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i-just-cannot · 2 months ago

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kiss city

summary: you're the head of a studio that's caught the attention of one of Continental's biggest and brightest directors, causing the team at Continental to scramble as they try to keep her in the fold. relationship: Maya x Reader (established) content notes: explicit smut (18+), light bondage, nipple clamps, clit clamp, vibrator, face sitting, masturbation, AFAB reader, reader is referred to as girl/babygirl/babe/baby/bitch, maya says "fuck" every other sentence... I think that's it.

disclaimer: probably nothing about how i describe the film industry working is accurate lol. forgive me word count: 10.8k (ao3)

It was quieter than usual in the conference room at Continental Studios that morning, especially for having all of the firm’s biggest players sitting around the table for an emergency meeting. It wasn’t a tense quiet—not yet, at least. Just charged, simmering with the news Matt had shared moments before: Bridget Archer was considering another studio for her next project.

“Well, who is it?” Sal asked, not undeterred by the prospect of losing Archer just yet. “Is she thinking Universal? Fox?”

Matt took a deep breath and cast a quick glance in Maya’s direction. She didn’t pretend not to notice, per se, but she was too busy checking her nails to acknowledge him at the moment.

“Adoculos.”

Everyone else’s eyes found Maya then, and the weight of their combined stares forced her to look up from her cuticles. “What?” she asked, even though she knew damn well why she’d suddenly caught everyone’s eye.

“Did you know about this?” Sal asked from his seat across the table.

“I fucking told him about it,” Maya said, gesturing toward Matt with her now thoroughly-inspected hand. “You’re welcome.”

Matt cleared his throat as everyone’s focus returned to him at the front of the room. “We can’t let it happen.” He shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say. “She almost single-handedly made Q4 our best quarter in eleven years.”

Quinn leaned forward in her chair, eager to contribute. “Dreaming in Violet killed it last year. Critical darling and it did great in theaters. Better than expected. Topped the Coen Brothers project that came out at the same time in its second week.”

Anyone who didn’t know that shouldn’t have been in the room, but it was business, and they needed to lay all their cards down.

Matt took back over, hands flat on the table in front of him. “We need her next project. It has to be us. We need to make it so that people know if Bridget Archer is on a film, it’s coming from Continental.”

No one said anything, but everyone sat in silent agreement.

“We’re meeting with her this afternoon, and we’re going to give her whatever she wants,” Matt said, pointing down at the table with one hand as if it was marked with a play-by-play on retaining your studio’s highest-grossing director. “What we did for Scorcese, but multiply it by ten.”

“We’re going to kiss her ass,” Sal chimed in, translating to the rest of the group who didn’t necessarily need the assistance. “Give her the metaphorical hand job of the century.”

Maya scoffed. “If you’re planning a hand job for Bridget Archer, then you’ve already fucked up your pitch.”

“Fine. The cunnilingus job of the century,” Sal said, exasperated. He let the thought hang in the air for a moment before shaking his head. “Doesn’t sound as good.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. “It’ll sound better to the queer auteur who has at least one allusion to the vagina in every scene.”

“We have the upper hand here. We’ve proved we can be the kind of studio where she can make the kind of movie she wants to make,” Matt popped back in, trying to get the conversation back on track. “But Adoculos isn’t unworthy competition. It’s got that art house prestige—the kind an indie-at-heart director still longs for, even after they’ve gotten the major deal. There’s also that automatic rapport—the sapphic bond. We have to overcome that.”

Maya couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the prospect. “Archer is not going to choose the other studio just because the studio head is gay unless you act like a moron and say something like that to her face.” She thought about it for another beat before raising a finger in warning toward him. “And don’t mention what you did to Scorcese, either. We don’t need to remind anyone of that fucking disaster.”

Tyler snapped his fingers in agreement beside her.

“Fine. No Scorcese,” Matt conceded, a grimace crossing his face at the memory.

“So we keep it director-friendly,” Quinn said, projecting confidence in that junior-exec way of hers. “Creative control. Big budget. Significant upfront and equity—”

Maya’s voice, more brash, cut in. “Offer her the terms that would make a director cream their fucking pants to keep working with us.” Matt looked at her skeptically, given her objection to Sal’s earlier metaphor, but she just shrugged. “Genital inclusive.”

The conversation went on, discussing every possible way they could think of to appeal to Archer in ways they hadn’t already during her last film. Quinn had three full pages of notes by the time the ideas stopped flowing and the apprehension began flowing too freely.

Matt sighed the way he did when he was starting to regret having ever being offered studio head, then nodded in Maya’s direction. “Do you, uh,” he said, voice low and yet, still anything but subtle, “Do you have any idea what they’re offering?”

Maya snorted, leaning back in her chair, elbows perched on the armrests. “You’re lucky we know she’s thinking about leaving at all.”

Matt shrank then, just a bit, the amount of shrinking he did anytime Maya pushed back, more out of respect than fear.

“We don’t need to know what they’re offering,” Quinn said, her voice cool and steady. “We have a plan. We just have to stick to it.”

Matt ran his hand through his hair as he tried to keep calm. “All right, let’s take a lunch. The meeting’s at two, so be here before then.”

-*-*-

The meeting lasted longer than it should have, and yet, by the end, no one was sure they had Archer back on the hook.

“Bridget, thank you so much for coming in today,” Matt said, shaking the hand of the woman—short, but still taking up the whole room. “We are really, really excited for this opportunity, and we couldn’t be more willing to make it happen. Let me walk you out.”

Matt led the way out of the conference room with Archer and her team behind him. When the door swung closed, Sal immediately pointed to Quinn.

“Quinn—go. Don’t let him fuck this up.”

Quinn scurried to her feet and ducked out of the conference room, trailing the group for only a few steps before she was walking in stride with Archer’s publicist, close enough to hear whatever Matt was saying (and to jump in and redirect if needed).

“So,” Maya said after the Bridget and her entourage had fully disappeared down the staircase. She pulled a vape pen from her pocket and brought it to her mouth before cocking her head in the direction Quinn had just disappeared into. “How’s that going?”

“There’s no ‘that,’” he answered, but he wasn’t a good liar.

“Okay, man,” Maya said, raising her hands as vapor rose up in wisps around her, sharing a look with Tyler through the brief mist.

Sal swatted at the disappearing cloud from across the table. “Could you not do that in here?” he asked, the words laced with an irritation he wasn’t fully ready to unleash but needed to make known.

“It’s medicinal,” Maya said in response, but put the pen away anyway.

Matt and Quinn returned minutes later, neither looking particularly concerned, but not too optimistic, either.

“She’s going to decide by the end of the day,” Matt said steadily. “They’ll call.”

