#*the NEW the hu song

[stackslip]

ive never been a metalhead but maybe i should become one

[vatalla]

hollywood forever had me blushing and kicking my feet like you appreciate me fr? you wouldn’t be anything without ME?

[inertia-writes]

dehradun days

you meet them for the first time,

knowing it's probably the last.

might as well make the most of this time,

since life comes at you fast.

you find the strangest of signals

in the no-network zones.

cross-tent communication with folks,

just rambling about the unknown.

there's the warmth of shared laughter,

that carries you through freezing nights,

and you look up at the flickering stars,

to finally see things in a different light.

and at 11,000 ft above sea level

you finally reach the peak,

just to realise the joy was in the journey,

and the friends you made that week.

you'll visit caves & splendid cafes,

and remember the city in mere parts,

but years later, you'll still tell everyone,

how dehradun captured your heart.

[ccomposer-kanade]

guys.... I really wanna make a ao3 account but i cant do the email verification thing AHGUGH

[sentientcave]

6 Random Songs From "On Repeat" Playlist:

Soap by The Oh Hellos

Jackboot Jump by Hozier

Torches by The Oh Hellos

Edge of the Earth by The Beaches

Your Dog by Soccer Mommy

Map on the Wall by Lucy Dacus

tagged by @syoddeye

(Oh Hellos on here twice because I have been listening to them on repeat while working on Heavy Weighs the Crown lmao)

Tagging: @mortuarywriting and also anyone else who wants to do this!

[lehdenlaulu]

They also wrote four songs for the Star Wars video games, Jedi: Fallen Order and Jedi: Survivor as a fictional band called The Agasar. Sugaan Essena (which appears in both games, and was also released in Mongolian as Black Thunder), Eseerin Vasahina, Hohochu, and Eerin Siinaa. Absolute bangers all.

[theinfinitedivides]

Hu Shin telling the men's group that Ji Young likes Min Gyu and that he told her to try and have a date with him before their time ends so that he can support her since he doesn't feel like he has a chance. this show doesn't deserve him

[rebelfell]

american engine

steve harrington x fem!reader

Truck smut just for the sake of truck smut. Vibes provided by a song by a band I cannot rec enough (if you listen, I suggest letting it play into muscle up b/c the transition is 🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻)

18+, MDNI┃1.2k

cw: unlike steve’s dick, this isn’t very long (badum bum tsss) outdoor sex, oral (fem receiving), piv, doggystyle.

did you lie down and take it? mend it to break it? does it shine like the chrome on your american engine?

You never understood why they called it the ‘bed’ of the truck until now.

Steve had done his damndest to make the flat expanse more inviting, having laid down blanket upon blanket as a barrier to cushion your bodies. It didn’t do much good, the layers of flannel and fleece and fluffy sherpa no match for the unforgiving metal ridges underneath.

And yet you found yourself unable—or more specifically, unwilling—to care.

Not when he had you lying across it, one leg draped over his shoulder while he lavished you with his tongue under the cover of a deep black sky and a boundless field of stars. Weathertop was serene and secluded with nothing but the dense trees surrounding the rolling hills as an audience to your debauchery; the wind whistling through them the only sound accompanying the rhythmic squeaking of his truck’s shocks.

Besides the ones you were making, that is.

It was all hot, heaving breaths and eager moans; lurid slurps and sucks and smacks—his lips on yours, yours on his taught neck, his mouth on your nipples and your chest and your stomach all the way down to your slick, inviting center. And then it was the moaning, his pleasurable hums against your folds or the ones hurled up at the sky as you threw your head back in ecstasy.

His groans grew louder as you wove your fingers into his hair, clutching tight at the thick strands as your rapture peaked and steadily ebbed. He lifted up from between your legs, the moonlight reflecting off your spend that coated his face and his teeth as they were bared in a smug grin.

Your eyes rolled as you dragged him up for a kiss by the hair, delighting in the breathy little ah-ah-ahh’s that tumbled past his lips as a not at all displeased smile played across them.

Such a good little pain slut, you thought, moving your hand to the back of his head as you kissed him again and licked the taste of yourself out of his mouth. Your grip on him held fast, tightening and relaxing again and again in time with your tongues sliding over and under one another.

His hands squeezed at your waist and he tapped your hips in a signal to get on top.

The switch is smooth and fluid, and suddenly he’s sitting with his back upagainst the cab as he pulls you hastily into his lap. Fly undone, jeans pulled down just far enough to release his cock.

You dropped down onto his length with a precise plop that has his head tipping back and his neck—god, that neck—stretching before you like a feast for your eyes, gold-hued tan tinted blue.

You’re so wet and he’s so hard there’s barely any resistance as he fills you, sliding hot and snug inside you, your walls squeezing as you settle and throw your arms around his neck.

Steve had called it a ‘christening’ for his new set of wheels, but this felt far too unholy for that title.

As you start to ride him, not quite bouncing, but rather rocking yourself back and forth, you felt your desire overwhelming all your other senses, overriding the pain of your knees aching and your thighs burning in the name of chasing release.

You gasped when his hands landed on your upper thighs and he began to push and pull you in time with his own thrusts, moving you back and forth so he was setting the blistering pace from below.

The faster he goes, the more control you give up. Collapsing against him, coiling your arms around him so his face is buried in the nape of your neck. He huffs hard like a bull, his hot breath rushing over your skin and tickling it, making your whole body tense and tighten the closer you get.

The whole truck is rocking in time with your movements now, and had you not seen him set the parking brake yourself, you might have been afraid you would take off rolling down the hill.

Not that it would have stopped you.

“Up,” Steve huffed, having reached the point of caveman-like grunting, “wanna get behind you.”

And you were all to happy to oblige.

With shaking, gelatinous limbs you got up on all fours, willfully ignoring the way they wobbled and how you swayed unsteady on them. But like they knew exactly how worthwhile it would be, your muscles found the strength to hold you up.

There’s more metallic creaking, more heavy and labored breaths as Steve gets up on his knees and slots behind you. Your backside sways, wiggling your hips almost impatiently.

“You want it bad, huh?” he hums contentedly, his broad palm smoothing over the ample, rounded feast before him. The moon-glow and starlight bouncing off the fresh sheen of sweat.

“Yes,” you whimper, playing it up in the rounding of your eyes as you twist your body to look back at him. “Can I have it, Stevie? Please?”

“In a minute,” he promises, “I’m enjoying this.”

That grin of his flashes, pure charm and charisma coming off him in such excess you could bottle it. He puts his hands under your hips and hauls you back, making your wet thighs plap against his.

Your hands nearly lose their purchase, dropping down on your forearms so the arch in your back deepens as you sink into a feline stretch.

Steve’s raspy groan overhead zings between your legs, your thighs trembling with an ache to press together as you push back trying to feel more of him. He’s still holding out on you, letting his hard cock glide between your hot, wet folds before he sinks inside, his ridges catching on your clit.

Nice, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

It feels like a fever, dizzying and debilitating, your brain clouding like a steamy windshield. You don’t even feel like a person anymore, just a bottomless pit of wantwantwant and needneedneed.

At last you feel it—the blunt head of his cock, the blissful stretch of it sliding inside as he joins your bodies. He moans low and long, having worked himself up as much as he did you, hips flush with your ass so you could feel his thighs trembling.

“Fuck, honey,” he gasps, trying to gather himself, “h-how do you...how do you even walk around like this, feeling so—nnngh—fucking good?”

A breathless chuckle rolls out of you, and you look back once more. "Somehow I manage," you sigh, sounding happy and sated filled to the brim.

Steve barks out a laugh, raking hand through his messy hair to push it out of his glittering eyes. If it wouldn't put you at risk of a massive neck injury, you'd keep it craned back like this all night just to watch him ruin you. He's a fucking vision like this, almost ethereal in his beauty. His sculpted chest expanding with every deep breath he draws. His arm muscles rippling and tensing under his skin. His freshly tamed hair already falling back into disarray, dusting his brow as he leans over.

“Now, where were we?”

His voice rumbles from deep in his chest as he presses it into your spine, nipping at your naked shoulder. It makes you shiver despite the heat of his body covering yours, and you can't help but to clench tight around him, earning yourself another strangled groan that's like music to your ears.

"Oh, that’s right," he smirks once he's recovered, "I need to show you what this baby can do when we really open her up."

And not that you didn't know this already...but he's definitely not talking about the truck.

