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pucksandpower · 1 month

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In Another Life

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: in which two soulmates are destined to always find each other only to be torn apart lifetime after lifetime after lifetime … until finally, they’re not (aka the reincarnation AU)

Rome, 79 AD

The bustling streets of Rome pulse with life as you make your way through the crowded forum. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafts through the air, mingling with the chatter of merchants and citizens going about their daily business. You adjust your stola, the flowing garment feeling unusually constricting today as you hurry towards the Temple of Venus.

“Watch where you’re going!” A gruff voice shouts as you accidentally bump into a burly man carrying an amphora.

“My apologies,” you mutter, quickening your pace. Your heart races, not from the near-collision, but from anticipation. You’re running late for your clandestine meeting with Charles, the young patrician who has captured your heart.

As you approach the temple, you spot him pacing nervously at the base of the steps. His toga gleams white in the afternoon sun and his usually perfectly coiffed hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it anxiously.

“There you are!” Charles exclaims as you draw near. His face breaks into a relieved smile, and he reaches for your hands. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come.”

You can’t help but return his smile, your earlier stress melting away. “As if I could stay away,” you tease, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “Though I must say, your choice of meeting place is rather bold. The Temple of Venus? Are you trying to tell me something?”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. “Perhaps I’m simply hoping the goddess will smile upon us,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “After all, we could use all the divine favor we can get.”

Your smile falters slightly at his words, reality creeping back in. “Have you spoken with your father?” You ask, unable to keep the worry from your voice.

Charles’ expression grows serious. “I have,” he says, leading you to a secluded corner of the temple grounds. “He’s ... not pleased, to say the least. He still insists on the marriage to Claudia.”

You feel a pang in your chest at the mention of Charles’ intended bride. “And what did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Charles replies firmly. “That my heart belongs to you and I won’t marry another.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles,” you whisper, “you know the consequences-”

He cuts you off, cupping your face in his hands. “I don’t care about the consequences. I love you, Y/N. I won’t let my father’s ambitions or society’s expectations keep us apart.”

You lean into his touch, torn between elation and fear. “But your family, your position ... you’d lose everything.”

“Not everything,” Charles insists. “I’d have you. That’s all that matters.”

You’re about to respond when a commotion near the temple entrance catches your attention. Your blood runs cold as you spot Charles’ father, Senator Leclerc, striding towards you, flanked by several burly slaves.

“Charles!” The senator bellows, his face contorted with rage. “Step away from that girl at once!”

Charles instinctively moves to shield you. “Father, please,” he begins, but the senator cuts him off.

“Silence! You shame our family with this ... this dalliance. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

You feel Charles tense beside you. “It’s not a dalliance, Father. I love her.”

The senator’s face grows even redder. “Love? You know nothing of love, boy. You have a duty to your family, to Rome. I won’t let you throw it all away for some common girl.”

“She’s not common,” Charles argues, his voice rising. “She’s extraordinary, and I won’t let you or anyone speak ill of her.”

The tension in the air is palpable as father and son face off. You want to intervene, to de-escalate the situation, but you’re frozen in place, your heart pounding.

Suddenly, one of the senator’s slaves moves forward, reaching for Charles. Without thinking, you step between them. “Don’t touch him!” You cry out.

Everything happens in a blur. The slave’s hand connects with your shoulder, shoving you back. You stumble, your foot catching on the hem of your stola. Time seems to slow as you feel yourself falling, tumbling down the temple steps.

“Y/N!” Charles’ anguished cry is the last thing you hear before pain explodes through your body and the world goes dark.

You drift in and out of consciousness, aware of frantic voices and the sensation of being carried. Charles’ face swims into view, streaked with tears.

“Stay with me, love,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Please, don’t leave me.”

You try to speak, to reassure him, but no words come. The pain is fading now, replaced by a strange numbness. You manage to lift a hand to Charles’ cheek, wanting to wipe away his tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I love you, Charles. In this life and the next.”

As darkness closes in, your last thought is a desperate hope that someday, somehow, you’ll find each other again.

Genoa, 1348

The acrid smell of smoke and death hangs heavy in the air as Charles makes his way through the narrow, winding streets. His eyes water, both from the stench and the unshed tears he’s been holding back for days. The plague has ravaged the city, leaving behind a trail of devastation and despair.

Charles pulls his cloth mask tighter over his nose and mouth, though he knows it’s likely futile. He’s a physician, one of the few brave — or foolish — enough to still tend to the sick. But today, he’s not seeking out patients. He’s searching for you.

“Y/N!” He calls out, his voice muffled by the mask. “Y/N, where are you?”

A nearby door creaks open, and a haggard face peers out. “Keep your voice down, fool,” the old woman hisses. “You’ll bring the afflicted running.”

Charles ignores her, pressing on. His heart races with each step, fear and hope warring within him. He hasn’t seen you in days, not since you left to care for your ailing aunt. The memory of your parting plays in his mind, as vivid as if it were happening now.

“I have to go,” you had said, your eyes filled with determination and fear. “She has no one else.”

He had tried to dissuade you. “It’s too dangerous. The plague-”

“I know the risks,” you’d cut him off. “But I can’t abandon her. You’d do the same if it were your family.”

He couldn’t argue with that. It was one of the things he loved most about you — your unwavering compassion, even in the face of danger.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he’d pleaded, pulling you close. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

You’d kissed him then, soft and sweet. “I promise. Nothing could keep me from you, my love. Not even death itself.”

Now, as he rounds another corner, Charles clings to that promise like a lifeline. “Y/N!” He calls again, desperation creeping into his voice.

Suddenly, he spots a familiar figure stumbling down the street. His heart leaps. “Y/N!”

You turn at the sound of his voice, and Charles feels his world tilt on its axis. Your face is pale, your eyes glassy with fever. As he watches in horror, you collapse to the ground.

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters, rushing to your side. He gathers you in his arms, his physician’s training warring with his lover’s panic. “Y/N, can you hear me? Open your eyes, love.”

Your eyelids flutter, and you manage a weak smile. “Charles,” you whisper. “You found me.”

“Of course I found you,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll always find you. Now, let’s get you home and take care of you.”

You shake your head slightly. “No, it’s too late. The plague-”

“Don’t say that,” Charles interrupts fiercely. “It’s not too late. I’m a physician, remember? I’ll cure you. I have to.”

Despite your condition, you manage a soft laugh. “My stubborn love. Always fighting the impossible.”

Charles lifts you gently, cradling you against his chest. “Nothing’s impossible when it comes to you,” he insists, starting the journey back to his home. “We’ve overcome so much already. Remember when we first met? You were convinced a lowly apprentice physician could never court a merchant’s daughter.”

You smile at the memory. “And you were determined to prove me wrong.”

“Which I did,” Charles says, a hint of his old cockiness creeping into his voice. “Rather spectacularly, if I recall correctly.”

“Mmm, yes,” you murmur. “That night under the stars, when you recited all those ridiculous poems ...”

Charles chuckles. “They weren’t ridiculous. They were romantic.”

“They were terrible,” you counter weakly. “But your heart was in the right place.”

As they near Charles’ home, your breathing becomes more labored. Fear claws at Charles’ chest, but he forces it down. “Stay with me, love,” he pleads. “We’re almost there.”

Once inside, Charles lays you gently on the bed. He works tirelessly, applying every treatment and remedy he knows. Hours blur together as he fights against the inevitable, refusing to give up hope.

But as night falls, he can no longer deny the truth. The plague is winning and he’s powerless to stop it.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “It’s time to let go.”

He shakes his head vehemently, tears streaming down his face. “No, I can’t. I won’t lose you again.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Again?”

Charles pauses, unsure where that thought came from. “I ... I don’t know. It just feels like I’ve lost you before, somehow.”

You manage a small smile. “Perhaps in another life,” you muse. “But in this one, we found each other. We loved. That’s what matters.”

“It’s not enough,” Charles insists, his voice breaking. “We were supposed to have more time. We were going to get married, have children, grow old together.”

