#and he's unapologetic about it. there's something to like about that

[planetmimi]

PROLOGUE: Between Worlds

wc: 892

context: tamaranean-kryptonian reader x mark grayson cw: none, for now

Tamaran

26 years ago, a Kryptonian scientist named Val-Ren left his home in search of something his people could never offer him-understanding. He left Krypton as his desire to understand how life develops on other planets became too strong. He was looked down on by the scientific community, his desire to see energy as a living force, seemed futile on Krypton, useless. But he could not rid his mind of one question, what could Krypton become if we learned from others. That desire, that question, led him to Tamaran.

His plan was to study life on Tamaran for a decade and then head back to Krypton, using what he learned and discovered on Tamaran to make Kryptonian biology better. But four years after he arrived on Tamaran, his home planet was destroyed. It was abrupt, there was no warning, no goodbye. No survivors. Just silence.

When he landed on Tamaran, the king had died several years prior. Leaving Queen Luadn’r as sole ruler until one of her two daughters were ready to inherit the throne. When Val-Ren met the Queen her beauty captivated him, and she was by his purpose. She wondered, what could Kryptonian technology do for Tamaran?

The Queen, along with her council, decided to allow him to continue his scientific work under the watchful eyes of Tamarans most trusted scientists. The walls were built high, and trust had to be earned.

Over the years the kryptonian, gained not only the trust and respect of Queen Luadn’r, but the love as well. He found her intoxicating. Her wisdom, her strength, her unyielding love for her people. In turn Luadn’r was drawn to his intellect, curiosity, and his mind. Where most wanted to conquer and squander, Val-Ren wanted to understand, to learn.

It was not a whirlwind romance, it was slow, gradual, yet steady. A love based on a foundation of respect and understanding. When they officially started to court each other, Queen Luadn’r made sure to not hide it from the people of Tamaran. Their wedding was a public affair. The people of Tamaran were divided, ones who celebrated the couple and ones who disliked that their royal family would now include a Kryptonian.

It took time, but the public learned to accept the relationship.

After 10 years of being on Tamaran, Val-Ren and the Queen had their one and only child, Princess Kaelynd’r. A baby girl, a perfect mixture of Tamaranean and Kryptonian- fierce, bright, radiant. But most of all, she was a little girl who was love. Her older sisters Komand’r and Koriand’r adored her.

Komand’r, as the eldest, took it upon herself to make sure that Kaelynd’r would never be weak. She taught Kael to always speak her mind, to not be afraid to be different. They bonded over the fact that both looked different from the other Tamaraneans, it allowed both to feel as though they belonged. Even if some would say otherwise. She often spared with her sister, taking pride in being the one to teach the younger girl about their energy beams and how to move without a sound. Komand’r would train her at night, work on Kael’s stealth by having her sneak from her room all the way to Komand’rs room, while not alerting any guards. When Kael would succeed, Komand’r would take her flying through the night sky. Under the twin moons of Tamaran, the sisters would fly and train with each other, a secret between the two, a bond like no other.

Koriand’r, on the other hand, was the big sister ever child dreams about, was extremely kind and always wanted to play with Kaelynd’r. While Komand’r taught Kael to be bold, strong, and unapologetically herself, Kori taught Kael to be kind and appreciative of all things. The two youngest would often sneak off from their teachings to go to the lake together to swim and play in the water, they would play dolls and make traditional Tamaranean sweets together. Once Kori spent an entire evening helping Kael put on a show for their family, they played music, danced, and dressed up as different characters in a play that Kael created. Kori allowed Kael to feel free, to be a kid, to be creative.

Kori and Komand’r were the perfect balance. Komand’r was her courage, Kori was her joy. Both girls helped shape who Kael is and wanted to be, until the Gordanians arrived.

The Gordanians invaded Tamaran with a haste that could not have been predicted. Their purpose- take the planet by any means. Crush any resistance and wipe out the royal bloodline.Kaelynd’rs life was turned upside down at only 15 years old.

At 16, to keep the royal bloodline from going extinct, to protect her. Kaelynd’r had to be sent off world. Far from the Vegan solar system. The goodbye was rushed, secret, harsh, but necessary. Her mother, cried for the first time in front of her. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and told her her to be strong, to fight. Her father held her hand until the cryo chamber sealed.

Kaelynd’r was placed into cryostasis to buy her time. To allow her the chance to have a life wherever she landed.

A chance that is near.

One year ago, her pod crash landed on a world universes way. A world called Earth.

And her pod, is finally starting to open.

a/n : This prologue is basically the same for the Dick Grayson version of this story. The Dick Grayson story is following Young Justice while this, obviously, follows Invincible. But i just wanted to get this out. I’ll probably have the first chapter out in a week or so.

If you read this and you think you’d enjoy the story leave a comment and let me know if youd like to be on the taglist

taglist: @astrelz @burdened-locus @deleted-1-800 @hali-k-issy @raventtelov3r

[sakusaswifee]

“𝐈’𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 DRAGON + KUROO TETSURŌ

Contains: Explicit sexual content, Fem!Reader size kink, possessiveness/obsession, rough sex, overstimulation, mild choking, praise/degradation, power imbalance (dragon/human dynamic), mating themes, potential breeding kink, mild dubcon vibes due to dragon dominance (consent is still clear), soft dom/feral dom switch, fantasy setting

Minors DNI. You must be 18+ to read. This is monsterfucker territory and unapologetically filthy. All characters are 18+

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

The Kingdom of Lysoria lives in terror of the black scaled dragon who dwells in the mountains, Tetsurō, a legendary beast whispered about in every bedtime tale. They say he hoards more than just gold..he hoards secrets, desires, and souls. No one dares approach his lair. Except one..you.

You’re the beloved princess. You’re graceful, radiant, the heart of the kingdom. But you’re not afraid of the dragon. Not because you’re brave, but because..he’s in love with you. Always have been. Since the first day he saw you dancing in the moonlit gardens, unaware of the glowing eyes watching from the shadows.

You visit him in secret, riding your horse deep into the forest where the trees whisper your name. When you arrive at his lair, he shifts into a man..tall, powerful, with glowing eyes and warm breath that curls like smoke as he speaks your name like it’s sacred.

“I could burn cities for you,” he growls, his voice like thunder. “But all I want is to hold you.”

Despite his monstrous power, with you he’s gentle. Protective. Possessive. You’re the only thing that calms the fire in him. And maybe..just maybe you don’t want to be saved from the dragon. Maybe you want to stay with him. Let him wrap you in his wings, whisper devotion in your ear, and make you his queen..forever.

𓆩༒︎𓆪

The cavern is dim, glowing faintly with the golden shimmer of treasure, but you outshine it all. You sit on satin laid over piles of pillows he’s stolen just for your comfort. You shouldn’t look so innocent draped in royal silk, biting your lip like that. And Tetsurō? Oh, he’s already shifting, shedding his monstrous form, skin glowing warm with heat, hunger in his eyes.

He approaches you slowly, predatory. The cave rumbles beneath his steps, but all you feel is the pull between you..thick, electric, undeniable.

“You know I can’t resist you,” he growls, his clawed fingers trailing lightly up your thigh, nails just barely dragging over your soft skin. “Every time you come here looking like this..you tempt me.”

His hands are everywhere..hot, big, greedy. One settles around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head back so he can breathe against your throat. “Do you feel how fast your heart’s beating, princess? You like when I get handsy, don’t you? Naughty thing..”

Then he pushes you gently onto the soft pillows, hovering over you with heat in his breath, wings arching wide behind him like shadows. “Say the word and I’ll ruin you sweetly. Make you forget your crown, forget your name. The only thing you’ll remember is how it feels to be mine.”

His lips ghost yours, teasing. “So what’ll it be, your highness? Do I keep teasing my treasure..or claim her right here, right now?”

You tremble beneath him..not from fear, but from the tension coiling hot in your core. That smirk on his face? Dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Tetsurō kisses down your neck, slow and savoring, his fangs brushing against your skin like a threat and a promise. “You taste like temptation..like something no dragon should be able to touch,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “But I’m not just any dragon, am I, princess?”

His hands slide beneath your silks, palms rough, fingers hungry. He groans low when he feels how soft you are. How ready. “So warm already..all this for me?” One hand cups the back of your thigh, hoisting it over his hip, grinding against you..slow, heavy, teasing. “I could devour you right now. Tear through this little royal costume and feast on every inch of you.”

But instead..he takes his time. He drags your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each spot he reveals, eyes locked on yours, watching your breath hitch with every touch. “So beautiful like this..and all mine.”

His fingers trail lower, parting your thighs with reverent care and wicked intent. “You’ve been coming to my lair for weeks, looking all sweet and untouched. But now? I’m going to make you mine. Right here. On my hoard. Let them whisper about the dragon and his stolen princess..screaming his name while she begs for more.”

And oh, when his mouth finally meets your heat? He groans against you like he’s starved. Like tasting you is all he’s ever wanted. “Sweet gods above,” he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. “You were made for me.”

His tongue works slow circles at first, letting you squirm, letting you gasp..like he wants to memorize every twitch, every breathless moan that escapes those perfect lips of yours. One of his claws lightly drags down your side, just enough pressure to remind you he’s dangerous, even while he’s worshiping you like a goddamn goddess.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs between strokes of his tongue, his voice filthy, thick with pride. “What would your kingdom say if they saw their precious princess like this? Spread open, soaking, begging for the very monster they fear?”

You moan, arching into him..and that’s all it takes.

He growls, deep and possessive, grabbing your hips with both hands, holding you still as he devours you. His tongue slides deeper, faster, and that soft flick at just the right spot has your thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. In fact..he chuckles, dark and feral, loving the way you writhe for him. “Go on, sweet thing. Fall apart for me. I want to feel your thighs shake.”

And when you do? When you cry out his name and shatter in his mouth, hips bucking..he doesn’t slow. He moans like a beast, feasting through your high, dragging it out until you’re left a breathless, sensitive mess beneath him.

