#perhaps it's something of an inherent selfishness

[belovay]

yelena is, and i cannot stress this enough, not a superhero.

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𖦹. “𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐖𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔?” — (𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘)

𖦹. — 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. as they say, every innocent church boy has once been fucked by their cute friend in a bustling cafe, at least once—right? or something along the lines of that. 8.4k words. (unplanned.)

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . purest of people, male sydney who so stupidly thought this was merely meant to be a study session, dubious consent that slowly morphs into full-on yearning, established friendship, cock sucking, fingering, anal fucking all in the holiest of pretext to teach, manipulative, model student, male reader (amab) that really just means well, yeah. least, sydney thinks so while being bent in half.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, doc?: “I think he was cute to begin with, but then he patted at his belly spouting some shit about how ‘warm’ it was after my pc shot his load inside and I’ve never needed anything more than to bend some bitch over in the cathedral they pray to.”

Although it may have been unfortunately irritating to some, actually, more like many, really—he’s always truthfully prided himself for his unwavering professionalism and unmatched dedication when it came to school itself. More notably, his unending studies that seemingly only keep on piling up like an intimidating mountain never meant to be ultimately finished.

Or perhaps, what he’s naturally grown more accustomed to for having blindly pursued it for the entire span of his youthful, blossoming life; the Temple’s dictating principles—the questionable need and obligation to importantly preserve his untainted being, virginity, to be more precise. Dutifully stray himself further from the tempting sin that is, well. . . the numerous activities of life itself, most of which his peers mindlessly participate in themselves. As though they could hope to pitifully understand the church boy’s stifling path towards the underlying answers he continuously seeks, strives forward in an unnerved will to earnestly discover.

See, there’s undeniably no need to try and somehow explain the sheer amount of efforts Sydney irrefutably puts in to eventually achieve his long-term goals, correct?

At least, he’s positively and oh, so naively thought so up till now. Ah, brother Jordan’s perpetually warned him of others that may possibly lead him astray, whether intentionally so or not. Stray, golden, strawberry blonde strand of hair delicately placed behind the curved tip of his heated ear, well-preserved lips discreetly pursued inwards into a thinly veiled frown because honestly—he’s confidently speculated of you as otherwise, hm. And weren’t you supposedly meant to be his sole salvation of sparkling light and reprieve from that terrible and horribly selfish town you both regrettably reside in?

Which, couldn’t be more wrong for that matter—could he? Foolishly and frustratingly so, all too trusting that he can sometimes be. Consistently mindful of the potential threats that lay at bay, promising utter defilement if given the chance to swiftly sink their claws and pearly canines in the tender flesh of the boy’s untouched being.

Particularly, not this time it seems—not with your overly distracting presence perfectly positioned in front of his calmly seated own.

If it were anyone else, certainly they would’ve predictably seen this coming way before he has so, but pristine innocence itself—has always been the initiate’s first and foremost, silly shortcoming, hasn’t it? Oh, pointlessly stupid, Sydney. . . It’s inherently your fault for happily sticking along to the deceptively beautiful place that is, the starving tiger’s drooling maw, yeah?

So, really—it’s merely natural for it to have somehow derailed the way it did. An absently made lie to falsely convince himself of such, that he’s indeed above the rest of this sickeningly pervasive town in return, isn’t he? Right??

Unlikely. For as the all too well-known saying allegedly goes; the excessively ambitious bird unreasonably flew close towards the infinitely scorching sun, right?

Hah—

“. . .What are you doing?” Curiously peering upwards from the neatly laid and spread sheets of papers he’s meticulously sorted atop the creaking, wooden table. Almost faltering in the instinctual, heated sigh that’s bound to solemnly come out of his usually quiet mouth as his shimmering gaze automatically locks with your. . . annoyingly bored one, apparently. Since, what’s the exact point to be pleasantly inquiring him with the delightful idea to silently study together in some bustling cafe stationed nearby if you, yourself—won’t even tentatively participate in your aforementioned suggestion, huh??

“Studying.” Poorly fabricated falsehood at most, he can effortlessly see through that. Straying eyes sluggishly evading his as if to secretly rid yourself from some misplaced guilt incessantly residing within your thudding chest. Though, swiftly recovering with a quipped, cheeky retort of your own soon after—as it is so expectantly common of you to do, yet still. . . can’t truly bring himself to be sincerely annoyed by that endearing antic of yours. “—and modestly admiring the view in front of me. I can’t do that?”

Hmph, that sole and insignificant compliment shouldn’t have suddenly brought forth a crimson flush to his cheeks, beautifully painted his complexion a deeper hue for your. . . ah, so stupidly childish, cherry lips to unabashedly grin back at in muted satisfaction for his lack of response. Ahah, pretty please—do get a grip on yourself, Sydney, before he’s indecently ruined you too!

Seriously. . . For a well renowned model student collectively respected by most at the establishment you two simultaneously attend—you’re ostensibly quite the sneaky trickster on multiple occasions, aren’t you? Especially towards him for some particular reason which, he hasn’t remotely registered as to why yet. Yes, he’s been somehow oblivious to your unmistakably evident flirting during all this incessantly wasted time because well, that’s how he’s been continuously raised to be, despite the strikingly opposite demeanour of his other parent, Sirris.

However, fine. The religious boy might as well reluctantly grant you this momentarily acquired victory for his infuriatingly stunned silence to eventually catch up to, someday. Arrogantly emboldened by that mind muddling smile you oh, so proudly wear amongst your enraptured features—further pushed towards the edge by the reasonable expectation that he’s bound to similarly allow you to selfishly step all over him as so many others do, but no. . . Not today, considering the weighted amount of importance he relentlessly dedicates to maintaining nearly perfect grades amidst his plentiful classes.

Merely an exception made for that one tiring, swimming course however, as athleticism and specifically, raw stamina has unluckily never been his main strong suit. Truly no need to embarrassingly reminisce upon the various moments he’s nearly drowned in the incessant, violent waves of water within the limited pool, helplessly fought for his life in that surely. . . dangerous area. At least, he nearly thinks of it so—unless, some other snickering students were the guilty culprits responsible of disrespectfully splashing loads of liquid in his unfortunate direction? Oh, that too.

Though, that harmless treatment seemingly ceased altogether the second you consequently stepped into his previously mundane life. Huh. An enigma, indeed. Must be what gaining a friend in your reclusive bubble similarly does, probably. Yes, probably. Unbeknownst to the agitated huffs and shrill shrieks delinquents ultimately make at the sheer sight of your figure constantly sticking to his blissfully ignorant side, y’know—like a true, amiable friend does, right?

“You said we’d only be coming here to study, but all you’ve been doing for the past hour is just. . . staring at me! Do I have something on my face? Is that it?? Or is it—really, really that amusing to poke fun at me, huh??” Stubbornly settled upon the illogical fact that this is unquestionably a ploy methodically thought out by yours truly, objectively intended to spur him in a state of constant nervousness and mumbling bashfulness around you. Well, that is to say, he’s not sparingly letting you off the hook this time, no!

Conclusively blind to the sudden thump! he’s sorely responsible for by—of course, hastily slamming the dusty cover of his used, worn book downwards, fiercely landing itself against the furniture’s now disorganized surface. And there he inevitably goes as per expected, apprehensively jumping in fright to his own undoing with a clumsy huff. Immediate jolt coursing throughout the entirety of his curved spine upwards before finally, nearly losing balance of his glassed frames delicately placed atop the curvature of his pointed nose.

Oh. Maybe he’s—uncontrollably lost his cool there, huh. Talk about being humiliatingly disruptive in an otherwise, intimately tranquil space solely reserved for relaxing and such. Fortunately, it seems you’ve mainly reserved a private space firstly for that, having feasibly anticipated that sudden, usually concealed temper of his.

“Ah. . . Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud. I’m just slightly confused and frustrated at the same time because you said you’d—we’d study together for once, and I was looking forward to it, you know?” Ultimately deciding upon awkwardly easing the persistent prickle within the all-too delicate curve of his bobbing throat or, is it his ears, maybe? Forsaken by how sheer embarrassment comes to muddle his aimless apologies, strains his well-placed, intentional words in a desperate attempt at making you understand that first and foremost—he genuinely cherishes the preciously made, quality time you both simultaneously spend together. No matter how futile or short-lived it may be in the face of. . . unavoidable external factors like the distinctly noisy school bell, yet there’s no such rule when it comes to that, especially outside of the school’s limited bounds.

Although, evidently—he only intends for that to be solely interpreted as a friend namely would because certainly. . . the insistent butterflies that wildly flutter within the depths of his tensed tummy, has his thumping heartbeat hurriedly beating against the cage of the flustered boy’s chest is—something most friends frequently experience when the other is decisively near, yes?

. . .Certainly so. There’d be no other explicit reason as to why—the initial shock at his spurred reaction is soon dampened by a slight snicker from your cunning mouth. My, do you actually find the irritated pout presently adorning his puckered lips all that funny, too?

“You have a lot to say on the matter, I see. It’s true, I did make you come here to study with me—but, don’t you think your way of studying is pretty inefficient, Syd?” Purely uninterested in whatever recent remarks he’s made up till and, oh my god—do you ever faithfully listen to him or merely play coy with the poor, naive initiates to your hearts content? Incidentally irked at how a hint of curiosity tentatively peeks forward at your unforeseen commentary, has his nose scrunched upwards in utter bewilderment.

Inefficient? Him?? To say, he’s notoriously prided himself on swiftly achieving far more of the Temple’s various duties and additionally, more than a few unmotivated members that garner no interest towards the establishment’s dedicated ambition. Unsurprisingly so, preferring to sluggishly dust at some messied rooms laid askew, here and there—which, largely ends in one carelessly dozing atop the tousled beds, even going so far as to set the unused broom aside like it’s particularly nothing!

“M-Me?? You think my method of studying is inefficient? How so? What’s unfulfilling about it?” Overwhelmingly astonished, perhaps more taken aback as to why you might necessarily think so considering his sticking-to-the-books methods he habitually executes with thought out grace. Still, can’t stubbornly deflect such a statement if the model student himself is the one lamentably pointing that out. . . .Is he really, though?

“Hm, let’s put it this way—what’s the point of studying if the methods used aren’t efficient and doesn’t aid in easing your brain into learning, huh? Like for example, what’s your second weakest subject in school again?” Thoughtful mind earnestly coming into focus at the subtle nudge of your teasing foot provokingly pressed against his crossed one beneath the low-end table as if to. . . ahah, temporarily catch him off guard, impatiently center the focus of his working brain onto you—as if, he isn’t doing that already. Sometimes, or more like the majority of it all, you truthfully do act like a petulant child eagerly begging for its parents unwavering attention.

And that, he’ll happily give forth to you if such is needed. Solely if you wistfully promise to do the same in return, of course—fair trade and all, regardless of the inborn selflessness he proudly possesses. Properly trimmed fingertips timidly curling inwards in mild embarrassment at having to carefully admit this aloud to you, of all people, despite already consciously knowing it yourself, too.

“Well, I mean—you know what it is, it’s. . . science, I suck at science. Despite my mom’s teachings, I just can’t seem to grasp the material properly no matter how hard I study. Maybe, I’m just really bad at it.” Alright, honestly. . . that little sore admission of his, did somewhat drain whatever lingering aspirations he potentially withheld earlier in hopes of truly understanding the inexplicably difficult basis of that confusing subject. Shoulders sorrowfully slumping downwards, resembling that of a—funnily enough, dejected little puppy that’s been meanly kicked by its owner or better put, crudely denied a sweetened treat for its lacking efforts.

“But, ah—you’re pretty good at science, aren’t you? In fact, you’re my mom’s favourite! She talks about you nonstop, all the time. To the point that it gets a lil’ bit annoying, though I can’t really complain, can I? That’s just how good of a student you are, after all!” And there it comes, as endlessly expected. . . an unspoken plea for your eventual needed aid that’ll be so nicely granted in due time, since—well, that’s exactly why you’ve generously brought him here, correct?

“. . .So, is it fine if you taught me instead? I feel like I’d understand it better if it came from your mouth. Your way of explaining is more comprehensible than my mom’s weird—you know, comparisons to. . . uhm, uh. . . sex, every time.” Merely articulating that singular, oh so dreadful word causes a pronounced shiver to noticeably make its way throughout the passage of his tensed spine. Yes, yes, it’s expectantly natural to participate in these sort of activities—that he’s exceptionally informed of. Even if briefly envisioning your normally unperturbed self in those indecent situations further stokes the burning ache in his groin like no tomorrow.

