#I spent days trying to think what to do as first post

[agustdsluv]

IN THE SPACE BETWEEN US - JJK

summary | they grew up side by side. they just didn’t know they were falling in love. years of silence, one moment of truth, and a love that was always there.

paring | jungkook x f! reader

genre/warnings | one shot! childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff with light angst, first love, they’re honestly just blind and idiots for each other, mutual pining, them just being cute, time skip, and again just them being dumb

word count | 3.9K

notes: honestly I debated whether or not I should post this. It’s the first time I’m publishing something of my own and I’ve written a lot of stuff over the years, but I’ve never posted anything like this before so I really hope you enjoy it. It took me a long time to have the courage to post this so I really hope you like it and let me know what you think. 

The summer Jungkook turned seven, a new family moved into the yellow house across the street.

Their daughter—shy, messy-haired, with oversized glasses—stood out like a cloud on a clear day. While the other kids played soccer on cracked pavement and scraped knees on jungle gyms, she spent the first week hiding behind her mother’s legs or sitting silently on the front porch with a spiral notebook.

On the second Monday of July, Jungkook found her crying behind the bush next to the schoolyard fence.

He blinked, unsure if he should run or offer a tissue. She noticed him watching and quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, which left a dirt streak across her cheek.

“You lost?” he asked, walking closer with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

She shook her head.

“Then why are you crying?”

She hugged her notebook tighter. “Some girl said I’m weird because I brought dried squid for lunch.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “That’s not weird. I eat squid all the time.”

She peered up at him, skeptical. “Really?”

He nodded confidently. “Wanna see something cooler?”

Before she could answer, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a crumpled bag of spicy seaweed crackers.

“They taste gross,” he said proudly. “But I eat them anyway. Wanna try?”

She took one cautiously, eyes narrowing as she chewed. Then her lips twitched. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Now you have to be my friend.”

And just like that, the thread was tied.

From that day on, they were inseparable.

They walked to school together every morning, side by side with their backpacks bouncing. During lunch, they’d trade doodles in their notebooks and dare each other to eat increasingly weird snack combos—banana and kimchi, yogurt with soy sauce, chocolate-covered seaweed.

“Someday we’ll open a snack shop,” she declared one day, her mouth full of strawberry pocky. “But only sell cursed food.”

Jungkook nodded seriously. “And we’ll call it… ‘Don’t Eat This.’”

When they weren’t in class, they were on the playground or at each other’s houses, building blanket forts and pretending the couch was a ship lost at sea. Jungkook’s mom started keeping extra slippers by the door just for her. Her dad started calling Jungkook “our honorary son.”

By third grade, everyone in the neighborhood knew their names as one: Jungkook-and-YN.

The first time yn got jealous, she didn’t know what it was.

It was a warm spring afternoon. They were playing tag with a group of neighborhood kids when Minji, a girl from the next block, ran up and tugged on his sleeve.

“Jungkook-ah,” she said sweetly. “Do you want to play with me instead?”

He glanced over at her—his her—standing a few feet away, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She didn’t say anything.

He turned back to Minji. “No thanks. I already have a partner.”

Minji pouted, but Jungkook ran off before she could protest.

When he got to her side, he nudged her shoulder. “Hey. Why’d you look sad?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “You can play with other people, you know.”

He frowned. “But I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?”

He blinked. “Why would I? You’re my best friend.”

She looked at him then, a quiet smile playing on her lips. “You’re mine too.”

The bracelet came that summer.

They were sitting under the big plum tree in her backyard, stringing beads together with clumsy fingers and bug bites on their arms.

“This one’s yours,” he said, holding up the blue and green bracelet he made.

She gave him a red and yellow one in return, which didn’t match at all, but he tied it on proudly.

“Now we match,” he said. “Even if you move away someday or go to a different school—this means we’ll still be best friends.”

She touched the beads carefully. “Okay. But you have to promise.”

“I promise.”

He didn’t know then how heavy a promise could be.

But he meant it anyway.

Middle school arrived with an awkwardness she couldn’t quite name.

Hair got weirder. Voices cracked. Kids started dividing into cliques and couples, drifting apart like puzzle pieces that no longer fit. She felt it everywhere—in the way people whispered about crushes, or asked who liked who, like it was the most important question in the world.

But not with Jungkook.

He was still her constant. The one unchanging thread in all the chaos.

Only… even constants begin to shift.

They didn’t play tag anymore. The friendship bracelets they made under the plum tree were too small for their wrists now, tucked away in drawers or lost to time. Instead, they sat side-by-side at lunch, shared earbuds on the bus, and texted late at night about songs and stupid jokes and everything in between.

It was still them.

Mostly.

Until it wasn’t.

He joined choir in seventh grade.

She hadn’t thought much of it at first—until she heard him sing.

It was rehearsal for the spring showcase. She was backstage, helping a teacher organize props, when his voice filtered through the noise. She didn’t realize it was him at first. The sound was too soft, too rich, too careful. But then she peeked around the curtain and saw him standing on the risers—hands in the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes slightly down, completely unaware of how easily he was stealing the breath out of her lungs.

Something in her shifted.

And that was when she knew.

She didn’t just like Jungkook.

She was in love with him.

She didn’t say anything, of course.

How could she?

They’d been friends since they were seven. He’d seen her with grape jelly on her face and crooked teeth. He knew every version of her—sleepy, grumpy, awkward, annoying. Telling him would be like stepping off a cliff with no rope.

So instead, she wrote.

Her journal became her safe place—pages full of things she couldn’t say out loud. Things she wished he knew. Things she wasn’t brave enough to tell him.

March 15

He walked me home again today. I counted 23 sidewalk tiles between our houses. I wanted to ask if he liked anyone. I didn’t.

April 2

His hoodie smelled like citrus gum and laundry detergent. I wore it the whole night. He said I could keep it. I didn’t give it back.

April 28

He smiled at Minji today. I hated that I noticed. I hated that it hurt.

By eighth grade, the space between them was harder to ignore.

They still talked, still laughed, still existed in that same shared rhythm. But something was different. He texted less in the evenings. He looked away faster when she caught him staring. He laughed more with other girls.

And she started wondering if maybe she was the only one holding onto whatever they used to be.

The worst part was how natural it all looked—him fitting into those groups, those jokes, those conversations with other people. With other girls.

She tried not to let it bother her. But the ache in her chest said otherwise.

One night, walking home from a study group, she almost said it.

The air was thick with the smell of rain. The sidewalks shimmered under the streetlights, and the sky still held the blush of a fading sunset.

Jungkook bumped his shoulder into hers as they walked. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he said. “Lost in thought?”

She glanced at him, then down at their feet. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, everything stilled.

“I was thinking…” she began, voice small. “Do you ever—”

Her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring.

It was her mom. A reminder about dinner.

When she looked up again, the moment had already passed. Jungkook had slipped his hands into his pockets, the weight of whatever had just almost happened falling away like sand between fingers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

But that night, as she stared up at her ceiling, the words haunted her.

Do you ever think about us as more than friends?

The school festival came that fall.

By then, they were in high school—and Jungkook had become someone everyone noticed. Not in an obnoxious way. He was just there—always laughing, always moving, always shining in a way that drew people in.

She stayed where she always had: close, but never quite center.

Not the kind of girl he’d fall for. Not the kind of girl people whispered about in the hallways.

But she couldn’t help it—she loved him anyway.

The night of the festival, he was set to perform solo for the first time. She found a spot near the back of the crowd, standing under a tangle of fairy lights strung across the courtyard.

He stepped up on stage in jeans, sneakers, and his worn denim jacket. No drama. No spotlight.

Just Jungkook.

He adjusted the mic, cleared his throat, then looked out at the crowd. “Uh… this one’s a cover,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “It kind of reminds me of someone I’ve known a long time.”

And then he started to sing.

It wasn’t perfect. His voice cracked once. He messed up a chord.

But it didn’t matter.

Because every word felt like it had weight. Like it had a name.

Her name.

And as she stood in the dark, listening, something inside her broke and healed all at once.

She couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not when everything in her heart screamed for more than friendship.

Not when it was him.

Jungkook’s apartment still smelled like vanilla and something faintly citrus—probably his detergent. The scent had clung to her clothes a hundred times, but now it felt different. Louder. Warmer. Like it wrapped around her the moment she stepped through the door.

It was a Saturday night. Late spring. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly two weeks.

College, work, and life had gotten in the way—at least, that’s what they told each other.

But she knew the real reason.

Things had been… off.

Ever since winter break, when he nearly said something and she nearly answered. When their hands lingered too long on the armrest during a movie, and their goodbyes started to feel like maybe’s instead of see-you-soon’s.

Still, she came over because they’d promised they wouldn’t drift.

And because she missed him so much it made her chest ache.

“Hey,” he said when he opened the door, one hand still drying his hair with a towel. “You’re early.”

“I walked fast,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He grinned. “What, to avoid the cold or to see me faster?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.