Then he pulls back, his lips and chin glistening, eyes glowing like molten gold. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he pants, licking his lips. “And now that I’ve had one bite, I need more.”

He climbs over you again, his body pinning you down, hot and heavy. You feel the hard press of him between your thighs..thick, aching. Bare. He didn’t even bother with clothes. His need for you? That’s primal.

“I’m not stopping until the whole cave echoes with your cries, princess. I’ll make sure you can’t walk back to your castle without remembering what it felt like to be claimed by a dragon.”

He leans down, lips brushing yours, his voice raw and low..

“Now be a good girl..and take me.”

Your breath hitches as he sinks into you..slow, deliberate, dragging every thick inch until you’re stuffed full and gasping. His growl vibrates through your body, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. “Fuck..you feel perfect,” he breathes against your mouth. “So tight, made for me. My sweet little princess..”

He pulls back just enough to slam back in, making you cry out and arch under him. And he grins, fangs bared in delight. “That’s it. Let them hear you. Let the whole damn kingdom know who you belong to.”

His pace builds..deep, rough, relentless. Every thrust forces you further into the pillows, your body helpless beneath his, trembling with every slam of his hips. His hand finds your throat, not squeezing..just holding, possessive, thumb brushing your jaw as he leans down, licking the sweat from your collarbone. “Look at you..fucked dumb on dragon cock. And we’ve only just begun.”

He shifts his angle, hitting that devastating spot that makes you scream, your nails raking down his back..he groans loud, hips stuttering. “You like that, huh? Gonna cum for me again, princess? Gonna soak me like the needy little treasure you are?”

One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with expert precision, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Cum for me again, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me. I wanna see you fall apart while I ruin you from the inside.”

And when you do..when you cry his name and shatter around him again..he loses it. Snarling, groaning, slamming into you harder, deeper, chasing his own high until he finally buries himself with a feral growl, filling you with heat, with claim. With his obsession.

But he doesn’t pull out.

He stays inside you, pressing soft kisses to your jaw, your neck, your lips. “Mine,” he murmurs, voice tender now, almost reverent. “My princess. My mate. My everything.”

He rolls over, dragging you on top of him, still full, still hard. “We’re not done, love. Not even close.”

Your thighs are still shaking, your body sensitive and slick..but the way he looks at you? With hunger, with obsession, with that fire burning behind his eyes like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him..it lights something wicked in you.

Tetsurō lies beneath you, broad chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, still buried deep inside you. But his hands..they never stop. One grips your waist, the other slides up your spine, urging you closer until you’re straddling him fully, your dripping heat locked around him like you belong there.

“Look at you,” he purrs, voice a little rough from growling your name into the cave. “My spoiled little princess, all messy and full of me. You wanna ride your dragon now, hmm? Show me how royalty fucks?”

You start to move..slow at first, hips rolling in lazy circles..and fuck, the way he moans your name? It’s sinful. His head falls back, exposing his throat, fangs bared in pure ecstasy. “Yesss..just like that,” he groans. “So tight..gods, you’re milking me.”

But you want more. He wants more. So you start bouncing, pace picking up, the wet sound of your bodies filling the cave, your moans echoing off the stone. His claws dig into your thighs, guiding your rhythm, his chest heaving as he watches you with pure awe. “You’re gonna make me cum again, aren’t you? Look at this little body, riding me like it’s your throne.”

He suddenly sits up, wrapping an arm around your waist, the other gripping your hair, forcing your lips to his as he thrusts up into you..deep, brutal, hungry. “You drive me fucking insane, princess. I’d burn every kingdom to the ground just to feel this again.”

You’re so close again. Overstimulated and burning for more. He can feel it..he knows. So he whispers filth into your ear, voice low and breath hot, hips pistoning up into you with perfect rhythm. “Cum for me again, baby. Do it while I’m buried deep. Let me feel you break on me. I want to watch your face when you fall apart..knowing it’s all because of me.”

And when you do? You shatter. He roars, holding you down as he fills you again, body trembling from the force of it. It’s primal. Messy. Perfect.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat and lust.

And then..that damn dragon chuckles, fingers lazily stroking your back.

“Still not tired, my love?” he whispers with a wicked grin. “Good. Because I haven’t even tied you up yet.”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

[honeyslutpoetry]

“Just One Night” —

(Toji Fushiguro x ex-wife!Y/N)

CW: Explicit sexual content, hate-sex vibes, unresolved emotions, power dynamics, ex-lovers, semi-public risk (kitchen), Megumi, smut

NSFW — 18+

₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊ ₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊

You and Toji had been divorced for nearly three years.

On paper, it was clean—custody agreement, signed paperwork, separate lives.

But in reality?

It was anything but.

He still showed up late. Still let himself into your house like it was his. Still looked at you like he owned you—like he never stopped fucking you in his head. And you hated how your body remembered him. How it reacted before your pride could catch up.

You told yourself you moved on. That he wasn’t yours anymore.

That he belonged to someone else now—a new wife, a new life.

But some nights, when Megumi was asleep and the air got too quiet, you remembered the way he used to hold you. The way he used to fuck you.

The way you used to love him with everything you had, even when he didn’t deserve it.

And now? You were tired. Tired of the visits that ended in silence.

Tired of seeing pieces of him in your son.

Tired of pretending you didn’t still feel something when you heard his voice at your door.

You weren’t together. But you were never really apart, either.

So when the door slammed open that night—loud and sharp and unapologetic—

you already felt the ache in your chest start to burn.

“You’re late again,” you snapped, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “Megumi was asking where you were.”

Toji rolled his eyes, tossing his keys down. “I said I’d come by. I didn’t promise I’d stay for bedtime stories.”

Your jaw clenched. Same old Toji.

Arrogant. Cold. Infuriating.

And still so goddamn magnetic it made your stomach twist.

“I’m not your damn wife anymore. You don’t get to act like you’re doing me favors.”

He laughed bitterly, stepping closer. “You think I’m here for you? Please.”

But his voice betrayed something else—something sharper, more emotional.

“I’m here because he’s my son. I didn’t stop being his father just because you couldn’t handle being my wife.”

That was it.

You shoved his shoulder, hard. “Don’t you dare put this on me.”

He caught your wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop you.

Your breath hitched.

And that’s when it happened.

The way his jaw tightened. The way your glare held his. The way your bodies were too close. Too hot. Too tense.

“You always do this,” you whispered.

“Do what?” he growled.

“Pretend you don’t care. Lie to her. Lie to yourself.”

His hand moved to your waist before either of you could stop it, and then—

“You always push me, Y/N,” he growled, voice low and rough—teetering between rage and lust as he slammed your back against the kitchen wall. “You always fucking push me until I break.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before the words could form, he crashed his mouth into yours, devouring your breath, your anger, your everything. His hands were already on your shirt, ripping it over your head, not giving a fuck where it landed.

Your nails clawed down his chest, leaving red lines across those hard, war-weathered muscles—the same chest you once laid your head on, now heaving like a man starved. “You said you loved her,” you gasped between kisses, voice shaking with heat and venom.

His hands were already yanking down your shorts and panties in one swift, furious motion. “Don’t talk about her right now,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t fucking mention her while I’m inside this tight fucking cunt.”

You gasped. His words burned.

Your body betrayed you—thighs parting, pussy already wet, pulsing for him like no time had passed at all.

Toji didn’t wait. He gripped your hips hard, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and your back hit the cold wall with a gasp. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct.

His hand slid down, fingers dipping into your slick folds. “You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered. “Dripping for my cock like a good little slut. You fucking missed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned, rolling your hips into his touch. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed. “I missed your big fucking cock.”

That did it.

He unzipped his pants fast, cock springing free—thick, angry, leaking, veiny and ready to ruin you.

“Yeah?” he growled, fisting himself and slapping the head against your soaked folds. “You miss getting stretched open on this cock? Crying on it? Begging for more while you pretend you hate me?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Fuck—just fuck me, Toji. Please.”

He lined up and slammed into you in one brutal, desperate thrust, making you cry out loud. Your pussy clenched so tight around him that he let out a feral moan, burying his face in your neck.

“Shit—still so tight,” he groaned, rutting into you like a beast, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. “Still made to take my cock.”

You couldn’t speak—just moaned, nails digging into his shoulders, walls fluttering around him as his cock pounded into you so deep it made your toes curl.

“Say it,” he growled in your ear. “Say you still fucking want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, eyes rolling back. “I want your cock—fuck, you’re so big—it hurts—”

“You love this big cock ruining your little cunt, huh?” he grunted, slamming into you harder, faster. “Squeeze me, baby. Show me how much your pussy still needs me.”

Your moans were shameless, echoing through the kitchen. You came hard—body shaking, pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck—Y/N—” he cursed, holding you down as he spilled inside you, hot, thick ropes of cum filling you until it leaked down your thighs. “Take it. Take every fucking drop.”

He didn’t stop moving until you were both shaking, breathless, and completely fucked out—skin sticky, lips bruised, bodies trembling.

Your head rested against his shoulder, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And he whispered, voice wrecked, “You’re still mine.”

₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊ ₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊

This was only the beginning. Stay tuned for Part 2—where the guilt hits harder, and the sex hits deeper

© honeyslutpoetry

[ang3lmoans]

Angel watched him. Really watched him. There was something magnetic about the way Garam moved—how his confidence ebbed and flowed in this subtle, calculated way. He was always playing with the space between them, flirting on a wire stretched tight above a place neither of them had named yet. And Angel had to admit, he liked it. Loved it, even. The way Garam was testing him, trying to see how far he could push without pushing him away. The shift in Garam's expression when Angel didn’t move closer after unbuttoning the shirt hadn’t gone unnoticed. He saw the flicker of uncertainty, and for a moment, it made Angel wonder if he had misplayed his hand. He was never one to jump headfirst into anything physical without reading the room—reading the person—but maybe, just maybe, Garam was reading him just as carefully. Every look, every pause, every breath between them had its own weight. And now, Angel felt it settle in his chest like gravity. “I don't want you to be gentle with me." It was a quiet statement, but it didn’t need volume to hit its mark. Angel’s throat tightened, his breath catching as the words soaked into him. That? That wasn’t just flirting. That was surrender. That was trust. Angel almost allowed his other head to take the lead. Out of fear of going too far, he held back. He didn’t interrupt. He let the moment bloom as Garam turned away, peeled the shirt from his shoulders with a casual grace that felt anything but casual, and hung it up with delicate care. Watching the bare stretch of his back, the movement of lean muscle under his skin, Angel felt the slow burn inside him flare. Dammit, Garam is so beautiful he thought to himself. When Garam picked up the sweater, that wide neckline draped loosely in his hands, Angel let his gaze wander—unapologetic, deliberate. He was still close enough to see the blush rise across Garam’s cheekbones, delicate but telling."Are you sure I’d look good in something like this?" Angel’s eyes met Garam’s in the mirror, and he smiled—small, but soft in a way that only crept out when he really meant it.“Yeah,” he said, stepping forward slowly, his voice warm, low. “I wouldn’t have picked it if I didn’t think so.” He reached up from behind, his hands not quite touching Garam, but hovering—one beside his waist, the other close to the fabric resting on his chest as if asking permission in silence. “You underestimate how easy it is to want you, Garam. With or without the skin.” That last line was a whisper, just for him. His eyes flicked down to the sweater, then back up to the reflection of Garam’s face. The insecurity there was so different from the confident tease a moment ago, but Angel didn’t mock it—didn’t try to fix it either. He held it. These were trials they would need to work past to make this work. Both unsure of how far to push, worrying about each other. Then, Garam dropped the line about buttons. Angel laughed—soft, breathy, but with an edge of tension in it. “Dangerous again,” he murmured, lips curling against the shell of Garam’s ear without touching. “You say things like that, I might start thinking you want me to undress you” Angel placed a playful bite against his ear keeping their eye contact through the mirror. Then he whispered directly into his ear, “It’s taking everything in me not to bend you over in front of this mirror. Watch your face change as I make my baby cum…Or you could try on the sweater.” Then Angel straightened, giving Garam the space to either put on the sweater or turn around and change the conversation entirely. But his voice followed, quieter now, more honest than playful, “You don’t have to wear it if it makes you uncomfortable,” he added. “But if you’re asking me if I think you’d look good in it—yeah. I think you’d look fucking incredible.” And this time, he didn’t dare look away.

he found himself confused once again but, this time, it was on whether or not angel actually understood he was trying to stoke their fire. garam was a very willing player in this dangerous game. every shifted expression, every word he said, every movement he made was intentional. there was still a bit of hesitation, not wanting to push either to rush into something they weren't ready for but with how their morning played out, he truly didn't think he was rushing into anything. if angel wasn't interested, he would have made his boundaries clear. garam looked down to the unbuttoned shirt now draping his shoulders, brows twitching for a moment only to relax as he looked back up to angel. his expression shifted again, though, like he was asking if that was all angel was going to do. the fact that angel hadn't done anything beyond the unbuttoning of his shirt made garam question himself and what he was doing. was he pushing for more too quickly? were angel's words a warning to slow down? or was he simply reading too deep into something that wasn't even there to begin with? for all he knew, angel's reasoning could've been that somebody was aware of their being there and he didn't want that man to overhear and realize they were doing something they should not have been doing. but of course he knew better than to voice any of these concerns right now, fearing they'd only spark some sort of argument between the two of them. he still felt bad about showing his jealousy earlier with the pretzel worker checking angel out. "i don't want you to be gentle with me." at least not right now. he kept his voice low, nodding his head before turning away. he let his own shirt slide down his arms with a slight shimmy of his shoulders, using another spare hook off to the side to hang it up. garam reached over to grab the sweater angel picked out for him, his cheeks flushing a soft pink as he'd noted, once again, just how wide the neckline was. "are you sure i'd look good in something like this?" he asked, holding it up to his frame, his attention moving from his own body to look at angel through the mirror. of course he liked wearing clothes that were larger on him, specifically if they were clothes belonging to other people in his life, but they never showed as much of his body as this piece would. "it's just so much skin," his voice lowered again, as if he felt too self-conscious to believe he could pull something this revealing off. his eyes returned to his reflection in the mirror, head tilting to the side, deciding to press a little further and see how angel would react. "it'll be easier to remove, that's for sure. no pesky buttons."

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Falling for you // Hwang brothers

Previous part:

Summary: In-ho finally moved his glass. Now is the moment to demonstrate his sincerity with you. Despite your attempts to push him away, he never stops.

He is like a magnet; once he is attracted, he will not let you go.

" You are not hard to love. You are the dream to love."

Warning: Fluff, soft! In-ho, cheezy pick-up lines, sincerity, efforts, sick! In-ho, confusion, hesitation, slightly possessive, courting, slow burn, denial, grammatical errors

The kitchen was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. You cradled the warm glass of milk in your hands, the heat seeping into your skin as you sat curled up on the couch.

The glow from your phone illuminated your face in the dark living room, casting soft shadows against the walls.

Your thumb swiped absentmindedly, scrolling through old photos.

High school days.

A time when things were simpler—when your heart wasn’t tangled between two brothers, when love was something distant, not something that could hurt you.

Then, your finger stopped.

A photo of you and Jun-ho.

It was an old picture—your high school uniforms slightly wrinkled, the both of you grinning like idiots.

Jun-ho had his arm lazily slung over your shoulder, and you were making a silly face, laughing at something that had long faded from your memory.

Your chest ached.

You traced the edges of the screen, exhaling slowly.

If you could go back…would you change things?

Would you have distanced yourself the moment you realize your feelings for Jun-ho?

Would you have avoided every lingering glance, every skipped heartbeat, every moment where you thought—maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way too?

Or would you have fought harder?

Fought to make him see you not just as his best friend, but as someone who could love him unconditionally?

A bitter smile touched your lips.

No.

You would’ve done neither.

Because the past wasn’t something you could rewrite.

No matter how much you wished to undo the heartache, to take back every stolen moment, every silent longing—life didn’t work that way.

You sighed, closing your eyes briefly before taking a sip of your milk.

The warmth barely soothed the hollow feeling in your chest.

And In-ho…

You weren’t blind. Looking back now, the signs had been there.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long.

The way he was always just there, watching, waiting.

Unlike Jun-ho, he never made grand promises.

He always give you mixed signals.

No, In-ho had been steady. Quiet. But constant.

And now, he wasn’t just quiet anymore—he was loud, persistent, unapologetic.

You groaned softly, running a hand through your hair. “ I need to stop thinking about this.” You muttered to yourself.

But how could you, when both the past and the present refused to let you go?

You stared blankly at the living room wall, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.

Your heart felt heavy—tangled in memories, uncertainty, and the weight of feelings you had no idea how to handle.

So, for the first time in a long while, you whispered a silent plea.

" God, just…give me a sign. Something. Anything. Because I don't know what to do anymore."

The moment the words left your mind, your phone buzzed.

You blinked, your body stiffening slightly as your heart skipped a beat.

Slowly, you looked down at your phone, the dim screen illuminating your lap.

And there it was.

In-ho.

His name stared back at you from the notification bar, almost as if the universe was laughing at your desperate request.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around the phone.

Seriously?

Out of all people, out of all the times…why him?

For a moment, you just stared.

You could ignore it. Pretend you never saw it, act like you had already fallen asleep, and deal with whatever nonsense In-ho had to say in the morning.

But your traitorous thumb hovered over the screen before you could even think twice.

In-ho [1:47 AM]: Are you awake?

You chewed on your lip, debating whether to respond. But before you could make a decision, another message popped up.

In-ho [1:48 AM]: Actually, I know you are. You're probably overthinking again.

Your breath hitched slightly. How did he—

In-ho [1:49 AM]: I can already picture you sighing, holding that stupid glass of milk like it holds all the answers to your problems.

You frowned, glancing down at the warm cup still in your hands.

...How the hell does he know that?

Your fingers hesitated, but then, without thinking too much, you typed back.

You [1:50 AM]: Are you spying on me or something?

It didn’t take long before he responded.

In-ho [1:50 AM]: No. I just know you.

A lump formed in your throat.

Because he was right.

He did know you.

Probably more than you wanted to admit.

You stared at the screen, your heart pounding in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Maybe this wasn’t just a message.

Maybe this was the sign you had asked for.

The real question was—were you ready to listen?

…

You groaned quietly, pressing your fingers against your temples as you glared at the glowing screen.

" Are you serious right now?" You muttered under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief.

Of all the people in the world, of all the times the universe could have intervened…why him?

You had been expecting—hoping—to see Jun-ho’s name pop up.

Even after everything, some foolish part of you still wanted him to reach out.

To say something.

Anything.

But instead, the universe, in all its twisted humor, gave you In-ho.

Irritated, you chugged your milk aggressively, as if somehow that would drown out the frustration clawing at your chest.

The lukewarm liquid slid down your throat, but it did nothing to soothe the chaos in your mind.

With careful precision, you placed the empty glass on the coffee table, making sure not to make a sound.

The last thing you needed was to wake your family up and have them ask why you were sulking in the living room at nearly two in the morning.

You let out a long, weary sigh.

This wasn’t something you could handle alone.

You needed someone who wasn’t emotionally tangled in this mess, someone who could slap some sense into you and tell you what the hell you were supposed to do.

Your fingers worked quickly, unlocking your phone and pulling up your messages.

There was only one person who could give you the advice you needed.

You [1:52 AM]: Are you awake?

It only took a few seconds before you saw the typing bubbles appear.

Bubble pop wrap [1:52 AM]: Why do you even ask? You know I don’t sleep like a normal person.