God, coming forth to visit the confession booth would serve him some good right now, wouldn’t it? Enough of that, however—alternatively wishing to concentrate upon the more pressing matter at hand as he meekly regards you with irresistible, puppy doe eyes from underneath the reflective rims of his glasses. Oh, oh. Surely, you wouldn’t have the stone cold heart to selfishly refuse him of such?

“Pretty please? I’ll think of a way to repay you, I promise! Swear! We could. . . ah, even do a pinky promise if you wanna, too?” Candidly clasping his palms together with a resounding slap!—an ushered and frantic request for you to explicitly accept as though, you’re his sole remaining hope. Which sort of is the case considering his lacking amount of friends, unfortunately so.

Idiot. Haven’t your parents ultimately taught you better than to credulously place your barren trust in a deceptively attractive boy? One whose glimmering eyes shamelessly ogles at his silken skin like he were a freshly ripe, juicy peach shortly prepared—prettily available for the taking? Yours, especially.

Don’t think so.

“Sure thing, I could do that for you. What kind of friend would I be if I couldn’t, anyway?” Nodding pleasantly in return to the uttered query and to say, he admittedly didn’t expect to necessarily get this far with you when taking into account your supposed habit of—however irritating it may be, to gleefully demand some sort of payment in exchange. As to what that may conceivably entail? That, he’s thoroughly uncertain of in the worst way possible, to be fully left in the shadowed, lurking dark like this. . . But, no way you’ll likely insist upon a suggested favour for something this straightforward, huh??

“Though, you know—“ Oh, never mind! Legitimately, what did he wholeheartedly assume to himself to begin with?? “My way of studying when it comes to particular subjects like science is. . . pretty specific. I’m just letting you know in case, cuz’ knowing you—you’d start squirming at the mere idea of it, alright?” Slight prickle of hesitation finding itself within the swelling of his held breath, wondering as to precisely what you may perhaps, be indirectly referring to for an added precaution to be meticulously placed beforehand. “—And just an important reminder that you specifically asked for this first. . .”

“So, don’t back out on me now, Sydney.”

“Huh? What do you mean by tha—“ Hitched breath immediately faltering in its wake, momentarily tipping backwards to then, clumsily land atop the cushioned beanbags squishy exterior with a sudden, delicate oomph! Fluttering lashes and eyes instinctively squeezing shut out of pure, utter reflex on his end from mostly, having wrongly anticipated something else altogether. No, no—it wasn’t a melting kiss, at all!—what’re you talking about? Nevertheless, please wilfully ignore the modest pucker of his peachy, expectant lips.

And for a supposedly fast-working brain, it fails to rightfully catch up to the salacious absurdity of your inexplicable gestures in time—accordingly process the unforeseen, present warmth of your lingering palm neatly settled along the creeping edge of his inner thigh. Affectionately smoothing over the ruffled material of his perfectly fitted trousers poorly concealing the natural curve of the flustered initiate’s slimmer legs.

“W-Wha. . . ? What’re you doing??” Like that’ll presently answer the mind boggling questions hastily swirling throughout the crowded turbulence of his psyche, somehow appease the searing, unbearable heat intimately dusting his blooming face so—ah, damn it. You’re unreasonably too close to his dearly cherished proximity, you know that? But, of course you would, as you’ve always been pleasantly considerate of his preferred need to retract away from other’s unwelcoming touches—grazing nearly too close for his supposed liking before he’s mentally keeling over like a screeching, hot boiling kettle. And here he is, similarly blazing in that same hysterical manner from the mere dizzying proximity you’re now both sharing amongst two boys, which. . . really shouldn’t be remotely happening, at the moment.

Yes, honestly speaking—even if he doesn’t like to presently face the evident cues on their own, he’s got a semblance of a rather. . . lewd vision curiously peeking through the tendrils of the blonde’s usually enclosed mind. Sorrowfully rearing its ugly head towards a blissfully ignorant alternative as if to mock the very delicate fabric your esteemed friendship is crucially built upon.

Ah, really!—now isn’t the appropriate time to be embarrassingly sporting a straining hard-on crudely presenting itself before your very eyes. Incessantly throbbing like an insistent reminder as to why you two cannot ever supposedly call one another, simply ‘friend’, either. Nor should the even more humiliating way your expanding pupils are coolly drawn towards its shape that’s poorly hidden underneath the slim material, be his ultimate undoing. Akin to how a drooling predator has seized its prey right beneath the inescapable grasp of its unrelenting claws.

Speaking of such, he does somewhat feel that way right now, timidly shrinking in face of your sheer silence or perhaps, it’s another one of those meddlesome ploys of yours he’s grown familiar with—to further mess with him till he’s inevitably become beet in the fullness of his cheeks. Mhm, surely. . . That’s all there is to it and nothing more.

Although, he’d be more surprised at the clinically made statement that spills forth from your lips soon after, however.

“What does it look like? I’m tutoring you, obviously.” Peering your head slightly to the side as if it weren’t blatantly obvious that you were indeed, purely teaching him how to do whatever this is—and not well. . . however else you can call the current position you forcibly have him in. Noticeably firm grasp atop the pervasive spreading of his open thighs resembling one of those—ah, uh—various videotapes his parent, Sirris, withholds in the back of their popular shop which shall not be named. No, he’d prefer not to reminisce upon its increasingly erotic nature at a consequent time like this one. So irritatingly indecent that he cannot hope to regard you wholly in your eyes, too. Y’know, how is he allegedly meant to do so, anyway??

“A-Are you??” As though, further questioning you twice might potentially snap him from this daze spreading itself amongst his brain tirelessly working overtime—solely intended to make sense of this, even if he’s struggling to keep up with it, himself. “Because I don’t think. . . ah, I really don’t think this is how you usually tutor people.”

“That’s because this isn’t conventional tutoring, Syd. I guess you’ve never done it before, then—since you look. . . . ahah, got that look on your face, again.” Almost tempted to meanly huff back in return for your sheer audacity to snicker in a situation such a this one, yet he stops himself in time. Merely due to the relaxing sound of your laughter discreetly echoing throughout the confidential cubicle you’ve solely reserved for the two of you. Which, ah. . . was it intended to be scandalously used like this from the initial start? Between two promising students supposedly meant to be quietly studying amidst the bustling cafe’s welcoming environment—instead, settled atop each other like the obscure, romance films the initiate secretly views in tranquil privacy?

Oh, gosh—seriously, he cannot take any more of this. And neither can the thumping, warming blood making its way downwards to the swollen tip of his cock, apparently.

“How is this remotely meant to help me understand the teachings of my mother again??” Helplessly craning his neck sideways in a futile attempt to maintain eye contact with yours truly, that is—if you’d oh, so generously give him the time of day to do so. Though, something else subtly inches at him that you’re probably far more interested in reenacting the next unclear footage that’ll present itself in his mom’s class or something along the lines of that.

“Didn’t you know? The body tends to remember better than the mind and you know, you’re pretty forgetful, yourself, at times. I’m just helping you, that’s all. So, be more grateful, will you?” Obviously, no one save for yourself would have a cheekily made up response ready for his reasonable inquiry. Nonetheless, the indistinguishable puff of an unfinished giggle that spilled out of his poorly sealed mouth, wasn’t necessarily done on purpose, either.

Such a shame, yes, that one cannot help but to be intimately pliable under the methodical ministrations of your. . . almost reverent fingertips—not the least bit hasty in your movements and instead, mindful in how your softened palms perfectly cup the surface of the initiate’s quivering thighs. Nor should it further fluster him due to the seamless nature, in which his perched legs presently find themselves hooked along the curvature of your reliable shoulders. Always secretly liked the feel of them, didn’t he? Though, not like he’ll ever outwardly admit it for the life of him—regardless of whichever gruelling trial the Temple dutifully presents before him.

Truly, he should’ve initially seen through your deceptive methods from the mere start, shouldn’t he? But, what is there to do when he’s received such a sheltered upbringing from the slightest second he’s been brought into this tainted world, to begin with? Foolishly taught with repeated chants that certainly many shall eventually come for his pleasurable innocence—beautifully witness it fester underneath caring hands. For the addictive way it prettily spills itself from between bitten lips, nudging teeth poorly serving its purpose by failing to stifle disastrously wanton moans is too nice of a sight, isn’t it?

Yet, by god—could he not have fully anticipated how right it sinfully feels to experience the slippery tip of your tongue tracing across previously untouched skin. Unsure whether to direct his busying hands upon the parting of his open lips in hopes of partially concealing the needy whines your surroundings shouldn’t be privy to pervertedly hearing, by chance. Or, to where your head currently resides and that is, comfortably nestled between quivering legs bound to buckle beneath the sheer weight of your dizzying actions. One precarious moment you’re swiftly chucking the hem of his pants down—and the next, you’re boldly laving the flattening surface of your. . . ah, ah—oh gosh, warm tongue amongst the tensed muscles of his fluttering tummy.

Although, not quite for long as it seems your prime focus descends below to where a pretty, weeping cock embarrassingly greets your line of sight in turn. Inwardly irritated at this stuttering heart of his, beating within the confines of his ribbed cage as your attentive gazes—his, being far more blurry, at this point. Especially, with his unfound glasses laid askew somewhere around here, after being carelessly knocked forth thanks to your tactic pouncing. Quite the gentleman that you can be, at certain times. If not purely acting like an unabashed horndog, which he’ll never verbally say so, but doesn’t mind it in the slightest. Not that it withholds much importance for the time being, not when you’re simply a feathered breath away from making actual contact with his inexperienced cock , and—. . .

Ah, wait! You’re going to make genuine contact with his. . . hah—riddled with sheer and absolute embarrassment to even be uttering that one out in the plains of his clouded mind.

“Y-You’re going to touch there?? You know that’s a dirty place, though—!” Maybe it was an incidental mistake on his part, for requesting that he have his protective and reassuring chastity belt removed, after all. Solely for all intended purposes, of course; that occasionally didn’t have to do with any sinning, no—not due to the crude heat pooling at the bottom of his tummy whenever glimpses of you, by chance—filtered through his distracting brain during solemn prayers. Definitely not.

And yet, still—he makes no sudden movement to personally stop you from doing so, despite the jolting whine that ceremoniously slips past from between bitten lips. Head lolling backwards with a heaved sigh at your experimental lapping of his dribbling tip as though to test the waters, somewhat. . . ? That, or more along the insistent fact that a flicker of relief briefly flashes throughout the frantic beating of his thudding chest, only to immediately still upon your pretty mouth perfectly suited to envelop his length whole. Unashamed in the way you’re practically shoving the, well. . . nicely slim girth of his virgin cock past uncharted lips which, he may or may not have sometimes, fantasized about in the private remnants of his mind. Albeit, at ill suited times whenever you’d linger in the welcoming nature of his timid presence. But, certainly not like this! Truthfully speaking, he had envisioned it to be far more romantic than—ah, your unending exploration of his now vulnerable body bared for your grateful eyes solely.

Yes, not with your admittedly. . . soft lips thoroughly swallowing him down to the hilt that the initiate’s instinctually registered the surface of your throat merely bumping against the leaking head of his cock. Unable to cease the magnetic pull of his expanding pupils drawn to where you’re presently settled—that is, pervasively sucking on his cock and perhaps, either unbothered by the copious smearing of his translucent pre-cum glistening along the puffiness of your lips or, blissfully ignorant of its sticky texture adorning the bottom half of your pleasing face. Unconsciously admire the slight flutter of your twitching eyelashes temporarily caressing along your heated cheeks in sheer, utter concentration dedicated to pleasuring him so. Plus you’re evidently taking delight in the accidental squeeze of his soft thighs pressed against your head—like a pair of warming earmuffs meant for yours to wear, even though it’s the comforting heat of his naked skin instead.

Ah, remarkably so, he must be progressively turning into a pervert himself from the abundant amount of time he’s spent his free days with you. To genuinely revere your debauched state as such, wishfully yearn to bear witness to more of you like this. Considering how he’s grown accustomed to an unperturbed version of yourself delicately fabricated in his pictured mind, untouched by the degeneracy that others around him similarly indulge in. In spite of that, however—there’s an almost gleeful joy to know you’re no exception, divine being that’s shockingly immune to temptation laid at your reaching fingertips.

And you do so boldly reach—in your confident manner that he’s now used to. Stubbornly refusing to relent with the noisy suckling of your slippery mouth enclosed around his inexperienced cock, more like you’re openly relishing in each and every whine that threatens to alert unsuspecting and ignorant customers nearby. Repeatedly tugging on each and every individual strand of your now thoroughly messied hair in a vain plea to at the very least, ease up on that. . . ah, warmth surrounding his sensitive tip, further guided towards the edge from those drawn out slurps!

Oh, that’d be a shame, yes. To be precariously caught in a lewd position like this, for all to see—innocent, ol’ church boy receiving such treatment from the adored model student known by all. Gosh, the inexplicably absurd thought has him pathetically quivering underneath your lips, importantly dedicated to have him shyly swipe a taste of the addictive nature that is, none other than melding sin itself. Because if that is so, the cradling heat of your head preciously nestled between the comfy embrace of his spread thighs. Intimate hold of your fist deliberately stroking along the veiny base of his pulsing length to make up for what your undeniably tight throat unfortunately cannot reach, all the while paying devoted attention to his puffs or rolling breath. Quiver of his puffy bottom lip accompanied by the slight shudder in furrowed, thin eyebrows and noticeably tightening of his neglected balls. Then, he’d graciously welcome it so, with open arms, again and again.

Oh, God and heavenly deities watching from above; please do forgive him so, for the disgraceful noises that are rolling off his stuck-out tongue, too.

Restlessly echoing the methodical scripture of the Bible’s commandments won’t conceivably make up for the erotic act he’s indulging in—and neither for the incoming approach of his release, teetering over the steep edge.

“W-Wait, please—I think, ah. . . My tummy feels all weird and hot inside, a-and I think I’m gon’ cum—I’m cumming—“ Breathlessly announcing beforehand, lest he rudely spilled the sticky mixture of your slippery saliva along with a heavy load of his seed upon your pristine face. Surely, that isn’t his proper intentions whatsoever nor an actual way of repaying you back for coating the entirety of his weeping cock in your wet spit.

But, like the sneaky prankster that you are, that he’s so often reprimanded in the desolate area of the library; you disappointingly retract yourself away from his abused cock in turn, letting it slip free with an audible squelch! and an even lewder pop! to noisily ring throughout the confines of your shared cubicle. Cruelly deprive him of such a well-deserved orgasm that was soon enough, at stake, within reach for his shivering frame to melt into—whine at in sheer protest from the distracting press of your thumb atop his swollen cock head oozing creamy pre for you to appreciatively tut down at.

“Sorry, wifey. You don’t get to cum yet, not till I’m finished prepping you up for the most important part of the lesson. Just a little more. . . —and I promise it’ll feel even better than before, alright?” Behold what you seamlessly do—softly caressing away at the almost spoiled, hidden part of him that was bound to irritatingly swipe at your dizzying hold along his weeping length, though you somehow shush him first for such—as if happily conscious of that predictable response. And he, in turn, cannot hope to go against you for it, either.

Also, wait a second there—did you just casually refer to him as ‘wifey’? Akin to how a husband would’ve ceremoniously called along after his beloved and cherished wife on a sunny afternoon so that she may fetch him a cup of brewed coffee. A seemingly trivial nickname withholding all the spilling adoration one might possess by chance.

However, before he can remotely register that salacious statement and let the lavish heat of his churning bloodstream traverse towards the tip of his ears, you do the honours of redirecting the devious and moist surface of your tongue downwards—below; a forbidden place that he hasn’t necessarily explored due to the overwhelming guilt that’d perturb him in his nonsensical dreams. Resounding squeak at the foreign sensation of something else, something besides the overly nervous pads of his fingertips circling around that flushed rim—worming its way through his previously sealed, puckered hole. Smoothly breaching past what shouldn’t have been disturbed to begin with and, ah—ohhh, that certainly feels. . . weird. Shamefully pleasurable, type of weird, he mentally admits.

“Y-You’re really, hah, pushing it—. . .” If that was supposedly intended to be read as some dignified scolding then, it certainly falls short when wracked between muted babbles. So like you, to reduce him to a pile of mush, that is. Experienced thumbs inching forward, nudging upon the squishy flesh—spreading his asscheeks apart much to his humiliated bearings, in further pursuit of burying yourself in its velvety warm insides. Hot, slippery tongue laving across clenching walls that immediately twitch at your intrusion of the sensitive bundle of nerves, leaving behind crescent marks etched in the softening skin that’s unused to such treatment.

Oh, holy, holy Father—is this what Heaven feels like when you’re warmly enveloped in its comfortable embrace? Because if so, please do not stop until I’ve succumbed to this sinful pleasure.

And Gods from above, forbid that you stretch this on any further then it needs to, maybe due to a cautious need that he fully enjoys himself—however, what he salaciously desires at the moment is for you to remove those fingers that reach further than his does—sinking in the warmth of his greedy hole hungrily sucking at the feel of your two digits. Oh, perish that meaningless thought, now you’ve seemingly allowed another to join in, scissoring at the exceptionally tight ring struggling to adjust to its sudden intrusion. Seamlessly allowing you to be granted a full view of slicked and wet insides, sticky strings of fluids predictably snapping away once you’ve deemed his untainted hole to be sufficiently loosened.

Loosened? That’s—. . . Speaking of the devil, of what will be the one to ‘loosen’ him or perhaps, better put; ‘stretch’ his quivering entrance dumbly clenching around absolutely nothing whatsoever—‘course unless you grant him the selfless permission to be the one to adorably choke around your pretty cock. Dizzyingly bear witness to its pulsating girth imprint itself within the smooth surface of his tummy, bulge at the repeated snap of your hips, hah—that wouldn’t be so bad.

So, you do so—wordlessly gazing in absent thought at the debauched sight you’ve aided in creating. Stray strands of strawberry blonde hair splayed across the softened surface. For the delicate elastic that once held those docile locks have now unraveled anew; such as is the same with those glimmering eyes that would similarly stare back in an absent flush, reduced to a melding pool that wants to swallow all that you allow it to.

Truly, resembling that of a meticulously drawn out masterpiece meant for its sole purpose to be hung in a sophisticatedly built museum, thoroughly admired for all to potentially see. But, no. . . However else, it seems you’ll be the one to intimately keep this ruined appearance of his, to your egoistic self. And for that, he doesn’t withhold any sort of complaints, no—none at all, really.

“You look nice like this. With your loose hair down like this, I mean.” Puffing out almost. . . shyly from between parted lips, straying eyes traversing downwards to where his are, too—that is, your tented bulge showcasing itself through rustling trousers. Silently cursing him for being the sole one to blame for your unusually heated state. Although, there’s a twinge of smugness that secretly peeks through concealed uncertainty for knowing that he’s irrefutably responsible for this. For the fact that your length is dribbling out copious amounts of sticky pre to stain your underwear sheer in a similar debauched manner, restlessly throbbing underneath the weight of his tentative palm placed atop it. So, apparently; even you do get shy, too. Under the necessary circumstances like this one.

“. . . It’s so warm.” Outwardly shuddering at your poorly stifled hiss that drawls past bitten lips meant to fuck, furrowed deepening in dwindling concentration from those explorative rubs of his. Unable to help himself, that is—since it’s far too addictive to feel its hot outline twitching along careful stroking, circling around your leaking tip like a soothing balm dedicated to temporarily satisfy your aching cock. Not for all that long, it supposedly seems and he’s not vocally protesting either.

“Fuck, why do you think that is exactly?” Hitched breath barely slipping from an open mouthed ‘o’ at your snuffed annoyance, for it is so unlike you to be using such crass language to begin with. Albeit, it seems he’s come to unfurl at the methodically placed platitudes you roll yourself in—like a lovingly formed gift adorning a pretty bow atop it all. Maybe greedy of him, to eagerly scratch away at the useless plastic paper he bears no interest in and instead, peer in awe at the tainted sin that greets the church boy in turn.

And for that—he holds no particular answer because he does indeed know as to why you’re churning a heated mess in the depths of your tummy, precariously straining against swiping fingertips that experimentally paw at your now loosened belt. Absently leave it to jingle and sprawl along the carpeted floor to then, let your impatient cock finally spring free from beneath its restricting confines. Ungraciously land atop the flat of his tensed stomach with an even lewder slap! to stain its softness with a milky trail of sticky pre-cum. Oh, wow. Certainly didn’t expect for it to be. . . so pleasurably appealing to gaze upon as though it’d just about taunt him to dip it inside his needy, begging hole.

“I won’t lie. . . You’re really asking for it, Syd. Either that, or you’re just dumb. Well, you sort of are—who’s the one that had to pick up after your spilled pieces again? Me, of course. But, you’ve gotta know by now it wasn’t out of mere kindness, right?” Spilling forth from between open maw before he’s gotten the allotted time to potentially gasp at in fraught surprise—immediately process the salacious announcement which he’s been inwardly craving for. Ah, will you do so? Be so generous to grant him the rare opportunity within cupped palms or perhaps, obsessive hands that pinch and prod at unmarked skin? “So, I ask you this; and I’ll only ask you this once.“

“Pretty please, dearest Sydney—will you allow me to fuck your pretty pink, dripping hole? Because either way, I really can’t fucking wait, right now.”

Hah, it shouldn’t be so indecently effective to the warmth pooling below—for your vocal request of his uttered consent. Truthfully, is there any genuine need to secretly inquire what’s so painfully evident?? Teeth nudging atop his puffy, bottom lip that hopelessly quivers in face of your seriousness regarding the rather. . . embarrassing prospect at hand, here.

“Please—. . .” Eventually drawls out from parted lips, trembling arms hastily hung over fluttering lashes that don’t dare to steal a glimpse from angled gaps. No, for he wordlessly fears that if he were to catch a supposing glance of your strained expression within this very instant—the initiate wouldn’t be able to mutter another solemn prayer devoid of wanton desire, to be railed into the nearest surface below. Still, hung along a teetering thread that’s bound to disastrously snap under the guise of your undeterred focus. Urging him to mirror those spoken words in the filthiest manner possible considering his rare share of utilizing such disdainful vocabulary. But yet, nonetheless, he does between stuttering gasps. “—F. . . Fuck me.”

“That’s my good boy. I knew you had it in you after all, hm?” Unspoken sighs silently tumble forth from what supposedly must be your shared cubicle, but he cares no further at the mere idea of getting possibly caught in this form. Not with the dribbling tip of your eager cock lamentably dragging along the surface of his spread asscheeks solely presented for your intended amusement. Half lidded gaze inwardly pleading from under, at how each tentative nudge of your hot, red cock head momentarily knocks out each quivering breath out of him—deepens this burning urge to guide you in the intimate walls of his puckered hole.

Which, he so graciously does the honour of doing so by a shaky grasp held upon its throbbing girth. Tightening palm clumsily placed atop your hipbone for wordless support as you finally. . . finally—do continuously ease yourself in all at once, stretch the aching emptiness deep within his stirring guts that longed to be deliciously filled to the utter brim.

“H-Hah—you’re tighter than I expected, but that’s okay.” Muttering from between ushered curses, wistfully cooing down at the glistening droplets of shiny tears that threatened to spill past the entire length of his crimson cheeks. Of course, not due to some unsuspecting pain supposedly coursing throughout the hefty and sudden stretch of his now thoroughly defiled hole—no, because that’s where you surely belong. Or so, he’s subconsciously deluded himself of such. Nestled deep in the warm softness of his drooling insides that so gleefully welcome your veiny girth, like a comforting flesh light preciously suited to be molded to yours truly. He’d ask for nothing else, truly.

Instinctually, his sweating hands delicately place themselves along the reassuring curvature of your shoulders which he oh, so does adore to often rely on in times like these. Yes, supposed encounter where you’re dizzyingly getting fucked full within an inch of your life, now that your drooling tip has nicely settled deep in the melding suckling of his clenching walls. And he possibly can’t help the mutual huffs of shuddering breaths that collectively fall forth from both of you—resembling that of those foolish students that like to sneak around the peaceful library he dutifully manages; one telltale hand down each other’s pants. Gosh, even thinking back on it now—embarrassingly knowing he’s no better than those pervasive harlots that noisily fuck in semi public places, if not; then unabashedly out in the grand open. Unable to hopelessly lay off one another’s greedy touches in the same manner that he presently is doing so, but. . . please, don’t take pitiful notice of that minor aspect.

This is what it’s like, is it not? Straining features furrowing deeper in a scrunched expression of unadulterated bliss—useless, little finger that he has at his disposal, to barely stifle the pleasured moans that’s bound to roll past firmly pursued lips. Something about the affectionate way you shush that teensy, disruptive method away with a mouthful of your cherry-perfect lips enclosing themselves around his digit. Because even if he secretly wishes it so, those trained eyes of yours won’t dare to momentarily stray away from that scarcely concealed note of wracked gratification painted along the heat of his face.

“Don’t run away from me, Syd. Tell me—I wanna see it, I wanna see your face when I’m properly inside you like this.” Considerably gentle despite the undeniable amount of control which you possess in this unbecoming position, practically folded in half by the slight hunch of your heaving back looming over his ragged figure. That is, ignoring the miniature distance that only noticeably shrinks with each of your practiced thrusts inside his greedy hole—not to mention, sloppy squelches! loudly ringing throughout the limited confines of the cafe’s walls—that he blearily hopes no passerby catches note of. Merely millimetres away from ineffectively bumping your foreheads together in a connected touch. “The way your eyelids flutter, shit. . . hah, your hole is clenching in on my dick like the perfect cock sleeve. Does it feel that nice to have someone’s cock inside you like this—with your best friend being balls deep inside your hole??”

“U-Uh huh—“ Obviously can’t hear you when he’s helplessly babbling revised prayers, as though that might erase the sheer depravity of this situation—excuse him of the unbridled enjoyment he’s partaking in. Ironic in its nature, considering the holy pendant formed into a pictured cross, loosely hooped around his neck and continuously bouncing due to the precise humps your fat cock has to so kindly offer him in return. One hand splayed atop his marked waist as if in an afterthought, something to hold onto lest he ceremoniously was guided to the nearest wall—thanks to your eager fucks, too. Bump his precious head against, which you’re softly cradling in additional carefulness.

Judging by the whiny begging uncontrollably escaping in response, something along the lines of ‘please, don’t stop’ and ‘feels so good’—ah, he cannot distinguish much when reduced to he’s a cock-drooling mess, tattered shell of his usually composed self.

Ah, talk about sickeningly intimate it is to be unbearably connected to one another like this. Irrefutably against the sheer prospect of cruelly pulling out and Gods, he honestly doesn’t want you to, either. Please, please. . . heavens from above, don’t dare to cease in the repeated slaps! of your balls taut with sticky seed—against the receptive spreading of his open thighs. Nor mind the bold movement seamlessly acted out on automatic, to desperately hook the length of his legs—definitely unused to this much, of course—along your waist in a silent plea or rather, ploy to messily keep up with the slight roll of your untiring hips. Forbidding you from so much as popping your oozing tip out before then, soon enough; you’re savagely ramming it deep inside once more, hissing at the cushioned nerves that greet your tingling head and so forth.

Utterly smitten is what he is, so much so that he doesn’t remotely take notice of your fist now loosely pumping at the neglected length of his quivering dick between slippery skin. Oh, oh—y’know, that’s far too cruel to be simultaneously stimulating both ends of his overly sensitive, tingling body! “Hah, you can’t—ah, suddenly do that!” Open mouth unconsciously falling forth at the constant press of your flattening palm along his glistening tip. Head falling backwards in which his entire curved spine follows along to, arching in a way he’d never have thought possible if it weren’t for your cock driving itself deep inside his squishy, warm walls.

Still, in a vain and pitiful effort to alert you of such—fingertips digging deeper in the delicate texture of your flesh, almost deep enough to draw spilling blood. Though, not his intention at all to instil searing pain in you whatsoever. Not at all, truthfully! It’s just. . . ah, it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s nearing inevitable release due to your added pleasure inducing actions from both sides. Inefficiently peering up from below lidded lashes and stray pinches of your now thoroughly marked back to signal his eventual descent into adoring defilement.

“S-Slow. . . down—“ He hadn’t meant to meaninglessly scorn you like you had any shred of chance of doing so—but, it’s ultimately humiliating to feel the teetering edge of himself reaching his dreaded limit. Glassy eyes stupidly rolling back to meet pitched darkness once that sickeningly long coil in his stuffed tummy finally snaps. Pink tongue prettily sticking out for your cherished gaze to etch into focus all while slobbering over the added thumb you’ve generously lent to suckle upon—drool over and coat it in transparent spit as the first load of milky cum uncontrollably squirts out of his swollen slit. Crudely stains the momentarily pristine surface of his clenching tummy and even going forward, to drip amongst his slackened jaw.

Ultimately, he must certainly appear as a wracked mess before you with dripping globs of his dirty release adorning the entirety of his upper body. Heaving chest puffing at each ragged gasp that crawls out of his sore throat from the sheer muddled consciousness he’s presently bearing, at the moment. Clutching onto the remaining familiarity there is and that merely happens, to be your observant self perched atop his bent figure.

But, that’s of no importance to you, is it now? For the entangled limbs you’ve now collectively fallen into—a heaping thread preciously formed from him to you, there’s no other way you would’ve gone about it, after all.

Here and now, he’s acknowledged it, too, himself—whether the Temple allows it or not, the distinct reverence in your eyes and the unspoken bond shared amongst you two. Uncaring for how twisted it may be in the critical eyes of his worshipped religion, the shocked gasps that will surely follow at the discovered ignorance of the strict restraints placed upon oneself.

Even if you haven’t properly spilled your seed in him yet, the mark has been done—effect irreversibly washing on his cracked perception. Since you’ve laid your claim, staked the original urge you’ve been meaning to this whole, extended time. Beared witness to the melded fluids you’re now licking along in renewed affection, brought upwards at his petulant tugs for your returned proximity near his own. Yes, he does indeed know it so and evidently, so do you.

And honestly, he doesn’t wish to let go of your warming skin closely held against his own anytime soon, either.

[storiesoflilies]

t.w: mentions of death.

“don’t you know that the hour of your death isn’t upon you yet?”

grimreaper!toji stood there at the top of the hill, his figure a herald of darkness, while the moon tenderly hugged his back, bathing him in the only holy light he would ever know.

“you’re here,” she whispered breathlessly.

toji titled his head. “you called for me,” he replied smoothly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

(perhaps it was.)

the grass beneath his feet had wilted, flower petals withered and crushed under the cool metal of his boot. she couldn’t see his face beneath the wispy strands of his tattered black robes that shrouded him, but she didn’t need to. she already knew the color of his eyes, had felt the sharp curve of his jawline, and the press of his lips against her hairline.

she knew what death felt like.

and she needed to feel him again.

his scythe glinted dangerously, its sharp edge thirsting for an exposed throat. the wind howled around them, biting and gnawing at her cheeks.

“take me with you,” she finally mustered, her voice breaking like waves against the shoreline. “please.”

he was in front of her in an instant. toji was something half like an apparition, but she knew that he was real – perhaps more real than anything on this earth. she saw the shadow of his mouth beneath his hood and a glimpse of the scar on his lip, and wondered what sort of creature could have hurt someone like him.

“it is not your hour,” he repeatedly gently, like a soothing balm smeared over the aching pain in her heart.

she reached out, gripping the shreds of his robes in her tight fists. “i don’t care.”

toji’s lips curled in anger, and the wind howled even harder. “why be so careless with your life? does my blade not frighten you?”

(she could never admit it to him that it never had, and never would.)

his scythe of fire and ice. it had once delicately kissed the base of her throat as a lover might do, drawing only a single ruby droplet of blood. for reasons unbeknownst to her – and perhaps even to toji himself – he had coaxed away the death wrapped around her bones and drawn her soul back from the abyss.

her face crumpled, a single tear running down her cheek like silver.

“i miss you,” she mumbled pathetically, staring at the broad expanse of his chest doused in black. “so much that it makes my soul bleed.”

toji sighed, and sad and ancient sound. he never liked to see her so distraught, for it was in his inherent nature to comfort. to free a person’s soul from the shell of their body, to hold them in the palms of his hands to set them free into the sky before they had the chance to know any real suffering.

(death is kind – kinder than anything that belongs to this world.)

gloved fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face upwards to him. his lips were so close to her now; if only toji would bend down just a little lower, they would meet like the greatest oceans of the world colliding together.

“death would be your greatest doom.”

she shook her head. “no, it–you wouldn’t. i could go with you wherever you went, always.”

toji faltered, his mouth parted as the words danced on his tongue. finally, he admitted shamefully, “i do not wish to love you.”

but she knew that already.

she knew that toji regretted ever letting her know his touch, never meant for her to have ever heard his voice. to know death was to be draped in iron chains, binding her to him until the end of time, and he had always known it would happen.

toji had known all along and had done it anyway.

death is a selfish, selfish being.

her bottom lip trembled as he rubbed his thumb over it. “but you do.”

“and yet, i do.”

they stood together silently, her hands delicately holding his thick forearms wrapped in many layers of cloth. she wondered what it was that toji was waiting for. perhaps for an act of god. for the ocean to sweep them both into the deepest depths, her hand in his as the sky crumbled into swirling, inky water. she wondered if it would hurt, if it would be cold and lonely until toji’s blade fully kissed her.

(she knew she would not cry when death came for her.)

“close your eyes,” toji murmured quietly, relenting at last.

for death could never deny her.

©storiesoflilies 2024, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[sepublic]

Manny Noceda Haunting the Narrative

We all speak of Caleb haunting the narrative, but what of Manny? Perhaps haunting isn’t the exact right word here, for its foreboding connotations; But he’s ultimately an unseen, unheard ghost whose influence can be felt. Whose absence is there, more clearly than others to be honest because we know that Luz had to have a father, it’s not ambiguous for witches like it is for humans.

From the very first scene, we have to wonder where Manny is if he’s not present during Luz’s conference but Camila is; He’s not even present for Luz to be sent off. He’s not mentioned or acknowledged.

But we have the book he gave Luz, the one that Luz is drawn back towards, and it’s what leads her to the Boiling Isles, and motivates her to stay there for her own sake. It’s what motivates Luz to think of herself, when by the second half of the show she begins to refuse that option as inherently selfish.

If Homesick had aired during S1B, we’d have gotten a glimpse of Manny, but specifically, curiously faceless; Until then, Luz sees a parental figure deteriorating from an incurable illness and is obsessed with handling it, offering medical advice to Eda at one point.

And in Yesterday’s Lie, there’s still no Manny or mention of him, but we see glimpses of his body without the face. And then finally, finally we get Reaching Out and realize; He died. There was no divorce, it’s not that Manny is dead to mother and daughter, only literally. He’s still very much alive to them, Luz is worried about paying tribute to him in that episode.

Camila mourns the loss of Manny, someone who was always better at her about being a weirdo, and without him she feels lost, falls back into what society demands of her, and in doing so hurts their daughter. She mourns that she misses him, but Camila can’t depend on Manny to be what Luz needs her to be; She’ll be Manny, for Luz but also herself too. And Luz herself struggles to be the unapologetic Manny as well, and must do it for herself especially.

It’s the way Manny recontextualizes everything about the Nocedas. It’s the way he haunts the narrative himself, because we noticed, we had to, we had to ask where he was. Why is he not there for Luz or Camila, would he support her, is Camila also struggling from his absence? We don’t need his face or voice or an outright flashback to feel and appreciate Manny’s influence (Though I would’ve loved one).

And in a way, it’s like Dana’s own father Thomas Terrace is doing the same; With it being confirmed that Dana’s dad gave her a copy of Pokémon Red before he died, you understand perfectly that Luz is Dana, Manny is her father. Dana still likes Pokémon to this day, she’s done crossover art with Pokémon and her own show.

When it came out, Pokemon was targeted by Evangelicals as evil, it was absurd; And we see the Conformatorium perform similar absurdities in the same first episode where Luz is shown to hold onto her father’s last gift, and her fight with the Conformatorium is her fight with the system that made Luz feel ashamed of Manny’s gift and the profound impact it had on her.

The villain of the show manipulates Luz and makes her think she’s just like him, something Luz acknowledges means being a selfish, destructive force; Unsurprisingly, the villain is a Puritan, the ancestor of evangelicals, who agrees on the similarities but not on these things being evil.

Manny is the invisible ghost unseen, for the same reason as Caleb; And between the two, perhaps Caleb is defined incorrectly when it comes to how he influences things. Because Caleb does not really motivate Belos, Belos always wanted to be a witch hunter before he could claim to be betrayed by Caleb, he did it for himself. He made Grimwalkers but still continues the harm unto and through them that Caleb stood against. Caleb failed to do anything with Belos, tbh, and all that is passed on are empty genes that a racist would obsess over, but never the spirit as Luz did with Manny.

But what about Caleb’s child? Manny is defined as a father to Luz. What about someone Caleb was a father to as well? His unborn child, the ancestor of Eda. Caleb was a wood carver who loved Flapjack, and the Clawthornes had a tradition of carving Palismen. Could it not be implied that Evelyn carried on his unseen and unheard, yet felt love to their child, born after the death? And this love for the isles and magic and Palismen was passed all the way down to Dell, and then Eda.

And it’s Eda who helps Luz, another human, embrace her love for the isles and magic and Palismen. Evelyn’s descendant helps another human. Luz sees Eda in Manny, she’s his successor as someone who’s present for Luz when Camila can’t always be. Eda loves wild magic and her Palisman, gives Owlbert more autonomy than other witches, and helps the Bat Queen arrange Palismen to find new partners. And what goes around comes around when Caleb’s contribution to Palismen, started by Flapjack, helps Flapjack find a new friend and set in motion events that would lead to the Clawthornes’ injustice being rectified.

I’ve seen people argue that Hunter being with Willow makes him a copy of Caleb, but in addition to Hunter’s arc being him not caring what he does or doesn’t resemble… I think maybe the true parallel to Caleb and Evelyn is Manny and Camila; Both came to Gravesfield, the father was a weirdo with an open mind. He died, the mother mourned, but he passed on something to a child, who would eventually pass it on to Luz herself as both stories and families converge.

So Evelyn and Caleb’s child haunts the narrative; They’re Luz in a sense. Manny haunts the narrative too, since the start. He is Caleb, and so he is Eda who carries that spirit. And he is Eda because she carries the spirit for Luz. Manny is Dana Terrace’s own father, who inspired her to keep being a weirdo, which led to this show. So not only is Manny more important to the narrative’s framing and focus as the main character’s father, whose absence motivates both a disconnect between mother and daughter that leads Luz to the isles, but also motivates Luz to stay?

In a way, Manny represents the father of the series, the father of the show that reflects Dana’s own experiences and beliefs. One could say he haunts Dana’s own life, except… Perhaps the word ‘haunt’ is incorrect. Because it has a negative connotation. Perhaps the word is Inspire; Manny may be dead, we may know little of Mr. Terrace or Manny himself. But we can say that Manny lived, because of his impact, his life had meaning and it always will. Something is in motion, so we all know and understand ask what, or who set it that way.

[redstarwriting]

the clash | i. hey, ho! let’s go!

hobie brown x goth!reader

word count: 1.1k

genre: enemies to lovers

warnings: language, insults, hobie hating you, you hating hobie

a/n: it’s here 😎 no but fr, i proudly present a new series focusing on hobie brown, loml. i‘m trying to make it gn, so if you spot anything that needs fixing lemme know. i also did include a bit of a description of what you look like, but it’s mainly just to affirm the gothic spider-person look. and if you don’t like it, you can just pretend it isn’t there, my character designer brain just took a hold while explaining lol. enjoy y’all, there’s more where this came from 👀

now reading: i. hey, ho! let’s go!

next chapter: ii. time bomb

───────────────────────────────

In theory, the two of you should have been great friends. Best friends, even. He’s called Spider-Punk, and you’re called Spider-Goth, this alone made Miguel assume the two of you would get along better than all of the Peters. Unfortunately for Miguel, he was dead wrong. It was fine at first, a good introduction. “Spider-Punk, meet Spider-Goth,” Miguel says, motioning to the two of you. You simultaneously turn your heads towards him, “Don’t call me that.” You look at each other, seemingly sizing each other up after speaking the same words at the same time. In reality, the two of you were checking each other out, but no one needs to know that. “Fine. Hobie, meet (Y/n). (Y/n), meet Hobie,” Miguel says as Peter B. Parker hops next to him, excited to see the two of you interact. Your gaze first fell on his many piercings, which suited him very well. Almost as well as the spikes coming out of the shoulders of his tattered denim vest. “See somethin’ you like?” you hear his thick cockney accent, and you shrug. “The constant changing makes it difficult,” you say, causing him to shrug. “I hate consistency,” he says, staring you up and down. “I like the guitar,” you say, and he nods. “Everyone does.” You raise an eyebrow, and he takes in the way your heavy black eyeliner makes the expression look more exaggerated than it is. His eyes go down, taking in your outfit, which seems to be varying in different gothic styles, but overall is all black with silver studs, spikes, and charms sticking out everywhere. He notices the two of you share a liking for combat boots, and perhaps his favorite thing about you are the intricate and all black spider-web tattoos on your hands crawling their way up your arms. Hobie clicks his tongue. “Goth, eh?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem with you or something?”

“Feisty for a goth.”

“Instigative as all punks are.”

“What… is going on,’ Peter whispers to Miguel who shakes his head. “I thought they would be best friends?” Peter suggests as he places a binky in Mayday’s mouth. “I did too…” Miguel says, “Maybe this is just a way these types of alternative people talk?”

“Tal vez tengas razón… Hobie does love to be abrasive for no reason,” Miguel concludes, and Peter shrugs and they zone in on the two of you again. “...I don’t suppose there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along,” Hobie suggests, raising an eyebrow at you. “I agree. We probably think similar things… for the most part.”

“For the most part, huh?”

“Just that we have similar ideas, but most likely not the same,” you respond, and he crosses his arms, his guitar moving loosely behind his back. “Opinions on anarchy. Go.”

“It’s the ideal society—”

“Good start—”

“But completely unrealistic.”

“Excuse me?” Hobie looks at you with a glowering expression. “Humans are inherently assholes. Selfish, shitty, assholes. As amazing as it would be to have anarchy running rampant,” you shrug, “It’s unlikely it will ever happen.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Hobie says, exasperated, “I mean you actually think that we can’t achieve it? You get enough people angry, and they rebel, they push for anarchy. I’ve seen it happen; I’ve led a rebellion.” You roll your eyes. “And do you live in a perfect anarchical society now?”

“Not yet, but we’re gettin’ there,” he clenches his teeth, and you sigh. “I admire your blatant idiocy disguised as an ambitious dream,” you say, and he huffs. “Would you just talk like a normal fuckin’ person and stop usin’ these dumbass words and shitty poetic language?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, or are you as deaf as your ideologies?” This time you scoff. “I don’t have the time to be berated by someone who lives in their own delusions to try and feel the slightest bit less angry at the world for giving him the shitty cards he was dealt.”

“And I don’t have time to listen to the rubbish ramblings of a miserable twat who digs desperately into their black hole of a heart to try and feel somethin’ when the truth is they don’t even know what they stand for,” he fires back. You glare at him. He glares at you. As if on cue you both flip each other off before you web away. Peter’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Well, that went horribly!”

Miguel punches him on the shoulder, resulting in a soft ‘ow’ and a tiny angry noise from Mayday. “What the hell was that Hobart?” Miguel nearly yells and Hobie snaps his head towards him. “Don’t call me that, neither! They don’t get it. It’s not enough to want to make a difference in the world. You need to take action. Goths love to sit on the sidelines and lament instead of playing the offensive,” Hobie explains, a deep frown on his face, “Watch out for them. They might not be able to do what it takes when it counts.” Miguel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hobie, you’re supposed to show them around—”

“No, fuck that. I’m not goin’ anywhere near that gothic monstrosity,” Hobie says shaking his head in defiance. “We made a deal. You would show all the younger spider—”

“Yeah, well you can shove that deal up your fuckin’ ass, mate, I’m not doin’ shit for them!”

“Okay, okay, calm down there, man. Why don’t you just ask Gwen to help you? Maybe Miles and Pavitr too? That way you fulfill your promise, 'cause I know promises are important to you, and you won’t have to talk to them!” Peter reasons and Hobie looks over at him. He furrows his eyebrows. That would help the situation. And maybe he’d be able to help you see just how garbage your take was with Gwen on his side. “Fine. But I’m not doin’ it cause I need help, and I’m not doin’ it because you told me to. I’m doin’ it cause it’s the last thing that they’d want,” Hobie says, pointing at Peter while saying it, flipping Miguel off, and then webbing away. Peter looks at Miguel who is clenching his fists… and his jaw. “You seem stressed, but don’t worry about it. Not all of us need to like each other, I mean there’s so many there’s no possible way we all could and look at you, you hate Miles even though he’s awesome and—”

“Shut. Up. Peter,” Miguel growls, stalking away while mumbling various things in Spanish. Peter looks down at Mayday. “Tough crowd,” he says as she giggles up at him.

───────────────────────────────

『 tag list 』

@casmosmoon* @khaleesihavilliard @sparklyphantom​ @weyrrii* 

*if you are italicized - i am unable to tag you for whatever reason, feel free to reach out and see if we can fix the issue

[slamdunkhcs]

THIS IS ANOTHER ONE I THOUGHT OF FOR A WHILE AND I HAD ROTTING IN THE DRAFTS.

deliquency in slam dunk

In Takehiko Inoue’s Slam Dunk, basketball is presented as more than just a game—it’s a lifeline for troubled characters with messy, complicated lives. While critics of the series often point to the delinquent behaviors of Shohoku’s players and their rivals as a flaw, this raw and unpolished aspect of the manga doesn’t detract from the story, but I would argue it actually strengthens it. By presenting characters whose struggles extend far beyond the court, Inoue makes Slam Dunk more than a sports manga. It is also a story about redemption, self-discovery, and the undeniable link between personal imperfection and growth.

As the protagonist of Slam Dunk, Hanamichi Sakuragi is the most obvious example of how delinquency shapes the story. Initially, his brash attitude and quick temper drove many of the manga’s early comedic and chaotic moments. But beneath his tough exterior lies a teenager desperate for recognition and validation. He is a self-proclaimed “genius” of basketball, yet he doesn’t even understand the game’s basic rules when he starts. This gap between his confidence and reality reflects his immaturity, rooted in years of rejection and a desperate need for validation. His initial scuffles with Rukawa, for example, are less about genuine rivalry and more about his inability to handle his emotions. But what sets Sakuragi apart is how basketball forces him to channel his delinquent tendencies into something productive. One turning point occurs when he resolves to work on his rebounds after being humiliated in front of the team. Though his stubbornness remains, it transforms into determination, epitomized in his declaration: “I will make 20 rebounds in the next game!” His growth as a player—and as a person—is tied to this process of refining, not erasing, his rebellious spirit.

His evolution from a reckless delinquent to a player who sacrifices everything for his team isn’t only a basketball success story. It’s a celebration of his personal transformation, one that feels earned because of where he started. Sakuragi’s rebound in the final moments against Sannoh is more than a display of his growth as a player, it’s a display of his journey from selfishness to selflessness, showing how basketball helped him confront and channel his rebellious energy.

Ryota Miyagi, meanwhile, represents a subtle, more subdued delinquency. His mistrust and quick temper stem from grief over his brother’s death and the loneliness that followed. While Sakuragi’s antics are public, Ryota’s pain is private, bubbling under the surface until basketball offers him an outlet. This emotional baggage nearly derails his basketball career when he returns to the team after a year-long hiatus. His initial fight with Sakuragi leads to one of his most vulnerable moments, where he admits: “I wanted to quit basketball… but I couldn’t let it go.” Basketball becomes Ryota’s way of healing, his means of reconnecting with others and reclaiming the confidence he lost. His journey is a more indirect form of redemption, one that emphasizes how delinquency often stems from pain rather than inherent malice. His connection with Ayako and his eventual leadership on the court also shows how the game becomes a way for him to rebuild his confidence and form genuine relationships.

Then there’s Hisashi Mitsui, whose journey is perhaps the most heartbreaking. His fall from middle school MVP to gang member is rooted in a relatable fear: the fear of being forgotten. And Mitsui’s breakdown in front of Coach Anzai, tearfully pleading, “Let me play basketball again,” is one of the manga’s most unforgettable moments because it lays bare the guilt and regret that fuel his delinquency. However, his return to basketball isn’t portrayed as a clean redemption but a slow, painful process of reconciliation—with his teammates, his own guilt, and the game itself. The beauty of Mitsui’s arc lies in its imperfection. He doesn’t instantly become the hero he once was. Instead, he struggles, and that struggle makes his eventual triumph all the more powerful.

We see throughout the series how he battles with his fitness, self-doubt, and the lingering consequences of his past, yet his pivotal three pointers in Shohoku’s games against Kainan and Sannoh prove that his resilience has paid off. Mitsui’s arc further demonstrates how delinquency in Slam Dunk is never glamorized—it’s contextualized as a response to pain, and basketball becomes his way forward.

Even the rival teams reflect this idea of delinquency as a double-edged sword, with both its destructive side and the humanity behind it. Toyotama’s players, with their trash talking and aggressive attitudes, show what happens when this rebellious energy is left unchecked. Minami’s violent foul on Rukawa during their match is reckless and brutal, and it showed how anger and impulsivity can poison the spirit of competition.

But Toyotama’s delinquency isn’t framed as pure villainy. It stems from their desperation to honor their former coach, who had been fired due to not producing “results”. After revealing this, their aggression on the court feels less like malice and more like a raw, unprocessed response to grief. They’re playing to prove something—not just to their opponents but to themselves. This makes their story more tragic than antagonistic, and that when left unchecked or unguided, delinquency can lead to self-destruction. Instead of finding redemption through this behavior, they fall further into chaos, ultimately harming the very legacy they’re trying to protect.

What makes Slam Dunk resonate is how these characters, flawed as they are, feel like people you could know—or even be. Their delinquency isn’t glorified, but rather, it’s contextualized. It’s a response to pain, loss, and insecurity, and basketball becomes the outlet through which they confront these struggles. This mirrors the lives of 1990s NBA players like Allen Iverson or Dennis Rodman, whose turbulent personal lives didn’t overshadow their greatness but instead added layers to their stories. Like Sakuragi or Mitsui, they weren’t perfect, but they didn’t need to be.

By incorporating delinquency into its characters and story, Slam Dunk gives us characters who aren’t just athletes but people—messy, flawed, and striving for something greater. It reminds us that greatness isn’t about being perfect. It’s about finding purpose, even in hardships and chaos. In that way, Slam Dunk doesn’t just tell a story about basketball. It tells a story about life.

[vixstarria]

Ignorance and bliss

Had a fluffy brainworm that I don't think I can fit anywhere, so here it is as a little short.

Astarion x Asmodea, comfort/fluff

Somewhere in Act 1. Two idiots who are definitely not falling for each other lie in each other's arms pretending to be asleep.

691 words

No doubt about it, she was losing her mind.

Asmodea lay listening to the rain patter on the canvas of her tent, contemplating everything she thought she knew about vampires.

Inherently evil, innately selfish, corrupt, irredeemable creatures with an insatiable lust for blood.

One such bloodthirsty creature lay peacefully sleeping beside her, limbs tangled with hers, holding her so closely it was as though he was trying to occupy the very same space she did.

…Twisted aberrations…

Astarion didn’t need to breathe, she knew, and yet she felt deep measured breaths where his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. The very neck she had recklessly offered him time and again.

…Cursed with undeath…

It must have been an effect of Astarion’s condition on his lungs, that he was producing a faint, rumbling sound that almost sounded like… the soft purring of a great, contented cat.

…Prideful and arrogant…

…No, that characterisation was accurate. Though the more time she spent around him, the more the arrogance seemed to be a facade erected to conceal or distract from some fear or anxiety. She had met the type before. Cocky. Boastful. Insecure. Compensating for some failing.

…Sadistic monstrosities incapable of empathy...

She recalled the remorseful concern in his eyes when he thought he had accidentally hurt her in their lovemaking earlier that night.

‘Lovemaking’, she repeated to herself, with a scoff, startled by her own choice of words - so uncharacteristic for her, even, no, especially, for her own private thoughts. When had she grown so sentimental? She shrugged that notion off, hastily and sheepishly.

…Manipulative…

Asmodea brushed that thought aside as well, instead reaching for the tent flap to try to gauge how much longer they had until sunrise.

…Violent…

Astarion released a dissatisfied little whine at her movement, and hugged her tighter without waking.

…Soulless…

Perhaps something was wrong with this one... Had no one taught him how to behave like a proper vampire..?

Either way, she was positively losing her mind.

Astarion drifted in a state between sleep and wakefulness, teetering on the edge of slipping into a trance but not allowing himself to enter a reverie - he’d learned to avoid them and the inevitable torment they brought, long ago.

Instead, he buried his nose in Asmodea’s neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, and tried to grasp a memory that had recently appeared at the periphery of his consciousness. It eluded him, slipping like fine sand through his fingers whenever he reached for it.

Warm arms embraced him. He was safe. He was loved.

The whisper of a memory was from nearly a quarter of a millennium ago, but if he just kept trying, maybe he could uncover it fully. If only he could just stay like this longer, if only she didn’t wake, if only he could have more of this…

Even if the memory persisted in evading him, he thought he had glimpsed enough of its contours and edges that he could pretend he lived it.

He was safe. He was loved.

She made it so easy to pretend…

Oh, but she stirred, moving with a quiet caution so as not to disturb him. He heard the rustling of the tent’s fabric and felt a chill breeze against his bare back. He allowed himself a drowsy grumble and burrowed deeper into her neck. She didn’t want to wake him, did she? And she wouldn’t expect him to slosh back to his own tent in the rain. Gods, but he didn’t want that rain to ever end…

He just wanted a little bit more of this make believe…

The tent flap fell shut again, and Asmodea’s hand reached, instead, to pull a blanket over his shoulders. Moments later, he felt her fingers running, softly, through the curls at the nape of his neck. Her lips brushed lightly against his forehead.

The memory and the emotions it brought danced just out of reach, teasing him. Perhaps he could simply fill in the gaps and imagine it was real, even if it would be gone come morning.

He was safe. He was loved. And all was well in the world.

This is part of a series - here's the full masterlist

Next in series - Something real

AO3

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

I've got female Sole Survivor on the brain thanks to this Deegan one-shot, especially in relation to her grief at all she's lost at the beginning of the game. This may be a touch controversial.

I see a ton of female Soles (both in fan works as well as in general discussions about lore, roleplay, etc.) who are wracked with survivor's guilt in the aftermath, wrought entirely hollow by the loss of their husband and child. This is not a statement of judgement or me implying that it's a subpar creative choice; it's a very natural conclusion to draw. Losing your entire immediate family, on top of surviving multiple mass-casualty events, would naturally leave you wondering why you lived when others didn't and feeling incomplete without those dearest to you.

Personally, the first time I played Fallout 4, I immediately imagined my own Sole as a woman dealing with an immense amount of guilt for an entirely different reason: she feels relief on more levels than one.

Yes, the world ended and everyone she ever knew or really cared for is long dead. But even the horror of that realization doesn't change the fact that there is a massive weight lifted off of her shoulders when she wakes up in that Vault and realizes that she no longer has to be a wife or mother every single moment of her life. It wasn't something she pictured for herself long-term, but she hadn't realized it until it was far too late; very much the sort of person who agreed to get married and have a child before they fully considered all that it would mean (which isn't an uncommon character flaw). But, between the general state of the world at the time and her own hidden struggles, she was eager to feel like she was doing something meaningful with her life.

Nate was the same. It was one of the only things they'd had in common anymore by the time Shaun was born.

I imagine their marriage was struggling (or perhaps simply not as satisfying as either of them would have liked), and having Shaun was an ill-conceived attempt to save things, to find some sort of renewed enthusiasm or meaning. Of course, having a baby to fix your marriage (or yourself) never works. Pregnancy and labor were rough for her, but postpartum was worse; her husband continued to pull away like he had been before, just at a more agonizing rate.

Pretty immediately after the birth, she recognized she'd made a mistake, felt stupid and childish for making such a life-altering decision based on flimsy justifications. But so many people in her life (parents, in-laws, friends who were already parents themselves, society in general) swore to her that having a child would magically end all of her problems through the sheer power of maternal love that she felt selfish not "putting forth the effort" and trying. No one bothered to clarify, though, that if the old 'baby trick' doesn't fix your life, you're then stuck with an inherently needy little person whose existence you may feel indifferent towards more often than not. That realization had been in the middle of literally crushing her to death when the bombs fell.

She's slowly finding herself again as she goes through various adventures and trials in the Commonwealth, helps build community that feels more like a real family to her. Dips her toes into the dating pool eventually. It's not a straightforward process, though, and some days she feels like an uncaring monster and can't even get out of bed. Others, she functions, but with a visible cloud over her, morose and quiet. A tiny, irrational part of her may even feel that she somehow manifested the war, literally brought forth the end of the world with how ardently she begged for something, anything to take her away from what her life had become towards the end.

Her guilt is tinted with anger and shame. She still has lingering health issues from carrying to full term, and her body is changed in ways she knows she will never recover from. Fixates on the changes she notices and it breeds self-consciousness. Part of that fixation is vanity, sure, but she also knows very well that she likely shaved at least a few years off her life span by choosing to become a mother, an endeavor she wouldn't describe as "personally worthwhile" if pressed hard enough.

She also constantly beats herself up for not searching hard enough for her son, but it's unproductive. No matter how guilty she makes herself feel, she doesn't find many leads. Doesn't bring him or Nate up much, unless she's feeling especially vulnerable (or self-hating). The pity people usually express when she says she lost a spouse/child doesn't feel earned to her.

Part of her says her son is likely dead, having lived his whole life without her, and so she'd be wasting her time by dedicating every waking moment to finding him. She finds both peace and sadness in that idea. Another part of her, though, knows she's dragging her feet, pacifying herself with that thought because she doesn't truly want to find him.

[daemon-in-my-head]

Thinking about it, one of the intriguing parts of Gortash may be his "fallen hero" aspect, except he's never really been a hero and yet he gives you enough reasons, or excuses rather, to think of him as one.

He knew suffering, grew up in it, learned what it did to people, learned what its like to truly suffer, had all the makings of a martyr and someone who'd turn around and finally put an end to it but he simply didn't. He saw all the cruelty and the sadism and chose to wield it like a weapon, the same way everyone else did.

And it may be tempting to argue it was in service of his God or a result of Raphael's questionable parenting choices, or perhaps some noble aspiration even, as he wanted progress and peace for everyone in his "golden empire" but it's neither of those things. It was simply an act of self-serving and he never even tried to hide that fact.

Gold is neither Raphael's motif nor Bane's colour. It's nothing associated with the general populous he wanted to "create a better future" for. It is exclusively his. It is his own symbol, proudly stamped on a dream, an inherently twisted idea of what people craved. The "golden empire", a state of progress and safety, a hivemind in which the lack of individualism and thought creates a twisted equality as no one truly exists anymore, and freedom only within the bounds of a city entirely dissolved and rebuilt to fit his own narrative.

He turned around, and hid his egotistical nature below a few layers of unfairness and noble aspirations in such a way that you could seek countless apologies and reasons if you wanted to, but at the end of the day, it's his own vain dream, and no one else's. And that dream itself is one born of utter selfishness, as he'd be the only one to retain a sense of self while he plays with his new puppets much the same way he was toyed around with.

And yet he speaks of it as though he's sacrificing something, namely himself, for the greater good.

[lua-stellar]

What Beliefs Do You Need to Let Go of?? ✨Tarot Reading

disclaimer this draws on energy from the collective take what resonates etc etc also this reading is critical inherently so know what u r getting into <3

Tip Me on Ko-Fi $5 Tarot Readings Masterlist

pile 1

cards drawn: reversed five of pentacles, reversed king of cups, reversed the hierophant

i feel like you are someone who may exhibit self sabotaging behaviour, and even addictive like behaviour, you are someone who may have alot of insecurity and you deal with it in destructive escapist ways and that causes you to act decietful to others and again i'm getting an energy of self sabotaging and harming your relationships through these actions. Stop coping in ways that are hurting you and the people around you, don't be decietful or greedy and instead of going the escapist route whenever something bad happens or you don't want to deal with the emotional turmoil you deal with, instead of escaping try confronting it and changing yourself so you aren't self sabotaging. So you aren't hurting your relationships with others, be kind to yourself and take it slow and try to remember all of your actions have consequences and in order to move on you must confront your problems.

pile 2

cards drawn: queen of cups, reversed four of wands, ten of swords,

I am getting the vibe that you are someone who holds grudges easily, and you tend to have a strong sense of justice. I feel like the culmination of multiple factors and feelings have you feeling this deep deep resentment for something, i assume perhaps for the people around you. I'm getting strong strong emotional energy and yeah just pure emotion, you feel cheated of something that you deserve more and you feel that you are being blocked by others and that people are holding you down and creating all of these blockages in your life. Even if this is true you must let go of all the resentment and the bitterness; you might get sick from holding that much resentment inside. You should try let go of what is holding you down instead of staying in your current environment, make efforts to change your environment whatever that is, even if its a slow process.

pile 3

cards drawn: reversed king of wands, reversed six of pentacles, reversed king of cups

you are someone who is judgemental and have too many prejudices on things, things always have to be right or orthodox for you. I feel like you are stingy and dont like to share with others, you dont repay your debts, you are very emotional and self sabotage and refer to escapist behaviour whenever you disagree with someone or you are inconvenienced or whenever you face the consequences of your actions. You dont challenge your beliefs because you think that you are always right and that you can't be challenged. You really need to let go of your judgement, you need to be more communal with others and share, repay your debts, you need to stop being stingy and selfish. You need to confront your problems instead of ignoring or running away from them, you need to treat people how you want to be treated.

[seriousbrat]

this says a lot about Snape's character development for me. There are many parallels drawn throughout the series between Harry and Snape; obviously, they're very different characters but there are similarities too.

I think here Snape is talking about himself. The teenaged Snape we see in the Pensieve is very much like this- emotional, heart on his sleeve, easily provoked, a definite wallower in sad memories... weak. Adult Snape, though he retains some of these characteristics that do emerge in stressful moments (in PoA we see how angrily he reacts to Sirius's escape, for instance) on the whole is a great deal more thoughtful, reserved, calculating, measured.

I think that Snape at some point had to force himself to become this. I think he actually relates to Harry here, and is giving him advice based on personal experience. In my fic he begins to learn to control his emotions partially out of a desire to protect Lily; he's fully aware that she's his weakness (or really, his strength, viewed a different way) and that openly displaying any sort of emotion towards her at all makes her vulnerable to the likes of Avery and Mulciber, who will have the perfect weapon to get to him if they want to.

