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would not book a man on a horse for that but thanks for the offer

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Not So Deer by Richard Lay

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tom blyth via instagram story today

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He's holding his puppy 😭

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By @ archerxhood on xTwitter

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David Corenswet and Nicholas Hoult recreate iconic scene from "The Princess Diaries" to promote the new "Superman" movie

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new: Tom Blyth w/ Billy The Kid castmates via Josh Cruddas in Instagram

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Solo Mode [6] jackson wang x fem!oc

Masterlist

Pairing: jackson wang/fem!oc

Summary: heather does her research

Warnings: strong language

Word Count: 1.4k

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The only sound was her keyboard, clacking with surgical precision as she punched through the final pieces of code. Debugging had become personal—each error message like an insult she refused to let stand. The light from her monitors cast long shadows across her cluttered desk, empty coffee mugs marking the hours she hadn’t slept.

She clicked “send” on the last batch of source files, attaching her original documentation and commit history. All of it was bundled for Henry, who would tear through it with his lawyerly precision and present it to the board. Proof that every line of code had her name on it first. That no one—least of all some rich-boy developer with a fancy title and a fragile ego—could take credit for her work.

Her breath caught as the email whooshed into cyberspace. Done. It should’ve felt like relief. Instead, she sat back in her chair and stared at nothing.

Last night was a mistake.

She told herself that again, even as her lips still tingled. Even as she remembered the heat of his mouth on her skin, the gravel in his voice when he said her name. Even now, hours later, his scent clung faintly to her shirt like a secret.

She yanked the fabric over her head and shoved it into the laundry basket.

Her phone buzzed. Not Jackson. Just her sister, Jessica, texting a meme like nothing had happened. She didn’t answer.

God, she needed a shower.

Next door, Jackson had half a guitar in his hands and zero attention span. Choi was mid-rant about tempo mapping on their latest track, and Jason was fine-tuning the EQ mix on a beat they’d been stuck on for days. Jackson was supposed to be reviewing vocal takes, offering insight, doing something vaguely useful.

Instead, he’d replayed the night before about twelve times in his head. Not the sex—okay, also the sex—but mostly the way Heather had looked at him right before she kissed him. Like she hated it. Like she hated him. But she kissed him anyway.

That was a first.

“Dude,” Choi snapped his fingers. “You in there?”

Jackson looked up. “Yeah. I’m just—sorry. Not sleeping great.”

Jason raised a brow. “You never sleep great.”

Choi narrowed his eyes. “You sick or something? You look—feral.”

Jackson scoffed, raking a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

“Like… weirdly calm-feral,” Choi added. “Creepy calm. Like you buried a synth line in the backyard and haven’t told us yet.”

Jackson grinned. “Just vibing.”

“Stop vibing and tell me if we’re keeping that scratch chorus for the second drop or reworking it.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He waved them off. “It’s fine. Keep it.”

Jason gave him a long look, then leaned over and muted the playback. “Okay, what’s up? You haven’t said a word about this mix. That’s a record.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair and spun slowly, eyes unfocused, wondering what Heather would look like in his shirt—more importantly, wondering why he was thinking about it at all.

Heather sat cross-legged on her living room floor, laptop balanced precariously on a stack of dog-eared tech manuals and unopened mail. Her fingers flew across the keys as she encrypted the last set of files for Henry, each line of code a calculated act of defense. She wasn’t going down over some second-rate copycat trying to drag her name through the mud.

This was reputation insurance. Clean, timestamped, unimpeachable.

A progress bar crawled across the screen.

She leaned back, stretched her arms overhead—and froze.

Music.

A bass riff bled through the shared wall to her right, low and half-formed, like someone searching for the right chord but never quite landing. Then a pause. Then a flourish of piano keys, followed by someone swearing under their breath.

Heather blinked. Sat still.

The walls in this place were thin, but not that thin. She had heard a multitude of different things since she moved in: kids running up and down the halls, vacuums going off early morning, couples fighting -- or fucking, even -- and she'd become well accustomed to Jackson's late night parties...

Her pulse stuttered.

Jackson.

Of course it was him. It had to be. Who else would be running scales and synths like they were trying to chase a ghost?