A small smile ghosted your lips.

You [1:53 AM]: Are you free? I need help. Serious help.

Bubble pop wrap [1:53 AM]: Lemme guess. The love triangle from hell?

You sighed.

You [1:54 AM]: Damn it.

Bubble pop wrap [1:54 AM]: Fine, fine. But you better buy me coffee. And maybe a cupcake. I’m gonna need sugar to deal with your drama.

You chuckled despite yourself, feeling a small wave of relief. At least you weren’t dealing with this mess alone.

Now, the real question was—would talking about it make your decision easier, or would it only make things worse?

...

The morning sun barely kissed the horizon when you opened her door, only to be greeted by the sight of another bouquet of fresh flowers resting against the threshold.

Roses today.

Yesterday, it had been lilies, and the day before that, tulips.

Each one carefully chosen, each accompanied by a handwritten note in In-ho's elegant script.

" A flower for every moment I think of you. At this rate, I’ll be sending you entire gardens."

You sighed, shaking your head as you picked up the bouquet, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

It had been weeks of this now—flowers, letters, visits.

In-ho was relentless.

And it didn’t stop there.

At exactly noon, her doorbell rang, and when she opened it, there he was, standing with a knowing smirk, a steaming container of food in his hands.

" Make your favorite today." He announced proudly, stepping inside before she could protest.

" You need to eat properly. I can’t have the woman I love ignoring her meals."

" In-ho—" You started, but he was already setting the table like he belonged there.

Your parents, seated nearby, exchanged a glance, utterly bewildered by his constant presence.

" You again?" Your father finally asked, narrowing his eyes.

In-ho merely smiled. " Yes, sir. And you’ll be seeing more of me. A man should be persistent when it comes to love, don’t you think?"

Your mother, hiding a laugh behind her teacup, whispered. " He reminds me of someone."

You groaned, but your cheeks burned at his confidence.

Later that evening, as you sat on the couch, you unfolded another letter.

" I know you might think I’m foolish, but I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. You’re worth the fight, Y/n. And I’ll keep proving it to you every single day. So don’t bother trying to resist—I’ll win your heart, one way or another."

P.S. Be ready for another pick-up line tomorrow.

And true to his word, the next day, he leaned against her door frame, grinning.

" Are you French? Because Eiffel for you."

You groaned, covering your face.

" Admit it, you love it." He teased you.

" You’re impossible." You muttered, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

In-ho wasn’t just pursuing her. He was making it impossible for her not to fall in love.

Days turned into weeks, and still, In-ho never faltered. Every morning, fresh flowers greeted you at your doorstep.

Every afternoon, he arrived with your favorite meals, smiling like he belonged there.

Every evening, another letter slipped beneath your door, each one filled with heartfelt words that made your heart race despite your best efforts to resist.

Her parents had long stopped questioning his visits. Her father still gave him skeptical glances, but your mother?

Oh, you was clearly amused.

" It’s like a drama." She whispered to you one evening. " A very persistent male lead."

You sighed, pretending not to care, but deep down, she knew your mother was right.

Tonight was no different. The moment she opened her front door, In-ho was there, casually leaning against the frame, a grin playing on his lips.

" Did you trip?" He asked.

You frowned. " No?"

" Weird. Because I keep falling for you."

You groaned, but the smile you tried to hide betrayed you. " In-ho—"

" What? It’s true." He said, stepping closer.

His voice softened. " Y/n, I meant what I said in my letters. I won’t give up on you. I don’t care how long it takes—I’ll prove to you that no one will love you the way I do. So, tell me…" He tilted his head, watching you carefully.

" Am I winning yet?"

Your heart pounded. He was relentless, persistent, and sincere. And, God help you, he was making it harder and harder to ignore the way you felt.

Maybe he was winning after all.

It was becoming routine now—the flowers, the food, the letters.

The cheesy pickup lines that made you roll your eyes but secretly look forward to the next one.

But today was different.

It had been raining since morning, the kind of downpour that turned the streets into rivers. You assumed In-ho would take a break from his relentless pursuit, but she should have known better.

When the doorbell rang, she hesitated before opening it, only to find him standing there, completely drenched. He held up a small, soggy bouquet, his usual smirk replaced by something softer.

" Still not giving up?" You asked, crossing your arms.

" Never.” He said without hesitation.

You sighed, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. " You’re insane. You could’ve just stayed home."

" And miss seeing you?" He teased, dripping water all over the floor.

" Not a chance."

You shook her head, disappearing into your room and returning with a towel. " Here. Dry off before my parents think I let you catch pneumonia."

He accepted it with a grateful smile but didn’t miss the concern in her voice.

" You’re worried about me." He pointed out.

" I’d worry about any idiot who stands in the rain for hours.” You countered.

" So, I’m special, then?"

You shot him a look, but he just laughed, running the towel through his damp hair.

Then, as if remembering something, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another letter. The paper was slightly wet, the ink smudged at the edges.

" It got a little ruined, but the words are still clear." He said, handing it to her.

You hesitated before taking it. You slowly unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

" I know I’m persistent. Annoying, even. But I won’t stop because you’re worth every effort. You can keep pushing me away, pretending you don’t feel anything—but I see the way your eyes soften when I show up. I see the way you almost smile at my terrible jokes. And I know, deep down, you’re scared. But, Y/n, I’m not. I’m all in. And I’ll wait for the day you are too."

Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered the letter. When she looked up, In-ho was watching her closely, his expression unreadable.

" You don’t give up, do you?" You asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. " Not when it comes to you."

And for the first time, you didn’t try to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of In-ho's breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against hers. You sat next to him on the bed, your hand gently resting on his.

His fever had broken hours ago, but the way he clung to her, even in sleep, made you feel like he was holding on to something far more than just his recovery.

You sighed, watching his peaceful face as he murmured in his sleep, the words barely audible but enough to make her heart tighten in your chest.

" Y/n...please...I’ll never give up on you...I’ll wait...until you’re mine."

Your heart skipped a beat. He was always saying things like that, always declaring his love for you, but now it felt different.

It was no longer just words. It was a promise, a declaration that he would fight for her until the end.

You gently nudged his shoulder, trying to wake him from his sleep.

" In-ho." You whispered, your voice barely a breath.

" In-ho, wake up."

His eyes fluttered open slowly, meeting yours with a dazed but unmistakable warmth.

The moment his gaze locked on you, a soft, contented smile spread across his face.

" Y/n..." He murmured, his voice husky from sleep, his eyes bright with something unmistakable. He reached for her, his hand weak but determined, pulling you closer.

Without thinking, he buried his head into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against her skin.

A soft, almost desperate sigh escaped his lips as he snuggled against her.

" In-ho..." You gasped, feeling the heat of his body and the way his arms locked around you, keeping you in his embrace.

The familiar weight of his arms around you made your pulse race, but it also made your heart ache.

" I can't let you go." He murmured into your skin, his voice muffled but full of emotion.

" I won’t let anyone else take you from me. I’ll never give up on you, sweetheart. You're mine...you just don't know it yet."

His words were so full of certainty, of resolve. You felt your chest tighten.

The way he held you so close, the way he made you feel like there was nowhere else he wanted to be, made everything inside you spin out of control.

You didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know how to fight this feeling that was growing inside you, the feeling of being cared for, cherished, in a way you have never allowed yourself to feel.

" You’re...not going to stop, are you?" You whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand caressing your cheek as his thumb gently traced your skin.

" Never."

His voice was full of conviction, and you couldn’t deny the pull you felt toward him, the way he made you want to give in, to let him hold your heart as tightly as he held you in his arms.

" I want you to be with me, Y/n." He added softly.

" Not just for now, but for always. I’ll fight for you, no matter how long it takes."

You swallowed hard, the intensity in his gaze leaving you breathless.

Every word, every action, told you that he wasn’t playing games.

This was real.

He was all in.

And for the first time in your life, maybe—just maybe—you wanted to be too.

N/A: Y/n and Jun-ho met when they were 16. In-ho, on the other hand, began to like her when she reached her legal age—around the time Y/n was in her twenties. (I need to clarify this to avoid misunderstandings between the characters)

Y/n and Jun-ho's age right now: 23 (College students)

In-ho's age right now: 30 (I need to lower down his age to make it more accurate)

Tags: @nina357 @maah-sama @colorwastaken @frontwomann @coolasiangal123

[urcoolgf]

THE WEEKND x RAFE BLURB

¡ sexual content !

listening to the weeknd && just getting major rafe cameron vibes—like he is so the type to have a sex playlist with just the weeknd && he definitely listens to it while working out n stuff

✭ ‘the morning’ would definitely be one of his favorites because it’s about sex and money. he’d love the way the bass poured through the built-in speakers in his room while he was on top of you—almost drowning out your sounds, but he’d never turn it loud enough for that. he loved hearing you going totally dumb on his dick.

trilogy is for sure his favorite album, it just radiates his energy. when you first met he unapologetically made you listen to the weeknd nonstop. you didn’t mind—these ‘listening sessions’ normally ended with him inside you anyway.

✭ looking over at you while 'the party & the after party’ played over the radio made him absolutely crazy. there was just something so sexy about you listening to his music—his favorite artist—that made you 100x hotter.

he’d just drive you guys around, listening until his pants got so tight that he had to pull over wherever he was, and fuck you in the car. if you were feeling nice, you’d give him road head, and he’d swear he was ascending.

✭ even when you weren’t over, or he wasn’t doing anything, he’d still have the weeknd playing lowly through his bedroom speakers. he’d usually end up picturing the way you looked boucing on top of him, and end up with his dick in his hands as ‘coming down’ sounded through the walls.

starboy was his go-to workout album though. he would just loop it the entire duration of his workout. his motivation: the way you looked, and the sounds you’d make when you would drag your clit against his abs—he’d flex, and un-flex making you moan on top of him.

