#backup viewer

[leafatlaw]

….do we think cderap is missing princezam too ?

He purposefully avoids Zaun, preferring to spend all his time at his ship. Just building. It’s an important build, he reasons, it makes sense he’s sleeping there instead of bothering to go back to an actual base. He spends full days there, working on the ship, it’s so big, and it’s easy to lose 10 hours just placing quartz. It helps him avoid thinking about how this is just another teammate who has left him alone. With not even a flower to remember them by.

[techdirectarchive]

How to fix BitLocker always prompting for Recovery Key

In this article, we will discuss how to fix BitLocker always prompting for Recovery Key. Please see “How to fix you are not allowed to view this folder on SSRS: MBAM reports cannot be accessed because it could not load folder contents“, and How to Change the Lock Screen Wallpaper in Windows 11. BitLocker is an encryption function of the Windows Operating System. Encrypted drives can only be…

[rulerofstars]

autumn whispers

oneshot: in the space between being a public hero and a private man, between the chaos of saving the world and the peace of your shared sanctuary, lies the most profound truth—that even after facing the darkness of the void, bucky barnes still finds his way home to you.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, fluff... more fluff. thunderbolts. bucky barnes. 1.9k words.

The warm studio lights beamed down on the polished hardwood floor of the talk show set. Outside, autumn leaves danced in the crisp October air, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the audience quieted down. A montage of explosive battle footage played on the large screen behind the host's desk: scenes of the Thunderbolts fighting side by side against the latest world-ending threat.

"And we're back with our very special guest tonight," the host, Marissa, announced with practiced enthusiasm as the camera panned to her and her guest. "The man who went from war hero, to villain, to hero again, to congressman, and now back to saving the world—Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

The audience erupted into applause as the camera focused on Bucky. You couldn't help but lean closer to your television screen, heart fluttering despite yourself. There he was, Bucky Barnes, looking almost unfairly handsome in a navy blue button-down that brought out the steel blue of his eyes. His brown hair, now grown out to just below his chin, was tucked behind his ears with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

He smiled politely, the expression warm but reserved in that way only Bucky could manage. The past decade had smoothed some of the harder edges from his face, but the slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was in the spotlight, remained.

"Thank you for having me, Marissa," he replied, his voice carrying that gentle gravel that always sent shivers down your spine.

"So, Congressman Barnes, or should I call you Sergeant Barnes again?" Marissa asked with a flirtatious edge to her voice, leaning slightly toward him.

"James is fine," he answered with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"James," she echoed, clearly delighted. "After three years representing New York's 14th district in Congress, many were surprised when you answered the call to rejoin the Avengers for this latest crisis. Tell us about that decision."

Bucky shifted in his seat, his vibranium hand, now sleekly designed with Wakandan tech that allowed it to appear almost indistinguishable from his right except for a subtle metallic sheen, rested comfortably on his knee.

"Well, when you've been fighting as long as I have, you learn that duty comes in many forms," he started, his voice thoughtful. "For the past few years, I thought my duty was best served in Congress, fighting for veterans' rights and rehabilitation programs for enhanced individuals. But when the call came that the Thunderbolts needed backup..." He paused, a shadow of something deeper crossing his features. "Some battles need to be fought on different fronts."

You smiled at the television, remembering the late-night conversations that had preceded his decision. The worry in his eyes, the way he'd held you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms before leaving.

"And what a battle it was!" Marissa exclaimed. "The footage we've seen is just incredible. Working alongside the Thunderbolts again after your own time on the team—how did that feel?"

Bucky's expression softened slightly. "Like coming home, in some ways. That team—we've been through a lot together. There's a trust that develops when you've fought side by side with people who've also known what it's like to seek redemption."

"Speaking of coming home," Marissa segued smoothly, her tone shifting to something more personal as she leaned even closer, "one thing our viewers are dying to know, is there someone special waiting for you when you return from saving the world? The Internet has been abuzz with speculation about Congressman Barnes' love life."

The camera zoomed in slightly on Bucky's face, catching the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. You held your breath, knowing what was coming.

"No comment on that front," he replied diplomatically. "I prefer to keep my personal life private."

Marissa wasn't deterred. "So you're saying you're single and available?" she pressed, her smile widening.

A flash of amusement crossed Bucky's face, there and gone in an instant that most viewers would miss. But you knew that look, he was thinking of you.

"I'm saying that some parts of life are sacred enough to keep away from the spotlight," he countered gently but firmly. "I learned that lesson the hard way over many decades."

"Fair enough," Marissa conceded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of viewers who'll be happy to hear there might still be a chance with the heroic congressman."

Bucky gave a noncommittal smile as the conversation shifted to policies he had championed in Congress and how his perspective as both a veteran and an enhanced individual had shaped his legislative priorities.

You switched off the television with a fond shake of your head. He'd handled that perfectly, as always. The agreement you'd both come to early in your relationship, to keep your love life completely separate from his public persona had served you well. No reporters camped outside your door, no intrusive questions about your past, no scrutiny of every aspect of your relationship.

Just the two of you, living your quiet life together between his more public responsibilities.

You glanced at the clock, he'd be home soon. The interview had been pre-recorded three days ago, before he'd returned from Washington. With a smile, you headed to the kitchen to finish preparing his favorite autumn meal.

The door clicked open quietly just as you were pulling the apple cider from the stove. The familiar sound of Bucky's footsteps—always lighter than you'd expect from a man his size—made your heart leap.

"Something smells amazing," his voice called from the entryway.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway of your small but cozy kitchen, jacket already hung by the door, boots removed. His hair was slightly tousled from the autumn wind, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The sight of him, not Congressman Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not even Avenger Bucky, but just your Bucky—made warmth spread through your chest.

"Welcome home," you said, setting down the pot and crossing the room to him. "Just in time. I saw your interview."

His arms encircled your waist as he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from your scent. "Yeah? How'd I do?"

"Mmm, very diplomatic," you murmured as his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. "Marissa was really trying her best, wasn't she?"

Bucky chuckled against your skin, the sound reverberating through you. "Didn't even notice," he mumbled. "Was too busy thinking about coming home to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, reaching up to tuck a strand of that soft brown hair behind his ear. His eyes, those incredible blue-gray eyes that had seen nearly a century of history—looked at you with such tenderness it made your breath catch.

"Missed you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that intimate tone reserved only for you.

"It was only three days this time," you reminded him with a smile, though you'd felt every hour of his absence.

"Three days too many," he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Congress, Avengers, interviews... none of it compares to this. To you. To us."

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, still amazed after all this time that this man—this complicated, beautiful, heroic man—had chosen a quiet life with you when he could have had anything or anyone.

"I made something special for you," you said, gesturing toward the kitchen where delicious aromas wafted through the apartment.

His eyes lit up with simple pleasure. "You spoil me, doll."

"You deserve to be spoiled," you replied easily. "Now go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

He stole a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom, and you returned to the stove with a smile playing on your lips. The routine was familiar, comforting, a pocket of normalcy carved out of extraordinary circumstances.

The small dining table in your apartment was already set, candles waiting to be lit. Outside your window, the trees on your quiet Brooklyn street displayed their autumn finery, reds, golds, and oranges creating a fiery tapestry against the darkening evening sky. You'd chosen this apartment together three years ago, when Bucky had first run for Congress, close enough to his district office but far enough from the heart of the city to give you both room to breathe.

Bucky returned, changed into a soft henley and comfortable pants, his hair damp and combed back from his face. The scent of his cologne, subtle notes of cedar and bergamot—filled your senses as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, helping you bring the food to the table, lighting the candles, pouring the cider into the ceramic mugs you'd bought together at a craft fair last autumn. As he passed behind you, his hand brushed against the small of your back, a gentle touch that sent pleasant shivers up your spine.

"So," you began as you settled into your seats, Bucky choosing to sit close beside you rather than across the table. He casually rested his hand on your thigh, thumb making small, gentle circles against the fabric of your pants. The warmth of his touch radiated through you as you leaned slightly into him. "How did the debriefing go? The real one, not the TV-friendly version."

Bucky took a bite of the food, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation before answering. His face was so close to yours that you could feel the gentle warmth of his breath, inhale the intoxicating blend of his natural musk and subtle cologne. "Better than expected. Bob says hi, by the way. Wants to know when we're coming over for dinner."

"Tell him anytime he's willing to cook," you teased.

Bucky smiled, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Will do." He took another bite, then added more softly, "It felt good, being back in the field. Different than Congress. More immediate. In Congress, you fight for change that might take years to see. Out there, you know right away if you've made a difference."

You nodded, understanding the complex relationship he had with his dual roles. "You make a difference either way, Buck. Different battles, like you said in the interview."

"Speaking of the interview," he said, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, "sorry about the 'single' implication. You know how it goes."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I knew what I was signing up for." You took a sip of cider, the warm spices dancing on your tongue. "Besides, I kind of enjoy being your best-kept secret, Congressman Barnes."

His expression softened as he turned to face you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to cup your cheek. The candlelight caught the subtle gleam of his vibranium fingers against your skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted of cider and something uniquely him, a taste that never failed to make your heart race. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Not a secret," he corrected gently. "Just private. There's a difference."

"I know," you assured him. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The decision to keep your relationship out of the public eye had been mutual from the beginning. After everything Bucky had been through, decades of having his choices taken away, years of fighting to reclaim his identity—privacy had become sacred to him. And you, having seen the media circus that surrounded other Avengers' relationships, had readily agreed.

It wasn't hiding; it was preserving something precious.

After dinner, you moved to the small living room, settling onto the worn but comfortable couch that faced the electric fireplace. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the windows. Bucky pulled the handmade quilt, a gift from Wanda, over both of you as you curled against his side.

"Want to watch something?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Bucky shook his head, his arm tightening around you. "Just want to be here. With you. No screens, no cameras, no reporters. Just us."

You nestled closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His vibranium arm, always slightly cooler than his flesh one, curved protectively around your waist.

"Tell me something good that happened while I was gone," he murmured into your hair.

This was another ritual, finding moments of simple joy to share with each other, a practice that had helped Bucky learn to recognize the good in his life after decades of darkness.

"Mrs. Kapoor from downstairs brought up some homemade samosas yesterday," you told him. "Said they were a thank you for helping her grandson with his history project. I saved you some—they're in the fridge."

"She makes the best samosas in Brooklyn," Bucky said appreciatively. "What else?"

"The maple tree in the park has turned completely red now. It happened almost overnight. And I finished that book you recommended, the one about the lighthouse keeper. You were right, the ending was worth the slow middle."

He smiled against your temple. "I've been reading books long enough to know a good payoff when I see one coming."

"Your turn," you prompted, looking up at him. "Something good from your trip."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. "There was this kid at the hospital we visited after the battle. Couldn't have been more than eight. Lost his arm in an accident last year." His voice softened. "He showed me his prosthetic—nothing fancy, but he'd decorated it with Avengers stickers. Had Steve's Captain America mask right at the top."

Your heart squeezed. "Bucky..."

"I showed him some of the basic maintenance I do on mine," he continued. "Simple stuff, things his parents could help with. But the way he looked at me, doll..." Bucky shook his head slightly. "Like having one arm didn't make him less. Like it made him special. Connected to something bigger."

You reached for his metal hand, bringing it to your lips and kissing the palm gently. "You changed how he sees himself."

"Maybe," Bucky acknowledged. "That's worth all the congressional hearings and PR interviews combined."

The rain grew heavier outside, drumming a soothing rhythm on the roof. The warm glow from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across Bucky's face, highlighting the contours you'd memorized with your fingertips on countless nights like this one.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "if Marissa knew what she was missing: quiet nights, pot roast, and rainstorms—she might have tried even harder to get that dating confirmation."

Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not a chance. This isn't for sharing." His expression grew more serious as he gazed down at you. "Sometimes I think about how different my life could have been. All those years as the Winter Soldier, then the fighting, the pardons, the political career... None of it prepared me for this."

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For how it would feel to come home to someone who knows all of me—every part, every history, every name I've ever had—and loves me anyway." His voice dropped to a whisper. "For how simple and yet impossible it seemed that I could have this kind of peace."

You shifted to face him fully, cupping his face between your hands. "James Buchanan Barnes, are you getting sentimental on me?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Might be. Happens every autumn. Something about the changing leaves makes a century-old man reflective."

"Well, this century-old man better save some of that reflection for tomorrow," you teased. "We promised to help Yori rake his yard, remember?"

Bucky groaned dramatically. "Why did I agree to that? I was just in a battle to save the world."

"Because he promised to make us sushi afterward," you reminded him. "And because you're a good friend, even when you pretend to be grumpy about it."

He sighed in mock resignation, then suddenly moved, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion that reminded you of the superhuman strength he usually kept carefully controlled. "Fine. But that means we should make the most of tonight."

Your breath caught as his hands settled on your waist, warm and secure. "Any specific ideas, Congressman?"

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer. "Several. None of which I'll be sharing on national television."

As his lips found yours, gentle at first and then with growing intensity, you smiled against his mouth. Outside, the autumn storm continued, leaves swirling in the wind, the world rushing by with all its complexities and dangers. It was an ordinary moment. And yet, as you padded across the room to join him underneath the sheets, accepting every kiss, every touch, every bit of his being— you knew this was everything neither of you had dared to dream possible.

Congressman, Avenger, Thunderbolt, Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, the world knew him by many names. But in the gentle warmth of a Brooklyn sunset, he was simply yours, and you were his, and that was the greatest truth of all.

