#not like intrigued or bothered by this at all

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 12: The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy

I realized the other day that, even though I like to bounce around from place to place in the Lukola timeline, I probably needed to start tightening things up on the ship if I ever wanted to get to the end of the story. And, yes, dammit, this story better have a finale at some point because there’s nothing more annoying than an open-ended ending, particularly in the romance genre.

Today we’re going to take a quick jaunt over to Italy because –

NO! Not because Luke is allegedly filming there. If you’re into real-time stalking, you’re in the wrong blog. But, I’m sure there’s a Discord for that.

It’s because I’ve had several people ask for my opinion about the change in behavior between Luke and Nicola during their Day 1 interviews there. Wait – people are interested in my thoughts? Wow, that’s actually kind of nice. Thank you! Okay, back to what I was saying –

Was there a change in behavior when Luke and Nicola reached Italy? Yeah, actually, there kind of was.

By May 9, we had been gifted with a slew of material from Luke, Nicola, and the Bridgerton cast and, I must admit, those early interviews are some of the most entertaining of the tour. In the very beginning, Nicola appeared as the utmost professional – charming, intelligent, and witty at the right moments – and Luke played her likeable counterpart to “Book Colin” perfection – bouncing between being awkwardly boyish and wickedly roguish, all while looking at Nicola like she had just served him homemade peanut butter crumble.

The two of them together, playing off each other, in my opinion, was better than Bridgerton Season 3 (you cannot beat the World Tour being 99% Luke and Nicola, with only a few random side characters taking up screentime). There was some major “Electric Love” radiating from those two throughout the tour, but it seemed very much heightened in the beginning (probably because they hadn’t yet answered the same question 67 times). By the way, if you haven’t heard that song by Børns, go have a listen. It will, at the very least – hopefully – put you in an upbeat mood for the day.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes – was there a change in behavior between Luke and Nicola when they reached Italy?

Absolutely.

Do I know why?

Absolutely not.

Perhaps Luke was bent because someone spilled his coffee, or Nicola was upset because her stylist made her to wear that little silver bow in her hair. In my opinion, the most intriguing part of Day 1 of the Italy press junket was that Luke and Nicola struggled with answering the question, “What is love?” I swear they both babbled on like two kids in debate class who hadn’t bothered to read the material given to them before taking their respective podiums. They finally seemed to settle on Luke’s “Maybe it’s, like, connection.” Well, they seemed to be missing the “connection” that day.

Honestly, no one can explain their “don’t stand so close to me” vibe during those first day interviews except Luke and Nicola. But, we can at least have some fun and speculate about it with a bird’s eye view. At this point, you should know that I love spreading the puzzle pieces out and seeing how they might all connect. Most people – when putting a puzzle together – start with the side pieces, right? You’ll get my joke in a moment (I hope).

In March 2024 – I don’t know the specific date because my timeline is rather murky going back that far (I was unaware Lukola even existed!) – Luke traveled to Los Angeles for a photo spread with InStyle magazine. I’ve heard two versions of this story. The first being that Luke traveled to Los Angeles with Antonia alone; the second being that he traveled to Los Angeles with his friend group, which included Antonia. I couldn’t tell you which is true, and it really doesn’t matter because it doesn’t necessarily add or take away from today’s story.

Before I get started, I wanted to give a “hurrah” to The-One-Whose-Group-Chat-Fills-in-Lots-of-Missing-Bits-for-Me-Including-the-Part-Where-Video-Footage-of-Antonia-in-Los-Angeles-Seemed-to-Indicate-a-Celebrity-Was-Not-the-Videographer-and-There-Were-So-Many-British-Accents-in-the-Background-One-Would-Fancy-a-Guess-She-was-Traveling-with-a-Group.

Moving along…

On April 7, 2024, Antonia posted a series of photographs and clips to her Instagram grid indicating she had been in Los Angeles, including one where she was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory and one where she was sitting at a table marked with the number “95.” On April 14, she posted a second set of photographs, tagging her location as Beverly Hills, California and using “End of Beginning” as her audio (yes, I side-eyed this choice of music so don’t feel bad if you did as well). The second photo dump included her lounging on a rooftop.

I’m not going to delve into posts made by Luke and Nicola during that timeframe. I mean, I’m sure Nicola’s comment, “’Friends’…sure Jan,” on Luke’s April 11 reshared post about Bridgerton Season 3 was only meant to be applicable to Polin. And, if Luke wanted to use yellow and black hearts to represent the colors Nicola and he were wearing in his April 12 post, that’s cool, too. And, I am definitely not going to speculate on Nicola’s April 15 post (for Big Mood) that Luke liked, and she captioned, “I will bite off anything that dangles.”

By April 21, Luke and Nicola were in Australia at the World Premiere of Bridgerton. I am only going to provide a quick overview of Australia instead of a full-fledged recital because, at some point, I will almost certainly dedicate an entry to this country. Let’s start with Luke pulling off the hottest walk-up in Netflix human history (I mean, have you watched it in slow motion?). Then, we had the hard launch of the handholding business (because why again?). And, we had Luke tripping over his words, “We’re very, like, giving…I’m not talking about those scenes…” Oh, and Nicola telling an interviewer that, “[y]ou can’t keep a good girl down,” and, in response, Luke’s lips curling into a wicked-ass Cheshire cat's. We had them in the garden, with Nicola bending down to hug Luke after she had scratched/hit/petted his head. Perhaps I should not mention the possibility of a man’s shirt being visible on a bed behind Nicola (I said possibility not that it was). And, Nicola telling Luke, “You’re the funnier one,” when he was concerned that perhaps Benedict was funnier than Colin. Then we had the “Nicola-in-the-green-dress” day where, as they were going down the steps, Luke seemed to instinctively reach for Nicola’s hand, but she played it cool and took his arm instead. Oh, and that entire “green dress” day in general (I mean, there was so much shit going on that day). And, best we do not forget Nicola saying, “the best foundation for love is friendship,” which mirrored the bracelet “someone…in Australia” gave Luke that read, “Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?” Because that’s not suspicious at all. Alright, let’s get the fuck out of Australia – but not before I mention Nicola commenting on Luke’s April 27 Instagram post with “Ready for the next?” and Luke replying, “Absolutely.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, their shenanigans in Australia expanded the USS Lukola tenfold.