“We’ll have that chance,” you say with surprising conviction. “If not in this life, then in the next. Our souls are bound, Charles. I feel it. This isn’t the end for us.”

Charles wants to believe you, but the grief is overwhelming. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know our love,” you reply, reaching up to touch his face. “It’s stronger than death, stronger than time itself. We’ll find each other again, my love. I promise.”

As your hand falls away, your eyes close for the last time. Charles pulls you close, his body wracked with sobs. “I’ll find you,” he vows through his tears. “In this life or the next, I’ll always find you.”

Days pass in a haze of grief and determination. Charles throws himself into treating the sick with renewed vigor, heedless of the risk to himself. And when the telltale symptoms begin to appear — the fever, the chills, the aching limbs — he faces them without fear.

As he lies in his sickbed, Charles’ thoughts are only of you. “I’m coming, my love,” he whispers to the empty room. “Wait for me.”

His last conscious thought is a fervent hope that somehow, somewhere, you’ll be reunited once more.

Paris, 1789

The streets of Paris echo with the sound of angry voices and marching feet as Charles makes his way through the city’s winding alleys. His heart races, not from the exertion of his hurried pace, but from the fear of what’s to come. The revolution has begun in earnest, and his world is crumbling around him.

“Charles!” Your voice cuts through the chaos, and he turns to see you running towards him, your skirts hiked up to allow for faster movement. “Thank God I found you. We have to go, now!”

He grabs your hand, pulling you into a shadowy doorway. “Y/N, what are you doing here? It’s not safe!”

You cup his face in your hands, your eyes blazing with determination. “I couldn’t leave without you. The mob is heading for your family’s estate. We need to get you out of the city.”

Charles feels a rush of love for you, even as fear grips his heart. You, a baker’s daughter, risking everything to save him. “And what of you? Your family?”

“They’re safe,” you assure him. “Papa closed the bakery and they’ve gone to stay with relatives in the countryside. But you ... Charles, they’ll kill you if they find you.”

He knows you’re right. His family name, once a source of pride, is now a death sentence. “Where can we go?” He asks, his mind racing.

“I have a plan,” you say, tugging him back into the street. “There’s a farmer who owes my father a favor. He’s agreed to hide us until we can secure passage to England.”

As you hurry through the streets, the sounds of the mob grow louder. Charles can’t help but look back, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what he’s leaving behind.

“Charles, focus,” you urge, squeezing his hand. “We’re almost there.”

Suddenly, a group of revolutionaries rounds the corner ahead of you. Their eyes lock onto Charles, recognition dawning on their faces.

“Aristocrat!” One of them shouts, pointing an accusing finger. “Seize him!”

“Run!” Charles yells, pulling you in the opposite direction. You flee hand-in-hand, weaving through the narrow streets as shouts and footsteps echo behind you.

“This way,” you pant, yanking him down an alley. “I know a shortcut.”

You lead him through a maze of backstreets, the angry voices growing fainter. Just as Charles begins to hope you’ve lost them, you emerge onto a main road … and straight into the path of another group of revolutionaries.

“Halt!” A burly man with a tricolor sash shouts, leveling a musket at Charles.

Charles pushes you behind him, shielding you with his body. “Please,” he says, raising his hands. “We mean no harm. We’re just trying to leave the city.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “You’re Leclerc’s boy, aren’t you? The one who’s been helping nobles escape?”

Charles feels you stiffen behind him. He’d kept his activities secret, even from you, to keep you safe. But now ...

“Yes,” he admits, straightening his spine. “I’ve been helping innocent people escape persecution. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty.”

The man’s face twists with rage. “Traitor to the revolution!” He spits. “You’ll pay for your crimes against the people!”

As the man raises his musket, time seems to slow. Charles is acutely aware of your rapid breathing behind him, of the sweat beading on his brow, of the hammering of his heart.

“No!” You cry out, trying to push past Charles. “Please, he’s a good man! He’s helped people, saved lives!”

“Y/N, don’t,” Charles pleads, holding you back. He turns to face you, drinking in the sight of your face, committing every detail to memory. “I love you,” he says softly. “In this life and the next.”

The words trigger a flash of memory — or is it déjà vu? Charles has a sudden feeling that he’s said those words before, in another time, another place.

The moment is shattered by the deafening crack of the musket firing. Charles feels a searing pain in his chest, and then he’s falling, the world tilting sideways.

“Charles!” You anguished scream seems to come from far away. He feels your arms around him, cradling his head in your lap. “No, no, no. Stay with me, my love. Please!”

Charles tries to speak, but only a wet cough comes out. He can taste blood in his mouth. The pain is fading now, replaced by a spreading numbness.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Tears stream down your face as you bend over him. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re a hero, Charles. My hero.”

He wants to tell you how much he loves you, how meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to him. But the darkness is closing in, and he can feel himself slipping away.

As his eyes flutter closed, Charles has a strange sensation of déjà vu. He sees flashes of other lives — ancient Rome, plague-ridden Genoa — where he loved you and lost you. Or did you lose him?

With his last breath, Charles makes a silent vow. Somehow, someway, he’ll find you again. In the next life, you’ll get it right. You have to.

The world fades to black, but Charles isn’t afraid. He knows this isn’t the end. It’s just another beginning.

You hold Charles’ lifeless body, your sobs echoing in the suddenly quiet street. The revolutionaries stand awkwardly, some looking ashamed, others defiant.

“What have you done?” You cry out, your voice raw with grief and anger. “He was a good man! He helped people!”

The man with the musket shifts uncomfortably. “He was an aristocrat,” he mutters, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.

You look up at him, your eyes blazing through your tears. “He was a human being,” you say fiercely. “And you murdered him.”

As the reality of what they’ve done sinks in, the crowd begins to disperse. You’re left alone with Charles, cradling his body in the middle of the street.

“I’ll find you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “In the next life, my love. I promise we’ll be together again.”

As night falls over Paris, you sit vigil over Charles’ body, your heart broken but your spirit undefeated. Somewhere deep inside, you know this isn’t the end of your story. It’s just another chapter in a love that spans lifetimes.

London, 1942

The steady tick of the clock on the mantle seems to echo through the small London flat as you pace anxiously, your eyes darting to the window every few seconds. The air raid sirens have been silent for days, but the tension in the city remains palpable. It’s been weeks since you’ve heard from Charles, and the knot of worry in your stomach grows tighter with each passing day.

A sharp knock at the door makes you jump. Your heart races as you rush to answer it, hope and fear warring within you. But instead of Charles’ warm smile, you’re met with the solemn face of his fellow RAF pilot, James.

“James,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. “What is it? What’s happened?”

James removes his cap, twisting it in his hands. “May I come in? I’m afraid I have some news about Charles.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis as you step back, allowing James to enter. You lead him to the small sitting room, your movements mechanical, as if you’re watching yourself from a distance.

“Please,” you say, gesturing to a chair. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

James perches on the edge of the armchair, his discomfort palpable. “There’s no easy way to say this. Charles’ plane was shot down over the Channel three days ago. We ... we haven’t found any survivors.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, driving the air from your lungs. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that can’t be right. Charles is too good a pilot. He promised he’d come back to me.”

James leans forward, his eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. Charles was one of the best pilots I’ve ever known, but the Jerries caught us by surprise. There was nothing he could do.”

You sink onto the sofa, your legs suddenly unable to support you. “Tell me what happened,” you demand, your voice stronger than you feel. “I need to know everything.”

James nods, taking a deep breath. “We were on a routine patrol over the Channel. Everything seemed quiet, and then suddenly the sky was full of Messerschmitts. They came out of nowhere, diving out of the sun.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “Charles ... he was incredible. He managed to take down two of them before they could even react. But there were just too many of them.”

You close your eyes, picturing Charles in the cockpit of his Spitfire, his face set with determination as he faced impossible odds. It’s an image that both comforts and devastates you.

“I saw his plane take a hit,” James continues, his voice rough with emotion. “He was trying to draw their fire away from the rest of us. The last thing I heard over the radio was him saying, ‘Tell Y/N I love her. In this life and the next.’”