[rafesteddy]

ℕ𝕖𝕨 𝕐𝕖𝕒𝕣’𝕤 ℝ𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟’ 𝔼𝕧𝕖 - ℝ𝕒𝕗𝕖 ℂ𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕠𝕟 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕥

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙱𝚘𝚍𝚢𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙿𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: pet names, swearing, angst, fighting, rough touch, kissing, degradation, name calling, possessive!rafe, jealous!reader, protective!rafe, rough oral male receiving, gunplay, spanking, overstim, cum licking (floor), choking, fingering, pussy slapping, dirty talk, teasing, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, creampie, ownership kink, brat taming, no safe words

from this au if you want to read about the night they got together 🌹

📖 the reader has been secretly dating her bodyguard. During her NYE performance, she learned she’s not the only one he crossed the line with.

⭐ unedited ⭐

Reader's POV:

The backstage area is a whirlwind of costumes, stagehands, producers, and backup dancers. You eye yourself in the mirror, body hugged in a glittering black bodysuit with thousands of sequins that catch every stray light beam.

You should be basking in the excitement of a childhood dream come true—after all, millions of viewers are about to watch you perform a duet on New Year's Rockin’ Eve. But the second she walked inside, any excitement you might have felt went out the window.

Bella Dean.

She's the diva you're supposed to share the big closing number with: petite, curvy, absolutely stunning. Her talent is almost as big as her ego.

Bella’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “Look at you, baby,” she coos, sashaying up to you, flashing a smile that makes your stomach flip. “You okay? You look a little sick?” She asks, pouting her lip, her tone almost demeaning; clearly commenting on your appearance and not the state of your health–just being a fuckin’ bitch.

You fake a smile as your pulse spikes. “Sick?” You ask through a breathy laugh as you raise an eyebrow at her.

“Ill? Not feeling well? Under the weather? You don’t know what sick is?” She asks, returning a nasty laugh.

“I feel just fine. Thanks for your concern,” you reply, your face twisting slightly.

"Of course," she purrs. "I think my makeup girl’s around here somewhere… Maybe it’s just because you look a little dull. I’m sure she has some highlighter or something to add a little sparkle,” she adds a little extra sweetness to her voice at the end, her cruelty making you feel like you could lose your mind as you try to remain professional. Your fingers tighten around your microphone as you try to focus on what’s coming next instead of the 5’2” nightmare beside you.

She steps out just before your cue, hitting the stage first, looking back at you with a wink and a smug smile you wish you could hurl your mic at her face.

You take a calming breath, reminding yourself that this will be a few minutes. You have a whole night ahead of you to look forward to. A night with him… Rafe stands off to the side, looking devilishly handsome in his all-black suit. He folds his arms over his broad chest, looking into the crowd, eyes trailing the space as usual.

You turn back to Bella, your eyes finding hers, her ruby-red lips curling into a wicked smile, making a knot of unease tighten in your belly. She quirks her eyebrow, stepping closer; too close for your liking. “That bodyguard of yours…” she says, tipping her head toward Rafe, making her platinum blonde curls bounce. “I haven’t seen him in a minute.”

You fiddle with your microphone, trying to seem as unbothered as possible, but she sees right through you.

“Rafe?” She chirps, making your eyebrows shoot up as his name leaves her lips effortlessly. “Mhmm… Rafey. Ugh, don’t tell me he didn’t mention me,” she tosses her hair to the side. “I’m sure he had an interview. That wasn’t brought up?”

You purse your lips, look out toward the crowd, and try to distract yourself.

“Don’t tell anyone, but we did get a little cozy on my last tour,” she leans in, giddily gossiping like she’s talking to a friend, but we both know what she’s doing. How unprofessional of me, right?” she chides as she smiles out to the crowd, giving them her million-dollar smile before blowing them a kiss.

You feel your body tremble as the adrenaline of the night and this admittance courses through your veins. Rafe did mention he’d once made a mistake by getting involved with a past client, but he never mentioned a name–her name. You swallow hard, clearing the lump in your throat as your mind starts spinning out, thinking of what the two must have done behind closed doors.

“That doesn’t sound like Rafe,” you assure.

“So you didn’t know. Ouch.” She flicks her gaze toward him again. “Doesn’t sound like you’re working the man to his full potential.”

You bite your cheek, lips tightening as you try to hold back your outburst. “Well, if you are and you don’t kiss and tell, just know he has a habit of getting too close. I just want you to be careful,” she pouts again, her voice like nails on a fucking chalkboard as the band starts to play around you.

And with that, she glides away, leaving you breathless and seething as she walks to the front of the stage. Your cheeks burn as you glance at Rafe from the wings. He catches your eyes with a concerned expression–the man no doubt reading your emotion like a book. Even though he has no idea what the fuck just happened, he knows something’s off with you. His eyebrows pinch together, beautiful features hardening.

Bella and Rafe? I can’t fuckin’ handle this right now.

The crowd roars excitedly as Bella’s voice pours out of the speakers. Your heart bangs with the opening beats of the song. You look toward the camera as it pans to you, forcing a smile. Your voice wavers as your anxiety gets the better of you–Bella looking toward the wings at Rafe as well, painting a picture of what their exchanges might have looked like in the past, her stealing little glances at him from center stage instead of you.

The lights sweep over you, and the first note leaves your lips. Your muscles tighten as the pitch wavers, just a hair off, but it’s enough for Bella to shoot a look back at you. Your stomach aches, heartbreaking, as you feel yourself starting to fumble while Bella shines. You push harder–the melodies leaving your lips sounding anything but natural.

Bella steps forward, delivering her verse perfectly, making the crowd scream. Her eyes twinkle as she passes you, making your blood boil. You lose track of the music for a split second, coming in a beat too late, making the blonde smirk in your peripheral vision. Fucking cunt.

You take a deep breath with the guitar break, straining to gather your emotions, trying to remind yourself of the night and how you’ll hate yourself if you let her ruin it for you. You turn toward her, melting your voices together in perfect harmony. The tension between you is thick, but it doesn’t read that way–the crowd, eating up every second of the duet.

The music cuts and the crowd goes wild. Bella moves toward you for the planned hug, but you step away and wave to the crowd. As she waves, you feel her arm wrap around your waist, pulling you in for a half-hug. Bella leans in, looking up at you, feigning concern. “You were a bit shaky. Are you okay?”

“Fuck off,” you hiss through a gritted smile to the crowd.

She gasps surprisedly before resting her head on your shoulder. “Don’t be upset, babes. Let me know if you are ever in the market for a new bodyguard. I always find the best ones,” she winks. “Have a happy New Year.”

You resist the urge to run, walking off the stage gracefully before storming toward your manager, taking your purse off her hands before snapping your focus to Rafe. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was Bella you messed around with, huh?” You hiss, quiet enough to meet his ears only as you glare at him.

“This isn’t the right place,” he warns as he looks through you even still, eyes scanning the crowd.

“No, Rafe,” you snap. “This is the perfect fucking place. I just found out about your little fling from Bella. Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Rafe steps closer, looking you in the eyes, making you draw a little breath. “Not now.”

“Forget it,” you scoff, and before he can stop you, you flee the scene, disappearing into the thick crowd of backstage traffic. You walk through the double doors, looking to the left at the long line of dressing rooms before taking a risk, pushing through the side door.

The winter wind whips as you walk through the tight, dark alley, heels clicking against the asphalt with each step as you head toward the main street. Fans and paparazzi push in around you, yelling your name, but you keep your head down, pushing ahead.

You look down the block, knowing your hotel is close, but how close? You shove through the thick crowd, still waiting to get into the venue. The middle of the road is packed, too, with a barrage of people gathered, waiting for the ball to drop. You lift your eyes for a moment. Halfway there… You cross your arms tighter around your waist, trying to keep warm while holding yourself back from answering the phone vibrating like crazy in your purse.

Silence.

You sigh in relief as you walk into the swanky downtown hotel. The noise behind you falls away. The lobby's hush and glamor starkly contrast what’s happening on the other side of the revolving door—velvet chairs, marble floors, and the soft golden glow of chandeliers hanging overhead.

You draw a deep breath and blow it out slowly, looking to your left. Your head hangs with mental exhaustion as you step toward the hotel bar, pushing through the door before heading toward the rail.

You order your drink, asking for a double, hearing your voice tremble with anger and stress. You stare at your reflection in the barback's mirror, your makeup perfectly done, stage outfit on; your hairstyle to perfection, but that was just a facade. You felt far from perfect underneath–completely broken.

Rafe seems so poised and professional. It was so hard to break his icy exterior…

As childish as it sounds, you felt special. He seemed so untouchable that when you were able to break through, you felt like maybe there was something different about you.

He didn’t seem like someone who would sleep with his clients, and now you can’t help but think just how many people he had took care of like he was taking care of you.

Bella… What if it wasn’t special, though? What if it was just a one-time thing–a fling, and Bella was trying to get in your head? You grab your drink, lifting it to your lips, downing half of it fast, letting it sear your throat, trying to numb your thoughts.

She wanted this to happen. You hated yourself for letting her affect you the way she did. The truth is, she saw you fall apart in front of her, catching every missed step and note; each misstep was a win for her.

The bar is quiet, the low roar of the New Year’s celebration humming outside. The soft jazz piano swells in the background, paired with the soft conversations of the guests dressed to the nines. No one bats an eye at your arrival; no one asks for anything from you, letting you sit for a moment and breathe.

“Sir!” You hear the shrill call of someone from the lobby. A sudden commotion on the other side of the door pulls you out of your peace as Rafe storms in. He looks down at his phone, eyes scanning from left to right. Your heart falls as he zeros in on you, his nostrils flaring with anger, contrasting with the look of relief in his striking blue eyes.

He sucks his teeth, holding himself back from cursing you out on sight. His Gucci suit jacket is half undone, his toffee-colored hair mussed, and his sharp jaw is set in a straight line. He looks fuckin’ angry, completely winded, like he's been fighting through thick crowds, going to Hell and back to get to you. Good. Let him be angry. Why should I have to suffer alone?

Rafe makes a beeline for you, his long legs crossing the room in a few strides. The bartender walks over, asking how he can serve him, his voice quickly fading as he sees the look in Rafe’s eyes. Your bodyguard thumbs through his wallet, slapping $100 on the counter before grabbing your arm.

“We’re leaving,” he hisses, tugging you off the barstool. You gasp, your unfinished drink sloshing onto the floor as he steers you back toward the exit.

You yank your arm back, disregarding the curious glances around you, shooting daggers at your brooding bodyguard. “You don’t get to boss me around right now,” you hiss as you fight him off, but it only makes his fingers twist a little tighter around your arm.

“Once wasn’t enough?” He snarls.

“Spare me the lecture,” you sass. “M’not in the mood for you —fuckin’ drama queen.”

Rafe leans in, his warm breath hitting your skin as he pulls you toward the elevator. “Do you have any fucking idea how reckless that was? Runnin’ out there alone on the busiest night of the year? In the busiest city? Are you insane? And you’re alone-”

“Did I look alone?” You snap as you lift what’s left of your drink. “Didn’t pour this shit myself,” you laugh tauntingly before shooting it back.

He scoffs annoyedly as his grip on you tightens even more. “So you’d rather run away and have somethin’ awful happen to you, risk my whole fuckin’ career than talk to me about what you found out?”

“Correct,” you clip. “Now, let go of me.”

“Let’s make a deal, tough girl. You can get outta my fuckin’ grip, then you can go. I happen to like you... I’m not some insane stalker who wants to wear your fuckin’ skin. Aight? It ain’t safe out there for you, and for some reason, you think that your best option is to run,” he hisses as he bangs his fist against the up button.

The elevator door glides shut, leaving the two of you alone. You both stand next to each other, seething for different reasons. Rafe tosses your arm away when you fight against him one last time, making you push out an exaggerated breath.

Elevator music fills the space around you, so light and cheery it’s almost satirical at the moment. You stand side to side with your bodyguard, arms crossed over your chests, both of you waiting for the other to break.

“You have no right-”

“Run off again, and I swear to fuckin’ Christ,” he cuts you off.

“You wouldn't be mad? Really?”

“‘Course I would be. I'd be fuckin’ irritate, but I’d wait ‘til I got back to the hotel to say somethin’ like a fuckin’ adult. Not run away like a goddamn child-”

“I’m not-”

“A child,” he cuts you short, finishing your sentence as he turns toward you, his voice low and lethal. “You’re not a fuckin’ kid. Aight? You’re a grown-ass woman. Start actin’ like it before you get yourself hurt.”

You turn toward his chest, too, and look up into his eyes, not backing down. “You told me you once crossed a line with a client but never said it was her. She wasn't even mentioned on your resume, Rafe. Why was that?” You ask breathily, letting your defiance and disgust bleed through.

“That shit doesn't change the fact that that was a bad decision, princess,” he returns your same tone, that term of endearment he loves to use coming out as anything but endearing.

“Let’s talk about good decisions, Rafe. Her? I'm questioning you and your fuckin’ taste level. Bella is a cunt. It would have been nice to know this before sharing the stage with her so I could have been prepared for her bullshit instead of being blindsided and ruining that moment for myself.”

“Ruining your moment? What the hell are you talking about?” He asks in disbelief. “Your performance was perfect.”

“The fuck it was, Rafe,” you scoff as you step out of the elevator without him. “Your performance was perfect,” you mock him. “Bella’s performance was perfect, Rafe… And tomorrow, when there’s a review on Rolling Stone, maybe you’ll get it through your thick fuckin’ head.”

Rafe runs his fingers through his hair; frustration etched into every line on his handsome face. “Baby,” he mumbles as he softens his tone and closes the space between you and him. “I screwed up by not tellin’ you before tonight. M’sorry. But you can’t keep runnin’ off when you’re mad. I’m your bodyguard; I have to protect you whether you like me or not.”