[justafewberries]

In SOTR, Collins includes an interesting passage on immigration and the social ladder:

“Exactly. There’s been a lot of concern in the Capitol lately that district citizens are aspiring to break in here. It’s not entirely unfounded, particularly with people from One and Two who work closely with us. Luxury and military, you know. There are Capitol-born folks assigned out there who’ve got mixed families they want to bring here now. But you’re unapologetically district. And any way you can drive home that the Careers are buying into the Games and trying to be more Capitol than the Capitol itself will increase the social disapproval for them.”

What’s interesting here is the implication that the worst part about someone coming from the districts is that they think they could be worthy of Capitol culture. That Districts 1 and 2 are “trying to be more Capitol than the Capitol itself.”

We see this in part by how they name their children. Glimmer and Gloss. Marvel and Cashmere. Even Sejanus and Cato. All names one might find in the Capitol.

By the 74th Games, District 2 is the closest ally to the Capitol. In TBOSAS, the Plinth family is still shunned despite their money. What Collins implies here, then, is that it is not money nor status nor talent that makes someone worthy of being “Captiol”. Keeping the Capitol pure is what is important.

Money can disappear, but district people, potential immigrants, are always going to be “less than” and making a mockery of Capitol culture, despite their attempts to join them. They will never be “worthy” of the culture. The Capitol sees immigration as muddying the waters. To them, it will not enrich their culture, but corrode it.

But we know, from a reader’s standpoint, this isn’t true. The other predominant culture we know of is the Covey. The Capitol initially finds Lucy Gray’s colors strange, but they grow to love her music. The mere idea of liking something from a district is uncomfortable to them. Thus, Lucy Gray is marketed as being barely district, or not district at all. They grow to love her songs. They want her to return and perform. But let’s not forget here: her culture is not of their own.

Whereas Covey culture in d12 has both integrated and expanded beyond an organized idea by the time we meet Katniss. It transcends a single group. It lives on in tradition, in the wedding dances, the songs, the colors. Lucy Gray’s colors are bright and beautiful. The Capitol’s colors are candy-hued and unnatural. It is not that cultural integration destroys cultures. It uplifts them. It allows them to shine and dance and grow to accept new people and ideas.

And this is all said in a small, missable quote from Plutarch.

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Rafayel x Reader

Twisted The little mermaid.

Rafayel’s lilac waves floated like a shimmering halo around his face, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on devotion and madness. He watched from the shadows of the coral as you sang softly to yourself, your voice carrying your dreams of the human prince to the currents.

He hated that song. Hated the way it wasn’t meant for him.

Yet, he couldn’t help but admire the way your delicate form moved in the water, your innocent gaze always turned toward the surface. You were his, even if you didn’t know it yet. And he would make sure you did.

When you came to him one fateful night, your desperation radiating through every word, he knew this was his chance.

"I need legs, Rafayel" you whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and hope. "Please... I have to see him. I’ll do anything."

The sea prince’s lips curved into a smile—soft, reassuring, almost kind. But his eyes betrayed the storm within. "Anything?" he repeated, his voice smooth like silk yet sharp as a blade.

You hesitated but nodded.

He floated closer, his ornate white-and-gold robes flowing around him like the mist of a breaking wave. His fingers, adorned with delicate gold rings, traced a glowing rune in the water.

"You’ll have what you want" Rafayel promised, his voice a lullaby of false comfort. "But the land is harsh, little one. You’ll need protection—someone who truly understands you. Someone like me."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, though you brushed it off as nerves. "I’ll be fine" you insisted, your thoughts consumed by the human prince. "He’ll protect me."

Rafayel’s smile twitched, but he quickly masked his irritation. Foolish girl. You didn’t see the lengths he would go to for you, the ways he had already moved the currents of fate in his favor.

With a flash of magic, the transformation was done. Pain seared through your tail as it split into two, forming delicate legs. The price of the spell—the voice that had so often carried your longing—was stolen away, sealed within the amulet Rafayel wore around his neck.

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered on the amulet, or the possessiveness in his gaze as he carried you to the shore.

When you opened your eyes on the beach, the sun was rising. A figure stood nearby, his silhouette golden against the light. Your heart swelled—your prince! He turned, his smile disarming and warm, and reached a hand toward you.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, helping you to your feet. His voice was familiar, and yet... something about it felt different.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in his features, the faint shimmer of magic that clung to him. Rafayel, now wearing the face of the human prince, hid his triumph behind a façade of kindness.

"I’ve been waiting for someone like you" he said, his rose-hued eyes meeting yours with a warmth that made your chest tighten. "Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe."

You nodded, unable to speak, and followed him, unaware that the man you loved had been replaced by the very being you’d tried to escape.

As the days passed, Rafayel’s true nature began to seep through. He was attentive to the point of suffocation, always close, always watching. The human world that had once seemed so bright began to feel like a cage, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange unease.

The real prince was gone, hidden beneath the waves in a slumbering spell, and Rafayel’s obsession tightened around you like a noose. He whispered sweet lies in your ear, his disguised hands caressing your hair as he wove a new world around you—one where you belonged to him and him alone.

And the worst part? You were beginning to believe it.

Days bled into weeks, and your once vibrant dream of a life on land began to dull under the weight of Rafayel’s presence. He was everything you had wanted: kind, attentive, and protective—but there was a strange edge to him, a quiet intensity in the way his rose-colored eyes followed your every move.

At first, you dismissed the unease. You chalked it up to your struggles adapting to the human world. The land felt foreign, the air too dry, and the world too vast. Rafayel, still in the guise of the prince, was your anchor, your constant.

But soon, his affection began to suffocate.

“I don’t think you should wander the marketplace alone” he said one morning as you stood by the window, gazing out at the bustling streets. His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the firmness in his words. “It’s dangerous for someone like you. You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

You frowned, gesturing toward the lively scene below as if to say, But I want to see it.

Rafayel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take you when I’m free. But for now, stay here where I can keep you safe.”

Safe. The word felt like chains tightening around your ankles.

You began to notice other things. How he seemed to know your every move, how his touch lingered a little too long, how his eyes darkened whenever you tried to pull away. The warmth that had once drawn you to him now felt like a fire, consuming everything in its path.

And then there were the dreams.

At night, you dreamed of the sea, of violet eyes glowing in the dark depths, of a voice calling your name. It was haunting, familiar, and terrifying. When you woke, the amulet Rafayel wore around his neck seemed to shimmer in the faint moonlight, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching you.

One evening, as Rafayel escorted you back from the gardens, you caught sight of a small fountain glimmering in the moonlight. The water called to you, its surface rippling like the waves you had once known.

You approached it cautiously, kneeling by its edge. The reflection staring back at you was familiar yet wrong. The human prince’s face smiled, but there was something… off. You tilted your head, trying to make sense of the strange flicker in his image.

Behind you, Rafayel’s voice broke the silence. “Do you miss it?”

You turned to find him watching you, his eyes unreadable.

“The sea” he clarified, stepping closer. “Do you miss what you left behind?”

You hesitated, nodding slowly.

He crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours. “I told you the land could be cruel” he murmured. “But I’ve given you everything, haven’t I? A chance to be here, with me.”

Something in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You pulled your hand away, your gaze falling to the amulet around his neck.

“Do you like it?” he asked, following your gaze. He lifted the pendant, letting it catch the light. “It’s special, you know. It holds something very dear to me.”

Your breath hitched. The dreams, the unease, the haunting melody that played in the back of your mind—it all made sense now.

It wasn’t the human prince standing before you. It never had been.

“Rafayel” you whispered, the name clawing its way to the surface of your memory.

His smile widened, but there was no kindness in it now. “Ah, you remember.”

You stumbled back, your legs trembling beneath you. He caught you easily, his grip firm but gentle. “Why do you look so frightened, my love? Everything I’ve done was for you.”

Panic surged through you as Rafayel’s mask of gentleness slipped away, revealing the obsession and madness beneath. You had to get away, but the land—your dream, was no longer safe.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you broke free from his grasp and ran. The cobblestone streets blurred around you as you raced toward the shore, the call of the sea growing louder with each step.

Behind you, Rafayel’s voice echoed, calm but menacing. “You can’t escape me, little one. The sea is mine, just as you are.”

When you reached the water, you hesitated. Your legs, foreign and unfamiliar, wavered beneath you. But the waves seemed to reach for you, pulling you forward.

“Come back” Rafayel said softly, appearing behind you as if summoned by the tide. His lilac hair shimmered in the moonlight, his pink-colored eyes burning with an intensity that made your chest ache. “I can’t lose you.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. You dove into the waves, the water enveloping you in its cold embrace.