He looked good. Stupidly good. A soft black t-shirt, sweatpants, and damp hair pushed off his forehead. There was something too intimate about the domesticity of it all. The fact that he let her in without a second thought. The way his presence always settled the noise in her mind.

The air buzzed with unspoken things.

They made dinner together like they always used to—ramyeon with extra egg, dumplings, and one of those pre-made strawberry milk cartons they both secretly loved.

Music played from his Bluetooth speaker, low and steady. Her favorite playlist, the one he made for her birthday last year. The same one she still listened to when she couldn’t sleep.

It all felt so normal.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not with the way her heart twisted every time their hands brushed. Not with the way he kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Something was coming. She felt it in her bones.

And it terrified her.

After dinner, they collapsed on the couch in a comfortable silence.

She tucked her feet under her and hugged a pillow to her chest. Jungkook grabbed a blanket and threw it over both of them without asking.

Her heart leapt at the gesture. He didn’t even hesitate.

The movie playing on his screen was just noise. She wasn’t watching it. Not really. She could barely focus with how close he was—shoulder pressed to hers, knee resting just beside her thigh.

Every part of her was screaming.

Say something. Do something. Touch him.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be the first to break.

Jungkook shifted beside her and let out a breath. “You ever think about how long we’ve known each other?”

She turned slightly, eyes on him. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Feels like… my whole life has you in it.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. She forced a small laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

He didn’t smile. He looked at her, really looked, his voice quiet. “I’m serious.”

Her fingers tightened around the pillow. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just… sometimes I wonder if you remember stuff the way I do. Like the plum tree. Or that dumb squid snack.”

“I remember everything,” she said before she could stop herself. “All of it.”

A pause.

“I never forgot either,” he said.

She looked at him—and her whole body tensed when she realized how close his face was to hers.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a second.

Just one second.

She stopped breathing.

“You know,” he whispered, “sometimes I think I should’ve said something a long time ago.”

“About what?”

He swallowed. His hand moved without thinking, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek.

“About this,” he said.

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t slow, or dramatic, or choreographed like the ones in movies.

It was quiet. A breath between heartbeats.

Soft and sudden, like instinct taking over.

His lips were warm, familiar, and yet completely new. His hand cupped her cheek as if afraid she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him back—shaky at first, then sure. Her hands found the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

It felt like exhaling after holding in a breath for years.

When they finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead resting against his, eyes still closed.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “What… was that?”

He laughed under his breath, soft and breathless. “A really long time coming.”

She opened her eyes, and his were already on her.

“I didn’t want to ruin us,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not after everything.”

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that—the space between them was gone.

Neither of them moved at first.

The kiss had ended, but the moment hadn’t.

They sat there on Jungkook’s couch, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. His hand was still gently cradling her cheek. Her fingers remained twisted in the hem of his t-shirt, as if letting go might break whatever spell had just wrapped around them.

The TV buzzed in the background, completely forgotten.

Her heart was racing in that dizzy, quiet way that always came after something irreversible.

Eventually, Jungkook spoke. His voice was soft, and a little unsure.

“…Was that okay?”

She let out a breath. “It was more than okay.”

He pulled back just slightly so he could see her face, his hand falling to rest between them. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“I’m glad it did.”

He gave a shaky smile. “Me too.”

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. The world outside the window was still, lit by the orange haze of distant streetlights. Somewhere down the hall, his neighbor’s dog barked once and went silent again.

Then, slowly, she turned to him.

“Can I ask something?”

“Anything.”

“How long?” she whispered. “How long have you felt… this?”

Jungkook looked down at his lap. When he spoke, his voice had that quiet weight it always did when he was being completely honest.

“I think it started in middle school. I didn’t know what it was at first. Just that I always wanted you around. That everything felt better with you in it. And then you wore my hoodie home one night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how it looked on you.”

Her cheeks burned, but her heart swelled.

He continued, “In high school, I thought about telling you every time we said goodbye. But I kept thinking—what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin everything?”

She looked at him carefully. “I thought the same thing.”

His gaze snapped back to hers.

She smiled, soft and a little sad. “Jungkook… I’ve loved you for so long. I just never thought you’d look at me that way.”

“Are you serious?”

“I kept a journal,” she admitted, cheeks warm. “It’s filled with entries about you. About how I felt. About how scared I was to lose what we had.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You’re telling me we could’ve had this years ago?”

“Maybe,” she laughed, “but… I think I like that it happened now.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because we’re not kids anymore. And we know who we are now. I think if we had rushed it, maybe we wouldn’t have lasted.”

Jungkook paused. Then, quietly: “I want to last.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—just sitting, holding hands, letting the stillness wrap around them like a blanket. The air between them had shifted, but it wasn’t strange. It felt natural. Like breathing in after a long-held breath.

Eventually, he turned toward her, smiling a little.

“You wanna stay over?”

She raised a brow. “Smooth.”

“I mean, you always stay late. But… if you want. You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

She hesitated. Not because she was unsure, but because she knew this was a line they were crossing—together, willingly.

“Can we just… fall asleep here?” she asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we can.”

Later that night, as they lay side by side under the same blanket, limbs barely touching, her eyes drifted shut with the sound of his breathing next to her.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic or fireworks-in-the-sky kind of love.

It was better.

It was quiet and steady. A love that grew in the small spaces—between laughter and silence, between shoulder bumps and shy glances. A love that waited. A love that stayed.

She smiled into the dark, the weight in her chest finally lifted.

The space between them had collapsed.

And in its place was something real.

Something that had always been there.

© 2025 agustdsluv

[headcanon-everything]

I feel like Lux would be the kind of person to "adopt" a super anxious introvert. Don't know how to describe what I'm thinking of other than like the average sorority girl or something looking at a trembling chihuahua of a person and going "New bestie! I'm going to dress you up and bring you places!" And idk I think that's kinda cute

oh gosh they would aka how I got any friends in highschool as an extremely shy introvert when I was younger

can be read as platonic or romantic!

Lux Headcanons

- reader is very shy and anxious -

in my mind this is with a fellow object/dateable so I'll go off of it like that

to start: they didn't even really notice you at first, too busy with their own livestreams and things

it wasn't until you were talking with Phonecia that they even noticed you at all, quietly speaking to her and discussing a new show you were watching

Lux was already on their way over to talk with her - but got entirely distracted on their original purpose, immediately curious and noting your cute face and potential for a major glow up

came over, tutting and going "oh no no this won't do" while lightly pulling at your sleeves here and there that you were previously playing with the hem of "we'll have to get you onto my 17-step makeover plan, stat. then you'll be the second brightest thing in the house!"

Phonecia tried to intervene before Lux grabbed you by the arm and started briskly walking away

you merely waved her off, hoping to gently appease the person who is only now introducing themselves

Lux had heard whispers of you around the house from others, and was putting the pieces together as they were explaining their makeover process

Brought you straight to Barry and Amir, demanding a makeover and self-care day for you both

you couldn't explain why Lux had singled you out to work with, you can only assume it's because they didn't have a pre-established history with you

that and wanting to do a before and after video of legends, according to them

you can't lie though, you did feel a lot better and very attractive once they were done with their makeover

Amir spent a lot of time hyping you up, and Barry was so excited to find colours and styles that you enjoyed while apologizing for Lux being a bit brash

the theme song of all this is popular from wicked

after that, Lux began to keep popping up, insisting you try products that don't work with their skin tone or they have "too good of pores to use"

it was some backhanded compliments but they still said you looked great once they got you camera-ready

started showing up more and more, getting ready while in your presence (insisting it's because you're the only one quiet enough to not bother them but can still use you as a second set of eyes on the look)

then began dragging you around when they decided to grace the house with their presence

Lux is going to the breaker box? so are you! time to get ready!

Lux is gonna do a charity livestream for Mateo's inanimals? so are you!

always makes sure to still acknowledge you when you're out, to a lot of people's surprise

sometimes it manifests as ordering for you without your input, but they insist it's good for you in one way or another

only Lux is allowed to gently bully you, any one else even tried and they are instantly in that person's face and telling them to back off

Curt and Rod were the first victim of this, as they went a little too far with their jokes

Lux was instant to clap back with a "They're worth keeping around, unlike SOME other objects around here"

takes a bit of work to get in a word edge-wise, but when you do Lux listens attentively

if you mention someone's been picking on you? instant call out post and Lux sends their rabid fan base after them to cyber bully them

speaking of - because of your occasional appearances, you've become a fan favourite of the chat

[keyboardcatramel]

War [Mammon/Reader]

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Notes: Cute jealous mammon dats it, originally written as a gift for @mammonslittletreasure And posted at their urging 😌

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Pronouns: You

・❥・ MASTERLIST ○ REQUEST

This is war.

Mammon has spent all morning at this point thinking of ways to destroy his latest enemy. They’ve taken the thing most precious to him. Not Goldie, not any of his other credit cards; but you. They’ve taken you.

Or, more precisely, they’ve taken his spot in your arms while you’re fast asleep, murmuring his name with that dopey smile on your face he will never admit he loves more than anything.