You wave your keycard in front of the door handle, rolling your eyes at his apology, if you could even call it that. “Well, Rafe… Maybe you should be better at protecting your secrets,” you grumble, going to shut the door behind you, but Rafe clutches it tight, pushing against you with minimal effort, making you growl in frustration. You toss your clutch onto the sofa, kick off your heels in protest, and rip off your earrings for dramatic effect.

"You lied by omission, Rafe. You said you 'made a mistake' once with a client but never told me it was Bella. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out?”

He sighs as he strips himself of his jacket, tossing it off before loosening his tie. “Jesus Christ, baby. I was gonna tell you. Just not right before you had to perform with her."

"How considerate,” you breathe, your sarcasm palpable, making his cheeks flush with anger.

“Bella is toxic-”

“No shit,” you laugh.

“She'll do anythin’ to get under your skin-” he starts.

“Jesus, Rafe! Tell me something I don’t fuckin’ know!”

“I screwed up with her, yes… But do you know how long ago that was? That was at the start of my career. I was still tryin’ to figure shit out. I was young-”

“So, is this a serial thing for you, Cameron? Or am I an exception?” You ask, with a lifted brow as you pop open a bottle of De Venoge Louis, eyes shifting over to him. “Just another one of your favorite pop stars?”

“Enough,” he groans tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration as he paces the room. “You know that's not how I see you… You gotta stop.”

“And how do you see me?” You ask. “I know how I see you…” You mutter, foregoing the glasses altogether, lifting the bottle to your lips instead.

“Not gonna tell you how I feel right now.”

“What the hell does that mean,” you laugh, dribbling champagne on your chin as you look up at him, fluttering your lashes in confusion.

“Because you’re actin’ irrational. This is not the time.”

“Stop telling me that it’s not the time, Rafe. Oh my god,” you whine, voice brimming with frustration.

“I get that you’re upset,” he scolds. “But runnin’ off into the city alone after a show and putting yourself at risk like that over Bella Dean was fuckin’ stupid, regardless, and you know that. Come back here… And lose your shit. Hell, you’re yellin’ at me right fuckin’ now. Only difference is you’re safe.”

“Sorry for makin’ you do your job, Rafe.”

He nods his head, a look in his eyes like he’s going absolutely insane. He crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps flexed, looking like it could tear the fabric apart. “N’to be clear. Chasin’ you is my job?”

“Dunno. Wasn’t at the job interview… Not quite sure what your scope of work was, but I assume the details of your job didn’t include sleepin’ with me either-”

“You’re begging for trouble, you know that?” He shouts, his loud voice hitting your chest hard, making the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

“M’Terrified,” you giggle, trying to hide your nervousness as your heart rate starts to climb. His eyes narrow on yours–a mix of anger and something darker.

He walks over, looking down at you perched on the velvet lounge chair. You gasp as his hand comes around your throat, his grip tightening and tightening. He lifts you to your feet, pulling you chest to chest. “Keep talkin’ back and see what the fuck happens.”

You look at him with dead eyes, seemingly unimpressed by his threats, letting your eyes roll in the back of your head. Rafe tightens his grip a little more, making you sputter out a breath.

“Keep rollin’ those eyes at me, too, while we’re at it,” he growls. “You think I won’t give you a lesson?”

Adam's apple bobs in his throat, lip snarling as you refuse to submit. Rafe yanks you forward, crushing his lips against yours in a deep, desperate kiss. You go to shove him away, but his fingers find your hair, twisting into the strands, tugging you closer, forcing you in place. The air leaves your lungs as he shoves you into the wall, never breaking your kiss.

When he finally tears his lips away, you’re both breathless, chests heaving, longing for more.

“You’re fuckin’ impossible,” he rasps, blue eyes blazing with lust, his rasp voice taut and hoarse. “Run off, you don’t fuckin’ listen, and then you come back here and pick stupid fuckin’ fights, spoutin’ off shit we both know ain’t true.”

“Maybe you deserve it, Rafe. Did you ever think about that-” Rafe silences you with another kiss–more longing and possessive than the last. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him into your lips.

Rafe breaks away again, leaving you chasing his lips. He rests his forehead against yours, the two of you panting into each other, desperate for more.

“I’m gonna teach you a lesson,” he whispers, voice vibrating with tension. “Next time you try this shit, just know I’ll chase you down. Next time you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me, I’ll pin you where you stand. You can’t keep doin’ this shit without consequences.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, pussy pulsing as you listen to all of his threats– his words honestly having the opposite effect. Looks like he’s the one begging for trouble.

“Fuckin’ do it, Rafe,” you dare him, smiling against his lips, “you think I'm scared of you?"

“Think you're braver than you should be, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, Rafey? You gonna punish me?” You ask.

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” he says, firm and cold, making goosebumps spread across your body. He leans in, pinning you against the wall, pressing his big body into you. Rafe kisses along your neck, teeth scraping your ear. “Don’t even think we have a safe word. Do you?” He asks, and you can hear that crooked smile in his voice.

“N-No,” you whisper, trying to recall, but you honestly don’t think you could at this moment, the way his body surrounds you, his rich cologne clouding your senses completely.

“Shit, baby… Guess you’re outta luck.” You gasp as he picks you up off your feet, slinging your body over his shoulder. “Maybe if you start behaving-” Crack! He slaps your upper thigh harshly, making you scream. “Maybe we can think of one together, hmm?”

Rafe throws you down on the bed, making the last bit of air in your lungs escape. He strips himself out of his button-down shirt, quickly working himself out of his pants before tossing his belt and gun onto the bed.

“Wh-What are you gonna do with those?” You ask, hearing your voice tremble.

Rafe clears the space between you, lowering his hands on the mattress as you look wide-eyed at him.

“Aww, princess… You know me. I love leavin’ out little details,” he smiles wickedly.

Rafe grabs the front of your bodysuit, tearing the delicate material open effortlessly, sending rhinestones and beads flying onto the bed and the hardwood floor as he tears away the custom piece without batting an eye. He pulls the material down your thighs, tossing it to the floor before grabbing your hips, manhandling you to your belly on the bed, your ass in the air, and your feet on the floor.

“FUCK!” You scream as his big hand comes down, slapping your bare ass, leaving behind a tingling sensation. Before you can even react, he does it a second time, then a third, making tears pool in your eyes and wetting the mattress. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“The fuck was that, tough girl?” He asks through a breathless laugh.

“I-I… Fuck you,” you whimper, trying to stand strong. Rafe grabs a fistful of hair, yanking you back, his head lowered to match your eyes.

“Fuck me? You told me to do this shit, baby girl… You’re the boss. I’m just doin’ my job.” Rafe uses his hold on your hair to push your face into the mattress, pushing two thick fingers into your soaked core. “Listen up, princess,” Rafe huffs. “You deserve this. I’m not gonna put up with this shit, aight? You’re lucky I’m even fuckin’ touchin’ you.” Rafe pumps his fingers in your pussy, finger-fucking you mercilessly as you try your best to wiggle away. “Stop squirmin’,” he chides. “Hands behind your fuckin’ back.”

The second you do, Rafe grips the against your lower back, the palm of his hand clapping against your ass as he fingers stroke your G-spot. Your thighs start to tremble, pussy tightening around his big fingers. “Fuck, Rafe,” you moan.

“Yeah? You wanna cum?” He taunts.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Think it’ll fix that little attitude of yours?”

“Yes, fuck!” You cry.

“I’m not sure it will…” Rafe sighs sadly. “I’ll let you cum tonight. But I swear if this shit happens again. M’not… Not until you’re at my hotel door beggin’ and cryin’ for my dick like a whore.” Rafe pulls his hands out of your soaked cunt, slapping your pussy fast and tough, making you cum hard, sobbing as your pussy flutters around nothing, your hands still pinned tightly against your back. Rafe fucks his fingers into your cunt, darting them inside you at an insane pace, and seconds later, you’re coming again, pussy gushing around his hand, landing on the floor with a little splash.

And even then, he doesn’t stop, his fingers just sopping through the mess as you fight against him, crying in overstimulation and pleasure. “Rafe, please. Please. Please.”

“What?” He spits.

“I-I… Mphff… Safe… Safeword,” you hiccup.

He booms out a laugh. Drawing both his hands back in surrender. Completely mocking you and the mess he made of his favorite girl. “You’re kiddin’ me?” He teases as he rests his hands on the bed, lowering himself to your ear, his chest brushing against your bare back. “Safeword?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you pant. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Jeopardizing my job, your life, our fuckin’ relationship over a bitch then means nothin’ to me. That’s the least you should be,” Rafe scolds as he grabs your hips, rolling you to your back.

You look between your thighs, eyes following Rafe as he reaches for his gun. He lifts it, making a show of it, eyeing the weapon in his hand. Your eyes fall down his body, watching his muscular chest rise and fall with his rapid breathing, his gold chain glinting in the dim. The ridges of his abs deepen with every level breath, his hard cock tenting out the fabric of his white Calvins, leaving you craving him even more.

He clicks on the safety, lifting the gun, pointing it at your pussy, slapping the piece against your inner thighs. “Spread your shit,” he mumbles. You widen your thighs on the mattress, your glossy cunt dripping with your arousal. Rafe presses the cool muzzle against your pulsing clit, making your muscles jump and your thighs drawn in. “I said ‘spread your shit,’” he shouts, making you flinch. “What’s it gonna take for you to listen? Huh?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I-”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Daddy,” he mocks your fucked-out voice again. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Rafe repeats your words from the fight as he starts to rub little figure eights on your clit. Your body trembles with adrenaline as he continues to work you over with his handgun. The knot in your stomach starts to tighten as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to your peak. “You gonna cum… off a gun? You that big of a slut, princess? You don’t even need a dick?” Rafe mumbles, and right when you’re about to fall apart below him, he pulls it away, leaving you whimpering and fussing for more, your bottom lip wobbling as you look up into your boyfriend’s beautiful, cruel eyes.

“Rafe, you’re being mean…” You whisper, your voice barely above a hush. “I said, ‘I was sorry’.”

“And, I told you not to run away again… N’look what happened. Get on your knees.”

You climb off the bed, stumbling slightly from your weak knees. You land on the floor, crawling the rest of the way to Rafe, glassy-eyed and pouty-lipped. You kneel before him, watching as Rafe lifts the gun slightly, mirroring his dick, the tip of it coated with your slick.

“Suck it.”

Your heart starts to race as you look down the barrel of the gun. You look up at Rafe as you wrap your lips around the end of it, feeling your heart bang in your chest.

You take the cold metal to the back of your throat, taking as much as you can get, gagging around his weapon, sucking it clean, bobbing back and forth with your eyes on him. Rafe looks down at you hungrily, desperately wanting your lips on him and giving him the same service.

“Take ‘em off,” Rafe mumbles, and you slide your wet lips off the gun, racing to pull down his boxers fast. And without warning, he shoves himself in your mouth, pushing as far as his dick would go making you sputter and gag. You reach out, grabbing his tights, squeezing tightly, losing all vision as your eyes fill with tears.

You blink your tears away as he slides in and out of your swollen lips, grunting and moaning, using your mouth like a toy. The sounds around you were downright pornographic, making your pussy weep down your thighs. Your mouth leaked as well, saliva and precum dripping out of the seam.

Rafe finally pulls you off his cock, leaving you gasping for a breath. Before he can give you a command, you wrap your lips around him again in a desperate attempt for mercy, swirling and sucking him off just like he loves. You cradle his heavy balls in your hand, and he throats his hand back to the ceiling, a broad smile spreading on his perfect lips. “Atta girl… Fuck, that’s my good girl,” he praises.

You bob your head back and forth, stroking where your mouth won’t reach, trying desperately to please him. You can feel his cock throb and swell on your tongue, his breathing quickening by the second.

“Better swallow it all, princess, or we’re gonna be back at square one,” he mumbles, only half-kidding. He looks down at you, watching you throat him with all you have, his plump bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

Rafe pulls out of your mouth, jerking his cock in your face as you lay out your tongue. His warm cum shoots out of his tip, coating your lips and tongue. Your eyes flutter open as you swallow it all, licking your lips to clean up the rest of the mess as you look up at him.

He clicks his tongue, letting his gaze fall, eyeing a few loose pearls of cum decorating the floor. You rest your hands on the hardwood, lowering yourself to lick it up.

“Fuck, princess,” he moans as he looks down at you in lust and adoration. Rafe reaches for you, pulling you off the floor and into his strong arms. You wrap yourself in his, dressing your arms around his neck as his lips press against yours for a tender kiss.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you whisper.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he soothes. “No more punishments. Alright? You took that shit like a good girl. Let me take care of you, yeah?” He mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me… This right here—this is what I’ve been wantin’ to do all night.”

“Yeah?” You ask breathily, pecking at his lips.

“You kiddin’ me?” He chuckles as he lays you down on the bed, burying himself in his neck before kissing his way up to your ear. “Just wanted to take care of you. Make you feel good. Hard to think about much else when I see you up there. Can barely focus on keepin’ you safe when I’m just thinkin’ about fuckin’ this perfect pussy,” he mumbles as he slaps his tip against your clit.

Rafe slides his cock between your drenched folds, swirling his head around your hole before sinking in deep, bottoming you out with his long, thick dick. You grab two fistfuls of sheets as he grabs your hips in his big ringed hands, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in.

“So good, baby… Fuck. Damn, you look so good takin’ my cock,” he moans as he starts rutting in and out. You couldn’t even get a word out with the way his dick was slamming in and out of your pussy.

Your eyes roll back in your head, boobs bouncing with each thrust of his hips as you go absolutely dumb on his dick. Rafe speeds up the pace, making your body tremble uncontrollably. Tears of pleasure stream down your cheeks, wetting the pillow below. Rafe reaches down, brushing them away with his thumbs, slipping one between your lips to let you suck yourself numb as he drills into you.