But even the ocean couldn’t protect you from Rafayel. The tides shifted unnaturally, dragging you back toward him. His magic surged around you, and his voice filled your mind.

“You can’t run from me, my love” he whispered. “We’re bound together—by magic, by fate, by love.”

As you fought against the tide, something began to change. The legs Rafayel had given you faltered, a sharp, searing pain running up your body. You gasped, clutching at your sides as your limbs began to dissolve into shimmering scales. The magic was unraveling, the spell breaking apart.

“You can’t return to the sea—not without me.”

-----

Check out for twisted version of

Caleb [snow white]

Xavier [sleeping beauty]

[katz-chow]

part 1 | part 2

ghost distribution system when you're walking from your parking space to the apartment building you live in before hearing small animal whimpers. the snow continues to plow through the city as you pull your scarf closer to you. the sounds echo again and you pause in your steps, awaiting for the source to make the whimpers again.

your feet step closer amidst the snow, it crunching underneath your heavy boots. the sound got less frequent as you turned the corner and peaked behind the parked car. to your surprise, a bundle of brown fur was curled up and snowed on. you gasp and reach down while unfurling your scarf to cover the bundle. as you did, the wind picked up and, from what you notice, is a tiny kitten.

you hurry up the stairs and into your apartment, quickly wrapping more blankets around your new furry friend. you turn on the heat, then a warm bath, then put your towel in the dryer to warm up. the little meows starts to continue again and you coo at it while dialing a number.

the kitten kicked the shallow water in your tub as you massage its soft fur. you giggle and it meows back in response. the knock on your front door startles you but you knew who it was.

you opened the door is a broad man who pushes past you, eyes fixed on your ceiling and a shopping bag in his hand.

"simon, i'm so glad you're here, i..." you turn to him after locking your door and see him reach up, batteries in one hand and the lid to your smoke detectors in his other. "oh, thank you..."

he mumbles as he continues to change them, "the beeping... it's uh...annoying..."

you smile and tap him on his shoulder as you walk to get your towel from the dryer. he follows behind and bangs the lid of your washer close, it's always slightly open.

you feel him close behind you again when you go to the bathroom, humming a familiar song as you walk in. the kitten walked around the warm water and mews at you and simon pokes his head over your shoulder. "is this why you called?"

you nod and bend over to pick up the tiny furball into the warmed towel as you dry..."can you check if it's a boy or a girl?"

he moves a bit, struggling to not bump into various corners in the small bathroom. he picks up the kitten by its scruff and you panic, cupping your hands underneath it to prevent it from falling. after a bit, he finally answers you, "dunno what i'm looking at."

you giggle and take the sopping wet kitten into your hand and continue to dry it, switching from the warm setting on your hair dryer and the towel.

"you think we should take it to the vet?" you ask him as he orders takeout on your phone. you look over at him, your fingers gently petting the kitten that's curled up on your chest, no longer damp and cold but warm and sleepy.

he nods, a bit distracted as he scrolled through what drink to get. "are we sharing custody?"

"like a divorced couple?" you ask him through a silly smile.

that gets a chuckle out of him and he elbows you softly. "we're not divorced."

"well we're not married either. we're not even dating..." you mumble the last part, a bit of hurt runs through your chest as you remind yourself. it was a thought that popped up late last week when he went home after installing your new dryer in your apartment.

after that, it plagues your mind every time you find him helping you or staring close to you. it sounds cheesy but you’ve thought of asking him “what are we?” a few times.

he noticed your silence and meets it with his own. you refuse to look at him, instead focusing on the purring cat on your chest. unbeknownst to you, simon meets your silence with confusion. “yes we are…?”

you snap your eyes at him, brows furrowed. “you never asked me!”

“i changed your smoke alarms…and your tires…” he begins, looking at your weirdly. you don’t get it, mostly because you can only see his eyes and a little under it.

you stare at him, he stares at you. then you begin, “but you didn’t ask…”

he looks at you, confused and kind of amused. he gives you a huff of playfulness and responds, “can i date you” can i marry you?

“yeah i guess…” you tease as you lean over and tap your shoulder against his.

he rolls his eyes and goes back to inputting his credit card into your phone to order food. “just for that i canceled your drink”

“asshole!” you hit him on the shoulder push him away from you, which he plays along and falls to the other side of the sofa.

a silence falls over the two of you once again, this time comfortable and a bit bashful as the two of you, mostly you, begin to process what just happened.

“what’re you gonna name….it” he breaks the silence, remembering that he really doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet. “what about snow…gender neutral?”

“cheesy name…alex”

“basic”

“you’re impossible”

you laugh and he can tell you know he’s not serious, which is good. he’s always worried about pushing too many buttons, making you so upset that you leave. not right now though, his body relaxes.

“toaster?”

“fucking hate that…”

“toaster it is!”

"bloody hell..." the kitten paws at his outreach hand.

master list | letter box | main directory

stop by the letter box!

[pretentious-blonde]

first chapter

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve stops by the bookshop for his students and leaves an impression—one that lingers when the reader sees just how much he cares about them

warnings: literally none, steve is a softie!!

a/n: here we go again! short and sweet intro chapter before we get to the good stuff. also i was grinning at my screen writing steve interacting with the kids <3

series masterlist

The morning bird song filtered through the lace curtains draped across the front windows of your grandmother’s old bookshop—now your bookshop.

The wooden floors, worn by decades of footsteps, creaked quietly beneath your shoes. You had just flipped the sign to declare that, yes, you were open for business, though not a single soul was out on the pavement yet. The serenity of a small town in the early hours felt soothing, and you allowed yourself to breathe in the stillness of the morning.

Upstairs in the modest flat you now called home, the kettle had whistled only moments before, providing you with a simple comfort—a warm cup of coffee. Steam rose from the mug like a contented sigh, warming your fingers and your chest. 

As you descended the short flight of stairs to the shop, you couldn’t help but marvel at how seamlessly your new life in Hawkins had begun to take shape. Yes, there were boxes you still hadn’t fully unpacked and occasional bursts of Midwest weather that threatened your peace, but on mornings like this, you felt sure you had made the right choice.

This shop, bequeathed to you in your grandmother’s will, carried a deep history and charm. You had wrestled with the idea of selling it—a practical move, some might say—but the thought of parting with such a beloved space felt entirely wrong. So here you were, two months into a life of dusting ancient shelves, cataloguing novels by authors known and unknown, and greeting the locals who had begun to trickle in as regulars. 

It wasn’t always smooth sailing. The old filing system your grandmother had used was more a labyrinth than a library, with handwritten ledgers that offered few clues. But slowly, day by day, you’d learned to navigate her quirks, an exercise that felt like stepping into her shoes and forging a path of your own.

You settled in behind the counter, a cosy nook framed by shelves of bestsellers and classics alike. The lighting was soft, mostly amber-hued floor lamps with tasseled shades that cast an inviting glow. Mismatched cushions had found their way onto plush armchairs and vintage sofas arranged in corners throughout the space. It felt less like a store and more like a living room that just happened to sell books. 

To you, that was precisely the point—somewhere quiet, welcoming, and full of potential.

Taking a careful sip from your coffee, you let yourself sink into a well-worn seat behind the register. There was a quaint luxury in these early moments, before the day’s customers arrived, and you cherished the silence. A part of you wondered if you should tackle the stack of new releases that needed shelving, but the comfort of your chair—and the lingering caffeine aroma—kept you rooted in place. 

You reached under the counter and pulled out a paperback you’d been meaning to read. The cover teased an enchanting story, and you were eager to get lost in it.

It never occurred to you that someone might stroll in so soon after opening. Eight o’clock in Hawkins seemed far too early for anything but coffee. Still, the unexpected had become more common these days, and the jingle of the bell over the door startled you from your first page. It rang out, clear and bright in the morning quiet, signaling the arrival of your first customer of the day.

He didn’t exactly look like the typical morning browser, appearing slightly out of breath from the chill outside. His cheeks were tinged pink, the tip of his nose a little red, and his hair—once styled impeccably—looked tousled by the wind. A muted green jumper peeked out from beneath a casual jacket, and he wore well-fitted jeans that bore faint traces of scuff at the knees. He hovered for a moment near the threshold, glancing around as though making sure he was in the right place.