It’s Lucifer’s fault in some way, he grumbles to himself, staring at his enemy sat atop your bed opposite him. Mammon’s arms are folded, his face set into a firm frown, his cheeks lightly puffed out making it look like something more akin to a pout. If Lucifer hadn’t forbidden him from going to the funfair with Beel and Asmo this wouldn’t be happening.

“Shoulda snuck out,” he grumbles, pushing himself to his feet and stalking towards your bed.

You’re out, briefly, gone to get snacks.

If he’s to act it has to be now.

Quickly, Mammon swipes up the plushie sat on your bed that you’d brought home yesterday. Beel had won it for you, which was insult enough that it hadn’t been him, and now it had spent all day crushed against your chest, wrapped in your arms, snug and warm while he—

Mammon squeezes, wondering if he could rip the arms off and pull the stuffing out and— or… or better yet —

“I’ll feed ya to Cerberus, ya dumb….” he grumbles, numerous insults trailing off his lips as he holds the plushie animal into the air. “Takin’ my spot! Who do yer think ya are?”

Of course, Mammon receives no reply and he huffs in response again.

“That’s my human! I was ‘ere first, gettit?”

It’s the sound of a giggle that freezes Mammon and he quickly turns his head to face the door where you stand, tray in hand with — well, Mammon is too flustered to pay much attention. The plushie falls to the floor as his grip fails, and your name leaves his lips as he stutters over and over. The moment his cheeks burn a deep red, you laugh again.

“Are you jealous of a toy, Mammon?” You ask, putting the tray of drinks and snacks down before you walk past him, bending down to grab the stuffed toy only for him to kick it backwards towards your bed. “Hey!”

“You don’t need it!” He grumbles. “What’s the big idea, lettin’ another man into your bed… into your arms?”

“A man?” You bite your lip, trying hard not to laugh more. He looks so beautifully and perfectly flustered, all possessive jealousy that you can’t help but find yourself torn between wanting to tease him more and kissing him so deeply he forgets all about the jealousy. “Mammon… it’s a stuffed toy.”

“It’s a man, I can see it in it’s smug face as it looks at me.”

This time you’re unable to suppress the giggle. Your hand, which had been reaching down to grab the stuffed animal, instead grabs onto his hand. His palms are sweaty and warm but it doesn’t stop you from lacing your fingers through his and tugging him gently so he’s bent down.

“Wha-”

“Tell me you’re jealous of it.”

“I ain’t jealous! It’s just tryna’ take advantage of ya. That’s it. Just tryna’ save ya….”

“Mammon.”

“I ain’t jealous! Why would I be? I’m the great Mammon, that thing is just… just… in the way!”

“Sounds like jealousy,” you say quietly. “I’m sure your brothers would agree.”

Not that you’d actually tell them; you like to tease Mammon, but you find yourself protective when the others tease him or pick on him. That’s your job now, not theirs—

Well, Mammon doesn’t need to know how you feel about that at least.

“My-” his face instantly goes red and screws up into a frown so firm that he almost looks in pain. “I ain’t jealous! I just… dun like it… being in your arms. That’s my spot!”

“That’s jealousy, Mammon.”

“Shuddup!” he grumbles loudly, using your grip on his hand to tug you towards him. He doesn’t stop, though, instead his lips press against yours, firm and rough as he kisses you hard enough for you to forget how to breathe, how to think—

Mammon’s free hand moves up to the back of your neck, it pauses there for a few moments, before tangling into the bottom of your hair and tugging firmly. You gasp at the sudden pain but the sound is cut off as his tongue thrusts into your mouth. “Mine,” he hisses, his teeth nipping firmly at your bottom lip.

Your hand comes up to his chest to push him away but you can’t find it in yourself to. Instead you grab the front of his shirt to hold yourself up as Mammon presses his body against yours, trying to walk you backwards —

Then you find yourself falling.

At first you wonder if he’s pushed you down onto your bed or something, but after a few moments you realise the bed is beside you. The impact of the floor is softened by his body but you both let out sounds of surprise and pain as you hit the ground, and-

At his feet sits the plushie, its face a stitched smile staring up at him as if mocking him. He must have tripped, you realise, your lips swollen and sore from his rough kiss, parting as another laugh bursts from you.

“You’re right, it really is coming between us.”

“Shuddup,” he grumbles, snatching it up by its arms and pulling them far too firmly for him to be contemplating anything but ripping it apart. “Alright… I was jealous.”

“Was that so hard to admit?”

“I just… your arms are my spot!”

The urge to tease him bubbles up again, but the look on his face stops you. There’s a pout there, one almost pleading you to agree with him and you know this is when he needs anything but teasing, anything but rejection; he needs the love and acceptance he’s always trying so hard to claim he doesn’t want.

“You’re so silly,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. “This is your spot, no one and nothing else fits here.”

“’Course,” he grumbles, nuzzling against you. His nose presses against your arm, and you gently stroke his hair as you feel the soft puffs of breath hit your skin. “I never doubted it for a second!”

“Of course you didn’t,” you chuckle, tightening your grip on him. “But it’s always going to be where you belong. I love you, no one else.”

“You think that makes me happy?”

Mammon protests, but his voice is gentle, and you can just about catch glimpse of his red-hued cheeks.

“Yeah, actually, I think it does.”

[eviemonroeer]

The Monroe Effect: Chapter 32

Set before and during Season 6, Episode 16 of ER. Spoilers if you haven't seen the show.

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Anxiety

WC: 1.5 k

ER story belongs to original creators, just adding on my own original charter.

Taglist: @pleasecallmeunhinged, @rainmg, @arigoldsblog, @queenslandlover-93, @hagarsays, @antisocialfiore, @snowflames-world, @guiltypleassure243, and @omgbrianab

MASTERLIST

I felt like a bundle of nerves trying to keep myself together through various fraying strings. It was like any little thing could set me off, the tension bubbling just underneath the surface. I didn’t like living this way. No one would. Plus as a still pretty newly post-partum mom with an out of commission partner, things were ten times worse, and I didn’t know what to do. 

First, it was when Carter came home from the hospital. He was absolutely restless from the moment he got home. This was crazy to me given the fact that he could barely walk without being in pain. The emotional part of my brain knew he was trying to be helpful, knew he was trying to contribute to the household like he normally did. And I appreciated it, I really did. But the rational part of my brain saw him getting up to load the dishwasher or trying to unload the dryer as a step back in his recovery. His surgery wounds were just starting to truly heal, and he still had his colostomy bag. We couldn’t afford a setback. I needed him to sit on the couch for once and do nothing except hold our daughter and watch TV. But that defiantly wasn’t my boyfriend. 

So, there were arguments. Some choice words that were usually quickly followed up with an apology. But the tension was still there. 

The thing I thought was going to be my true unraveling was the arrival of Carter’s parents. They had supposedly been “stuck” in Tokyo for the first three weeks of Carter’s recovery, and they hadn’t tried to speed up their return until he was conveniently out of the hospital. I had stayed up until after midnight the night before, cleaning every visible itch of the apartment and maybe even then some. For the first time in weeks, I put on something other than sweats or pajamas, and even did my make up to try and put forth an effort. I mean, the last time they saw me, Eleanor Carter claimed I was a phase and not good enough for her son. I had to be put together, I had to. 

They were respectful enough. They kept their disdained looks about the place we chose to live to a minimum. Jack held Meghan while Eleanor looked on. The comment about me looking far too nice to be taking good care of Carter made me want to scream, but thankfully Carter was also on high alert around them and shut it down quickly. I just held it all in, the tightness in my chest getting a little bit worse. They left after maybe an hour and a half, a check on the table and a new baby swing still in its box propped up by the one we already had. It was taken by the store the next day for return.

The second surgery to remove the colostomy bag was “easier” in comparison. But to Carter it was still a setback to returning to work. He spent a few more nights in the hospital and then it was back to overdoing himself at home despite still needing to heal. So, we continued our arguments and our apologies. I spent a lot of those nights sleeping in Meghan’s room. It was under the guise of her sudden cluster feeding stage, but I think we both knew we needed the space. 

The moment the doctor cleared him to go back to work, he was on the phone with Weaver to get put back on the schedule. I really wanted to fight him on it. I still had a week left of my maternity leave and it would be easier if we could go back together, coordinate our schedules so Meghan didn’t have to go into daycare just yet. But a selfish part of me deep down inside wanted him gone; wanted space to breathe again and deal with only one helpless human being. 

It made me feel like a horrible person.

The thought first came when I got in the shower after his phone call was done. I already felt the edging of pissed off tears, so I excused myself so I wouldn’t blow up on him. Once I was under the cascade of water though, my heart felt like it was beating so loud, the pounding of it echoed in my ears. My hands shook as I tried to clean my hair and body and I turned to rinse off my back and found my face still wet, quiet tears rolling down my cheeks. 

I needed a break. 

I needed a break, or something was going to be said or done that I regretted. 