“Come on, princess,” Rafe hums as he feels your body start to tighten around him. “Cream all over my cock. Show me what a good girl does, huh? Let me fill you up. Been so good for me,” he groans as he reaches down, rubbing circles on your throbbing clit as the coil in your belly gets tighter and tighter.

You scream his name, cumming all over his big cock as he fucks you through your orgasm. Rafe gives you a few more rough thrusts, emptying his load deep inside as his hungry lips devour yours, swallowing your whimpers and cries.

“You okay, baby?” He asks sweetly against your lips.

“M’perfect, Rafe,” you coo.

“You are,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “You mad at me still?” Rafe asks as he presses a gentle kiss on your lips.

“No,” you whisper. “Can’t stay mad at you, baby.”

“Mhmm… I know the feelin’,” he laughs. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. You snag your phone out of your nightstand, pulling out your phone, seeing back-to-back messages from your manager.

Claire Baby: Rafe said you were ok. Stop running away. Thnx.

Claire Baby: Rafe mentioned that there was a history between him and Bella

Claire Baby: I told him to save it til after the show so it didn’t fuck with your chemistry

Claire Baby: I had no idea she was such a bitch. I’m sorry. Pls Forgive me.

“Rafe Cameron,” you sigh.

“Mhmm…” He asks as he pulls out of your pussy nice and slow, watching his warm cum leak out of your puffy hole, swirling his fingers around before stuffing it back inside.

“Rafe…”

“What?” He asks as he tilts his head slightly, lifting his fingers for you to suck them clean. You wrap your lips around his fingers, looking in his beautiful blue eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me you tried to say something?” You ask softly as you look back up at him.

“‘Cause I deserved it… Shoulda told you from the start,” he answers. “No more secrets…”

“No more running,” you whisper.

You roll your head to the side, catching the time on the clock. 11:58 PM… Rafe kisses your cheek lovingly, wrapping his big body in yours. “How do you see me, Rafe,” you ask softly, pulling his focus back to your eyes. He brushes your hair off your face, cupping your cheek in his hand.

“Well, when I see you, I see the future. I see my dream girl. I see the only thing I want to see.”

You bite your lips, fluttering your lashes, the night's emotions getting the better of you.

“I see the woman that I love, princess.”

“You love me?” You whisper, voice laced with tears.

Rafe pulls you into his lips as the world outside the window roars with the new year, the clock striking midnight as your lips meet, your bodies tangled in sheets.

“Of course I love you, baby,” he mumbles.

“I love you too.”

[mariacallous]

In a product demo last week, OpenAI showcased a synthetic but expressive voice for ChatGPT called “Sky” that reminded many viewers of the flirty AI girlfriend Samantha played by Scarlett Johansson in the 2013 film Her. One of those viewers was Johansson herself, who promptly hired legal counsel and sent letters to OpenAI demanding an explanation, according to a statement released later. In response, the company on Sunday halted use of Sky and published a blog post insisting that it “is not an imitation of Scarlett Johansson but belongs to a different professional actress using her own natural speaking voice.”

Johansson’s statement, released Monday, said she was “shocked, angered, and in disbelief” by OpenAI’s demo using a voice she called “so eerily similar to mine that my closest friends and news outlets could not tell the difference.” Johansson revealed that she had turned down a request last year from the company’s CEO, Sam Altman, to voice ChatGPT and that he had reached out again two days before last week’s demo in an attempt to change her mind.

It’s unclear if Johansson plans to take additional legal action against OpenAI. Her counsel on the dispute with OpenAI is John Berlinski, a partner at Los Angeles law firm Bird Marella, who represented her in a lawsuit against Disney claiming breach of contract, settled in 2021. (OpenAI’s outside counsel working on this matter is Wilson Sonsini Goodrich & Rosati partner David Kramer, who is based in Silicon Valley and has defended Google and YouTube on copyright infringement cases.) If Johansson does pursue a claim against OpenAI, some intellectual property experts suspect it could focus on “right of publicity” laws, which protect people from having their name or likeness used without authorization.

James Grimmelmann, a professor of digital and internet law at Cornell University, believes Johansson could have a good case. “You can't imitate someone else's distinctive voice to sell stuff,” he says. OpenAI declined to comment for this story, but yesterday released a statement from Altman claiming Sky “was never intended to resemble” the star, adding, “We are sorry to Ms. Johansson that we didn’t communicate better.”

Johansson’s dispute with OpenAI drew notice in part because the company is embroiled in a number of lawsuits brought by artists and writers. They allege that the company breached copyright by using creative work to train AI models without first obtaining permission. But copyright law would be unlikely to play a role for Johansson, as one cannot copyright a voice. “It would be right of publicity,” says Brian L. Frye, a professor at the University of Kentucky’s College of Law focusing on intellectual property. “She’d have no other claims.”

Several lawyers WIRED spoke with said a case Bette Midler brought against Ford Motor Company and its advertising agency Young & Rubicam in the late 1980s provides a legal precedent. After turning down the ad agency’s offers to perform one of her songs in a car commercial, Midler sued when the company hired one of her backup singers to impersonate her sound. “Ford was basically trying to profit from using her voice,” says Jennifer E. Rothman, a law professor at the University of Pennsylvania, who wrote a 2018 book called The Right of Publicity: Privacy Reimagined for a Public World. “Even though they didn't literally use her voice, they were instructing someone to sing in a confusingly similar manner to Midler.”

It doesn’t matter whether a person’s actual voice is used in an imitation or not, Rothman says, only whether that audio confuses listeners. In the legal system, there is a big difference between imitation and simply recording something “in the style” of someone else. “No one owns a style,” she says.

Other legal experts don’t see what OpenAI did as a clear-cut impersonation. “I think that any potential ‘right of publicity’ claim from Scarlett Johansson against OpenAI would be fairly weak given the only superficial similarity between the ‘Sky’ actress' voice and Johansson, under the relevant case law,” Colorado law professor Harry Surden wrote on X on Tuesday. Frye, too, has doubts. “OpenAI didn’t say or even imply it was offering the real Scarlett Johansson, only a simulation. If it used her name or image to advertise its product, that would be a right-of-publicity problem. But merely cloning the sound of her voice probably isn’t,” he says.

But that doesn’t mean OpenAI is necessarily in the clear. “Juries are unpredictable,” Surden added.

Frye is also uncertain how any case might play out, because he says right of publicity is a fairly “esoteric” area of law. There are no federal right-of-publicity laws in the United States, only a patchwork of state statutes. “It’s a mess,” he says, although Johansson could bring a suit in California, which has fairly robust right-of-publicity laws.

OpenAI’s chances of defending a right-of-publicity suit could be weakened by a one-word post on X—“her”—from Sam Altman on the day of last week’s demo. It was widely interpreted as a reference to Her and Johansson’s performance. “It feels like AI from the movies,” Altman wrote in a blog post that day.

To Grimmelmann at Cornell, those references weaken any potential defense OpenAI might mount claiming the situation is all a big coincidence. “They intentionally invited the public to make the identification between Sky and Samantha. That's not a good look,” Grimmelmann says. “I wonder whether a lawyer reviewed Altman's ‘her’ tweet.” Combined with Johansson’s revelations that the company had indeed attempted to get her to provide a voice for its chatbots—twice over—OpenAI’s insistence that Sky is not meant to resemble Samantha is difficult for some to believe.

“It was a boneheaded move,” says David Herlihy, a copyright lawyer and music industry professor at Northeastern University. “A miscalculation.”

Other lawyers see OpenAI’s behavior as so manifestly goofy they suspect the whole scandal might be a deliberate stunt—that OpenAI judged that it could trigger controversy by going forward with a sound-alike after Johansson declined to participate but that the attention it would receive from seemed to outweigh any consequences. “What’s the point? I say it’s publicity,” says Purvi Patel Albers, a partner at the law firm Haynes Boone who often takes intellectual property cases. “The only compelling reason—maybe I’m giving them too much credit—is that everyone’s talking about them now, aren’t they?”

[ask-tenna]

Viewers. Do you think a gun will be a good enough backup plan? Or should I bring something else?

[smiley-pansy]

mr. boo: coffee, campaigns, and confessions / b.sk

pairing: marketing manager!seungkwan x brand & promotions coordinator!reader

synopsis: You and Seungkwan work behind the scenes at Sebong Corporation, a bustling movie production company. When you're assigned to co-lead the marketing campaign for Eclipse Rising—the studio’s most high-profile release yet—your already-close working relationship takes center stage. Through morning coffee runs, chaotic brainstorming sessions, late-night strategy meetings, and a surprisingly sweet team-building retreat, your friendship deepens into something more.

fluff, slight crack, coworkers-to-lovers

word count: 3.3k

a/n: so so honored to be a part of THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! plz go read everyone else's amazing works!! thanks so much for this opportunity @studioeisa @diamonddaze01

It’s 9:03 a.m. on a Monday, and Y/N walks into the office with their usual iced coffee in one hand, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a grimace that says “weekend over.” Sebong Corporation is buzzing already, caffeinated on anticipation and anxiety—Eclipse Rising, their biggest movie release of the year, is officially four weeks from premiere, and the entire floor feels like it’s holding its breath.

Y/N slides into their desk chair, still a little too early for the flood of people who usually arrive fashionably ten minutes late. The inbox pings.

Then pings again. And again.

By the time they sip their coffee, there are twelve emails from one person: Boo Seungkwan.

Subject lines include:

"TRAILER 2 CRISIS 🔥" "URGENT: Kael’s Hair Looks Flat??" "Do we need more STARS in the POSTER??? ✨" "Emergency: Space font too... spacey?" "we are LITERALLY in a timeline where Vernon is saving the galaxy and no one is prepared"

Y/N smiles despite themselves and starts replying, the muscle memory automatic. 

From: Y/N@sebongcorp.com To: booseungkwan@sebongcorp.com Subject: Kael's Hair Have confirmed with the stylist team: Vernon’s hair is not flat, just dramatically windswept. Intended. Maybe you’re the one feeling flat?

A few more clicks:

Subject: Space font The space font is just futuristic enough. We're not sending viewers back to the Jetsons.

Subject: Poster stars Adding more stars now would make it look like Vernon is inside a disco ball. Let's aim for "epic saga," not "space prom."

A soft thunk sounds behind Y/N. They turn slightly to see a head of natural bleach blond hair pop up over the cubicle divider.

"You’re lucky you’re cute in your emails," Seungkwan says, side-eyeing you.

"And you’re lucky I don’t charge for emotional labor."

Seungkwan swings around into Y/N’s cubicle and perches on the edge of their desk like he owns the place. He’s in an oversized cardigan over a bright graphic tee that says "HYPERSPACE IS A MINDSET."

"Do you know how hard it is to manage a teaser campaign when the editor thinks all lens flares are necessary?"

"Didn’t you say last week you wanted more lens flares?"

"Yes, but strategically. Tastefully! With restraint!"

Y/N hands him the backup iced americano they grabbed just in case. He accepts it wordlessly, clearly touched.

"You do love me," he says.

"Let’s call it self-preservation."

Their screens glow with the digital storm they’re navigating—press kits, trailer drop schedules, influencer lists. The Eclipse Rising campaign is ambitious: three trailers, six teaser posts, a limited-edition poster release, and a global hashtag activation. And that’s just this week.

Seungkwan opens a shared document titled “Viral Assets (PLEASE NO ONE DELETE THIS).”

"What if we launch the countdown with a galactic horoscope thread? Like: Lyra is rising in the house of heartbreak. Captain Kael says run."

Y/N tilts their head. "That’s kind of genius."

"You’re legally required to say that."

"No, I say it when you actually earn it. Which happens. Occasionally."

Seungkwan grins, sipping his drink. "I’m writing that. You inspired me."

They’re quiet for a moment, both typing furiously into different parts of the same document. Every so often Seungkwan hums or gasps dramatically, like the creative muses have grabbed him by the collar. Y/N, for all their cool efficiency, finds it... endearing.

At 10:10, a Slack message arrives.

Seungkwan: Should we do a TikTok of Vernon in the space suit trying Earth food?? "Captain Kael eats a hot dog" kind of thing???

Y/N: Only if he also tries boba.

Seungkwan: this is why you’re my favorite

He doesn’t send that last one. He just types it, stares at it for a beat, then deletes it.

Instead, he glances up at Y/N and says, "Hey. When this movie blows up, we’re getting promoted. You and me. Brand overlords."

Y/N raises their cup. "To brand domination."

They clink plastic coffee cups and return to their screens. Outside the window, Seoul hums with life. Inside the Sebong Corporation, it’s already burning bright.

***

It’s Wednesday afternoon, and the office conference room smells like coffee and stress. The whiteboard is already cluttered with scribbled hashtags and quotes from Eclipse Rising. Someone added a doodle of Vernon in a space helmet, annotated “Kael, but make it fashion.”

Y/N enters with a folder full of printed notes and digital mockups on their tablet, nodding at colleagues who are slouched in various poses of brainstorming agony. At the head of the table, Seungkwan is already animatedly pacing with a highlighter in one hand and a marker in the other.

“We need a hook,” he declares, spinning to face the room. “We need the kind of campaign that makes people say: ‘I don’t even like sci-fi, but I want to watch this.’”

A few heads nod. One team member raises their hand timidly. “What about doing something with the AI romance subplot? It’s super emotional.”

Seungkwan points at them. “Good. I like where your head’s at. Forbidden love between synthetic and human—boom, relatability.”

Y/N slides into a seat near the projector and pulls up their slides. “I’ve drafted three possible social rollouts: one focused on Kael as a tragic hero, one on the visuals and effects, and one on the emotional arcs. Seungkwan, I know you’re leaning into the ‘space heartache’ vibe.”

“Always,” Seungkwan says solemnly.