The glow of your shop seemed to settle around him, beckoning him inside. You could see the tension in his shoulders lessen when he realised he wasn’t intruding on some hidden enclave but rather stepping into a homey space. He offered a tentative half-smile when he caught sight of you behind the counter.

“Uh, hi,” he began, clearing his throat as if to ground himself.

“Hello,” you returned, offering a welcoming smile.

His eyes flickered across your face, taking in your kind expression, before he schooled himself into polite cordiality—reminding himself he had come here for a reason, not just to gawk at the cute new bookseller.

“Yeah, I… I was wondering if you could help me,” he said, voice soft.

You closed the book you’d been reading and placed it to the side, standing from your chair to greet him more fully. 

“What can I do for you?” 

He cleared his throat once more—nervous habit, perhaps—and gestured loosely at the shelves behind you. 

“You’re not… the usual lady who runs this place.”

“No, I’m not. I, uh, took it over recently,” you chuckle, trying to keep the note of sorrow out of your voice as you thought of your late grandmother. “Just reopened it a couple of months ago.”

“Huh,” he said, nodding, clearly absorbing that bit of information. “Good to know.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I’m looking for some kids’ books.”

The corners of your mouth lifted in a gentle smile. “Kids’ books?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. It was a little awkward, the way he rocked on his heels, as though not entirely sure how to stand. 

You offered to show him the children’s section, stepping out from behind the counter and leading him through a short row of middle-grade novels. The far corner of the shop was dedicated in bright colors, whimsical cover art, and lower shelves that invited small hands to grab at storybooks.

“This is where we keep the children’s section,” you said, sweeping your hand over the shelves. “How old are yours?”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening. 

“Oh—oh, I don’t… I’m not— I don’t have any.” A flush of pink returned to his cheeks, and he quickly added, “I need them for work.”

“Work?” Your brows arched in curiosity. 

“Yeah, I’m a teacher. Second grade,” he explained. “My kids—they’re around seven or eight.”

“Ah,” you breathed, nodding. “That makes sense.” 

Turning back to the shelves, you placed a hand on the upper row of picture-heavy chapter books. 

“These are aimed at eight-to-ten-year-olds,” you said, tapping a few titles you recognised as popular, “and these down here,” you crouched to point out another set, “are a bit younger, around five to seven.”

He followed your gestures intently, glancing between you and the books. You didn’t miss the slight dart of his eyes, noticing the way he took you in with a curiosity and—appreciation? Though he seemed quick to hide it.

“Honestly, I’m not super well-versed on the new stuff,” he admitted, the confession made all the more sweet by his earnest tone. “What would you recommend?”

You straightened up and began scanning the spines. 

“Well, we have a few encyclopedias that are really engaging for that age group—lots of pictures, fun facts. The classics, too—Roald Dahl, E.B. White. They never go out of style.”

“Perfect, yeah,” he said, nodding along, already imagining reading the stories aloud. Then, almost unprompted, his eyes lit up in a flash of recognition. “Oh—there’s this one book I read as a kid, about a boy who, uh… posted himself through the mailbox or something?”

The excitement in his voice was contagious, and you couldn’t help but giggle, your own smile widening. In that moment, you saw how approachable he was—a man who loved sharing a piece of his childhood with his students. His face reddened at your soft laughter, but he seemed more embarrassed by his enthusiastic outburst than upset.

“Flat Stanley,” you offered, the name rolling easily off your tongue.

“That’s the one!” He looked almost triumphant. “Man, my mom used to read that to me all the time, can’t believe I forgot the name.”

“I don’t think we have a physical copy right now.” You scanned the rows but shook your head.  “But I can get it delivered if you’d like?”

Relief washed over his features as he released a breath he probably hadn’t realised he was holding. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said, smiling. “That’s great. Didn’t want them to be disappointed.” His gaze flickered over you for a moment. 

“Why don’t you just borrow from the library?” You tilted your head. 

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Well… we tried, but the books kind of got destroyed. Kids that age can be… a lot,” he explained with a dry chuckle, eyes crinkling at the memory. “The librarians and I have come to a mutual agreement that I should probably source my own copies.”

“I see.” You couldn’t help but grin, picturing a bunch of rambunctious kids flipping through pages with sticky fingers, leaving chaos in their wake. “That can happen.”

Standing next to him as he peered intently at the spines, you felt a fondness bloom for this stranger who cared enough about his class to restock his own library. 

He wasn’t exactly bad to look at either. You almost envied his students, getting to see him like this every day—but you quickly redirected your thoughts before they could wander too far. You were supposed to be helping him out, not gawking while he tried to do something sweet.

A quiet fell between you, his profile illuminated as he studied each title.

“Hey,” you offered gently, feeling brave, “if you want, I could pick out a selection for you and order them in? Might be easier than you spending your whole Saturday leafing through everything.”

“Really? That would be… amazing, actually.” His face lit up at the suggestion, and the gratitude in his eyes made something flutter pleasantly in your chest. 

“Of course,” you said, gesturing for him to follow you back to the counter. You made your way around to your usual spot, grabbing a pen and a patterned notepad. 

“Alright,” you began, poised to write. “Do you have a budget for these?”

“Not really,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “I figure about ten books, give or take. Whatever you recommend. I want to cover all the bases.”

You jotted down a note, nodding in approval. 

“No problem.” You glanced up at him. “Any particular genres you had in mind?”

“No, just a little bit of everything. Some nonfiction to keep ‘em curious, few adventure stories… Maybe some silly stuff too.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Kids love silly.”

“Silly, got it.” You chuckled, writing that down. “And where should I send them? Or—what school was it?”

“Hawkins Elementary.” He smiled, almost proudly, and you wondered for a moment if he had grown up around here.

“Makes sense,” you murmured, scribbling another note. Then you paused, pen poised above the page. “And can I have a name?”

“Oh! Right, sorry. It’s uh, Steve. Steve Harrington.”

Repeating his name softly as you wrote it, you offered him a warm, reassuring look. Steve Harrington. It had a certain ring to it. The corners of your lips curved up as you thought about how well ‘Harrington’ would look on the small slip you’d attach to his order.

He swallowed, finding your attention unexpectedly disarming.

“Alright then, Steve. When do you need these by?”

“As soon as possible,” he admitted, looking a bit helpless. “If that’s alright, I’d love to have them by Monday—though I know that’s short notice.”

You checked the small calendar pinned to the side of the counter and tapped the date lightly.

“We’re closed Mondays, so I can have them delivered then—no problem at all.”

“You can?” His relief was so palpable it made you laugh. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ll do my best.” The warmth in your voice matched the gratitude in his eyes. 

He lingered a moment, as though he wanted to say something else—perhaps ask more questions or keep chatting, but he caught himself, clearing his throat again. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “For all your help.”

You waved off the formality. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He gave a small nod, a smile tugging at his lips. Before he turned to leave, he lifted a hand in a goodbye wave. You echoed the motion, finding the gesture unexpectedly sweet. As the door swung open, letting in a brief gust of cold air, you could see how his cheeks coloured once again in the bracing wind.

The bell jingled to mark his exit, and you simply watched the door close behind him. He trudged back onto the pavement, jacket pulled snug. He allowed himself a quick glance through the front window, catching one last glimpse of you looking after him with that gentle smile. A slight flutter caught him off-guard—relief at having found exactly what he needed for his students and a barely-there thump at meeting someone he hadn’t before. 

It’s not everyday someone new moves to town, especially one around his age and with such a soft demeanour. He walked away, the faintest grin played on his lips, leaving him feeling lighter than when he’d first stepped inside. 

You sank back into your seat behind the counter, already thinking of the perfect selection of books to gather for the following week. But also wondering if you’d see that soft-spoken teacher again soon.

Monday morning brought a crispness to the air that you felt through your coat. You sat parked in front of Hawkins Elementary School, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, trying to summon enough courage to make your delivery. 

The box of books you’d so carefully selected for Steve Harrington and his second graders was tucked in the backseat—carefully wedged between a pile of tote bags and a folded-up umbrella. It wasn’t heavy enough to break your back, but it still felt significant, because of what it contained and who it was going to.

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous. This was, after all, part of your job—providing customers with the books they needed. Yet a twinge of excitement emerged in your stomach whenever you remembered his soft brown eyes and that quietly dorky grin. 

He’d seemed so genuinely pleased when you mentioned Flat Stanley; you’d practically sprinted to the phone after he left, calling your supplier to confirm you could get a copy in time. Part of you told yourself you were just being a good shopkeeper—wanting a repeat customer, ensuring satisfaction, all that. But in truth, you knew there was a deeper motive at play. 

