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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 14 days ago

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i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

[ETA: if you are somehow finding your way here pls note some - not exhaustive!!!! - follow up notes in this reblog. sorry again i mixed up megalodons and megalosaurs]

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so much trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

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rqnarok · 7 months ago

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old man!logan obsessing over his pregnant wifey

headcanons - cws/tags: smut! mdni. breeding kink. lactation kink. pregnant sex. dom/sub dynamics.

a/n: okie a lot of u asked for a part two of this blurb, here ya’ go my loves! <3

Logan Howlett used to think he wouldn’t be a good father. Hell, with that temper and attitude? He was sure he’d be the worst one.

But you don’t seem to agree with him on many things—especially his self-destructive thoughts. I mean, that’s why you let him knock you up in the first place. You’d grin seeing your belly round and full of his babe, tits plump and leaking.

You are too beautiful to behold, “My pretty fuckin’ wife.” A sight that has Logan’s libido reaching its peak, the ones he thought he was not capable of anymore as an old man.

Yet here he is, dick hard and balls full each time he sees you.

Shit. You look so soft, walking around the house barefoot and swollen with his offspring. A sick and possessive side of him loves knowing that when you are out in public, it’s apparent that you’re taken by him, carrying his child.

Pregnancy grants you a restless glow that makes it harder for him to say no to you. “W-wan’ you, please, Lo—” When you beg him to stuff you up full, who is he to deny his wife? Deny the mother of his child?

He turns into a madman at how your leaking tits bounce up and down when you ride his girth, at how your breasts seem to look when you wear those tight tops, at how your nipples are poking all the damn time, and at how you are hornier than ever.

Yeah, he caught you hiding under the sheets rubbing your swollen clit and fingers deep in your own dripping cunt with his name rolling off your tongue — thinking he’s still doing his late night shift.

He fucks you as much as he can, the positions getting more and more adapted as your stomach grows, sometimes filthier than ever, “Put your legs up here, baby. Can’t have ya’ sore now, can we?”

His favorite position is still you on your back, thighs spread apart, and belly full on display. “Ya’ got me so fuckin’ hard, pretty.” He doesn’t give a damn that his aging body feels aching—he could watch this for hours. Your face contorted with pleasure as his fat cock thrusts in and out.

Oh, Logan’s nasty. He says he tries to ‘relieve’ your pain by sucking at your sensitive, leaking nipples while plunging his cock inside of you. “Mhm, such a sweet wife for your old man.” Pumping your full womb while he laps at your milk.

The almost 200-year-old man believes he has gained stamina—now that he has more responsibility. He’s always ready to load you up for days on end. And that’s exactly what he’ll do for the next few weeks. Molding his cock inside you before sex starts to get all too much for his pregnant wifey.

Logan’s a natural caretaker. It shows when you’re hitting the post-orgasm soreness and barely do anything except breathe heavily. He never forgets to show his affection, scratching his scruffy grey beard on your neck before softly kneading sensitive parts of your body.

“Let’s get ya’ cleaned up, mama.”

A bad father? Logan Howlett buried all of his dictionaries and named you his language.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett smut #old man logan #old man logan x reader #wolverine smut #logan by nina <3

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valeriehalla · 10 months ago

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actual writing advice

1. Use the passive voice.

What? What are you talking about, “don’t use the passive voice”? Are you feeling okay? Who told you that? Come on, let’s you and me go to their house and beat them with golf clubs. It’s just grammar. English is full of grammar: you should go ahead and use all of it whenever you want, on account of English is the language you’re writing in.

2. Use adverbs.

Now hang on. What are you even saying to me? Don’t use adverbs? My guy, that is an entire part of speech. That’s, like—that’s gotta be at least 20% of the dictionary. I don’t know who told you not to use adverbs, but you should definitely throw them into the Columbia river.

3. There’s no such thing as “filler”.

Buddy, “filler” is what we called the episodes of Dragon Ball Z where Goku wasn’t blasting Frieza because the anime was in production before Akira Toriyama had written the part where Goku blasts Frieza. Outside of this extremely specific context, “filler” does not exist. Just because a scene wouldn’t make it into the Wikipedia synopsis of your story’s plot doesn’t mean it isn’t important to your story. This is why “plot” and “story” are different words!