He dims the lights while Y/N begins the click-through. The first slide is a looping gif of Vernon’s character Kael, removing his helmet in slow motion, his eyes shimmering under starlight.

“Tagline?” Seungkwan asks.

Y/N smiles. “How about: ‘He’s not from this world, but he’ll break your heart like he is.’”

The room groans appreciatively.

Seungkwan clutches his chest. “Poetry. Actual poetry.”

The brainstorm session goes on for the next hour, veering wildly between professional brilliance and absolute chaos. Someone suggests an Instagram filter that places a galaxy behind users’ heads. Another pitches a fake dating profile for Kael.

"Likes: diplomacy, stargazing, long walks on low-gravity moons. Dislikes: betrayal, nuclear war."

As the ideas mount, Seungkwan becomes a whirlwind of energy, directing the chaos like an orchestra conductor. He doesn’t just throw out ideas—he builds on them, links them, pulls everyone’s thoughts into orbit. Every so often, he turns to Y/N.

“What do you think—too cheesy?”

Y/N considers it seriously before offering tweaks. “Drop the dating profile, keep the filter, and maybe add a fake breakup playlist Kael would make if his AI girlfriend left him.”

“YES,” Seungkwan shouts. “Playlist name: ‘Reboot My Heart.’”

Y/N shakes their head, but they’re smiling.

By the end of the session, the whiteboard is full, everyone’s stomachs are rumbling, and Seungkwan has abandoned his chair entirely. He and Y/N stand side-by-side now, sketching out the final tiered plan: Teasers, Trailers, Limited-Time Social Stunts, Cast AMA, Galaxy Experience Pop-Up.

Seungkwan leans a little too close, their shoulders brushing as they both scribble.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” he murmurs.

“Not bad,” Y/N echoes. “And we only lost three hours of our lives.”

“Worth it,” he replies with a grin, then lifts his marker like a sword. “To content!”

They high-five, marker-smudged fingers and all. For a brief second, Y/N forgets about premiere deadlines, burnout, and tight budgets. There’s just the glow of a shared vision, a room full of laughter, and Seungkwan’s elbow nudging theirs like they’ve been partners in this forever.

***

Friday morning arrives far too fast. The air in the presentation room is all too crisp, the lighting just harsh enough to make even Seungkwan double-check his hair in the reflective window. He’s wearing a navy suit with a constellation-themed tie that Y/N suspects he picked purely for thematic flair.

Y/N sets up the slides at the front of the room. Their laptop is connected to the giant wall screen. They triple-check the animations and transitions as the company’s senior execs begin to file in—familiar faces, all with coffee cups and tight schedules. Including Director Chan Lee, who has a reputation for asking questions so specific they feel like personal attacks.

Seungkwan catches Y/N’s eye. “We’ve got this,” he says under his breath, then flashes a peace sign. “Intergalactic charm engaged.”

Y/N tries to smile, but their nerves are fraying. They review the cue cards one more time.

The lights dim. Y/N starts the pitch.

“Eclipse Rising isn’t just a sci-fi film—it’s an emotional journey that asks what it means to be human in a universe that’s forgotten how to feel. Our marketing strategy aims to highlight that heart through digital intimacy, immersive visuals, and audience participation.”

Seungkwan jumps in with the charisma of a K-drama lead giving a TED Talk.

“Imagine seeing Kael’s world through the eyes of someone who’s loved and lost across galaxies. Our strategy leverages short-form content, interactive experiences, and a meme-forward tone that resonates with Gen Z’s love of irony and sincerity.”

The first few slides go over beautifully. Some execs even nod. Seungkwan’s pacing is fluid, charming, and his voice hits just the right note of enthusiasm. But then...

Slide 14.

The screen glitches.

Instead of Kael’s slow-motion helmet gif, it displays a meme Y/N had jokingly saved in the folder—Kael edited into a crying Wojak comic.

Y/N freezes.

Someone snorts.

Director Lee lifts an eyebrow.

Y/N fumbles, clicking forward, but it’s too late—the next slide shows a fake Spotify playlist titled “Reboot My Heart – Kael’s AI Breakup Anthems.”

Seungkwan blinks. Y/N looks at him, mortified. The meme was supposed to be an internal joke, something from the brainstorming session. Not... this.

Director Lee clears his throat. “Is this part of the official rollout?”

Seungkwan doesn’t miss a beat. He steps forward. “It was originally part of an internal engagement concept. A creative morale booster. But if you’re laughing, that tells us something—it works. It catches attention. And in this market, attention is currency.”

A beat of silence.

Then someone chuckles. Another nods. Seungkwan glances sideways at Y/N, eyes asking, You good?

Y/N takes a breath and jumps back in. “We’ve since refined the final concept, which you’ll see in the next slide. Here’s the cleaned-up version of the emotional resonance campaign, with final copy and polished visuals.”

The rest of the presentation goes on shakily, but smoother. Seungkwan steers with confidence, Y/N with clarity. Together, they pull it off, turning near-disaster into a weird sort of charm.

After the meeting ends, and the execs trickle out, Seungkwan finally exhales. He turns to Y/N.

“You saved it.”

“No, you did. That playlist line was... impressive.”

“I mean, I am emotionally fluent in meme,” he says, smirking.

They both laugh. The tension unravels. It’s still early, but Seungkwan grins like they’ve already won something.

“Lunch?” he asks. “Or should we debrief with panic snacks?”

Y/N grins. “Why not both?”

They walk out side-by-side, the slideshow still open behind them—now safely paused on Kael’s epic, starry-eyed profile. This time, no crying memes.

***

The company’s quarterly retreat takes them to a quiet, wooded resort two hours outside Seoul. The air smells like pine needles and possibility. The agenda is packed with bonding games, breakout brainstorms, and the faint promise of karaoke.

Y/N and Seungkwan sit beside each other on the bus, legs bumping occasionally as the road curves. Seungkwan is editing a Reels caption on his phone.

Y/N peeks. "You're adding emojis again."

"The algorithm loves them," he replies without looking up. "✨Emotional devastation in space✨ sells."

They check into separate cabins, but the day is full of group activities. One team-building challenge requires everyone to build a rocket ship out of cardboard and tape. Seungkwan takes it too seriously. Y/N doesn't mind—they're laughing too hard to care.

Later that evening, the retreat hosts a themed dinner by the campfire. The team is relaxed, wrapped in blankets, sipping from paper cups of hot tea or makgeolli. Stars scatter the sky above.

Someone initiates a game of truth or dare. When it’s Seungkwan’s turn, he confidently picks truth.

“Who do you trust the most at work?” one of the producers asks.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Y/N. They’re my gravity anchor.”

The group lets out a chorus of “aww”s. Y/N blushes but plays it cool, offering Seungkwan a toast from across the fire. He clinks his paper cup against theirs without breaking eye contact.

The next day brings a forest hike. The trail winds through dense trees and opens up to a scenic overlook. Most of the team marches ahead, but Seungkwan and Y/N naturally fall behind, walking in comfortable silence.

Seungkwan nudges Y/N’s shoulder. “You know, the playlist slide? I thought we were going to get roasted.”

Y/N snorts. “We kinda did.”

“Yeah, but like… toasted, not burnt.” He pauses. “Thanks for always having my back. Even when it’s chaotic. Especially when it’s chaotic.”

Y/N gives him a look. “That goes both ways.”

They stop at the lookout point. The view stretches far—rolling mountains, faint rivers, the curve of the horizon under a pale blue sky.

Seungkwan stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. “Honestly? You’re my favorite part of this job.”

Y/N turns toward him slowly. “You mean the cardboard rockets weren’t a close second?”

He laughs. “Top five, maybe.”

They stand together in silence for a moment, close enough that their shoulders brush. The wind whistles through the trees. Everything feels still.

Y/N speaks first. “You’re mine too, you know. Favorite part.”

He smiles, soft and a little shy.

Something clicks into place. Like starlight shifting. Like orbits aligning.

They head back to camp together, just a little closer than before.

***

The office buzzes with a rare kind of electricity. Today is the trailer drop for Eclipse Rising, and the team has been building toward this moment for months. Seungkwan arrives early, coffees in hand—one for himself, one for Y/N. It's not unusual anymore.

Y/N is already at their desk, triple-checking the social rollout copy. The final teaser clip is scheduled to go live at 10:00 a.m. across all platforms. They sip the coffee Seungkwan places beside them and nod. “Today’s the day.”

“It’s gonna fly,” Seungkwan replies, eyes bright. “Like Kael’s escape pod. Straight into the algorithm.”

At 9:59 a.m., the marketing war room (a.k.a. the conference room they hijacked for this week) is full. Monitors display real-time analytics dashboards. Staff refresh the YouTube page with the hunger of people waiting for a comet to pass. Every screen reflects Seungkwan’s excitement. Y/N stands next to him, their shoulder brushing his.

Y/N whispers, “Think anyone’s going to cry?”

“If they don’t,” Seungkwan says confidently, “we’ve failed the mission.”

Y/N laughs. “No pressure.”

Seungkwan counts down. “Three. Two. One.”

Click.

The trailer is live.

On-screen, Vernon’s Captain Kael ignites the reactor of a crumbling starship, then reaches for the AI who loved him long before he was human. Voice-over: "Even in the dark, I remember your light."

The room goes still. Everyone's breath held.

Then—notifications explode. Twitter reposts, Instagram story shares, TikTok stitches. The trailer hits 100,000 views in under 30 minutes. The comments are full of crying emojis, memes, and fan edits.

The digital team cheers. Someone starts a group chat called "KAEL MY HEART." Another teammate drafts a press release mid-jump. The entire Slack channel is a blur.

Y/N and Seungkwan read the comments aloud:

“‘This trailer healed my trust issues.’”

“‘Why does this sci-fi movie feel more romantic than my entire dating history?’”

“‘Not me sobbing at 10am because of a spaceship love confession.’”

Seungkwan beams. “We did it.”

Y/N smiles, soft and wide. “You did it.”

“No,” he says, turning to them, “we did it. And we’re not even at premiere week yet.”

A pause, then a dramatic gasp from the intern at the corner. “Guys. It’s trending. Number three!”

The entire room erupts. Seungkwan does a victory spin. Y/N claps along. For a brief second, it feels like the end of a movie—confetti and all, even if it's just from a Slack emoji burst.

Later, when the room clears out and the trailer is still climbing, Y/N and Seungkwan remain. There’s a lull now. A calm after the data storm.

Seungkwan paces slightly, still energized. “You know, I was terrified this morning. Like… what if nobody cared?”

Y/N leans back against the table. “You hide it well.”

He gives a small smile. “Only because I knew you’d be in the room.”

Y/N’s breath catches, just briefly. “Well. I was.”

He walks over, standing beside them. They both stare at the muted trailer looping on the screen.

Y/N exhales, their voice quiet. “Feels weird. All that work, and now it’s out there.”

“Like sending your space kid off to school,” Seungkwan says.

Y/N laughs, eyes crinkling. “Exactly.”

He hesitates, then speaks. “You know, I’ve been thinking… we’re good at launching things.”

“Yeah?”

“What if we tried something smaller next?”

Y/N tilts their head. “Like?”

Seungkwan blushes slightly but doesn’t look away. “Like a date. You and me. Post-premiere. Something low-orbit.”

Y/N blinks, surprised—but only for a second. Then they smile. “Yeah. I think that sounds like a perfect launch.”

He grins. “See? Emotional devastation and successful relationship arcs. Marketing gold.”

They bump shoulders, the trailer looping silently behind them. Kael stares at his love across galaxies. And beside that cosmic romance, a quieter one is just beginning.

As they leave the room together, Seungkwan reaches for Y/N’s hand. Just for a moment. Just to see if it fits.

It does.

***

The theater lobby glimmers with the soft glow of spotlights and clusters of fans, reporters, and crew buzzing with excitement. It’s the premiere of Eclipse Rising, and the whole company is dressed to impress. Seungkwan and Y/N arrive together, the first time they’ve come as more than just coworkers—though neither is quite ready to say that out loud yet.

Inside the theater, the lights dim and the opening credits roll. Y/N watches Vernon’s Captain Kael with rapt attention, remembering the months spent behind the scenes—the endless edits, the marketing pitches, the nail-biting analytics. Beside them, Seungkwan’s hand finds theirs quietly, fingers brushing.

The audience gasps, laughs, and a few sniffle in that perfect way only a good love story can provoke. Y/N sneaks a glance at Seungkwan, whose eyes sparkle with the same mix of pride and something softer. It’s in that look Y/N decides to lean in just a little closer.

After the credits, the cast and crew take the stage for applause. Vernon, glowing with excitement, thanks everyone. The team’s hard work has paid off spectacularly. Seungkwan gives Y/N a look—a mix of “We did this” and “Thank you for being here.”

Outside the theater, the night air is cool. Y/N and Seungkwan walk side by side, the buzz of the premiere fading behind them. There’s a calm now—a space just for them.

Seungkwan stops and turns, searching Y/N’s face.

“I know we’ve been buried in work for months,” he says softly, “but... I’ve been meaning to say something.”

Y/N’s heart hammers in that thrilling way, caught between hope and nerves.

“I really like working with you,” he says, “but more than that... I like you. Not just as my co-conspirator in marketing.”

Y/N smiles, eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They laugh softly, a gentle ease settling between them.

Seungkwan brushes a strand of hair from Y/N’s face.

“Want to keep building this? Outside the office?” he asks.

Y/N nods without hesitation.

“Yeah. Let’s make this the best story yet.”

They lean closer to each other, lips brushing softly. There was no rush, no pressure, they had all the time in the world.

Hand in hand, they walk into the night—ready for their own premiere.

[themology]

harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”

masterlist | previous chapter

chapter 2 — portrait of a climb

You were starting to consistently ascend.