You wanted to see him smile again.

Drawing a steadying breath, you stepped out of your car and walked around to open the trunk. The box was bulky, and a small grunt escaped your lips as you lifted it out. Clutching it carefully in both arms, you made your way across the short walkway to the main entrance. The school doors gleamed in the late morning light, and you nudged them open with your shoulder, the scent of floor polish and crayons that seemed to greet you as soon as you stepped inside.

A lone receptionist—an older gentleman in a sweater vest—looked up from behind his computer screen as you approached. You offered your brightest smile, placing the box gently on the desk before explaining, 

“Good morning.” You greet him. “I have a delivery for Steve Harrington?”

“Yes, he’s here.” His eyebrows perked with polite curiosity. “What would it be for?”

“Just books.” You slid the lid off the box, revealing a tidy row of colorful spines. “I work at the bookshop on Oak Street.”

Recognition dawned in his eyes as he nodded. 

“Ah, yes. Been in there a few times—nice place,” he noted, then glanced over his shoulder at a clock on the wall. “He’s probably with his class right now. Break’s in about ten minutes, though, so you might catch him.”

He rose to his feet and gave you clear directions. 

“Down the hall, first room on your left once you reach the end.”

“Thank you so much.” You slid the box’s lid back into place, gathering it carefully in your arms again.

The corridor stretched ahead, brightly lit by overhead fixtures. Child-sized artwork taped to the walls shifted in a faint draft—handprints in rainbow paint, construction paper collages, and scrawling pencil drawings of families and pets. 

Everything felt warm, friendly. Despite being new to Hawkins, you already felt the community’s kindness wrapping around you.

You found the door labeled “2B” easily enough. The window set into the top allowed a small glimpse inside, and what you saw made your breath catch in delight. 

Steve was crouched next to a student’s chair, his posture open and attentive as he listened to a young girl excitedly explain something, her little hands gesturing in all directions. His own hands were braced on his knees, and you could see his eyes crinkle when he smiled. He nodded along as though whatever she was saying was the most important information in the world.

It was absolute, wonderful chaos—kids milling around in their seats, pages turning, pencils scribbling, a few quiet squeals of excitement from a group in the corner that filtered through the door. But Steve seemed perfectly at home there in the midst of it all, soothing any anxious energy with gentle instruction.

A light rap of your knuckles on the door went unheard—Steve was so focused on the small child in front of him, nodding along to the excited chatter that spilled from the little one’s mouth that the sound didn’t register. You lingered for a moment, balancing the heavy box in your arms. 

When his attention didn’t shift on the second attempt, you carefully pushed the door open with your hip. That slight movement must have caught his eye because he glanced over, registered your presence, and offered you a bright smile. He held his finger up apologetically and mouthed a: “One sec.” You responded with a quick nod, glancing around the room and taking it all in.

The classroom was pure, bursting with the wonder only associated with childhood. The walls were lined with drawings, some wobbly stick figures with unmistakable swoopy hair, others detailed crayon masterpieces that clearly took serious effort. They stretched across the length of the room like an ever-growing mural of creativity, pinned up with care rather than neat precision. 

His desk was a happy kind of cluttered—pens in every colour were scattered in cups and across papers, alongside little stacks of homemade cards with messy, heartfelt messages scrawled in different handwriting. A few framed photos sat amongst the chaos—one of Steve surrounded by his students, another of him and you assume his friends, grinning mid-laugh.

The reading corner was cosy, though the shelves looked slightly bare, with a rug that was a little too soft and bean bags that were well-loved and possibly past their prime. A small chalkboard at the front had doodles in different colours, little inside jokes between him and the class. In one corner, a calendar was decorated with goofy stickers marking birthdays and "important events," a few glittery stars suggested the kids fully endorsed it.

Everything about the space screamed safe, fun, and loved. You could feel it in the way the room was lived-in, the way nothing felt stiff or too polished. He had poured himself into this place, making it somewhere his kids actually wanted to be. And it was impossible not to smile looking at it.

Glancing back at him, you took a moment to appreciate the sight of him in his element. He wore a rust-colored jumper, tucked into jeans with a bold smear of what looked like red paint on one thigh—an inevitable hazard of teaching little ones, apparently. 

He had a calm, attentive expression as he finished listening to the girl, who was still gesturing animatedly. When he finally stood up, his sweater rode up just slightly, revealing the curve of his waist before he pulled it quickly back into place. You caught yourself thinking he looked genuinely beautiful, even amid a swirl of classroom hysterics. He crossed the room with an apologetic smile. 

“Hello, again,” he greeted you in a voice that held gratitude. Your heart did a small flip at the way his gaze flickered from the box in your arms to your eyes. You couldn’t resist a playful quip. 

“Delivery for Mr. Harrington?”

A faint flush coloured his cheeks, and he chuckled under his breath. 

“Yep, uh, that’s me.” He reached out and gently lifted the box from your arms, setting it on his desk at the front as children laughed and played in the background. “Sorry you had to carry it all the way here.”

You wave a hand in front as if to tell him not to worry, he glanced at the clock mounted above the door and turned back to you. 

“Could you give me five minutes? I wanna show them what we got.” The eager gleam in his eyes was entirely too charming.

“Sure,” you agreed softly, catching the brief glimpse of excitement on his face as he lifted the lid and took in the neat stack of titles you’d chosen. His smile widened when he spotted the beloved Flat Stanley perched near the top, and you could almost feel the tension melt from his shoulders as he realised you’d pulled through.

Yeah, maybe you wanted it to be the first book he saw. So what?

Steve turned to the class, a gentle command in his voice as he clapped his hands twice. Almost instantly, the children quieted. You half expected them to carry on shrieking, but they gazed up at him with unwavering attention, surprising you with their composure. In that moment, you understood that these kids trusted him completely.

“Alright, everyone, eyes up here. We have something very exciting that’s just arrived.” His tone was soft yet enthusiastic. “Someone was kind enough to make a trip to bring us something special. Any guesses what’s in this box? Hands up.”

Little hands shot up in the air—or, in some cases, little voices called out answers without waiting to be chosen. Steve grinned, an indulgent, affectionate smile that lit up his entire face. After a chorus of guesses—“Chocolate!” “Dinosaurs!”—he chuckled and reached inside the box, retrieving Flat Stanley to hold up for emphasis.

“If anyone said books, you were correct.” He pointed the cover toward the sea of wide-eyed students, then gave you a grateful glance that made your stomach flutter. Turning back to the group, he continued. “We have some brand-new books, and these are just for us. That means we have to look after them, okay?”

A short silence followed. Then, with a gentle prompt.

“Can anyone tell me what we are not going to do with them?” 

Every hand in the room shot up. 

“Rip them!” A small boy yelled out.

“That’s right,” Steve agreed, beaming at the child. “The pages tear easily. What else?”

“We don’t throw them!” Another student chimed in.

Steve’s expression flickered with amused severity, no doubt recalling some past mishap. 

“Exactly. No throwing—especially not at each other.”

Unable to resist joining in, you raised your hand along with the children. Steve’s gaze shifted to you, a hint of delight in his eyes that you’d play along. You offered your own rule. 

“We don’t draw on them.”

“Absolutely,” he said, nodding sagely and turning back to his class. “Some of them already have pictures, and they don’t need you adding more, okay? If you want to draw, we have plenty of paper at the back.”

They all nodded, and you felt a rush of affection for his patient approach. He wasn’t stern in the way some teachers might be; instead, he treated the kids like partners, inviting them to share in the responsibility. You couldn’t help but feel a little flustered at how effortlessly he seemed to balance control and kindness.

Steve turns to you with a grateful expression before addressing the class again.

"Okay, now what do we all say?" he prompts, his voice warm and expectant.

A disjointed chorus of "Thank you!" erupts from the kids, some louder than others, a few delayed, and at least one who just echoes the words a beat too late like an afterthought. The sincerity in their little voices makes your cheeks warm, and you can’t help but laugh.

He was clearly proud as he glances around at his students, then flicks his eyes up at the clock,                                telling him it was nearly break time. 

“Alright, we are gonna take a short break. Grab your snacks from your cubbies, and then come back to your desks, alright?”

A joyful scramble ensued—chairs scraped against the floor, and the children dashed off in unison, giggling as they rifled through bright backpacks and lunchboxes. 

Steve turned to you with a lightness in his eyes, the excited buzz of his students drifting behind him. His lips curved into that grateful smile you remembered from the bookshop. 