4. okay, now that I’ve snared you in my trap—and I know you don’t want to hear this—but orthography actually does kind of matter

First of all, a lot of what you think of as “grammar” is actually orthography. Should I put a comma here? How do I spell this word in this context? These are questions of orthography (which is a fancy Greek word meaning “correct-writing”). In fact, most of the “grammar questions” you’ll see posted online pertain to orthography; this number probably doubles in spaces for writers specifically.

If you’re a native speaker of English, your grammar is probably flawless and unremarkable for the purposes of writing prose. Instead, orthography refers to the set rules governing spelling, punctuation, and whitespace. There are a few things you should know about orthography:

English has no single orthography. You already know spelling and punctuation differ from country to country, but did you know it can even differ from publisher to publisher? Some newspapers will set parenthetical statements apart with em dashes—like this, with no spaces—while others will use slightly shorter dashes – like this, with spaces – to name just one example.

Orthography is boring, and nobody cares about it or knows what it is. For most readers, orthography is “invisible”. Readers pay attention to the words on a page, not the paper itself; in much the same way, readers pay attention to the meaning of a text and not the orthography, which exists only to convey that meaning.

That doesn’t mean it’s not important. Actually, that means it’s of the utmost importance. Because orthography can only be invisible if it meets the reader’s expectations.

You need to learn how to format dialogue into paragraphs. You need to learn when to end a quote with a comma versus a period. You need to learn how to use apostrophes, colons and semicolons. You need to learn these things not so you can win meaningless brownie points from your English teacher for having “Good Grammar”, but so that your prose looks like other prose the reader has consumed.

If you printed a novel on purple paper, you’d have the reader wondering: why purple? Then they’d be focusing on the paper and not the words on it. And you probably don’t want that! So it goes with orthography: whenever you deviate from standard practices, you force the reader to work out in their head whether that deviation was intentional or a mistake. Too much of that can destroy the flow of reading and prevent the reader from getting immersed.

You may chafe at this idea. You may think these “rules” are confusing and arbitrary. You’re correct to think that. They’re made the fuck up! What matters is that they were made the fuck up collaboratively, by thousands of writers over hundreds of years. Whether you like it or not, you are part of that collaboration: you’re not the first person to write prose, and you can’t expect yours to be the first prose your readers have ever read.

That doesn’t mean “never break the rules”, mind you. Once you’ve gotten comfortable with English orthography, then you are free to break it as you please. Knowing what’s expected gives you the power to do unexpected things on purpose. And that’s the really cool shit.

5. You’re allowed to say the boobs were big if the story is about how big the boobs were

Nobody is saying this. Only I am brave enough to say it.

Well, bye!

#text #writing

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itsnesss · 20 days ago

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kimi antonelli x femreader? Pretty cute kimi teaching his girlfriend reader how to speak Italian

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐝’𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | you spend a cozy evening with your boyfriend kimi, who decides to teach you italian

warnings | gf!reader, fluff overload 💖, mild language, learning frustration, soft, kissing

word count | 1.1 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

The sunset filters through the windows of the small apartment Kimi rented in Italy during the race break. You’re sitting on the couch, surrounded by books, notes, and a notebook half-filled with poorly written Italian words, while he walks around the kitchen with an amused smile.

"Amore, you’re making this way too complicated," he laughs, placing two cups of tea on the table before sitting next to you. "You don’t have to learn the whole dictionary tonight."

"I don’t want to sound like a tourist when we go out," you reply, arms crossed with a slight pout. "I want to speak properly, like you."

Kimi leans in, leaving a kiss on your cheek.

"But I love when you ask things with that little accent of yours," he teases. "Although… if you want, I can teach you. My way."

Your eyes light up. That sounded way better than any language app.

"Your way?"

"Yeah. No books. Just you, me… and the words that actually matter."