Not with the noisy spectacle that came from nepotism or art-world lineage, not through magazine covers or cocktail party features, but with intention. With an obsessive kind of precision.

Your days started to move like a blade through silk: curated, sharp, unremarkably beautiful from the outside. Studio visits, endless email threads, clipped conversations with gallery directors, grant panels, coffee you never finished. Every hour accounted for.

You weren’t climbing to be admired. You were climbing because you couldn’t bear the thought of staying still. And yet, even as you moved higher, your name was still spoken in cautious italics, always bracketed, footnoted, as if you hadn’t quite arrived.

But people noticed.

Your first few projects didn’t make waves. But they made impressions, the kind that settled in people’s minds a little longer than expected. You weren’t chasing spectacle. You were chasing sincerity, coherence, something with weight.

You wanted people to linger, not because they were dazzled, but because something about the work made them pause.

The earliest exhibit you curated was tucked in the back room of a shared gallery space. It wasn’t officially yours, you were assisting, but the lead curator let you take the reins on one room, a modest lineup of mixed media pieces from young, unknown artists exploring domestic labor and migration. You arranged them in a tight, enclosed flow, intentionally claustrophobic.

A few visitors commented on how personal the space felt, like they’d walked into someone’s memory.

You took that as a quiet win.

Later came “Threshold,” your first small solo curation, staged in a small artist-run space with a leaky ceiling and one working spotlight. It featured mostly installation work, found objects, video loops, soft sculptures sewn from old uniforms.

You spent more time handling logistics than anything creative, transporting borrowed pedestals in your friend’s car, staying past midnight to label walls with hand-cut vinyl. But you loved it.

The mess, the hustle, the quiet joy of hearing someone ask, “Who put this together?” and watching the gallerist point to you.

You were drawn to work that wasn’t flashy. That sat with the viewer slowly. You were interested in transitions, border crossings, adolescence, grief, the spaces in-between. Not everyone noticed. Some write-ups forgot to mention your name.

Some gallery emails addressed you as an assistant when you weren’t.

But the artists noticed. They thanked you. And those words stayed with you longer than the rest.

Your current projects are still modest. One involves curating a rotating wall of student photography inside a campus café.

Another, a pop-up exhibit in a defunct bakery slated for demolition, focused on spatial memory and erasure. You’re planning a collaborative zine to accompany it, with short essays and handwritten notes from the artists.

It’s not glamorous. There’s no budget.

But it matters to you.

You keep a spreadsheet of possible venues and another of themes you might explore someday, absence, noise, textile memory, digital rituals. You’re not waiting for a big break. You’re building a body of work that, over time, might speak louder than you can now.

Because you know your taste is developing. Your voice is still sharpening. But it’s there.

And one day, it’ll be unmistakable.

And now the right people were beginning to murmur.

That woman.

That curator.

She has an eye for collapse.

You didn’t come from the kind of life where people taught you how to name colors like smoke or stone or ruin or love.

No name to call back to, no quiet stream of backup funds if things went wrong. No basement filled with archived artworks from relatives, no trust fund to float you between internships.

Just you.

Just your work.

And a series of jobs that paid barely enough to cover rent, let alone frame a piece.

Sometimes you felt like an outsider, but not in the romantic way people like to frame it.

It wasn’t charming. It was logistical. You had to weigh every opportunity against how much time it would cost you, how many meals you’d skip, how much you could fake your way through another room full of people who spoke about artists like they were stock portfolios.

You’ve smiled through conversations about collectors’ summer homes while your student loan interest piled quietly in the background.

There were nights you’d walk home from install shifts with the taste of metal in your mouth, not from hunger, but from the adrenaline of trying to appear composed in front of someone who could change everything for you if they felt like it.

And they usually didn’t. Because the truth is, people notice. They notice when your blazer isn’t designer, when your shoes are scuffed, when you don’t drop names because you don’t have any to drop. You learned how to stay in rooms without shrinking.

You learned how to talk just enough to be memorable, but not so much that they’d ask where you grew up or how many jobs you worked at once.

You weren’t reckless. You couldn’t afford to be. There was no net. One mistake, one mistimed reply, one badly handled event, one late rent check, and you’d have to start over.

Others could afford to fail upward.

You had to land every jump.

But you didn’t resent them, not entirely. You just envied the quiet cushion they didn’t even realize they walked on. The way they could speak without urgency. The way their careers were structured around choices, not survival.

Still, you kept going. Not because of some noble dream. But because quitting would feel like agreeing with everyone who silently decided you wouldn’t make it anyway.

And despite it all, you knew you had taste. You had instinct. You could feel something shift in a room when you laid a piece just right, when a viewer paused a second longer than they meant to.

You knew how to build meaning from absence.

You knew how to notice.

So you made yourself undeniable. You outread, outresearched, outlasted. You stayed late.

You made enemies. You earned your taste, didn’t inherit it.

Love? That was a deferred thing. A pleasure for later. Once you had made yourself unshakable. When your name could stand without leaning against someone else’s fame or donation.

So when the messages began, you didn’t flush or preen.

You bristled.

The first came with no sender, no timestamp, just a single card slipped into your department mailbox, thick, brutalist paper stock, faintly perfumed with something sharp and chemical.

Varnish, maybe. Or money. It read: “Saw your curation of Soriani’s triptych. You have an eye for collapse. That’s rare.”

No name. No request.

Just a statement. Clean and quiet, like a bullet. You stared at it for a full minute before folding it into your planner, between notes and press releases.

You told yourself to forget it.

But forgetting him wasn’t going to be simple.

The donation came a week later.

Unnamed, substantial.

Enough to secure the next six months of your exhibition. The exhibition you’d pitched on adrenaline and stubbornness and risked your professional credibility for. No press announcement revealed the donor, but you knew. It was the same unnerving sensation as walking into a room and knowing someone had just left.

That trace of attention. The chill of being seen without being touched.

Then you started seeing him.

Not often. Just enough to feel inevitable. The first time was during a symposium at The Nest—industrial repurposed architecture, lecture chairs with bad lumbar support, the kind of audience who measured intellect by who could quote Foucault faster.

You were mid-panel, articulating a case for object fragmentation as political rebellion. You felt yourself on fire, words moving fast but exact, and still—somewhere in your peripheral, your rhythm stalled.

There he was. The Harry Castillo.

Standing alone near the back.

Not leaning, not distracted. Hands folded. Not even pretending to take notes.

Just watching. As if he’d been waiting to see what you’d do.

You found him by the freight elevator after the event, just as you were about to call a car. He stood in front of a piece no one cared about, a melted-wax diptych installed too low on the wall, the kind of thing interns leave out of the tour path.

“You didn’t mention this one,” he said.

You paused. “It’s not on the itinerary.”

He didn’t look away from the piece. “Or maybe you thought it aligned too closely with your thesis.”

Your throat tightened. “Do you always do this?”

“What’s that?”

“Lurk. Watch women work.” you cross your arms like he’s some kind of hindrance, you wished it was just that.

He turned to you slowly, as if deciding whether to smile or not. “Only the ones who don’t realize they’re performing.”

You didn’t flinch. But your stomach did that thing it does, hollow and hot all at once.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t follow. He just walked away like it hadn’t cost him anything to speak to you. And somehow, that restraint unnerved you more than if he’d made a move.

You threw yourself back into work. Answered emails faster. Canceled drinks. Switched your perfume to something clean and mineral.

You reigned yourself in, tried to cauterize the corners where he had somehow seeped in. But he remained like a watermark. A residue. You started to feel him before he entered the room, never early, never late, but always just as the tension in your shoulders lifted.

It wasn’t what people thought. You weren’t sleeping with him. He wasn’t flattering you. He barely spoke. But he was always near. Watching. Not with desire, but with an intent that made you feel exposed anyway.

You started catching yourself searching for him. At gallery events, at academic mixers, even at auction previews you knew he wouldn’t attend. You started dressing differently, sharper tailoring, deeper necklines, darker lipstick. Not for him. You told yourself that. But something in you wanted to command the gaze he refused to offer fully.

He finally approached you again at a temporary installation in a decommissioned train station. You were adjusting lighting angles on a mirrored kinetic sculpture, pacing with a tablet in hand. You sensed him before you saw him.

“You move like you’re always ready to vanish,” he said softly behind you.

You turned, slowly. “Maybe I am.”

He studied you, his eyes quiet and brutal. “That’s what makes you dangerous. You know how to disappear. That’s rare.”

Your throat was dry. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I go where the interesting things are,” he said.

You could have stepped back. You could have ended it.

But instead you asked, “What do you find interesting, exactly?”

His gaze dropped—quick, unreadable. Then:

“The way your voice flattens when you lie. The way your hands pause mid-gesture when you’re second-guessing yourself. The way you never look away from confrontation. You catalog everything. And yet, you hate being seen.”

The worst part wasn’t what he said. It was the unbearable stillness between his words. Like he was daring you to flinch.

You didn’t.

Later that night, back home in your apartment, you sat fully dressed on the edge of your bed, too tense to move, your phone heavy in your hand. You should’ve deleted his number, if you’d ever had it. You should’ve blocked whatever ghost he used to reach you. But you didn’t.

You’re still humming, almost buzzing. That’s the best word for it—buzzing—from the top of your scalp down to the soles of your feet. The silk blouse you peeled off still smells faintly of champagne and someone’s too-expensive cologne. You fold it carefully, like you always do, even when your brain feels like it’s made of gauze and light.

The bathroom mirror catches your eye. Your lipstick is half-worn, but your eyes—God, your eyes look alive. Electric. You lean in. Were they always this bright after a night like that?

You take your time with your skincare, fingers pressing into your cheekbones, jaw, neck. That lingering ache behind your ears from too much smiling, too many “Of course, I’d love to connect,” still pulses. The panel was a blur—names, deals, dry laughter layered over dry martinis. You held your own. More than held your own. You thrived.

You talked about art like it was blood. Like it was religion. And they listened.

The bed is cool when you sink into it. You tuck your legs beneath the sheets and exhale, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—it coils somewhere under your ribs. Something between pride and a faint, aching hunger. You should sleep, but your mind replays snippets of conversation, the way a hedge fund darling said your eye for surrealist Latin American work was “audacious,” the way someone slipped you their number with the weight of a promise.

You smell the night on your skin. You feel the weight of the room still pressing against you, like it hasn’t let go yet. Neither have you.

You’re becoming someone. And it thrills you more than you’ll admit.

Ultimately you just sat there.

Your inbox pinged once, then twice. A briefing reminder. A logistics file.

Then, another message. Short. Unsigned.

A private dinner. Saturday. Castillo Estate. Confidential list.

You will be seated beside the host. Dress code: interpret “red.”

You stared at it until your eyes blurred.

You didn’t respond. But you knew your silence was its own answer. And you knew, deep in your spine, between your legs, somewhere shameful, you were going.

Not for power.

Not for permission.

For something you couldn’t name yet.

Maybe when the party happens, there will be a glass of wine you wouldn’t drink, and a room full of people who’d wonder why the only woman Harry Castillo looked at like that… was you.

next chapter

notes…

just rewatched triple frontier for the 1000th time

please comment down below if you wish to be tagged in future chapters!

themology, 2025.

[thecreativityofnostalgia]

The Amazing Digital Circus: A New Digital Life! [UPDATE 2.0]

(For those who are new to the AU, allow us to give you a little recap on what it’s about.)

"It has been nearly years ever since [?̴̧̲͌̿?̴̻̝̑?̷͔́͝?̸̭̋̆?̷̟̖̲͠͝͝?̷͔̽ ̵̰͚̩͌͑͝?̴̼̼͛̚͠?̴̩̫̊͌̈?̵̪͇́̕?̴̗̏̉̉]/Pomni and five other humans escaped the cursed game that is "The Amazing Digital Circus!" To be sure this game never make it to the public, they had no choice but to steal some of the computer equipment and a few backup cartridges before laying low for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. A few later they were let off the hook, and to celebrate their freedom they decided to stop by somewhere so that they can formally get to know each other better. As years go by, they decided to become friends and start their own independent company "Exit Dream Legacy." things seem like they were going smooth till their demise came earlier than expected. With the purchased rights to "The Amazing Digital Circus" from "C&A" and some of the stolen computer equipment they kept for a while, they all managed to make a full reimagining of the game and released it to the public while they kept the beta for themselves. after some final requests were made to the team, they were ready to test it. after putting the headsets on, they were transferred into the digital world leaving their bodies to die and live on their legacy inside the system.

Character Poster

(Updated designs based and inspired by TADC OVA by @lueduar-doodles)

Warning:

This AU is Rated PG-13, for which may include:

— Mild sexual implications

— Mild swearing

— References to Hell

— References to suicide

— Cartoon violence

— Mild regular violence

— Corpse imagery

— Use of firearms

— Mile use of drugs/achohol

— Dark themes

— And Jax

Viewer discretion is advised.

(Based off of a show created and produced by @gooseworx and Glitch Productions.)

[mikaleialt]

Little Moments

Bada Lee x JR!Reader

Synopsis: viewers of the new season of Street Woman Fighter couldn't help but notice the interactions you have with the leader of BeBe on each episodes, which made them concludes that there is something going on with you and Bada.

Cw: none. fluff. not proofread

You and Bada met each other when you were chosen to be one of Kai's back up dancer for his first single.

From that, your relationship blooms and now here you are in Street Women Fighter 2. But unfortunately you are going to battle each other since you are the 6th member of the international team, Jam Republic.

Viewers and other teams were shocked when they saw you in a different since you got quite the recognition too when you worked with Bada before, so they thought you'll be on team Bebe.

Ep.1: Bebe's Team Evaluation

Everyone has speculated that maybe there have been a bad blood or some kind of drama between the two of you, but as fans watch every episode, they start to think other wise. One fan had decided to compile all your moments with Bada.

