#de-escalators perhaps

[lanternlightss]

it will always be so interesting to me that the two to die out of the main cast we know were amos and nameless bard. one who had dearly loved and stood by a god, witnessing his actions up close, until she could not take him not listening anymore. one who befriended a thread of the thousand winds, istaroth’s thread, and (presumably) taught them more of how humanity is.

what a particular pair.

[yandere-daydreams]

With all the respect and love for your writing in the world, I would not count the neutral votes. The thought of you writing that fills me with horror and disgust, but I did vote neutral because it’s your blog and ultimately your choice. If, however, you’re going to count the neutrals as part of the yes group, I’m going in to change my vote to no. I love your writing, but that’s a level of depravity that makes me physically ill and I will not be part of its arrival. That is a slippery slope and I want off the sled.

girl it's just urine calm down.

[pucksandpower]

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.

[arscorpii]

the way utena held onto wakaba and anthy's hands, trying her best to not let go (even though utena was barely holding onto anthy's hand, i'm sure she never wished to let anthy slip away from her grasp). both shots were lit with soft lighting ⟶ to highlight the importance of the person utena was holding onto and their bonds to utena.

the fact that she reached out to them with her left hand, the hand on which she wore her rose crest ring (the ring being clearly visible in both shots) ⟶ utena believed that she could only save wakaba and anthy by being a prince/playing the role of a prince.

utena caught wakaba's right hand with her left hand; wakaba wasn't holding back. meanwhile, anthy reached out to utena's left hand with her left hand as well. i think the difference in how each pair held hands may lie within the ideals between the pairs in their respective circumstances. with regard to wakaba, she harboured lots of pent-up emotions and thoughts about how unfairly the (ohtori) world treated the people it regarded as "special" and "ordinary," such as utena and herself. wakaba was clouded with feelings of inferiority and wanted to be special, to put it simply. utena didn't understand/wasn't aware of these dichotomous mechanisms/systems at play, at this point at least. these conflicting ideals, as in, awareness versus ignorance, were represented in the way they held hands; the hero/chosen one with her firm grasp on the motionless hand of the underdog/forgettable one.

with regard to anthy, the moment utena cracked open her coffin was the first time the both of them saw each other as they truly were. utena believed in a world beyond eternal pain and suffering anthy had to endure and wanted to share that view with her, wanted anthy to see and experience such a world, to save her from this needless perdition for good. eventually, anthy took the chance on the possibility, given how unyielding utena was in trying to reach her despite being stabbed by anthy herself; anthy hesitantly reached out to utena. both utena and anthy wanted to believe in a world where suffering is transient when they reached out to one another through the coffin opening, and not an eternally all-consuming pain as their fates in ohtori. they shared similar hopes in that moment.

utena reached out to both wakaba and anthy with kindness and love:

in the duel with wakaba, she never drew out the sword of dios or fought her. utena de-escalated the duel carefully by taking hold of wakaba's sword (the sword pulled out of saionji) and cutting off the black rose. despite not understanding the sequence of events that had them facing each other off in the dueling arena, wakaba was one of utena's closest friends and utena would save her. it's a little interesting to note that the audience (and utena, too i believe) didn't get a glimpse of wakaba's face during utena's speech as above. in addition, the focus on their interlocked hands when utena mentioned about not understanding the situation and saving wakaba is also interesting (even though the interlocked hands were due to them struggling against each other). it's possible what utena said at that moment may have reached her heart even while being under the control of the black rose. perhaps the speech may have made wakaba realise that she was indeed special. this "specialness" was emphasised by utena not letting wakaba fall into the outline of one of the bodies like the other black rose duelists; because she mattered to utena. "to not be chosen is to die" but in a way, she was chosen by utena here beyond the presented choice between her or anthy. utena chose wakaba and anthy.

in episode 39, akio used the sword pulled out of utena to break through the rose gate. utena was injured and incapacitated by anthy's stab, while anthy was relentlessly impaled with millions of swords embodying humanity's hatred. akio's futile attempts eventually broke the sword and he gave up on the pursuit. so long as he had anthy, he could try again, as in, try again to gain the power to "revolutionise the world" instead of freeing his little sister. utena tried opening the rose gate with her bare hands; dragging her injured body there, clinging onto the thorny vines of the roses on the gate, pushing through the large stone doors. she only wanted to stop the swords from hurting anthy, to help her. utena's love and care for anthy finally unlocked the rose gate into anthy's coffin. utena steadfastly held out her hand to anthy despite anthy's protests. utena's efforts moved anthy to tears, and she reached out to her. in episode 38, utena chose anthy over akio, and all the way back to episode 11, utena chose anthy over the power to revolutionise the world. utena had always chosen anthy against all odds and choices.

the aftermath:

wakaba wasn't holding back possibly due to being under the control of the black rose while anthy's hand eventually slipped away from utena's hold.

nevertheless, utena's efforts matter, very much so, because wakaba will always be on utena's side no matter what happens and anthy will find utena no matter where she is.

[helpful-writing-tips]

power signalling

Kneeling.

Ordered to kneel as punishment or as a show of deference.

Shoved physically to the ground by hands on their shoulders, maybe a kick to the back of the knee.

Picking themself up off the ground but only getting as far as hands and knees.

Crawling because they haven't got the strength to stand anymore.

Dropping to their knees from exhaustion or despair.

Personal space.

Casually invading it.

Uninvited touch - from the deeply creepy to something as simple as a firm hand on the shoulder.

Standing too close - especially if taller or otherwise physically stronger.

Conversely, hurrying to get out of someone's way.

Eye contact.

Staring someone down. Who is the first to look away?

Averting eyes for one's social superiors. Trying to de-escalate by avoiding eye contact.

Too frightened or ashamed to look someone in the eye.

Insisting that someone maintain eye contact while you're talking to them. Insisting that someone never look you in the eye.

Singling someone out just by looking at them.

More generally, Attention.

The room falls quiet when they walk in.

Who cuts in, and who gets talked over. Ignoring those who are beneath your attention.

The excited attention given to the object of respect and idolization.

The careful, wary focus given to a potential threat.

Deliberately attending to something else to appear less threatening. Deliberately burying oneself in something else to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

Codified status behaviours.

Bowing to one's superiors. Bonus points if there are differentiated kinds of bowing for different status differentials.

Soldiers coming to attention when a superior officer comes.

Saluting. Who greets whom first?

Serving food in a particular order.

Standing up when a respected person enters the room.

Non-verbal threats.

Just resting a hand on a weapon, or perhaps even just near a weapon.

Cracking knuckles or rolling shoulders. Clenched fists. The little come-get-some-then life of the chin.

Stepping from a conversational stance into one that's balance for fight or flight.

Pointing a weapon at someone. Casually brushing aside a weapon.

Conversely, de-escalation and surrender.

Open hands, spread in front of them. Hands above head.

(Raised slowly, transitioning from the simple whoa-calm-down gesture to full on surrender as the situation gets tenser.)

Going still. Slow, careful movements being sure to keep hands where they can be seen. Laying down weapons.

Hands on head. Getting down on the floor. Deliberately making oneself vulnerable to prove non-hostile (or non-resisting) intent.

Alternately, deliberately showing "vulnerability" to demonstrate how little of a threat you consider the other person.

The slouch of villainy. Open posture, casual, relaxed in the face of apparent danger.

Casually putting weapons away or turning one's back, confident that they won't do anything.

Signs of fear.

Flinching. Trembling. Closed defensive posture. Tension. Backing away. Fidgeting. Lip-biting.

Arms hugged close to chest. Or refusing to lower defences. Checking for escape routes. Trying to insist that they don't come any closer.

Offer of or requests for help.

Extending a hand to help someone up off the ground. Reaching out a hand in silent plea.

Do they have to ask for help? Are they willing to accept it? Do they get a choice? Who has plenty and who has to rely on the other's goodwill?

Picking someone up off the ground. Carrying them. (Dropping them?)

Adjusting someone's clothes. Withholding aid.

credit:@just-horrible-things // @whetstonefires suggests:

A character can vastly expand their area of influence by laying a hand on a table, for example. If you're standing on opposite sides of a large table, and one of you puts your hand down, that can symbolically take you up into the other party's personal space in a much subtler and more deniable way than actually getting up in their face.

This can be used equally well to convey affection or threat.

[hardlyinteresting]

Love, Guilt and Other Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x female reader

When Aaron and his partner are taken hostage, he has to break her heart to save her life.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a little bit of domestic fluff, mention of blood, injury (non-graphic), hostage situation, knives, cannon-compliant themes of violence, non-detailed discussion about religion (Christianity), themes of childhood abuse, please let me know if you want me to add anything else.

Word count: (less than I expected, sorry) 3.7k  Request here! | Masterlist

"Of course, I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course, we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence". - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aaron isn't sure if he believes in a God or a higher power. He was taught to read scripture; and spent Sunday mornings perfecting his posture in church pews-- starched shirts and neckties pulled too tight. The preacher's sermons left him wanting-- wondering how this man of God could stand over his congregation preaching every week, and not see all the lies they were holding back. How could he not see the secrets Aaron seemed to read so clearly? At just fourteen Aaron knew who was having an affair and with whom. He could see which children feared their fathers. Every pew had another story, another family growing together, or falling apart. The hypocrisy of it all drove him mad, and he imagined standing from his seat to shout it, overwhelmed as he realized he had unintentionally become the keeper of everyone's secrets. He learned that everyone in that church was a liar in their own right, and he hated it. But, when he left for college, his mother called to ask if he was still going to church on Sundays, and he lied and said yes. 

He should have paid more attention. Maybe then he'd understand how he ended up here. Perhaps it's some sick retribution. A cosmic evening of the scales; his penance for his sins. He just wishes you weren't here with him. How dare he think he could love someone when all he's ever done is punish those who love him? His hands are stained with blood; he taints everything he touches. 

Very early on in his career, Aaron learned he couldn’t take cases personally. As devastating as it was to have another victim show up while hunting a killer, it wasn’t a personal failure. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He repeated the process again and again. Logically he knows that he is not responsible for the actions of the aggressive sociopath who is now holding the two of you hostage; but, he blames himself for not keeping you safer, for bringing you with him, and for putting you in harm's way. He knows he will not recover if you don’t make it out of here. He won’t forgive himself. 

The profile said this man would be anti-social. Physically, he’d be small in stature. It was clear he’d been sneaking up on his victims. He had been taking couples, knocking out the men with a blow to the back of the head, and then the women. It’s a method that the team had seen before, common for UNSUBs without the social ability to lure their victims, or the physical strength or confidence to attack head-on. But they had not profiled that he would escalate to taking out his targets with a taser. 

After six days in San Diego, the team finally had a lead on two rental properties in the UNSUB’s comfort zone. One was an old tyre factory, listed as a multipurpose warehouse and storage space; the other was a large storage facility in an industrial neighbourhood. Both units had been paid for in cash, both offered the privacy and space required to hold and torture two people for days at a time. The team split up, Hotch and you arranged to meet the owner of the factory space to find out more about who the renter was and gain access to the property. With no response from the owner of the second property, Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi headed over to check it out. 

The two of you had only been on the property for five minutes before Aaron had been incapacitated and taken out. He had foolishly made his way into the building while you ran back to the SUV to grab your jacket. Out cold, there was nothing Aaron could do to stop you from meeting the same fate. 

It’s not his fault. But he feels like it is as he watches you shiver from across the room. He can’t be certain how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. He can only hope that you’re being kept in the building you were attacked in, that the team will connect the dots and come and get you, but until then you’re stuck. He watches, nauseated as your eyes flutter open, and then shut again. You’re concussed, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that. His ears are ringing, and he’s sure the blow he took to the head has at the very least temporarily worsened his hearing. 

“Doesn’t the FBI have rules against fraternization?” The UNSUB wonders out loud, waving a knife around as he walks towards you. 

“What makes you think we’re a couple?” Hotch asks, as he tries to work his hands free from the rope that binds them behind his back, “She’s just a colleague”. 

It’s a lie. But it needs to be said. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. Buy time, shift the UNSUB’s interest away from the two of you. Ruin the fantasy.

“I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know a couple when I see a couple, Aaron,” the man taunts, obviously proud of himself. He’s feeling emboldened having taken two FBI agents, but that works in your favour. He’s getting cocky, too full of himself. It’s a level of confidence he isn’t used to having, it just gives him a higher height to fall from. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. “I think it’s time we wake your girlfriend up,” the man says, his hand gripping tightly at your hair, your head tugged back without remorse. 

Aaron resists the urge to cringe as he hears you groan, your face twisted with obvious pain as you’re rudely awakened. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?” 

“I told you. She’s a colleague”. 

Your eyes are unfocused, scanning the room trying to make sense of what is going on. 

The man raises the knife, holding it to your throat. This time Aaron blinks, desperate to control his expressions and micro-expressions. In this scenario, the less he cares about you, the safer you are. 

It’s the burden of being tied to him. Time after time his love destroys people. 

The blade presses closer to your throat. Aaron controls his breathing. 

“Impressive agent Hotchner. But I’m still not convinced,” the UNSUB moves the blade but pulls your head back further. Your eyes meet Aaron’s, “Do what you’re going to do, he doesn’t care,” you say. You’re speaking to the man with the knife in his hand as much as you’re speaking to Aaron. He weighs his options, his heart pounding as he watches you hold your breath, willing the tears to leave your eyes. It’s the permission he needs but doesn’t want.  Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He knows you’re doing the same, telling him to break your heart to save your life. 

“Please, Hotc--”. 

He doesn’t let you finish, “Just shut up for once. Please,” he thinks the words cut through him more than they cut through you. Knowing his cruelty is a lie does little to soften the blow, and it breaks his heart to be the one throwing it. 

But this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Letting people down. Surely it’s not just coincidence that so many of those who have dared to love him end up damaged. One way or another he destroys people. Who is he to say that he’s the one who is suffering when it’s he who does all the damage? 

Even as a child, he couldn’t help it. He thinks perhaps he inherited his sharpened tongue and lack of patience from his mother. She loved him in her own way but could never show it without first tearing him apart. Her biting words, and regular beatings. Prentiss had been right when she once said he was distrustful of women-- unfairly so. Not all women carry the hateful, spiteful heart his mother had. Very few had ever turned their rage at the world and their shortcomings into a personal and violent rage against him. He grew weary nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

 At a young age, it became clear to him that there were few things, if anything, as important to his mother than appearances. On Sundays, she fussed over his clothes and his posture. She lectured him on table manners from the moment he could hold a fork. His room had to be spotless. His grades had to surpass average. Long before his brother was ever born, he learned how to live up to her expectations. But still, there was always something she could find him lacking in, an excuse to take her open fist or wooden spoon to his skin, a reason to send him to bed without dinner. He remembers crashing into the china cabinet trying to escape her one night. She was mortified on Monday when he had to walk into school on Monday with a cast around his arm. “Make sure they know this was your fault,” she told him. Perhaps I was built to fail, he had thought. She loves me and I embarrass her. I will only ever let her down. God, how disappointed she would be to see him now.  

Seconds feel like hours as the UNSUB leers expectantly. The man's mouth twists into a smile when he sees the tears forming in your waterline again. Aaron watches your fist clench presumably to distract yourself from the migraine that matches the pounding in his head, just as much as it is to pull your attention away from the hurtful lies he's about to weave. 

“You were supposed to have my back,” Arron spits with faux vitriol. “You had one job and couldn't even manage to do that”. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. 

“From the moment you showed up I knew you'd be a problem”. 

He continues to try to work his hands out from the binds. He can feel the knot loosening as he continues to buy the two of you time. “Aaron,” you beg, tears slipping down your cheeks now. 

“Following me around with some school girl crush. Look where we are now,” Aaron breathes. 

He can feel his father’s rage resting on his shoulders, as heavy as his hands were when he used to pat him on the back. It’s a quiet burning, far more silent than his mother’s anger, but it’s there and threatening him all the same. A silent shame; a fear induced by the knowledge that he’s failing but not being able to stop it. His father lived like a ghost in their home, just as Aaron has learned to haunt his life. He only ever raised his voice when he drank, but even then his hatred was self-directed. A sorrowful self-pity. A cry for help. The affairs, the gambling, the drinking; the man punished himself, stumbling home to a house with a vengeful wife, a silent boy, and a crying baby. It was a heart attack that finally killed him, but Aaron never doubted his father had stopped living long before that. 

Aaron breaks his own heart as he delivers each verbal blow. He hopes you understand. He prays that just maybe your concussion might leave the memories of this moment blurry. Selfishly, he begs you to forgive him, because he won’t forgive himself. 

He can see the way your wrists strain against your restraints. The UNSUB adjusts his grip on your hair as you struggle to distance yourself from him. Your eyelids flutter and he knows your vision must be swimming but you don’t give up. With a sadistic grin, the UNSUB wipes at the tear stain on your cheek with fake sympathy, grasping your jaw roughly he forces you to look straight at Aaron, “Poor girl… guess boss man doesn’t care about you after all. What a waste,” he sighs his breath heavy against your cheek, as he moves to hold the knife to your throat again, “She’s so pretty,” he directs his commentary at Aaron this time. 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve slept with her. How couldn’t I when she was practically throwing herself at me?” The words taste bitter on his tongue as he speaks them. His stomach churns as he continues, “But what we have certainly isn’t love”. 

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Aaron grounds himself choosing to remember the quiet morning you two had shared only a few days earlier. Waking up without an alarm but with Jack sneaking in to jump up on the bed. As he watches you cry now he recalls how you had smiled so brightly at the little boy, ruffling his hair and cuddling Jack into your side. He had watched with a smile of his own as you bargained with his son, promising pancakes in exchange for ten more minutes of sleep on your shared day off. 

You crept into his heart so slowly he had hardly noticed. Until one day, he looked up from the bright pink sticky note you'd left on your recent report, reminding him not to work too hard; he knew, without a doubt, he was in love with you. 

For so much of his life, Aaron conditioned himself to expect a fight around every corner. He learned to make sacrifices from his happiness in fruitless attempts to keep peace. For the first time in forever he's been feeling like maybe, just maybe, he's enough. You’ve been more than patient with him; understanding his hesitance to open up to people again. You don't get upset with him for working late, but you scold him for not getting enough sleep and skipping meals. 

He smiles more. He cracks jokes the way he used to. You've helped him see the forest from the trees--  healed parts of him he didn’t know needed mending. He's tried to do the same for you. He's watched you open up and trust the team more. He's seen the way your confidence has grown and he can't take credit for your growth, but he's enamoured by the transformation just the same. 

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better. The thought echoes in his head the same as it does most days. But now, it’s louder. The voice in his head matches the volume of the ringing in his ears, and the rushing sound of his pounding heart. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He fights to remind himself, but the UNSUB is laughing now. Taunting you and your emotions, and there’s nothing Aaron can do but sit there and watch. He struggles to feign indifference, watching as you continue to make yourself smaller. It’s only then that he notices that you too are working your hands out of the rope that restrains you. The UNSUB was stupid enough to tie your wrist in front of you.

Aaron’s eyes focus on the bandaid wrapped around your index finger. You cut yourself making dinner last week. He could have sworn his heart melted when you turned to him holding your hand out, blood beading already. “Aaron, where do you keep your first aid kit?” you’d asked. Your brows furrowed, and your lips pouted. “In the bathroom, the cabinet under the sink,” he’d answered with no intention of letting you go off and tend to your wound alone. Instead, he guided you down the hall, his left hand looped in a gentle hold around your wrist, his other hand on your waist. 

Once you were sat on the countertop he took great care, making sure the wound was cleaned before he bandaged it. “My hero,” you teased, leaning in for a kiss. 

A simple cut he could manage to fix. Jack promised you could use as many of his Star Wars bandaids as you wanted while you healed as well. A little love and patience could make it better, a philosophy he adopted to heal Jack’s scraped knees, and schoolyard bruises. But the sight before him now is far worse than any kitchen mishap could be. 

Your nose is still bleeding. Bruises have already begun to form, red marks turning deep purple with every passing minute. He knows that your concussion is something you'll recover from. The contact burns from where the taser touched your skin will become new skin someday soon. The cuts and scrapes will scab over and then disappear. 

Aaron worries the damage he's done can never truly be ameliorated. Your compassion is unmatched. It’s what makes you a good agent, a good partner, and someone Jack can turn to. You are forgiving. God knows you've excused enough of his behaviour. But, he doesn't deserve to be absolved of this guilt. He will carry this day around in the darkest corner of his heart; the same place he holds the memory of Haley and how he failed her. The words “what we have certainly isn't love,” will linger uneffaced by time or kind words. 

The squeak of an old door opening piques Aaron's interest. The UNSUB doesn't react. Seemingly only interested in tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks. Your eyes are closing again. It's over now, he wants to tell you. He wants to hold you; comfort you; to apologise because you deserve to hear it anyway.

“Paul Simpson. FBI,” Morgan’s voice booms, “drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them”. Prentiss and Dave come to stand next to Morgan, their guns trained on the newly identified perpetrator. Aaron bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood-- it's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. We win, he wants to say. 

Disarmed and handcuffed, Paul is escorted outside by Morgan and two members of the local police. Prentiss and Rossi make quick work of untying you and Aaron. 

“Aaron?” he can hear you mutter, breathy and quiet. 

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he promises kneeling at your side. Your eyes are glazed and unfocused as you nod and tip forward. Unconscious, your entire body falls forward into Prentiss’ arms. Aaron’s voice joins Rossi in calling for a paramedic. 

The doctors assure him that you’ll wake up soon. They dealt with his injuries quickly. Bruised ribs are the worst of his injuries. A cut at the back of his head and the taser burns were patched in only a few minutes, though he’ll readily admit he was far from a good patient. Too anxious to keep still much to the nurse’s dismay. 

You’re still asleep. A major concussion will have you out of the field for much longer than he knows you’ll be happy with. He makes a mental note to start setting aside some extra paperwork for when you inevitably start hounding him for something to do. With the lights in the room dimmed, and a comfortable silence settling he allows himself to indulge in the illusion that everything might be alright between you. 

With your hand in his, he breathes deeply trying to focus. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in. And when the quiet starts to get to him, he speaks out loud, as silly as he thinks he may look. He tells you about the phone call he had with Jack earlier and lets you know that Jack has a new painting he can’t wait to show you when you get home. Your hand squeezes his, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Aaron?” your eyelids flutter as you adjust to the light. The nurse had them turned to the dimmest setting but it’s still far more than you feel immediately capable of coping with. 

“Yeah, honey,” he affirms. You release the breath you’re holding your brow relaxing.  

“I love you,” you tell him. Your voice is steady and steadfast. Your resolve is impressive, unwavering and determined as you focus on making eye contact with him. “It’s not your fault,” you promise. He’s sure you don’t expect the weight on his shoulders to lighten instantaneously. You’ll tell him every day that he’s not to blame; intent on chiselling away at his guilt, shrinking it down before it manages to consume him. 

“I love you,” he swears. He knows it won’t squash any of the doubt he’s planted. Aaron knows there will soon be days that the niggling insecurity threatens to break what you’ve managed to build together; when the worry that you aren’t enough seems louder than it ever has before. He won’t blame you if you decide it isn’t worth the pain of staying with him. But, he’s hell-bent on loving you through it. He can only hope that it’s enough. 

[lvmimis]

cw: fluff. fem!reader works in support tech. alcohol.

You’re not sure you should be overhearing this part of the men’s conversation, but it’s hard not to do so when Denki’s voice is so damn loud, and the chatter amongst the women in the circle you’ve broken off into, many of which are former UA goers at this mixer doesn’t match the raucous laughter between him and Sero, as they drunkenly probe at their former classmates’ romantic interests.

It’s a happy hour to celebrate those Pro Heroes who have attended this year’s Biomedical Support Gear convention, and you’ve quickly lost interest in your current circle’s chatter - not that they are not interesting, but as you weren’t in that fated UA class, rather two years ahead of them, it’s often hard to remember specific classroom lore, but you’re there to tend to your friend primarily because she was unduly afraid of running into Izuku who didn’t even bother showing up and Uraraka who was indulging in an entirely different circle.

But it’s not the only reason, you have to admit to yourself, as you toss a furtive glance towards the sound of Katsuki’s voice, hoping that it’s not met with his own piercing red eyes. He doesn’t notice you, a grimace on his face as Sero waxes poetic on which of their former female classmates have only grown prettier over the years.

“I just feel like it’s unacceptable that Hagakure is still not taken after all these years. Have you seen her?” he says. Iida would say something to object to the objectification of a classmate, but he’s stone cold drunk and standing perfectly still like a tree.

One that could easily tip over.

Katsuki hasn’t commented, you notice, perhaps a bit too interested, but Mineta mentions something about only seeing her boobs 50% of the time being a dealbreaker for him.

You roll your eyes, your listening ear starting to lose interest in the conversation, startled again by your drunk and lovesick friend grabbing you by the arm.

“I think you should talk to him today,” she slurs. She laughs a little too loud, then tiptoes to wave, but you spin her away, reminding her to drink water. 

“One of us should win!” she yells. “One of us needs to win, if I’m going to die alone you can’t-”

You clasp your hand over her mouth gently as you pull her away, taking the closest path to the bathroom with her before she cries yet again over  a man who had zero conceivable way of knowing that she’s been in love with him for years and that’s when you hear it.

“Okay but why would I want Mirio’s leftovers?”

You pause for a moment, frozen in place.

It’s very clear who the slimeball you have to look down to meet eyes with means by this, you. You, whose rumored breakup was surprisingly well known among Pro circles, an open secret, yet not yet announced to the public; you, who quickly turned your head when you realized Sero and Denki had realized you were hearing it; you who didn’t feel your friend pull out of your hold to immediately start yelling, entering her belligerence phase.

She’s not the first one to grab Mineta by the shirt collar-

Katsuki is.

“Hey, I was just kidding!!!” He yells.

The girls have stopped chatting by now too and the entire group has started to stare.

“Are you going to shut the fuck up then?”

Katsuki’s voice is low and cool, far different from his earlier days, when all he was to you was the loudmouth first year Mirio sometimes spoke of fondly, or the hothead your best friend spoke of less than fondly yet somewhat affectionately. He’s quiet enough that you can feel your own blood grow warm while you’re sure Mineta’s turns to ice, but Kirishima is already trying to de-escalate and you can hear your friend stifling a giggle.

When you want to ask her why she’s laughing, she practically saunters off, wobbly in high heels and your concern for her briefly outweighs the surprise that runs through your whole body.

But as you follow her, your eyes turn back to Katsuki’s for a moment, and meet, and his lips part for a second, before you hurry off, feeling his eyes on your back.

—

“I don’t know what more evidence you need that he wants to fuck you.” Your friend is full of glee, reapplying lip gloss as you adjust your hair, your heart still pounding a bit in your chest.

You have to admit a man fighting for your honor is sexy, even if it’s disruptive and unexpected.

You and Katsuki don’t talk often, and you’re aware of his crush, but you’re used to flirting enough and freely that you’d imagine someone like him wouldn’t take it too seriously. 

And even if what Mineta said wasn’t true in the slightest, you can see why he said it - the rumor mill has not always been so friendly to you, partly due to the overwhelming attention garnered by dating the current #1 hero but also in some part due to your overtly friendly and incorrectly read as seductive personality.

Pursuing any interest will read as bad, no matter how eager your friend is to encourage you.

—

This doesn’t stop you from ending up cozied with him by the end of the night. 