“Honestly, thank you so much for doing this,” he said, quietly enough that only you could hear.

“It’s no problem, really—it’s kind of my job.” You felt a warm flush rise to your cheeks, and you tried to deflect any praise.

Still, he couldn’t help the appreciation that washed over him. You looked so earnest, standing there in the middle of his classroom, and he found himself thinking that you were sweeter than he’d initially realised. 

“Good contribution on the ‘no drawing’ rule, by the way,” he teased softly, chuckling. “We have had issues with that before…”

“Thought so,” you replied as you looked around once more. “Kind of jealous I have to leave your class after this—it seems fun here.” You gestured to the room, taking in the brightly colours and kids rifling through their little lunchboxes.

His eyes flicked around the room, landing on the paint smudge on his own jeans as if to prove a point. 

“It can be,” he said, wry amusement in his tone, “but it’s definitely a handful.” There was a slight pause as he glanced back at the box on his desk. “So, how much do I owe you for all this?”

“Seventy dollars,” you answered, feeling a bit uncomfortable about naming the price.

Without missing a beat, he opened a drawer and fished out his wallet, sliding out a few bills. 

“Went to the ATM this morning,” he explained with a small shrug. “Was expecting you.”

Your hand closed around the money, but you lifted your gaze to him in concern. 

“Aren’t the school’s funds supposed to cover this?”

He huffed a short laugh. “Not a chance with the budget we’ve got—and especially after the last round got destroyed.”

A pang of sympathy flashed through you. You didn’t like the idea of him footing the bill just so his students could have decent reading material. 

“Then let’s make it fifty,” you offered, handing him back a portion of the money.

“No, no way.” His eyes went wide, and he shook his head firmly. “Take it.”

“If you give me all that,” you said, adopting a light, playful tone, “I’m just going to leave the difference at the front desk for you at the end of the day.”

“Come on,” he frowned, looking torn. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s books for children,” you shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

He exhaled a resigned sigh, finally conceding and pocketing some of the cash. 

“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed.

An instant later, you saw a flicker of something cross his face—resolve, or maybe nerves. He glanced at the class, making sure they were occupied, then gestured toward the door. With a silent tilt of his head, he indicated you should both step into the hall.

Out in the corridor, the sudden quiet felt almost jarring compared to the cheerful chaos inside. The overhead lights were softer here, and you looked up at him with what Steve could only describe as the biggest, most open doe eyes he’d ever seen. His heart thumped a little faster. 

Spending all day with second graders had left him woefully out of practice when it came to talking to someone his own age—especially if he might be asking them out.

“If you, uh, won’t take the money…” he began, clearing his throat. “Maybe you’d like to let me buy you a coffee sometime? My treat. As—as a thank-you, for everything.”

The invitation caught you off guard, and a gentle blush warmed your cheeks. He picked up on it immediately, and worry flashed across his expression. 

“Is that too forward?” he backpedaled quickly. “Sorry—I’m sorry, forget I said anything—”

“No, wait,” you interrupted, mustering a quiet laugh at how flustered he seemed. “I’d love to meet you for coffee.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, relief flooding his features. 

“Yeah?” he asked, a small, triumphant smile quirking his lips. “That’s…That’s good.”

“We’re closed on Sundays, I’m assuming you’d be free then?” You offered as you smiled back, feeling an unexpected rush of excitement of your own. 

“Sunday is perfect,” he said, nodding a bit too eagerly. “Do you know the coffee place on Maple?”

A soft sparkle lit your eyes. “I love their pastries,” you admitted, grin widening.

“Me too,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “How about eleven?”

Eleven, you repeated in your head, trying not to beam too obviously. 

“That works for me.”

“Great—eleven.” He tried to hang onto an air of casualness, but there was no denying the spark in his expression.

You turned to go, warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your toes, when he suddenly called out. 

“Wait—I, uh, didn’t catch your name.”

A slight laugh escaped you at his flustered state, and you told him softly. He repeated it under his breath, letting it roll off his tongue as though to memorise the sound. 

“Right. Sunday at eleven.” He echoed the words again, as if reassuring himself that this was really happening, before heading back into the classroom.

You took a small moment, hugging that sense of anticipation. As you walked away, you caught the echo of his voice as the door began to shut. 

“Alright, guys,” he announced brightly, “who’s gonna help me put these away?”

A gentle laugh escaped you as the door closed behind, picturing the eager hands shooting up in response to his question. In that instant, the hallway felt a little less quiet, and your footsteps sounded more like a happy skip than anything else.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Why You So Obsessed with Me?

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Carlos x reader based on the song: Obsessed– Mariah Carey, let me know if you want a part 2 :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

It started at the Monaco GP.

You were leaning against the balcony railing above the paddock, golden skin lit up by the sun, hair swept into a lazy bun, laughing at something someone said. You didn’t notice Carlos watching you, but he did. And from the moment his eyes found you — it was over.

You weren’t a model, an influencer, or a paddock bunny. You didn’t giggle over his lap times or try to sneak a selfie near his garage. You didn’t care. And that made him care too much.

He asked around. Quietly. Casually, at first.

"Who's that girl who was at the event?" "Was she part of the media? PR? Hospitality?" "She knows Lando?" "Where's she from?"

No one had a clear answer, which only made you more addictive.

Then he found your Instagram. No blue check. Just a private profile with a carefully curated grid and a dangerously hot profile pic. He followed. You didn’t follow back.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But Carlos was... persistent.

Soon he was watching your Stories like clockwork. The second they went up — view. Every post, every location tag — saved. He wasn’t stupid enough to like them, but you noticed. Of course you did.

And then, the real obsession kicked in.

You mentioned a bookstore once? He showed up the next morning, flipping through a random poetry book, sunglasses on indoors. You went clubbing in Ibiza? He was there too — watching, never dancing, drink untouched. He even liked a comment someone left on a picture of you and your dog. "Cutest duo 🐶💖" — like he was some casual friend.

At first, it was amusing.

"Who does this guy think he is?" you laughed with your girls. “He’s literally a Formula 1 driver with a God complex. Why’s he acting like a teenage fanboy?”

But then it started getting... weird.

You’d be at a party, and he’d be standing in the corner. Not talking to anyone. Just watching. A new friend you’d made in Madrid casually mentioned Carlos Sainz asked them about you — as if they were close. You’d spoken to him once. For less than five minutes. You even overheard a conversation in the paddock — some Ferrari worker claiming you and Carlos were dating. That he’d "flown you out" to Italy for a secret getaway. (You were literally in Paris with your cousin that weekend.)

The final straw? He left a book on your hotel room doorstep in Singapore. No note. No name. Just a highlighted page about soulmates always finding their way back to each other. You only found out it was from him when a girl from F1TV said she saw him lingering near your floor the night before, wearing a hoodie like he was incognito.

You snapped.

At the Monza afterparty, lights flashing, music booming — you spotted him across the dance floor, wearing that same smug half-smile, eyes locked on you like he owned the oxygen in the room.

You didn’t wait.

You walked up, drink in hand, voice sharp. “Are you seriously following me?”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “I was invited.”

“To my friend’s party?” You tilted your head. “Really? Just a coincidence? Like you ‘coincidentally’ showed up at my pilates studio last week? Or that time you ‘randomly’ ended up at the table next to mine in Milan?”

He didn’t even flinch. “I’m just curious.”

“About what?”

“You,” he said. Just like that. Like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to admit. “You don’t post much. You don’t fall for the charm. You don’t want anything from me.” He stepped closer. “But I want everything from you.”

You stared at him, stunned at the boldness. Then you laughed — cold, amused. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” he murmured. “But I will.”

You took a step back, heart steady, pulse unfazed. “Carlos, let me make this really clear. You can’t have me. Not now. Not ever. Last man on Earth — still wouldn't get this.”

For a split second, something flickered in his expression. Not hurt — but need. Something hungry. Desperate.

You left him standing there. Just like that. And the next day, he was still watching your Story within the first five seconds.

You didn’t block him. You didn’t change your routine. You weren’t scared. You were annoyed. And maybe, if you were being honest, a little entertained.

[faeryseiko]

Ahead of me || Katsuki Bakugo

-----------------

A/N: Hi ! I haven't wrote since 2022 so I'm sorry if this one sucks but please take the time and tell me your thoughts on this one !! It is a song lyrics based fic, I LOVE the quirk I just cooked and might do an AO3 story with it...