✭ if there was ever a moment it wasn’t playing, you’d grab his phone, and shuffle his playlist just to get him going. he secretly loved when you acted all bratty like that, but he loved turning you into a pathetic, babbling, cock-drunk mess even more while ‘party monster’ played in the background.

an: literally started this yesterday && finished it today even though i have like seven other (better) works (&& some requests) in progress right now… anyways… enjoy.ᐟ

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© 𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐆𝐅. est. 2025

TAGS .ᐟ @yktayy9669 @drewsswifeyy @drewrry @frankoceanluvr11 @dearestmillls @icaqttt @lynoriax @hpboysslut2707 @stoned-writer @angvl3tears @beabafreakbee @ltristessedureratoujours @totalswag @vanessa-rafesgirl @rafegetinmybed @faiyaz555

[sapphiresonstrings]

Like, I'm sorry, maybe I missed the Biden administration feminists who went on a speaking tour with Andrew Tate?

This seems like an odd comparison. Wouldn't the equivalent be something more like a high profile feminist leader making pro-LGBT comments while simultaneously carrying water for a prominent homophobe like Louis Farrakhan?

I'm bringing up Louis Farrakhan being homophobic rather than taking about his antisemitic blood libel because that's the part that contradicts Linda Sarsour's stated beliefs. If she had taken a strong stance against antisemitism then obviously I would have used that as the example.

Still, it just goes to show that political movements are big tents with plenty of room for crazy people of all colors and creeds. Even if you go around loudly and unapologetically talking about the "Jewish Question," you can still attend all the hip events with prominent members of both the Republican and Democractic parties.

Isn't the political tapestry of your country so beautiful? Regular Democrats donate to regular Democrat-aligned Political Action Committees like Emily's List. Then Emily's List donates that money to other PACs like Women's March, Inc, and on and on and on until everyone forgets where it came from. Then finally someone takes the money and gives it to Linda Sarsour, who uses it to finance her day job of tweeting about how she thinks Ayaan Hirsi Ali is "asking 4 an a$$ whippin'." Commenting further about Ali and another woman, she also tweeted, "I wish I could take their vaginas away - they don't deserve to be women." What an intellectually consistent feminist thinker, very much deserving of that Emily's List money.

But no, you're right, the crackpots and extremists are all on the other side. Your side is full of nothing but perfect pure people who never do anything wrong. No prominent Democrat has ever been associated with extremism.

It's all Trump's fault. Everything was just fine until he showed up and released all the evil into the world like some kind of political Pandora's Box.

Towards a Unified Theory of Conspiracy Crank Politics

I've been thinking a lot about what seems to drive the person I will call, for lack of a better term, the conspiracy crank world-view, and particularly, my feelings about the great crank realignment.

A lot of people have said, "It seems like 30 years ago conspiracy weirdos were pretty bipartisan people, but now they all seem to be Trump loyalists."

My belief is that it's not that the conspiracy cranks became more right-wing; rather, it's that the Republicans have largely stopped being a right-wing party and are instead now a conspiracy crank party.

So, I've said this before, and I'm not well enough read in the history of conspiracy thinking to bring up old examples, but as a kid I subscribed to Skeptical Enquirer, and I remember quickly coming to two conclusions:

The reason a lot of the alien conspiracy X Files stuff is so interesting in fiction is that talented fiction writers have used it as a jumping off point to make an interesting story; the primary conspiracy literature is often very poorly written, not very inventive, and frequently openly bigoted, which leads into my second discovery,

A lot of times there is only one degree of seperation between "Big pharma and modern living has severed our spiritual connection to our earth mother Gaia" and "The Jews run the world with the aim of keeping the white race enslaved". Like, the far right conspiracy people were often really willing to ally with and break bread with the far left conspiracy people, and vice versa, in fact much more so then the more grounded parts of the left and right.

And I think that's because the conspiracy theorists have a kind of common mindset with certain shared features, regardless of the specifics of their conspiracy.

These are things that I have noticed as commonalities, and they aren't limited to conspiracy cranks; in fact, probably the vast majority of people have these habits of thought to some extent. My argument is that they are often abnormally strong in conspiracy believers.

Belief in a just world. A lot of fringe types have a really strong belief that the world is fundamentally just, and that in the ordinary course of things bad things do not happen to good people. Bad things only happen because a personified force arranged for the bad thing to happen. The example I've used before is slipping and falling off a ladder. Many of us would attribute such a thing to pure chance; some people will take it as evidence that a witch or a demon has cursed them.

An extreme difficulty with feeling out of control. It is hard for them to accept that in some circumstances they may not have control. Things which make them feel like they are no longer in control are very often interpreted as hostilities against them.

A severe difficulty in actually putting themselves in another person's shoes. Often, the conspiracy minded person is incredibly judgemental about others, and particularly, they really, really struggle with the idea that something might be easy for them, but difficult for someone else, or difficult for them, but necessary to help someone else.

Like I said, we all have these habits to some extent, I just think they are often magnified in the conspiracy crank.

As an example of what I mean by these thought patters, I am in the middle of a podcast reviewing a crank movie about how germs don't cause diseases. And apparently, in this movie, they first have a heroic interview with a restaurant owner who not only never required his patrons to wear masks, he actually banned any mask wearing on the premises.

Which is followed immediately by a scene of a person getting kicked out of a store for not masking, and talking about how it's incredibly shocking that what should be a matter of personal conscience is being enforced by the government.

And there's just no sense that there is any hypocrisy or tension here.

What I mean is, a principled libertarian might say, "Each individual business can require masks, or require you to take masks off, or have no policy, according to their individual decision, and we should allow them to make those decisions and abide by them."

Another principled position might be that we have extremely compelling evidence for the pandemic, and maybe certain kinds of policies should be temporarily enacted to slow the spread, even though they infringe on what would be, in ordinary times, important liberties, because they serve to protect the collective greater good.

Either of these positions sort of takes it for granted that a choice that I, personally, might not fully agree with might still be important to other people.

But the crank mindset says, "I don't want to wear a mask. So forcing people to wear a mask is an imposition on important freedoms. But since I'm already comfortable without a mask, forcing people to take their masks off isn't any kind of imposition on anybody's freedom, that's ridiculous."

You can see what I'm talking about most clearly in certain right-wing Christians. I've seen Christians say that freedom is exactly the same as following God's will, and that disobedience to God is a form of bondage and slavery.

These habits of mind are not, themselves, partisan; the can be applied to any cause, right-wing or left-wing. I might just have easily brought up "Free speech doesn't mean tolerating hate speech."

But I would argue that the reverse is not true, that you can build a political party that caters primarily to people with these habits of mind.

These people tend to flock to politicians who simultaneously promise a strong government which they can borrow to reassert their sense of control in the world, but the actual specific politics of that government are squishy and malleable.

The government has to be strong and able to domineer others because the conspiracy crank understands that they are in opposition to some large portion of the population, and so the government has to be strong enough to say, for example, "We will make sure that no private business will kick you out for wearing a mask."

When the world feels out of control, the government will lend you the tools to reassert your control over the world around you.

But the actual political goals of the government have to be extremely vague and malleable, so that they can move quickly to maintain the illusion that good people don't ever really disagree about this stuff.

A government which is coherently committed to a libertarian project might well say, "Sorry, those businesses have every right to decide who they cater to."

You have to be a weathervane, once a majority of cranks decide that vaccines and mask mandates are bad, you have to swivel and take that position in order to maintain a sort of illusion that whatever freedoms your crank audience wants in the moment are inherently sensible and that no sane person could disagree.

My argument is that Trump has turned the Republicans into the crank party, the party that signals to cranks that it will have their backs, whereas thirty years ago, the parties were still committed enough to coherent political goals that neither one could make that promise, and so cranks had to be politically idiosyncratic.

[ajthecrayon]

Marauders Grocery Store head canons

THE ONE WHERE THEY ALL WORK AT A GROCERY STORE

there might be more after this-

I work at a grocery store and I can't help but assign my coworkers their variants of the marauders fandom while I rot watching my self check-out area. So drum roll please as I assign them each their departments. Is this based on my actual coworkers? yes. yes it is. Some things are not obviously true to form because who actually knows that much about their coworkers lives.

First! Our management (womp womp)

Remus Lupin - have mercy on this man's soul. He hates it here. Every time he catches James' eye on the busiest day of the week (Sunday) he pretends to choke himself out. He loves it. But hates it. He can't pay for his university right now so he's stuck doing this until he saves up enough (it's been three years, the economy is crashing please help) The only person getting him through this job is his boyfriend (Sirius) who works in the floral department of the grocer alongside his brother Regulus. James and Remus were coworkers before Remus got promoted

Lily Evans - sweetest woman alive, but if you piss her off enough she will scold you and you will be so terrified of her for the rest of your days working there. Mostly in charge of making sure the baggers are bagging groceries correctly, and that carts aren't staying stuck outside. She's the management that has been there the longest. Since she started the job at sixteen and is still there at 24. She loves it. She's a single mom who has split custody of her son Harry (with James it's all very healthy.)

Peter Pettigrew - He's permanently stressed out. Please pray for this man. He's a full time student, and a part time worker who pulls full time hours. He's a pretty good manager, but feels awkward asking anyone to do anything for him. He says please over and over. Like yeah it's 90000°F outside but I really need you outside on carts :( sorry please I'm sorry! (Marlene beefs with him for this.)

Our Lovely Cashiers:

James Potter - ooh this man piss me off!! He's the sweetest with customers, but sasses his coworkers like no tomorrow. He hates being bored so he makes it a point to tease the hell out of everyone around him. He's never on register though, usually he's in the self check out. And even then he's a nightmare. He's 100% work your wage kind of guy though. Calls everyone a silly goose. Remus and James play flirt with each other and it's sort of terrifying to witness sometimes. People really like him and gravitate towards him easily. He wants to be a manager, but hes busy studying so he can't pull the hours needed. He has bought his coworkers their break snacks.