He shifts closer, sliding his arm behind you. You open your notebook, but he gently closes it.

"First lesson," he says, looking at you with that soft intensity that always makes your heart skip a beat. "Ti amo."

Your breath catches.

"That… that means 'I love you,' right?"

He nods.

"I want you to say it."

"What?"

"Say it. I don’t care if you mess it up. Just say it."

You swallow nervously. Not because of the language. Because of what it means. Because of how he’s looking at you. Because this feels like something straight out of an Italian romance film.

"Ti… amo."

He smiles, and suddenly you forget how to breathe.

"Perfetto," he whispers, leaning in so close his lips graze yours before he speaks again. "It sounds better coming from you than any song."

You laugh, a little embarrassed, hiding your face in your hands.

"You can’t start with that! Give me something easier!"

"Alright," he chuckles, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "Let’s learn the words we use the most. You and me."

He grabs a piece of paper and starts writing.

"‘Ciao’," he says. "Means ‘hello’ and also ‘goodbye’. Super common."

"Ciao," you repeat.

"Very good. Next… ‘bella’. That’s you."

"Bella?"

"Yes. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect. All of that in one word."

Your cheeks burn as he says it again, slower, softer.

"Bella," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his fingers. "The easiest word to learn."

"I’m going to forget it if you keep saying it like that."

"Liar. You’ll never forget it."

He keeps writing.

"Now something useful: ‘Ho fame’."

"What’s that?"

"I’m hungry."

"Oh, I’m definitely going to use that one!"

He laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

"I know. That’s why it made the top 5."

The next few hours go by in a blur of laughter, funny mispronunciations, and him patiently repeating words. Each one comes with a story. "Andiamo" (let’s go) was what he said the first time you went exploring together. "Bacio" (kiss) quickly becomes your favorite after you mispronounce it and he decides to show you instead. "Testarda" (stubborn) appears during a playful argument about whether Neapolitan or Roman pizza is better.

But it’s when you reach the word "casa" that something shifts.

"Casa?" you ask.

"Casa," he repeats, but his voice drops a little.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing. Just… you’re that for me. My home."

Your heart tightens. You put the pencil down and look at him.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Doesn’t matter if I’m in Monaco, Imola, Silverstone… when I’m with you, I feel like I belong somewhere."

You lean in without a word and kiss him. Slow, deep, full of everything you still don’t know how to say. He wraps his arms around you, fingers tracing slow lines down your back, and in that moment, there’s no need for translation.

Later, the two of you lie together, your head on his chest, and he plays with your hair while you whisper questions.

"How do you say ‘I miss you’?"

"Mi manchi."

"Mi manchi," you repeat.

"I’m going to say that a lot when you’re away."

"And how do you say ‘stay’?"

"Resta."

"Resta, Kimi."

He smiles, kissing your forehead.

"Always."

Days pass, and your Italian improves… a little. Enough to understand when his friends call you cute. Enough to read menus without help. But most importantly, enough to speak to him in secret, in whispers, when English just isn’t enough.

One night, you’re on the apartment balcony, fairy lights twinkling above you. Dinner’s over, and the warm breeze brushes your skin. Kimi comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Ti va un’altra lezione?" he murmurs near your ear.

"What did you say?"

"Want another lesson?"

"Sure."

He turns you gently to face him.

"Tonight I’m teaching you words no one else needs to hear. Just you and me."

"Oh yeah?"

He nods, winking.

"First: ‘Sei tutto per me’."

"What does that mean?"

"You are everything to me."

"Say it again."

"Sei tutto per me," he whispers, this time with a little more weight.

He takes your hands, kissing each knuckle slowly.

"‘Non voglio perderti’. I don’t want to lose you."

You feel a lump in your throat. You weren’t expecting something so serious, so raw.

"I don’t want to lose you either."

"Then learn this: ‘Restiamo insieme’."

"What…?"

"Let’s stay together."

You close your eyes for a second, like the phrase could etch itself onto your skin. You repeat it, softly, like saying it makes it real.

"Restiamo insieme."