When Bebe first appear at the Fight zone and watched their evaluation video. Your reaction when you saw Bada on screen was deemed one of the most iconic reaction by fans.

"OH MY GOD! SHE'S HERE?!!" You said as you quickly got up from your seat and starts jumping around.

Your team looks at how adorable you are.

"Y/n looks so excited" Latrice commented as you nod your head really fast.

"I DO! HOLY— wait I can't cuss on the show.." you sat down next to Kirsten.

As Bada's performance video starts playing, the camera focus on you and your star struck expression as you watch her evaluation.

"God, she looks so sexy— I mean she danced really good" You said as your team starts laughing at what you said.

Bada, when watching their evaluation video, couldn't stop smiling whenever you appear in it. Almost like the bad feedback her team got from other teams were forgotten.

Fans quickly take note of this as they saw how you and Bada react to each other.

Ep.1: Jam Republic's Entrance & Team Evaluation

You were the last group to arrive in the Fight zone. You are so excited. You're team had agreed to have a pink and white motif, so you showed up to the fight zone in this outfit.

Everyone has been anticipating your team's arrival so when they saw you guys walking down the stairs, all eyes were on you.

Muttered comments about yours and Audrey's looks were heard once you entered the fight zone, which made you smile.

"Oh look at Y/n"

"She looks like a doll"

The camera focuses on your face as the members of Mannequeen make comments about your looks.

The camera then pans to Bada, who is looking at you in awe, and can be seen gulping hardly as she looks at you.

"Why do she—they look so pretty" Bada said as she never took her eyes off of you. Her team members laugh at their leader who is making it way too obvious about her and Y/n.

The video started playing and almost every comment you received was just about your pretty face.

Until Bada came up on the screen.

"She really is pretty, when I first met her a while back, I thought that Kai is collabing with a female idol." Bada chuckles in the video.

You instantly hid your face in your hands, trying to hide the fact that you're blushing after receiving the compliments.

You received the harshest comment out of all your crew.

"Y/n? She's just a pretty face. I wouldn't even classify her as a rookie or a beginner dancer"

"She's just their team's mascot"

"Honestly if she wasn't Kai's backup dancer, she probably wouldn't be here now."

You didn't mind the criticism, but Bada sure did.

The camera once again shows Bada who has her tongue poking the insides of her cheek once again.

"Look at how pissed Bada is"

"Y/n must be Bada's really close friend for her to be this mad when Y/n received those comments."

"No but like... look at how Bada is staring at Y/n, you can't tell me she's not down bad for Y/n"

Were just one of the few comments the viewers made when they noticed this interaction.

Ep.1: Bada vs Redy

When Bada was chosen as Redy's 'No Respect Dancer', you instantly stood up from your seat and even climb up on it just to get a better view.

"Not Redy, but Soobin. You are still an 8th grader to me"

Your jaw literally drops to the floor when you heard what she said.

"She is like a gangster" Ling tells Emma who pointed out to Y/n "Look at Y/n's reaction." As the two giggles.

Once BBHM started playing for Bada's turn, you already know that this battle is slready over.

Bada teases Redy by standing tall closely to her, which made you squeal at how cool she looks like.

Even the other crew are enjoying your expression.

But that's not all, when Bada decided to thrust her hips before grinding on the air, you are literally gasping for air at how loud you are screaming.

"Oh dear god, I'm gonna faint~" you said fanning to yourself as you watch Bada pull her shirt up while the paper in on her mouth.

Audrey kept laughing at you and even Wolf'l Yeni Cho agrees with you.

From then on, people started shipping you with Bada and has always been on look out for some crumbs as they adore how you two interact with each other.

A/n: so I decided that this will come in parts too, so for each part is a moment from an episode. Here you go @orionandwonderland. Anyway, I hope yoh liked this bit. I might add a "Reader's no respect dancer battle" scene too for this part. I'll probably just post it in a seperate post.

[honor-cxde]

Dreadwing and the Wreckers

// a rambling by yours truly.

So we know that in Dreadwing's introduction episode ("Loose Cannons"), Wheeljack and Seaspray were Wreckers set to rendezvous in order to try and regroup after the unit splintered. We also know that Dreadwing intercepted their comms, beat Wheeljack there, and set up a proximity bomb to try and eliminate them both. Now, Jackie never had any radio contact with Dreads, but he recognized the bomb the second he saw it and knew who it belonged to.

So, they had met.

Fast forward to the Jackhammer shooting the Sky Claw down on earth. The whole episode ends with the Autobots in a port somewhere, trying to save Bulkhead from the bomb Dreadwing planted on him.

But, wait. How did we get there?

I think our favorite blue and gold Seeker has a deeper relationship with the Wreckers than what was let on.

He knew who Wheeljack and Seaspray were by name. At LEAST he knew Jackie on sight -- after being shot down and subsequently escaping, Dreadwing calls Jackie, on the Jackhammer's frequency, by name, to challenge him.

Wheeljack and Bulkhead both respond. Because Wreckers don't call for backup, they call for cleanup.

They go, and split up. Wheeljack confronts Dreads head on while Bulk, unbeknownst to the viewers, has circled around the back. The Seeker seems to have second thought and runs, ending up in a dead end.

This is one of the things I like about Dreadwing: he's a planner. And he is, tactically, extremely good at it. He failed at every assignment in the show, it is true, but his methods were VERY clearly well-thought out and planned.

In this particular case, he set up his bombs before they ever even got there. He knew where he wanted Wheeljack to end up, and how to get him there, but here's the kicker:

He knew Bulkhead would show up. And that was more important to his end goal.

Dreadwing had a bomb set high, on its own, near the ledge above where Bulkhead ended up standing, thinking they had the 'Con surrounded. There's no reason for Dreads to do this unless he knew without a doubt Bulk would be there (remember earlier in the episode, when the gas station blew and our Seeker made his getaway, Bulk was there. Dreadwing saw him, and knew who he was.)

So he knew that Jackie would come at him from the front, and Bulkhead would sneak behind, and he planned for it. His ultimate goal wasn't to destroy the two of them, though -- he wanted Optimus, and as many of Team Prime as he could get in one location to try and eliminate them all in revenge for Skyquake's death.

So he buried the two Wreckers, dug Bulkhead out, and drug his ass to the port, where he set up his second trap. He knew WHO Wheeljack and Bulkhead were and could plan based on what he obviously knew about how the Wrecker unit worked.

So I don't think Seaspray was Dreadwing's first Wrecker kill. Not by a long shot. I think he was the hyena that skulked in the shadows, nipping at their heels. But he didn't come at them all willy-nilly, he knew he'd get obliterated if he did, so he was a patient predator. Much like a lion, he went after them when they had split up, only targeting one, maybe two, at a time.

I think this bastard has more than the average kill count and a chunk of them were Wreckers.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

[bad268]

Could you do another pezzy fic? Maybe even the rest of the boys too (puffer, droid, Grizzy) something like a faceless streamer getting like made fun of and the boys help them?

Agoraphobic (Pezzy X Faceless! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Miscellaneous

Requested: Clearly (You caught me in a Pezzy mood, so I tried it lmk if it's shit)

Warnings: Online hate, agoraphobia

POV: First Person POV

W.C. 1291

Summary: When chat takes hate too far, the reader quits only to return for more hate (and loosely based on Agoraphobic by Corpse Husband).

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

My whole career started by accident. The pandemic shut down everything, including where I worked, and I got laid off. Streaming became a sense of normalcy in the craziness that was the world. Games were what I did best given that I was a game designer and tester. 

It started one night when my boyfriend, Pezzy, talked about it. He said his friends were thinking about it, so the next day, I logged onto Twitch.tv and streamed my favorite game for the moment, Among Us. It was a low-IQ game, and the fun graphics were interesting to look at. I joined a random lobby, and the rest was history.

I blew up from my imposter plays and impeccable detective skills. My viewers went from 10 to 100 to 1,000 and before I knew it, I was at 250,000 viewers. Through this time, I never care about a camera. Mainly because I knew they would tear me apart, and I would not subject myself to that torture. However, recently, it seemed that people did not even need to see my face to trash me.

“If you guys can’t behave, I’m going to either get more mods or just quit,” I said one day on stream when it seemed like the hate was never-ending. Every other message I saw was a comment about how I am probably ugly, I can’t pull anyone, or just flat-out calling me degrading names.

It never stopped.

I put up with it for nearly four years before calling it quits. Despite the support from Pezzy, telling me not to listen to anyone else, it was hard to be berated every second of every stream especially when it seemed like everyone used the highlighted texts or text-to-speech to shout at me. 

It really took a toll on my mental health. I became so self-conscious, and the fact that I had severe social anxiety did not help my case. I retreated into myself as I got bigger, and the bigger I got, the more paranoid I got. It got so bad to the point where I retreated into my house, and I could barely function without antidepressants.

One day, I was feeling spontaneous. I wanted to stream. I wanted to game. I wanted to interact with people. I asked Pezzy if I could join him for a Mario Kart stream, but play off-camera in the same room. 

The stream started off fun. I won a few, lost a few, and had some fun battles in the game against Pezzy’s friends. Then, it turned south.

Ex-fans and haters filled Pezzy’s chat and his friends’ streams. Their mods could not keep up either. It was becoming the only thing we could see, and it was getting in the way of their normal conversations with their chats. 

“Mods, do we need some backup? Where did these people even come from?” Puffer said as he looked to his moderators for help, but noticed they were doing as much as they could. “There’s so many of them!”

“It’s like they spawned out of nowhere,” Grizzy laughed before getting serious as well, “but for real guys, knock it off. They’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Yeah, if it doesn’t stop, I’ll end stream right now,” Pezzy gave an ultimatum as he looked over at me to see how I was reacting. I was pretty numb, but my mood was visibly ruined. “You know what, guys. I’m gonna end the stream anyway. I don’t know when I’ll stream next, so look at my Twitter. Bye, guys.” 

The other guys did not need to be told twice as they followed suit and ended their stream as well. They each sent reassuring messages to me as I left the room once the camera was off. 

I walked outside to sit on the patio. Since we just moved to the new house, we had not had the chance to get patio furniture yet, so I took a seat on the concrete. I was still under the cover, but I sat right on the edge. It was pouring rain, something that rarely ever happened, but it was my favorite weather. Rain was always so calming for me, and it made me feel at peace despite the thunder I read online. 

After a while, Pezzy joined me. He sat beside me with a blanket that he put over my shoulders and pulled me into his side. The serenity of the rain combined with the comfort from Pezzy helped calm my racing heart.

“I love when it rains” I broke the silence, looking out into the yard as I refused to look toward Pezzy. I let it hang in the air for a beat before I sighed, “I can’t do shit right. I can’t learn my lesson. They don’t want me online, but they give me shit for not streaming. I can’t even play with your friends without them finding me.”

“It’s not your fault they’re assholes,” Pezzy consoled as he rubbed his hand up and down my arm. “It’s never been your fault.”

“It’s my fault I subjected myself to it in the first place,” I pointed out. “If I had never streamed in the first place, I never would have been in this situation. These people are taking the piss out of gaming, and I’m sick of it! I can’t go outside without thinking someone will find me! I am so paranoid about my privacy. It’s like I’m on house arrest.”

“You know the odds of someone recognizing you are slim to none,” Pezzy tried to intervene as I spiraled.

“No, Pezzy, you don’t understand how I think,” I pressed, turning to look at him as I grabbed his hands. “Pezzy, they’re always asking questions about my face, and I can’t stand it. They will stop at nothing to get what they want. I lived in three apartments before I agreed to move in because somehow, someway, someone found out where I lived, or at least they found my P.O. box and said they knew my address. I live in fear every day that someone is going to find me.” I stopped for a second to let Pezzy absorb what I was saying. I could see the recognition in his eyes. I continued, “Pezzy, it has been 1000 days since I had the first threat. I have not been able to function for 1000 days. I love you, Pezzy, but you will never understand how I think. It’s just too complicated.”

“Listen, I may not understand it completely, but I’d like to. I love you too, and I never understand you fully, but I will always be here to support you,” He leaned in to kiss my forehead before leaning his forehead to mine. “I don’t want you to fight your battles alone. I’m here for you. I do not care how many people I gotta fight to tell you otherwise. I’ll fight from the trenches if I have to if it means I get to help you through anything causing you pain.”

“You don’t mean that,” I dismissed, looking away as I felt tears fill my eyes. “You really don’t, Pezzy. As much as I know you care, there is no way you’d be willing to help me in that way.”

“I do! I’d do anything for you,” Pezzy consoled as he put a hand on my chin to turn my face to look at him again. “I’m with you till the end of the line, remember? We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I’m not leaving your side. I don’t care how dark or difficult it may seem. You are my person till the end of the line, and I’m here for the long ride.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[ruleroftheimps]

“What if Val owned Vox’s soul” this, and “what if Al owned Vox’s soul” that. What if VELVETTE owned Vox’s soul? Poof, Streamer Vox now exists. Idfk, I’m sleep deprived lol. I want to expand on this idea, but I also have nothing to add, soooo…

Wait, scratch that, I do.

I have like, two routes I can take here. One, Velvette came into possession of Vox’s soul after he lost a fight with Alastor and needed backup, and she, being the petty bitch I just know she is, made him make a deal to get it. It doesn’t really do much because he’s sort of the unofficial public leader of the Vees and any bad publicity about him is bad publicity for them all, but she does make him do streams and modeling stuff every once in a while, and also deal with Valentino a bit more on her behalf. And also stop talking about Alastor so much. Just. Stop. It doesn’t really change stuff THAT much, because she just doesn’t care. It’s just a way to get what she wants every once in a while, there’s no big changes.