Barty Crouch Jr - Surprisingly amazing customer service, he does crush bread unapologetically though. The way he treats his coworkers is a different story! If anything they don't exist and only talks to them if he needs something from them (unless you're Evan) the customers matter of course because who is he if not a great show man and that's all customer service is- playing things up a little. He may be winning at customer service but it's an act. He does not give a single shit about your issue. If he decides something is out of his pay grade he is blowing you off and getting his manager/a bagger to help him.

Our baggers, only bagging groceries and pushing carts

Evan Rosier - He was hired first for maintenance, hated it, saw the bathroom after ice cream sample day and nearly blew the store up with bombs. He very quickly moved departments. He honestly doesn't even work his wage. This man does below the bare minimum, he looks forward every day when he clocks in to collapsing on the couch with Barty and getting high out of his mind. He spent three hours one time outside and ended up getting sunburnt. He learned very quickly that black people CAN get sunburnt. He has so many tattoos and piercings. He's the best with the little kids though. He loves talking to them when they roll in with their race-car carts. Gives them stickers and talks to them like they're adults.

Marlene McKinnon - OH MY GOD she is always pumped or ready to let a car run her over in the parking lot- there is no in between with this girl. She's extremely meticulous about what groceries go where and will judge you if you suck at bagging groceries. She's an absolute TANK outside. Pushing rows in like no one's business. Everyone has a crush on her. She has strong customer service and customers love her. Purposefully will choose lanes where she's bagging.

A part two will be coming with the floral department. (Sirius, Regulus, Dorcas, Mary and Pandora)

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 21: What is it about men?

Sara had no interest in playing the uptight friend, nor had she ever found any satisfaction in being the mom of her friend group.  

She just wanted some kind of order in the universe—for things to go the way they were supposed to, for karma to catch up with bad people, and for good people to actually succeed. That was all she hoped for herself, after all.  

She had always told herself it was because she was a Virgo. That was also the reason, she figured, why directors and casting agents seemed to instinctively know she wasn’t the easiest to tame (Leo rising, after all).  

Her Pisces moon, on the other hand, made her particularly susceptible to a third category of people she had only encountered in adulthood: the broken ones.  

She had wondered why she could only truly understand—and be understood by—people who were broken. But then, thinking about the father she had never known, she started noticing the cracks in herself, too. In the way every story she made up had a happy ending. In the way she always felt a quiet, gnawing concern whenever she came across someone broken—someone like her.  

It was the third week in a row that she had found Vic practically passed out on the sofa. The first time it happened, she had assumed it was just exhaustion. Sure, it was a little sad not seeing her at the pub as often, but it was also a relief. Vic was finally doing the thing she had fought so hard for, even if it meant dragging herself to the end of the day too tired to talk—or be talked to.  

But then Sara had noticed the empty wine bottle on the floor next to the sofa.  

And it wasn’t that she wanted to mother Vic or scold her like some nagging friend. But her Pisces moon was screaming at her—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore—that something wasn’t right.  

"You should know that after twenty, sleeping in weird positions destroys your back," Sara announced, slapping Vic’s foot to wake her up as she crossed the room to open the window.

The smell of wine was so strong it almost made her nauseous. Or maybe that was just the growing worry gnawing at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vic rub her face and turn over on the sofa. "Tell me about it," she muttered, voice still thick with sleep. "My back is wrecked."

Sara barely avoided kicking the empty wine bottle on the floor. She didn’t have the heart to pointedly pick it up in front of Vic. "Rough night?" she asked as casually as possible, lighting a cigarette by the window.

Vic, now somewhat conscious, sat up with a groan. "I recorded All You Wanted for seven hours yesterday," she said flatly. "I hate it now."

"Shame. I like that one," Sara replied with a shrug.

"I liked it better when Aegon sang it," Vic admitted, scanning the room for something. There was a tinge of something in her voice—something sad—that Sara immediately picked up on.

Once Vic found her bag (and a cigarette), she joined Sara by the window.

"I haven’t seen him around the house," Sara noted. And honestly, that was weird. Those two had been practically fused for weeks, impossible to be around without feeling like an intruder—or worrying she’d walk in on them naked, unapologetically all over each other.

Then the contract came, and Aegon vanished.

"Haven’t seen him since Tuesday," Vic murmured, lighting her cigarette. That was odd.

It was Friday.

"Allen barely lets me breathe, which is fine—I mean, the first show’s in two months—but every time Aegon stops by the label, Aemond suddenly has some urgent, top-secret meeting to drag me to, or he locks me up in the booth for hours," Vic huffed, “It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose." she said, not really thinking about it, though frustration crept into her voice.

At the end of the day, she was only human. And maybe a good fuck with her boyfriend would’ve been a better stress reliever than downing a bottle of wine every night. Sara couldn’t exactly blame her.

Also Sara was starting to think maybe she was right and Aemond was doing it on purpose.

Maybe Aegon hadn’t been wrong that night at the pub when he clocked his brother’s behavior. And that pompous, arrogant sore loser definitely deserved to be called out on it.

"Well, thank God it’s Friday, babe," Sara said, trying to lift the mood—though her eyes flicked to the empty wine bottle by the couch.

"Yeah, no," Vic snorted. "I have to go to the label even tomorrow." She exhaled a humorless laugh, staring blankly out the window, ash collecting at the end of her cigarette. "And on Sunday, Jen booked a full day with some Hackney photographer so I can film twenty TikToks hyping up the single."

"Sounds awful."

"You don’t get it. She rented an Airbnb—wants to pretend it’s my actual bedroom and have me film videos in pajamas, like I just spontaneously wrote All You Wanted there on the spot."

Sara let out an exaggerated groan of disgust. Normally, that kind of reaction would’ve made Vic laugh—but not today. She kept staring out the window, and Sara was pretty sure that what came out of her mouth a second later was a genuinely miserable sigh.

Fucking Pisces moon. It was always the damn Pisces moon. Now that she saw the full picture, it was all painfully clear:  

She was happy for Vic, of course she was. But none of this was happening on her terms. It should’ve worked out the way Vic wanted—not according to the plans of whichever puppet master was pulling her strings this week.

Sara’s thoughts were cut off by the sound of Vic’s phone ringing, followed by the way she lunged to grab it from her bag, carefully sidestepping the empty wine bottle by the couch—just as she carefully avoided Sara’s gaze.

She answered while stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the armrest, mumbling a series of “yeah”s and “mmhmm”s that, for the first time that morning, carried the faintest trace of excitement. And that terrified Sara. That faint spark—how fragile it felt. Like it could be smothered at any second by this goddamn grind turning Vic into a one-woman content factory.

“I gotta go. Aemond’s picking me up in fifteen,” Vic said, scooping her bag off the couch. “At least we’ll swing by the studio before the torture begins.”

“That already sounds like a way better plan,” Sara said gently. Maybe telling him to fuck off could wait, but it still didn’t explain why that other idiot—his brother—hadn’t tried a little harder.

“Right? And he finally admitted my version of the bassline in Cut Song is better than his,” Vic replied, something lighting up in her again. The sweetness of Aemond’s praise worked on her like a balm—calming, soothing, grounding. It was written all over her face.

Then she was gone, vanishing in a flash. The moment Sara heard the shower start upstairs, she finally picked up the empty bottle from the floor and, as her fucking Pisces moon took over, started dialing Aegon’s number on her phone.

Sara had heard about those red bricks a billion times. She’d heard Vic talk about the mortifying public incident a few months back—how the shame had eventually morphed into pure joy every time she mentioned the life she now shared with the love of her life.

The same love of her life who was now very clearly neglecting her, and with whom Sara absolutely needed to have a word—just to make sure he was putting in the effort Vic deserved. Or else she’d personally rip his balls off. She quickly started scanning through her mental toolbox to figure out what would be the best method for this lovely little task.

“Hey!”  

The voice that greeted her when the door opened was soft and friendly—but it wasn’t Aegon. Instead, it was a blonde girl with big eyes, looking at her with a mix of polite curiosity and the kind of familiarity that said she definitely knew who Sara was.

Well, Sara knew who she was too. Aegon’s sister. She’d seen her a few times at the pub for open mics, though they’d never spoken.

“Hi! I’m looking for your brother,” Sara jumped right in, trying to keep her mission vibes in check.

“The wild card or the psychopath?” the girl asked with deadpan seriousness.

Sara burst out laughing. “Exactly…?” she shrugged, and even though the girl didn’t immediately get what was funny, after a beat she lit up and laughed too.

“It’s for me! Be right down!” Aegon’s voice boomed from upstairs.

His sister motioned for Sara to come inside. The Targaryen place looked more like a five-star restaurant than a home. Of course it did. Aegon was the type of guy made for Louboutins and Christmas in Cuba. Nice catch, Vic.

She led Sara into a huge living room, asking if she wanted some tea while collecting a few crystals from the coffee table and turning them over in her hands. Sara shook her head—tea wasn’t the priority right now—but curiosity got the better of her.

“Black obsidian?” she asked, tilting her chin toward the girl's closed fist.

The girl nodded, still fully committed to making oat milk coffee without letting go of her stones. “For grounding. There’s something in the air I really don’t like lately. Must be my Pisces moon...” she murmured, pouring the milk with care.

Sara barely had time to nod in total agreement—finally someone else who sensed the vibe was off—before Aegon walked into the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sara snapped the moment she saw him—maybe a bit too aggressively.

“Hey, you’re the one who showed up at my place—so you don’t get to ask why I’m always soaking wet every time we run into each other,” he said, raking a hand through his dripping hair.

His sister, coffee in one hand and her crystals still clutched in the other, mumbled a quick apology and left them alone in the living room.

“No, genius, I mean what the hell are you doing and why the fuck is my best friend miserable, hasn’t seen you since Tuesday, and you’re just… doing nothing?” Sara shot back, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Aegon rolled his eyes as he dropped onto the sofa. It was painfully obvious that if something was going on, he wasn’t about to just admit it.  