The morning of his first shift, I made sure his bag was packed, including an easy lunch, and made breakfast since Meghan was still fast asleep. I tied his tie for him and when he was ready to go, I zipped up his jacket for him. 

“Please be careful today. Go slow and don’t do too much if you’re not ready.” 

“I will.” He replied. 

That was a lie. But I chose not to call him on it. I gave him a quick kiss and opened the door, allowing him to leave. I waited until he was inside the elevator before I went back in.

Everything is going to be okay, I kept repeating to myself over and over throughout the day. He’s in a place with people who care about him and can help him. They’ll call if something goes wrong. 

Despite the silence that now lingered due to his absence, I felt a couple nerves disconnect, fraying away into oblivion. 

I was in that precarious state between awake and asleep when the bed beside me dipped and I heard a low groan. My eyes immediately snapped open, and I sat up as Carter tried to work himself into bed alone. “Evie don’t—” 

“It’s okay.” I said and got out of bed. Retying my robe, I walked around to the other side to help him position himself correctly.  It took a second and a few grunts of pain, but it eventually worked, and he was in bed. I propped his crutches against the wall before I began walking to the door. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I was going to go check on Meghan and go pump, give you some space.” 

“Please lay with me. Please.”

It was the first time in a couple weeks I felt he was genuine in wanting to make physical contact with me. And my body reacted in an almost Pavlovian way. I nodded and walked back around to my side of the bed, draping my robe over the headboard. “Now that’s not nice.” I raised an eyebrow and Carter’s eyes drifted down to my body. I looked down and sighed. I was wearing a silk slip, the lace falling over the top of my engorged breasts and hitting just above my knee. 

I sighed. “It’s all that was clean. I’ve either leaked on every pajama set I own, or your daughter’s messed it up. I didn’t think you’d want me ruining any more of your shirts then I already have.” Carter chuckled, genuinely chuckled, and patted the bed. I smiled and laid down beside him, cuddling into his side as he held me in his arms. He kissed my head and snuggled into me. “You’re home pretty late. They’re not already running you ragged, are they?” 

“No. I went to see Gamma before I came home.” 

“Is she okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s fine. She asked me something.”  

“Oh god. Do I even want to know?” 

“She asked if we would move in with her and grandpa for a little bit.” He paused and I felt his grip on me tighten. “And I’m honestly inclined to say yes.” 

“What?” I asked and sat up out of his arms. “You seriously want to move in with your grandparents? Why is that even a remotely good idea?” 

“Because I can barely hold my seven week old daughter. I’m still in so much pain that I can’t pick her up from her crib or play on the floor with her. Because you’ve resorted to sleeping in your nice lingerie instead of being comfy because you can’t get laundry done fast enough. Because you were supposed to spend your maternity leave taking care of and bonding with our baby, not being my nurse.” He paused, pinching his nose. “If we move in with them, Corrine can help you and take some stuff off your plate and she can watch Megan during shifts, so we don’t have to put her in daycare yet.” He cupped my face with his hand and brushed my cheek with his thumb. “You deserve to have a break. Please Evie. I’ve been useless the past month and a half. Let me do something to help you.” 

I could see the devastation in his eyes at having to admit all of that. This time had been so hard on him, on both of us. I guess I just hadn’t seen it as clearly, trying to keep my head above water. “Okay.” I said and nodded my head. “Okay. We’ll go stay with them for a little bit.” 

Carter nodded and pulled me in, laying me back down beside him. “Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you.” 

[astralhope]

Me, trying to think of an interesting and meaningful first post:

Astral, exists:

Me, start to sob: my star, my moon, my sun, the most beautiful creature in the universe, the perfection as a character, my beloved, my - [incoherent sounds]

[lemonbeemon]

Not to be sappy on main, but I will forever be a hater to people who say video games can't be a productive use of your time.

[destiel-wings]

two years ago today i was in a mess of feelings because it had only been 4 days since I had watched the last 3 episodes of SPN and it took me one whole week to even begin to form coherent thoughts again

[maaarine]

Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Here’s the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)

"The report, by the Children’s Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.

British girls aged 10-15 are “significantly less happy” with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy — and their happiness is still declining.

Boys’ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (…)

But I still didn’t have an “aha!” moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until… I talked to some teenage girls.

It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.

“Duh — it’s the boys,” one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.

“The boys?” I asked.

My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. I’d spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.

“Yeah, well, who do you think they’re taking out their unhappiness on? It’s us,” another girl said.

“One boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,” a third girl said. “Every day for two years.”

“They’ve all got ‘Rate The Girls’ polls on their WhatsApps,” the first said. “They mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.”

“But then, if you’re hot, it’s just as bad, in a different way, because they’ll be talking about how they want to f*** you.”

The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.

“The only way you can stop them is if you become ‘one of the boys’ and hang out with them. But then,” the second girl said with a sigh, “all the other girls call you a slut. Because you’ve gone over to the boys’ side.”

“Surely it’s not all the boys?” I said. “There must be some nice boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” one girl said. “But they keep their heads down. Because… well, look.”

She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself — smiling in a new dress; with her dog — dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.

“Fat.” “Slut.” “You gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?”

“They’re all boys from her school,” she said. “And look, this one boy tried to defend her.”

I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, “You’re all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.”

As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was “white knighting” this girl: “You wanna f*** her, bro?”

“So,” I asked, “you don’t think it’s social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, that’s making girls so sad?”

“Well, yeah, them too,” the first girl said. “But, Monday-Friday, 9-3, I’m not on social media. I’m not… in the economy. I’m just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.”

I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.

I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers — and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.

And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."

[archaeren]

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

[zanzanne]

amy is teaching me their "telepathically send your food to people" power. to make myself feel better i'll believe this silly little landmine is actually psychic

[mbat]

dude so im exploring the uncensored library map right now, and i decided to fly up to the area where all the flags are hanging in the center dome area because i love seeing the details in video game maps, and... dude they have books on every single country that they have a flag for. like they seem to be mostly, if not all, just a few pages long, but the dedication... like this map is actually amazing, what the hell.

seriously, even if you dont plan on reading most, or any, of the books in this map, please still download the map, its just impressive on so many levels, and is so beautiful too. also its a way to support the creators, of course

[grotius]

oooo i love when you read/watch/play something and wake up sick with emotion the next morning

[rivilu]

Wait. Logistically speaking. Would Elluin even know how to read.

[rafesteddy]

Omg DILF!RAFE and MILF!READER’s recent post was so good, imma need you to consider maybe making one where they’re on vacation and some younger guys try flirting with her, thinking she’s around their age (20’s) and Rafe stepping in. UGH you write beautifully I just can’t

Hi bb!!! Thank you for your ask 🤭💕

+18 -> smut | the two of you steal a night away in Miami. One dinner, one dance, and it all comes rushing back.

𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓷 𝔁 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: slight physical violence (not toward the reader), coarse language, pet name, unprotected p in v, possessive rafe, rough sex, breeding kink, jealousy, ownership kink, teasing, wet and messy, mentions of drinking, POV shift for smut, + dirty talk.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Ｎｉｋｋｉ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ…

Rafe still couldn’t believe you were here. Miami. Same streets, same salt in the air, same stretch of beach where he used to watch you run circles around him with that mouth of yours and those damn cutoff shorts.

It’d been years, decades even. Four kids later. Half a life lived. And somehow, even today, you still had him looking at you like a fucking lovesick idiot.

You’d spent the whole day on the beach, just the two of you. Max and Winnie had the twins, and he hadn’t asked twice. He needed this. Needed you. The sun. You in that tiny black swimsuit, laughing in the surf, making him ache like he hadn’t been married to you for almost twenty years.

Now, the sky was going dark, and you were sitting across from each other in one of those restaurants you loved. Five stars, full white linen, candles flickering. You in that red dress.

He felt like he was twenty all over. Shit, younger than that. His palms were sweating. Ridiculous, really. Just watching you lift that damn glass to your mouth like you hadn’t already ruined him hours ago.

You sat by the window, bathed in the last stretch of sun, skin glowing, hair falling soft around your shoulders. Every time you smiled, it did something to his chest. Like his lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. And when you shifted in your seat, crossed your legs, glanced his way—he couldn’t stop staring. Didn’t even try.

Shit.

His hands dropped to his thighs. He couldn’t get a grip. Not with you looking like that. You were his wife. He had no business feeling this nervous. Your husband. Your safe place. The father of your kids. But here he was—nervous. Damn near vibrating with it.

It felt like your first date. Like if he said the wrong thing, you might just laugh and walk away.

Except you wouldn’t. You were his. He knew that in his bones. Had known it for years. But it didn’t stop the rush of it now—watching you sip that drink, those bare shoulders catching the light.

Whatever he’d ordered, he couldn’t taste it. Could barely remember what they’d ordered.

The sunset was sinking fast behind you. Throwing everything around you into this perfect glow that made his chest ache. He motioned to the waiter, sharp and distracted.