A sob escapes you at those words, so achingly familiar. “He’s said that before,” you murmur, more to yourself than to James.

“I’m sorry?” James asks, leaning closer.

You shake your head, unsure how to explain the strange sense of déjà vu. “It’s nothing. Please, go on.”

James nods, though he looks at you curiously. “His plane went down fast after that. We searched for hours, but with the weather and the waves ...” He trails off, leaving the grim implication hanging in the air.

“So there’s still a chance?” You ask, clinging to a shred of hope. “If you didn’t find ... if there’s no body, he could still be out there, right?”

The pity in James’ eyes is almost unbearable. “Y/N, I know it’s hard to accept, but the chances of survival in those conditions ... it would take a miracle.”

You stand abruptly, pacing the small room. “Then I’ll believe in miracles,” you declare fiercely. “Charles is strong, and he’s a survivor. He wouldn’t leave me, not like this.”

James rises, reaching out to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I understand. Charles spoke of you often, you know. He loved you more than anything in this world.”

“Loves,” you correct him sharply. “He loves me. Present tense.”

James nods, not arguing. “Of course. I’m sorry, I should go. Is there anything you need? Anyone I can call for you?”

You shake your head, suddenly desperate to be alone. “No, thank you. I just ... I need some time.”

As you show James out, he pauses at the door. “Charles was more than just my commanding officer. He was my friend. If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thank you, James. That means a lot.”

As the door closes behind him, the flat seems to grow impossibly quiet. You lean against the wall, feeling as though you might shatter into a million pieces at any moment.

Your eyes fall on a framed photograph of Charles, taken just before he left for his last mission. His smile is radiant, his eyes full of life and love. You pick up the frame, tracing his features with a trembling finger.

“You promised,” you whisper to the image. “You promised you’d come back to me.”

A memory surfaces, unbidden. Charles, laughing as he spun you around in the park on your first date. “You know,” he had said, his eyes twinkling, “I have the strangest feeling I’ve known you forever.”

You had felt it too, that inexplicable sense of familiarity, of coming home. “Maybe we knew each other in a past life,” you had joked.

Charles had grown serious then, cupping your face in his hands. “If that’s true,” he had said softly, “then I’m certain I loved you just as much then as I do now.”

The memory is too much. Your knees buckle, and you sink to the floor, still clutching the photograph to your chest. Sobs wrack your body as the full weight of your loss crashes over you.

“Come back to me,” you plead between gasping breaths. “Please, Charles. Find me again. In this life or the next, just find me.”

As you kneel there, lost in your grief, a strange calm settles over you. Deep in your soul, you feel a certainty that this isn’t the end. Somehow, someway, you and Charles will find each other again.

You have to believe it. It’s the only thing that will get you through the long, dark nights ahead.

Berlin, 1961

The cold November air bites at Charles’ face as he paces along the western side of the Berlin Wall, his breath forming small clouds in the dim light of dawn. His eyes scan the imposing concrete barrier, searching for any sign of movement on the other side. He checks his watch for the hundredth time, willing the minutes to pass faster.

“Come on, Y/N,” he mutters under his breath. “Where are you?”

As if in answer to his plea, a small pebble arcs over the wall, landing at his feet. Charles’ heart leaps as he bends to retrieve it, unfolding the small piece of paper wrapped around it.

I’m here, the note reads in your familiar handwriting. Same spot. Be careful.

Charles moves quickly to a section of the wall where a drain pipe creates a small blind spot from the watchtowers. He pulls out a compact mirror, angling it to catch a glimpse of the other side.

“Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “Can you hear me?”

“Charles!” Your voice comes back, barely audible. “Thank God. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you alright? Did anyone follow you?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “I was careful. But Charles, we don’t have much time. They’re planning to move me to Moscow next week. This might be our last chance.”

Charles feels his stomach drop. “Moscow? No, we can’t let that happen. We have to get you out of there tonight.”

“How?” You ask, a note of desperation in your voice. “The security has been tightened since the last escape attempt. There are patrols everywhere.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing. “I have a contact in the American sector. He might be able to help. But Y/N, it’s risky. If we’re caught ...”

“I know,” you interrupt. “But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t keep pretending to be loyal to a system I despise. And I can’t bear to be separated from you any longer.”

His heart swells at your words. “I feel the same way. Okay, listen carefully. Meet me back here at midnight. Wear dark clothes and bring only what you can carry in a small bag. I’ll have everything else ready on this side.”

“Midnight,” you repeat. “I’ll be here. Charles ... I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says softly. “More than you could ever know. Be safe, Y/N. I’ll see you soon.”

As Charles turns to leave, he’s struck by a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He’s had this feeling before when talking to you, as if your souls have known each other across lifetimes. Shaking off the strange thought, he hurries away to set the plan in motion.

The hours crawl by as Charles makes preparations. He meets with his American contact, secures false documents, and plots the safest route to the western sector. As night falls, he returns to the wall, his nerves on edge.

Midnight comes and goes. Charles waits, every muscle tense, straining to hear any sound from the other side. Five minutes pass. Then ten.

“Y/N?” He whispers urgently. “Are you there?”

Silence answers him. Charles feels panic rising in his chest. Something’s wrong.

Suddenly, the night is shattered by the sound of shouting and dogs barking. Floodlights blaze to life on the eastern side of the wall.

“No,” Charles breathes, horror washing over him. “Y/N!”

He presses himself against the wall, desperate to hear something, anything. The chaos on the other side grows louder. Then, cutting through it all, he hears your voice.

“Charles!” You cry out. “Charles, help me!”

Without thinking, Charles begins to climb the wall, heedless of the danger. He has to get to you, has to save you.

“Stop right there!” A gruff voice shouts in German. Charles freezes, realizing he’s been spotted by a guard on the western side.

“Please,” Charles begs in German, “You don’t understand. There’s someone over there who needs help. I have to-”

His words are cut off by the sharp crack of gunfire from the eastern side. Charles’ blood runs cold.

“Y/N!” He screams, no longer caring who hears him. “Y/N, answer me!”

But there’s no response. The night falls eerily quiet, broken only by the sound of hurried orders being given in Russian.

Charles slumps against the wall, his mind refusing to accept what his heart already knows. You’re gone. He was too late.

Hours pass in a blur. Charles remains by the wall, numb with grief and shock. As dawn breaks, he hears someone approaching from the western side.

“Mr. Leclerc?” A voice says softly. It’s his American contact. “I’m so sorry. We ... we heard what happened.”

Charles looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. “Tell me,” he says hoarsely.

The man sighs heavily. “She was caught trying to reach the wall. There was a struggle. The guards ... they didn’t hesitate to use lethal force.”

Each word is like a knife to Charles’ heart. “Did she suffer?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“It was quick,” the man assures him. “If it’s any consolation, our sources say her last words were about you. She said, ‘Tell Charles I’ll find him again. In this life or the next.’”

Charles closes his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Those words ... why do they sound so familiar?

“Mr. Leclerc,” the American says gently, “it’s not safe for you to stay here. We need to get you out of Berlin. There will be questions, investigations.”

But Charles barely hears him. His mind is reeling, flashes of memories — or are they dreams — flooding his consciousness. Ancient Rome, plague-ridden Genoa, revolutionary France, war-torn skies over the English Channel. In each scene, he sees your face, hears your voice promising to find each other again.

“This isn’t the end,” Charles murmurs, more to himself than to the confused American.

“I’m sorry?” The man asks.

Charles stands, a strange calm settling over him. “Nothing,” he says. “You’re right. We should go.”

As they walk away from the wall, Charles makes a silent vow. He will live, he will remember, and he will find you again. Somehow, somewhere, in another life, you will have your chance at happiness.

The Berlin Wall may have separated you in this life, but Charles is certain now that your souls are bound across lifetimes. And no wall, no war, no force on earth can keep you apart forever.