“Look, it’s not like I want to leave her alone and miserable. It’s the label’s schedule and they clearly don’t want me there.”

“Why the hell do you say it like you couldn’t care less?” Sara pressed, arms crossed now, suspicious as hell.

He shot her a look that could’ve fried her on the spot. “You think I don’t care? First they scrap my album again and now it’s like they don’t want me to even see her,” he said, throwing his arms wide in frustration, the anger in his voice more real than she expected. 

Maybe she’d misjudged him. “Every time I try to see her, she’s exhausted. And whenever I swing by the label…”

“She’s in some ‘super secret, totally off-limits’ meeting with Aemond or locked in the booth in the recording room,” Sara finished for him, deflated.

Aegon gestured at her like, exactly, then dropped his head into his hands.

Sara debated for a long moment whether to tell him what she really came to say. She wasn’t sure if he’d understand, or worse, if it would trigger him. She knew his history. Maybe he wasn’t the right person to bring into this mess. But still…

“She’s been drinking a lot lately,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper as she watched his reaction closely.

Miraculously, Aegon’s head shot up. His eyes locked onto hers, intense, urging her to keep going.

“I mean… a lot,” Sara added, needing to make it clear this wasn’t some ‘Friday night wind-down’ thing. This was a bottle of wine by herself—sometimes more—and her passed out on the sofa until morning.

And Aegon understood.

“What shift do you have tonight?” he asked suddenly, like the pieces had just clicked together in his head.

“I’m closing,” she replied.

“Good. Leave me your house keys.”

******

The lights in the studio were low and amber-honeyed, soft enough to blur the edges of things. One of the smaller rooms, the kind wrapped so tightly in soundproofing you could hear your own heartbeat if you sat still long enough. Vic perched on a stool near the mixing desk, sleeves shoved to her elbows, one boot hooked around the footrest, the other planted firm on the ground like she needed at least one part of her to feel steady.

Aemond sat beside her, nursing a mug of black coffee like it held all the answers, nodding along as the rough mix played through the monitors.

Her voice came through raw, frayed in all the right places. Unpolished, but intentional. She liked that. Honesty had a kind of texture you couldn’t fake.

When the track ended, silence stretched, thick and slightly charged. Vic glanced sideways at Allen.

“Well?”

He sipped his coffee first—always had to do that, like opinions required marinating in caffeine—then leaned back, long legs outstretched, casual. Too casual. “It’s good.”

“Good,” she echoed, dry. Her eyes shifted to Aemond, looking for the flicker of something—approval, maybe, or recognition. That steady kind he gave her sometimes when no one else was paying attention.

“Mhm.” His gaze slid to hers. That little glance he did, the one that always felt like it came with subtext in italics. “There’s something in the second verse. Not a flaw, exactly. Just... a moment. It dips.”

“Emotionally?” she asked. “Or melodically?”

“Bit of both,” he said, leaning forward, elbows to knees. “That line about ‘waiting in doorways with empty hands’—that’s the gut punch. But then you back off. The tension’s all built up and instead of snapping the thread, you let it go slack. I’d lean in.”

She hated that it made sense. Hated more that she couldn’t argue.

“I like it understated.”

“Understated’s great,” Allen said, stepping in now, voice softer. “But you’re not meant to sit in the background, Vic. You’re not wallpaper. People should hear you and forget to breathe.”

Something flickered in her. Small. Defiant. Unwilling.

Allen had this talent that Vic found dangerously compelling—he always managed to make her feel like the most precious person in the world. And yet, Vic couldn’t help noticing how things always seemed to turn out the way he wanted.  

Probably part of being a manager, she thought.

She shrugged.

Allen tilted his head. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t. Not all the way.”

She looked down at the scuffed toes of her boots. She didn’t have an answer for that.

Allen let it breathe for a moment before going on. “You’re right on the edge of something,” he said. Then turned to Aemond, like calling in a second opinion. “You feel it too, right?”

Aemond didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her—really looked—like he was reading some private translation only he could understand.

Vic shifted under it, not sure if it made her feel grounded or exposed.

“That shoot Jen set up,” Allen said, steering the moment back. “It’s this weekend, yeah?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Why?”

His tone didn’t change. Cool, practiced nonchalance. “Just wondering if you’ve thought about how you want to show up.”

“This the part where you tell me to wear fishnets and glitter?”

He grinned. “Nah. You’ve already got the aesthetic. It’s about owning it. Making it unmistakable. People remember Stevie’s shawls. Debbie’s bleach. Sometimes the right look cements a moment into myth.”

She didn’t reply, but didn’t roll her eyes either. Just held his gaze a second too long, until she could feel herself starting to believe he meant she could actually become a myth.

Allen leaned against the console, arms crossed, smile like he was in on something. “You know hair theory?”

Vic looked at him sideways. “Hair theory?”

“Yeah. All the greats have a signature look. Some little detail that makes them unmissable.”

“So I need to shave my head and become someone’s Pinterest board?”

He laughed. Low, warm. “Oh Jesus, not shave! That fringe? The way it moves when you sing—it’s stupid photogenic.”

She almost smiled. Almost. He didn’t even notice how crooked it was from years of DIY trims—or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“You’ve already got the voice,” Allen said, starting to circle her now, slow like an orbit. “The edge. The truth. But a recognisable look might even give you a little more—” he searched for the word “—swagger.”

That made her laugh, short and involuntary. The way he’d said it was warm, but not suffocating, and Vic thought that if Allen had been her manager back when she was a scared little girl with three thousand hang-ups about her place in the world… maybe things would’ve been a little easier.

“That’s not even a real word.”

“Sure it is. Bite. A little ‘don’t fuck with me’ in your walk.”

She looked at Aemond again, like do you believe this?, but he just gave the smallest nod—the kind you could pretend not to notice if you weren’t ready to take it seriously.

“People should see you,” Allen said, sitting on the edge of the table across from her, “and know exactly who the fuck you are.”

Vic let her head fall back. “Feels a little... calculated.”

“It is,” he said. “But so is walking on stage with a setlist. Doesn’t make it fake. You’re not selling out, Vic. You’re carving space for the real stuff to live.”

Vic stared at him for a second, grateful—really grateful—that he’d hit the exact nerve of her fears, ones that now felt a little childish and a little too idealistic.  

She weighed it for a moment, wondering if there was anything wrong with trusting him completely. Maybe even handing over the reins—at least for the cluttered, tangled parts of her brain she couldn’t seem to sort out in this new life that was moving faster than she could keep up with.

She felt like she was learning how to walk for the first time—that was the right metaphor. And right now, with her legs still shaky and her balance uncertain, the temptation to reach up toward Allen’s outstretched hand was suddenly strong.

“Maybe a bob,” Allen said under his breath, stepping in front of her, reaching out with slow confidence and gently tilting her chin like he was testing the silhouette.

Vic instinctively gathered her hair in one hand. She remembered that night with Sara—drunk, dramatic, declaring with absolute certainty that bad bitches wore their hair long. That Vic didn’t have the bone structure for risks like bobs.  

She thought of Aegon’s fingers tangled in her hair at Ruskin Park, the way he looked at her with that kind of distracted love neither of them was ready to name.

“It’d suit you,” Allen said.

Her head snapped up, surprised by how gentle his voice had gone.

Vic bit her tongue to keep from asking if he really meant it.

After all, he was supposed to believe in her. He had fought to have her on his roster. He’d loved All You Wanted, loved her demo, had thrown himself into her project (God knows what Stevie Nicks would think of that). He’d treated her album like it was a child.

She didn’t answer. Just picked up her guitar and started strumming the same three chords again, a little slower this time. Thoughtful.

Across from her, Aemond stayed quiet, but she could feel his eyes on her—curious, watchful, present. He studied her like a song half-finished, waiting to see where the chorus landed. Then he gave the smallest shrug, as if to say, It’s not a bad idea.

And Allen, well. He saw things. Named them.

If he said it would help, maybe it would.

She told herself it was just a haircut.

But even as she played, her mouth started shaping that half-finished chorus again—the one Allen swore might be the second single.  

And she wasn’t sure anymore if she actually wanted to cut her hair or if she just wanted to hear him say she was doing okay.

“Anyway,” Allen said, stretching like the conversation hadn’t just curled something deep inside her, “that second verse. Think about it. Or don’t. You’re the one in the booth.”

******

Vic didn’t need big speeches or candlelit five-course dinners—if anything, she’d mock the hell out of him for trying. But he could do quiet. Thoughtful. Her kind of romantic.

So Aegon let himself into Sara’s apartment with the keys she'd dropped into his palm that afternoon and got to work.

First: clean up. Not a deep clean—she'd smell that shit immediately and get suspicious—but just enough to make space feel a little softer and relieve her from doing it herself. The coffee table was wiped down. The blanket she always curled up with folded over the sofa, then unfolded and draped again because it looked too staged. The lamp near the sofa clicked on, casting a warm, low glow that made everything feel calmer, even to him.

He set up their old DVD player next.  

Moulin Rouge! still in its scratched plastic case, cover slightly torn at the edge. They’d watched it once weeks ago—she’d cried and tried to pretend she hadn’t, he’d pretended not to notice and then teased her about it anyway. She’d rolled her eyes, called him a little shit, but smiled the whole time.

The menu screen flickered on, Ewan McGregor’s voice caught mid-note, looping endlessly. He turned the volume low and left it waiting.

Dinner was next.  

Takeout—of course. Anything else would’ve felt wrong. She didn’t trust people who liked cooking too much. Thai was safer. Pad See Ew, crispy tofu, green curry—the comfort food she never ordered herself but always stole from his plate.

Now all that was left to do was wait.  

And try not to look like he was waiting.

He paced a little. Changed the position of the chopsticks. Adjusted the blanket again.  