“Rafe? Are you okay?”

“Not upset, baby. Promise… Just gotta do something.” And he meant it, because if he didn’t get you out there on that beach, in that red dress, with that sun sinking behind you—if he didn’t catch this moment, keep it somehow—he was gonna lose his goddamn mind.

But he wasn’t about to tell you that. Not yet. Not until he had you exactly where he wanted you.

You were already giggling by the time he stood, napkin dropping carelessly on the table.

“Rafe,” you laughed, grabbing your clutch. “What’s goin’ on?”

He didn’t answer—just took your hand, lacing your fingers tight, tugging you gently toward the door. The host caught his eye, nodded with a knowing smile. Rafe hardly noticed. His pulse was still going—loud in his ears, steady, but off somehow.

The air outside hit different. The air had cooled. Still salty, but heavier now—like something was shifting, even if he couldn’t name it.

The sky was already losing color. That soft pink sinking into gray-blue in patches, uneven and fast.

Down near the water, two people walked the edge of the tide, saying nothing. Just dragging the moment out, maybe. Or maybe they weren’t ready to leave yet.

“Rafe,” you said again, each breath coming shallow, chasing the last, laughing even as you kicked off your heels onto the sand. “You’re acting like—” But you cut off when he let go of your hand and stepped back a few feet and lifted his phone. “Oh my God,” you gasped, cheeks warming up as you realized what he was doing. “Baby—”

“None of that, pretty,” he said, thumb hovering over the screen. “C’mon now. Don’t start.” His voice caught a little, that shaky edge of pure want bleeding through. “You look like a goddamn dream right now. Let me have it.”

You covered your mouth, blushing harder, shaking your head in the softest, sweetest way. But it only took you a second. Because he was looking at you like that—like you hung the damn sun yourself—and his voice was full of it, that heat that never failed to melt you straight through.

“Please, baby,” he said again, softer this time. “Need this. Just you. Right here, alright?”

And that was it. Your hands dropped and your smile bloomed as you started to pose—light at first, playful, laughing between shots as the wind caught your hair and the hem of your red dress.

Rafe could barely breathe, thumb snapping the shutter as fast as he could, desperate to catch every second.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “You don’t even know…”

But you caught the way he was looking—eyes dark, mouth parted just a little—and your smile shifted, just a touch. A tilt of your head. A sway of your hips. A glance through your lashes that had heat licking straight through his veins.

“Fuck, baby… There she is—” Rafe’s grin hit slow and crooked, heat sparking all the way to his fingertips. "How are you so perfect?”

Every pose, each shift of your hips, and glance through your lashes, you knew exactly what you were doing, and your husband was helpless to it.

“One with you too, baby,” you smiled, extending a hand. His breath caught. He tried to play it cool, huffing a soft laugh.

“Yeah? Yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat, stepping toward you, phone in hand, pretending like this wasn’t unraveling him by the second.

You reached for him, fingers curling in his shirt to pull him in beside you. The camera clicked, barely. You turned before the shutter had even finished, like it didn’t matter, like you already knew what came next. Your lips brushed his jaw—light, quick, but it stopped him cold.

He didn’t think. Just reacted. Mouth on yours before either of you had a chance to speak. He barely even noticed the phone—just shoved it in his pocket, hands already back on you, sliding down to your waist, gripping like he didn’t want to risk letting go.

Everything else blurred. The ocean. The quiet voices nearby. All of it faded the second your lips touched his. There was no restaurant, no phone, no years between you. Just this. Just you, pressed up against his chest, warm and breathless and smiling into his skin like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe after everything, you were still those same two kids who couldn’t go five minutes without needing each other.

He kissed you like he meant it—like if he held on tight enough, the world might stop right here.

Ｂａｉａ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｃｌｕｂ Ｍｉａｍｉ…

The air changed the second you left the beach—hot and heavy, thick with sweat and rum. It clung to him, soaked into his skin. Music was already pounding through busted speakers, something old, too loud, and then there was you, walking in like the night was yours.

You didn’t wait. As soon as the bass hit, you took his hand and pulled him in, laughing, already moving, your body catching the rhythm like it was built into you.

Rafe just stood there for a second, watching. Throat dry.

He wasn’t a dancer. Never had been. But for you? For this—this one damn night that felt like college all over again—he’d do it. Easy. Anything for you.

So he followed you into the crush of bodies, hands finding your hips like instinct.

You started slow, teasing him as you always do, rolling against him in time with the beat, hips grinding back into him, arm slipping around his neck, mouth grazing his ear.

Rafe let you take over, didn’t care who saw. He closed his eyes for a second, pulling you in tighter. It hit him like déjà vu—that first summer in Miami—sneaking out when you’d found a babysitter, slipping into clubs just like this one, you laughing against his neck while he pretended to hate dancing and really just wanted you like this… It hadn’t changed. If anything, you looked better now. Stronger. Warmer. Somehow even more his. Like you didn’t see the tired in his eyes or the gray at his temples. Just him. And maybe that’s why it ruined him even after all these years, you hadn’t stopped choosing him.

You tipped your head back to smile up at him, face flushed, eyes bright with it all.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” you said, your fingers brushing his chest without really thinking.

He blinked, still a little dazed. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll grab a table.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, watching as you disappeared through the crowd.

Rafe made his way off the floor, weaving between groups of bodies until he found an empty booth near the edge. He slid into the booth, chest still warm from the floor, from you. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling his phone out without thinking.

Wallpaper? Changed—immediately. That shot from the beach, you in that damn dress with the sun behind you. Christ. He didn’t even hesitate.

He shot a quick text to the kids—Goodnight. Love you. Be good.

He glanced up—and there they were. Frat boys packed in by the taps, loud as hell, tossing arms over each other like they ran the place. Rafe just shook his head, couldn’t help the smirk. Same Greek letters from his old house. Hell, they probably knew his name, even if they didn’t know they knew it.

And then—you came back out. You had a whole group with you now, girls barely old enough to drink, laughing like you were one of them. And you were right in the center, flushed, glowing, smiling that smile, lighting up your whole face.

You caught his eye, gave a little wave toward the booth, but one of the girls tugged you toward the bar, mouthing ‘just one drink’.

Rafe leaned back, arm slung over the booth, watching. That old twist pulled tight in his gut.

It started slow. One guy at the bar caught sight of you, elbowed his buddy. Then another. The second one’s jaw actually dropped. Rafe saw it. The third leaned in, whispering behind a grin. A couple more straight-up turned around to watch you walk.

His hand curled tighter around the table’s edge. He exhaled, slow, steady. Yeah, he was proud. Damn proud. You looked… unreal. That glow, that dress, the way you moved—no one in the room could ignore you. But that didn’t mean it was easy to watch.

That old edge crept in—possessive, sharp. He’d felt it before. Years ago. Weeks ago. Days even… Too many times to count.

How many nights had it been just like this? You turning heads without even trying. And him standing there, the guy who got to take you home. Except now, there was a diamond on your hand and a couple of kids with his eyes asleep at home.

He laughed to himself—quiet and dry. Took a long drink just to cut the heat. And then he saw the kid. One of them broke off from the group—broad-shouldered, all confidence, that smug, slow swagger of someone who thinks he’s God’s gift.

Rafe clocked him instantly. President type. Probably the type who gave pep talks about leadership and thought a wink and a beer could get him whatever he wanted.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He stood up, easy, but with purpose. Eyes locked. Let the kid try. Just once.

𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓟𝓞𝓥 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

You barely made it to the bar before the girls had you fully pulled into their circle—arms linked through yours, laughing, warm and tipsy already.

“We loved your lip combo,” one of them gushed, tugging your wrist toward her. “Tell me what that is—seriously. I need it—”

“—Wait, no, first you have to do my hair. I’m hot as fuck.”

Without thinking, you were sliding your fingers into her curls, twisting them up like second nature.

“There,” you smiled. “Perfect.”

“She’s ours now,” one girl grinned. “Not yours.”

You were mid-laugh, drink halfway to your lips, no idea what was heading your way until it was already there.

You looked up—and that’s when he walked in. Tall, tan, broad through the shoulders. Hat turned backward. Shirt clinging to him, far too tight. He smelled like sweat and weed, cheap cologne layered on top like that could fix it.

Two of his buddies flanked him like backup. One already smirking. One fixing his chain, sizing you up like you were something to claim.

“Hey,” the tallest one grinned, eyes dragging over you. “Didn’t think they let models in here.”

“Ewww,” one of the girls drones. “Leave, thanks. She’s with us—”

“She looks like she could use a real drink,” one of the boys shoots back.

Another cuts in, leaning way too close. “You come here with anyone, princess?”

The tall one grabs your arm this time, wanting you closer. “What’s your major, sweetheart?” His voice dipped, slow, like he thought he was already halfway there.

“I—I don’t go to school here.”

“No way,” one said. “C’mon. Don’t play—”

“FIU? UM?” Another tossed out. “You totally look like a UM girl… That vibe.”