Abu Dhabi, 2025

The roar of engines fills the air as Charles crosses the finish line, clinching his first Formula 1 World Championship. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Charles barely hears them. His eyes scan the barriers, searching for one face among thousands.

As he brings his Ferrari to a stop, he sees you pushing through the throng of celebrating team members. Your eyes meet, and suddenly everything else fades away. Charles leaps from the car, not even bothering to remove his helmet as he runs towards you.

“We did it!” He shouts, sweeping you into his arms and spinning you around. “We actually did it!”

You laugh, tears of joy streaming down your face. “You did it, Charles! I’m so proud of you!”

He sets you down gently, finally removing his helmet. His hair is matted with sweat, his face flushed with exertion and excitement. To you, he’s never looked more handsome.

“No,” Charles says, cupping your face in his hands. “We did this together. I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a passionate kiss. The world around you explodes with camera flashes and cheers, but neither of you notice. In this moment, you’re the only two people in the world.

As you finally break apart, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs. “In this life and-”

“And all the others,” you finish, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over you.

Charles pulls back slightly, his brow furrowed. “You feel it too, don’t you?” He asks. “Like we’ve said these words before?”

You nod, a bit dazed. “It’s strange. Sometimes when I look at you, I get flashes of ... I don’t know, other times, other places. But it’s always us, always together.”

A grin spreads across Charles’ face. “Maybe we’re soulmates,” he teases, but there’s a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

“Charles! Y/N!” A voice calls out. You turn to see Fred Vasseur approaching. “Sorry to interrupt, but Charles has to get weighed.”

Charles nods, then turns back to you. “Wait for me?” He asks.

You smile, giving him a quick kiss. “Always,” you promise.

As Charles is whisked away for obligations, you find yourself lost in thought. The strange feeling of familiarity, of a love that transcends time, has been with you since the day you met Charles. You’ve never mentioned it to him before, afraid he’d think you were crazy.

The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and cheers. Charles’ radiant smile never wavers as he hoists the trophy, but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd. When it’s finally over, he makes a beeline for you, ignoring the clamoring reporters.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, taking your hand.

You raise an eyebrow. “What about the press conference? The team celebrations?”

Charles shakes his head. “They can wait. Right now, I just want to be with you.”

Hand-in-hand, you sneak away from the track, laughing like teenagers as you dodge team members and journalists. Charles leads you to his car and soon you’re speeding down the winding roads of the Emirati capital.

“Where are we going?” You ask, the wind whipping through your hair.

Charles grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll see.”

As the sun begins to set, Charles pulls off onto a small dirt road. It leads to a secluded hilltop overlooking the valley below. The view is breathtaking, the entire landscape bathed in the warm glow of twilight.

“Charles,” you breathe, taking in the scene. “It’s beautiful.”

He comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You turn in his arms, struck once again by the intensity of his gaze. “What are we doing here, Charles?”

He takes a deep breath, suddenly looking nervous. “Y/N, do you remember the day we met?”

You smile at the memory. “Of course. I was lost in the paddock and you offered to help me find my way.”

“The moment I saw you,” Charles says softly, “it was like ... like coming home. Like I’d been searching for you my whole life without even knowing it.”

Your heart races as he continues. “And ever since then, I’ve had these ... dreams, I guess. Flashes of other lives, other times. But always with you.”

“Charles,” you whisper, hardly daring to believe what you’re hearing. “I’ve had them too. I thought I was going crazy.”

He shakes his head, a look of wonder on his face. “Not crazy. Just ... connected. In a way I can’t fully explain.”

Charles takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on your skin. “I don’t know if it’s past lives or parallel universes or just some cosmic coincidence. But I do know this: in every life, in every version of reality, I love you. And I want to spend the rest of this life, and all the ones that come after, loving you.”

Your breath catches as Charles drops to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “will you marry me?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod emphatically. “Yes,” you manage to choke out. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Charles’ face breaks into a radiant smile as he slips the ring onto your finger. He stands, pulling you into a kiss that feels like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once.

As you break apart, both of you laughing and crying, a sense of rightness settles over you. Whatever strange connection you share, whatever cosmic forces have brought you together time and time again, you know that this — right here, right now — is where you’re meant to be.

“I love you,” you say, looking into Charles’ eyes. “In this life and all the others.”

“And I love you,” he replies, holding you close. “Always and forever.”

The future stretches out before you, full of promise and possibility. And though you don’t know what challenges it might bring, you’re certain of one thing: whatever comes, you’ll face it together.

Just as you always have, and always will.

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prettyfilmz · 1 year

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miguel o’hara thots

miguel loves watching you fall apart on his dick. you’re face down ass up, mewling and whimpering as he bullies your tight cunt with his thick hard length. you have a death grip on one of your stuffed animals as you laid there with tears rolling down your flustered cheeks and took the brutal pace he gave you. trying to match miguel’s thrusts are almost impossible as he always finds a way to one up you whenever he sees fit, not that you were complaining as having a pleasurably sore pussy wasn’t so bad.

you’ve came multiple times prior which left a creamy ring on the base of his length and a damp puddle on top of the covers. you were overstimulated to the point the pleasure was slightly painful. “m-miggy…s’too much…”you pleaded in between pleasurable sobs only to be met with no answer besides grunts that made your swollen clit throb. you took a free hand to reach behind and push his stomach as a weak attempt to get him to slow down just for him to effortlessly hold your arm behind your back and take his other hand to lay a few heavy spanks on your plush ass gaining positive yelps from you.

“deja de lloriquear como un bebé, puedes soportarlo... siempre lo haces.” he coos in your ear, nipping it gently with his sharp teeth knowing how much you love that. “you’re my big girl, make me proud and cum one more time..”

you already know one more time will mean three more times after that but nevertheless, you love being his good girl and cum as many times as he asks you to.

#astro’s diary <3 #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x black!reader #miguel o’hara x reader

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mesetacadre · 2 months

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I'm far from the first person to say this but there is a lot of overcompensating that goes on when communists oppose criticisms of specific communist figureheads. Stalin did not personally order the genocide of millions of people but he also wasn't the sole builder of socialism, nor was he the source of every good policy the USSR implemented. Same goes for Mao, Honecker, Lenin, Castro, etc. I don't think I need to harp on about why it's a remain of liberal historiography and ideology, although that should be acknowledged. Following in the same vein as this other post of mine, it constitutes a conscious and prolongued effort as a communist to adopt class, and more generally, a focus on the collective and processes instead of individual actions as the vehicle of your discourse. The better perspective with which to approach criticisms of a single transistor is to recontextualize it within the whole CPU that it's a part of, if you allow me the metaphor. You hinder yourself when you stoop down to the level of great man theory.

Lenin is a particular example because he tends to be great-manned both from the perspective of people criticizing and defending Stalin. He was neither a pure-hearted libertarian who was betrayed after his death by a conniving Stalin who hid Lenin's thought on him and who arrested/killed every other opponent, nor was Stalin a 1:1 replica of Lenin's positions but in a different stage of socialism. In both of these positions the role of the Bolshevik's party mechanisms and channels are completely ignored, as if it was a simple hereditary mechanism. In a democratic centralist organization, the Congress is the supreme organ of decision, and every office, from General Secretary to the base militant, is beholden to its decisions and has the duty to carry them out, as well as to contribute in its democratic process. Lenin was the Chairman of the Council of People's Commissar, sure, and the de facto "leader". The CPC was a mostly executive office, but like any other organ in the CP, it had a decided political role. The Congress is still the highest organ.