Kimi nods and pulls something out of his pocket. It’s not a ring. It’s a small pendant with one word written in his handwriting: "Casa."

"I want you to have this. So you never forget what you are to me."

Your eyes fill with tears.

"I have something for you too."

You take out your old notebook, the one where you scribbled every new word and phrase, and hand it to him. On the last page, written in your shaky handwriting:

"Ti amo, Kimi. Sei la mia casa."

He reads it silently. When he looks back at you, his eyes are glassy.

"You say you don’t speak Italian well, but this…" he hugs you tightly, like letting go would break something.

"I might not speak like you, but I learned the most important thing.

"What’s that?"

"Words that come from the heart… don’t need translating."

He smiles, and this time, there are no more lessons. Just kisses. Soft touches. Silent promises between laughter, wrapped in each other under the warm Italian night.

#🖇️ kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli imagine #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli one shot #kimi antonelli #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader

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jennelikejennay · 5 months ago

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You know what I think t'hy'la means?

It's not an ambiguous term, like it could mean three different things. But I also don't think it always means all three. I think it's a singular concept that we don't use on Earth, but maybe we should.

You know how some people's number one person is their spouse, while other people, married or not, have a best friend who's the one they really tell everything to? You know how you might have a queerplatonic relationship but whether or not you have sex with them is just ...not an important question?

I think t'hy'la means your number one person. And humans don't have a word that says most important without distinguishing whether we're blood-related or whether we're having sex.

Vulcans do. So I don't especially like the idea that all t'hy'la pairs have to be lovers in a sexual sense. It's not that at all. It's that they have this deep bond that transcends everything. You could have that with your brother. You could have it with your friend. Or if you're attracted to that person, you would probably be lovers.

Kirk and Spock love each other deeply; everyone who knows them knows that. The word they use for each other doesn't say whether they're having sex because Vulcans don't care about that. Humans are all "weird, the dictionary definition won't tell me whether they're boning, which is information I'm used to having publicly announced!" Well, too bad. Vulcans have arranged marriages usually, and some of them have sex once every seven years. So I just don't think sex is the defining point that makes a relationship serious to them.

If a Vulcan says "this is my t'hy'la" that lets everyone know they are bonded in the deepest level of the katra and any arranged spouses or temporary pon farr surrogates they might have don't even rank, by comparison. That's uncomfortable to humans.

Now Kirk and Spock are definitely having sex, but Spock doesn't consider that to be the fact that makes their relationship serious and primary over all others. So that's why he chooses a word that is about the soul bond, not the flesh.

#well anyway that's how I'm thinking about it just now #i certainly can and will and do write fics where it means something else #t'hy'la #star trek #spirk

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2hightocare · 8 months ago

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COFFEE!

“I think I'm past obsessed at this point, there has to be another word in the dictionary that tops obsessed.”

Synopsis: in which a hopeless romantic falls in love with the man of her dreams…

Pairings: boyfriend!jeongguk x fem!reader

Genre: established relationship.. non idol au

Warnings: literally the most sappy thing I could have possibly written, was listening to ‘coffee’ by miguel while writing, they’re such a gentle love, reader is a book worm, Jungkook likes drawing (doodling) plus points when his drawings are about oc, mentions of their first time having sex, usage of book quotes (read nltm, had to use the mia and sebastian line for my own sanity) <3333333

authors note: this is so simple but my book worm hopeless romantic needed this.. wrote this while high so nothing new 🤍

They say falling in love is the most beautiful feeling in the world.

You couldn’t explain the immediate sensation, the feeling that spreads throughout your chest as if you were a black-and-white picture that suddenly starts to fill with vibrant colors anytime his eyes lock with yours.

It was astonishing how the universe works—the idea that you are destined for someone ever since you are born, and that all the hardships along the way shape you into the person you need to be to meet them.

Your heartbeat thumped loudly in your ears as you watched him laugh from across the room, an oversized hoodie and baggy jeans covering his lean, muscular figure—one you’d memorized to the tiniest detail. You knew every freckle and scar. His head was thrown back, arms crossed, as he paid attention to whatever the guy in front of him was saying.