“What the hell is Ad-hacks offering that’s keeping her from saying yes? You practically handed over the keys to the studio,” Sal asked, saying what they’re all thinking. Maya’s lips twitched, but she had enough loyalty to not give Sal ‘the look’ at the nickname. “I think we’ll actually lose money on this movie if she agrees to our terms, no matter how well it does.”

Matt grimaced briefly, like he’d been trying not to think about it, then held his head high, resolute. “It’ll be worth it, if it means she sticks with us for her next few features.”

“And if she does one and bounces?” Maya asked. “Or it flops despite my undoubtedly fire socials campaign?”

“We can ask the hypothetical questions after we find out if she’s staying,” Matt said, cutting the conversation off.

They dispersed shortly after, with the understanding that they were all sticking around the Continental building until they got the news, good or bad.

Maya went back to her office to resume OK-ing poster proofs and scrolling through rough trailer cuts for movies that were coming out next quarter in between taking bites of her Postmates order, eyes on her monitor rather than her fork.

It was just past eight when Tyler came sprinting into her doorway, breathing heavily.

“Quinn said Matt’s on with Archer’s agent.”

“Shit,” Maya said, standing up immediately, meal half-eaten and forgotten on her desk, and trailing Tyler out into the hall.

“Did you tell Sal?” Maya asked as they came up on his office a few doors down.

“I did,” Quinn answered, coming up from behind them. “He’s just… taking a minute,” she muttered before taking off, like she wanted to be far away before Maya could ask any more questions. Tyler followed.

Maya looked in through the window to Sal’s office, and found him still sitting in his chair, looking a little drowsy with the imprint of a book slicing a red line down his cheek. He seemed to be in no hurry, and Maya was having none of it.

“Come on!” she called, banging on the glass with her palm.

Sal startled, making a face at her, but standing up to make his way down the hallway after her. The two of them slid into Matt’s office just as the call was ending, crowding around Matt next to Quinn and Tyler.

“Understood,” Matt said, his face locked in a grin. “Well, let her know we’d love to work with her again some time, OK? OK. Good to talk to you.”

Matt brought the phone down from his ear, the beep signifying the end of the call just barely audible to the rest of the group. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “That wasn’t how I hoped it would go.”

“Shit,” Sal breathed, dropping into the nearest chair. Not defeated, not even resigned. Just quiet shock.

“Fucking shit,” Maya parroted, taking the seat across from him. Her tongue jutted out into her cheek the way it always did when she was upset and trying to hide it.

“I can’t believe we lost her,” Quinn murmured, rounding out the immediate chorus of reactions.

“It’s all right,” Matt said in an attempt to convince them all, and especially himself. “I mean, it’s a loss, for sure, but we still have a whole roster of great directors—Wilde, Polley—“

“Not Scorcese,” Maya interrupted, though the quip lacked its usual bite.

“And not Howard,” Quinn added under her breath, like she was hoping no one would hear.

“Okay, fine,” Matt conceded. “I take the blame for those two, one-hundred percent. But I didn’t do anything wrong here, guys. We just got outbid.”

The room went quiet as everyone took in that truth.

The silence was broken by the buzz of Maya’s phone in her cargo pants pocket, then by the rustle of fabric as she fished it out. Despite it all, a small smirk crept onto Maya’s face as she read the incoming message, which Sal caught onto immediately.

“Tell your poacher girlfriend I said congrats,” he snorted lightly, though he only meant it half-heartedly.

“Hey,” Maya said, her fingers pausing mid-air with her response only half complete. “I’m pissed, too. No cap. I had some good ideas for that roll-out already. Sight un-fucking-seen.”

Tyler nodded solemnly to her left, like it was his greatest regret to deliver the next words to the rest of the group. “They were good.”

“And actually,” Maya continued, looking around the room, giving each person plenty of time to become reacquainted with her withering glare. “I’m offended as hell that everyone’s giving me the corporate espionage side-eye. Like I haven’t been the backbone of this studio for ten years. Be fucking for real.”

Matt cleared his throat again, clearly not recognizing the danger he was putting himself in. “I wouldn’t say marketing is the backbone of the studio. There’s nothing to market without the creative department, and—“

Matt trailed off when he noticed Maya’s fingers flexing against her chin and the wicked smile on her lips. “You wanna finish that?”

Matt shook his head, lips in a tight line. “No. I do not.”

The look on Maya’s face turned somehow deadlier at his response, reveling in the personal victory—a small one, sure, but there weren’t many others to claim from the rest of the day. “All right, chat, today is busted. I’m out.”

She stood from her chair, waving over her shoulder wordlessly at the muttered “goodbyes” as she headed back toward her office to grab her purse and go home.

As she walked out into the cooling Los Angeles evening air, she fished her phone back out from her purse, where she’d tossed it back up in her office. She held it screen facing up between her thumb and fingers, mic closest to her mouth. “Siri, text BBG.”

“Okay,” the robotic voice replied. “What do you want to say?”

-*-*-

Stay calm. Stay calm.

That had been your entire internal monologue for two hours, with no clear end in sight.

You were standing in the video village on the set of a film that you were this close to pulling the plug on, just taking the loss. It didn’t feel remotely worth the time, effort, or money anymore.

That afternoon (evening, really, but who was counting), you’d been called to the set by one of your junior execs who informed you that the crew had gotten approximately forty seconds of usable film in the last three days.

It wasn’t just mismanagement or poor planning causing the dysfunction. That’s something that you, as the studio head, wouldn’t normally be involved in, at least not to the same degree. The situation was just so far gone that there was no other choice but for you to be there. This wasn’t just incompetence. It was tension. It was hostility. It was a lead actor or the DP threatening to quit every other week. And you could link it all back to one person: the director.

You’d once had great respect for the director in question. You’d written papers on him in film school when he was just a big deal on the indie circuit, hiding your outright fangirling behind a thin veneer of academic stoicism to hand in to your professors. But you hadn’t worked with him at that point, and you could’ve never predicted then that, years later, you’d be getting called up regularly to serve as a glorified babysitter and ego-stroker to that man you’d been told to trust with a multi-million-dollar budget and your studio’s reputation.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t just a big name in the industry. He was also a close friend of your founding partner, a.k.a. the CFO of Adoculos Pictures, so wish as you might, there wasn’t very much you could do. You were just going to have to see it through unless someone literally died on set. But God you hoped that didn’t happen. That might be the only thing worse than staying the course.

You could handle it. That wasn’t ever in question. It wasn’t enjoyable, not in the slightest, but you could. You had a reputation for being able to work with the most difficult characters in the industry. A soothe sayer, they’d called you in the trade magazines on occasion. But that didn’t mean you wanted to.

Really, you should’ve been making your partner deal with this. It was his friend, his pet project. (Okay, maybe you’d been a big proponent at first. But not anymore.) Unfortunately, though, he had been spending time at the East Coast office over the last several weeks, so the burden had fallen to you.

At least if you were here, though, you knew something was getting done and the director wasn’t just going to get the pass because he had a buddy in high places. Not a whole lot of progress had been made in the short time that you’d been on location today, but the air did feel slightly lighter than it had when you’d arrived. At the very least, you’d managed to avoid another round of union penalties by firmly suggesting that it was break time—the amount in fees this production had already racked up by delaying or skipping breaks entirely made you balk when you first heard it yesterday.

The other members of the little enclave of folding chairs and video monitors had dispersed quickly after the director had made the begrudging announcement. He was still there though, grumbling under his breath, loud enough for you to hear but not for you to make out the words.

“See you after the break,” you said in as cordial a tone as you could muster in the moment.

He didn’t respond—not even under his breath. You held back a sigh.

As you walked away, you made a silent vow to yourself that, even if the film tripled its budget at the box office, you were going to make damn sure that your studio would never make a film with that guy ever again. The asshole.

After a little wandering around the property to stretch your legs and just be somewhere else for a while, you found yourself tucked away somewhere with trees and evening bird song and no cranky, argumentative directors or actors with bruised egos. A luxury.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere was probably going to be the only remotely relaxing part of the next 30 minutes. You were planning to call your partner, shame him into booking a seat on the first flight out of JFK tomorrow so he could start cleaning up his mess himself, and you knew it wasn’t going to be a sweet little chat.

Despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but smile when you unlocked your phone. It was still on your thread with Maya from earlier that evening when you’d gotten the call about Bridget Archer.

You’d barely gotten two minutes to bask in your success when you were called back to the more immediate realities of your situation, but those two minutes had been good.

As soon as you hung up with Archer’s agent—before you texted your partner, even before you told your assistant to call legal and get everything nailed down, you’d texted Maya.

We got her.

She’d started typing immediately, the three little dots coming up almost as soon as you hit send, but they disappeared shortly after. It took a few more minutes to finally get her response:

That’s my fucking girl!!!!

Suddenly Maya’s name and picture (something perhaps a little NSFW for a public contact photo, but then again, it was Maya) flashed on your screen. A coincidence that you couldn’t be more thankful for.

You answered before the first ring ended.

“You eat?” Maya asked as soon as the call connected. You two rarely exchanged pleasantries anymore. After all, you’d started out your day together, had been messaging in short bursts throughout. The “hello”s and the “how are you”s were unnecessary because the conversation never really ended, so they’d fallen out of your calls.

“On occasion,” you said, shouldering your phone as you leaned against a nearby palm tree, squinting up into the navy blue haze of the southern California sky after sunset.

“Smartass,” Maya said, but you were sure (despite not being able to see her) that the smirk on her lips matched your own. You could hear the sounds of the highway rushing by—she must’ve been on her way home. “Let me rephrase: Do I personally need to feed you to make sure you’ve eaten something in the last 18 hours?”

You didn’t answer right away, knowing the true answer was not the right answer. “…I haven’t had anything.”

Maya hummed knowingly. “God, you’re lucky you have such a loving and attentive and selfless girlfriend.”

“That’s one word for it.”

A scoff came from Maya’s end of the call. “Keep talking like that and you’ll deadass have no girlfriend by this time tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes and let out a breath—one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in until Maya had given you the tiny amount of room you’d needed to relax. “What I meant to say was, yes, I am so incredibly lucky.”

“Okay, say less,” Maya said with another thoughtful hum. “So what’s your deal tonight?”

You sighed, leaning your head back to thump softly against the tree trunk. “I’m on set. Just taking a break. I’ll probably be another couple hours.”

“That set?” Maya asked.

“Yeah. That one.”

You could practically hear her eyes roll, but she didn’t say anything more about it—a rare moment of restraint in your honor. “You coming here after?” she asked instead, the faint clicking of a turn signal as a backing beat, probably pulling off at her exit.

“You want me to?” you asked in answer.

“If you want to,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but neutrality was never Maya’s strongest suit.

You rolled your eyes this time. “That’s not an answer.”

“You started it,” she said pointedly, then sighed. “But fine, fuck it. I want you here. I always fucking want you here. Happy?”

“Yes,” you said, grinning and trying not to let yourself go soft when you had to be back on set in about twenty minutes. “I’ll text when I’m leaving.”

“You better,” Maya said. It sounded like a threat, but you knew better.

You figured that was the end of the call, goodbyes having fallen to the wayside as well, so were bringing the phone down from your shoulder, thumb hovering over the End Call button when you heard her say, “Hey—“

Your phone was back up to your ear in an instant. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” she said. “You’re a fucking rock star.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, like it might settle the flutter that rose in your chest—not just at the words, but at the way they were said. Maya always sounded so sure.

“I love you, too.”

The call ended a few seconds later, and you sucked in a deep breath through your nose.

That was the easy part. The pleasant surprise.

And now you were about to spring a not-so-pleasant one on your partner.

You navigated to your contacts and tapped his name before bringing the phone back up to your ear.

“Adam,” you said as both a greeting and a warning once the call connected. “We need to talk.”

-*-*-

You didn’t pull into Maya’s driveway that night until nearly midnight.

The house stood on a hill in Calabasas, large, modern, with clean lines and huge windows. Nothing that caught you off-guard anymore, but back in film school, walking up to a house like this would’ve had you feeling like you were in a different world.

You parked your Porsche coupe next to her BMW, then got out of the car and walked up the illuminated stairway, though you could probably make it to the door blindfolded at this point. Water poured in a sheet over a black marble ledge on either side of you, lit from behind by a warm white LED.

When you reached the upper level, you found the door unlocked, like you knew it would be. You had exchanged keys a long time ago, but you’d rarely given each other a reason to use them yet.

The door opened into a brightly lit entryway, and you closed and locked it softly behind you. The air inside the house was a little warmer than out in the night, but just barely, and something garlicky was wafting from further down the hall.

You kicked off your loafers next to the rack where Maya kept her “beater” shoes, then tried to shrug off your suit jacket without taking your leather messenger bag off of your shoulder; you managed, but were grateful no one was around to see.

“Hey, babe,” Maya called from the direction of the kitchen.

“Hey,” you called back, draping your jacket over your arm before walking toward her voice, your fingers working on undoing the second button of your shirt as you padded down the hallway.

She was ready and waiting when you entered the open concept kitchen area, moving into your space as soon as she saw you round the corner.

“Well, look at you, big shot,” she purred, reaching out to grab you by the belt loops and pull you in for a kiss.

“Out celebrating?” she teased, once you parted.

You let out a heavy sigh. “If ‘celebrating’ includes sending emails to people ‘circling back’ to conversations we settled weeks ago and putting out fires on that shit storm set for the last five hours, then yes. Partying really hard.”

Your words were a little harsher than you’d meant them to be. It had been a good day. You’d gotten Bridget Archer to sign with you. That was a big fucking deal. But the rest of the world hadn’t stopped after you’d gotten the phone call—and even if it had, you probably would’ve just taken it as an opportunity to whittle down your workload a bit for when it started spinning again.

Maya’s face twisted from a soft smirk to a stern frown.

“Sorry,” you said softly, resting a hand on Maya’s bicep. “Didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“You’re good,” she said softly in kind, thumb massaging little patterns into your stomach over your shirt.

Her eyes studied you, but you didn’t shrink away—you never had. Her gaze softened as she took in the exhaustion that buried the excitement of the day, the relief of finally being able to shed your executive form.

“How was everyone with the news?” you asked, treading a bit more lightly than you usually would. It didn’t seem like Maya felt betrayed by the day’s outcome, but you’d felt guilty for it all day anyway.

Maya shrugged. “They’ll be fine.”

“And you?” you asked.

“I’ll be fine, too,” she murmured. “Just watch your back with Gerwig.”

You chuckled as you leaned forward to rest your forehead against her shoulder. “I think the call of the Barbie might have ruined that for us both.”

She reached up to rest one hand on your shoulder blade, and the other on your lower back, and you in turn wrapped both arms around her waist. Her smell—the spice of her perfume with a hint of mint from her vape—wrapped around you.

Your eyes blinked closed, and your breathing slowed as you finally—finally—allowed yourself to take a moment.

When you finally leaned back, Maya took your chin between her fingers, gentle but firm. “Put your bag and your phone down, and go sit. I’ll bring you dinner.”

You opened your mouth, but she knew what you were going to say before you’d even taken a breath. “Don’t argue with me.”

You relented, not really up for any more fights and more than willing to be taken care of (and bossed around a little bit, why not) by your girlfriend. “And wine, please?” you asked as you took a reluctant step back.

“Already poured,” Maya said with a grin that only a handful of people had ever seen from her. You felt grateful all over again to be one of them.

You passed by the stools at the island, and then by the kitchen table, before finding yourself standing in the living room. You two didn’t normally eat out there—Maya was too uptight about her Restoration Hardware sectional to allow it very often, especially if any red sauce happened to be involved. But she hadn’t said anything when you walked in that direction, a silent sanctioning of tonight’s dining venue.

You flopped down on that very couch, pulled an aggressively-patterned throw pillow over your face (an aggressively-patterned Gucci throw pillow, as Maya would be remiss not to remind you), and closed your eyes. You couldn’t hear anything except the sizzle of whatever Maya had going on the stove and the hum of the air conditioner keeping the place to the near frigid temperatures you always complained about. Peace. At last.

A few minutes later and a power nap, the likes of which you’d perfected long ago, you felt a nudge to your shin. You peered out from under the throw pillow, one eye half-open and squinting up at Maya, who was now standing over you with a plate of some kind of sauced-up protein and a side of roasted vegetables in one hand and two wine glasses precariously held in the other.

You offered up a grateful but weary smile, even though half your face was still hidden by the pillow. “Thanks, My.”

“What else am I here for, the domestic goddess that I am?” she said back, waiting for you to sit up before seating herself beside you, her thigh flush with yours, like she was attached to your hip. Your smile grew a little softer, a little more smug. For all of Maya’s independent spirit, she sure did like to make sure you were close by, right where she needed you.

As you ate, Maya launched into a dramatic retelling of the Continental executive meetings from earlier in the day, punctuated occasionally by sips of wine or by you somehow being silently convinced to feed her a bite off your plate, even though she’d already eaten.

The story wound down in perfect sync with your meal, and when you finished, you set your plate down on the coffee table and settled into Maya’s side. Her arm wrapped around your waist and squeezed.

“You tired?”

You nodded, stifling a well-timed yawn. “But I don’t think I’d be able to sleep. Too much going on. Too much to think about.” Realization dawned on you then—you hadn’t checked your email in an hour. “I need my phone.”

You made to stand up from the couch, but Maya’s hand remained snugly wrapped around your waist like an anchor. “Babe…”

You looked over at her, skepticism clearly visible in your expression. “You know I run a studio, right?”

“Painfully aware,” she said, deadpan.

“I can’t go MIA,” you sighed.

“Okay. Question,” Maya said, tugging you back down to fully sit on the couch instead of the half-hover you’d been doing. “Do you think if I emailed Matt right now, I’d get a response before morning?”

“You’d know better than me,” you said, even though you had an answer in mind. You’d never worked with him directly, but you’d heard enough stories from Maya and others to know that, while he was a nice guy, he didn’t always know how to leverage the position he’d been given.

“I probably wouldn’t hear shit until lunchtime.”

You shrugged. “And that’s why I got the next Bridget Archer project.”

“Okay, bet,” Maya said, nodding, and you furrowed your brow. You’d be embarrassed at this point to admit to her that you didn’t know what that even meant. “But that still doesn’t mean you need to work all the goddamn time.”

“Getting lectured by Maya Mason about an appropriate work/life balance,” you muttered with a shake of your head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I have a work/life balance, thank you so much,” she corrected you, knocking your shoulder with her own. “You’re just not around to see it.”

You looked at her sideways, your eyebrows raised in doubt. “I’ve seen enough.”

“You say that, and yet, I’m the one trying to get you to chill the fuck out,” she said, heaving herself backward into the couch cushions, but not lightening up her grip around your waist. “What’s it gonna take?”

You looked at her from over your shoulder. “A miracle. Divine intervention,” you said, then pausing to think of one more. “Maybe an induced coma.”

Maya snorted before narrowing her eyes and looking up at you for a long moment. Her hold on your waist finally relaxed as she began trailing her fingers up and down your spine. “I can think of something a lot simpler than any of that,” she said in a deep voice that went straight to your lower belly. You didn’t let on, though.

“I’m not that easy,” you protested, trying to hold on to ground that was rapidly disappearing from beneath you.

Maya hummed as she sat upright again, her expression devilish, and pressed a kiss to your clothed shoulder. “Yes, you are.”

Jesus Christ.

She leaned in close so her forehead was pressed against the side of your head, her breath grazing your ear for a few moments before she turned her attention to your pulse point, alternately kissing and sucking and grazing her teeth over the spot. Your head lolled automatically to your opposite shoulder to give her better access.

The idea of having sex hadn’t even crossed your mind in the last twenty-four hours… maybe even longer, if you were being honest. It was just about time for Maya to start teasing you for being overworked and underfucked, and, even though you would’ve denied it, she would’ve been right. You could already feel the wet spot between your legs, and she’d barely touched you.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she started, the words muffled against your skin. “You’re not going to get your phone. You’re not even going to take your plate into the kitchen. You’re going to go upstairs take off all your clothes, and kneel in the middle of the bed until I tell you what to do next.”

Both of her hands had drifted down to the waistband of your tailored pants to untuck your shirt and work on undoing the lowest buttons. They weren’t frenzied, just steady. “Is that a deal you can make right now, babe? No directors, no execs, no multi-million-dollar offers. Just you and me.”

“Yes,” you said, voice hitching in your throat.

“Good,” she said, peeling herself away from you with a final brush of her fingers down your back. “Go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You stood from the couch with a renewed sense of purpose and headed toward the staircase that led to the bedroom. You could hear the soft clatter of plates and silverware being stacked fading into the distance behind you.

You finished unbuttoning your shirt as you climbed, though between the two you’d unbuttoned earlier and however many Maya had just gotten to, there wasn’t much left to be done. You were finally able to shrug it off as you reached the top step. You started working on your pants, then, which you slid off your legs as you approached the bench at the foot of the bed. You placed them there with your shirt, folding them into a neat pile, because that’s what you did, followed by your bra and underwear.

When you were totally bare, you climbed onto the bed and kneeled facing the door with your hands on your thighs, waiting for Maya to tell you your next move.

She took her time coming upstairs—or maybe she didn’t, but it felt like forever to you by the time she entered the bedroom.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh as she closed the distance between you. “Must be exhausting, making all those decisions for everyone all day long, huh, babygirl? Keeping everyone in line?” Her voice was dripping in sympathy—not all of it feigned.

“Yes,” you said, your breath growing shallower just from her proximity.

When she reached the edge of the bed she climbed on and crawled over to you, still fully dressed in her designer lounge wear set. She brushed a fallen piece of hair out of your face, and you leaned into her hand instinctively, even though she’d barely grazed your skin.

“Why don’t you lay down and let me choose for a while, then,” she murmured, placing her hand on your chest and guiding you onto your back. “You gonna let me do that for you?”

“Please,” you said, as if you hadn’t already surrendered control to her in the living room and there was room left for negotiation.

You were fully on your back by now, but Maya was still on her knees next to you on the mattress, towering over you.

“Say it again,” she demanded, placing one hand flat on the mattress next to each of your biceps, bracketing you in with nothing but her to look at.

“Please,” you said again, stronger this time, but it wasn’t enough.

“Louder.”

You let out a frustrated whimper. “Please, Maya!”

“That’s right,” she said, leaning down until she was as close as she could be without touching you. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure there’s nothing in that pretty little head when we’re done.”

She leaned back until she was sitting on her heels and stayed there for a little while, just trailing a finger up and down your arm. “Now do what I say. Understood?”

You nodded as she moved toward the foot of the bed, kneeling close enough to your bent knees that your toes were pressing into the soft fabric of her joggers.

“Spread.”

Your body responded without any thought on your part, and cold air suddenly flowed over your core, already wet and hot from the little you’d done on the couch and the anticipation of what was to come.

“Look at that perfect fucking pussy,” she husked, running one finger up your slit, finishing by pressing firmly on your clit for just a second. “Now close your eyes. Hands on the headboard. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

You didn’t feel her move until you were in position—she was clearly making sure you were following her instructions. When she did move, it was to get off the bed entirely, judging just by the movement of the mattress.

You heard her feet padding across the soft faux-fur rug on the floor, heading in the direction of the closet, then the soft thump of clothes hitting the floor and the opening and closing of drawers.

You could’ve looked, your intrusive thoughts told you. You could get a glimpse of what she was bringing back into the room and snap your eyes shut before she rounded the corner enough to see you peeking. But no. That wasn’t the scene tonight. She’d told you what to do, and you were going to follow her instructions as closely as you could.

No more than a minute later, you heard her crossing the room back to you and felt the bed shift with her weight.

“Lift your hips.”

You obeyed and were rewarded by the brush of something velvet against your lower back and ass. She tapped your hip to signal you to relax, you weren’t surprised to find yourself positioned at an angle, your lower back now supported by wedge-shaped pillow. Historically, that meant one thing: the strap was coming out.

You swallowed—one of the only movements you could make right now without violating the rules.

You were content with that. Maya fucking you with her cock (maybe the thick one—please be the thick one) would do it for you tonight. The only problem was, you hadn’t heard the sounds of her putting on the harness—no clinking buckles and certainly no soft “Fuck” from Maya’s mouth when she inevitably slotted the leather strap through the wrong ring.

You didn’t have time to think about it too hard—next thing you knew, Maya was pulling a soft blindfold over your eyes, then taking one arm at a time down from the headboard to cuff your wrists at your sides, followed by your ankles.

You were startled by the sudden sound of metal chains pooling into a pile near your ear, but Maya was quick to distract you by putting her mouth on your clit, no warning. You jumped, hips thrusting instinctively to meet her, but the next thing you knew, she pulled away and you felt her hands warm on your hips, acrylics digging into the skin, forcing your ass down into the velvet.

“What did I tell you to do?” she murmured in a voice that was only deceptively sweet.

It was a direct question. That meant you were allowed to answer. “Not move.”

“That’s right,” she said, swiping at your clit once, roughly, with her finger in emphasis. “Are you going to listen to me?”

You resisted the urge to nod your head. Instead, you just said, “Yes.”

“Good girl,” she purred, releasing her hold on your hips and spreading your legs just a little further apart. You could feel her warm breath ghosting over your stomach in ripples. “Stay still. That’s all you need to think about.”

When she put her mouth back on you, you somehow managed to keep yourself still, even as her lips wrapped around your clit and started teasing it with her tongue. At the same time, one of her hands traced up your side until it was resting on your breast. She ran her thumb back and forth over your nipple, just far enough out of sync with her tongue flicking over your clit to be maddening, but you couldn’t whine, couldn’t complain.

She flattened her tongue against you, a sudden change in stimulation that, under different circumstances, would’ve made you gasp, but you used all of your willpower to keep yourself from physically acknowledging it. She gave the bud one last swirl and a quick peck of her lips before moving on, and you restrained a whimper at the loss of contact. You were lucky your wrists were cuffed; otherwise, you probably would’ve had your fingers in her hair and a punishment to endure by now.

She kissed up your stomach until her mouth reached the nipple her hand wasn’t already giving attention. It received the same treatment she’d given your clit, but it hardly needed any coaxing; you could already feel the strain of it having gone stiff by association. It wasn’t long before Maya released the hardened peak from her mouth with a wet pop, simultaneously tweaking your other nipple with her fingers before removing herself from you entirely and moving to your side.

Whatever Maya had put next to you—the metal sound from earlier—was her next target. Your eyelids fluttered under the blindfold and your throat strained to hold in a gasp when you felt the weight of cold metal on your ribs.

“No squirming,” Maya instructed. You almost wanted to protest—that wasn’t fair. You hadn’t moved since she’d pinned you down. You had been good. You—

Maya’s warm hand cupped your breast, and then you understood her warning. Something cold was now squeezing your right nipple, then you felt the same pressure on your left, and then, unexpectedly, on your clit. Clamps.

“That feel good, baby?” Maya whispered from above. You opened your mouth to answer, but all that came out was a helpless gasp as you tried your hardest to suppress even the smallest twitch. You could almost hear her smirking down at you. “Use your words.”

“Good,” you managed to say, your voice tight and thin as you fought to keep your back from arching off the bed.

Her nails grazed your ribs as she grabbed for the piece of metal resting there. When she lifted it from your skin, you felt the clamps tugging deliciously at your nipples and clit until she laid it back down.

Fingers brushed against your jawline, rough and tender all at once, Maya’s specialty. You didn’t even flinch at the unexpected touch. “You’re being so good for me, baby. So good.”

Your insides preened, but other than the slight smile and the broken breath you took in, you didn’t show it. But she knew.

She moved her hand to your lower belly, rubbing there for a quiet moment before a sound whirred into existence to your left. You knew that sound—the wand.

Oh shit.

You couldn’t see where it was, but you could track it by sound and you were going to feel it in three, two, one…

The vibrations made contact with your spread-open lips, pulsating underneath your clamped clit, and you couldn’t help the whimper that rose from your throat at the sudden, overwhelming change in stimulation.

Maya pounced on the opportunity you’d given her with your misstep. “Does that mean you want more, babygirl?”

You didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the interplay of pleasure and pressure coming from your core.

“Answer me,” she said with another pull to the clamp chains. You groaned without thinking.

“Yes,” you rasped.

“I thought so,” Maya said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. The button clicked once, then again, only two notches, but the intensity felt like it had skyrocketed.

Maya spent the next few minutes teasing you all over: tugging the chain and pulling at your nipples and clit; sucking bruises into the tops of your breasts and along your collarbone and to a dangerously visible spot on the column of your neck; running both of her hands down your sides and along your thighs.Your muscles were desperate to act—to writhe, to contract, to flail, but somehow, you remained motionless. The only thing you couldn’t control was your breath; your chest heaved, and you felt the metal of the clamp chains, warm now from your body heat, tickling your ribs and stomach with each inhale.

When she finished marking your neck, Maya pulled away, the bed dipping in her direction, and for a while, you didn’t feel her hands on you at all. It was just you and the wand and the blood from where you’d bitten the inside of your cheek while trying to stay quiet.

“I wish you could see yourself all clamped up like this,” she finally said, voice low. Her finger began tracing the chains connecting your nipple clamps to the metal plate. The chains felt heavier as she dragged a finger along the links. “You look like one of my necklaces. There are even little diamonds to make my girl look so pretty. All iced up, just for me.” She flicked one of the supposed diamonds with her nail to punctuate the sentence, the dull ting of plastic on metal ringing in your ears long after it ended.

“And you know what this says?” she said, tracing the plate at the center of it all before tugging it in a new direction, down toward your bottom half, making you choke on a gasp. Her hand wrapped warm around your own, and she brought it up as far as the cuff would allow her. She traced your pointer finger over the metal. There was definitely something etched into it, but what, you weren’t able to say, especially when your focus was already split three ways, between what was going on between your thighs and the pull on your nipples from Maya holding the chains taut.

“It says ‘bitch.’ Because that’s what you are. My little bitch who does whatever I say,” she muttered before dropping your hand back down. “Isn’t that right?”

You didn’t make her ask for your answer this time. “Yes.”

You heard her sigh, long and heavy. “That’s fucking right.”

She went quiet, which was almost never a good sign. You felt her change position on the bed then settle next to you. Seconds later, your ears were filled with sounds from lower down the bed—wet, unmistakable squelching.

Maya was fucking herself.

You couldn’t see it, but you could hear it—her fingers, her own quiet moans.

You let out a wounded whine.

“Quiet.”

You stilled.

Several minutes passed, until you were barely keeping yourself together, with the sound of her in your ear and the unforgiving vibrations between your legs and the exquisite pinch of your nipples all pushing you toward your release. Your thighs started to quake despite yourself, and your fingers twitched against the mattress without your permission.

Maya noticed. Of course she did.

“Looks like you just can’t help yourself anymore, huh, babygirl?” Her voice came out ragged, with a familiar edge of condescension. She hadn’t stopped fucking herself. “You’d just love to sit up and ride my thigh like a good bitch would, wouldn’t you?”

You responded with a sound that you weren’t sure you’d ever made before, because she was right—at that very moment, you’d have given anything for the privilege.

“Well, that’s not happening,” she said, dashing hopes you hadn’t even known you’d had until seconds before. “But maybe I’ll let you grind on this wand and suck on my fingers.” She paused as a moan ripped from her throat, and her voice was lighter, raspier, when she spoke again. “What do you think?”

You were on edge, shaking in ways that weren’t just due to the vibrations between your legs. It wouldn’t take much more for you anyway, but if she let you get a little more friction and a taste of her, you’d be gone in five seconds flat.

“Yes,” you said. “God, yes.”

At your plea, the wet sounds from Maya’s cunt came to a stop. Her fingers—a little sticky now—skimmed over your arm, then your stomach, and then, suddenly, the pressure on your clit was gone, replaced by a rush of blood like you’d never felt before. You were throbbing in an absolutely desperate way.

“Well?” Maya said, feigning impatience. “Get to it.”

You moved your hips at her command but slowed almost immediately. The clamp had your clit at its most sensitive. Just the air passing over it had you shuddering, and the lightest touch would’ve felt like lightning. Riding the wand at its highest setting, then, was almost too much to think about, even though you could sense the edges of your orgasm just beyond your reach.

“Oh, baby, don’t stop. You fucking wanted this,” Maya coaxed, running her fingers through your hair. “Now open your mouth.”

You did, and in return, she shoved her fingers in just far enough to graze the back of your throat and make you gag. You sputtered momentarily around her before recovering and beginning to clean her fingers, licking them like you were starved of her. As you did, you started to roll your hips into the vibrating head of the toy. It was pain. It was pleasure. It was over for you in about three weak thrusts. You came with an unrestrained moan.

“That’s it, baby,” Maya said in your ear. She didn’t remove her fingers from your mouth, even as your jaw went slack. “So fucking hot.”

She gave you time to ride the high, using her free hand to brush her fingers against your temple.

You’d barely caught your breath again when she slipped her fingers out from between your lips.

“You can give me more, right, babygirl? I know you can.”

You swallowed and nodded.

“Words.”

Maya’s hand made contact with your exposed cunt with a thwack and you hissed at the sensation.

“Yes!”

You heard the button on the wand again, and a new pattern began pulsing at your lips. Short, short, long, short, short, long, long—the vibrations slower than before by just enough to keep you on the edge without falling over it. It still held enough of your attention, though, that you barely noticed the newfound slack in the cuffs around your wrists.

The mattress shifted again—Maya was moving, and your mouth practically watered when you felt the weight dip near your left shoulder, and then your right. You could feel the heat of her hovering over you, smell her familiar musk, and your freshly unbound arms almost reached up to wrap around her thighs. She hadn’t said you could touch her yet, though, or even that you could move again, so you kept them by your sides, exactly where they’d been while in the cuffs.

The satin blindfold slid up your forehead and you blinked once, twice, readjusting to the light. You saw her face first, or a blurry rendition of it, her arms stretched out, palms against the headboard, and then you saw her cunt—already swollen and glistening—just inches from your face. “Make me feel good, baby,” she said, giving you only seconds to reorient before she lowered herself onto your face.

You opened your mouth instinctively to lap at her folds. You made one long drag of your tongue through her slit and groaned. Even though you’d already had the taste of her delivered by her fingers, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as getting it from the source.

You thrusted your tongue into her, and she bucked against your face. “Fuck, yeah. Right fucking there,” she said roughly. Her hand smacked the headboard and the sound echoed through the room.

Tentatively, you started to curl your arms, your hands drawn to hold onto her hips, but you still weren’t sure if you were allowed to move anything but your mouth, so you were being careful about it. As you continued to thrust your tongue in and out, pausing momentarily to nip and suck at her labia, your fingers moved closer and closer until they finally brushed her hips from behind, like a silent question.

Maya continued grinding against your face without a pause, but she reached one hand back to find yours. You wondered briefly if she was going to swat it away, but she didn’t. “Fucking touch me,” she said as she moved your hand down to rest on her thigh instead of her hip, and you didn’t have to be told twice. You mirrored the action with your other hand so both your arms were hooked around her legs, greedily holding her in place on top of you.

Maya’s breathing grew steadily more ragged, and of course, yours did too, with the little gasps you could get when she rode just high enough for you to grab a breath before she sunk back down on your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” she whined, and if she had looked down, she’d have teased you for the look on your face. When she got whiny, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d unlocked something rare and secret, and at this point, you couldn’t be bothered with restraint anymore—not with your mouth, not with your limbs, and definitely not with your facial expressions. “Fuck,” she said through gritted teeth, “Don’t stop.”

Her hips started moving more desperately against you, your nose bumping up against her clit harder and faster than before. You could hear her earrings clanging against each other to the same rhythm. You sped up your pace with your tongue, intent to give Maya what she needed, trying to keep your own orgasm at bay until you did. Her walls squeezed around you.

“Fuck. FUCK,” she cried as you curled your tongue inside her, and you knew by how vocal she was becoming that she was nearly there. She smacked her palm against the headboard again. “Fucking make me come right now.”

You tilted your chin up so you had direct access to her clit. You swiped your tongue left to right and back again, and then with one more circle around the bud, she tensed, gripping the bed tight, squeezing her thighs against your skull. “Shit, babe…” she mewled, her voice coming out low and broken as she twitched with an aftershock.

You had her cum on your chin, her clit in your mouth (so what if you hadn’t been able to breathe for the last 30 seconds), the vibrations between your legs, and the whole fucking view of her above you—the most beautiful, most feral woman you’ve ever known. The combination was enough to make you come on its own, but suddenly Maya reached behind her and fumbled across your chest until she found the metal plate on your ribs and tugged, pulling at your nipples. You couldn’t fight it anymore. You came again.

Maya must’ve felt your gasping against her, because she dismounted from your face, but she wasn’t done. She shimmied down your body, so she was straddling your pelvis instead, which was still angled up by the wedge. She planted her cunt, still hot and wet and occasionally twitching at even the gentlest contact, against your lower stomach.

Always a few steps ahead of you, even in a post-orgasm haze, she unclipped the final two clasps from your nipples and tossed the chain contraption to the side of the bed. Just like with your clit, the sudden rush of sensation hit you like a freight train, and it was only heightened as Maya arched her back and dipped down to suck—roughly—on one of your erect peaks—careful to keep her core on you so she could ride your stomach when the need hit. You moaned.

Were you going to come a third time, just like that? The vibrator was still pulsing against your clit, which was still somehow growing more sensitive by the minute.

You reached your hands up, shakily, to rest against Maya’s cheeks, which were hollowed out just in the slightest as she sucked on your nipple. She looked up at you questioningly through her lashes, not detaching herself from your heaving chest.

“Turn t’off?” was what you managed to say between the thickening fog in your brain and your desperate attempts to take in enough air.

You didn’t want her to stop, but something needed to give.

She released your nipple after one last soft scrape of her teeth. She dragged her tongue up your sternum before pressing a barely-there kiss to the tip of your chin.

“Just one more, babygirl. For me,” she said, moving to suck your jaw. “Can you?”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to disappoint her, but you already felt entirely fucked out. “I don’t know,” you almost cried.

Maya sat up, her full weight settling across your waist, her hands resting on your shoulders as she leaned over you with a serious look in her eyes. “Do you need to say it?”

You didn’t do anything right away, caught in the rip current of rising pleasure and exhaustion and oversensitivity. Your hips simultaneously tried to buck toward and shy away from the vibrator, but Maya’s body on yours had limited your movement.

You reached up, your hands wrapping around Maya’s forearms—not to push her away, just to feel her with you. She did nothing but wait for your answer.

You didn’t say the safe word. Just a quiet, “I’m okay.”

Maya fell back into the moment right away, looking down at you with a half-wicked grin on her face.

She leaned back down and reattached her lips to your jaw, and then that spot on your neck again, while the fingers of both her hands found their way to your still-tender nipples—your own hands still gripping onto her arms and moving along with hers. You arched your back into her touch, tilting your head to make it easier for her to reach your pulse point. “So fucking good,” she husked into your ear. “So fucking hot.”

Your clit was throbbing and you could feel your pulse like a drumbeat in your ears. She knew exactly how close you were when she grabbed you by the chin, looked you in the eye, and whispered, “Come for me. Now.”

And you did, calling her name, your voice hoarse.