WARNINGS : season 7 BIG SPOILERS. death, blood.

----------------------------------

Muffled screams, tears running down soft cheeks.

"If I could, I'd be your little spoon"...

I looked as Shigaraki threw Bakugo's body like an useless doll that he didn't want to play with anymore. My heart was beating strongly fast in my chest. I got up on my feet and ran to his side, sliding on my knees as I did so. I started to scratch my arms, the red powder falling on the hole of his chest.

Quirk name : Philosopher's stone

I kept scratching, normally it wouldn't even take a second before healing. But it didn't this time. I felt my own blood rolling on my arm and saw it going to mix with his on his chest. I heard Best Jeanist next to me as he just saw the student he taught yet learned so much from.

"No. No no nonononono" I started to panic as my eyes watered down. I was shaking a corpse, trying to wake it up. I put my forehead on his and was breathing uncontrollably.

"Y/n-san, with you around, we will not be scared of our injuries anymore. I know we can count on you !"

I remembered Izuku's words, now stabbing me as I felt useless again in my life. My best friend was lifeless before me and I couldn't even bring him back or save him.

My quirk wasn't a flashy one, nor did it help for defense. I had to work harder to prove myself worthy of being a hero. The number of times I felt useless watching my class fight as I could only stand watching on the sidelines. I hate it, I'm thankful for Aizawa that have let me show my worth.

"Your quirk is special, Y/n. Great sacrifices and hard work will have to be done to reach it's full potential."

I was shaking, taking his numb upperbody on my knees as I carressed his cheek with my thumb. His beautiful crimson eyes were now turned a pale pink color and his mouth gaped open to show the last breath he took. I let my forehead fall on his chest.

. . .

"One day, I'll become number one and will beat all bad guys like All Might !"

It was one of these times where Bakugo and I's parents would hang out and we would play in the park together. We were on top of the slides as we practiced our hero poses while laughing.

"I'm excited to see my quirk so I can now start ny hero journey, aren't you Bakugo?" I asked with a smile and to this he nodded with a proud smile.

"I already know mine will be awesome ! You'll just have to wait and see. It'll be so strong that it will surpass even All Might and AH-"

I jolted in surprise and panicked as I saw Bakugo fall from the slide's top. I carefully went down and sat down next to him. He winced in pain as he was holding his arm. After a few seconds, a blue color was appearing and that's when I knew it was broken.

"Bakugo, y-your arm-"

"Shut up I know !"

He tried to not let his tears fall and when I saw this, that's when I suddenly took his arm. I don't know how this happened... Even today, I am not able to reproduce what I did that day, but when I touched his arm, his arm healed itself, but in the process broking mine completely.

Bakugo smiled as he saw his new and healed arm.

"Y/n! Your quirk it finally came-"

His eyes widened, seeing me holding my arm in pain. His smile disappeared and I don't know what he thought at that time. That I had an useless quirk ? That I was pathetic ?

. . .

That day was my quirk's first appearance and I couldn't understand how I did it. I had the properties of a stone made with alchemy. Yet, I couldn't understand them exactly.

"And kiss your fingers forevermore..."

But then, it clicked.

I gently lift up Bakugo and hugged his figure, closing my eyes in the process. I focused on him, I had to.

"but big spoon, you have so much to do..."

Water filled my eyes as I sobbed, hugging him tightly, knowing this was my first and last.

....

I remember when I saw Bakugo and Deku fight against eachother, their first fight when they were teammed up with Uraraka and Iida. I looked in awe at both strenght.

Even though Izuku used to be quirkless, he showed himself worthy for All Might to give his quirk. Bakugo was mad and confused at the time, mad that Izuku had showed up randomly one day with a quirk that was strong. And confused on how it happened.

I was selfish to think that... but with Izuku I felt less alone next to Bakugo with his amazingly strong quirk. I had to work extra harder and might never catch up to them.

I also remember at the festival, against Kirishima I was nothing but an easy target. I have cried that day so hard, I even wondered what I was doing at U.A and why I stayed. Also on why our teacher kept me.

Aizawa taught Shinsou and I to still be strong even with a quirk that didn't give us boosted strenght, rapidity or stamina.

I have made so many good friends at U.A, but I knew that if for whatever reason someone had to leave, they had too much potential, too many hopes and dreams for it to be them.

"And I have nothing ahead of me..."

I have made so many great memories, so many. I felt my chest getting lighter and breathing turned so easy to do. Weights on my shoulder turned into empty ones, you know that feeling before falling asleep ?

And as my chest softly stopped to move, I felt against my ear a heartbeat. By now, I was too weak to great him happily like I usually do.

I wish we had more time, more time for me ask for his help for math homework, more time for him to look behind him to look at me, as if having me helped feeling more confident.

Or more time for me to go shopping one last time with Mina, one more time for Shinsou and I to proudly look at our better fighting forms, one more time to play video games with the squad.

More time so I can admire the developpment Bakugo has made on himself.

Maybe, I can finally be useful to you, Katsuki ?

....

Bakugo's eyes opened softly as he heard Best Jeanist yelling out someone's name. Surprisingly, it wasn't his.

The pain he had felt on his chest left and the blood disappeared, he still felt some weight on his chest. He had a hard time moving, but when he looked down, he saw your h/c hair, your normally e/c vibrant eyes that were now closed forever.

He would call you a dumbass, but he knew you wouldn't hear him this time. He would call you a selfless idiot, because since the day you had your quirk, the coolest quirk he've seen in terms of healing, that's just who you've become.

His eyes watered down. He focused so much onto catching up with Deku that he hasn't looked behind him at the person who destroyed themselves just to catch up to him.

And now, it was too late for him to simply catch your hand to help you run with him.

---------------

song : Your Best American Girl - Mitski.

[seokminfilm]

but he's an angel | yoon jeonghan

🪄 pairing, yoon jeonghan x reader

🪄 warning, model!jeonghan, jeonghan can speak french, romance & fluff, meet cute, reader is in love with this guy (they literally just met), feminine jeonghan, lyr uses feminine features & adjectives when describing jeonghan, teasing (mainly from jeonghan), jeonghan is kind of a nuisance at times (reader is too blinded by love at first sight to notice or care), cute + wholesome

🪄 summary, it's another boring day at the coffee shop you work at─that is, until a pretty korean who can speak shockingly good french asks you for a coffee you don't know how to make.

🪄 author's note, i wrote this because i'm going through jeonghan withdraws again :( it's a bit rushed and not my best work, but i did it for jeonghan and that's all that matters to me tbh!! took a break from writing for dokyeom but we'll be back to our regularly scheduled kyeom tomorrow!! hope you all had a merry christmas lyrnation :>

🪄 now playing, banana shake, hus

The bell jingles cutely as another customer leaves satisfied with a cup of hot, steaming coffee, and you slump against the countertop, social battery already drained from dealing with elderly ladies who couldn't read the menu signs well.

It was yet another boring day at Crème des Anges, the French coffee shop you happened to work at. Your favorite coworker, Joshua, was out sick with the cold, so you had to bear it all on your own, working with one of the older, grumpier ladies of the task force. It left you drained of all life and happiness, having to try not to wince at the lady's bored voice when she answered customers.

The jazz music was sweet when you entered in earlier this morning, but you swore the tracks were on a looping playlist, never stopping. You couldn't tell where one song stopped and other started, and to be honest, you were over trying to figure it out.

After giving a buisness woman extra creamer, you disappeared to the back to try to get a break from the boring, stuffy atmosphere.

Even though the back of the coffee shop was warm and inviting in color and decoration, you felt like you wanted to cry and drool all over the pretty couches and soft, plush chairs. The very cliche slogan of Crème des Anges stood in bold calligraphy, and you sighed, just grimacing at reading it

The cream of the angels is served here!

If the cream of the angels were served in a shockingly opressive coffee house with the same ten jazz tracks and sickening smell of caramel lingering in every nook and cranny of it, you'd pass.

A jingle of the bell begrudgingly led you out to the main counter again, and you dusted yourself off, pasting on your best smile as you recited one of the five default greetings you had to every new customer.

"Welcome to Crème des Anges, where everything is made from the cream of─"

Words fall short of the sight you see in front of you when you blink, but you could afford to try to describe it, right?

The customer has this soft, lazy glow to them─as if it was a haze of some kind. They smelled of vanilla and warmth, and the silky top they were wearing only added to the softness of their disposition. Their hair, as dark and smooth as bitter chocolate, and skin as glassy and clear as a brand-new mirror.