You scrunched your nose, using your index finger to push your glasses up as you studied your boyfriend from afar. You weren’t sure whether to call it pathetic or endearing, the way you noticed every little crease on his forehead and the way he toyed with his bottom lip absentmindedly. You even took note of his long eyelashes, and nearly died of jealousy every time you counted them when he slept beside you.

It was gut-wrenching to imagine anyone else feeling about him the way you did. The thought alone made you want to puke in the nearest trash can.

You were lovesick for this man, and you could already feel the heat rising to your cheeks whenever you looked at him or heard his laugh. Not only did you want to scream and freak out over every little thing he did, but he also had you daydreaming constantly. You found yourself thinking of silly song lyrics that resonated with how you felt about him. Staring at his side profile, you finally understood the meaning behind Suki Waterhouse’s lyrics: “Oh, my good looking boy,” echoed in your mind.

Before you could form another lyric or recall a favorite book quote to describe your feelings, his eyes found yours. A small smile tugged at his lips as his gaze scanned your expressions, reading you as if you were an open book. You smiled, tilting your head to the side, trying to hide the makeshift fireworks going off in your tummy.

His gaze softened, and it made your breath waver. You had never understood the meaning of “his gaze softened” in books, but now, you understood every syllable of those words after experiencing it firsthand.

You honestly couldn’t think of a single thing you didn’t love about him. You loved everything about him, even the parts he claimed were too “broken” or “damaged” to be loved.

A few seconds passed before he finally said his goodbyes and began making his way back to you. Your eyes followed every step, catching the grin he wore.

“I don’t know, I pretty much think you’re obsessed with me,” your boyfriend teased, his straight teeth on full display as he stopped in front of you, looking down at you on the couch.

“In your dreams.” You laughed, craning your neck to look up at him.

Instead of getting mad, he let out a low chuckle, leaning down with both arms on either side of the couch, caging you in.

“Every night, baby.” He whispered softly, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, delivering another soft kiss. You sighed in contentment as his lips ghosted over your skin, the pet name making your head feel dizzy.

He placed a soft kiss on your forehead before standing up straight again, looking down at you. Your eyelids felt heavy as you looked up at him through your lashes. He was already smiling, and you didn’t even need to ask “what?”—you already knew. Anyone in their right mind could tell how obsessed you were with him, and it was no surprise to him either.

As you both walked out of the bookstore, carrying a bag full of psychological and romance books (and, of course, the box of transparent sticky notes Jungkook got for you to annotate your books without writing on the actual pages), it was clear this was one of his favorite things to do. In his free time, when he wasn’t working or with you, he loved opening one of your books and reading your thoughts scribbled in the margins. Half of his camera roll was pictures of you, but the other half was just pictures of your annotations, scribbles, and drawings.

It was as if he was inside your mind, reading every thought, and he loved it.

He could still recall the first book he opened that sent his heart racing, like a teenage boy with a crush.

“I couldn’t see him, but his laugh was unmistakable. I could close my eyes and be in so many places with that laugh. That laugh was the cohesive thread, the little recurring melody that showed up in so many scenes of my life, like Mia and Sebastian’s theme in La La Land. Always there, playing in the background.”

Those words were highlighted in the prettiest shade of pink, with two small hearts drawn beside them. But it was your handwriting at the bottom that got him: “The feeling I’ve been trying to put into words about how I feel every time I look at him has just been done for me, oh my.” He remembered feeling his heart stop for a second. And when it started again, it was for you—his heart was for you and only you.

That wasn’t all. It had become one of your shared love languages. Jungkook started buying books he thought you’d like. He even asked your little sister what your favorite highlighters were so he could buy them for both of you.

Your heart did somersaults when you opened a book on his bedside table and saw a drawing—a pair of eyes in black ink, long lashes making them look bigger and more innocent. Your breath hitched as you noticed the small freckle just below the eyebrow, realizing it was you.

It didn’t help the overwhelming sensation of adoration when you saw his handwriting in the margins.