Sat down. Got up. Checked his phone. Zero texts. Nothing from her.  

Not that he expected one.

She was exhausted lately. He could see it in the gaps between their moments—the way she slouched in doorframes, how her sentences trailed off when she thought no one was listening. And if Sara was telling the truth—and she usually was—Vic wasn’t just exhausted. She was slipping. Going quiet in a way that didn’t look like peace.

Aegon hated that. 

Hated feeling like the world was making her smaller when all he wanted was to see her whole.

He needed to grow a pair, set aside his stupid jealousy that she definitely didn’t deserve, stop selfishly obsessing over his damn album, and get back to focusing on what was now his priority: Vic.

So he waited. Quiet, in her space, in the soft light, with a movie and dinner and the tiny hope that maybe this would be enough to make her exhale.

And then—

Keys jingled outside the door.

His chest pulled tight.

The door swung open.  

And she froze. Like her brain short-circuited at the sight of him in her apartment.

She was mid-shrug out of her jacket, bag still half-slipped off one shoulder, hair damp at the ends from a light rain outside. Her eyes darted from him to the couch to the takeout and then back to him, wide with suspicion.

“What the fuck,” she said softly, blinking.

Aegon raised both hands like don’t shoot. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, a soft smile blossoming on her face.

“I broke in,” he said. “Left a trail of destruction. Probably microwaved your fish sauce.”

Vic narrowed her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Is that green curry?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—” She stepped inside slowly, eyes sweeping over the room like she was trying to spot the trap. “Did you set up Moulin Rouge?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Well… Sara’s out. And you haven’t exactly been returning texts, so…”

Her brows lifted, finally catching up to what was happening.

It hit her all at once, visible in the way her posture shifted. The bag thudded to the floor. Her jacket joined it. She clearly wasn’t used to this. Not from anyone. Not something sweet, and quiet, and no-pressure. 

She nudged him with her hip as she passed, heading for the sofa. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Aegon followed, slower. “You think I’ve been what?” he asked, the laugh in his voice edged with disbelief. “I’ve been trying to see you for days.”

He sat down beside her, close but not touching. “I missed you,” she said finally, voice almost too soft. “A stupid amount.”

Aegon looked at her, studied the edges of her face like he’d been trying to memorize them in her absence. “It felt like the fucking universe was in on it.”

She nodded, something small and sad in it. “It really did.”

They sat there for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, just honest.

Then she glanced sideways, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “So this is how you say “I missed you too”.”

“I was romantically pursuing you against odds worthy of a tragic Victorian novel, thank you very much.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “A real martyr.”

“So brave.”

They both smiled at the same time, soft and slightly shaky, like exhaling tension neither of them knew they were still holding.

And then he saw it.

The hair.

Shorter. A sharp bob now, grazing her jaw, with a fringe that looked like it hadn’t fully decided what it wanted to be yet. It framed her face in a way that made her look… sharper. Like she was cosplaying confidence and hadn’t fully committed to the role.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared a second longer than was socially acceptable.

She noticed.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Her hand lifted to her bangs, nervous, defensive. “I cut it. It’s fine. Allen wanted ‘a  look’. Whatever the fuck that means.”

Aegon tilted his head. “Do you like it?”

Vic didn’t answer right away. That was the answer.

“I don’t hate it,” she said after a beat.

He leaned closer. Gently reached out, ran two fingers along the edge of her bangs, soft and damp.

“You’re allowed to say you don’t like it,” she muttered, eyes flitting away again. “I won’t cry about it.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” he said, voice softening.

She raised her eyebrows, skeptical.

“I was thinking,” he said, trailing her cheeks with his thumb, “You look like a dangerous French film student,” he said.

She laughed once, sharp. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“I mean that in the best way. You’re like, mysterious now. Might seduce me and then ghost me for three years.”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, but she was smiling now.

“I’m serious.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “You look hot.”

Her cheeks flushed. She tried to roll her eyes again, but it didn’t land. Her hands moved to his shirt, tugging him a little closer.

He didn’t resist.

Her lips were right there, and when he kissed her it felt like opening a window. Warm, easy, a little clumsy at first—like they were both trying to remember how this worked after too many days apart. Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugged just enough to make him exhale against her mouth.

The second kiss was messier. Hungrier. Less I missed you and more I need you right now. His hands found her hips, slid beneath the hem of her shirt, skin warm and familiar under his palms. 

She broke the kiss long enough to murmur, “Wait, the movie—”

“Fuck the movie,” he said, already steering them toward the hallway.

“But it’s Moulin Rouge.”

“It’ll still be Moulin Rouge tomorrow.”

“You lit a candle, didn’t you?”

“I was trying to be romantic, Jesus—”

She laughed against his neck, breath catching as he pressed her against the hallway wall.

Their mouths found each other again, and again, and it felt like breathing for the first time in days. Like shaking off someone else’s version of who she was supposed to be.

By the time they reached her bedroom, Moulin Rouge was still looping in the background, the menu music tinny and distant. Aegon barely noticed.

He realised he didn’t care how long it took for her to feel like herself again. He’d be here. Quietly. On her red sofa. In her bed. Wherever she needed.

[that1notetaker]

I love and hate Severus Snape in equal measures. Also, Harry Potter would have been 100% better if he was actually a vampire but only the teachers and the golden trio knew for sure. He would mess around with the students on purpose and listen to their weird theories to further mess with them. Minerva would think it's funny on the inside and would only tell him off occasionally.

[ehhlien]

Armand killing Claudia and allowing Louis to kill his flock so that the two of them can live happily ever after is so manipulative.. but also reminded me of Lestat going out of his way to keep Claudia with them in New Orleans because he saw first hand what losing Claudia did to Louis, and he never wanted Louis to be in that state again. Both men are obsessed with Louis and beg for his attention, but went about it two completely different ways. And it costs one of them their lives, because they never thought to consider simply getting along with Claudia or trying to keep peace with her.

Both men are manipulative and selfish, but at the end of the day, Lestat has always been genuine about wanting Louis to be happy, even at his own expense.

[miraculan-draws]

The artistic decision for Louis to have no regional accent beyond "nebulously American" ONLY in the Dubai penthouse...with the NOLA accent returning immediately upon leaving...Jacob your mind

[maryasmorevna]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

hiii uh. dunno if this will make any sense, im kinda just throwing my thoughts at you

OKAY. so. been thinking about kuron(again) and the thing im just realising how ALONE he is, at least at the beggining. the people he thought of as his family fucking KILLED him, stole his body, and then basically forgot about him for YEARS. and after being ressurected- like, in the first few days, weeks, months- did kuron had ANY support? anyone to lean on?? to help him adjust to being alive again?

i know he starts to meet new people and make friends, and thats great! but. at the beggining....... lance was in a coma 'n shit, team voltron propably wasnt too enthusistic about helping kuron, and it just hit me that, at least the way i understand it(i might be wrong), he had to figure EVERYTHING out by himself

thats FUCKED dude

Oh god yes!!! To be honest i dont really have like a detailed idea for this part of the story like at best i have this one idea where Veronica is the first one to find him. Like in my head Veronica has been trying to track down Lance cause he ran away/didnt give the address once he moved out, isnt picking up his goddamn phone and literally dropped from the face of the earth and she cant find a trace of him. That was until apparently Lance?? 'Attacked' Shiro?? Like Shiro's fine just fainted and on bedrest and according to Curtis, Lance was saying something about "he is still in there" before apparently using Magic?? Somehow?? And taking something? From Shiro?? Yeah Veronica has no fucking clue. But a lead is a lead and she was able to track down Lance's new home only to find 1) a guy butt fuck naked coming out of a quintessence filled tub like the girl from Shining and who looks a bit like her boss. 2) her brother unconscious. She instinctly about to pull a gun on him except Kuron just slips and hits the floor, so now Veronica has two men she needs to drag to a hospital. Joy.

So like yeah Kuron's first stranger-to-acquintance-to-friend is Veronica. She neither has the history of All That™ the others have with Kuron, knows a bit about the clone situation to not be weirded out by it, but also doesnt really care about the whole Evil Clone thing™, cause i am so sorry but she has seen this man fall on his face first 5 times and counting, cry over a fridge ad that had kittens in it, and try to name himself Frank Shelley, even if he somehow becomes Evil~ Veronica is sure she can just Take him down easily, and like what is she supposed to do? Just leave him? He clearly has even less of an idea what is going on and she cant in good conscience leave him like this.

And thing is that Veronica does want to support Kuron, because he deserves that! It's the right thing to do and he deserves that! But at the start he really is a stranger to her and Lance is more of a priority to her than he is, and he is like one of the only leads that explains what is going on with Lance. And while she wont admit this but Kuron can tell and like logically He Gets That™!! He Gets That™!!! And he wants to help Lance too!! But he's also someone who is used and thrown away by everyone around him and this shit hurts like hell. Like this is a recipe of disaester for both of them and will result in a shouting match but right now Kuron is too high on pain meds and pain of being alive again to truly get into it so.

So like physically he isnt really alone in figuring this out, Veronica is trying to help him as much as she can help him, and the hospital staff she dragged him to are really nice to him as well. Emotionally......well there is effort. Vero is trying! Heck she even defended him when Shiro suggested they should lock him up cause he was a danger to everyone and is evil. She is trying but she also has her own trauma, whatever is going on with Lance, her family having separation anxiety, her job, etc etc and she can only do so much, and like Kuron is also trying but he is also dealing with so much and pushing it into the back burner and my guy is just not having great time at all. So like yeah he did had to figure out so much himself

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads // twitter thread

Like A Love Story

historical YA following three teens in 1989 New York amidst the AIDS crisis

a closeted Iranian boy who’s just moved to the city, a young punk activist rebelling against his conservative parents, and his best friend, an aspiring fashion designer

complicated friendships & romance, and revolution

[bednbunfast]

everything feels like it's falling apart,,