Their eyes were unlike anything you had ever seen─deep and brown with pointed lashes, soft and curling. Their lips were covered in a swipe of glittery, pink lip gloss, shimmering under the coffee shop's lights as they smiled at you sweetly, lips parting to reveal a perfect straight set of pearl-white teeth.

"─Cream of the angels." Their voice is unlike anything you had ever heard─it was a mixture of masculine and feminine, plesant and warm to listen to with a lilt of their special way of talking. They were soft, illuminating your world and the whole coffee shop with their words.

"Yeah, um─Cream...cream of the angels," Your face is burning red, and you clear your thraot, obviously still fazed by the arrival of this magical person. You couldn't even tell whether they were a male or a female, but you found that even more alluring.

The laugh that slipped from their lips was nothing short of melodic, sweet and tangy like tiramisu cake as they stared at you with a playfulness in your eyes. "Even though you were stuttering over your words for a bit there, you got it," The person smiled at you again, and you blushed, laughing autonomously as you tried to get a hold of yourself again.

"Okay, so, uh─um, what would you like today? I could give you recommendations if you want?" You try to resume your assigned lines as normal, but with the pretty stranger's eyes on you, your brain was slower than usual.

They laughed at your slow expression, obviously catching on to what you were thinking. "I'll make it easy on you. You're so flushed; you like like a very cute tomato."

And now the stranger was calling you cute? (A tomato too, but that was besides the point.) You could just die from your now amazing luck.

"What about..." The person trails off, leaving you awaiting for their cream-like voice. "What about an Café au lait?"

Café au lait? You had never heard of a drink like that before. Even though you were in Paris, all they really served is just normal American coffees. You weren't even sure the aformentioned grumpy lady even knew how to make an Café au lait, and you weren't going to ask her either.

Plus, you had to prove your worthiness to this pretty stranger somehow.

"Of course," You comply, putting his order into the system as you slip into third person for a second. Your situation has finally hit you in the face: a pretty stranger has appraoched your coffee shop, and now you're giving it a drink that's not even on the menu?

How down bad are you for this dream of a person?

"What will the name be on that order?" You add just seconds later, and the person adjusts the pricey-looking watch on their wrist as the anwer with a smirk. "Yoon Jeonghan."

No wonder you felt like you were the virgin Mary being visited by the angel Gabriel. The person─the man─you were talking to now was none other than Yoon Jeonghan, the male model popular for his continuous breaking of gender norms and star-studded photoshoots. You weren't one for fashion or makeup, but even you had heard of him, and that was his forte. He was perfect in almost everyway, and here you were, taking his order.

"Yoon Jeonghan, then." You say again, and Jeonghan laughs deviously, eyelashes brushing against his light cheeks as he stares up at you through them.

"It sounds like you just like the sound of my name in your mouth." Jeonghan's voice is cheeky, daring, and you clear your throat, glancing down at your shaking hands as you give an awkward laugh.

Blushing (and unable to deny him), you finish ringing up his order, taking his credit card and finishing the payment as he smiles, thakning you. "I'm really excited to try that Café au lait you're gonna make me. I believe in you."

Oh, no, you think to yourself, giving Jeonghan an awkward smile as you reply with an even awkwarder tone, "You're gonna love it."

Now, there was three things wrong with this situation. One, is the fact that you are now scrambling all over a customer, completely ignoring the rules set up by your boss.

Two, there is no such thing on Café au lait on your menu─you're sure Jeonghan knows it too, and is just waiting to see how you're going to make it happen.

And Three, well, you'd have to learn how to make a Café au lait and how to make a Café au lait fast, because that angel of a boy who's just entered your hellscape of a coffee shop has you in his delicate grip.

A delicate grip you're thrilled to be in, all because he's an angel.

[musouie]

── .✦ 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑

précis: suguru, a servant of your household, wrestles with the complex feelings of loving a noblewoman.

contents: pining, suguru!pov, implied classism, internal classism, envy, forbidden longing, resentment vs yearninggggg, historical romance, 1900s au, fem!reader, 1.0k wc

It was easy to despise beautiful things. 

The things that shone, that flowed, that bloomed amongst the bleak — that made artists falter and poets weep — bound the miserable together.

Perhaps, that was why Suguru despised you.

He despised your lips, stained with the blush of cherries, and the sweet, fleeting scent that lingered on your skin.

He despised your hands — slender, warm, and impossibly delicate — hands that seemed to belong to a world gentler than his own.

He despised your voice, lilting like a bird’s song, soft as the breeze that warms the bitter cold.

Most of all, he despised that even if you had nothing, like he, your beauty would still be enough. 

(This was a lie and he knew it. What he despised most of all was that his loathing was built atop a craving — a palpable thing that made his teeth ache and his bones tremble; he could hardly bear it, this furious tenderness.)

He watched you dance, bathed in candlelight, and he wondered what life might have been like with a face and hands like yours (or your face in his hands, or your hands on his face.

To embrace your light, or to shadow it. How could anyone not wish to do one, or both?)

An ugly thing, deep in his soul, festered — feeding off the shame he felt for simply existing in your general direction, for loathing you yet longing for you the way he did.

And like all beautiful things — you felt it. Faltered in step as your eyes flitted to his, wide and probing, searching for a way to right the wrong of someone yearning for you in such a twisted, impure way.

Your twirling slowed — then ceased, and you waltzed over to where he stood, a smile curving your rose-hued lips.

“Enjoying the ball, Suguru?” You reached towards the silver platter that balanced in his hold, retreating with a glass of wine, fingers grazing against his ever so slightly as they slipped around its stem.

He watched you take a sip; daintily, with your head ever-so-slightly craned and throat bared to him. “Please,” he chided, voice a measured strain, “do not address me so casually. Mr. Geto will suffice, Miss.”

“Oh, Suguru, what need have we for such formalities among friends?” you cooed, placing down your now empty wine flute upon the tray. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

He withheld a scowl, replaced it with a tight-lipped smile instead. “Except I, a mere butler, am most certainly not your friend, Miss.”

“Sugur—” His gaze narrowed. “Mr. Geto. Would you not like to be my friend?”

“It would be most improper.”

The orchestra played a new tune — a lively thing, that people joyously gathered and scattered for on the wooden floor. You continued to hold his gaze with your own, brows raised as you murmured:

“That was not my question, Mr. Geto.”

Your tongue glided across your bottom lip, caught a stray drop of wine, and Suguru’s mouth watered. He’d only had a single glass and yet, his head swam. Or perhaps, it was something else that was catching him off-kilter, disorientating him in the way that you did.

(Because it was no accident, he noticed — the way the pads of your fingers slid away from the glass and glided against his; no accident, the subtle curve of your hip that pressed against his waist when you drew near. The way the velvet of your dress trapped his shadow, like a moth grasped between fingers.)

He took a chance to step away — tried not to notice the way the plush curve of your bosom swelled, as if taking a sharp breath, though your face betrayed nothing of the kind.

He allowed his gaze to trail you, like a guilty voyeur, a starved man eyeing a delicacy, a secret he had always wanted but was forbidden to taste. Just like you wanted him to. (Beautiful things survive off attention, after all. Be it perverse or pure, as a rose blooms on a dead man’s tomb.)

“I suggest we not tarry here further, Miss,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “People may speak.”

“Hah. If I was worried about ‘people’, Mr. Geto, I would not have asked.”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

A sharp intake of air tore his lips apart, like a sudden storm ripping off the last of an autumn leaf, and a cold rush flooded his nostrils. “I must see to the other guests now, Miss,” he replied tersely. “Please excuse me.”

He bowed, clasping the silver tray to his chest as if clutching for his heart — to staunch the flow, before it could spring forth and ruin him. You followed his form as he stepped back, the fabric of your dress dipping at the apex of your thighs with the movement; a brief promise of the hidden warmth below, a glimpse of bare skin just within the threshold of shameful.

“A pity, Mr. Geto. It appears there is not a glass empty enough for our conversation to come to its end,” you murmured, as people spilled around you, flitting back and forth across the ballroom in a breathless flurry.

“Unfortunate,” he agreed.

Your lips thinned. He watched them purse. Saw the slight rounding of your eyes that usually preceded a flash of mischief, a flame that threatened the darkness, that sought to pry it open and swallow.

“The wind, Mr. Geto. You are as elusive as the wind.”

And even the words that spewed from your lips were beautiful. His legs nearly bucked.

To despise a beautiful thing would be his tragedy.

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist