higher.
It’s on an early morning—or very late night—as the sun begins to touch the sky, and the many plants in his home begin to wake, that Max stops short with a mug of steaming coffee just shy of his lips, his eyes still crusty with sleep and his hair a tangled, blue mess.
The little bud has finally bloomed, a blood red oriental poppy, unfurling its delicate petals in the rising sun.
Max watches it with a sleepy smile that melts away the frost left behind by dreams of a different garden. Blue fingertips caress a red petal gently, and the flower brightens happily beneath the touch.
Poppy flowers have no shortage of meanings, some of them linked to death, others to sleep, or bright imagination and success, and he has to wonder if Anakin knew just what his seedling would become.
Because, while the West considers the poppy a flower of heavy sleep, and the consolation of deep loss, in the East, a red poppy is linked to the deep and passionate love between two people.
Besides. Since this is an Oriental poppy, it’s only right that Max should stick to the Eastern symbolism, right? Right.
Max bites his lip as he takes a quick picture of his gift, all but glowing in the sunrise, and sends it to the boy who stole his heart with loud words and a barrage of questions. He chuckles at the memory, and hits send.
I love my surprise.
Maybe, the next time Anakin visits, Max will finally be ready to say another set of words.