“Yeah, you party here a lot?” The third cut in, resting his hand on your lower back. You opened your mouth, about to answer, but the girls weren’t having it—one shoved a shot in your hand with a wink.

“Take this,” she whispered. “Quick, before they ask if you live in the dorms.”

You barely caught the glass before a voice cut through the crowd—low, sharp, cold enough to crack ice.

“Baby—”

Everyone turned and there was Rafe. Broad shoulders cutting through the bodies, jaw tight, eyes hard as glass. No smile. No play. Just pure, protective heat rolling off him in waves.

One of the guys let out a short, nervous laugh. “Oh shit. Is this your dad?”

Rafe’s brows pinched tight, nostrils flaring in disgust, scoffing at the ridiculousness of the question as one of the girls gasped, clutching your arm. “Damn, babe, is that your dad?” Her voice, intrigued, way too interested if the answer was ‘yes’.

You were buzzed, breath short, pulse hammering—and when you saw him, the grin just happened. You tilted your head toward Rafe, voice sweet as sugar. “No, hun,” you said, laughing softly. “That’s my husband.” And just like that, the air behind you shifted.

Rafe’s arm came around your waist, hard and fast. No sweet little touch. No show for the crowd. His hand spread on your hip, fingers digging in like even air between you might kill him.

You sank into him without thinking—whole body going soft against his chest. Your heart was thudding, your smile stretching so fast you couldn’t stop it if you tried.

“Damn,” the frat boy grinned, not an ounce of sense left in him. “You’re married to that?” He tipped his chin at Rafe, lifted his fist like he expected a bump.

“Well, fuck me,” another laughed. “You don’t look like a wife.”

“You a mom, baby?” One slurred, loud enough to turn heads—voice slick and drunk. “Shit... That’s even hotter.”

Rafe’s laugh broke out sharp and mean, no warmth in it. “She’s got four,” he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

“Well, sweetheart… if you ever get bored—” CRACK. It landed clean, fast, and final.

The frat boy staggered, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide—like he’d just been snapped out of a dream he had no business having.

Rafe didn’t follow up the slap. Didn’t move. Just stood there, calm and steady, like he’d barely spent the energy.

“You don’t talk to her again,” he said, voice flat and even. “You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her.”

No threat. No raised voice. Just fact.

He turned to you like none of it mattered. Like the moment was already behind him.

The second his eyes landed on you, something shifted—locked in, grounded. His hand found your waist, pulling you flush to him, thumb dragging slow against your ribs.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low, warm, only for you.

You gave a small nod, still a little dazed, breath catching as it hit you.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he kissed your temple—slow, steady—his mouth trailing down to your jaw like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

His hand found yours next, fingers curling around it gently before he lifted it, slow and deliberate, like showing the world mattered just as much as holding on. The ring caught the light.

“You see this?” He said, voice low and scraped raw. “That means she’s not lookin’. Not tonight. Not ever.”

“We’re sorry—”

“Open your mouth again,” he said, cool and razor-sharp, “it’ll be your last.”

Your breath caught. Your hips shifted instinctively into his hold, body already giving in to him without thinking.

He moved in slow, hand sliding into your hair, mouth brushing your ear. His voice dropped, rough and close. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hand tightened in your hair—firm and steady—just enough to keep you right there. “And these boys?” He growled, low and rough. “They can sit here all night with their dicks in their hands thinkin’ about you. Won’t change a damn thing.” He dragged his mouth along your jaw, slow. “You’re gonna be in our bed, takin’ every inch of me. Full of me. Understand?”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Just looked up at him—flushed, giddy, heart pounding out of rhythm.

A helpless smile bloomed across your mouth, too soft and full to hide.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, voice breath-worn and thick. “Let’s get you the fuck outta here.”

Ｔｈｅ Ｌｏｅｗｓ Ｍｉａｍｉ Ｂｅａｃｈ Ｈｏｔｅｌ…

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Rafe had you; arms wrapping around your waist, spinning you so fast your shoulder thudded against the wood—sharp enough to knock a gasp out of you.

And then his mouth collided with yours, stealing whatever breath you had left.

You whimpered, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt like you were trying to hold your ground, the other already in his hair, tugging hard. He groaned into your mouth. Hips pressing into yours, craving the friction.

He groaned deep into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. “Mine,” he muttered, breath hot and jagged against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, voice shaking as he growled, “You belong to me, you hear me?”

You could barely speak; barely breathe. Every inch of you was aching. “Yours,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Always yours.”

Then you were in the air. Rafe scooped under your thighs, the other braced tight across your back. You gasped, arms flying around his neck, your heart pounding like it was trying to escape your ribs. “Rafe—”

“— Shut up, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing your cheek as he carried you deeper into the room. “Been waitin’ all fuckin’ night.”

Your panties were already soaked, body burning, barely sure you’d even make it to the bed before he took you. But he made it—barely. He carried you through the room, tossed you down, and mounted you in one fluid motion; knee driving into the mattress, his big body looming above you, hands spreading wide across your thighs.

You looked up at him, breath shallow, chest heaving. And Rafe stared back—like he could never get used to seeing you like this, like he’d never be done worshipping you—it stole your breath, cleaned out your lungs.

“All night you just… Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse and thick, “You sat there all fuckin’ night lookin’ like this. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about your mouth. The taste of you…”

You whimpered, legs falling open on instinct.

“Want you naked,” he said, eyes dark. “Need to see all of you.”

You reached for the hem of your dress but he caught your wrists before you could move; his grip was firm and possessive. “That’s mine to take off.”

You nodded fast; your whole body humming with need as his hand slid slowly up your inner thigh. Rafe paused at the edge of your panties, fingers trapped between skin and lace, tracing just enough to make you tremble.

When he brushed the fabric and you felt him stop; the breath hitched in his chest as he rolled out his neck. “Fuck,” he muttered, eyes locked on the damp spot already bleeding through the fabric. “So damn wet…”

You arched toward his touch, hips shifting like they had a mind of their own.

“M’I teasin’ you, princess?” He asks through a teasing sigh, tracing the wet with his eyes set on yours. You bit your pouted lip, eyes pleading with his. “Hmm… I’ll make you a deal then, yeah? You stop bein’ so wet for me. And, I’ll stop teasin’ you,” he taunts as he peels your panties down slowly—agonizingly so—dragging them over your thighs inch by inch, eyes fixed on every part of you he uncovered. “We both know that ain’t gonna happen,” he mumbles as he tosses them to the floor, his palms coming right back to your skin, sliding up, chasing the heat.

“Arms up,” he murmurs. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

You obey, lifting your arms as your dress bunches higher. Rafe pushes the fabric up slowly, pausing to kiss your stomach; to stroke his tongue along the curve of your breast, savoring every inch. When he finally tugs the dress over your head, and flung it aside, your whole body trembled beneath him.

He sat back on his heels, eyes sweeping down you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his voice raw. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. My girl.”

Then he stood, hands going to the buttons of his shirt. Your mouth went dry.

He caught the look on your face and smirked. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he said in that low, Southern drawl that always got to you. “Wanna watch me undress?”

You nodded, lips parting. “Good girl,” he hummed.

One button. Then another. He yanked his shirt off without thinking, undershirt right after, like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. You watched the whole thing—watched the way his skin caught the light, the way his chest rose with each breath.

He watched you watching him, grin darkening. “Love the way you look at me,” he murmured. “Like you’re starvin’.”

You reached for him, needing to touch something but he just smirked, stepping back a little as he undid his belt with one hand, slow like he had all the time in the world. The leather hit the floor with a low thunk, and you whimpered.

“Can’t even sit still, can you?” He teased, unzipping his pants slow as sin. “Barely even touched you yet.”

Rafe dragged them down, boxers clinging tight, cock already straining. When he pushed them down and stepped out, your breath caught.

Thick, flushed, his cock hung heavy, and you whined at the sight of it. His gaze darkened. He didn’t speak. Just climbed back over you, slow and controlled, body sliding between your thighs like it belonged there.

He bit down gently beneath your jaw, making you arch into him. “How the hell did I get so lucky, huh?” His hand moved up between your legs—fingers slicking through your folds, slow and teasing. You gasped, thighs jerking. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Please—”

His fingers circled your clit, barely brushing, just enough to make you reel. “Not yet,” he breathed. “Gotta be quiet for me, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear. “You remember this is a suite, yeah? Everyone’s asleep. But I know how fuckin’ loud you get when I make you cum.” You nodded quickly, breath ragged, hips twitching. “Can you stay quiet?” He asked, voice like gravel. “Can you be good for me?”

“Yes—Yes, I’ll be good.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, lips at your temple. “You say that now…”

You reached for him again—traced your fingers down his abs, caught the muscles flexing under your touch.

“Wanna hear you beg,” he rasped, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit, watching your body jolt.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asked. “Want this cock?”

“Please,” you gasped. “Rafe, please—I need it—”

He lined himself up—pressing just enough for you to feel the stretch—and held still.