Severus doesn't have the advantages of his peers, he's not pureblood, he wasn't born into money. If he wants to join the Death Eaters and rise in their ranks, he needs to be subtle, cunning, careful. he can't afford to be careless and entitled like mulciber or bellatrix or even sirius. what he's got to offer isn't his name or his money, it's his sheer talent and cleverness. moving on:

When Voldemort decides to go after Lily this becomes even more important. Imo the reason why Voldemort believes that Snape only "desired" Lily is because that's what Snape told him. He lied to Voldemort's face and told him something probably disgusting tbh because that's the only way Voldemort would accept it and agree, if it was a selfish, callous request that Voldemort could understand. We can see evidence of this here:

Asking Voldemort to spare a mudblood because he was in love with her would likely not have gone over well- and as we know, Voldemort actually bore his request in mind, though obv didn't give enough of a fuck about Snape to follow through. Because although asking voldemort to spare her must have taken serious balls, Snape's mistake here was trusting someone inherently selfish to do something selfless for him.

Clearly he immediately realises this and goes to Dumbledore, which is when controlling his emotions becomes of paramount importance, because now he's working against perhaps the most highly accomplished legilimens of all time.

It's also interesting to me that Snape in this conversation is probably the character who is most forthright and informative with Harry in the whole of OotP until Dumbledore at the end; Harry actually learns a lot in this conversation. And Snape also kind of gives him credit which is interesting too:

like for Snape that's high praise lmao. A shame because if he wasn't so bitter (i.e. didn't wear his heart on his sleeve so much around harry) then he might have actually been pretty helpful to Harry and a decent teacher. Again, during the Occlumency lessons his unrestrained emotion brought up by memories of James is a hindrance. He defies Dumbledore's orders to teach Harry Occlumency because of his emotional response to SWM, as well as honestly doing kind of a shit job before that (by not being empathetic and teaching Harry in a way that would've been actually productive.)

At this point Dumbledore believes that Harry learning Occlumency and controlling his emotions is of vital importance; he turns out to be wrong about this. In Harry's case, it turns out to be his emotional nature that saves him- unlike Snape, who is the opposite. Snape's journey is about learning that some things are more important than his selfish need to give into his own emotions.

By DH Snape's learned this lesson fully; his old hatred for James doesn't stop him from doing what has to be done, from giving Harry the tools he needs. Even in the final moments of his life, he can look past James and see Lily in Harry- and, by giving Harry the information that leads to his self-sacrifice, he can let her go.

[dykedvonte]

omg hi if it wouldn't be a bother i'd love if you could expand on your perspective on curly's character representing how patriarchy, rape culture, etc, negatively effect men?

I think Curly is there to represent the idealic person for the scenerior but in a lot of wrong place wrong time and a sort of deconstruction.

Curly’s enabling is never just the “He wouldn’t do that, he’s my friend, I know him.” type. Yes, he is not nearly as concerned as he should be with Jimmy’s behavior but he’s not completely blind to how he can be and is aware that Jimmy is just a guy who had it rough. He clearly is very keen on keeping Jimmy calm for the trip, very accommodating to all of them in a way that he honestly should be but can be used to explain away favoritism. If everyone can get away with a little something than it can then be extended to Jimmy. A big problem of Curly’s is he extends to much curtesy to everyone which a lot of people ignore to just focus on Jimmy and his relationship.

In specifics of rape culture, he’s the sad truth of people don’t immediately cut off the abuser. There is a lot of this in irl cases that can range from the inability to open the selfish not wanting to but here it’s because his relationship with the abuser is also not healthy/abusive, falling into the former with how confined they are despite how it can be seen as bros protecting bros due to how underplayed emotionally unhealthy relationships between men can be. His relationship with Jimmy is not just one of wanting to protect him from himself but keeping him docile, safe to bring around others. There is a tension in almost all of their private scenes where Curly is trying hard to make sure his words are understood and don’t set him off. It’s subtle but real and an aspect of RC that gets overlooked when it’s comes to men coming forward themselves or on behalf of others. The way they can’t directly oppose each other because their safety may be the least of their concerns. They know men and in this case he knows this man won’t target him but the others, especially Anya, case point: not wanting her to tell Jimmy alone.

There is an inherent intimidation that can also happen in male spaces we see Jimmy use due to the specific social condemnation effect he has with Curly. Even if he is a bad friend to Curly, he is a dear friend and a lot of apprehension with men on the side of Curly in RC comes from that social anxiety, that fear and the very real idea you or the person you were trying to help will be further retaliated against/isolated just like we see happen to an extreme in canon. We don’t know how much Curly and Jimmy interacted between the party and the crash. We can assume they didn’t at all or perhaps went on as normal, but we know something changed after the conversation with Anya both at night and in the cockpit.

I think the card being in the locker shows he was gonna make the complaint, taking her ID to get her numbers for the report as it isn’t there before hand. With the recent reblog of how complaints have to be filed, he was likely storing it, possibly it was close to a time he could send something if it was even possible. Though everything was inevitably too late.

Curly is the ideal man on paper in terms of a patriarchal system. In shape, handsome, the top of the pecking order, competent or otherwise on top of his perineal duties. The issue is he is deeply unhappy just as someone like Jimmy who reflects all the negatives. This should be what he wants but he’s realized it’s unfulfilling, boring and he’s given up too much of himself to get up a ladder he doesn’t even remember why he climbed in the first place. He is not keen on keeping that status, I am a contrarian in thinking he honestly didn’t care if the report when on his record, more so he was in shock it happened at all. Didn’t want to believe his friend actually did it and he of all people would have to be the one to turn him in for it. It’s selfish and it’s a personal thought but it’s real. It’s denial because even if you know it’s for justices sake, you grieve the friendship you had and the perceptions that were shattered. It’s not supposed to sound good or noble or kind because it isn’t, it’s human.

All together I think Curly represents a big way these systems negatively affect the men that everyone assume benefits. He’s unhappy with the power he has because it ties him to responsibilities that bring him no fulfillment, he also gets retaliated against by Jimmy because he was never immune and in a way was aware of it. He’s unequipped and nervous to handle such a delicate situation because it isn’t protocol, there’s no protocol. He followed the rules of all the concepts mentioned, trying to do the right and normal thing and it either left him with nothing to show for it or damned him and others in the end.

This is a shorter post than I would write but I just feel like I’ve tackled these aspects so much individually or in lumped together posts that unless it’s something specific I will just create run on tangents.

[semisolidmind]

“he won't say it aloud, but...had it been him who'd been found and tended to by reader, azure couldn't be sure he wouldn't have made the same choice as his brothers.”

…Semi, could I persuade you to make a little something (art, fic, headcanons, whatever you wish) for this concept? Please?

If you’d rather not, totally fine. Please feel free to delete this. No worries!

(this got longer than expected:))

he'd try to persuade her, at first.

after she found him in her backyard, in a crater of his own making having fallen from battle, battered and bleeding, after she brought him into her home and cared for him...

...he'd gotten attached.

the two became close, and as azure got stronger he began to realize that he'd have to go home eventually. he and his brotherhood had a job to do, and he couldn't abandon it to play house. but— but he'd become so used to waking up with reader by his side. he'd learned so much about mortal life while living with her, and his sympathies towards humans had grown.

noone had ever treated him as gently as reader had. even knowing what he is, the potential threat he posed to her, she still saved him. he's eternally grateful for her help. azure doesn't want to leave her behind.

the night he decides to leave, he asks her to leave with him, to go with him to his home in camel ridge.

she declines.

she's fine here, she says. it's a very kind offer, but she doesn't mind her work or her employers, and– and what would a handsome demon lord like him want with a human like her, anyway? he should go and be with his brothers, she says (reader internally panics, she'd hoped this wouldn't happen, she'd hoped those stories about demons kidnapping women were fake, she really really hoped she wasn't about to be stolen and potentially eaten—).

azure pauses, standing silent before her. what he wants with her? he can't give a proper answer to that (at least not in polite company), but he wants to show his gratitude. he wants to at least reward reader for her kindness. please, just go with him, he'll give her a good life, he promises.

but reader declines again, stepping back from him. her eyes betray her growing fear.

azure is silent. the gentle, pleading expression has dissapeared from his face, replaced by a cold dissatisfaction.

he didn't want to do it this way.

but he is a demon. and demons are inherently selfish creatures, no matter what noble lies they choose to live by.

azure steps forward. reader steps back.

please don't, she begs, voice wavering. he doesn't respond.

reader doesn't have time to even scream before azure seizes her by the waist, putting her over one broad shoulder. she beats her fists on his back, kicks wildly against the paw holding down her thighs, begs him please, please don't do this. azure solemnly opens a portal gate with his regained powers, stepping through it, carrying reader back to his home.

–––

some time passes.

once reader has better settled into her role as azure lion's..."companion" ("captive" is more fitting, she thinks. or perhaps "pet"), the demon decides to bring her along to a council meeting at the home of the demon army's leader, the monkey king. azure is unsure what his simian comrade will think of reader, but if his closest brothers could come to accept her place at his side, then perhaps wukong could be convinced as well.

the first meeting goes smoothly. perhaps too smoothly, azure thinks with slight bitterness.

he saw the way wukong looked at his human companion throughout the council. he didn't say much beyond asking her name and purpose, but his interest was clear. azure wrote it off as a simple fascination with a mortal companion; it is fairly uncommon for high-ranking demons to keep humans for much beyond servants or food.

azure continued to bring reader along to their council meetings (unable to leave her at home unsupervised), and the monkey king began to speak with her more and more (occasionally running off with her when he wanted to show her some orchard or village on the mountain, to meet his people... the two would be gone for a while). azure didn't think much of it at first beyond a light sense of caution. however, every time reader laughed at wukongs antics, or followed him away from the group...there was a sting in the lion's chest he would hesitate to identify.

he wasn't sure if the king's friendliness was a ploy to harm reader in some way. wukong was known to dislike humans, having dealt with hunters attempting to capture and kill his ilk more than once. so to see him take an avid interest in reader, to seek out her company after the meetings were over and the brotherhood took time for leisure ... azure wasn't sure what to make of it. the infamous monkey king, known for his cruelty, determination, and bloodlust— befriending a human woman.

it sounded ridiculous, even as azure watched it happen before him.

however, when wukong himself approached the lion demon to none-too-subtley ask that he give reader up, the absolute madness of it all struck him.

wukong, in his winding roundabout way, suggests that azure allow reader to stay on flower fruit mountain. see, she and wukong have been talking; she obviously loves it here, she's here all the time during meetings anyways, and she's clearly gotten attached to the monkey citizens... sooooo why not just let her stay? not like there's much for her on camel ridge, he says flippantly.

oh, and not to mention the fact that reader doesn't seem to be all that attached to azure anyway. oh she's his friend, maybe, but that's it. just following him around, speaking when spoken to. she's clearly dissatisfied with her placement. at least wukong plans on wooing her properly; he'll make her his queen, not just a glorified pet.

azure has to restrain the thunderous growl that wants to escape his grit fangs at this absolutely ludicrous suggestion. the jealousy that's been bubbling in his chest begins to seep through to his words. wukong can't just, just—demand reader from him! he hates that he has to word it this way, but he took reader fair and square. finders keepers, by demonic rule. the answer is a resounding no, and a "polite" request that the monkey never bring it up again.

a moment of silence, the two demons staring each other down—before wukong seemingly shrugs it off. oh well, he sighs. so be it.

wukong walks away, calm as can be, not even an aggravated twitch of his tail to indicate his true feelings.

but azure's hackles are raised. he knows wukong well enough to know that he hasn't actually dropped this.

the monkey king is simply biding his time.

---

after azure's vehement refusal, wukong rolls his shoulders and sighs. he tried asking nicely, but if azure won't play fair, then neither will the monkey king.

besides, he's more of a "ask for forgiveness, not permission" kinda guy anyways (and he doesn't expect forgiveness). later on that evening, he signals to macaque (who has also grown quite fond of reader, though more secretively) that it's time to roll out plan b.

because y'know, wukong's been thinkin.' maybe his and azure's interests haven't exactly been lining up lately, and not just in the reader department. the monkey king has noticed that azure and his allies have been changing their minds about this whole conquesting on earth business. they want to pool their forces and take on heaven.

now, wukong knows a thing or two about that, and he knows that even with all the might of the demon armies at their disposal, azure and the gang stand about three quarters of a chance. it doesn't help that the original brotherhood members (namely peng and yellowtusk) have been getting kinda uppity lately.

so, why not hit two birds with one stone? or in this case...one bird, one elephant, and one lion.

wukong has macaque take a lil' trip down to the underworld to steal the scroll of memory, an artifact that allows one to trap anyone in a hell of their own making. the darker-furred demon makes quick work of the assignment.

the monkey king and the six-eared macaque then pay the lords of camel ridge a little visit to announce their...severance from the demon alliance.