Oh, also, let me throw this in here because, if you are a “ring truther,” this fact plays a significant role in the Lukola timeline. If you do not know what a “ring truther” is, that’s perfectly fine. You can catch up by reading Entry 6 (The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad) of my blog. I mentioned in Entry 6 that some Lukola sleuths have stated the metadata they pulled from the sketches of the Claddagh ring uploaded by Chupi indicate they were done as early as April 26. In other words, it means the Claddagh was likely commissioned between Australia and Italy. In fact, if we are to believe Chupi when it said it took four weeks to make the ring, then it had to have been commissioned by May 9, 2024, at the latest. Oh, lookie there, that’s Day 1 of the Italy interviews.

But, before we get to May 9, let’s pause on April 29. That was the day Luke’s InStyle spread was published – yes, the one I mentioned earlier. Luke has pictures from this photoshoot still on his Instagram grid – in fact, Nicola commented, “Yess dude!!” on them – but those aren’t the pictures I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about the pictures InStyle posted on its Instagram grid that day. These photographs came directly from Luke, which was confirmed by the InStyle article when it said, “…the actor delighted the InStyle team by delivering the polaroid photos he’d taken for this story tucked oh-so-carefully in a little brown bag for safekeeping.” The pictures Luke provided, among others, included one where he was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles; one where he was sitting at a table marked with the number “95;” and one where he is sitting in a lounge chair on a rooftop. If you want to see the pictures, InStyle still has them available – you just need to go through hundreds of posts to find them. Luke did not like this InStyle post, which was kind of odd because he was tagged in it, and they were reportedly his pictures.

Why did these InStyle polaroids seem so familiar?

Oh, that’s right, because they were.

Remember that April 7 post of Antonia’s I mentioned a bit ago? Yeah, the one where Antonia posted a bunch of random pictures from Los Angeles and – only after InStyle posted Luke’s polaroids – fans realized Antonia had preemptively posted her version of some of Luke’s polaroids.

I am not going to speculate too much about these pictures or their implications in this blog post, but these pictures may resurface in future posts because I find myself side-eyeing the fact they even exist. And, we should probably accept that Luke was aware of them before his pictures came out on April 29 because he threw a like on Antonia’s April 7 post. Could it have been a “blind” like? Sure, I guess, but the logical side of my brain says he probably looked through them at the time she posted. Let’s not worry too much about it right now, though.

After trying to write out my “general” opinion about the pictures several times, I finally decided that the best way I could articulate my thoughts was through the conversation I had with my father. Yes, Dear Dad returns again for another insightful Q&A.

I started by showing Luke and Antonia’s three “matchy” pictures to my dad and then asked him to compare them. To be clear, the pictures were their respective Griffith Observatory, Table 95, and Rooftop Lounging pictures.

Me: “So what do you think?”

Dad: “About what?”

Me: “Ugh! Why did Antonia take those pictures?”

Dad: “Well, to show she’s part of the ‘in’ crowd. The only reason I can see them being taken is if she was going to put them on the Internet.”

Me: “Uhh, as a matter of fact, she did put them on the Internet! Approximately three weeks before Luke’s were published.”

Dad: “See! I’m not as dumb as you think.”

Me: “Whatever. So, you really believe that? She took them to show people that she was, like, there?”

Dad: “Yeah. Why else would she take them? They’re not the kind of photos you’d take normally. What’s she going to do, put them in an album and show her friends in five years and say, ‘Look, I sat in Luke’s chair?’ Who does that? Nobody. Plus, Luke’s pictures look like they were taken with a polaroid camera and Antonia took hers with, I guess, a phone. Why use two different cameras? Again, it doesn’t make sense. Seems to me like she knew what pictures he was taking, and she was trying to copy them so she could put them on the Internet.”

Thanks, Dad.

You do not have to accept my father’s thoughts on the photographs. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. However, I think we can meet in the middle and opine that, at a minimum, Antonia’s pictures caused the weak Lukolas to jump overboard; at most, they gave some people stalker vibes; and somewhere in between, they introduced Antonia's negative influence over the fandom and what some may consider trolling behavior (even if it wasn’t recognized then).

Now, before we land in Italy on May 9, let’s summarize what has happened during the preceding two months.

First, we had Luke traveling to Los Angeles in March with Antonia, either alone or as part of a friend group. Luke had pictures of himself taken while there.

Second, we had Antonia posting pictures in early April that would be linked directly to Luke’s pictures by the end of the month.

Third, throughout the month of April, we had Luke and Nicola traveling together for the World Tour. We have all seen these interviews, and we have all formed independent opinions about them.

Fourth, based on Chupi’s own words, we know the Claddagh ring must have been commissioned no later than May 9.

Okay, now we’ve reached May 9, Day 1 of the Italy press junket.

Besides the press interviews, what happened on that day?

Well, Antonia reposted Luke singing Coldplay’s “Yellow” to her TikTok account.

Uhh… Huh. Interesting.

I mean, it’s possible that this was just a coincidence and she just liked Luke’s version of it. Or, it’s possible Antonia knew that “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song and she anticipated trolling Nicola and/or the fandom with it. But, if we believe she knew “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song, that means either Luke told her, or someone with that knowledge told her (i.e., someone from Luke’s team or family/friend group). We also know that Luke mentioned this song in the May 16, 2022 Netflix Tudum article when Nicola and he were asked about their song choices for Season 3. Luke stated his frontrunner was “Yellow” by Coldplay “because of Penelope’s dresses.” Regardless of why Antonia posted the song, I find it hard to imagine Netflix, Bridgerton, Shondaland, Nicola, or Luke were too impressed by Antonia resharing it on TikTok. I mean, at this point, Netflix & Co. would surely have been aware that Antonia’s “copycat post” went over with the fandom like a wet blanket in December in Canada. I imagine some questions were being asked and Luke may very well have received a hand slap from Corporate – and maybe even from Nicola.

But, that’s not the only thing that happened on May 9.

Luke posted his Homme magazine spread to his Instagram grid on that day, too. He captioned the post, “Chatting through all things S3 with @hommeplusmag [o]ut next week x.” Nicola commented, “Yessss,” and Luke tagged his post with the location of Hackney, London. That last part – about Luke tagging the location in Hackney – apparently sent the fandom into a deep-dive of…Nicola’s backyard. Why? Because Nicola lives in Hackney (Nicola herself confirmed she lived in Hackney in a March 18, 2024 interview with Derry Now), and rumors started to circulate that Luke’s pictures were taken at her home.

Hmm, I didn’t realize May 9 was such a busy day, did you?