She got up, walked slowly toward the source like it might vanish if she moved too fast. At the far end of her kitchen, just past the coat rack and that weird crack in the drywall she kept meaning to report, she pressed her palm to the wall.

The music was louder here. Structured chaos. Emotional. Frustratingly good.

And then—Jackson’s voice. Half-singing, half-muttering lyrics under his breath. She couldn’t make out the words, but something about the tone caught her off guard.

It was earnest. Raw, even.

Heather dropped her hand, blinking hard.

She told herself to sit back down. Finish her work. Pretend last night never happened. Pretend he wasn’t in the next room bleeding into hers without even knowing it.

Instead, she stood there longer than she should have, listening.

And, despite herself, smiling.

Despite her better judgment—and there was definitely judgment—Heather found herself back at her laptop, typing in his name.

Jackson Wang.

It was absurd how fast the results populated. A flood of curated interviews, dramatic stage photos, overproduced music videos, and clips of him performing to screaming crowds. There were thumbnails of his face everywhere: sharp jaw, eyeliner, drenched in sweat, or bathed in spotlight like some mythic pop prince.

GOT7, his earlier group, came up first. She clicked through a few music videos and tried not to cringe. All synchronized dancing and soft-focus smiles, with lyrics she couldn’t understand and titles like Just Right and If You Do. It was polished, bubblegum, and so very not her thing.

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.

“Fucking k-pop,” she muttered.

Still, she didn’t stop watching.

Somewhere between the second and third video, she caught herself leaning closer.

And then—Magic Man.

That’s when things changed.

The aesthetic hit different. Bolder. Sleek. Heavy on the black and red, with smoke and slow-motion and leather. His voice had bite now—lower, rougher. The music throbbed with energy. Theatrical still, sure, but suddenly it felt intentional. Artful. Kind of haunting, if she was being honest.

She scrolled further, clicking through the Cruel video, then Blow. His performance style was… intense. A little unhinged. Wet hair, crazy white eyes, strobe lighting. It shouldn’t have worked. It did.

God help her—it did.

Heather squinted at the screen, chewing her lip. “Holy fuck.”

She hated that she meant it.

Because now she wasn’t just thinking about last night—about his hands, his mouth, the rough scrape of stubble on her skin, the low sound he made when she swore at him—she was staring at a whole different version of him, broadcast in 4K, lit by stage lights instead of kitchen fluorescents. And it was messing with her head.

The man she’d argued with about noise violations was on her screen, strutting shirtless through a hellscape of flashing lights and demonized dancers. On stage, he was fire and swagger, dragging a mic stand like it had wronged him. There was precision in every movement, raw voltage behind every lyric. He looked like sin incarnate in leather and chains, like someone you didn’t get to touch unless you earned it.

But she had. For one night, she’d had all of that. And she was starting to realize she hadn’t fully understood what, or who, she’d fallen into bed with.

It was throwing her off.

The Jackson she knew was cocky, obnoxious, weirdly charming when he wanted to be—and very much real. He drank too much, his sweats were too baggy, and gave her that smug little smile like he could see every filthy thought in her head.

But this? This was calculated chaos. It was artistry and danger, all poured into three-minute music videos with visuals that would give most people an identity crisis. And somehow, it made her want him more.

Heather dragged a hand through her hair and sat back from the screen, like distance might help. It didn’t.

Because her body still remembered the way he felt—how he’d kissed like it was a challenge, how his voice dropped when he found her nip piercings and how she let him play with them. She could still feel the ghost of his breath against her ear, his fingers hooked between her legs.

She hated that she wanted it again.

That thought alone made her shut the laptop. Not gently.

She sat there, glaring at the closed screen like it had betrayed her. Like it had exposed something she hadn’t agreed to examine.

God. What the hell was she doing?

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With the world tour happening, now it actually feels we are closer ❤️🩵💛

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Halsey performing at 'For My Last Trick' Tour Charlotte on May 28, 2025.

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From @ mrqz1204 on xTwitter

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Halsey and Lauren Jauregui performing at Huntington Bank Pavilion at Northerly Island in Chicago on June 17th as part of the For My Last Trick Tour. 

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New "Superman" clip featuring Lois & Clark.

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never beating the prince charming allegations