Cozied up is an overstatement, you simply sit next to him, your knees touching, and not alone, because your friend grins at you from a distance as you take Katsuki’s hand gently, playing with the plastic ring on his finger, but it looks a certain way no matter how you cut it.

Your conversation now is a long cry from an initial thank you for defending me but you didn’t have to do that, to which he had grimaced and struggling to change the subject, you decided to offer him an out yourself.

Merciful you are.

“Is this the illustrious ring?”

A rumor that Dynamight was engaged had previously spread like wildfire, which your friend had confirmed was utter bullshit.

He can’t talk to women, she’d said confidently. 

Well, he’s talking to one right now, you think. You glance at him and you notice he is concentrating a little too deftly on your touch on his hand, and when you glance at your friend she’s smiling gleefully. 

You find yourself sticking your tongue out at her, quickly rearranging your face when he looks at you.

“I’m not married obviously.” He shifts, taking his hand gently from you and folding it in his lap a little too coquettishly. “PR agent thought it would get more…” he trails off.

“Attention on you?” you ask, laughing.

He gives you an annoyed look but he twists his mouth to the side, more of a pout than a glower.

“Yeah.”

“I think you’re plenty attention-grabbing enough,” you offer him. He looks down, then looks at you for a moment, then opens his mouth for a second before closing it.

You sit in silence for another moment, and he stares at the plastic ring in his own hand, twirling it, not dissimilar from the way you did just moments earlier.

“Hey, are the rumors between you and Mirio true?” he asks.

Your eyebrows raise, then you look around, wondering if your friend can see you, but she’s off to bother someone else, possibly bully Mineta for good measure, and it seems to be just you. The happy hour is winding down, and people are filing out.

Confirming a rumor from your own lips is not a crime, but sometimes it feels hard to do.

“Yeah.”

Katsuki pauses, not looking at you for a moment.

Then all he says is, “Good to know,” before getting up to leave.

As you watch him go, wondering if he can stay a little longer, and then you consider instead of you potentially plotting on him, he might just be plotting on you.

[ddejavvu]

Animangus reader x Remus where she is a cat and while he sits in the common room asleep on his lap while he readers and Sirius comes in and stops the cat immediately with a "what is that?" In disgust. When Remus responds "a cat?" Padfoot is immediately barking at her and she startals awake digging her nails into Remus before she jumps on top of a book shelf and transforms back and I stuck up there throwing a book at Sirius.

Sirius Black's voice is, perhaps, never melodic, but it's far more grating than usual today when the man stops dead in the doorway and demands to know, "What is that?"

Remus glances up at him, then down to his lap where Sirius's eyes are locked, finding only your little cat form curled up and dozing.

"A cat." Remus blinks, uninterested until he realizes that his explanation hadn't been enough to de-escalate Sirius. Apparently, he should have notified him that you are not just a cat, but that you are, in fact, his girlfriend. Sirius isn't aware of your animagus abilities yet, and before Remus can stop him, he's transforming into his own animal counterpart.

"Sirius, no-!" Remus tries, but it's too late. He finds that dogs' paws are far less gentle and comforting than cats' paws are, only when there are four of them jabbing into his thighs and torso as Sirius vaults into his lap. Fortunately, you'd escaped the dog's snapping maw, but you'd startled awake with a yelp and jumped onto the bookcase behind Remus's head, which means that you're now sleep-deprived, terrified, and stuck.

"Pads," Remus sighs despondently as the dog braces his front two paws on Remus's shoulder to bark up at you. Your back is arched and you're yowling down at Sirius, until you manage to scramble to the top of the bookshelf and find yourself on a steady surface. You have space to transform back now, and you do so while perched precariously atop the bookshelf, eyes just as sharp and unnerving as they were in your cat form when you glare at Sirius.

"You stupid mutt," You accuse, "I just wanted to nap!"

Now Remus has a lapful of Sirius, fur giving way to pale skin and messy black locks. He glares rather unimpressed at his best friend, but Sirius pays him no mind, gaping up at you where you balance on the top of the bookshelf.

"You're an animagus!" He realizes, and you scoff at his inspiring observational skills.

"Well done, Sirius" You sneer, "I didn't know becoming a dog animagus meant you'd retain the same intelligence level even as a human."

"Dogs are very smart," Sirius muses, unphased, "I didn't know you were an animagus!"

"That's because you were too busy collecting sticks beneath your bed," Remus grumbles, pushing at Sirius's chest, "Come on, Pads, off."

"Alright, alright," Sirius whines, pitching himself rather dramatically off of Remus's lap and offering a hand to you where you're still balanced on the bookshelf, "Here, Y/N, jump off this way."

"Absolutely not!" You vow, then with a whirl of limbs and fur, reside in a cat's body once more. Sirius watches as you bat a paw at his outstretched hand, then leap gracefully back into Remus's lap, hissing warningly at him before curling up once more to doze.

"Prissy," Sirius scoffs, and Remus juts out a gentle hand to stroke along your back when you look like you might leap at him. You're placated enough, for the time being, and Sirius stalks away to busy himself with something, hopefully homework but probably his aforementioned stick collection.

"Well I suppose the cat's out of the bag now," Remus muses, a sound between a laugh and a grunt managing to escape his lips when you dig your claws into his jeans at the poor joke, "Alright! Alright, sorry. But don't let him bother you, darling, okay?" Remus strokes a finger between your ears and grins when they twitch, "He's just a dumb dog."

[ddarker-dreams]

mini love report — blade

relationship health diagnosis — 65%*

symptom one — fiercely protective

someone could accidentally bump into you and he'd be willing to kill them. they'd better hope it was on accident, or they'll receive a visit later that night, regardless of your de-escalation. ever since his flesh merged with an abomination, he's held nothing sacred. orders are wordlessly received and executed. so when you stumbled along, knocking him off his equilibrium in the process, he had to latch onto something. you ended up being that 'something.'

he isn't confident in his abilities as a romantic partner. he considers himself unsightly, a blight upon the universe itself. then there's you... doing whatever it is you do... like complimenting a house plant that's been growing well recently. how did he ever catch your attention? it's baffling. nonetheless, this self-perceived gap in value has him eager to prove his worth the one way he can — bloodshed.

kafka's taken to calling him your guard dog, much to his chagrin (he doesn't deny the claim). despite how it reduces him to little more than a weapon, he prides himself on his ability to keep you safe. he won't ever come outright and admit it, though; he knows it'd sadden you.

symptom two — OMS (old man syndrome)

two pop references in a single sentence is enough to make your elderly bf stare at you as if you've spoken another language. go easy on him, he isn't hip with the times. it isn't that he's ignorant to technology, he navigates it just fine. the social media aspect and the trends that come with it are another story. he's never cared for it. should silver wolf broach the topic in his vicinity, he tunes her out.

you, however, have been given the rare privilege of never being ignored. not even if you're explaining why you enjoy a game where you've indebted to a raccoon. you might think he's uninterested, given his poker face, but don't be fooled. he's quietly absorbing your every word. one night, you'll find a plush raccoon sitting on your bed. you have to give him points for effort.

symptom three — acquiescent

blade will do just about anything you ask. he defaults to your preferences on everything from activities together to your meals. for the longest time, you mistook this for apathy on his part. why doesn't he take the initiative to plan your dates? are you boring him? what if he's going along but not enjoying himself? these doubts are a permanent fixture on your mind. voicing these concerns will be one of the few times you've ever caught him off guard. he thought he was amassing Boyfriend Points (he didn't word it this way, but the interpretation is accurate enough). the news that his boyfriend point currency is in the negative comes as a surprise (once again, not his wording).

you won't receive an in-depth monologue detailing his feelings. perhaps that's for the best, since if that was the reaction you received, you'd think he was replaced by a doppelganger. instead, he tells you that he prioritizes your happiness above all else. you look back on it as a sweet moment. the remarkably candid confession stuns you into silence. it seems so obvious in retrospect. in your defense, your intergalactically wanted boyfriend is notoriously difficult to read.

primary area of concern

some moral gymnastics are required. there's no way you haven't seen the wanted posters — he won't sugarcoat the truth either. he's a stellaron hunter responsible for innumerable crimes. the same coarse hands that hold your face when he leans down to kiss you have ended lives. your views on the value of life are bound to diverge. it wouldn't be a passionate debate either, you're not changing his mind on the subject. the only life he values is yours and that's that.

additionally, there's the issue of encroaching madness. minor detail. you're an odd ingredient in the mara mix. there are occasions when you pacify it... but there are also instances where you ignite it. in the event of the latter, he absolutely refuses to be around you. fear is an emotion long lost to him, yet its faint echoes reverberate throughout at the thought of hurting you. you'll get updates from an unknown number (thanks kafka). nonetheless, that doesn't change the fact that your boyfriend will be radio silent for periods lasting from weeks to months.

prognosis

it's complicated. blade treats you like you're a doll made of porcelain, handling you with the utmost care. that doesn't the carnage he's left (and will continue to leave) in his wake. you bring out a tender side in him that withers the instant he leaves your side. his involvement in your life would be far from traditional, he isn't the type you bring him to meet your parents. still, whatever part you want from him, he'll give. whether it be his heart in a literal or a metaphorical sense.

he's loyal to a fault and would have a difficult time should you ever call the relationship quits. you'd have this faint feeling of eyes following you when you're out and about. additionally, when you get back in the dating scene, you'll find yourself frequently stood up. it'd be wise to handle his affection with care.