So, which came first – the chicken or the egg? Did Antonia repost “Yellow” to her TikTok before Luke posted his Homme in Hackney images to Instagram, or vice versa? I’m sure someone out there has this information. The answer might help shine some light as to why Luke and Nicola seemed “off” in the early part of their Day 1 Italy interviews. But, then again, does the order really matter? Regardless of who posted first, it would seem to me that “Yellow” was a very possible culprit for the different energy on set that day.

That, or Luke really was peeved over someone spilling his coffee.

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow���st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[lumitoiile]

zhongli : [fleeting.]

☆ — tw! + content: by the time the lord of geo even comes to terms with his feelings, it's already far too late... angst, themes of d3.th. gn! reader (no pronouns.)

throughout the extended course of his life, zhongli has long since learned to appreciate the beauty in all things—even the temporary ones. 

the way the leaves fall from trees, the glow of lanterns at night, the way the wind breezes through the streets of liyue harbor... all things that would eventually come to pass, eroding away with time. mortals were very much the same. he has walked alongside them, observed them, and let them go, as is the way of the world.

then you came along.

you weren't the first human to intrigue him, but there was something bewildering about your presence in his life. perhaps it was how you treated him so unguardedly, never hesitating to share your thoughts, your laughter, your kindness.

you worked at a small tea shop he frequented, and though he'd initially visit for the quality of the tea, he found himself returning for another reason entirely. he told himself it was simple admiration, an appreciation for your warmth and the light you brought into the lives of others. but deep down, he knew he couldn't be fooled.

there was something different about you. something he could never fully place. it gnawed at the edges of his mind, bothering him in ways that defied his understanding. you would smile at him with an openness that felt disarmingly sincere, and speak to him with an ease he'd only ever known among those closest to him in his long, distant past.

it was troubling. dangerous. even in his mortal guise, he should have known better than to allow such feelings to grow.

so he kept his distance. you were temporary, after all; a fleeting thing. even when you would reach out with a friendly invitation or make a small effort to draw him closer, he would find an excuse to step back. to draw a line, to remind himself who he was... and what you were.

he decided he would simply admire you from afar, steadfast in his resolve and having convinced himself he was doing the right thing. what would come of permitting himself to indulge? only heartache and loss, things he had seen unfold countless times before.

there was one day when you had lingered by his table a bit longer than usual, a hopeful look in your eyes. "mister zhongli, would you care to join me on a walk? my shift ends soon, and the sunset is just lovely at this hour."

he hesitated, a flash of warmth stirring in his chest at the thought alone. he could almost picture it, walking with you, sharing a quiet moment alone together as the sun dipped below the horizon.

but he would not let himself yield. he cleared his throat, offering an apologetic smile. "i appreciate the offer, but i have business to attend to."

you nodded once and tried to hide the disappointment in your eyes. but he saw through you, and the sight lingered with him long after he left the tea shop.

still, no matter how many times he had refused you, your kindness never wavered. as the years passed by, you continued to reach out in small ways—a shared story, a cup of tea specially brewed just the way he liked, an invitation to join you on an evening stroll. sometimes he accepted, allowing himself brief moments of joy and companionship.

but he always maintained a wall between the two of you, an invisible barrier he felt he could not cross. he constantly reminded himself that it was for the best; you were human, he had told himself, incredibly fragile. it would be cruel to impose on your life, no matter how brief it might be. the least he could do was ensure that your world remained free of his interference.

but time moved on, as it always does.

your laughter grew quieter, your once sure steps slower. zhongli saw the signs and felt the familiar pang of inevitability. he watched as you grew older, the years etching lines of wisdom into your face and leaving your loud, bright voice soft with age, until one day... you simply weren't there.

he visited the tea shop for the first time in ages, only to receive confused looks and strange stares upon asking for you. who was he referring to? there was no one here by that name, they had said. no one they knew of.

you were gone.

loss was not a new experience for zhongli. though it wasn't until he reached the place where your ashes had been scattered—a spot up in the mountains overlooking the harbor—that he truly understood the finality of it all. there would be no more lingering glances, soft smiles, or warm invitations to walk with you and admire the sunset. he would never again see the way your eyes lit up when you'd greet him hello, or hear your laughter.

the regret sank in like a stone, unyielding and overwhelming. he had anticipated this. he thought he had prepared himself for this. but the painful ache in his chest grew into something sharp, something that twisted with every breath he took.

he knelt there, reflecting on every opportunity he had missed, the words he never expressed, the warmth he had turned away from. he told himself it was for the best, that he was doing what was right... that a god had no business falling for a mortal. yet here he was, mourning you with a grief so profound it left him hollow.

"i thought this was the answer," he said, his words disappearing into the gentle breeze. "i believed i could spare myself this pain by keeping you at arm's length. but perhaps... i was a fool."

the wind rustled gently around him, offering a small sense of comfort. he closed his eyes and allowed the ache to settle within him. he stayed there for what must have been hours, grieving quietly as cherished memories of you played in his mind. in that moment, he realized that there had been no safety in the distance he kept, no way to avoid the torture of your absence.

and as the sun faded below the mountains, casting the harbor in hues of gold and amber, he had finally declared the words he had never spoken aloud.

"i cared for you," he whispered. "more than i should have. more than you knew..."

the wind carried his words away, fading into the stillness of the world. morax, the god of contracts, had lost something he could never retrieve—not with all the wealth and wisdom in the world.

perhaps in another life, he could have loved you properly.

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, translate, or edit my work.

[dark-raven-666]

For the homicipher men falling in love you made..may I ask if you will make a part 2 was really getting all giddy seeing your post but then mr.hood wasn't there 😭 man deserves some love too

Homicipher x reader (gn) headcanons.

How they love p 2

Warnings: Mr Hugeface is toxic

✧༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻✧

Mr. Hood

When he first met you he felt like needed to protect you, like you were a tiny creature that was so helpless and needed him.

He never expected you to come back and thank him each time.

"Thanking me? Why? "

It seems that no one there is kind or even grateful, he's never been thanked. It feels nice, warm.

Then you do it again, and again, and again.

He expected you to leave, use his help and never come back, but you did.

As the rest he never realizes what love is bit he feels protective of you.

Mr Crawling is too weak and Mr machete runs away. He's the only one capable of protecting you

Mr. Machete

Now this guy can't handle weaklings or kind soft people, sorry not sorry.

If you can't keep up with him and fight why would he bother with you?