“You remembered?” she said softly.

“I remember every second of us.”

The text was underlined, and in small letters, he had written, “Gosh, she made me fall so hard that I’m reading sappy words and thinking ‘us’ out loud. #sendhelp,” with a frowning emoji next to the hashtag. Before you knew it, you were on page one, reading every single line and note he had left.

Also, the multiple drawings on the pages where there was extra space had your heart thumping hard in your chest. There were so many drawings— each one tied to you or him. It was impossible to describe every feeling surging through your chest, every emotion racing in your bloodstream, as your fingertips traced the drawing of you.

This time, it was an image of you on your back, lying on a bed. Only part of your side profile was visible, with your hair spilling across the bed, covering most of your back. At first, you didn't want to assume it was you he'd drawn-being self-centered wasn't your style. But it was impossible to deny it when he'd sketched every freckle, even the small half-moon tattoo on your shoulder blade, matching the real one inked on your skin.

You smiled at the memory but snapped back to the present as your boyfriend instinctively switched you to the other side of the sidewalk when you two turned toward Target. You held tight to his index finger as he squeezed between people, leading you behind him with a soft "excuse me" to anyone in the way.

Automatically, you found yourself smiling as you picked up your pace to match his longer strides. He pulled you in closer, his arm snaking around your waist, his hand resting over your belly—a little lower than usual, sending butterflies flitting wildly in your stomach. You suppressed a shiver as he gently guided you to the side, allowing an older couple to pass by.

"Us when we're eighty, baby," Jungkook leaned down and whispered into your ear, making you playfully roll your eyes at him. His smile only widened at your reaction.

"Won't be us if you keep watching Young Sheldon without me," you pouted, giving him a playful glare, which only made him smile more.

"Why are you smiling?" you asked, maybe even whining a little as you walked into the store and heard the employee greet you both.

"Because you're so beautiful, and my brain goes in circles when I stare at you," he shrugged casually, giving your waist a small squeeze before untangling his arm to grab a cart.

You tried so hard not to melt, holding onto his bicep as he leaned forward on the cart, making him closer to your height.

"Don't know it you're down, but l've been wanting to learn how to crochet," you said as you glanced around the aisles. Your boyfriend immediately started nodding excitedly.

"Baby, oh my god. I'm so down. We need to make those big-ass blankets," he rambled, looking at your face for a reaction, like a puppy with its ears perked up and tail wagging.

"I think that's knitting, baby," you corrected him, smiling as his eyebrows raised before he let out a small laugh.

"Wait, are those two not the same thing?" His dimple deepened as he bit his lower lip, stopping in front of the craft aisle.

"I actually have no clue," you admitted with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow. "But I know you can crochet a blanket because you once told me about those pattern blocks you saw on your explore page.”

Jungkook's gaze softened as he made eye contact with you, his pupils dilated with so much adoration that it made your heart swell.

"And I remember because I searched them on TikTok to see what you were talking about. I saw people connecting them into blankets. Also, I remember you pretending to sleep so you didn't have to scratch my back anymore-before my one minute was up. You swear you're slick, but I know when you're really asleep," he said with a grin, teasingly biting your cheek as you tried not to smile.

"How do you know I'm not sleeping?" you teased, and he chuckled, ghosting his lips over yours.

"Because every time you fall asleep, you make this little sound, and then slowly, you start snoring," he laughed, watching your cheeks turn a shade of red before burying his laughing face in the crook of your neck.

To be loved is to be seen.

That phrase had never felt more accurate. No one else had ever seen you the way Jungkook did. He knew you so well, down to the tiniest details that sometimes even surprised you.

Your eyes practically turned into hearts as Jungkook kissed your neck innocently before turning his attention to the yarns.

This was the kind of love you had always dreamed of

-better than the movies or books. Nothing could top the overwhelming feelings of gratitude, love, and appreciation that coursed through your body whenever you looked at him. Your brain practically played the instrumental of "Video Games" by Lana Del Rey whenever you spent time with him.

It was as if even a natural disaster couldn't faze you

-so long as you could experience it with him.

The connection between you two was beyond what you ever imagined existed in real life. It felt like something out of a fairy tale. From the moment you locked eyes with him across the room, you both knew there was no turning back.

After checking out and getting to Jungkook's car, he opened the door for you, reaching over to buckle your seatbelt before putting the bags in the back.

Once he climbed into the driver's seat, his hand instinctively found its place on your thigh after starting the car. His thumb rubbed your bare skin, sending sparks flying through your body. It was such a natural gesture for him, but the butterflies never ceased. You bit your lip, trying not to whine when his hand moved closer to your inner thigh.

As he softly sang along to "Creep" by Radiohead, it was just another thing you'd become morally obsessed with-his voice. You had always known he could sing, but everything changed the night you were first intimate.

It was as if your entire perspective on love and sex shifted. Simply calling it "sex" seemed absurd now, because it was so much more. Everything felt heightened, more intense, making your heart pound wildly in your chest.

"F-fuck, baby..." he whimpered into your ear, his hips moving slowly into yours, leaving your mouth hanging open.

His little groans and moans made you dizzy, like notes of a lullaby. The feeling of skin against skin was the most addicting sensation, made even more special by the way he always checked in on you.

"Shhh, I'm sorry. Am I being too rough, baby?" His voice was strained as his hips halted, his breath heavy as he moved your hair to kiss your neck.

He resumed slowly, making your legs shake and grip the sheets, and you couldn't help but moan, asking for more. His chuckle against your skin was the same one you’d hear when he rested his head on your stomach, expecting you to scratch his back or read to him.

"You're sweaty," you pouted at him, both of you basking in the afterglow.

"I know. Do you still want me?" He smiled, mimicking your expression before pulling the covers over both your naked bodies and pulling you in as close as possible.

"Yes, I'll forever want you," you replied, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, savoring the warmth he radiated.

As sleepiness began to overtake you, you felt his fingertips tracing letters and shapes on your hip.

Just before drifting off, he began singing again. It was like entering another universe where only you and he existed

"I want you to notice," he sang softly, "when I'm not around."

"So fucking special... I wish I was special." He pressed a kiss to your temple, the sound of his voice and your matching heartbeats lulling you both to sleep.

You snapped back to reality when the car stopped at a red light.

"Is it bad that I always hope to get red lights so I can kiss you?" he asked, flashing a grin that had you laughing.

Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his as his eyes fluttered shut, his finger lifting your chin gently.

"Not bad, but a little weird. You want to spend so much time with me," you teased, pulling back to your seat. "Some might even think you're pretty obsessed."

"I'm past obsessed at this point. There's got to be another word that tops it," he admitted, stealing another kiss just before the light turned green.

As you gazed at him, you couldn't help but wish there was another word, stronger than "love," to describe how you felt about him.

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cherrygirlfriend · 20 days ago

Text

─ SHE'S A MANEATER! ★

MAKE YOU WANT ALL HER LOVE!

★ pairing: maneater!reader x loser nerd!rafe

★ summary: rafe cameron is the biggest loser you know, but what happens in a dark janitor’s closet stays in a dark janitor’s closet…

★ warnings / tags: smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, sub!rafe, name calling, degradation. wc: 1k

★ author's note: i got a request for a mean reader who bullies rafe and since being mean to men is my favorite hobby… i couldn’t resist.

★ RAFE MASTERLIST ★

take out a dictionary. search for the word ‘loser’. the face that stares back at you? rafe cameron.

he represented everything you hated. goodwill clothes, friend group who's rather lather on axe body spray instead of taking a shower, staying in all his weekends studying or probably binge watching star wars, replaying the scene of princess leia in her golden bikini over and over again and jerking off into an old sock because no one invited him or his friends anywhere.

you were different. most of your college life consisted of going out and partying, breaking hearts of boys you couldn't give two shits about, spending money that didn't belong to you… it seemed like you didn't care about anything, something that the insecure boy couldn't relate.

"hi." rafe said softly and you turned to look at him with an irritated look on your face, your gaze trailing up and down his form with jusgement, the boy's face red and nervous, hand shaking as he held out something; three pieces of paper held together with a paper clip, "he-here's your essay." he muttered.

you took the paper, skimming over it before stuffing it into your bag, "it's about time." you scoffed, crossing your arms while he just stayed there, standing still, "what are you waiting for? a treat? get the fuck out of my face, loser."

"o-okay." rafe stuttered, still a small smile on his face as he made his way towards his friends, nearly tripping on his own shoelaces. but when no one was looking, you slipped a note into the locker you knew belonged to him.

your skirt was bunched up around your hips, straddling the boy who laid on the floor of the bleach-smelling janitor's closet, filled with your mingled heavy breaths and the perverted squelch of his cock inside your wet cunt.

rafe watched you under lidded eyes, your head thrown back as you used him to get yourself off, his hands on your plushy thighs, hips ramming up into you as one of your own hands hand cupped your tit, the other one between your own legs, helping yourself; you never let him touch you like that.

god, he felt like such a fucking loser. rafe would've done anything for you, and he pretty much did. he did all your homework, got you whatever illegal substances you wanted (most often coke or molly), fuck, you could probably get him to hurt someone without even regretting it.

rafe couldn't help it; you were the most gorgeous, perfect girl he'd ever seen. it was like whenever you walked into the room, every pair of eyes locked onto you, and you didn't even care; you didn't care how obsessed people were with you. you knew you were everything and didn't care. all you cared about was your own pleasure, about getting off, whether it was by sex, by being a bitch, by stomping over the hearts of all the boys obsessed with you.

your hand went to his neck and squeezed, a small whine leaving rafe's lips. you groaned in frustration, stuffing the wet pair of red panties into his mouth as you continued to ride him, mumbling, "shut the fuck up..." rafe could still taste the tang of your arousal on the lacy fabric, his eyes closing in bliss as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, making you let out quiet moans.

rafe tries mumbling through the fabric in his mouth to tell you that he was getting close, only for your grip on his throat tightening, your own face scrunching up in pleasure.

"f-fuck..." you moaned, the finget on your clit speeding up, feeling the coil in your stomach tightening, speeding the movement of your hips as you moved up and down on his cock, the lewd squelching and rapid breathing filling the small space

rafe let out a muffled moan when he felt your pussy squeeeeeeze around him and clench with the force of your orgasm, his hips bucking up involuntarily as warm spurts of his cum started coating your gummy walls, his grip on your thighs tightening, your head thrown back in bliss.

but when the both of you started getting down from your orgasms, you groaned and took your hand off his neck, getting off his softened cock as you looked down, seeing his cum trailing down your thighs and scoffing in irritation, your breathing still heavy as you spoke, "you fucking came in me."

you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing a wet wipe from your bag as you started wiping the white substance off your legs. rafe sat up tentatively, and took your panties out of his mouth slowly tugging his boxer shorts back up, clearing his throat, "i'm sorry..."

"you should be." you sighed, throwing the wet wipe into a trash can and straightening your skirt, "better remember to never tell anyone about this." you scoffed, taking out a pocket mirror and holding it up to inspect your face, fixing some of your makeup as rafe stood up and pulled his jeans back up, sliding the lacy fabric in his back pocket.

"i won't..." rafe mumbled, starting to button his shirt back up "y-you know, you'd probably look much better without makeup..."

what rafe thought would be a compliment seemed to offend you, though, making you scoff and roll your eyes, "i don't care what you or any other guy thinks about me. now wait five minutes before you come out to make sure no one sees."

and so you simply opened the door and made your way out, leaving the boy standing in the dark janitor's closet, haphazardly dressed and chest still slightly heaving as he ran a hand through his mussed up hair.

YOU WISH YOU NEVER EVER MET HER AT ALL!

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ tagging some moots <3: @nemesyaaa @inbred-eater @raahosh @rafesheaven @isasweetie @dollyfiles @hauntedfawnn @jjslaybank @littlelamy @cameronsbabydoll @bambiangels

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