*the universe has tried (and failed) to wrench you apart (0-20) your friends are praying that you'll break up (21-40) 'well it could/has be worse' bargaining mindset (41-60) a lil messiness as a treat (61-80) pure and wholesome (81-100)

[mollyjames]

I think perhaps I will have a healthier relationship with art if I work on gently de-escalating my overarching mindset

[thelibrarian1895]

Mandalorians hate Jedi because...

"the Jedi are child stealers" NO

And again I say NO. I saw someone claim this and it absolutely infuriated me.

First point, THE JEDI ARE NOT CHILD STEALERS. That accusation is sithspit anti jedi propaganda. If a parent or guardian told the Jedi no, they didn't want their kid to be a Jedi, the Jedi respected that. They would, however, remove children from danger. But would you call a social worker who took children from environments where they were being molested, starved, beaten, or worse, a child stealer? No? Then don't call the Jedi child stealers for the same actions.

Second point, the average Mandalorian didn't really know or care too much about Jedi. In all honestly, most Mandalorians, like the rest of the galaxy, had no real idea about the difference between Jedi or other force sects like the nightsisters or general darksiders or even the sith except perhaps the color of their lightsabers. Some Mandalorians, like our beloved Din Djarin, knew nothing at all about Jedi and only cared when in became relevant and then did as much research as possible regarding the Jedi. Others, like Jango Fett, had very personal interactions with Jedi and formed their opinions of the Jedi as a whole based on those interactions with no further reason or desire to look further into the Jedi.

Third point, for Mandalorians who studied history or listened to old stories, they knew why the Mandalorians disliked the Jedi and it was for a very simple reason that they liked to avoid actively admitting. That reason? The Jedi kicked the shebs of the Mandalorian armies.

Twice.

Quite possibly there was another point when the Jedi suppressed the Mandalorian empire but there were two times for certain. Granted, the republic played a large part and the Jedi definitely didn't all interfere in one of those two conflicts, and actually actively avoided one of those two conflicts except in a few cases, and there were definitely some terrible things done, but the fact remains that when the Mandalorian empire attempted to expand and basically take over the galaxy, the Jedi were key to stopping this. And no, the Mandalorian empire was not a good thing. But more importantly, if you thought your ancestors or your cultures' armies were in the right and they were beaten, would you like the descendants of those who beat your side?

Fourth point, would you like the side that beat your side if they refused to give you a proper rematch? The Mandalorians who know anything about Jedi know that Jedi have access to all this power, plus generally have a super cool plasma sword, but the Jedi won't fight or they'll de-escalate or generally indulge in pacifistic behavior and we all know how Mandalorians feel about presumed pacifists, right? A Mandalorian denied a fight is often a frustrated Mandalorian. A Mandalorian who sees someone who has all this strength and power often doesn't understand why that person doesn't use that power, doesn't take revenge or slaughter their enemies or a million other things that they would do with such power. So those that don't understand choose to dislike. Why won't the Jedi fight them?! (please imagine the sentence immediately previous spoken in an extremely whiney tone of voice)

Fifth point, the Mandalorians frequently throughout history worked with the Sith or were on the Sith side of conflicts because of a lack of knowledge about force sects meant the Mandalorians didn't generally realize how absolutely stupid it is to side with the Sith but beyond that the Mandalorians often learned about the Jedi from the Sith. So the Mandalorians got stories from the Sith about the Jedi being weak and cold and blah, blah, blah stupid sith propaganda that I don't want to perpetuate. And those Mandalorians would then think themselves Jedi experts, because hadn't they learned about the Jedi from another Jedi? Granted, a dark Jedi but still a Jedi, right? So they'd tell other Mandalorians the propaganda and so the Mandalorians had that Sith skewed idea of the Jedi perpetuated throughout their history.

So the Mandalorians have their own reasons for not like the Jedi, which have NOTHING to do with child stealing, just as the Jedi have plenty of reasons to want to avoid the Mandalorians. Personally though I'm going to blame a lot of those reasons on both sides on the Sith and be grumpy about the Sith and the effectiveness of their propaganda.

And finally, I'm pretty sure at least a tiny bit of the animosity between Mandalorians and Jedi arose from the Mandalorians being jealous that the Jedi had lightsabers and they didn't. To be fair, I'm a little jealous too. Lightsabers are cool.

[noirscript]

call disconnected.

Yandere Hotline: 1/? | src | commissions: open

"Why did you touch that man's hand?"

Alexei, one of your most frequent callers, asked while strained voice. "I've warned you! Multiple times! How could you do this to me?"

You decided to mute the mic on your end while listening to his rant. For some reason, he's starting to act weird around the third time he asked for your service.

"Speak while I'm still being nice," he demanded as he call your name. Your real name—the one he's not supposed to know. "Stop ignoring me!"

You took a deep breath before unmuting your mic. "Alexei..." you said with shaky voice.

"Do. NOT. Use. That. Tone. On. Me." Anyone in their right mind would've shivered upon hearing his stern warning; unless of course you're a seasoned 'darling' from a shady company like yours.

You tried speaking up once again, but you suddenly hear another man's cry for help from the other line. "Please... have mercy... have mercy..."

Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. The other man's voice sounds familiar, but you can't tell where you've heard it before.

"Do you want to know what happens to stubborn darling like you, hm?" Alexei asked followed by other pained scream from the other man. "You'll cost them their lives."

You looked around, hoping that your immediate supervisor is available to support you at this point in time.

"Stop looking around."

You could almost hear your heart drop. Your company boast their 100% privacy rate. That they do not just value their clients but as well as their employees.

"How could you betray me like this? Why..." he let out an exasperated sigh. "Why are you trying to save this man so hard?"

"Alexei... what are you talking about? I've been following your instructions. Word by word."

You tried de-escalating the situation, hoping that it'll help you buy some time until your supervisor is near your area.

"I-I'm staying in my room, like you've instructed... I-I've no idea who—"

"—do you really think you can use that against me?" He cut-off your attempt to use the scenario he started during his second call.

He suddenly laughed before a loud bang echoed in the background. "You better watch your back, darling. If you don't want me to come and get you."

By the time your supervisor stood next to you, the call was already disconnected.

You asked for a one-on-one meeting to brief them about what happened during the phone call.

Your supervisor shook their head before spilling the beans that most people doesn't know.

None of the phone calls were recorded to ensure the privacy of the clients and the employees. But perhaps that rule only favors the clients.

[daydreamingoveracupofcoffee]

The reaction of the other U.A. Students and other characters to their soulmate is a villainess:

Mirio Togata:

Mirio is optimistic, empathetic, and believes in saving everyone, so his first reaction would be shock but not outright rejection. He’d feel a pang of sadness that his soulmate is on a dark path but would immediately see it as a challenge to bring her to the light.

“If she’s my soulmate, there’s gotta be good in her!”

Mirio’s unwavering belief in heroism might clash with the reality of his soulmate’s actions. If she’s hurt people, he’d grapple with guilt over feeling drawn to her. He’d question whether his feelings are just the soulmate bond or genuine, but his resolve to save others would keep him from giving up on her. Mirio would approach her directly, unafraid of the danger, using his charm and sincerity to understand her motives. He’d try to talk her down during confront actions.

“I know you’re not just a villain—let me help you!”

If she’s resistant, he’d stay patient, believing he can change her heart over time. His interactions would be warm but firm, balancing his duty as a hero with his soulmate connection.

Mirio would dedicate himself to redeeming her, even if it takes years. He’d study her past, work with his friends, and use his hero network to find ways to reach her. If she’s too far gone, he’d face heartbreak but still try to save her, even if it means stopping her as a hero.

Tamaki Amajiki:

Tamaki would be overwhelmed with anxiety and self-doubt upon learning his soulmate is a villainess.

“Why would fate pick someone like her for someone like me? I’m not strong enough for this.”

His shy, introspective nature would make him internalize the conflict, feeling like he’s somehow at fault for being tied to a villain.

Tamaki’s low self-esteem would amplify his turmoil. He’d fear that his connection to a villainess makes him unfit to be a hero, and he’d worry about what others (especially Mirio and Fat Gum) would think. However, his quiet empathy would make him curious about her—why did she become a villain? Could he understand her pain? The soulmate bond would terrify him, but he’d also feel a pull to protect her, even from herself.

Tamaki would avoid direct confrontation at first, observing her from a distance or during hero missions. If forced to face her, he’d be nervous, stuttering through attempts to reason with her. His sincerity might catch her off guard.

“I-I don’t know why you’re doing this, but… I don’t think you’re all bad.”

He’d use his quirk defensively, never wanting to hurt her, and might even hesitate in battle, which could frustrate his allies.

Tamaki would need encouragement from Mirio and others to face the situation head-on. Over time, he’d grow bolder, trying to connect with her emotionally, perhaps relating to her struggles through his own insecurities. If redemption isn’t possible, he’d carry the guilt of failing her, but he’d channel it into becoming a stronger hero to prevent others from falling like she did.

Hitoshi Shinso:

Shinso would react with a mix of cynicism and intrigue. Having faced prejudice for his “villainous” quirk, he’d be less shocked than others.

“Of course my soulmate’s a villain—figures.”

He’d feel a bitter irony but also a spark of curiosity about who she is and why she’s chosen this path.

Shinso’s pragmatic and guarded nature would make him wary of the soulmate bond. He’d question its legitimacy, wondering if it’s manipulating his feelings. His own experiences with being misunderstood would make him empathize with her, but he’d also be conflicted about his hero aspirations.

“I’m trying to prove I’m not a villain, so why am I tied to one?”

Shinso would approach her strategically, using his wit and quirk to gather information. He’d engage her in conversation during encounters, probing her motives with questions:

“What’s driving you to do this? You don’t seem like you’re just evil.”

If he uses his brainwashing quirk on her, it’d be to de-escalate, not harm. His dry humor and blunt honesty might create an unexpected rapport, as he’d relate to her outsider status.

Shinso would wrestle with whether to save her or stop her, leaning toward redemption because of their shared bond. He’d investigate her backstory, possibly working with Aizawa to find ways to reach her. If she’s irredeemable, he’d reluctantly take her down, but it’d haunt him, reinforcing his resolve to help others avoid her fate. If she shows potential for change, he’d be her quiet supporter, helping her navigate a path to redemption.

Neito Monoma:

Monoma would be dramatically indignant and affronted.

“A villainess? My soulmate? The universe must be mocking me!”

His theatrical personality and Class 1-B pride would make him initially reject the idea, seeing it as an insult to his heroic ambitions. However, his curiosity and competitive nature would quickly kick in, making him want to “prove” he can handle this twist of fate better than anyone else.

Monoma’s arrogance masks insecurity, so he’d grapple with what this says about him. He’d wonder if being tied to a villainess means he’s destined to be “second-rate” or if it’s a test of his greatness. His tendency to compare himself to Class 1-A would amplify his frustration.

“Why do they get heroic soulmates, and I get this?”

Yet, his sharp mind would push him to analyze her motives, suspecting there’s more to her villainy than meets the eye.

Monoma would confront her with a mix of bravado and taunting, using his Copy quirk to mirror her abilities in battle as a way to “show her up.”

“If you’re my soulmate, you should at least be as impressive as me!”

Behind the bravado, he’d study her closely, looking for weaknesses or signs of redeemability. If she shows complexity (e.g., a tragic backstory), he’d soften slightly, though he’d hide it behind snark. He’d avoid admitting his feelings, even to himself, but the soulmate bond would make him protective in subtle ways, like hesitating to land a finishing blow.

Monoma would see redeeming her as a personal challenge, a way to prove he’s a better hero than his rivals. He’d dig into her past, possibly coordinating with Kendo or Tetsutetsu for support, and use his strategic mind to devise plans to sway her. If she’s irredeemable, he’d take it as a personal failure but channel it into outperforming others as a hero. If she shows potential for change, he’d grudgingly help her, boasting about how he “single-handedly saved his soulmate.”

Naomasa Tsukauchi:

Naomasa, the grounded and professional detective, would be stunned but composed, processing the revelation with a quiet, “This… complicates things.” His dedication to justice and his lie-detection quirk would make him immediately skeptical of the soulmate bond, wondering if it’s a trick or manipulation. He’d feel a mix of duty and curiosity, wanting to understand why his soulmate is a villainess.

As a non-hero with a strong moral compass, Naomasa would struggle with the personal vs. professional conflict. His work with All Might and the police demands he uphold the law, but the soulmate bond would stir empathy, especially if he senses truth in her pain or motivations. He’d worry about compromising his integrity.

“Can I stay objective when it’s her?”

His trust in All Might’s ideals would anchor him, but he’d feel torn if she’s not entirely evil.

Naomasa would approach her methodically, using his detective skills to investigate her crimes and backstory. In encounters, he’d remain calm and professional, asking pointed questions to gauge her intentions.

“Why are you doing this? What do you really want?”

His lie-detection quirk would help him discern if she’s genuine, making him more likely to believe in her potential for redemption if she’s honest about her struggles. He’d avoid direct combat, focusing on de-escalation, and might work behind the scenes to protect her from harsher heroes while still upholding the law.

Naomasa would pursue a path of justice tempered with compassion. He’d compile evidence to understand her actions, possibly consulting All Might or Aizawa for advice. If she’s redeemable, he’d advocate for rehabilitation, using his police connections to offer her a chance to atone. If she’s unrepentant, he’d ensure she faces justice, though it’d weigh heavily on him. His commitment to truth would make him a steady, if reserved, ally in her redemption arc.

Sir Nighteye (Mirai Sasaki):

Nighteye would react with cold disbelief, his logical mind rejecting the idea: “A villainess as my soulmate? That’s incompatible with my vision of the future.”

His foresight quirk and rigid belief in a heroic world would make him see this as a flaw in fate, prompting him to question the bond’s validity. However, his loyalty to All Might’s legacy would push him to investigate her thoroughly, suspecting there’s a reason behind this anomaly.

Nighteye’s stoic demeanor hides deep emotions, and this revelation would crack his composure. He’d feel betrayed by fate, especially since he values order and heroism. His foresight might torment him—if he sees a dark future for her, he’d struggle with whether to fight it or accept it. He’d also reflect on his own past, wondering if his strictness reflects a flaw that connects him to a villain. The soulmate bond would force him to confront his rigid worldview.

“Can someone like her change?”

Nighteye would approach her with calculated precision, using his foresight to anticipate her moves and confront her strategically. In person, he’d be stern and commanding.

“You’re my soulmate, but that doesn’t excuse your actions. Explain yourself.”

His quirk would give him an edge in battles, but he’d avoid using it to see her future, fearing it’d lock him into a doomed path. If she shows remorse or complexity, he’d soften slightly, offering her a chance to prove herself, but he’d remain skeptical until she earns his trust.

Nighteye would see her redemption as a way to reshape the future, aligning with his belief in creating a hopeful world. He’d work tirelessly to guide her, possibly mentoring her like he did Mirio, but with stricter oversight. If she’s irredeemable, he’d accept it grimly, using his foresight to ensure she’s stopped without collateral damage. If she changes, he’d view it as proof that even his predictions can be defied, softening his outlook and deepening his bond with her.

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

ROTTEN. | astarion

pairing: astarion x gn!reader

warnings: healthy dose of angst and self-loathing, mild sexual descriptions and references, wrote this in less than 2 hrs so give me a break, mainly astarion's pov idk it just happened that way

word count: 2.6k

For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love, and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

He's using you.

He knows he’s using you; since the moment he laid his eyes upon the weathered lines of your face, you were his newest target—the first one of his own choosing. He initially planned to kill you; you couldn't turn on him or drive a stake through his ribs if you were already dead, and he already had enough to worry about without adding additional fuel to the already burning fear he had for his life. Not to mention, he was hungry and getting worse by the minute. He planned to call for help—play the damsel like he did countless times before, catch your attention for only a moment, just long enough to get close enough, and slit your pretty little throat.

Every step played out perfectly. You approached him just like he knew you would—his pretty face has always granted him the illusion of being a safe person; you answered his calls for help, just like he knew you would. All you had to do was get close enough, and he would take care of the rest.

Though he was completely thrown off kilter when you offered to help him, rather than leaving him to the ‘things’ in the bush. In a split second, his plan changed. If you were willing to help a stranger in the mess that the pair of you found yourselves swept up in, what would you do for someone you thought was a friend? A lover? Perhaps the wizard of—at the time—unknown power, quite frankly threatening incineration, were his knife to continue its trajectory, did encourage a modicum of restraint and de-escalation on his part, though he will never give him such credit.

However, the most unexpected change in plans was the direct, albeit slightly painful, mental link shared between him and you. You were infected—same as him—by a Mind Flayer parasite, ready to take over your body and destroy your mind in an alarmingly short timeframe.

You were an ally—a useful one and tentatively worth sparing—so long as you could continue to benefit him.

So, he started with a simple introduction: “My name's Astarion.” Spoken with a dramatic flair and a sickeningly sweet undertone that could only be found after two hundred years of charming pretty faces and innocent minds. In the moments between his introduction and the offering of your name, while the words still clung to the empty air between, Astarion formulated a new plan. It was brilliantly simple and borderline foolproof. All he had to do was convince you to fall for it, and his safety was nearly guaranteed.

(He now knows that hindsight always paints a clearer portrait than the present, and he is a fool in more ways than any would dare to calculate.)

He started small, coated his words in honey, and never oversold the part—playing into the role of the mysterious charmer that he had perfected all those years ago. He was honest, reliable, and always came to your aid during battle; he made you believe he was someone that could be trusted, no matter what your instincts may have convinced you otherwise. He was charismatic. A stolen glance here, an accidental touch there, a subtle look in his eyes that betrayed far more debaucherous intentions than what a gentleman such as himself would ever dare voice in the presence of someone as pure as you.

Perhaps, though, he erred too close to the side of caution and played his part too carefully. Vampirism is no easy condition to conceal, and the lesser creatures he managed to feast on during the night were horribly unsuitable to sustain him in the midst of such a perilous—and quite frankly, exhausting—journey. He was in a rapidly deteriorating state and worsening by the minute; he needed an intelligent, thinking creature to sink his teeth into if he wished to be of any use. He could not imagine a universe in which he would be allowed to remain in the company if he could not pull his own weight in battle or the camp.

He obscenely and undeniably fucked up when he chose to attempt to sink his fangs into the supple skin of the pretty little neck he nearly mared just a few weeks prior. He could not identify exactly why he believed he could get away with such an act undetected; his extreme hunger could be to blame, though he could not deny that the sweetness of your blood caused an insatiable stirring in his gut—he could smell it from six feet away. It permeated the air around him, nearly making him dizzy with the want—no, the need—to taste you. If hunger had driven him mad once again, then you were to blame, and therefore you were responsible for paying.

All thoughts of your reparations, however, were thrown from his mind the moment your eyes opened and he remembered that you possessed the ability to end his unnaturally long “life.”

“Shit.” His mind was completely blank. “It- It’s not what it looks like. I swear.” He could only hope that his performance would award him a standing ovation and the momentary benefit of the doubt: “I wasn't going to hurt you. I just needed... well, blood.”

It was not the confession he hoped to perform for you. He was meant to come to you, fully conscious, and present the idea as his own—he would choose to come to and confide in you. (I feel as though you and I have a… strong bond. I believe I can trust you. I cannot bear to keep this from you a moment longer.) with pretty words and round eyes. Instead, he was on his back foot and practically begging you not to ram a stake through his ribs.

And that is where his brilliantly simple plan began to pay off…

For a time.

You offered your body to him in more ways than one, and he intended to take full advantage of them all.

The sex was easy; it came to him perhaps more naturally than his flirtatious demeanor. He gave you the performance of a lifetime—he fed you borderline godly pleasures on a silver spoon while you dug your nails into grassy forest beds and moaned his name into the treetops. He knew exactly what to do to your body; he hit every single pleasure point with beautiful precision, used his mouth in all of the right places, sprinkled in the perfect praises, and made you beg just enough to make you believe you had to work for the pleasure of being underneath him and you deserved to be rewarded for it. He made sure every little word from his mouth was almost as perfect as what his mouth could do to you.

(Gods, you're beautiful.)

(Tell me how you want it. Use your words.)

(It’s as if the Gods made you to ruin me.)

He did not mean a single moment of it…

He knows he didn't. He knows, without an unparalleled doubt, that he did not mean a single sugar-coated word when he spoke in those intimate moments. He knows how vile he felt before, during, and after; he knows the suffocating self-loathing that consumed him for days after your first late-night tryst and every single night after that. He knows that, deep down, he wants you to see him as more than a sexual being, though he is not sure what else he could possibly be if not this. He knows that his manipulation was calculated and intentional; you were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end. You would help him remove this cursed tadpole embedded in his brain; you would help him kill his former master; and you would help him grasp a power that has never before been held by another vampire. You would hand him the entire world because he convinced you that he deserved it, and then he would dispose of you, as he did with the rest of his victims.

It was a brilliantly simple plan, and yet it all managed to fall apart. He is sure he played out every step perfectly, and somehow, you managed to change his plans once more.

It was never more apparent to him than right now.

Right now, as he watches you saunter around the camp, offering various greetings and the most beautiful smile he believes he has ever seen in his two hundred years of life, he realizes that you are the most incredible being he has ever gazed upon. And never has it been more apparent to him that he is a rotten thing—nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster that pretends he can believably wear the mask of a man. He thinks this is the closest thing to love he has ever felt, and even now, he will never be able to show it to you in a way that means something.

How could he have been so stupid?

How could he not have anticipated this outcome?

How could he have been so ignorant of the pining in his heart and wound up in such a situation?

His inner turmoil must have been more obvious than he would have preferred, because when you approached him, your face screamed with worry. “Astarion?” You questioned, “You look... stressed.” He was unable to find the words to respond. Something about the light shining on the hard lines of your face, leaving a shadow that danced across your cheekbones, captivated him, and he lacked the strength to look away—he doesn't think he wants to. Perhaps he could spend one hundred years gazing on the wonderful imperfections and blemishes on your skin until he has memorized every detail through the end of time, so that when you are no longer breathing, he may breathe your life once again himself, so that when another one hundred years have passed and you are nothing more than ash in the ground, he will be able to recall every minute detail of your face.

“Are you okay?”

He is on another plane of existence until the sweetness of your voice walks him back into the present.

“I… I think we need to talk.” His voice betrays him, just as his face did moments before.

You respond as you always have—with care and concern and a compassion running so deeply through your veins, it would be impossible to fabricate: “Are you alright?”

And he realizes the answer is no. He realizes that no matter the intensity of his devotion (or perhaps, is this what love is supposed to feel like?), he can never undo the damage he has caused. He can never change the sweet little lies he whispered into your ear late at night as you exposed your body to him; he can never change the intentional manipulation behind his words as he told you of your beauty; and he can never remedy the fact that he took advantage of you. You—who is made of honeysuckle and mandarins, who he has grown to so deeply care for, who he will ruin in a heartbeat if he were to ever truly love you. And perhaps he will never be able to love you. Perhaps if you are not a target, then you will never truly be anything to him; he is far too damaged to ever love you in a way that is pure and without the promise of personal gain. Perhaps he has always been and always will be a monster and deserves such treatment. He will never be able to share your bed without feeling disgust and hatred for himself. He will never be your lover, no matter how desperately he now knows he wishes to be.

“No—Yes, I just… feel awful.” Your face tells him he owes more of an explanation. He knows you are owed it. “Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so that you would never turn on me. It was easy... instinctive.” For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love (is this what love is supposed to feel like? I think I would rather choose the stake.) and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

(He now realizes these are two very different states of being.)

“All you had to do was fall for it.” Your face is twisted into something resembling grief. “And all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Your eyebrows are furrowed together, and your face has morphed into something entirely unreadable, but you almost seem relieved.

“I…” Another sigh: “You deserve something real.” He cannot bring himself to look into your eyes.

A heavy sigh escapes your mouth as your eyebrows relax. “I only want you.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe you to be the monster you think you are.” If he had a heartbeat, he is confident that would have stopped it. He cannot fathom a universe where he is more than what his master made him to be.

“You don't know me.”

“Then show me who you are, Astarion.” He isn't sure when you managed to get so close to him. “Let me be here for you.”

“You don't know what you're asking for.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He will never be able to give you what you’re asking for, yet you still seem to want him all the same. He knows that he is no good, that he will never be more than the image Cazador sculpted him in; he is capable of tenderness no more than the Gods are capable of answering his cries for help. And yet, here you stand—headstrong as ever, practically begging him to give this a chance, and he desperately wants it. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me.” Your hand reaches into the space between you to gently cup his face.

“I can't give you what you want. Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I… performed to lure people back for him. I know this is different; we’re different, but it still feels… tainted.”

“I already told you what I want.” His eyes met yours for the first time since you approached his tent. “You. Whatever it is you have to offer, I want it. It's not a dirty job; it's just you.”

For a brief moment, Astarion is able to lose himself in such a fantasy; your eyes shine as though galaxies were constructed in your irises, and he can spot no inkling of deception. Your hand is soft against his cheek as he leans into the warmth of your touch, and it does not go unnoticed that you choose to keep your hand placement modest—as though you were a gentleman dancing with a lady in a fancy ballroom while all the guests silently stared.

“I don't know what to do from here.” He places his hand over yours and leans into your touch even harder—he almost resembles a wounded dog, searching for any ounce of tenderness he can find in this midst of such an ugly world—”But I know that this... this is nice."

As you wrap your arms around his waist and nestle your head into the crook of his shoulder, Astarion believes that this is something he may be able to get used to. 

Thank u for reading !!! Prob making a part 2 that is more .... idk angsty and more "I'll take care of you" if yall want it

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Promises // Aegon ii Targaryen x Fem!Reader || MODERN AU.

Valentine's special 💕

Summary: Aegon was always afraid of committing to a relationship, he knew what he felt towards you was serious, is he finally ready to commit?

WARNINGS: mdni, afab!reader, unprotected p in v sex, tiddy sucking, fingering, friends with benefits relationship, angst, toxic relationships, mentions of cheating (not on reader), hurt + comfort, fluffy ending.

WC: 1.5k

A/N: made a valentine special for him too, this focuses more on the feels side 😩 aemonds will also drop soon // divider credits to @cafekitsune

The rain poured restlessly outside, the sound of the raindrops hitting the road matched the rhythm of your heartbeat as you too restlessly paced in your apartment.

You received a text from Aegon not too long ago, ‘hey, I'm coming over, it's urgent.’ and when you had replied asking him about what happened, he just left you on read, which caused your mind to go haywire, thinking he'd gotten in some kind of trouble, perhaps his family was too harsh on him again? Did someone try to assassinate him? It isn't uncommon since he was from an influential family, all those possibilities with even worse types popping up in your head made it very hard to stay calm.

You stood over your window, trying to see if he had come to your apartment, and when you saw the familiar car and headlights entering your apartment and being parked outside, you immediately bolted to the door before you stood in front of it, anxiously tapping your foot, waiting for him to ring the bell.

The bell finally rang, and you wasted no time opening the door, you had opened it so fast to the point the bell did not even finish echoing and ringing.

There he stood, Aegon, unscathed, but just standing with an umbrella in his hand that was leaking droplets, you let out a sigh of relief before you let him inside.

“What happened, Aegon?” You ask him after shutting the door behind you, and locking it. He simply turned to look at you for a moment before pulling you in for a hug, his face nuzzled into your neck as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, “Is everything alright?” you ask him and he nods his head against your neck, taking a deep breath as he breathes in your comforting scent.