“Eyes on me,” he growled. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You forced your gaze up, lips parted, eyes wide.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pushing in slow—inch by inch—stretching you open. “So tight, baby. Made for me.”

You sobbed, nails digging into his back as your body fought to take him.

“Shhh,” he whispered, mouth hot at your ear. “You promised me.”

You nodded fast, lips parted, breath held, just trying to be good. Trying so hard not to make a sound.

“That’s it,” he hums, voice low and rough. “You’re doin’ so good. You’re my good girl, remember?”

Another thrust—deep and slow—dragging a choked cry from your throat.

He growled, hips rolling. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. Deep in this perfect little pussy—right where I fuckin’ belong.”

Your body arched, shaking, overwhelmed.

“Please,” you sobbed. “I need—”

“You need it?” He rasped, pace beginning to pick up. “You’ll fuckin’ take it.”

He drove in deep, grinding against your clit, hips slamming again and again.

“Wanna be loud?” He taunted, breath hot against your cheek. “Wanna let ‘em hear? Want every fuckin’ man in this hotel to know who owns you?”

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

“Shhh,” he murmured, gentler now. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Just stay with me.”

You nodded fast—submissive, desperate, right on the edge.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed, driving deeper. “Take it all for me. Let me see how sweet this pussy is.”

Your whole body locked—hips jolting, back arching, your orgasm tearing through you hard and fast.

He felt it—felt your cunt clamp down tight, fluttering around him.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “That’s it. Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

He didn’t stop. Just kept fucking you through it. “Wanted this, didn’t you?” He growled. “Wanted me to fill you up?” You sobbed against his palm, overwhelmed. “Take it,” he groaned. “I’m gonna give it to you, baby. Every fuckin’ drop.” Your vision blurred, heat crashing through you in waves. “Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he growled. “Keep you full for days.”

Your walls clenched again, another wave building, sharp and uncontrollable, and Rafe snapped. He groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock twitching as he spilled into you. “Take it all,” he growled, staying buried, driving so deep your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. You whimpered, too spent to move, body trembling under him.

His breath came hard against your neck, his voice softening with every second. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You hear me? Fuckin’ perfect.”

He eased his hand from your mouth to brush your cheek with his thumb as he tilted down and kissed you slow. You kissed him back, never more satisfied, still full of him, clutching onto his body, not wanting to let go.

And he didn’t move—not yet. Just held you open, his cum warm inside you, his voice gentle in your ear. “Gonna keep you like this,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Full of me. Just the way I like you.”

You shuddered under him. And in that moment—with his hands on your body, his breath in your ear, and his body still one with yours—you had never felt more his… More Rafe’s.

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[louisa-gc]

how to start reading again

from someone who was a voracious reader until high school and is now getting back into it in her twenties.

start with an old favourite. even though it felt a little silly, i re-read the harry potter series one christmas and it wiped away my worry that i wasn't capable of reading anymore. they are long books, but i was still able to get completely immersed and to read just as fast as i had years and years ago.

don't be afraid of "easier" books. before high school i was reading the french existentialists, but when getting back into reading, i picked up lucinda riley and sally rooney. not my favourite authors by far, but easier to read while not being totally terrible. i needed to remind myself that only choosing classics would not make me a better or smarter person. if a book requires a slower pace of reading to be understood, it's easier to just drop it, which is exactly what i wanted to avoid at first.

go for essays and short stories. no need to explain this one: the shorter the whole, the less daunting it is. i definitely avoided all books over 350 pages at first and stuck to essay collections until i suddenly devoured donna tartt's goldfinch.

remember it's okay not to finish. i was one of those people who finished every book they started, but not anymore! if i pick up a book at the library and after a few chapters realise i'd rather not read it, i just return it. (another good reason to use your local library! no money spent on books you might end up disliking.)

analyse — or don't. some people enjoy reading more when they take notes or really stop to think about the contents. for me, at first, it was more important to build the habit of reading, and the thought of analysing what i read felt daunting. once i let go of that expectation, i realised i naturally analyse and process what i read anyway.

read when you would usually use your phone. just as i did when i was a child, i try to read when eating, in the bathroom, on public transport, right before sleeping. i even read when i walk, because that's normally a time i stare at my screen anyway. those few pages you read when you brush your teeth and wait for a friend very quickly stack up.

finish the chapter. if you have time, try to finish the part you're reading before closing the book. usually i find i actually don't want to stop reading once i get to the end of a chapter — and if i do, it feels like a good place to pick up again later.

try different languages. i was quickly approaching a reading slump towards the end of my exchange year, until i realised i had only had access to books in english and that, despite my fluency, i was tired of the language. so as soon as i got back home i started picking up books in my native tongue, which made reading feel much easier and more fun again! after some nine months, i'm starting to read in english again without it feeling like a huge task.

forget what's popular. i thought social media would be a fun way to find interesting books to read, but i quickly grew frustrated after hating every single book i picked up on some influencer's recommendation. it's certainly more time-consuming to find new books on your own, but this way i don't despise every novel i pick up.

remember it isn't about quantity. the online book community's endless posts about reading 150 books each year or 6 books in a single day easily make us feel like we're slow, bad readers, but here's the thing: it does not matter at all how many books you read or what your reading pace is. we all lead different lives, just be proud of yourself for reading at all!

stop stressing about it. we all know why reading is important, and since the pandemic reading has become an even more popular hobby than it was before (which is wonderful!). however, there's no need to force yourself to be "a reader". pick up a book every now and then and keep reading if you enjoy it, but not reading regularly doesn't make you any less of a good person. i find the pressure to become "a person who reads" or to rediscover my inner bookworm only distances me from the very act of reading.

[pencil-n-pen]

SUDDENLY I HAD A VALENTINE

𓏲𝄢 ⋆. ୨୧ ˚⋆ 𓏲𝄢

post prison!spencer x hopeless romantic! civilian!reader

masterlist | kofi

i’ve rejected affection for years and years, now I have it, and damnit, it’s kind of weird

Valentine, Laufey

summary: spencer reid isn’t a genius or renowned criminal profiler- he’s just the guy who frequents the same coffee shop you do; the guy you’re probably, maybe, a little bit in love with. But you’re not the kind of girl guys like him like— right?

cw: honestly genuinely cannot think of any this one is just soft and sweet (with a touch of angst bc it’s me)

tags/tropes: strangers to lovers, spencer is so whipped, reader is a hopeless romantic, spencer finds this cute, romance novel references (i have read a LOT of them), no colleen hoover jumpscares, however there are of ali hazelwood references bc Love Theoretically is my favorite romance book of all time

a/n: something short and sweet !! trying to get over my perfectionism by just posting <3

title taken from Valentine by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

𓏲𝄢

There’s a coffee shop within a twenty minute walk from your apartment that you like to go to. It’s more a cafe, really. They’ve got a little case with a small selection of pastries and such, as well as a nice, calm little atmosphere. Cozy.

You’d decided that you wanted to read more. You’d always enjoyed it, before—

Before. And now that you have more free time on your hands, you’d thought “what better time for some good old fashioned escapism?”

Your tbr pile was a mile long and you’d found the coffee shop and it seemed like a perfect little scenario.

That was probably about a year ago. Things are different now. Not in a bad way, just the way that things change as time goes on. You’d ended up moving apartments- somewhere smaller, but you’d gained a window that overlooks the street, so win, you’d switched jobs —you work from home now— and you’d kept your nose firmly away from any and all real life romantic endeavors.

Almost all of your friends you’d met through your ex. The unfortunate thing about that is when you broke up, they were more attached to him than you, so things got a little… lonely. You have other friends, of course, but most of them have busy lives— boyfriends, husbands, kids, successful jobs, travel. You text them when you can, hang out when they’re available, but you spend most of your day, everyday alone.

You’d struggled a lot, at first. But then you take a page out of all of your books: romanticize a quiet life.

You’d stared at your empty apartment, your new desk set up for your job and decided to romanticize the shit out of your new life.

It was slow going at first. You didn’t really know how to get started, what you wanted your life to look like, so the first few months were spent primarily on Pinterest. But ideas formed, plans were made, rooms were carefully designed and days were quietly spent.

Which leads you to where you are now: a mostly lone woman leading her ideal, romanticized life. Romance books, working from home, coffee shops and thrifted sweaters and everything on your Pinterest board. You’d picked up (and dropped) several hobbies, everything from scrapbook journaling to watercolor painting to simple embroidery and sewing. You adore the lopsided and ugly-cute DIY Jellycat rabbit (appropriately named Elizabeth Bennet.)

It’d taken a year, but you felt safe and comfortable again. And throughout this entire process, you still managed to avoid or kill any attraction you’ve had for any passing man.

Except Spencer, or as you’ve dubbed him in your head, Hot Coffee Shop Guy.

You only know his name because the barista’s call it out when he takes his coffee to go, which he doesn’t always do. Sometimes he takes his coffee or tea in the cafe, sits at the same table in the far corner (almost directly across from you, as you like to sit right next to the large windows at the front of the cafe) and read.