Now let's say you can fight. He's intrigued. Very intrigued.

It takes you very long time even land a hot on him but when you do.. His heart goes doki doki and he immediately respects you (loves you)

He will demand to fight again and each time you win he will be bashful instead of upset.

Wow you got a hit on THE Mr machete.

Mr. Silvair

You're a human in the ghost realm so you've already got his attention.

He wants to research you and push you to your limits.

He does ask for consent to work on you but if you get violet you're ending up like Mr chopped.

He has clear boundaries and needs you to understand that he is stronger than you. You're the subject, he's the researcher.

Now if you get through all of that he'll be kind enough to give you anesthesia when researching.

One day you wake up with an actual heart on your bedside table. That's his gratitude. Never mention it again or he'll never love you again.

From then on he considers you two lovers and will sometimes give you small smiles as he works and teach you stuff.

Mr. Hugeface.

Tiny human, so fun, so cute.

Literally incapable of love only obsession.

If you're kind enough to obey him and be his little doll. Be obedient in your room maybe he'll get you a few gifts, a book or two.

He's so childish and will throw a tantrum if his doll is not perfect. How dare you have messy hair!?

Will get you clothes and style your hair like you're a Barbie.

That's your life now eternally. You're a doll. And perfect dolls are always pretty and happy.

All throughout toxic.

Mr. Stitch

This man is perfect for maladaptive daydreamers.

You met him when he took you from Mr Crawling, well kidnapped you, but when you get in that bus, you travel in the abyss with him.

Ever since then, that became you two's favorite hobby. To get on the bus, share stories, cuddle a bit, he will Yap to no end and tell you of his adventures and how he plans to take you on many!

He shows love by making you little things, like old cloth you found? It's a dress now. He isn't called Mr stitch for no reason.

You were heitamt at first but then the world of daydreams and the abyss with no stress takes you like a dream.

You love him just as much.

He thinks you're a fun person who treats him well and laughs with him.

Most of your time is spent giggling at his jokes and he likes that.

No matter where or when he picks you up, when he does you're going to adventure.

[wcnderlnds]

something about you | draco malfoy

Summary: After a rough week, you have one two many butterbeers and get help from the last person you’d expect. Warnings: being tipsy?? Word Count: 1.4k Authors Note: this is a repost from my old account. i wrote it in 2020 so its not the best but i wanted it on this account to keep all my best fics in one place <3

Weekends meant Hogsmeade trips which were your favourite part of the week. There was nothing like getting out of the school grounds for a bit after a hectic week of classes. As much as you loved Hogwarts, it was nice to get away from the chaos of the castle sometimes even if it was only for a few hours. It was even nicer after a stressful week and to say this week had been stressful was an understatement. Right from the get go everything had seemed to be going wrong. You’d managed to forget your potions homework which had resulted in detention then, because of that, you’d missed your date with Seamus. It hadn’t been that big of a deal — it wasn’t like your relationship was serious but you had liked him. It wasn’t enough for you to be upset when he asked if you could just stay friends instead but it did put you in a foul mood. It seemed that every time you had something good planned the world tried it’s best to disrupt it. So, the trip to Hogsmeade was needed. Very needed.

Usually, you tagged along with the golden trio but you decided to go solo today telling them that you’d meet them for a drink later on before you all headed back to the castle. As you walked through the main road, you spotted Draco Malfoy and his goons harassing some third year. You and Draco hadn’t really interacted much other than the casual ‘hello’ here and there but he’d always been rather polite around you so why couldn’t he be like that with everyone else? You knew your friends had an issue with him and couldn’t blame them but you had nothing against him. So far he’d done nothing to you but it did annoy you to see him bullying a poor, defenceless boy just trying to enjoy a day out.

“Hey, come on. Leave him alone,” you said walking up to where the incident was happening. Goyle was the first to hear you, turning to face you with the ugliest sneer on his face.

“Back off. This is none of your business,” he said gruffly.

“What exactly has he done to deserve you bothering him? Just leave him alone. You’re a sixth year and he’s a third. Pick on someone your own size.”

“I said back off.”

“Goyle! That’s no way to talk to a lady.” Draco had finally spoken up, glaring at his friend. “Since you asked so kindly, we’ll let little Roger here be on his way.”

“Thank you,” you gave Draco the tiniest of smiles as little Roger ran past mouthing a ‘thanks’ to you.

With that all sorted out, you went on your way not noticing the youngest Malfoy watching you as you did. He’d always found you intriguing. Honestly, he’d always wanted to strike up a conversation with you but since you were in two completely different houses and he had a reputation to maintain, he opted for mostly ignoring you and trying to be civil. Part of him really hated the fact that he couldn’t just do the things he wanted to but he couldn’t take any chances of his father hearing about him doing such things. Befriending someone outside of Slytherin house was frowned upon so keeping his distance was his only option but little did he know that was about to change.

“Barkeep, another!” You yelled out earning funny looks from Harry, Ron and Hermione as you slammed your glass down on the table. You’d been sat with them for half an hour now and had already thrown back about four butterbeers. They didn’t even know how many you’d had before they’d arrived but it was safe to say that with the way you were acting, you were pretty darn tipsy.

“Maybe you should make this your last one,” Hermione suggested, reaching out to place her hand on yours in a comforting manner. “I know you’ve had a tough week but if you want to talk then I’m here.”

All you did was shoot her a big, toothy grin in thanks as your new drink was placed in front of you. “It’s not like I’m sad or anything. I just… need to blow off some steam, you know? When have you known me to get tipsy off butter beer anyway? It’s just one time. It’s fine.”

After another half an hour, Harry declared that he wanted to go back to the castle — Hermione and Ron agreed. They tried to get you to go with them but you refused telling them you’d make your own way back. Harry had tried to pull you up and drag you with them knowing you weren’t exactly sober but you were too stubborn to budge. Ron had somehow convinced them you were smart enough to know what you were doing and with that they left.

It was one drink later when you’d finally decided you’d had enough, getting up out of your seat. But, you’d stood up too fast and with the butterbeer in your system it didn’t help one bit, the whole room spinning. You gripped the chair with one hand to steady yourself.

“You doing okay?” A familiar voice asked you. Your eyes glanced up to meet none other than Draco’s.

“I’ll be honest, blondie, I might have drank a little too much,” you said and couldn’t help but grin at him.

“I can tell.” He pondered for a moment almost having an internal battle with himself before he decided he had to be a decent human being and help you out. “Here,” he said, grabbing your jacket nd helping you put it on. He held his arm out for you. You didn’t even argue lacing your arm through it so he could help you back up to the castle.

The first few moments were silent until you spoke up curious as to why Draco Malfoy of all people was helping you out. “Got a feeling you don’t really do this much especially when I caught you bullying a poor innocent boy earlier.”

“You’d be right but contrary to popular belief, I’m actually a decent guy. I have manners and know when to not leave a lady alone in your state,” he mumbled.

“I’m not that drunk, you know. Just tipsy.”

“Tipsy enough for me to be concerned and it takes a lot to concern me. Why’d you even drink that much anyway? It takes a lot of butterbeers to get anyone drunk. Rough day?”

“Try rough week.”

“Is this about that imbecile Seamus? You can do much better,” Draco pulled a disgusted face at the mere sound of his name coming out of his mouth. At your confused look, he went on to explain. “I was walking past when you two were having a chat. Complete idiot he is if you ask me.”

A little laugh passed by your lips. “Don’t hide how you really feel. But, yeah and no. He and I weren’t even really together. It was just an culmination of things coming together all week. I’m fine, though.”

He looked at you to examine your face for any signs that you were lying but he couldn’t find any. You really did seem okay which was a relief to him. The last thing he wanted was to have some deep hearted conversation. It was a shock to him and you that he was even talking to you as much as he was.

Silence took over again as you reached the castle. Although, you didn’t want to admit it being in his company felt nice. Natural, even. You felt comfortable even when it was silent. There wasn’t any awkwardness. If you didn’t know any better you’d think you actually liked being in Draco’s company. He liked being in yours too but he was nowhere near comfortable enough to admit that.

“Thanks for walking me back. You’re alright, Malfoy,” you gave him a playful nudge with your shoulder causing a slight grin to form on his face. Funny, you’d never really seen him smile before. It looked good on him.

“You too. I meant it, by the way. You can do much better than most of the boys in this retched school.”

“Are you about to make some overly dramatic speech and ask me out?”

This time a large, hearty chuckle came from him and you couldn’t help but feel a little hint of butterflies start up that you’d been the one to get that out of him. Draco shook his head. “You wish but who knows what the future holds, eh? See you around.

With a wink, he headed on into the castle. Well, now you couldn’t wait to bump into your new favourite Slytherin more often.

[emmersonisdesperate]

This post wasn't supposed to be about Regulus "don't fucking touch me" Black and James "unless it's me :3" Potter. This wasn't a Jegulus post at ALL, idk how I forgot the main point.

Regulus Black and Physical Intimacy pt.2

The Slytherins and James were hanging out in the common room.

Barty and Pandora were slightly at a distance, conducting and inventing dangerous magic spells together. Evan was closer but he was mostly on babysitting duty, making sure they don't go too far.

Dorcas was curled on an armchair adjacent to the couch, re-doing her essay as one does. Normally she'd join them but she considers this area of magic 'beneath her'.

After what has been hours of Regulus upstairs with his brother (5 minutes), James perks up on the couch when he sees the pair of brothers come down the stairs.

They were talking to each other, well, bickering was more accurate but they seemed relaxed, as normal siblings should be. James' heart melted, he wants to see more of that.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Tiramisu."

Regulus says as if that explained anything.

Pandora perked up.

"Tiramisu? You brought food?"

That brings both Barty and Evan's attention onto them.

Sirius shoots them an apologetic look.

"Sorry, no food here."

The trio visibly deflates.

James clears his throat, bringing attention back to the original topic.

"What about Tiramisu?"

Sirius smirks while Regulus grumbles, crossing his arms.

"Not Tiramisu exactly, but he was banned from using forks with Tiramisu, you know?"

Intrigued, Dorcas puts down her scroll, sensing she was going to hear something Regulus wouldn't want anyone knowing. Always trying to find something incriminating.

"No, I did not know that, he was banned?"

"Well, not anymore but when he was like, so much shorter than this--" That gets him a kick on the leg but he marches on. "--we'd have Tiramisu for dessert every meal, his favorite."

James and the others can't help but coo, imagining a Regulus that barely reaches the table, looking forward to what was probably his favorite part of the meal.

"...I--Merlin, you guys are terrible."

Sirius sighs once the coos settle down, then continues.

"It was just a regular family dinner? Or there was some event? Celebration? Anyways, the whole family was there."

Regulus goes to sit next to James, close enough for their thighs to touch and James immediately feels like he could explode, like a supernova.

"And obviously that means we're going to have annoying aunts and uncles bothering us. So that night, I think Aunt Druella was the one fussing over Regulus? I can't remember what she was saying though but it got Reggie all red and fuming."

Hearing the name of their aunt, the rosier siblings were fully attentive to Sirius, dropping their experiments. When it became clear his partners were no longer into it, Barty had no choice but to be attentive too.

Regulus crossed his arms, appearing displeased as he recalled the memory.

"She kept insinuating I was a girl. My long eyelashes, my big eyes, my little body, my pretty face."

Sirius cackles.

"Oh that's right, Reggie hated being compared to a girl back then."

"... still does."

Barty mumbles as he recalled a painful memory in fourth year. He learned his lesson then.

"So of course, he retaliated. He stabs her in the thigh. With a fork."

Barty wheezes. Sirius joins in too, laughing. Regulus smirks, smiling fondly at the memory.

"Oh everyone's reactions--it was gold! It was the first time dinner became so silent besides well, her screaming!"

The other four were stunned into silence until Evan broke it, followed by Pandora.

"Hold on--you stabbed Aunt Druella?! As a kid??"

"How have we never heard about this??"

Sirius waved them off.

"They made her keep quiet about it, said it was her fault for bothering Reggie when he was oh so troubled for Hogwarts next year."

Barty wasn't surprised at this level of casual violence in their family, Pandora and Evan weren't surprised they made her keep quiet or that the Black brothers were recounting the memory like it was your usual nostalgia.

Dorcas and James however, could only stare in silence. A bit of fear from James.

"So that's why his fork privileges were taken away, but only for Tiramisu."

Sirius then joins Regulus and James on the couch, sitting next to his brother once he was done artistically recounting the tale of Regulus and Forks with Tiramisu.

He raises an arm to wrap around Regulus while their friends watch in horror as the brothers make physical contact.

"Although now that I think about it, he could still use forks to eat anything else and he always had knives."

Regulus allows himself to be pulled into his brother's embrace, neither noticing how the room has fallen into an awed silence.

"They wanted to fuck with her. Announcing they were going to take away my forks for Tiramisu every time? But still giving me forks and knives anyways?"

Regulus snorts and Sirius grins, squeezing his brother into his arm.

"Yeah, that's where you get your mean streak from."

"Accusations."

Regulus blinks innocently.

By then, the brothers realized their friends and even some other Slytherins were looking at them calculatingly.

"Uh, what's up guys?"

Dorcas lifts her gaze from the arm around Regulus's shoulders, to Sirius, then turns to her friends with confirmation if they were on the same page, then back to him.

"Uh."

Very eloquent, Dorcas Meadowes.

The others and her were staring at the arm with poorly hidden envy. They never got to touch Regulus so casually besides a very rare forced hug on birthdays and they were literally his best friends!! Of years!!

James glares at the arm, seething in jealousy. He wasn't faring much better either. James has to wait or ask for permission if he wanted to touch Regulus and he thought that meant he was quite close to him!! He's the boyfriend!!

They all did, because any attempts at touching him would come with a very-mellowed out violent response. But if it were any one else, Regulus would not hold back.

But here was Sirius Black! The man Regulus hated with all his heart only a couple weeks ago! Cuddled up against their Regulus! And him looking right at home there!

And yeah, they get it, Sirius was probably Regulus's entire world growing up in a house full of assholes, so of course Sirius would have exceptions.

But what the fuck!

Barty and James groaned, Evan huffed, Pandora pouted, Dorcas just shot them a look.

Oblivious Sirius just stares at them and chooses his peace.

"Alright, I'll go bother Peter then."

Once Sirius leaves, the eyes turn to Regulus. He blinks innocently.

"You."

James says with as much accusation he could put on his voice.

"Me?"

Regulus says as he slips a hand in James'. Suddenly, James can't remember what he was mad about.

"Nothing, you look lovely."

It was now James' turn to be stared at.

Regulus black and Physical Intimacy

*Pandora struggles to catch up with regulus so she reaches a hand out to grab his shoulder*

*Regulus smoothly dodges her hand like a cat and turns around*: sorry, I was distracted, did you say something?

*Pandora stares at her outstretched hand, slightly offended*

-

*Dorcas offering a drink*: Try it, it's actually surprisingly good.

*Regulus stares at her hand that's fully wrapped around the cup*

*Grabs the bottom of the cup with a down-side up hand-claw, then corrects his grip when it's fully out of her grasp*

Regulus, completely serious: well, it smells good, can't be truly awful.

*she stares at him with partly hidden judgement*

-

Regulus: Crouch, do you remember what professor Binns meant by this phrase?

*Barty uses this chance to get physically closer, attempting to wrap a hand around regulus's shoulder*

*A stinging hex is thrown his way and narrowly misses*

Barty, sighing: well, worth a shot

-

*Evan and Regulus reading together*

*Evan raises a hand to poke at Regulus's cheek*

Regulus, without missing a beat nor lifting his eyes from the book: no

*Evan slowly retracts his hand*

-

James: regulus...

*Regulus hums in answer*

James: can I touch you?

Regulus: you know the rules, in public only I initiate.

James, whining: but you never touch me

*Regulus rolls his eyes and stretches out a hand*

*James stares at it, confused*

Regulus, obviously teasing him: Oh, so head scratches aren't enough I take it?

*James, because he's not an idiot to haggle, immediately settles under the offered hand*

[lustlovehart]

Hiiii!!! I really enjoy your TWST monster AU! It’s very interesting!!!

Very sorry if you’ve already touched on this but I just have a few questions regarding monster Leona which refuse to leave my brain!

How does he appear? He’s a mummy, right? And he’s covered in bandages which I assume cover his face as well. Yet in Leona’s section in the info list about the monsters, reader describes him as ‘handsome’, so I’m just trying to get an idea of how wrapped up in his bandages he is.

I’m also wondering if he was a former mortal or a ‘natural’ monster. In your recent cooking ask, you listed out which of the boys know how to cook because they were former humans and Leona wasn’t listed, Generally, mummies are undead which were former mortals in life so I was surprised not to see him. Of course, the other possibility I immediately thought of was he didn’t need to know how to cook because he’s royalty.

(There’s this scenario I’ve been playing with in my head where reader finds an old picture of Leona when he was alive and proudly shows it to him, saying that now they finally know how they look like underneath all those bandages.)

Final obscure pondering, but do you have any plans on introducing Farena into the lore? Would he be mortal or undead or just plain dead, possibly for a long while now?

Sorry for the messy ask! I’m just very intrigued by this AU! Feel free to ignore if it’s a bother!!!

>:) I actually just finished a drawing for Mummy Leona that I’m gonna release soon! I like to think Leona typically is covered in bandaged, but keeps his mouth uncovered to talk to you specifically! He just assumes Ruggie can understand him so he doesn't bother, but when it’s you he’d like to have meaningful conversation without you repeating “What?” 3x. Though, he does occasionally removed the bandaged from his face entirely. I like to think Mh!Reader finds his aura handsome, but then him showing off his face just solidifies their opinion orz.

He is a former human! And you were entirely right Lmao. I was gonna add him in but then I remembered he probably didn’t have to cook for himself so he’s not to good at it which is why he wasn't added. I also like to think he’s much much older than the other former human monsters so, perhaps he simply just, dozens;t remember how to cook.

I love the scenario! Even when Leona shows off his face, it’s a bit hollowed out than when he was a human. So, when you find the picture and show it him like a shiny new trophy, he just scoffs at you ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎. If you mention he looks really really handsome, he’ll either be silent for a moment from embarrassment or maybe saddened! It depends on what way you want it to go.

Leona and Farenas history will be revealed in Savanaclaw chapter, butor the most part he’s dead 😔 (For Leona pain oTL)

Never worry about Messy asks! I love getting them <3

[bakukags]

Inheritance Games (Retelling from Jameson's POV)

summary: A retelling of when Jameson Hawthorne and Avery Grambs first met, but this time, it's from Jameson's POV.

pairing: Avery Grambs x Jameson Hawthorne

word count: 642

word count: This post may be super niche but I can't bring myself to care because I love these two and this was so fun to write!!

The old man was dead. His will was about to be read. And I was horribly drunk. 

“If yes is no and once is never, then how many sides does a triangle have?” I sat on the edge of a balcony, balancing precariously on the iron railing. The winter wind blew against my bare chest. I must have forgotten my shirt somewhere in the process of trying to forget everything: the old man, the will, the mess he had left us in…

“You’re going to fall.” A girl, with thick ashy-brown hair called out from below. Her pretty face looked guarded, carefully arranged into expressionless neutrality. She must have been the poor soul the old man dragged into his will reading. Into this family. 

“An interesting proposition.” A smirk tugged the edge of my lips. Falling wasn’t the worst fate that could befall a Hawthorne. 

“That wasn’t a proposition.” Her gaze was sharp, as if she was trying to see right through me. I grinned lazily in return. 

“There’s no shame in propositioning a Hawthrone.” 

Her face twisted for a brief second, before morphing into something unreadable. Her eyes traveled from my face, down my body. 

“You must be Mystery Girl.” I said. 

“I’m Avery.” She stated, looking like the last place she wanted to be was here. Funny, I could relate to that sentiment. 

“Whatever you say M.G.” I responded. “Can I call you M.G., Mystery Girl?” The question was rhetorical. I would do what I wanted, and she looked like the type to let me. 

“No.” She replied.

I ignored her in favor of bringing my feet up to the railing instead, wobbling slightly while standing up. What would it be like to fall from this height? Looking down, I saw a wave of panic flashing in her hazel eyes. Probably dangerous then. I shifted my weight, lifting another foot up. The old man was gone, and all he had left behind was a naive, little girl. How ridiculous. 

This whole situation was ridiculous. 

“Don’t!” She cried out. I twisted, instinctively grabbing the railing with my hands. My body hung vertically, feet dangling in the air for a moment. Then I fell. Right beside her. 

“You shouldn’t be out here, M.G.”

“Neither should you.” Her cheeks were flushed. Maybe it was from the cold. Or maybe it was from meeting my family. Either way, it shouldn’t concern me. 

“If I do what I should no more often than I say what I shouldn’t,” My lips twisted of their own accord. “Then what does that make me?”

I watched her connect the dots, recognition lighting her eyes as she reassessed me. James Hawthorne. I took a step closer to her. She continued to stare.

“What,” I repeated. “Does that make me?”

She looked away. For some reason, that disappointed me. 

“Drunk.” She stated simply. I opened my mouth with a retort, but she beat me to it. “And two.”

“What?” The words fell out of my mouth, unbidden. 

“The answer to your first riddle,” She looked at me again. This time, I noticed the golden flecks dancing in her eyes. “If yes is no and once is never, then the number of sides a triangle has… is… two.” 

She didn’t bother explaining her answer. She didn’t need to. Instead, she stated it like it was an obvious fact, as if we were merely talking about something trivial, like the blueness of the sky. Something akin to intrigue thrummed underneath my skin. Maybe I had misread this girl, but even if I had, I suppose it didn’t matter. I had been down this road before - this wouldn’t be any different. 

“Touche, M.G.” I brushed past her, arms barely touching. Something flickered within me, but I immediately tamped it down. “Touche.”

[homonationalist]

Once the veneer of fantasy is stripped off, the setting terrestrialized, and the orcs recognized as human, then, all the classic themes of Western racist thought become immediately visible. Tolkien’s aesthetic judgment on Mongols and orcs simply repeats Meiners’ aesthetic classification of races, and the even earlier medieval hierarchy: “The figure prized in medieval romances corresponded to Greek statuary, physiognomy was important, and a ‘skin of dazzling whiteness’ exemplified true beauty. Such beauty symbolized goodness, while blackness, small stature, and an ill-proportioned body meant ugliness and evil.” Similarly, twentieth-century German racists would contrast Aryans and dark “ape-men.” Blacks themselves, of course, had traditionally been seen in racist thought as close to apes, and possibly even prone to couplings with orangutans. In keeping with the foregoing, Tolkien describes an orc as “a short crook-legged creature, very broad and with long arms that hung almost to the ground” (TT, 62), while at the siege of Helm’s Deep, we are told, the orcs “sprang up [the ladders] like apes in the dark forests of the South” (TT, 178). The pure-blooded orcs’ fear of the sun also has its precedent in one German anthropologist’s contrast of a diurnal Aryan and a nocturnal non-Aryan race.

Charles W. Mills from “The Wretched of Middle‐Earth: An Orkish Manifesto” (2022)

[wulfdreaded]

little  grunt  grumble  at  the  laugh,  because  zeke  was  ...serious.  shifters  being  weak  excuses  for  their  kind  would  tarnish  his  reputation,  too.  again,  he  didn't  see  himself  as  one  of  them,  but  others  would  &  only  few  humans  would  stop  to  listen  to  him  -  a  killer,  a  monster,  a  bad  dream  about  terminology,  nor  would  anybody  care  he  wasn't  made.  he  was  born.  born  to  feast  on  their  flesh.  "tch.  stupid."  bothersome  to  say  the  least.  the  worst  of  possible  spells  they  could  be  choosing  to  specialize  in.  he  made  a  mental  note  to  find  that  witch.  or  more.  all  of  them.  what  were  a  few  dead  witches,  right?  "eh.  don't  see  why."  he  ...didn't  seem  like  he'd  taste  well.  witches  were  ...strange.  human  in  a  way  &  yet  not,  because  he'd  eaten  a  witch  once  &  felt  sick  to  his  stomach  for  a  week.  "maybe,  yeah."  was  that  what  he  thought?  zeke  hadn't  really  been  bothering  with  tricks  -  lately  he  hadn't  needed  to,  almost  as  if  people  forgot  there  was  a  big  bad  wolf  roaming  these  woods  &  devouring  everybody  &  everything  that  caught  his  attention.  maybe  he  should  remind  them.  the  king  may  have  spoken  him  free  of  his  sins  for  saving  his  son,  but  ..  nobody  or  nothing  bound  him  to  that.  head  tilted  again,  was  that  a  smile?  or  disgust?  he  couldn't  quite  tell,  but  something  was  happening  on  the  witch's  face  &  it  got  him  ...intrigued.  "noticed  that.  thought  you  were,  stick  up  your  ass  an'  all  that,  but  ...you're  not  ....too  bad."  clearing  his  throat,  shoulders  pulled  back  into  a  shrug  without  leaving  his  pant  pockets.  "hunters?  pffh,  dealt  with  hunters  plenty.  they  can't  best  me."  even  though  they  tried.  he  was  curious  now,  though.  "where  from?"  so  he  could  pay  that  hunter  a  ....visit.  that  offer  seemed  somewhat  very  one-sided,  which  couldn't  bode  well,  could  it?  how  was  he  going  to  keep  these  ..hunters  away  from  him?  "what's  in  it  for  ya?  what  do  you  want  from  me?  why?"

a  genuine  laugh  makes  its  way  out  of  gothel's  body.  he  can't  help  but  seem  to  be  entertained  by  the  wolf's  reaction.  god,  if  he  has  it  his  way  he'd  will  the  witch  carver  to  pass  by  right  in  that  moment  so  ezekiel  can  know  who  they  are.  he  doesn't  mean  to  scare  the  man  with  all  of  the  stores,  but  perhaps  rile  him  up  a  little  bit.  “if  it's  not  broke,  don't  fix  it.  witches  tend  to  stick  to  similar  spells  when  they  find  something  that  works.”  it's  how  he's  stayed  so  young  for  all  of  these  years.  “you  can  try  to  kill  me  if  you'd  like.”  without  someone  to  pass  on  the  mental  of  death  king  to,  can  he  even  die?  gothel's  mother  passed  before  he  could  ever  ask  her  the  important  questions.  his  brothers  are  also  long  gone.  “something  tells  me  most  of  your  ideas  are  good.  they're  just  judged  by  outsiders.”  shame  on  them.  he  loves  being  unexpected.  it's  probably  evident  by  the  way  that  his  mouth  widens  just  far  enough  to  show  teeth  through  his  lips.  it  lasts  longer  than  he'd  have  hope.  is  this  going  to  give  him  smile  lines  now?  my  god.  “i'm  not  like  other  witches.  hence  the  whole  death  domain  thing.”  still,  he  doesn't  mind  being  alone.  hence  the  whole  tower  in  the  middle  of  the  woods  thing.  “careful  now.  i  hear  there's  someone  that's  specializing  in  hunting  were-creatures.  perhaps  because  people  keep  making  them.”  another  small  laugh.  god,  he  needs  to  pay  the  witch  carver  at  this  point.  “how  about  we  agree  to  work  together  if  the  situation  ever  arises.  i'll  stop  the  poachers  from  getting  you.”  what  zeke  can  do  in  return?  well,  gothel  won't  say  that  out  loud.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

yeah so i'm falling for @weevmo's Guys... they're so neat! i dig their vibes and can't wait to see what Corduroy Stew is all about <3

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[harvestmoth]

more rejuv things but its. its just this guy again, im sorry shes all i can draw

[paging-possum]

on some level I understand that welcome to hell is probably a little harder to sell than hazbin given the *gestures vaguely* entire main plotline of w2h THAT SAID im going to be mad about it forever. because one of them is actually funny and has good character design and compelling dynamics and a good plot and its not the one about the freaking hotel.

[bmpmp3]

i am pretty excited for the miku nt update early access tomorrow. the demonstrations have sounded pretty solid so far and tbh i am super intrigued by the idea of hybrid concatenative+ai vocal synthesis, i wanna see what people doooo with it. show me it nowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

[agnimybeloved]

regarding that last post... not that black butler's canon has to be uplifting or have dadbastian or a happy ending to be "good" (i'm actually partial to tragedies especially the cyclical kind and would love for the series to straight up end with despair and the collection on the contract lol) but i do think that toboso's largely fumbled the found-family/interpersonal,/introspective aspects of her story and sacrificed a lot of narrative and thematic meat there for low-brow and off-putting comedy.... which is really exactly all she does with ciel's trauma as well-- shallowly using it for the purposes of trauma porn and/or comedy/inappropriate fanservice.

ciel only seems to have reasonable responses to his trauma when its aesthetically convenient if that makes sense. i honestly could go as far as to say that she depicts his trauma fetishistically-- every instance i can recall of ciel having an extreme traumatic response (i.e. vomiting, flashbacks, psychosis) is represented with (imo but honestly.... i'd be shocked if this wasn't intentional...) sexual undertones. his episode during the green witch arc doesn't have one of these moments within the episode itself as far as i can recall, but certainly i think the preceding/inciting medical emergency that forces him and sebastian to bathe together contributes to the reoccurring sexualization of "sickness" (physical & psychological).

not to mention ciel's subsequent episode is treated as the dramatic peak of his ptsd and something that he "overcomes" through sheer force of will (and the threats of sebastian... neither of which are a proper/reasonable way to handle such an extreme trauma response) and doesn't really battle going forward in the story. of course a lot of stories take this "one dramatic moment and then its fixed" approach to representing mental illness, and it makes narrative sense for toboso to want to more or less settle that thread to gear up for the important blue cult arc, but i think toboso's handling of mental illness in general goes so far beyond suspension of disbelief and tastelessness that i think she should lowkey be brained for it. the way she intermittently writes ciel's traumatic experiences as something horrifying and wrong and to be given sympathy meanwhile relentlessly putting ciel in inappropriate fanservice situations that diminish the severity of csa & pedophilia as well as disrespect the complexities of trauma and turn them into comedy... mind boggling...

overall though i think that black butler shows a real mastery of narrative arcs while falling short in terms of character arcs. most of the time these arcs are shown in retrospect with the addition of new backstory, but it feels as if the characters in present have barely grown at all... not that every story has to be character driven and a static character type makes sense for someone like sebastian, but for all that ciel is a unique and mature thirteen year old due to the circumstances of his life, he is still a thirteen year old, and one that has experienced a significant trauma quite recently at that. not allowing him coming of age-esque character arcs considering all that sort of breaks the believability of his character imo.

but i think that coattails does a lot in staying loyal to ciel's character and experiences while also respecting his trauma and bringing the depth and flexibility of adolescence to his worldview and actions that toboso unfortunately seems disinterested in. i love that aforementioned chapter of coattails and its sentiments especially with how it reexamines ciel's actions at kelvin's manor and the worldview that lead to burning it down with the children inside... not that it was an out of character decision for ciel in the moment, but i think it established a lot more severe facts about his character and worldview than toboso is willing to address in her writing and therefore feels unresolved. coattails' remedy to that awkwardness by coming full circle is so intriguing and fulfilling in contrast... it shows how adolescence and trauma can work together to so completely convince one of hopelessness and yet how just a bit of hope can change that worldview entirely. literally just the honest love of a random dog and the mundane care of a guardian... there is a cure and it is this..... what da helllll....