Orrrrrr 2, the more interesting route, which is just genuinely awful so do keep that in mind if you keep reading, Velvette came into possession of Vox’s soul after he lost a fight with Alastor and needed backup, and she, being the manipulative bitch I just know she is, has been planning this since the moment she fell into Hell. The Media Demon? Who the hell's that? Nah, the guy with the TV for a head is Vox, Velvette's most popular streamer. Oh, why? Well, if you ever had any grudge against the Vees, or Alastor since everybody knows these two were friends once, you can just call live and stream, donate somewhere upwards of five souls, and get to watch him mutilate himself live! How fun is that? (Aka, he has to do whatever the viewers want since it gets more views, and a LOT of people hold grudges against people adjacent to him. Most were neutral at worst about Vox). Yeah, that totally doesn't have an effect on a guy's self esteem.

Genuinely not sure why, but Staticdust would work great in the second one. (For the record, I turn almost everything into a ship because I want the characters to have emotional security. It's usually not romantic, just like. I want this character to suffer, but also have somebody they can lean on for support during the suffering. Just one hyperspecific person. Everybody else is not trustable.) Probably because they're both the favorites of the remaining Vees, so they can relate. Angel Dust would 100% try to bring Vox to the hotel, but Vox is a, not allowed to leave without permission, and b, Alastor's there and Vox is very much scared of him.

Also, her chains look like pink scarves or smth, I don’t know why that popped in my head, but it did and is now canon in my mind until I am proven wrong lol.

[sunnyie-eve]

51 | Chicago

Series: Unexpected

Paring: Matt Sturniolo x OFC Brock!

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: none

| MASTERLIST |

"On our way to Chicago for Summer Smash. Pullin an all nighter. Haven't slept in like 30hrs or something. But we're locked in." Chris explains as they wait for their flight.

"I'm fading." Dani says exhausted.

"You hear that?" Matt asks Chris, "Chicago, if you're boarding go to gate 58. Or am I tripping balls?"

"Don't ask me shit because I'm not here right now." Dani cuddles her extra jacket exhausted.

When the three board their plane, Dani had the window seat while Matt had the middle and Chris had the aisle seat. It didn't take Chris long at all to fall asleep while Matt and Dani stay up for a few minutes.

"Why couldn't you take the middle? You're small."

"Because I wanted the window and you love me so I get what I want." She gives him a smile.

"Don't give me that smile, tator tot."

Dani smiles bigger, "You haven't called me that in forever." She grabs a hold of his hand, "Love you."

"Love you too." He gives her hand a squeeze.

The day of Summer Smash, while Dani was about finished getting ready, Chris sees her, "No ma'am. You are not wearing that."

Dani looks down at herself, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?! Matt!" Chris calls him so he comes and sees Dani.

"Oh no. You better have a backup outfit." He tells her

"Again, what's wrong?" She asks them. "Do you want to draw the attention of every dude there or hell any girls?" Matt crosses his arms.

She was dressed in a blue jean mini skirt with a cute lase trim and two little bows. Her shirt was lacey material that was tied in the front showing off her stomach.

"Someone could walk by and just pull that string and show everyone you boobs. Because it's clear you don't have a bra on." Chris adds, "So plan B." Chris leaves the room.

Matt walks over to grabbing her face to look up at him, "You look amazing, you do, trust me but I want you to be safe. You can't trust some people. Keep the skirt but a different top please. To be on the safe side."

"I hate that you are so caring at times." Dani rolls her eyes before giving him a quick kiss.

"But you love me because I'm caring." He starts to leave. "Oh, but I wouldn't mind you wearing that top at times at home." He gives her a wink leaving her to change.

At Summer Smash while they start to vlog, Dani  points the camera at herself, "Y'all I didn't get to wear what I wanted to wear because of the guys." Dani tells viewers as the walk around Summer Smash. "Danielle, you are no leaving in that." She mocks what they told her.

"You're ridiculous to think that we would let you leave the hotel wearing that outfit." Chris tells her.

The next morning Chris plays music loudly going to wake up Matt and Dani. Dani picks her head up looking over at Chris filming the whole thing. "Dude, are you fucking serious right now?" She asks, "I'm barely even awake right now."

"Tome to get up." He film Matt, "How are you? Bro get the fuck up. Open your eyes."Chris goes to touch him so Matt puts the blanket over his head. "You both are such babies."

"Christopher." Dani picks her head back up to give him a look.

When the two finally get out of bed to get ready, Chris was still filming everything, "You're on kid." Chris shows Matt topless putting on his belt.

"You started vlogging and I wasn't dressed yet."

"I'm about to zoom in on Matt's nipple." Chris zooms in on Matt.

"Bro, get the fuck out of here, like dead serious." Matt covers his chest with one arm.

"Kid, put a shirt on."

"I told you to stop, wait a second." Matt tells him.

"Alright, wait for big baby to get dressed."

"Big baby?" Matt laughs, "You wanna see big baby's nipples, that's crazy."

"Zoooommm." Chris zooms in on her so she tells him no.

"Can you not?" She asks him, "Plus, I don't have a damn bra on and you're coming in on me as well. And I have on my sleeping shorts."

"We are body positive on here. No rude comments on bodies of any kind." Matt adds for viewers.

~

"Who I'm with, it's Nick, on the phone." Chris sings showing Nick on FaceTime. "Matt hitting the dance. Whoa, whoa, whoa, get it." Chris shows Matt before talking to Nick, "But we're going great."

"That's good and you haven't lost Dani yet?" Nick jokes around.

"We keep her on a leash when walking." Chris jokes as well.

"Where is Dani?"

"Right here." Chris turns to show Dani coming out of the bathroom in her towel.

"Dude, I just got out of the shower. I forgot to get clothes. First you film Matt shirtless then me in this." She grabs her clothes before going back into the bathroom.

"Stop filming the two when they are barely dressed." Nick tells Chris.

"But people want to see."

When the three get back home the boys wanted to

Chris was hyping Matt up as Dani films for them, "Come on, Matt." Dani sighs, "You're giving nothing."

"Yas!" Chris tries to get him in the mood.

"What are you doing?"

"Give us a pose." Nick tells him so Matt gives a bland pose.

"Yeah, no that's not it babe." Dani tells him, "Give like an edit move." She tries to help.

"He's gonna punch the camera." Chris whispers into the camera.

"You look nervous to be here." Nick tells him.

"I don't-, What am I doing?" Matt asks the three.

"Be you, Matt. Let yourself be free." Dani tells him so he acts like himself throwing punches at the camera, "There we go!" She cheers and next up was Chris, "Walk at me. 3, 2, 1."

"Yes, yes, yes!" Nick loves it.

"You get it, you get it." Dani loved it too, "I'm gonna stay here this time. 3, 2, 1." Dani counts down and Chris looks for his zipper.

"Oh, I don't have a zipper. I was gonna go like this and go." Chris shows what he was gonna do with the donut.

"CHRIS NO!" Dani yells at him, "You're done." She makes him laugh.

When it was Nick's turn he needed no coaching whatsoever. He was the best and had fun with it. "A ball dropping Matt has entered the villa." Chris says as Dani films Matt sitting around.

"Ball dropping?" Matt repeats.

"Yeah,"

"I would've worded it like, a brand new bomb shell dropped." Dani rewords it, "Matt's the bomb. Aren't you Matty?" She gets closer to him.

"I'm not."

"Umm yes." She disagrees with him.

"We're some bros looking for some hoes." Chris says making Nick and Dani says it's terrible. "I'm looking for a girl in the villa. To buy some Let's Trip merch." Chris says instead.

Matt sighs, "Umm, we have merch drop tomorrow, 4th of July. Celebrate the fireworks not only in your wallet... I mean, not only, not only in the sky." He laughs at himself.

"Fireworks are gonna go off in your wallet." Nick laughs.

"Is that Dani's?" Matt asks Chris about the drink he was opening so Chris looks at her.

"It's ours."

"It's mine." She corrects him.

"What's yours is mine. What's mine is ours."

"It belongs to meeee." Dani sings in You Belong With Me tune making him laugh at her, "You belong with me." She then sings the song so they all laugh at her.

"Freak." Chris laughs so she shoves him playfully while Matt laughs at the two of them. "What was your favorite part of Chicago?" Chris asks Matt.

"Umm, Potbelly." Matt takes his time answering.

"Answer faster!" Dani shouts at him startling him and Chris.

"Holy shit." Chris puts his hand over his chest.

"Sorry." Dani apologizes.

"Potbelly Sandwiches!" Matt says fast.

"Tell..." Chris starts but is cut off by Nick.

"You guys went to Potbelly's!" He shouts so they tell him yes and he yells in response.

"Like three times." Chris tells him which makes Nick jealous.

"Potbelly Sandwiches..." Was all Matt says making Chris laugh at him.

"Interrogation." Chris films for Nick's turn.

"GET UP AGAINST THE WALL!" Matt yells startling Nick, who does what he said.

"That was top ten loudest Matt clips." Chris tells him.

"Who's thong was that under your bed?" Matt asks.

"What?!" Nick shouts surprised by that.

Chris starts to lose it laughing while Dani was shocked too, "That's fucking crazy from you."

"What?!" Nick repeats.

"How many Ubers did you buy?" Matt gets serious.

"Too many."

"TOO MANY!" Matt says as well.

"Hundreds of dollars on Uber." Nick says then him and Chris trade places.

"Do you hate Dani?" Nick asks him.

"No."

"Will you ever?" Nick asks.

"Nope."

"Did you have a blast at Summer Smash?" Nick gets to the real questions.

"Absolutely."

"Did you feel like a third wheel with Matt and Dani all week?" Nick laughs a bit asking him.

"I did at times." Chris tells the truth.

"Do you wish she stayed here?"

"A bit." Chris laughs.

For Dani's turn, Matt was the one asking questions, "Dating anyone?"

"I am not dating anyone." She laughs, "Why do people think that?"

"Are you still upset you couldn't wear that outfit?" He asks her.

"I'm very upset that I didn't get to wear it." She answers him.

"Did you have fun?"

"I did, hated how Chris would keep waking us up. But I had a blast." She sees how Chris gave her a look making her laugh, "We made great memories over the week."

"This video is over." Nick steps in front of the camera clapping his hands.

[wha-archive]

As a note:

The mass DMCA takedowns that have affected unofficial fanlations (to avoid trouble I don't signpost these places even by name, but if you know you know) do have me a little worried.

If requested - whether with a legal or informal prompt - this archive will take down any material (though importantly I can still host things like the index, which signposts to as many official sources of specific images as I can manage in case something like this is requested). I have my own offline copies, but when it comes to things like artbooks I would recommend people make their own backups of images or sets they're interested in.

I'm going to be especially careful about the timing of uploading new artbooks - I was already waiting out sales windows somewhat, but I'm going to be a little more cautious. The large artbook and new colouring book are being released to US audiences in autumn, so neither will materialise here until a month or two of sales for those has elapsed.

People have been fantastic about this from what I've seen, but to reiterate - please be sure to only post direct links to the archive in private discussions if you can, and if you do post it publicly please avoid using official tags and ideally keep it to sites where deleting a post means its gone for all viewers (i.e. not sites like tumblr where a reblog saves it forever).

[isagrimorie]

So this is another good breakdown but some of Jac's answers here, I don't fully trust. Of course, she won't fully reveal things and share the whole story.

I will keep an eye out because I feel something sneaky is happening. (In a good way).

Anyway, this interview reveals several things:

Agatha's classification is that she is a Spirit witch-- Jac doesn't fully clarify what a Spirit witch specializes in.

And Jac says point blank, Agatha did grow up in a community that didn't care for her and a mother that ultimately thought she was not worth saving.

in the trial, it was on the page, and felt really important, to see Rio stand up for Agatha. And also to remind the viewer that Agatha comes from abuse, you know, that there are reasons why people behave the way they do, and it’s usually, you know, there’s source trauma. So to bring Agatha’s mother back, who, by the way, Kate Forbes, who was in “WandaVision” and reprising her role here, who’s a tremendous performer and so wonderful to work with. She had so much trouble with that line “You were born evil.” Question: It was so dark. It was brutal.

It was so dark. And Kate was like, “Really? I really am going to say this?” And to her credit, she said it and meant it, because she’s an excellent performer. But yeah, that was really important. Like, we really were like “This is the fundamentals of Agatha Harkness,” is, this the narrative that she has been fed. That her natural curiosity, her natural gifts, her ability to be performative, all of that, her mother and her community decided was evil, as opposed to mentoring her, as opposed to helping her, as opposed to communicating with her. And no one has sympathy for that more than Rio. Rio knows the story and knows this pain, and speaks up for her love.

Emphasis mine.

"Her natural gifts" suggest to me that Agatha's siphoning ability was something she was born with.

But also that Rio knows what Agatha's gone through and has great sympathy for Agatha, she can hold multitudes of feelings for Agatha: Love, sympathy, care, and a huge well of anger somewhere because Agatha pissed her off enough that Rio wants to see her dead.

Also, I somehow skimmed through the episode 2 interview where Jac said: “Agatha is to the first to know any secret. Agatha is always holding things back.

Also, I just wanted to say, that I felt a little vindicated when Jac confirmed Agatha got her backup and was angry at Teen because of his self-righteousness:

Agatha sort of — she can always see the darkness in people, and she’s always interested in it. So I think anybody who is saying to her, “I am an angel, I am on the side of good,” her question is going to be like, “Are you? Are you really?”

And so there’s not the sort of specificity necessarily. That’s Agatha poking holes in anybody who claims to be righteous.

And Jac reminds people she loves a good complicated story and as a storyteller Schaeffer and her writer's room aren't interested in the 'what' but the 'why' and 'how'.

It's all about the journey, and not the destination.