---

reader wakes up in an unfamiliar bed.

or rather, an unfamiliar...pile of pillows and blankets? in a pit? in the floor? it's surprisingly comfortable all things considered.

however, a drowsy look around the room tells her this is most definitely not the den of her feline captor, and she certainly isn't in her chambers at the palace in camel ridge; the presence of greenery inside the room clued her in there. her nerves began to rise. where is she?

her question is partially answered by wukong pushing his way inside the room, macaque in tow (both are dressed far more casually than normal, wearing simple pants and robes that she's never seen them in). reader startles, scooting back as they move closer. the boys step into the pit and sit across from her. the two simian demons wish reader good morning and ask how she slept.

reader is too stunned to answer.

macaque laughs at the expression on her face, a fond look overcoming his own as he takes in her sleep-disheveled appearance. you're in the royal chambers in the stone palace, to answer your question, he says. he's sure she wants answers about how she came to be here, and he's about to speak when wukong excitedly talks over him.

something has happened to azure and his brothers, he says. it must have, because the king and the general found reader knocked out in a peach grove not far from the entrance to water curtain cave. they brought her inside, of course, but were unable to wake her. perhaps a sleep spell, macaque suggests.

when the monkeys went to investigate camel ridge, they could find no sign of the brotherhood. the warlords admit they have no idea what could have become of their allies, but insist that reader must stay with them until this mystery is solved. she doesn't mind, right? she'll be well taken care of here, and she's more than welcome to stay in the royal chambers (she'll want the two monkey demons to keep her warm, after all the stone palace can get so cold at night—). the monkey citizens will be excited to see her, they'll be glad to hear she's staying. it'll be great! wukong happily assures.

reader admittedly isn't... unhappy about this arrangement. she doesn't want to be rude, but flower fruit mountain is much more hospitable than the lifeless sandstone of camel ridge. quite frankly she's come to prefer the company of wukong and macaque over her once captor, and the friendly mountain residents over two impassive demon lords.

if reader had to choose into whose hands her chain and collar would be placed—she could think of many worse than these two.

[essektheylyss]

I am wondering about Skalvi, the Witch of the Watching Fire, and her betrayal by her apprentice, which is noted as not being clear whether the apprentice murdered her or if the apprentice refused the station at a time when it was too late for Skalvi to train another. Particularly in contrast to Indri's killing of her own mentor and the implication that she will eliminate any apprentice of her own who shows signs of beginning to learn magic (presumably posing a potential threat to her).

It also makes me curious about the witches' domains—the station of the Watching Fire is gone, but that doesn't mean that that domain is absent from the world. To say nothing of the fact that there is a sense that the coven is increasingly impatient with the World's Heart being represented at all, presumably because it stands in the way of what they want. Grandma Wren seemed to consider the coven's other interests "unconscionable". She also specified that the Witch of the Watching Fire was part of the seemingly more person-focused section of the coven, along with the World's Heart and the Wind and Stars. And while Indri seems a far cry from Grandma Wren's kindness, Tough, the coal spirit Ame encounters, suggests that Indri is not acting in her station the way she is necessarily meant to, and it does make me wonder if she is acting for anyone beyond herself at all. While her domain does focus on the self and solitude, that does not inherently mean selfishness, arrogance, or isolation, and she is a witch, which means she has a responsibility to something larger than herself. If the coven were to succeed in eliminating the Witch of the World's Heart, Indri would be the last witch left to speak for mortals, and as far removed as she is from them, she cannot be said to be acting in any of their interests, let alone their best. Fundamentally, she doesn't know them.

What was, exactly, the domain of the Watching Fire? Was it, as the title suggests, the vigil kept while others rest? Was it the domain of rest itself? And is it possible that the steady ramping of conflict in the world over the past several decades is due to having no one to keep that vigil? Kalaya says also that when she first came to the Citadel, it was more of a university, not a military training ground. Only over time has it morphed into something fearful and afraid—something vigilant. Was there more to fear, with no one watching the hearth? Have other institutions risen, perhaps even unconsciously, to fill the space that was left with that station gone?

It is obviously unclear at this point where their true intent lies, but I do wonder if perhaps the elimination of the Witch of the Watching Fire was deliberate and orchestrated—whether the war and the witches are not so distinct as the witches may wish to suggest.

[euphoricfilter]

Jungkook and "I can't stop thinking about you." with the tiniest bit of angst with a fluffy ending. Thank you!!

rose tinted glasses:

pairing: idol! jungkook x f. reader

genre: fluff || angst || friends to lovers

summary: jungkook’s a patient man, and he’ll wait as long as you need to find him again.

word count: 1.1k

tags/ warnings: arguably mild angst, bad friends, maybe best bf kook, intended lowercase

notes: drabble game is closed <3 just a quick drabble that i will not overthink the quality of. it's an easy read one may argue.

drabble masterlist || my main masterlist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

if you’d been the one looking at jungkook through rose tinted glass this whole time, then you wonder how the world views him.

personified perfection, the epitome of what a star should be. because in the world’s eyes, he lacked flaws.

there’s some sort of hidden rule the universe sets, that any input from family should mean something; it should mean everything. blood relations should always be held above everything else in life. they’re your family, of course they want what’s best for you.

it leaves you to wonder when the opinions of close friends had been held to the same standard. how you’d let yourself be swept up in their views of jungkook.

an acclaimed awful relationship, toxic, you should escape while you still can. crawl out of jungkook’s claws and save yourself before it’s too late.

you wonder when advice had become clear jealousy, lies they’d feed you over and over again until you’d been second guessing yourself. second guessing jungkook, when he’d truly tried his best to make your relationship work with so many outside factors interfering.

cameras acting as beady little eyes, scrutinizing him for things only human. digging into private affairs and overstepping inhumane boundaries.

jungkook was far from perfect, you knew that, they knew that— just not in the way they’d told you.

there had been nothing inherently wrong with what you had with jungkook. sure, you came from two completely different worlds, your job a lot less flashy, and arguably less successful than your (ex)boyfriend, but jungkook didn’t care.

because you liked him for him and that was really all he could ask you for. not when you sacrificed so much just to be with him.

nda forms, no public dates, weeks where he’d be abroad, too busy to call but too lonely not to leave you a heartfelt text about how much he missed you.

jungkook wasn’t selfish. you knew that. you’d always known that.

he hadn’t caged you. hadn’t locked the doors and fed the key to a beast where you couldn’t leave. fame hadn’t turned him into a monster— still very much human with human emotions and desires.

it’s a shame you’d let the pressure of those who were supposed to care about you ruin something so special.

the universe has funny ways of telling us things. just like how, if you and jungkook weren’t meant to be together, why was he all you saw. because your life would never be void of jungkook no matter how hard you tried to avoid him.

he was at a strange point in his career, every corner you turned, there he was. billboards, advertisements, his songs playing on the radio as you shop, coffee accompanied by the sweet melody of his voice. riding a steady wave of success with no clear end in sight.

you hadn’t called him for weeks, and he’d stopped leaving you messages on voicemail. perhaps he stopped caring. you wouldn’t blame him, could never blame him— probably swept up with a mountain of work, probably exhausted.

it takes you a month to realize that your misery was because of him. you’d been the one to end things, pressure of everyone finally getting to you. really you’d do anything to make the calls stop, the mean jabs over dinner or passive aggressive texts from friends.

lie after lie rotting your mind until you couldn’t take it anymore and you ran away from your problems.

maybe it was the silence of the evening. the way your friends had distanced themselves once you’d told them you’d stopped talking to jungkook; he was out of your life like they’d suggested. bitter betrayal squeezing your heart when you realize that isn’t what they wanted, because you were no use to them anymore if you had nothing to do with jungkook.

you’d been friends before lovers, their assumption being you’d just go back to being friends.

maybe it was the sticky solitude that had you roaming the streets gone midnight. in search of comfort, the only person you knew still had your back— who will always have your back no matter how big of a bitch you are.

you tug the sleeves of your hoodie further over your hands, tips of your fingers numb as you dial his apartment number.

you know he’s awake, hope slowly fizzling out the longer the door rings.

he doesn’t say anything, simply opening the door to the building. elevator taking an eternity to get to the lobby, even longer in taking you to the right floor.

jungkook’s stood at his door when you step out into the hallway, hair a little frizzy in the way it gets after he’s showered.

“hey” he says, and you stay rooted in your spot.

“i can’t stop thinking about you” you blurt, his figure nothing more than a blur as tears glaze your eyes.

“i can’t stop thinking about you either, my love”

“i’m so sorry” you shake your head as jungkook steps out of his apartment.

“don’t apologize, it must have been hard for you” he hums, tucking your hair behind your ear as you wipe your cheeks with the backs of your hands.

“don’t do this” you hiccup.

“don’t do what?” he smiles, hands falling onto your hips, gentle as he tugs you closer to his body.

“you’re too nice, you can’t be like this after what happened”

“nothing happened” jungkook shakes his head, taking a step backwards, pulling you along with him until you’re both in the warm of his apartment.

“i said some really mean things”

“that you didn’t mean”

your shoulders deflate, muscles warming under his hands like taffy.

“i know what was happening with your friends, your parents weren’t much help either. i’m not blaming you for something that was out of both our control”

“i shouldn’t have listened to them” you kick your shoes off.

“no, you shouldn’t have. but it’s not something we can change now”

bam peeks over the back of the couch, clumsy as he scuttles over to the two of you, “and what about us?”

“what about us?” jungkook kneels down, always one to spoil his dog with kisses, “why can’t we just go back to the way we were?”

you blink down at jungkook, “i’d really like that”

“i love you” he grins, “if you ever run away again, i’ll always wait for you at home. i’ll always be waiting”

“i won’t run again” you tell him, you’d made that mistake once, “i love you too much to do that again”

“i just put fresh sheets on the bed, if you wanna stay over?”

it’s strange, how even after a month apart, words that you never meant shouted in a fit of rage, and the distance of a city apart— jungkook will always feel like home.

the world viewed jungkook as perfect. and he wasn’t. not in the way everyone else saw him.

and even if jungkook were to be the beast, a villain of your love story, nothing could ever stop you from wandering back home into his arms. even if it meant the world was against you.

[polyamorousmood]

Question on supporting my partner -

My wife and I are poly, she has a 2nd partner and currently my wife is my only relationship. I'm open to exploring other partner(s) for myself, just haven't found anyone yet. It is what it is.

My wife has met additional people and there is some potential to explore something with them, but she's hesitant to do so, thinking it's "unfair" that she already has a 2nd partner when I don't, and she feels selfish for wanting to explore more, while I only have my one relationship with her. I worry that she's holding herself back for my sake.

How can I reassure her that I support her exploring as much or as little as she wants with whoever she wants independent of my situation at the time? I've tried saying this plainly but I can tell she can't shake the score-keeping feeling of a supposed "imbalance" being inherently wrong or unfair somehow.

Okay, so I believe that you ARE comfortable with your wife exploring more, and that's amazing!! I do, however, see your wife's concerns, because a LOT of people wouldn't feel that way. Or would overestimate how okay with it they actually were.

I think one way to help your wife get over this worry would be, perhaps counterintuitively, to ask for something as a consideration to you in the process. It doesn't really matter what that is, as long as it gives her something to look at and say "right, I'm doing this for them, so I'm allowed to do the thing I want". Don't make it insane or huge, just something small she can do in this process to show her love for you. Some examples might be a protected weekly date night with you🗓️ (or her being home at certain times more generally), or a set space for you to be able to discuss how you're feeling with everything, maybe its you meeting the person🤝 (or meeting them after a certain point), or maybe she stops and buys you a soda🥤 or snack on her way home whenever she goes out to show she cares about you.

It can often feel wrong to get something for nothing. And she's already getting one partner "for nothing", so doubling that makes sense she'd feel guilty. If she can "give back" to you somehow, that may really help your wife with that feeling of guilt!!

Perhaps you could set up a dating profile and show your wife who you're hopeful about, so she can feel like you're tangibly making progress at finding someone so things can be "more equal". Though if you have a lot of 💥crash-and-burns🔥, that does run the risk of backfiring.

And of course, if there is a fair cause for these worries, like if you've reacted badly to her starting to date someone before (it happens), you'll need to address that.

Best of luck out there! I think its super sweet and amazing and rare that you're THIS gung-ho about her seeing other people💗💗. You sound like quite the catch!