You and him read very different books. Sometimes he reads large, thick textbooks. Sometimes he reads dusty old books. Sometimes the things he reads aren’t even in English. A very stark contrast to your fine readings of Ali Hazelwood, Elsie Silver, and Anna Huang.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve had a thing for guys who read. Not casual reading, but reading-reading. And you can’t help but think you compliment each other in aesthetic— you with your brightly colored romance books and cozy clothes, soft and cute in that way that screams “I listen to Laufey”, and him with his old books and faint smell of pine and his button downs and grandpa cardigans, looking like he listens to Tchaikovsky and The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns.

And it’s kind of fun to daydream about. You’d never act on it, of course, guys who look as hot as him don’t seriously go for girls like you, but it’s easy to read The Love Hypothesis and imagine yourself as Olive and him as Adam.

And then he starts saying hi.

Which, okay, admittedly, is not much. But besides the barista’s —whom he’s come to recognize and strike up conversations with— you’re the only person in the cafe he says hi too. Even though there are other regulars he no doubt recognizes.

Even when he takes his coffee to go, he gives you a little wave. It’s become your thing. A “hello” if he stays and a wave if he goes.

It’s a nice little thing to have, is the problem. Who doesn’t want a jaw-droppingly hot man to make time out of his day to say hi to you specifically?

But it won’t go anywhere. Even if you hadn’t sworn off love until you’re in your mid-thirties, you’d be too shy to actually do anything about it.

You’ve seen how this goes down. He waves, you smile, you work your way up to going up to him, and he either has a girlfriend or isn’t interested. And even if, for some reason he is interested, he won’t stay interested.

So there isn’t a point to entertaining it, but you still do.

It’s fun. A little change in routine. A star-burst of excitement in your usual unchanging schedule.

—

Apparently, just because you’ve sworn off romance, doesn’t mean the universe has sworn off romance for you.

You’re at the cafe as usual, book in front of you and scrapbook behind your coffee. You’re considering making a coffee ring stain page, but you’re worried about mold and the possibility of it ruining other pages.

It’s late evening, the usual time Spencer comes in, and you’d preemptively ordered a ham and swiss croissant because you tend to end up too self conscious to get up or move around too much when he sits down, which is stupid, because he isn’t even looking at you.

He walks in right after you sit back down from ordering, so you entertain yourself with Love On the Brain so you don’t catch yourself staring at the soft brown curls and light stubble on his jawline. It’s very addicting, staring at him. He just has one of those stupidly attractive faces that beg to be stared at.

Today, he offers you a little wave, dipping down to catch your vision and a little “good evening,” as he goes by.

Wow. A wave and a hello. He must be in a good mood.

One of the barista’s —Sarah, she has two cats— drops off your croissant and rushes away, a hand pressed to her mouth, which is odd. She usually lingers so she can show you new pictures of Tweedle Dee and Microwave (her two cat’s names, respectively.)

You look down at the plate and notice a little something sticking out under the croissant. It’s their business card, but it’s upside down, and something’s written on it.

You take the little piece of cardstock, carefully reading the words written in scrawling but strangely delicate handwriting:

You look really cute today.

-Spencer

Ho. Lee. Shit.

You stare at the card, reading it and reading it and reading it and reading it and reading it and then reading it one more time, just in case.

But the words don’t change.

You look up at him, face hot, and make eye contact with Spencer. Who’s looking right back at you, textbook open on the table in front of him and a small smirk on his face.

You look back down at the table.

See, you don’t really get flirted with often. Or ever, really. You’d grown up watching early 2000s rom-com’s and then started reading romance novels in late highschool, so the disappointing reality once you hit 20 that you’d never had a boyfriend and the most romance you experience is in your head was something you had to adjust to. You’d had crushes of course, but then never went anywhere. And the few times they did never ended well. Hence the total life makeover after you last break-up.

You’ve never really experienced cute romance. Nothing like looks across a cafe and notes passed by barista’s.

He doesn’t come over and strike up a conversation, which you’re thankful for. That would be too much. He goes back to his reading, and you press the note into the pages of your book and pretend to go back to yours.

You don’t end up doing much reading that day.

—

It becomes a new thing. The notes. He doesn’t write them all the time, and they don’t always come with whatever pastry you’ve ordered. Sometimes they’re tucked under your coffee on its saucer, sometimes he slips them silently onto your table. But you always tuck them into whatever book you’re reading, so the way it’s worked out is that there’s little pieces of Spencer spread throughout a good portion of the books you own.

I like your sweater.

I think that hairstyle suits you.

Maybe we should trade books one day. Any chance you can read French?

You always look so cozy in your little spot.

Have I ever told you I think you’re pretty? (Joking, I know I have, just wanted to say it again.)

You were right about those ham and swiss croissants.

How do you get your annotations to look so pretty?

I like it when you smile.

It’s a lot. It’s tempting.

The little notes and his smile have (pathetically easily) wormed their way into your affection. You’re both afraid to get more and unwilling to go back to your normal life. You should, by all means. Appreciate the notes and then let this entire thing sail right on by.

So you do exactly what you always do when something like this happens. Consult your friends.

“He’s been giving you notes?” Penelope gasps, hand on her chest, “Hot coffee shop guy has been giving you notes, flirty notes and you’ve haven’t given him a single one?”

“I’m nervous!” You exclaim, face hot. “There are so many ways this could go wrong, and not just romantically. What if I take off the rose colored glasses and there’s this… this person who isn’t at all like I thought he’d be?”

Her expression gets a little sad at your words, and she reaches across the table to take your hand. “Okay, first of all, I have never known you to wear rose colored glasses. You’re a romantic, but you’re also too logical for that. Secondly, and I’m saying this because I love you, you need to get over yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“No, really! You’ve concocted this entire, horrific scenario in your head about this guy who you haven’t even officially spoken to. You’re getting waaaaay ahead of yourself.”

“I know,” You look down at the cup of coffee you’ve been sipping on. Coffee at your apartment isn’t as exciting as coffee from the cafe, but Penelope wanted to hang at your place to catch up when you called her. “But I just keep thinking- what if the same thing happens again?”

She rolls her eyes, but the action is fond. “And what if it doesn’t? You’ve gotta try, babycakes. That’s what the whole romance thing is about. Taking the risk.”

“But risks are scary.” You whine.

“They are,” She says, laughing now, “But they’re also fun. I think you should give it a shot. At least hear the poor man out before you condemn him to being an axe murderer.”

“I don’t think he’s an axe murderer,” You say, “I think he might secretly be a self absorbed dick.”

“Trust me. I’m pretty sure in this case, the chances of that are pretty low.”

—

The next time you go to the cafe, Spencer is in fact there. So you push through your racing heart and sweaty palms and all the thoughts in your head that scream that is a bad idea and you take the little folded piece of paper and ask the barista to give it to him with his coffee.

Your deliberated over what to write in the note for a long time. Probably too long considering the fact that if this goes well, you’ll be writing more. But in the end, your favorite pen in hand, you’d written out a simple little:

Hi. I think your sweaters look really nice too. ♡

You’d felt like you were back in elementary school— giggling and passing notes. Unlike elementary school, though, the note passing doesn’t end in mild humiliation or heartbreak.

When he gets the note, he looks up at you, the same surprised expression on his face that you wore when you’d received his note the first time. Then, he looks down, reads it, and you get the honor of watching the most kissable blush spread across his cheeks as he readjusts his sweater.

It becomes your little thing. Your new little thing.

It’s easy to slip into, this cute little routine with Spencer.

Penelope has other thoughts on the matter.

“Sweetheart,” She says, and you can’t see her expression over the phone, but you can picture the set of her brows and the downturn of her lips, “I’m so glad you took that first scary leap and sent him a note back. But it’s been a month. Don’t you think it’s time to pick up the pace?”

“I’m taking it slow.” You say, voice half muffled by your scarf. It’s getting colder and colder and you wish the cold snap would just snap and snow already. If it’s going to be freezing, it might as well be freezing and pretty.

“No, you’re stalling. I swear to you, if I don’t hear about a date by the end of this week I’m going to go down there and ask him out for you.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Exactly. Okay, I have to go. Love you bye!”

The dial tone sounds and you slide your phone into your pocket, further burying your face into your scarf.

You’re not really watching your surroundings as you approach the cafe, the walk too familiar, so when a hand larger than yours reaches for the door handle at the same time, you glance up in surprise.

“Sorry—“ Oh.

It’s Spencer.

He smiles at you, the same, really nice smile that you desperately want to kiss.

“Shame that our first official word together was ‘sorry’.”

You feel your face heat despite the chill outside. “Not true. I think it was actually hello.”

His smile widens. “Hello to you too.”

You blink. “Oh. Oh, I see what you did there.”

He nods to the door. “Do you want to head inside then? It’s a bit chilly out here.”

“Yeah,” A smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

He opens the door. “After you.”

So maybe taking the first leap won’t be that scary after all.