“It's just—” he pulls away from the hug, “Me and Cass broke up.” He tells you and you go silent for a moment, blinking, trying to process what he said, “Ah— I see, you were dating her?” You asked and he nodded, “Since when?” You ask dumbfounded, not knowing Aegon was dating someone, “Two months.”

Your eyes widened as he revealed the time period, he sighed knowing what he messed up really badly, “Two months?! Aegon we've been getting together the entire time, why did you not tell me?” You yelled at him and he sighed, “She found out, that's the reason she broke up with me, I told her that you didn't know that we both were in a relationship, I don't know if she believed it.” He tries to de-escalate the situation, but you roll your eyes and scoff.

“Thank you Aegon, for making me look like a whore in someone's eye, I told you that I don't want to be in the friends with benefits relationship if we're both dating someone, it was a boundary that I've set, because that's cheating—” You began, “And you broke that.” You mutter the last part, all the emotional stress weighing you down.

“I didn't want to stop sleeping with you.” He confesses, “Then why did you get into a relationship with someone?” You question and he remains silent, not having a proper answer.

You sigh heavily before rubbing your temples with your hand, trying to soothe the ache that was forming in your head, “I'll talk to her and patch things up between you both,” You tell him and he shakes his head, “I didn't like her, besides I did not come here to ask you to patch things up between me and her.” He tells you and steps closer, “I came here because I realised one thing.” He whispers, his eyes boring into yours, and you couldn't look away, almost as if they are hypnotising you. “What is it?” You question and he leans down before pressing a peck to your lips. “That I love you.” The world had stopped moving the moment those words left his mouth, the sound of rain being the only thing both of you could hear, your lips trembled, trying to find an answer or a way to respond to this confession, Aegon isn't the type of guy that falls in love, so when those words come out of his mouth, it's pretty serious. “I—” You are interrupted with a kiss from him, his soft lips moving against yours in a gentle rhythm, you had tried not to give in, really tried, but the soft whimper he let out was enough to make your restraints fall apart and soon, you were kissing him back.

Lightning flashed and the thunder roared outside, and the rain began to pour even more heavily than before, his hands desperately pawed at your clothes, trying to grab any and all flesh he could find, he felt needy, desperate, hot, everything all at once.

You both pulled away at the same, and before you could say anything, Aegon carried you to the nearest surface to put you down on — which happens to be the kitchen platform — before continuing to kiss you, he wanted to be close to you, he wanted to be embraced by your comfort and warmth.

“I love you, I really do, I'm an asshole, I'm fucked in the head, but I really do love you.” He whispers against your lips and you look at him in haze, he pulls his face away from you, cupping your cheeks with both of his hands, “Please—” his voice was laced with grief, “Give me a chance,” You felt bad for him, at the way his voice was shaking, and you pulled him in for a hug, and he rested his head on your shoulder.

Warm tears flowed down your shoulder, trailing down to your collarbone as he cried, all the emotions he was holding back finally overflowing, he felt defeated, he knew he was wrong, he was shitty, the way he behaved with both you and Cassandra but that was because he was naive, naive to realise what his feelings were, after all, aegon never really got to regulate his emotions healthily.

“I know what's on your mind, if you get into a relationship with me, what's the chance that I won't cheat on you too, right?” He questions, sniffing and you mutter a ‘yes’

He pulls away from your shoulder, “That's because I love you, I didn't know what I wanted up until now.” He reassures, but you still couldn't help but have your doubts, “Please, I promise.” You watched as the tears continuously flowed down his cheeks and you tried to not feel any sympathy for him, because he was indeed an asshole, yet, you loved him, and you couldn't help but feel bad and guilty, so you just wiped his tears away and nodded, saying you'll give him a chance.

He hugged you right afterwards, and you caressed his back.

He began kissing your neck, trailing upwards to your ear and then to your face, pressing kisses all over it, before his hands grabbed your top and pulled it off you, leaving you in your bra. Aegon swallowed thickly, unbuckling your bra, revealing your bosom, he pressed kisses to the flesh before taking one in his mouth and suckling on it. This action comforted him for an odd reason, you simply held his head in place as he continuously suckled, licking and pivoting his tongue around the bud.

His hands resting on your thighs, making their way up under your skirt before they finally found your panties, his fingers hooked around the elastic of your underwear before pulling it down.

He wasted no time in settling between your legs, undoing his pants, pushing his cock out before he grabbed you by your hips and brought you closer to the edge of the counter so he could insert himself inside you.

You and Aegon had done this before, but for some odd reason, it felt more intimate, with his constant kissing and the way he held you had completely changed, he held you as if you were something fragile that would break, usually he would be rough, but today he was gentle, taking it slow.

His thrust slowly began to speed up and you rested your hands on his shoulders for leverage which he pried one off to place kisses on, you felt butterflies in your stomach at the action and you gasped as you felt him hit the sweet spot at the same time.

He chuckled, before intertwining your hand with his and changed the angle, constantly hitting the sweet spot and before you know it, you're spilling yourself all over him, you rest your head on his shoulder after a loud moan of his name escaped your lips, he thrusts a few more times before he too finishes inside you with a loud moan.

You both stay like that for a while, catching your breaths, “Will you give me a chance?” He asks again, voice nervously and you nod, “You better keep your promise.” You mutter before placing a kiss on his lips.

The emotions inside him ran wild, just like the storm outside.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Three Act Structure

Three act structure - divides a story into three distinct sections, each anchored around one or more plot points that drive the overall action.

Over the course of the three acts, a complete story structure unfolds.

The main character passes through the stations of a character arc, the main plot builds toward the realization of the protagonist’s goal, and by the end, the action is resolved and key loose ends are tied up.

History

Novelists, playwrights, and screenwriters have many options for organizing the structure of their novels, plays, movies, and television episodes.

Traditionally, these narratives are broken into acts, which are subdivisions of the overall story.

Some stories are told in a single act, like short stories and one-act plays.

Sometimes a storyline demands many acts. Example:

Willam Shakespeare was loyal to the five-act structure when writing his plays.

Yet of all the ways to subdivide a story, writers have shown great loyalty to the three act structure, which is typical of most forms of modern storytelling.

The notion of three-act storytelling traces back to Aristotle, who theorized on story beats in Poetics.

He argued that stories are a chain of cause-and-effect actions, with each action inspiring subsequent actions until a story reaches its end.

Elements of the Three Act Structure

At their most basic, the 3 acts of a book or script represent a beginning, a middle, and an end.

In most three-act stories, about 50 percent of the actual storytelling occurs in the second act, with 25 percent of the story falling in the first act and 25 percent falling in the final act.

ACT ONE

The first act typically starts with exposition—one or more scenes that establish the world of the story.

If the story contains supernatural elements, the rules of the supernatural world would be established here.

This act should also establish the ordinary world of the story’s main character.

Before the act is over, however, an inciting incident should occur—one that pulls the protagonist out of their normal world and into the main action of the story.

Concludes with some sort of turning point that launches the action into act two.

ACT TWO

A story’s middle act consists of a rising action that leads to a midpoint, then devolves into a crisis. Example:

A story is about a detective who is tracking the killer of her murdered partner.

The Act One inciting incident would be her partner’s murder, and the turning point would be her decision to track the killer.

Thus the rising action of Act Two would involve the sleuthing she must do to track down the murderer.

Act two will raise the stakes of the protagonist’s journey, perhaps revealing the danger to which she’s exposing herself. By the story’s midpoint, the detective would be fully immersed in her journey.

Typically ends with another turning point that makes it seem as if the protagonist will fail. This is sometimes called the “dark night of the soul.”

Perhaps our detective has gotten too close to the killer and has been wounded by one of his henchmen, allowing him to escape.

ACT THREE

The third act begins with what’s known as a pre-climax.

This consists of events leading up to a climactic confrontation in which the hero faces a point of no return: they must either prevail or perish.

In our detective story, perhaps our hero has regained the trail of the killer and has traced him to a safehouse.

This launches us into the actual climax, where the detective apprehends her partner’s killer—either taking him into custody or killing him.

Finally the story de-escalates in a denouement, where the events of the climax wind back down into normal life.

Of course the hero detective’s life will never be the same again.

Note that almost all novels, movies, and TV episodes have subplots (also known as B-stories) that occur concurrently with the main plot. These subplots, often crucial to character development, may also follow a standard three act structure, but the way they play out varies greatly from story to story.

How to Use the Three Act Structure

The best way to incorporate three act structure into your own writing is to map out the key plot elements that should populate each act.

Act one: exposition, inciting action, turning point into act two

Act two: rising action, midpoint, turning point into act three

Act three: pre-climax, climax, denouement

Some novelists and screenwriters consider these story points when they brainstorm; others brainstorm in a far more open-ended way and only later do they consider specific plot points.

If you’re the type of writer who prefers open-ended brainstorming, perhaps via the snowflake method, don’t disrupt your process by thinking about act breaks and a specific plot structure.

If you prefer to be hyper-organized in your writing process, it may make sense to keep the three act story structure in mind from the very beginning.

It can be a useful planning tool to think of the story in terms of exposition, inciting action, rising action, and beyond.

Just remember when you are writing a novel or a screenplay that good stories don’t start with templates for act breaks; they start with memorable characters, vivid worldbuilding, and a protagonist whose journey is worth following.

Once you have those in place, a three act structure will likely naturally reveal itself.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References