#surprised I've not seen anything about it

[rafessecret]

girlie i have a requesttt 🥰 so , maybe rafe and reader are bestfriends, reader is like a sweetheart and all, and shes so oblivious she cant see rafe feels more and wants more so one night when they hangout at her place he confesses and maybe some smut? LOVE YOUR WRITING BTW ANGEEL

⋆˚࿔ oblivious¡ reader && bsf¡rafe cameron

I'VE LOVED YOU FOREVER

You and Rafe have always been inseparable. Like gravity—you orbit each other naturally, wordlessly, like the universe arranged it that way and forgot to tell anyone else. He’s always there. Waiting by your locker, stealing your food with a grin, and tugging on your sleeves when he wants your attention. And you, with your big eyes and soft voice, never see the way he looks at you.

Because you’re too kind. Too sweet. Too busy giggling at dumb movies and offering him the last bite of your ice cream. You fall asleep on his shoulder during car rides, wear his hoodies without asking, hold his hand like it means nothing—and it drives him insane. Because to him, it means everything.

You don’t know it, but he memorises you. The way you chew your lip when you’re nervous. The soft rise and fall of your chest when you sleep. How your laugh curls in the air like something holy. He thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen, all sunshine and sugar and so effortlessly good it hurts.

He keeps all his feelings locked up tight, sealed behind smiles and teasing nicknames. But sometimes—just sometimes—he wonders what it would be like if you knew. If you really knew how much he loves you. How your voice steadies him. How your trust makes him feel like he’s worth something. How just being around you makes the world bearable.

You think he’s just your best friend. But he’s quietly, desperately, hopelessly in love with you. And he would never risk losing you. Even if it kills him a little more each day. You don’t know what makes today feel different. It’s been sweet, like always. You and Rafe spent the whole afternoon wrapped up in each other—driving around nowhere, laughing too loud, stealing fries off each other’s plates like you’ve done a thousand times before. He knows all your favourite songs. You know all his soft spots. It’s always been like that.

Now it’s nighttime, and you’re in your bed, side by side, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The lights are off. The sheets smell like lavender and the lotion you put on before bed. Everything is warm and quiet and close. You’re whispering secrets, giggling between yawns, brushing your toes against his under the blanket. It’s innocent, familiar. Safe. You’re talking about some guy who asked you out earlier in the week, but you laugh it off—like it was strange or silly. Like you didn’t get it. You never really do. ❝It always surprises me when people say that. That I’m pretty, I mean.❞

Rafe goes quiet. Too quiet. And you feel it. The way the air shifts. Then his voice, low, soft, aching: ❝I get it. You’re beautiful. Of course he asked.❞ You giggle, nudging him gently. ❝Rafe, stop. You’re just saying that.❞ But that’s what breaks him. He sits up suddenly, like the words are forcing themselves out. His hands are trembling. His breath’s gone all uneven.

❝I’m not. I’m not just saying anything. I love you. I’ve loved you since before I even knew what it meant.❞ You freeze, blinking up at him, wide-eyed and stunned. ❝Shit—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I shouldn’t’ve said it like that—fuck. Don���t hate me, please. I didn’t mean to ruin this.❞ He looks wrecked. So scared. So soft.

You reach up, gently, and take his hand in both of yours. Press your lips to his knuckles. ❝You didn’t ruin anything. You’re my favourite person. You always have been.❞ And then you kiss him—just once, soft and slow. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He kisses you back like he’s been holding his breath for years. At first, he’s hesitant. Nervous. His lips brush yours, soft and unsure, like he’s scared you might pull away. Like he doesn’t quite believe this is real—that you kissed him first. That you want him back.

His hands tremble where they press into the mattress on either side of you, caging you in without ever touching you. You feel how hard he’s trying not to shake, how tightly he’s holding himself together.

❝It’s okay,❞ you whisper into his mouth between kisses. ❝You’re okay.❞ He exhales like he’s breaking apart. And then he kisses you again, deeper this time. Still nervous. Still careful. But he lets himself taste you, lets himself lean into it. His lips slot over yours perfectly, and he’s breathless, desperate in a way that’s all bottled up.

Rafe groans into your mouth like he’s starving—like the taste of you is the first thing he’s ever truly wanted. He kisses with this aching kind of hunger, tongue pushing past your lips like he’s been dreaming about this exact moment forever.

His tongue licks into you slow at first, savouring it, then deeper—wet and hot and messy. He fucks your mouth with it, gentle but desperate, like he can’t help it. Like he wants to crawl inside your body and live there. You moan softly, lips parting wider, letting him take and take and take. Your fingers brush against his jaw, soothing, anchoring. You feel the way his breath catches, how he leans into your touch like he needs it. Like he needs you.

You tug at the hem of his shirt between kisses, breathless. He pulls back just long enough to tug it over his head, and your eyes go soft—your breath catching. He’s all nervous smiles and flushed cheeks, but your gaze is warm and adoring, and it makes him feel like maybe he’s not so scared. ❝You’re beautiful,❞ you whisper. He swallows hard. ❝You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.❞

You kiss again, and this time there’s no hesitation. Just want. Just heat. Your hands roam his chest, his shoulders. His hands finally touch your waist, hesitant but hungry. He fumbles with your shirt, asking, ❝Can I?❞ You nod. He undresses you like you’re something sacred. Like he’s scared he might break you. And when you’re bare beneath him, he just looks. Drinks you in. Breathing heavily. Awestruck. ❝Are you sure?❞ he whispers. ❝I’m sure. I want you, Rafe.❞ It nearly undoes him.

His breath catches, jaw tight, the weight of your words wrecking something deep inside him. You’re laid out beneath him—eyes soft, chest heaving, skin flushed with anticipation—and he looks at you like you hung the damn stars.

He lines himself up between your thighs, and you feel him—hard, thick, and big. The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, and your breath stutters, hips twitching. He strokes his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider, fingers trailing dangerously close to where you're dripping for him. ❝Fuck,❞ he breathes, eyes dark and ravenous. ❝You sure, sweetheart?❞ You nod, voice breathy. ❝I’m sure. Please, Rafe. I need you.❞

He groans, low and hungry, and starts to push in—slow, almost teasing. The thick head of his cock parts your folds, dragging through your slick as he eases in inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, gasping at the stretch. It burns in the most delicious way. ❝Oh my god—Rafe—❞

❝I got you,❞ he grits out, forehead against yours, watching every twitch of your face. ❝Fuck, you’re so tight. You’re taking me so well, angel.❞ He bottoms out with a trembling moan, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing inside you. Your pussy clenches around him, fluttering, greedy, and wet. His arms are shaking, holding himself up as he breathes through the urge to fuck you into the mattress right then.

You’re wrapped around him, thighs trembling, nails clawing at his shoulders. He starts to move—deep, slow strokes that drag every inch of him along your walls. You whimper, head falling back as he rocks into you, hips rolling, hitting that sweet spot over and over.

❝So fucking good,❞ he murmurs against your neck, tongue licking a stripe up your throat. ❝Been thinking about this for so long. How perfect you’d feel.❞ His hand trails down, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, wet circles as he keeps fucking into you. You jolt, crying out as pleasure coils sharp and fast in your stomach.

❝You feel that, sweetheart? How wet are you? How you’re squeezing me like that?❞ he groans, voice filthy. ❝God, you were made for me.❞ And then he loses control. His rhythm turns rough—desperate and fast, hips slamming into yours with wet, echoing sounds. The room is filled with your moans, his panting, and the sound of skin on skin. He’s fucking you hard now, raw and deep, your slick coating him, dripping down your thighs. ❝So messy,❞ he pants, watching where you're joined. ❝Look at that, sweetheart. You’re soaking me.❞

You’re crying out, back arching off the bed, overwhelmed by how good it feels. He’s hitting that spot again and again, making you dizzy and incoherent. ❝Cum for me,❞ he growls, fingers tightening on your hips. ❝Cum all over my cock.❞ You shatter, legs shaking, cunt clenching down on him so tight he chokes on a moan. You cry out his name, loud and shameless.

Rafe follows, hips stuttering as he thrusts deep and stays there, groaning against your throat as he cums—thick and hot—filling you up. He keeps thrusting shallowly, riding it out, fucking his release deeper inside. Then he collapses on top of you, breathing hard, face buried in your neck. His hands stroke your sides, your thighs, gentle now.

❝You’re everything,❞ he whispers, kissing your face, your lips. ❝Mine. All mine.❞ He stays inside you, warm and full, bodies tangled, and for the first time—it feels like the beginning of something real. He holds you after. Kisses your face. Whispers your name like a prayer. It’s passionate. It’s real.

And it’s the beginning of everything.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : ahh! I love the best friend concept probably more than anything, so thank you so much anon for giving me an excuse to dive back into it. this was sooo fun to write, I hope you guys love it too!

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[dancerinthesky]

heavy breathing

apple and raven from eah are jegulus variants okay.

[burning-academia-if]

Bonus Short Story: Lars

​Word count: 5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who grew teeth to replace his missing wings.

CW: brief depictions of body horror, blood, gore, and mentions and discussions about drug use

A/N: I've been hoarding this since last year lol Now that chapter 3 is out, I can finally share this with you all! Hope you enjoy

There was blood in the snow. It was thick and dark and redder than any shade he'd ever seen. His body sunk into the earth, and the cold sunk into him. The Dead Thing stood over him, more alive than his parents now. More alive then he would be soon. Its faulty impression of wings flared out behind it, void face mimicking oblivion.

'Precious child, take your wings.'

Its hand reached out, cupping his cheek, forcing his head to raise. His blond hair fell back, unfocused eyes losing their color of clear blue. The wound on his back wouldn't stop bleeding. This was not a type of bleeding he knew, like the kind acquired from climbing trees or running through parks. His parents must have spilled out every drop, with the state they'd been left in.

His eyes slipped closed, body sagging. Its fingers trailed down his face, stopping at his throat. Its hands were colder than the snow. He'd never know anything else beyond his eighth winter.

Impact.

His body fell back, sinking into the snow. He cried out just as the thing let out an inhuman screech. There were voices shouting, hands reaching for him, tending to his wounds. More yelling. Hard words. More screaming. Magic polluted the air. The pain wouldn't leave him. It'd never leave him.

//

No one wanted him. He couldn't say he'd been surprised. Even so young, at the tender age of eight, he'd felt the way eyes would pierce into him, looking right at his neck. He tried to shrug it off, keep his head down, ignore the prickle on his skin. He'd keep quiet and live with his aunt and not pay attention to any of her and her husband's whispering. He'd try to stay out of his cousins' way.

He just wasn't made for anything except violence.

The scar on his back rose all the way to the left side of his neck. His shirt couldn't hide all of it, leaving it open for staring. The kids at school had asked about it with a flighty curiosity, but had mostly left it alone. So he grew up, and the scar grew with him. It was sensitive to the touch, pins and needles every time he brushed his own hands against it.

When someone else did it, quietly and suddenly, without permission, his brain lit up. He wasn't sure what he'd done until teachers were pulling him off another student, teeth barred and body shaking. The boy had laid strewn on the floor, wailing and covering his face. There was blood dripping to the floor, likely from a hit to the nose.

Lars hadn't realized what he'd done until his guardians were called in. He'd sat in the chair in the principal's office, turned away from the other kid who held an ice pack to his face, and glowered at the mediocre paintings hanging on the walls. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but it had. Whatever eggshells he'd been walking on shattered after two years.

His aunt arrived, looking flushed in the face from emotions. She didn't look at him. He didn't look at her. She apologized profusely, grabbed him by the arm hard, and when he jerked away, she pulled harder.

"Ten years old, and already causing problems. You really are just like my brother." Lars said nothing to her, too focused on getting her to let go.

He yanked and stalled and when she was ready to snap again he hissed. "Stop touching me."

She ignored him, and dragged him to the car. Directed him inside, and said they were going to have to talk about this later. He knew what that meant. He could already picture the conversation. He curled up in the backseat, rubbing where she touched and suddenly felt the need for a shower. Or maybe, even, a chance to rip off all his skin.

//

Middle school was when Lars stopped caring. Keeping his head down hadn't made them pleasant, and after his first mistake, he decided to do it on purpose. Fights were a rush, blood in his ears, nose, mouth. Fist connecting with skin, harsh words spilling out. It got to the tipping point by eight grade.

Aunt Lydia had made calls to every other family member she could think of. She couldn't raise him, not when he'd gotten expelled from a second school. Lars had thought 'fuck her', and snagged a cigarette from her purse when she hadn't been looking. He'd snuck out while she'd been begging on the phone yet again for someone else to take him in.

He went to the always barren park by the house. Lars wasn't sure what had happened here before, but he figured half of why it was empty was because of how prevalent death was. There was always the same ghost curled up by a lamppost and shivering. Lars wasn't sure, but he figured they died here from an overdose. He set the cigarette down on one of the tables, a habit he'd developed in the past year.

The ghost raised his head.

Lars said, "I need something from you again."

And the ghost answered.

//

"What are you doing here--don't just walk into this house."

Lars could hear the commotion from where he was holed up in his room. He kicked off the bed, threw the door open, and peeked out. A man he'd never seen before stood at the door. Dirty blonde hair, scraggly beard, the biggest shit-eating grin Lars had ever seen someone possess.

"What do you mean? I was invited. You have a rowdy teen boy problem and I'm here to take him off your hands." Lars narrowed his eyes as the man strolled in. Aunt Lydia was at a loss for words with that. He'd never seen her hold her tongue so quickly.

The man spotted him instantly. "Jesus Christ, you really do look just like my brother."

An uncle, then. Lars stepped out fully, slamming the door shut as if it'd make a point. "How do you know me?"

"Dear sis Lydia told me about you, of course."

"Bull fucking shit she did." Lars took a step towards him, and a flood of magic hit him as quickly as it flowed out of him. Immediately, Lars threw out a hand, bracing himself on the wall. His aunt shouted, asking what this freak of a man was doing.

Lars slipped to his knees, looking down at shaking hands. The whole world was slowly turning red. The red of blood. His own blood. What a curse, for his magic to look like this. The man kneeled down, reaching out and used magic to guide Lars' face up. He kept a distance away, to avoid any sense of touch.

His eyes were seeing right through him, "The name's Harvey Angel. I'm your uncle on your dad's side."

"What do you want?"

Uncle Harvey shrugged, "We'll talk about that later. For now, I'd suggest you start packing those bags."

//

"He's never shown a hint of magic." Lydia paced in the kitchen, furiously trying to get a hold of her husband. Harvey leaned back in the chair in was, tilting as far as he could go.

"I can imagine. How long since he's been doing drugs?"

She halted mid-stride. "What?"

"He's pretty young, right? Fourteen? I can't imagine he's been doing it that long. There's a program near my place that deals with youth addiction in case he needs it but--"

"Hold on." She snapped, hand slamming down on the table. "I've never seen him acting or looking like he was high."

"Well, you've never been the sort to see people." And teenagers were good at hiding things, besides. There were a lot of things he could assume immediately upon walking through the front door. The first was a strange and languid undercurrent of magic. It was always how magic felt with most kinds of drug use. He'd wanted to be sure, so he'd reached in and pulled the magic out of Lars before he'd known what was happening.

"You don't understand how much of a handful he is. He's worse than you and...well, he's worse than all of us when we were that age. And now this sudden revelation on top of it makes it all the worse. I never wanted to see you again, but at least you can finally take that fuck up off my hands."

Harvey said nothing, his eyes looking up towards where he heard the rummaging around of items. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the boy. The last thing he was meant to be was a father figure, but his brother hadn't been either. At the very least, he owed it to him to try. So he'd try.

//

"First things first." Lars glanced around the room, sitting cross legged on the bed. By the sound of its creeks, he was sure it'd been around longer since he'd been alive. His apparent uncle sat across from him on top of the still unpacked boxes of the few things he had. Lars looked more like him than his aunt, he realized. The narrowness of the face and the easy bruising around the eyes mirrored his own. Had his dad looked the same? Lars couldn't remember.

"What?"

"What have you been using?"

Lars scowled, "If you kidnapped me just to send me to a rehab I don't fucking need--"

"Don't be smart. Answer the question."

He bit his inner cheek, but didn't see the point in hiding it, "Just pot."

"You swear?"

"What, do you want check my arm for track marks?" The warning flash in his uncle's eyes didn't match the ease of his smile. Lars took a deep breath. "I swear. I know plenty of death magicians' die from addiction."

The sharpness in his eyes eased a fraction, "You did your research. But knowing doesn't stop shit from affecting you."

"I don't know you well enough to get this lecture." Lars pressed his hands into the mattress, half tempted to get up and leave. But there was something still bothering him. "You didn't flinch when I mentioned death magicians."

"I knew you were one the second I pulled your magic at of you. Death magicians have a distinct aura around them. If you did it to me, you'd find the same." The easy admission made Lars look at the man in front of him again. He knew nothing about him, and he couldn't gleam anything from him either. "You started smoking so you wouldn't have to see the dead all the time, right?"

Lars nodded. He didn't like to admit it. There was nothing wrong with the dead, nothing that screamed danger when he looked at them. Yet, his whole back would grow warm and slick and the phantom pain of his scar would rush through him whenever he caught their gaze. He wasn't afraid, he just found the whole ordeal annoying.

"Well, you obviously know you're not the first. If it gets too much, let me know. I can show you some tricks. Eventually, you'll get used to the high and it won't stave the dead off like it does right now. That is, if you start to feel like trusting me."

"Why would I trust you? You're just another family member in a long line of them who took me in. By next year, I bet I'll be somewhere else. If I wasn't a magician, I would have been tossed to the system by now."

He meant this, and the returned smile was enough to ignite his blood, "Naw, I think I'll like you Lars. We'll see how things go, won't we?"

"I guess we will."

//

In that first year, Lars learned a lot of things about Uncle Harvey. He wasn't a master liar, and he didn't give a shit as to who he was lying to. On his fifteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to redo his magic aptitude test, Uncle Harvey had woven a whole tale of how Lars had been a late bloomer. Drugs? There were no drugs, Harvey's sister had just resented Lars with her whole soul that she'd made an excuse to get rid of him. They could even run a drug test.

By the end of the whole bullshit spiel, Lars had almost believed the man himself.

He also was the Death magician he'd claimed to been. During the first semester of his freshman year of high school, Uncle Harvey had picked him up one time for a reason Lars no longer remembered. When Lars had gotten to his car, Harvey had been eyeing one of the windows.

"What is it?" Lars had thrown his bag in the backseat before sitting on the passenger side.

Uncle Harvey had merely shrugged, "There are some schools more haunted than hospitals, I think. Maybe it has to do with how it's easier to accept death when you know it's coming, than in a place where you don't."

When Lars had glanced back, he'd seen a face he'd grown familiar with. A girl, a few years older, with her hair teased up in a baby blue blouse. Whatever had killed her wasn't something that had left wounds on the outside. Her eyes were always closed, her head always resting against the window.

He'd looked away.

The last thing Lars realized, during the summer before his sophomore year, was that his uncle was serious. Clearly, Uncle Harvey had no idea how the hell to be a parent. He forgot about dinner and coming home at night, or he'd show up at school, still half asleep, after the few fights Lars had gotten in to, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn't be damned despite the other fuming parent.

Yet, he could read Lars like a book. Everything he refused to say, Harvey just knew. After his first official high school fight, he'd handed Lars an axe and told him to go chop some wood to get the energy out. Lars had looked at him like he was insane yet ended up going at it until his fingers were raw. When Lars had felt the hint of a cold, the cabinets were suddenly stocked with medicine. When the unquiet of the dead reached for him, his uncle would drag him away, telling him looking only gave them power.

Then it was summer again, and Lars was still living with this man who had no plans to kick him out. He'd sat in the living room one morning, the foggy blue haze of six am filtered through open windows and smudged glass, and watched his uncle sit at an old piano. He'd watched the way his fingers glided over the keys and narrowed his eyes.

"I want to know."

"How to play piano?" His uncle hadn't looked up. "Your dad used to be quite the composer, you know."

"No, I don't know. I hardly remember him. But that wasn't what I was talking about. Teach me about Death magic." He paused, the notes gliding over him. He didn't remember his father well, but if he reached deep inside, he could almost recall sitting on a piano stool beside a vague male form playing a quiet melody. "And maybe the piano, too. If you can."

The man glanced back, more teeth than grin, "Finally convinced I don't hate you?"

"No, but close enough." Uncle Harvey's grin turned real at that as he barked out a laugh.

"Good, but don't expect me to go easy on you." Lars scoffed, and that was that.

//

Years went by. Harvey kept close eye on his nephew, who he hadn't expected to have real feelings for. But underneath all the bite, he could see fragments of his brother. The three of them had never gotten along when they were younger, and the second they could they'd all scattered to the wind, never to speak to each other again. Now, though, Harvey wondered if that man had been all bad. Perhaps it was his death which made him fonder of old memories than he should be.

Lars took quickly to music. His free time was spent more on practicing the piano and reading up on music theory than it was on homework. Harvey found he could only be so hard on him, since he figured the boy would have coasted along with his grades regardless of if he took up hobbies or not.

And as far as he could tell, leaning into his magic had done him far more good than bad. Harvey had seen many try to reach into that well and it caused them to spiral so much faster than if they'd merely run from their cursed magic. Death Magicians barely made it to fifty. It was a legacy filled with suicide and addiction and illness. And the Board of Magicians had never cared enough to offer their assistance.

The relief that Lars had hit his eighteenth birthday alive and sober enough, was enough to let him breathe. He did care for Lars. He hadn't cried at his brother's funeral, but if he ever had to attend Lars'? He thought he would.

"How does graduating feel?" Harvey asked, as he drove Lars to the ceremony.

Lars cut him a glance from the passenger seat, "Like I don't have to deal with bullshit anymore."

Harvey had to stop his grin, "Oh yeah? Then why'd you apply for college?"

There was a moment's pause, "Change of scenery. And anyway, I want to take music seriously."

"The Board won't let a Death Magician do whatever they please, you know."

"They can eat shit and die for all I care. I'm leaving, and they can try to drag me back if they want." Years had not softened him, but Harvey liked that. Liked that he could ask Lars anything and he'd always answer with his honest feelings, even if he did say it tinged with cruelty.

It made Harvey wish he had appreciated it in his brother. He wished he could go back in time and try again. Maybe if the three siblings had tried, things would have been different. But that was time he couldn't get back. He hoped taking in Lars would make up for those wounds he'd caused.

"Don't completely ghost me when you're gone." Harvey hadn't meant to say it.

Lars paused, the fire in his eyes cooling, "Sure."

In the language of Lars, that was a promise.

//

College went. Lars had taken up more instruments than his professors had cared for, and yet proved himself decent enough in all of them, and pretty good at two of them. His main strength was composing, and he sank into it with fever.

His uncle had managed to find some of his dad's pieces and Lars had studied them as though it would hold the answers of what the hell had happened that night all those years ago. Instead, he learned more about his dad's taste in music. Angry pieces with fast tempos, excessive use of staccatos, an endless aversion to the standard 4/4 time signature.

If art reflected the artist, than him and his dad might have been similar. He'd never bothered to ask his uncle about his parents, because he hadn't cared. He didn't want to know the dead, but he did want to know about the attack. The scar on his back felt like an endless mockery. He would find the monster, and slaughter it with his own hands.

But for now, he buried himself in a world away. No magicians, no magic, only the faint lingering of death and ghosts. The break was something he'd sought for so long. A world that just consisted of himself and no one else. He'd sink into creation and the rest of him would cease to exist. If he kept working, he'd cease thinking. He'd cease to be.

Nothing lasts forever, of course.

After one of his morning classes, he'd found a man waiting for him by the door.

"Lars Angel?" Lars paused, assessing eyes darting to who had stopped him. He was unfamiliar, middle aged with only a hint of aging, slicked back hair and a suit that costed a pretty penny. His pale skin had a glow to it, his smile barely suppressed anger. It wasn't directed at him. But that didn't matter as much as the magic which radiated off him in droves.

It made Lars snap, "Who the hell are you?"

The smile became sharp, the anger redirected towards him, "I'm the headmaster of Vales Grove University. You may call me Mr. Windsor. I have something I need to discuss with you, as per the request of West Myer's Board of Magicians."

"I'm not interested in using my magic for them."

"We'll discuss it further, in private." Lars locked eyes with Mr. Windsor, and the two stayed like that, immobile. Lars wasn't going to be the one who looked away, and apparently neither was Mr. Windsor. "Please don't delay. It will be easier for both of us if you come along. Especially seeing as this has to do with the incident twelve years ago."

Twelve years, back when he was eight. Back when his parents died. Lars' voice emptied out of all emotions, "Understood."

Despite himself, he followed Mr. Windsor down the halls.

//

"Death magicians are rare, you know." Mr. Windsor stirred cream into a cup of coffee. Lars cast a glance around the pseudo-quaint cafe, feeling magic roll over him in waves. He'd never been in a space with so many other magicians before. "They also bring up a lot of concern for us."

"So you're here to spy."

"I meant the harm in which they cause onto themselves." Mr. Windsor frowned, and Lars gave him a blank stare.

"I've been doing pretty good, thanks. But this isn't a wellness check. Cut the bullshit. You want something from me." Lars tapped his fingers against the wood of the table, chipped nails echoing despite the constant drone of radio jazz.

The flicker in the man's eyes showed his patience was already starting to wear thin. Lars wondered what kind of big shot he was that a hint of resistance blew his fuse, "You're right. West Myers' Board is dealing with a major issue in relation to both West Myers' itself and Juniper Valley. The assistance of Death Magicians would be a major help."

"Juniper Valley has always had something wrong with it." Granted, Lars hadn't realized that until he'd left the place. All at once, the tendrils of decay unraveled around his body. The constant presence of the dead had been a brief question in his mind. One he'd circled back to in relation to the slaughter of his parents. But he hadn't fully considered it. Not since he hadn't really thought he'd ever return.

"There are many place in this world, with different manifestations of magic and death. You'll find places of endless summers in regions that don't make sense, you'll find find towns were time has been stolen, and for Juniper Valley, death has always been its domain. It is not wrong, merely different."

A hard smile flashed on Lars face, "Yet, you seem the type of man to attack anything different as wrong. But being the Headmaster of Vales Grove, you can't actually say that, can you? Not without dealing with the consequences that come from holding that opinion."

The false pleasantness finally cracked away, and his smile became as biting as Lars, "You're exactly like your father."

Lars didn't take the bait, "Back on topic. You want me back because I'm a Death Magician?"

"Specifically, Vales Grove University has a grad program for Student Wardens--"

"I'm not going to be a dog for the Board, and I'm not going to be a dog for the university." Lars moved to stand, already finished with the conversation.

Mr. Windsor took a sip of his coffee, "Whatever is causing issues for the Board is related to the monsters which killed your parents."

"Is that so?" He glanced over, and Mr. Windsor nodded.

"I think someone liked the irony. 'Angels' killing the Angels' family. I supposed they missed a few, what with you and your uncle."

"And my aunt."

"Your aunt? Ah, yes. She wasn't blood related to your father. I suppose that had something to do with her safety." This was new information. Mr. Windsor kept watching his face, waiting for Lars to misspeak. Lars wondered when it'd click that he didn't have any emotional investment in his family.

It was what all soul magicians did with heart magicians. Appeal to their emotions, because it's where they draw their magic from. Lars was pretty sure some of their theories on magic were faulty, considering the absence of empathy he'd had his whole life.

"Uncle Harvey never mentioned he'd been attacked."

"Your uncle has a history of keeping to himself. Besides, he's always been one to handle himself. He killed the thing himself before help arrived."

"So these 'angels' can be killed, then? What are they, exactly?"

"They're the remnants of people who've tried to cheat death." Mr. Windsor took the last sip of his coffee. "Specifically, magicians who've tried to."

"So that's why I've never heard about it before. How hard did y'all work to keep that under lock and key?" Lars frowned at the desk, deep in thought. "What did they want with my family?"

"Neither I nor the Board knows. But if you help us, you'll have access to all the information you need to find out." Mr. Windsor's voice shifted to something almost sarcastic, "We have a well funded music program, if that's a major concern as well."

"Sure. I'll think about it." Lars stood, stretching, "But know I'm not that broken up about the death of strangers."

"Wait--" Lars didn't wait. He slipped out of the cafe, squinting up at the too bright sun. He had time until he graduated, and he'd prefer to leave people like that brewing in the uncertainty. He knew his answer. Knew he needed to know the mystery of what had happened all those years ago. But for now, the Board could go fuck itself.

//

"You don't have to agree."

"I wasn't aware of that, Uncle Harvey." Lars pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, fingers dancing fast across a variety of documents he'd managed to find. It was just after three in the morning, and thankfully neither of the two them slept. A family trait, Lars guessed.

"Cut the sarcasm. Why are you considering Vales Grove? I know it has nothing to do with their grad program and besides, you hate authority. Becoming a Student Warden and bowing your head to the school is less preferable then walking over a stack of needles barefoot."

He managed to find the page, smoothing out the collection of old articles in front of him. Instead of answering, he pulled back, snapped a photo, and sent it over. Lars could hear when Harvey saw it by the series of swears, "I started considering it when I found out my ancestors fucked over the school's founders over a hundred years ago."

"They did. I didn't tell you because it didn't matter on the grounds you weren't ever going to attend."

"Never say never." Lars stared at the endless notes in front of him. "Next time we meet up, you're gonna teach me about my family tree."

He hung up the phone before Harvey could say anything else.

//

"For people who hate death, your school reeks of it." Lars lounged in the over sized chair in Headmaster Windsor's office. Languidly, he took in the endless certifications and diplomas decorating the wall behind where the man sat. "Anyway, I have a few conditions to my attendance."

"You're incredibly bold to be demanding anything of us."

"Why?" A slow grin spread across Lars' face. "Did you think you and those above you had the power to force me to attend?"

Headmaster Windsor closed his eyes, the mask of patience sliding into place easier than it had when the two had first met. "You're speaking nonsense. Regardless, what are your demands?"

"I want free access to every location and all information available on this campus." He leaned forward before the Headmaster could protest. "This is running off of what you said prior. You promised I could find information on my family, and I know we have strong ties to this school."

"The Board won't be pleased."

"That's a problem you deal with. I couldn't care less about pissing them off. Second, I want to be left alone. I'll join the Student Wardens, however I don't want to be dragged into their duties unless necessary."

"There would be little point in you being here if you refuse to help."

"Let me be clearer. Issues with wraiths and other things that go bump in the night? Fine, I'm there. Ghosts, however? They're about as dangerous as an untuned piano. Grating, sure. But it's not going to kill anyone."

Headmaster Windsor pressed his lips together. "I'll consider it. I'm assuming there's more?"

Lars paused, the desire to press his fingers to his neck, just over his scar, pressing into him. Him and his uncle hashed out everything about what they knew about West Myers, Juniper Valley, and Vales Grove University. From the tragedy of its now closed sister school, Pacific Suncrest, to the his parents' slaughter, to the murder of Luck Magicians which occurred the same year as his parents' death. There were endless things he wanted, some he couldn't access at this school. There was one which he wanted more than all the others.

Lars spoke with the weight of a thousand suns. "I want a list of anyone suspected to have links with the Walking Graves. If you refuse to grant me this information, I refuse to attend."

There'd been a long moment, before Headmaster Windsor had given him his answer.

[loverstrings]

Project Spindle (Chapter Six) - Established Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

She’s always known about her powers, but the truth of where they come from could shatter everything.

a.n - i got very carried away with the chapter... i've also been brainstorming little drabbles of y/n and bucky's relationship and it got me blushing and kicking my feet. i might post it in a few days but we'll see :3

| masterlist |

The Quinjet touched down on a secluded part of the mountain, wind howling outside like a living thing. The area was desolate—far removed from any familiar terrain. A sprawling, industrial facility had been carved into the mountainside, hidden and hostile.

“Stay sharp,” Bucky said, unbuckling his harness. His voice carried over the whir of the cooling engines, low and certain. “We’re walking into a hornet’s nest.”

Y/N stood, posture rigid, the weight of the mission already pressing into her shoulders. Alexei strapped on his gear beside her, grinning like he was about to walk into a bar fight.

“I hope I get to throw a few punches,” he muttered. “It has been too long.”

“Just don’t throw your back out ,” Yelena shot back, smirking

They moved swiftly, exiting the Quinjet and blending into the shadows of the terrain. As they approached the facility, another Quinjet flew overhead—sleek and silent—before landing on a nearby ridge. Sam and Joaquin were already out, sweeping the exterior with their wing systems, red and silver streaks cutting across the sky like twin blades.

Inside, Steve, Wanda, Yelena, and Bucky had already cleared a significant portion of the facility. The halls echoed with the hum of long-dead machinery, the air stale and thick with dust.

“This place is a graveyard,” Steve said, his voice clipped over the comms.

“There’s a lab deeper inside,” Yelena said, squinting at a half-burned schematic pinned to the wall. “We need to destroy it before anyone gets cute and tries to restart whatever they were doing here.”

Wanda nodded, her expression unreadable as scarlet energy shimmered faintly around her fingertips. “Let’s move out.”

Back in the primary Quinjet, Bob sat beside Joaquin, both of them hunched over a cluster of monitors. Joaquin scrolled through internal schematics while Bob flipped between thermal readings and static-laced camera feeds.

“Still no heat signatures,” Bob muttered, adjusting the filters. “But there’s interference. Could be shielding… or something they don’t want seen.”

Joaquin glanced over. “Let’s keep looking. We’ll find them.”

When the group moved inside, the darkness of the facility closed in around them. Everyone spread out, covering angles with careful precision. 

As they pressed forward into the facility, Y/N crouched beside a rusted crate near a dark hallway, one hand hovering near her ear, the other pulsing faintly with pink energy.

“All teams, check in,” she whispered. “Any surprises?”

“Clear here,” Sam’s voice came through. “We’re good to go. Just waiting for the green light.”

“Same here,” Steve added. “No movement. We’re watching the corners.”

“We’re in position,” Bucky confirmed. “Let us know if anything feels off.”

“You all sound paranoid,” Yelena said dryly. “Relax. We’ve got this.”

“I’m not hearing anything either,” Ava chimed in. “Dead silent.”

Walker’s voice cut in. “Everything’s clear in my section. No signs of movement. I don’t like it. Too quiet.”

“It is too quiet,” Alexei agreed. “Back in Russia, even the wind argues with you. This place? Too polite. I don’t trust it.”

Y/N took a steady breath, eyes flicking down the hallway. The silence was oppressive.

“Alright,” Y/N said into the comm. “Slow and steady. Keep the perimeter tight.”

“You good, Y/N?” Sam asked after a pause “You sound… tense.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Fine,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Just basking in the warm, cozy vibes of the place where they bootlegged my soul.”

A quiet beat—then Bucky’s voice crackled in, dry but fond. “Well, at least they knew you were worth duplicating.”

Someone snorted on the other end—probably Joaquin. Wanda let out a quiet chuckle.

Then Bucky added, gentler, “We’ve got your back.”

“I know,” she said, softer now.

“If anything shifts, I’ll feel it,” Wanda offered. “Just say the word.”

Walker snorted. “So what do I do while the witches sense danger? Just… shine light dramatically?”

Y/N grinned. “Pretty much. Maybe try not to blind yourself this time.”

“Once,” he muttered. “That happened once.”

The chatter faded as the team moved deeper into the complex. They stuck to the shadows, listening for footsteps, whispers—anything. But there was nothing. Only the hum of broken machines and the sharp rhythm of their own heartbeats.

The facility’s lights flickered again, humming low like something was stirring just beyond the veil. Every muscle in Y/N’s body taut. The silence around her didn’t feel like stillness—it felt like a pause. A breath before something broke.

Then the comms erupted, Joaquin’s voice cracking through the quiet. “There’s someone in the hallway!” he shouted, panic rising fast. “He just appeared from no where. ”

Bob’s voice followed, breathless and urgent. “He doesn’t have anything. No weapons, no armor. He’s not geared at all. But—I don’t know what the hell he is. Just be ready. Really ready.”

Y/N’s breath caught as she looked up, locking eyes with Bucky across the dim hallway. He was already alert, standing protectively near Steve, both shifting into defensive stances. Wanda raised one hand, her fingers curling with a familiar pulse of red light. No one needed to say a word. 

And then, without warning, he was just… there.

No footsteps. No door opening. One moment, the hallway was empty—and the next, the man stood in the middle of it. Still. Calm. Unarmed.

His gaze swept across them with quiet confidence, hands relaxed at his sides. No threat in sight, yet Y/N’s instincts screamed. Her heart pounded louder. She knew this feeling—that bone-deep sense that something ancient and wrong had stepped into the room.

He carried no weapons, but he felt more dangerous than anyone she’d ever faced. Wanda moved closer to Y/N, her magic flaring brighter. Steve’s grip tightened around his shields. Bucky didn’t so much as blink.

Y/N said nothing. She rose slowly to her feet as the air around her thickened, swirling like a gathering storm. Her boots lifted from the ground—an inch, then two—levitating with eerie grace. Pink energy curled like smoke around her fingers. Her eyes never left him.

He looked right at her—and smiled.

The man stepped from the shadows of a wide chamber—tall, composed, utterly unfazed by their weapons now raised and trained on him. But he didn’t so much as flinch.

Y/N’s breath hitched, a cold ripple sliding down her spine. Her power crackled at her fingertips, energy coiling like a spring ready to snap.

She didn’t know him. Not his face, not his voice. That strange magic that clung to him was unfamiliar—dangerous. She floated forward, eyes narrowing with a mixture of suspicion and steel.

“Everyone, I need you guys to back up alright,” she said without turning. “Nobody fires. I want to hear what he thinks he’s doing.”

The team hesitated, thrown. Sam opened his mouth to argue, shield ready in his hand, but her voice cut sharper this time. Her eyes met theirs, glowing softly with a quiet pink light that pulsed with restrained power and unspoken warning—a subtle reminder that she was in control, and this was her fight. “I said back off, please.”

Reluctantly, they slipped behind a nearby pillar, weapons drawn but no one advancing. They stayed close enough to keep the man in sight, tension hanging heavy in the air. Even Bucky didn’t challenge her. Wanda stayed, silently to Y/N’s side, her aura pulsing red like a thunderhead ready to burst.

The man stood his ground, calm and unmoved. Tall and sharp-edged, his sun-kissed skin contrasted with the dark, clockwork-patterned suit masking half his face. As he stepped into the light, the mask shifted—revealing piercing green eyes that gleamed with cold amusement.

Despite the standoff, he moved with unsettling calm, as if the danger didn’t concern him. Wanda’s red aura flickered beside Y/N like a gathering storm, yet the man’s steady gaze seemed to swallow the tension whole.

“You’ve got the wrong idea,” the man said, voice low—almost a warning. “I’m just here as an informant. To tell you what Hydra did to you. Stuff you won’t find in any file.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered in her ears. She didn’t flinch. “Then tell me. What exactly did Hydra do?” He took a slow step forward, hands raised—half surrender, half threat. A flicker of something dangerous passed behind his eyes.

Y/N didn’t wait.

Her telekinesis surged, slamming him against the wall with a brutal crack. A heartbeat later, Wanda’s magic snapped around him in a shimmering red stasis field, locking him in place. Y/N tilted her head, voice like steel. “You’re not calling the shots. You came to talk? Then talk.”

He grimaced, forcing the words out, clipped and bitter. “I’m no one’s enemy—at least, not anymore. I’ve been cleaning up Hydra’s mess. Taking out the remnants. One by one. Working my way backwards… until there was only you two left.”

He looked between them.

“You’re the source,” he said to Y/N. “She’s the prototype.” A nod toward Wanda. “Hydra never wanted just power. They wanted control. And everything else… started with you.”

Wanda’s aura flared. “Are you done with the bullshit? Or are you actually going to give us answers?”

He chuckled, dry and cold. “You think that was the bullshit? I did your dirty work because you both left. You think you want the truth? You don’t. Not really.”

Y/N’s voice dropped, quiet but raw. “Then what do you want from me?”

His smirk was slow, bitter. A faint flicker of orange crossed his eyes—too quick to catch, too strange to ignore. “For you—both of you—to understand. To know what Hydra did before they wiped you clean.”

Sam stepped forward first, shield raised and wings unfurled behind him, eyes sharp and searching. “Y/N, Wanda—talk to us! What’s going on? We don’t want this to get out of hand.”

Bucky was close behind, gun drawn, tension radiating off him. On the other side, Steve moved in tandem with Yelena, his sleek Wakandan shield up. Yelena had her blades ready, eyes locked on the pinned figure.

Still restrained, the stranger didn’t move. Y/N’s hold on him wavered slightly as she lowered herself toward the ground, fatigue flickering across her features. Wanda’s red energy surged, compensating—her aura now bearing the full weight of the stasis field as Y/N’s power eased back.

Sam’s voice came again, cracking through the charged air. “We can’t help if you shut us out, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

Then, with no warning, Y/N’s telekinesis burst outward—controlled, but forceful. The team staggered back, unprepared for the wave. In the commotion, Y/N’s hand brushed her own earpiece—and Wanda’s—disconnecting them with the barest flick of her fingers.

Steve and Yelena reached for the keypad, Bucky and Sam stumbling to recover. “Shit!” Yelena hissed as her foot caught on a loose floor panel. She hit the ground hard, teeth clenched.

Before anyone could regain footing, Y/N’s power struck again—a sharp pulse that cracked the keypad with a metallic snap. The door stuttered, then locked, sealing them in.

They fell forward in a heap—limbs tangled, breath caught, adrenaline rushing.

Bob and Joaquin watched the hallway feed, eyes locked on the screen. “Damn,” Joaquin muttered, shaking his head. “She really knocked y’all on your asses.”

Alexei’s dry chuckle crackled through the comms. “Ha. Very funny.”

“No joke—she moves fast,” Joaquin said. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Whoa. Even her eyes are glowing brighter now. You seeing this, Bob?”

“Yeah,” Bob replied, his voice low, calm, but tight with concern. “That’s her ‘someone’s about to get fucked up’ look.”

He leaned forward, studying every twitch in her energy, every flicker of movement.

“She’s levitating again,” Joaquin added, almost to himself. “Higher this time. Almost matching Wanda.”

Bob nodded slightly. “We better have a solid plan ready. Backup. Exit routes. This kind of power doesn’t fade quietly.”

Walker’s voice cut in, sharp and dry. “How the hell do we get out? The keypad’s jammed.”

“You can hotwire it?” Joaquin asked quickly. “I might be able to override the system from here—”

Bucky’s voice broke in over the comms, steady and sure. “We can hotwire the door. She knows that. But she locked us out for a reason. To keep us clear. She’s making the call. Wanda too.”

Steve was already scanning the room, eyes narrowed, methodical. “Is there any opening we missed? Angle we can use to get a shot at the guy?”

Joaquin gave a slow shake of his head. “No. Nothing. Dead silence. And comms are down from their side.”

A murmur rippled through the group—frustration and uncertainty mounting. Sam’s voice broke through, calm but grounded in reality. “There’s not much we can do right now. Joaquin, Bob, can you try tapping into the hallway cams? Get us visual and audio if you can. Hand the feed over to Redwing so we can monitor. We need to be ready.”

Walker narrowed his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look, I’m all for dramatic standoffs, but maybe we figure out his name before he blows this place up."

Ava crossed her arms. “Yeah, great plan. Interrogate the shadows with what—good intentions? We’re blind unless Joaquin and Bob find something.”

Sam cut back in, voice tight over comms. “Joaquin, Bob, pull up anything you can from the system. We’ve already got access—dig deep. And hotwire the door, but don’t open it until I give the word. We can’t have her worrying about us. Wanda’s still in there with her.”

Joaquin cracked his knuckles. “On it. Let’s see what this ghost left behind.”

----

series taglist: @rafesgurl, @seventeen-x, @moompie, @starstruckfirecat, @torntaltos, @rlphunter, @shootingstars-stuff

[bumblingbabooshka]

Thinking about marriage/women's rights on Vulcan Some may think that T'Pring not being allowed to divorce Spock was because he was going through the pon farr but if she were allowed to divorce him at all she probably would have done that a long time ago, confirmed by T'Pol when she's speaking with Koss, who isn't suffering from the pon farr. She says that he can choose another mate (without invoking a fight it seems: note the difference between a 'mate' and a 'challenger') and after he makes it clear that nothing she says will change his mind about marrying her, she finally threatens to declare a kal-if-fee. It's clear that Vulcan women cannot divorce/refuse to marry a man they've been betrothed to under any circumstances if A) He himself doesn't consent to ending their marriage or B) She doesn't have someone else waiting in the wings to be given to in his stead. Though, if the challenger she selects fails to win the fight, she'll have to marry her betrothed anyway unless (again) he decides he doesn't want her after the challenge. That seems like an incredibly unfair system, heavily biased towards men. SNW is an alternate universe in many obvious respects but most egregiously in that T'Pring has a lot of non-canonical agency over her relationship with Spock. It's interesting to me that Vulcan society has women in many positions of power and treats women as equal to men from what I've seen despite these laws. We don't really see Vulcans exhibiting a misogynistic attitude towards women in general but in TOS (perhaps because of its general writing style but it's still interesting to note) both Sarek and Spock take on patriarchal attitudes specifically regarding wives. Amanda says that 'of course' Sarek commands her because "he is a Vulcan and I am his wife." It's worthwhile in my eyes to note that she specifies 'wife' instead of attributing this attitude to women as a whole. Again, with TOS' writing style it wouldn't be out of place for her to say "he is a man and I am a woman." Spock, while in a pon farr induced irritation, states that it's "undignified for a woman to play servant to a man that isn't hers" - again implying that there's something specific about being a Wife in Vulcan society which is different from being a woman in general and demands subservience to a husband. This could perhaps stem from the extreme sense of ownership that Vulcan law has permitted men to have over women. A woman legally cannot point blank refuse marriage. There is no option which guarantees she won't have to marry her betrothed other than death. When T'Pau speaks of T'Pring she refers to her as being 'property' and Stonn, before being interrupted, states he's made 'the ancient claim' - we don't know what this is because he gets cut off but it's obvious they're both using the language of Vulcan law. Men are permitted true freedom to choose. If a woman wants to choose someone else to be with there is no option available to her other than the kal-if-fee which might result in the death of the one she wants to be with. And, if her lover fails, her husband can still just decide he wants to marry her and she'll be forced to. T'Pring gives two scenarios: One where Spock 'frees' her and one where he doesn't - it's still ultimately his decision which is clear when he ends the conversation with "Stonn, she is yours." This again isn't just because of the pon farr as T'Pol also goes through this. Koss can choose another mate and when the option is talked about there's no implication that this would result in any sort of fight (both by the casualness of its mention and by the fact that there's no formal word for it unlike the kal-if-fee.) Also, the fact that Koss does eventually grant T'Pol a divorce and it's all fine means that T'Pol isn't lawfully required to have another man waiting if her HUSBAND doesn't want her. It's ONLY required if SHE doesn't want her husband. Tradition must take precedence over individual desire UNLESS!!! You're a man. Then it's fine. Like, your parents might not be happy but legally you're golden.

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

"Orcs are pure evil" feels more like a Jackson movie viewpoint than a Tolkien one because those movies had a very simplistic, black and white view of the Orcs. They were just the Dark Lords cruel minions who only lived to fight, eat, and kill. Tolkien's conception of them was more nuanced. They weren't pure evil, more a pitiful people, virtually broben beyond all repair by the cruelty of their maker.

There were Orcs in LOTR who talk about being sick of fighting for Sauron and wanted to just leave. He also wasn't opposed at all to the idea that there were Orc women:

The writers of Rings of Powers seem to subscribe more to Tolkien's view of the Orcs than Jackson's, showing us the deep rooted tragedy of the Orcs. They're not saying that Orcs are actually good, but only that they are not simply just one thing.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

curious as to what the merch buying experience was like when txf was airing. could you go to the mall's hot topic and get shirts? buttons? posters? were fans making and selling this stuff at cons? i heard there was a video game- where did you buy that? was it fun? and then i heard something about comic books, too- is that correct? were they any good?

tell me everything.

[morrigan-sims]

Pirate Outfts

I was bored, so I started trying some different outfits on Zara... The last one might be my favorite, if only because I already used another swatch of the first one for Wolf, and I can't have them wearing the same thing... But I also love being able to see all her freckles in the 2nd one...

[galacticlamps]

I don't want to get too caught up on semantics but I have to say I really feel like it's an unfair reading of the situation to call what Charles does in the Staircase Scene a "rejection."

I've already talked about how I think that scene's strength lies in the act of telling itself and Edwin's confession as the conclusion of his self-discovery arc. And I understand how the fact that that arc involved things like sexuality & attraction left it open to being viewed under a sort of romance-plot-specific lens, but evaluating the whole thing on that criteria still feels like a misrepresentation.

I don't think Edwin is saying "Love me" in that scene. Maybe he would've been asking for that, if this had all happened under different circumstances - and sure, generally, he'd presumably like that to happen - but it'd still be a kind of insane request for him to make right as he's being literally rescued from hell. (Especially since, even though the audience & Charles can both see the rescue as so in-character we might take it for granted, Edwin clearly didn't, if his consistently surprised confused & appalled reactions to Charles being there are anything to go by). I think he's feeling very loved already at that point, and I have a hard time believing desperation to simply have that reiterated is what drove him to speak up at such an inopportune moment.

I think what he's really saying there is "Hear me" - and as a listener and a confidant, Charles does anything but reject him. Maybe it's splitting hairs a bit, but if the distinction between "please don't turn me down" and "please understand the person in front of you" matters anywhere, it's in relation to Charles' response because he is so accepting of the confession as a confession. Not only does he take what Edwin tells him well, despite it being the sort of thing that might rock the foundation of the most important relationship in his existence, he also accepts the fact that Edwin is in such a vulnerable and worked up state that he has to do it right now despite it endangering them both. Charles would, truthfully, be totally justified in mostly ignoring it or passing over it quickly and inconclusively, insisting that this wasn't the time or place - but instead everything he says and does in that scene is geared toward giving Edwin's announcement the attention & understanding he needs so badly - and that includes responding with honesty about his own feelings, even if they might not otherwise be exactly what you'd want to hear after declaring your love for someone. Charles takes his time (perhaps foolishly, but certainly necessarily) and gives Edwin a response that is warm and familiar, while also being kind, affectionate, open, serious, and above all correspondingly worthy of the weight of the thing Edwin has just entrusted him with. That seems an awful lot to pass over simply because he doesn't also happen to be in love with him too.

Edwin's confession is so not a come-on that whether or not Charles reciprocates the romantic element is, at best, secondary to his overall reaction, and using that piece of it to call the whole thing a rejection feels like a very inaccurate shorthand to get in the habit of using as a summary of his role in the scene.

[celtrist]

Why does Vassago already have merch, we haven't even met him yet

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

SiirrrrRE

MILES AXELROD GET THE FFFUCK

OUT OF MY WORKPLACE GARAGAGE MOTHERFUCKGIJTBT GOD DAMMITTT!!!!!! AWEERRHAAAAAAAAAAHAHGYG

All it cost me was my glasses and the massive grime and grease stain across my forehead now. I swear I'm not beyond-fucked insane when I say that the damn oil smelt like brown sugar what was that. Think that was the messiest I ever got fixing a car cause magically I did not care about anything anymore.

I uh. Hit the tag limit but I'm sure this will still pop up if I search his name in my blog search feature.

[seventh-district]

again and again i find myself lamenting that audio roleplay isn't taken more seriously by some people. like yeah, they often have a romantic element, and by nature they usually directly involve/address the listener- and i totally get that those things aren't to everyone's taste. no art or entertainment is universally appealing, and that's okay! but.. it still makes me a lil sad that the "cringe" reputation of asmr/audio rp precedes it. there's a whole lot of talent and creativity being poured into these audios by so many people that i feel goes unrecognized and/or disrespected simply due to the medium that the stories are being told through.

[lostin2012]

“#I am a little overcome with love for him and I want everyone else to be too. I hope it’s infectious” It seems like everybody who researches him becomes infatuated with him in some way

How could you not be... very charming animal

[kenzan-brainrot-mp4]

Have been getting quite a few people recently telling me that they really enjoy my yap posts RAHHHHH thank u guys....

[13eyond13]

Hi I noticed you have been in the deathnote fandom for a long time. Do you know some changes the fandom/ships went through? I already know that the misogyny towards misa used to be terrible

Thanks 🙏

Hi! Yes, I've been here a long time lmao So from what I can recall things have actually stayed pretty remarkably the same when it comes to the popularity of the ships and dynamics in this series. Lawlight has always been the most popular ship, followed closely by M2 (Matt x Mello). However back in the mid/late 2000s it was different in terms of certain things, like the way the ships were referred to. For example, there was no such thing as a nickname for a ship as a whole back then - you didn't call it "Lawlight," you called it either "L/Light" or "Light/L." You had to specify which of the two you liked as the top by putting their name at the start of the pairing. They were treated almost like they were two entirely different ships, and people would definitely get upset if you weren't terribly careful about specifying this when posting shippy fics and things. This changed sometime between 2009-2012, maybe? Possibly around when "Brangelina" and celebrity couple nicknames like that became a thing in pop culture, lol. I am personally glad things are no longer this fussy about labeling and defining the ships, because I find it dumb and possibly a bit offensive towards gay folks to be that obsessive about their bedroom dynamics above all else. But I definitely still see people get very particular about their preferences for this stuff when it comes to their discussions of the ships these days too, so I might be the odd one out here. Overall I'd say tolerance towards diversity of the pairings and appreciation of the more minor characters has increased? Stuff like pairing L with Matsuda or having het ships like B x Naomi wasn't terribly common back then, from what I remember. People won't hate on you and fight with you as much for daring to enjoy depicting the characters with somebody other than their fave in a story or a piece of art nowadays, either (like "how dare you pair L with somebody other than Light!" - this was a very common thing to hear back in the early fandom days, and people would often act like you were "cheating" on a character by shipping them with somebody other than the character they decided they belonged with.) And fans have also started showing more appreciation for the female characters and attempting to be more inclusive toward them than they used to be. There is a bit less hatred of characters like Near and more shipping of him now as well. Many people were extremely dismissive of him back in the day, and he has definitely grown in popularity over time.

In general I think the fandom has chilled out and diversified and become more tolerant and deeper and more accurate with the characterization in its discussion of the series overall, but I still often will see the exact same takes and trends and tastes and arguments going on now as I used to see back in 2008. Especially when I step outside of the Tumblr bubble and back into a broader/more casual group of fans talking about the series and their faves.

[offthewall1979]

my review of Moonwalk: hot mess. ★★★.