In the 13th Congress, when Stalin was elected to the position of General Secretary, there were 748 voting delegates. It is a misrepresentation of democratic-centralist principles to discount or ignore the vote of these 748 delegates. Lenin, as much as he was an important figure, was not the only politically competent communist, nor the only influential one. Never, even during the tensest months of the civil war or the underground work, was Lenin's criteria followed without criticism or input. He wasn't infallible or without fault, anyone can make mistakes or forget to consider some angles. This is also why Lenin was such a respected leader, because he did not govern alone. Stalin also governed like that, quite famously being skilled at listening to a discussion and being able to synthesize everyone's positions into a logical common ground. I am less concerned with what Lenin, at the end of his life, after two gunshots and a few strokes, personally thought of Stalin's aptness for the position, and more concerned with the opinions of those 748 delegates, all taking into account the discussions that took place in every lower organ of the party. What matters is that the party, democratically, elected Stalin to the position multiple times, and that his responsibility in leading cooperatively were proven competent throughout his tenure. Lenin was not an angel, nor the embodied spirit of revolutionary marxism. He was a very skilled and knowledgeable revolutionary whose words are not the gospel. The achievements made by Stalin's collective leadership (plus the entire party!) and the effective advancement of socialism are much more important than Lenin's opinion, as much as we can respect him. He wasn't clairvoyant

#seriousposting

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vampdes · 3 months

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DES says . . . i like peach cobbler so much. this is based on my love for such. hope it’s as sweet for you as it was for me + happy early birthday gift to @asukases . please do enjoy.

SUM. — gojo satoru fucks like a beast, and, sometimes, even his beautiful boyfriend can’t control him. it’s not gojo’s fault his boy has the prettiest pussy in the world.

CON. warning — afab + ftm reader. fingering, vaginal sex / penetration, piv, no condom, mentions of pregnancy, oral (both receiving), gagging kink (?), pussy eating + pussydrunk gojo, biting / licking / possessive (?) gojo, breeding kink.

NOTES. — reader’s vagina is referred to as: pussy, my pussy, etc. reader deepthroats gojo’s dick. not proofread, apologies.

“your pussy’s so pretty, baby. .” gojo whispered in-between kisses that he pressed against the plush flesh of the inside of your thighs, “so wet f’me, fuck—” his warm breath pressed against your pussy, just as his long, slender index finger, which pressed against your entrance, being enveloped by your slick, glistening lips. gojo bit his lower lip as he watched his finger be coated in your glistening fluids, imagining how good his dick would look coming in and out of your cum filled pussy.

gojo had you laying on your back with your legs spread wide and your body bare for him and his eyes only. your hands were on the underside of your knee, holding your legs up and apart for him to explore your most intimate regions. before his index finger had successfully entered inside of your entrance, he leaned down and pressed kisses on your tummy due to your eyes being trained on him and the fear showing in your face. it was your first time doing it without a condom, after all, but gojo was sure you’d look so pretty pregnant; nevertheless, he wanted to make sure his boy was consenting and ready for him to continue on. you told him to go slow, your uneven breaths hitching once the tip of his finger entered inside of your pussy.

gojo immediately pressed a kiss against your lips, mumbling: “you’re gonna be okay, baby, we’ll take it slow, promise.”

after the first few minutes of making sure you were okay with the tip of his finger, you consented to him pursuing the full length of his index finger inside of you and the gasp that left your mouth made gojo’s ego groan in pure ecstasy. he waited until you were ready for the other two fingers he wished to put into you, stroking the inside of your gummy, slick walls as he watched your eyes flutter shut and your face and mouth contort in order for you to produce moans that bounced off the walls. once he finished prepping you adequately, he pressed the pink head of his long, girthy cock against your entrance, his tip already being warmed by the heat of your pussy.

“baby, i’m gonna start slowly, okay?” gojo asked, waiting for your consent once more after he intertwined your left hand with his left hand.

“. . please go slow, ‘toru, you’re too big,” you whimpered in response, trying to instill the fact that he is going to go slow once he fully entered inside of you, but only stroking his overflowing ego with the statement that he’s too big for your pretty pussy. gojo leaned forward and peppered your face with kisses, laughing softly and saying that you’re too cute for him, before he positioned the head of his cock against your entrance and slowly, gently but surely moving his hips in order to get his pre-cum smothered tip inside of your warm, gummy, inviting pussy.

once gojo fully put the head of his thick cock inside of you, he made sure to look up from the addicting sight below him in order to check up on you. what he saw was your cheeks being covered with left over streams of tears and more prickling at the corner of your gorgeous eyes. gojo leaned down and kissed each cheek where the tears left marks and cooed, “it’ll be okay, y/n, you’re taking it soo well, my love, so well.” after he had wiped away your newborn tears with his thumb. after he had, once again, gotten consent to make sure you’re ready for him to continue fully without hesitation (your words, mind you, not his), he followed your ‘plea’ and continued his cock’s venture into your pussy. gojo almost doubled over as his cock was overwhelming pleased with the inner workings of your body. your sticky, gummy walls was a mixture of his and your fluids and fuck, he felt so damn good—and he wanted to let his boy know.

“y/n,” gojo whimpered, his bright, blue eyes leaving from the addicting, pornography worthy image of his pure white pubes sticky and wet against your soaking pussy in order to meet yours which were screwed shut before opening in order to look at him, “you feel so, so fucking good—fuck, baby,” he let out a breathless, non-condescending laugh in order to stop his heart from trying to escape his chest, “you’re so wet and i can’t even begin to fucking imagine how good you’ll taste once i fuck your pussy raw and make sure you get pregnant from how much i’m gonna cum in you.” he snarled such vulgar words against your neck with his hands pressed against your stomach, rubbing softly, whispering: “imagine our baby. me and you in her. fuck,” gojo pulled back and sat up, placing his hands on your waist, feeling your skin slick with sweat and slowly exited out of you.

“‘toru, ‘toru, ‘toru,” you breathed, and hand coming up to his chest in order to stop him from providing you with the immense pleasure he was giving you with his dangerously addictive dick, “i’m gonna—nngh, ‘toru. .!” his name rolled off of your tongue as you cried out, your hands pulling back in order to ball up and grip the soaking wet sheets below the two of you. gojo licked his lips slowly as he watched your face contort into that of an aroused, sickeningly sweet expression, he then looked down and watched his glistening cock, covered in the juices that your pretty pussy produced, exit your pussy until just his tip was left inside of your warm, welcoming cavern. he then, against your moaning, already cock-drunk wishes, shoved himself back inside of your with a groan, eliciting a loud moan from you in response—one so loud that the neighbors were sure of his name and nickname you awarded him with—and gojo, being the absolute bastard he is, didn’t give you time before moving his hips in order for his slick-covered dick to move in and out of your puffy pussy.

“my boy’s so pretty” gojo huffed out, sounding in between a shaking whine and a groan, rolling his hips just right so the head of his cock could meet your prostate. he watched at you cried out repeatedly, telling him that his dick’s just too much for you and that you couldn’t take it anymore. he replied with: “but i wanna get you pregnant, baby,” with a pout that rivaled that of the best puppy eyes in the world, pressing down on your stomach so he could feel just how deep his dick was inside of you. doing so made you squirt. you painted his dick with your pussy’s addicting liquid and soaked the sheets below you, you came with his name rolling off your mouth in a broken moan, tears streaming down your face. he, once again, leaned down and licked your tears, making your cheeks sticky with his saliva.

gojo tore you apart, built you up again, and tore down the structure that is his perfect, pretty pussy that belongs to his beautiful boy. he made sure that you know how pretty and perfect your pussy is for a beast of his stature, saying your name in different ways (moaning, whining, whimpering, groaning, growling, snarling) that, combined with his bites, licks, and suckings and, let’s not forget, his cock, made you cum so hard.

and you, the fuckin’ ‘innocent’ minx you are, made sure that he’d get you pregnant tonight and tonight for sure. making sure that he, and the neighbors, know just how bad you wanna have his cum so deep inside of you that his semen has no choice but to fertilize deep inside of you. “gimme a baby, ‘toru, wanna have your baby so bad—” you’d moan and “‘toruuu, oh, fuck, hafta—aah! hafta get me pregnant! ooh, oh fuck, oh god—” you’d whine whilst you stroked his cock with your pussy and his ego with your words. you even worked up enough confidence to switch positions and ride him: you planted your hands on his chest as you lowered yourself onto his dick, gasping and whimpering and moaning all the while, making sure just how wonderous his cock is and how so fucking good it feels inside of you.

once gojo had deemed your pussy was full enough of his cum (you were spilling out onto the sheets), he decided that you both need to taste just how good you feel and felt. so, with him on top and you on bottom, the both of you situated yourself into the 69-ing position. the head of his cock, fresh out of your pussy, covered in his sperm and your fluids, pressed against your lips as his mouth was lowering itself towards your pussy that was spread open by his fingers. you opened his mouth and, due to being so obsessed with sucking his dick, swallowed it half way, allowing his hips to control the rhythm whilst you stroked the rest of his girth that you couldn’t take. your moans, that were retrieved from your mouth due to gojo licking and entering inside of you, groaning softly at the mixture of his cum and your aphrodisiac-like fluids together, made gojo’s cock feel insanely addictive.

that’s when he asked: “fuck, y/n, wanna—can you take it all the way? wanna hear you gag on it, please,” and honestly, with hearing the gojo satoru beg for you to deepthroat his dick, you couldn’t wait to do it.

the two of you decided to switch positions once more, with him sitting on the edge of the bed and you on the ground, with a towel below you for your knees and his dripping cum, with your pretty face below his intimidating cock. your pink, sticky tongue lapped at the length of his cock repeatedly, earning soft groans of praise from him before you kitten-licked his pre-cum smothered head once and decided to take him down halfway, eliciting a loud and harsh and surprised and moan-like “fuck!” from him before he put a hand in your hair. between gritted teeth and a flushed face, gojo asked if he could control you ’til he cums; you said yes.

“oh baby, oh fuck, your mouth is sooo fuckin’ good. . hah, my boy has, aah, the best fuckin’ mouth ever—” he mumbled, eyes staring holes into your heads controlled motions as you got lower and lower on his cock. gags weren’t far and few in between, which made his dick twitch on the back of your tongue each time you (successfully) attempted to have him release you in order for you to breathe. once the two of you mutually agreed that you’re both ready for you to take it down to the base, he did just that. slowly and gently cajoling you as you went along, his toes curling against the carpeted floor of your bedroom once your nose dug into his pubes. gojo thrusted his hips softly, attempting to get deeper into your throat before he head you start to gag and spasm below him.

“one more time, baby, almost there, i swear—” before gojo could finish his sentence you deepthroated his cock once more, making him immediately paint your throat with his cum he pulled you back to his tip as you swallowed, letting a few more ropes leave his aching tip and land on your tongue. the addicting scene of your tongue sticking out for him, your pleading eyes looking up at him, basically urging him on, made him want to breed your aching, puffy pussy more. he watched as you swallowed his cum, knowing that more of it was in your stomach made his guts churn out of pure ecstasy.

“my boy’s so pretty.” gojo whispered later into the night, when your pussy was warming his dick and your back turned to him with it pressed against his chest, as he softly thrusted his hips, “with the prettiest pussy and prettiest lips and the most perfect body ever.”

links: prequel post (💫).

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halfbloodprill · 7 months

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luke castellan smut

SMUT. MDNI

requests- open 🏹

lowercase intended

“please luke pleaseee. it feels so good you’re so de-deep.” you moaned in a uneven tone as he pounded into from behind.

“yeah? you like this, you slut? you take my cock so good”

the bed rattled against wall as he continued his inhumane pace that you could feel in your cervix.

“lukey please baby i want you to cum inside of me. needa feel you in me”

luke pulled you back on his cock by grabbing your hair. you moaned at the prickling sensation in your scalp from his grasp.

“want you to mark me as yours. i’m all yours baby,” you choked out as saliva flooded from your mouth and eyes crossed from the pleasure of luke deep inside you.

“listen to how good i’ve fucked you. you already know how you belong to. didn’t even have to tell you. such a brain dead cock slut. fuckkk”, he let out a low groan as your cunt clenched from his words.

“yes ‘m all yours luke. all yours. your good girl.” you whined in response

luke continued his pace moving his hands from your hair to grip your hips tightly and pull you towards him. one of his hands pushed into the small of your back to make your arch further. your face hit the pillow and moans muffled into the cotton sheets, drool seeping into the fabric.

you moved your head and whines and whimpers slipped from your mouth onto his deaf ears. he was lost to the warm and wet heat of your tight little cunny.

“please luke breed me. im your little breeding bunny. please. i want everyone t-to see i’m yours. yourssss only yours baby pleasee” you whined as his pace broke through your words.

“do you deserve it baby? yeah you do? prove it. fuck yourself on my cock now.”

you put your hands onto the bed and started to push back onto his cock as he made you work for it.

“too slow baby. you really are a dumb slut. gotta do everything for you huh.” luke resumed his pace into your cervix.

you lost yourself back into that pleasure while you whined his name and lost yourself to his perfect cock. the way that you moaned his name sent a shiver through his spine and led him closer to the end.

“cmon baby cum. you need to cum in 10 seconds or i won’t let you at all.”

your submissive spirit lost yourself to his demanding words and you felt yourself release while he fucked deep into your cunt. you whimpered as you felt your sticky cum on the inside of your thighs and the overstimulation from luke still fucking into your sore cunt. “please luke. i’m tired i can’t. please just cum in my cunt. need to feel it. wanna have your babies. make you a daddy. ple-hic- pleasee”

luke continued to lose himself in your cunt but before he came, he pulled out and tugged his cock until he saw his milky ropes of cum onto your ass and back. he hissed while he grasped his sensitive and sticky cock. your eyes shot open at the realization of what he did. you felt tears in your eyes from the feeling of it all.

“no no no please luke i wanted your cum. please why didn’t you cum in me?” you started to question while tears streamed down your face. “i’m your good girl. please. fuck your cum in me. wanna be a mommy for you. use my body please baby. need it,” your salty tears streamed off your face and into the sheets.

“you’re really crying for my cum? how fucking pathetic. you’re my good cock sleeve. this is all you’re good for.”

you nodded your head and felt the sheets rustle under your movement.

“please lukey i earned your cum right. ‘m your good

little girl daddy.”

“you’re right baby girl,” luke said as he grasped his semi hard cock at the base. he positioned his cock at your hole “ it’s time for a second round. gonna give you all my cum to make up for this.” he abruptly pushed his cock and you felt your eyes roll into your skull at the intrusion. it was gonna be a long night.

#smut #pjo #pjo smut #luke castellan x reader smut #luke smut #luke x reader smut #luke x reader #luke castellan smut #percy jackon and the olympians #charlie bushnell #dom luke #subby reader

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sprintingowl · 2 years

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What Non DnD TTRPGs Feel Like

Okay, quick thread about what playing different non DnD ttrpgs feels like.

Pathfinder

This is DnD. It feels like DnD. It's like going to a slightly different church. Some of the words used during the service are different, but at the end of it the pulpit turns out to be a mimic and you cast Entangle and summon your direwolf.

Fate

This is Rule Of Cool with additional rules. The GM has powers to one-up you or lead you into temptation, but you have powers to one-up the GM, and all these powers use the same kind of token that you ultimately shuffle back and forth.

Savage Worlds

Handwave-style DnD (positive connotation.)

The GM has a lot of freedom to pick genre and setting, and the gameplay is sleeker, rule-of-cool-ier without losing meaningful combat or character building.

Call Of Cthulhu

You may not be an old librarian, but you sure are built like one. Most acts of violence can flatten you in a couple of hits, but violence doesn't happen often. It's the punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence. Atmosphere and pacing rule over this land.

World Of Darkness

This is a game about getting deep into your character's headspace. It's about figuring out who they are and roleplaying them passionately. Your backstory choices and powers have a huge affect on how you interact with the world around you.

Warhammer Fantasy / Dark Heresy

You are Scrumbles McGrumbles, a walking heap of morbidity and washed-up soldiering. You are trying to find your place in a world that's having an even worse day than you are. Your best friend is a ratcatcher. Together you will be heroes.

OSR (Mork Borg, Mausritter, Into The Odd, Dungeon Crawl Classics, Labyrinth Lord, Cairn, tons more)

DnD boiled down to two components: GMing + Making A Guy. GMing is made as easy as possible and PCs are somewhat disposable, so the story is the hijinks you get into together.

The goal is to get into trouble and stir up drama. Succeeding on a roll with no consequences is rare, but when you fail you fail forward into even bigger, messier drama.

Blades In The Dark

You go on missions and then return to your base. The missions are about choices as much as about rolls, and you build your base together to make yourselves more powerful as a squad.

Trophy

Your goal is to lose. Specifically, it's to lose in a dramatic and harrowing fashion that sticks with everyone at the table. Think movies like Annihilation, but as oneshot games.

Golden Sky Stories

You like everyone at the table with you. When someone does something adorable, you can award them exp. The highlight of the session is someone getting flustered and/or speaking in a squeaky voice.

Ryuutama

You are going on a journey and helping other people along the way. Important choices include packing lunch, wearing appropriate clothing, and completely filling your canteen. Combat is a cozy, pastel color jrpg.

The Indie

There are so, so many games that are just completely their own thing, and that I can't squeeze into a single thread. If you discover you like game mechanics and you want to Get Weird with seeing what they can do, there is an entire scene here waiting to welcome you.

Stuff I Missed

There's lots of stuff I haven't played, or didn't remember in the moment, or absolutely love but it would take a whole thread to explain why I love it. I will do more game recommendations in the future, but you can also comment systems you like below!

#dnd #ttrpg #ttrpgs #ttrpg design #ttrpg homebrew #indie ttrpgs

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punksocks · 1 year

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Astrology observations No.18 (18+ Only)

No minors! Adults only pls

Just based off my experiences, only take what resonates

-theory that Virgo/Scorpio/Capricorn mars are most likely to make you finish in a way you didn’t know you could before

-Capricorn mars need to take it slow during intimacy or at least at a pace they can control, sometimes they’ll get overwhelmed and erm.. lose focus if it’s not going at a pace they can control

-I feel like Capricorn/Libra Mars/Moon are most likely to try to f*ck the stress away

-Do not try to seduce a Libra/Taurus Mars with a dirty bedroom or when you’re smelling bad, Venusian Mars signs will get turned off by the unpleasantness

-Dont try to seduce a Virgo mars without having your shit together (this varies but don’t be a total mess —but do have a few problems lol it’s lowkey hard mode)

-Aries/Scorpio mars are most likely to f*ck someone they hate. (Scorpio could do this to get the upper hand)

-Leo Mars wants to be the most memorable partner you’ve ever had

-Cancer always gets t*tties as the thing they’re into but cancer and Taurus mars (and debatably Cancer and Taurus moon too) are usually drawn to more shapely/curvy people

-to get a Virgo mars to get into you’ve got to often have a quiet it factor, something understated that would get you positive attention -these dudes love a lady in the streets/a freak in the sheets imo (grain of salt bc most Virgo mars I’ve dated have had Leo placements lol)

-Gemini mars will come onto you with small talk and witty banter

-12th house synastry will have someone showing up in your dreams to seduce you (yeah I think this is so weird lol)

-8th house synastry will make you do bold and scandalous stuff but 7th house synastry gives wifey/boyfriend chemistry (sleeping together because they comforted you after a long day, someone knowing and embracing your k*nks, etc)

-Lilith synastry makes or breaks a sensual connection. I used to think it corrupted dudes but that was when I was too young to hold men accountable lol. It’s like if someone had any sketchy motives it shines a light on them.

-uranus overlays could point to someone wanting to try novel k*nks with you or flirting with you digitally (s*xting, n*des)

-mars square mars chemistry could lead to a very handsy, passionate, physical relationship. (Sudden quickies and that sort of thing)

-I only dated (in quotes) a few cancer mars, they were even more like “I want it more when I can’t have it” than some air mars I knew imo

-fire and water Lilith may have something similar about guys coming onto you when you’re angry/upset? (A guy tried to get me to come to his hotel room when I was lost and on my way to find family : 0 I was like ay yo wtf.)

#astro observations #astro notes #astro community #astroblr #astro placements #astrology #spicy astrology #mars astrology #Virgo mars #Taurus mars #Capricorn mars #cancer mars #Scorpio mars #Aries mars #Leo mars #Gemini mars #lilith astrology

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markrosewater · 4 months

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Elegance

Here’s my original article for Elegance.

This is a topic I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. Ironically, the words needed to explain the concept kept the column from being elegant. So I did what all artists do. I found a way to say a lot in a little space.

Enjoy,

Mark Rosewater

[NOTE: EACH OF THE ABOVE FIFTY WORDS IS HYPERLINKED. BELOW IS THE FIFTY HYPER LINKS. THE HEADERS SHOULDN’T BE ON THE LINKED PAGE. I’M JUST INCLUDING THEM SO YOU KNOW WHAT EACH LINK IS.]

ELEGANCE

Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has five definitions for elegance:

• refined grace or dignified propriety

• tasteful richness of design or ornamentation

• dignified, gracefulness or restrained beauty of style

• scientific precision, neatness and simplicity

• something that is elegant

The common elements appear to be dignity, simplicity, and taste.

THIS

Elegance requires thinking, but it also requires feeling. Elegant prose is judged by how it makes the reader feel. It needs to generate a sense of calm that puts the reader at ease. Everything in your writing should feel as if it was carefully positioned to create the proper effect.

Pound for pound, the writer’s greatest writing tool is the verb. Nouns add substance and adjectives add flourish, but it’s the verb that drives the sentence. Choose a strong, descriptive verb and the sentence has flair and purpose. Choose a weak one and the sentence lacks any sense of drama.

Here’s a little game to test an elegance relevant skill (based on an old game called Inklings). Randomly choose a noun. Try to convey that noun to the other players using the least number of letters possible. You’ll be surprised how much you can communicate in just a few letters.

TOPIC

One of the greatest stumbling blocks to elegance is the inability to choose a single focus. Elegance requires simplicity. Simplicity requires a single purpose of thought. This means that elegance starts before you write a single word. A good sculptor must know his image before he picks up his chisel.

I’VE

One of the common misconceptions of elegance is that it requires a writer to be fancy. Elegance though is more about familiarity than formality. You shouldn’t be afraid of friendlier language such as slang or contractions, assuming that such language adds an element of ease rather than one of laziness.

WANTED

An important element of elegance is a sense of passion. Brevity does not mean pulling away emotionally from words, but rather the opposite. When you find yourself limited to fewer words, you must pack each individual word with extra emotional punch. You are not reducing your message, simply your messenger.

A good tool in understanding elegance is studying poetry. Poetry is the most concise of all written art forms. It strives to maximize impact while minimizing expression. Each word carries the burden of evoking some essence of the poet’s message. If it cannot carry its own weight, it is excised.

WRITE

To be an elegant writer, you have to become a student of prose. You have to study the mechanics of language to understand how it can be shaped. Once you have learned how to transfer the feeling in your head into meaningful words, you are on the path to elegance.

ABOUT

Be careful not to fall in love with ambiguity. While intoxicating in its beauty, it is the enemy of elegance. Remember, the goal is not to make the reader struggle for comprehension. Rather it is to lead them to the obvious conclusion. Elegance should be used to illuminate, not confuse.

FOR

Elegant prose requires connecting with your reader. To do this, you have to understand who that reader is. Nothing should come before this task. It needs to be done before writing can begin. I like to compare this to planning a trip. Maps are useless until you know your destination.

Another major key to elegance is the understanding of the importance of the tiniest detail. Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a piece of prose is only as tight as its messiest detail. A good writer doesn’t stop at the nouns, verbs and adjectives.

LONG

Don’t confuse elegance with brevity. Elegant things are short not because they have to be but because the difficulty to craft an elegant piece of prose combined with the limitations of time forces writers to be brief. Elegant novels, for example, do exist, but they are few and far between.

TIME

To quote Roman orator (and letter writer) Marcus T. Cicero, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”

Simplicity takes more time not less. Anyone can get a point across with ten thousand words. But a true artist can do it in ten (or possibly fifty).

IRONICALLY

Irony is a potent tool for commentary. Its genius lies in the fact that it comments not on what is, but rather on what isn’t. Like all good humor, irony makes you laugh. But like the best type of humor, it also makes you think. It’s both funny and funny.

THE

Elegance in writing is about more than words. Equally important is how the words are woven together. Tempo, pacing, rhythm – these are the tools that set the mood for the piece. Try reading aloud your text. The natural beat of language is more suited for the ear than the eye.

WORDS

To realize the power of words, you must first understand how they work. Art is expressive; words are connotative. That is, words draw their power from their ability to extract different ideas from different people. A circle is a circle, but the concept of “scary” varies from person to person.

NEEDED

Elegance is not the result of any one attribute. It is the combination of numerous factors coming together in harmony. This is why it’s such a hard skill to master. Most people can pat their head or rub their tummy. But put them together and it’s not quite so easy.

An elegant piece of prose needs to hit the reader at a gut level. Often they won’t know exactly why they like it, but they will recognize that something about the piece moves them. There are many types of writing where subtlety is lost. Elegant writing isn’t one of them.

EXPLAIN

There are many ways for you to explain an idea. The most elegant one though is not through definition but by example. By connecting your idea to one already known by the reader, you’re leaving the work of teaching to someone in the past. Education is hard. Comparison is easy.

THE

If writing is like building a house, the structure is like the foundation. Its design will dictate how the house is built. If it’s faulty, no amount of fancy brickwork will undo the damage. So take the time to ensure your structure is building the kind of prose you want.

CONCEPT

Never underestimate the power of a concept. An important part of elegance is condensing big ideas into little words. This is far from an easy task. It often takes a genius an entire lifetime to create a truly innovative concept. So take advantage of all their hard work and inspiration.

KEPT

A common barrier to elegance is the belief that only one way will work. Often a writer is unable to abandon a beloved piece of prose even when evidence demonstrates otherwise. If something doesn’t add to the larger sense of the piece, you have to learn to let it go.

THE

Readers notice things at a minute level far beyond their mind’s ability to interpret. This means that although they may not consciously notice many of your tiny details, they will do so unconsciously. Aesthetics teach us that it’s this unconscious structure that will determine whether or not it feels “right”.

COLUMN

All communicators, whether through speaking or print, need to find a voice. A voice provides familiarity and it teaches the listener or reader how to more quickly absorb the information. Elegance is all about the conservation of ideas. Having a pre-learned voice to guide you is a very valuable tool.

FROM

I’ve spent some time talking about understanding your reader. But there is one more person who is even more important to understand – yourself. Writing is about sharing your ideas with others. If you haven’t spent the time to figure out what you think, how can you possibly communicate it?

BEING

“A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Or so the saying goes. What the cliché forgets to mention is how many words a single word is worth. For example, take the word “being”. To capture the essence of what “being” represents is tens of thousands of words if not more.

ELEGANT

What is the value of being elegant? Why should you care? Elegance adds aesthetics. It evokes poetry. It grants beauty. Elegant prose draws the reader closer because it gives them something to not just learn but to admire. Good prose stimulates the head, but elegant prose resonates in the heart.

Who, what, where, when, how - all important questions. But for a writer they pale next to why. If you don’t understand the reasoning beneath the surface, the other details are irrelevant. The act of elegance is cementing the why. It’s taking the purpose and engraining it into the piece.

Elegance is a very personal thing. If something doesn’t resonate with you, there’s no way for it to resonate with your reader. Writing is an art, not a science. There is no rulebook for how things must be done. If your instincts are telling you that something isn’t working, listen.

DID

An important tool in your toolbox is time. Elegance cannot be rushed. Mental ruts only get deeper the harder you focus on them. Make sure to work time into your schedule so you are able to walk away from your writing. An hour next week is worth a day today.

WHAT

Don’t let attention to detail pull you away from having a larger sense of what you’re writing. Take this column as an example. While I spent a lot of time fine tuning each entry I never lost sight of the effect they created when all the entries were put together.

ALL

Elegance requires taking a holistic view of writing. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a piece in a larger puzzle. It’s not enough to understand the impact of a single element. You must understand how any two elements interact if you want to understand the potency of your text.

ARTISTS

Elegance and art are very intertwined. Both seek to achieve a similar goal: to illuminate and inspire with a conservation of expression. If you’re trying to be elegant, I think it helps to think of yourself as an artist. The instinct for the latter mirrors the needs of the former.

An important part of any writing is understanding the feeling you’re trying to evoke. And then realizing what mechanic tools you have available to evoke that feeling. Diction, verb tense, sentence length, alliteration, word flow, phonetic juxtaposition – each of these will control the mood and tone of your piece.

A writer’s life is the ultimate fodder. Don’t be ashamed to plumb your own experiences. You understand them deeper and more personally than anyone else. No painter would refuse to use his finest paints. And, as a bonus, by using your own experiences, you will become better educated about yourself.

FOUND

Don’t forget that the act of revealing is also an act of exploration. Don’t be afraid if you learn more than the reader you’re trying to educate. Writing is not an exact science. (Or even an exact art.) Often you will find that the road to salvation has a fork.

Your future is paved with your past. If you want to learn how to grow as a writer, you need to look back at what you’ve written. With time and a detached eye, your will find your mistakes become clearer. Remember that it’s failure, not success, that bests drives education.

WAY

The problem with looking for a single solution is that you’ll never find more than one. And the first one isn’t always the best. But if you’re open to the possibility that every problem has an infinite number of answers, you’ll have the freedom of choosing the solution you want.

Sentences are filled with freeloaders. Because writers seem to love overwriting. (I include myself in this camp.) Make sure to create time for the editor side of you to prune unnecessary words. If a word can be excised without any harm to the sentence, it has no right being there.

SAY

I’m spending my time today talking about elegance in prose, but most of what I’m saying is applicable in speech. The key difference is that prose has less defining attributes like appearance or tone. The key to elegant speech is making people focus on the words rather than everything else.

It’s ironic that something designed to be so simple can be so complex. But that, my faithful readers, is the joy (and mystery) of elegance. Like an onion, elegance has numerous layers that reveal themselves as you slowly peel them away. Oh yeah, and it can sometimes make you cry.

LOT

An interesting exercise is to look at each word you’re using and think about how much content is loaded in that word. Then explore what other words exist that fulfill the same role but with added content. Once you’ve found the word you can’t best, move onto the next word.

A good way to get better at understanding elegance is to look for it in every day life. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised where and how often you find it. Study each example carefully and try to see if you can put your finger on what makes it work.

Writing is a shared endeavor. No one owns the words. If someone uses a technique that works, there’s no shame in borrowing it. Like science, writing creates technology that’s brought back to the group to spur further advancements. Elegance is hard enough to accomplish without refusing to use the toolbox.

LITTLE

How big should a piece of text be if you want it to be elegant? The answer is as big as it needs to be – and not a word more. Just think of it as playing the game Jenga. Keep pulling words out of your prose until it collapses.

SPACE

One of the most important lessons in art is learning the value of negative space, the idea that the eyes are equally drawn to what isn’t there. Prose has a very similar quality. When writing pay careful attention to what you aren’t saying. Often it will speak the loudest volume.

ENJOY

For some reason people tend to equate dignity with seriousness. And as such they come to the false conclusion that elegance has no room for humor. Ironic as humor is one of the most elegant of styles. A good joke is no longer than is necessary to do its job.

MARK

As is always true when I head off the beaten path, I am curious to hear your feedback. What did you think of this article? Was it entertaining? Was it educational? Did you actually read all fifty links? And if not, why not?

Tell me. Inquiring mind wants to know.

ROSEWATER

I couldn’t end this week’s column without my trademark closing. I mean, how inelegant would that be?

Join me next week when I go from being a letter man to a Letterman.

Until then, may you learn to appreciate now just the “what” but the “how” and “why”.

Mark Rosewater

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