“Perfect. Fucking perfect,” she said, resting her forehead against yours as stars continued to dance behind your fluttering eyelids and your limbs were still quaking. She stayed there, brushing her thumb over your cheekbone and peppering little kisses over your nose and cheeks, until your breathing evened out and your grip on her forearms relaxed enough that your arms fell back to your sides.

Once she felt you were sufficiently relaxed beneath her, Maya pressed a last kiss to your forehead and climbed off of you. You heard the click of the button on the wand, and the buzzing that had been the soundtrack to nearly the whole encounter stopped immediately. The room plunged into silence except for the soft swaying of the tree branches outside the bedroom windows and the soft ting of metal on metal when Maya shifted enough to jostle her jewelry.

Quietly, she removed the soft cuffs from your ankles and then gently pulled the wedge from under your lower back and hips, leaving you lying still and boneless on the mattress. You watched through half-lidded eyes as she piled the wand and the clamps on top of the pillow and stood from the bed. A soft smile spread across your face when she started humming some song—maybe SZA—something you suspected she did for you in these moments, because she never did that anywhere else.

She took the pile over to the walk-in, disappearing for only a minute and reemerging in a pair of Gucci pjs, pants long and the top unbuttoned to reveal a bandeau you weren’t sure why she bothered with except for fashion. Two sweating bottles of water were cradled in her hand from the mini-fridge she kept near her vanity, mainly for her creams and masks, but for this, too.

She made one last stop at the chair in front of the vanity to pick up the robe that was hanging over the back, but she didn’t put it on, just draped it over her arm and came back to the bed. She set the waters down on the nightstand.

You nodded at the robe. “That for me?”

She raked her eyes down your naked body as you lay on top of the bedspread. Your nipples were still pebbled, maybe from a combination of previous stimulation and the low thermostat setting, and your stomach and legs were covered in goosebumps. You shivered without realizing.

“Might be,” she said, but she didn’t hesitate to climb onto the bed and start helping you into it, which turned into a whole operation since you weren’t doing very much to assist with the process.

“Fucking impossible,” Maya mumbled as she tried to sit you up so she could drape the robe over your shoulders, but you saw the smirk on her face as you finally gathered enough strength to push yourself up against the headboard. She tied the belt into a loose bow at your waist once you were all wrapped up, and you snuggled back down into the pillows, eyelids still heavy. The fabric smelled like her shampoo from the shower that morning.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

She didn’t say anything back, but she rested her hand against your cheek. “Water, baby?”

You hummed in agreement.

She cracked open one of the bottles from side table and brought it up to your lips for you to sip, then set it back on the nightstand when you’d finished. When she was reclining again, you burrowed into her, your head resting on the bare skin above the hem of her top and your fingers splayed across her stomach. Without even thinking about it, she began to run her fingers against your scalp, the scratch of her nails a comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked after you’d been laying in silence for what was probably just a few minutes, but your sense of time had yet to reorient itself, so you couldn’t be sure.

You angled your head so you could just see her face through your lashes. “Bridget Archer isn’t secretly an asshole, right?”

Her fingers stilled in your hair as a half-amused, half-annoyed look appeared on her face. “Glad to see this whole thing worked,” she muttered. Clearly that wasn’t the answer she expected.

You drummed your fingers against her ribs. “If you don’t answer, I’ll just have to wonder all night, when I could be thinking about you.”

“You could be thinking about me anyway,” she countered, but there was no heat to it, which was only underscored by her fingers resuming their path along your scalp.

“I just need to know,” you said, your voice almost back to normal. “Then you’ll be the only thing on my mind for the next…” you glanced over at the clock on the nightstand, doing bad post-coital math in your head. “Four to five hours.”

Maya just looked at you for a few moments—her expression shifting into something unreadable, but undeniably softer.

Finally, she sighed.

“She’s a fucking dream, babe,” Maya said. “But she’s still got nothing on you.” -------------------------

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i-just-cannot · 2 months ago

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Big shirt + no panties combo while Im sitting in your lap so you have easy access to play with my pussy

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i-just-cannot · 2 months ago

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Going to the Globes

She’s with with the Director Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader

Summary: When the Golden Globe nominations come in, your horror film doesn’t just make the list, it dominates it. Best Picture. Best Script. Best Director. Maya, your girlfriend-slash-marketing queen, is the first person to know. She’s never been invited to the Globes before, but when you tell her she’s your plus one, it changes everything.

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: Explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: Part 1 of my Golden Globes fic is here!! X it can be read as a stand alone but be aware the actual ceremony and after party will be the follow up! Xx

You’re still in bed when the phone rings.

Silk sheets twisted around your legs. The black-out curtains are drawn, keeping the room dim even though it’s nearly ten. You haven’t checked your phone, haven’t turned on the TV. You’re floating in that warm, suspended space between sleep and thought, your body still loose and boneless from last night, Maya’s hands, Maya’s mouth, Maya whispering something about “kissing her lucky charm” before slipping out the door in a bomber jacket and Balenciaga slides.

The phone buzzes again.

You reach out blindly across the nightstand, knocking over a heavy book and a glass of water in the process. Your fingers finally close around your phone.

You answer with a sleepy mumble. “Baby?”

There’s a pause, like she’s trying to find breath, but then she’s there, crackling and frantic and utterly not composed.

“Can you come to the office?”

You blink, pushing yourself upright with a groan. Your hair’s a mess. You’re in one of her old oversized tees with the neckline ripped. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No — I mean yes — fuck, yes, I’m fine, it’s just — can you just come to Continental?” She sounds like she’s pacing. Like she’s mid-coffee, mid-freakout, mid-something.

Your heart kicks. “Maya? What happened?”

You hear her sigh and then go softer, “please? For me?”

You swing your legs out of bed, all sleep forgotten. “Okay. Baby… okay. I’m coming.”

There’s a breath on the other end of the line, like she’s relieved just hearing your voice. “Just get here. As fast as you can.”

Matt’s mid-rant, his arms flailing, a mouth full of almond croissant, saying something about needing “more relatability” on the Kool-Aid movie, when the door flies open.

Maya doesn’t knock.

Matt jolts upright behind his desk, knocking over an iced coffee and a stack of scripts. “Jesus Christ! Maya?”

“WE’RE GOING TO THE GLOBES FUCKERS.”

He blinks. “What?”

Maya Mason, the designer whirlwind that she is, is already halfway into the room, breathless, glowing, hair wild from her frantic walk-run across the floor. Her phone’s still in her hand like she sprinted straight from the call.

She repeats herself, slower. “We’re going to the Golden Globes.”

Matt straightens. “Wait… what?”

She grins, all teeth, eyes sparkling like a woman who’s just pulled off the marketing coup of the decade.

“Don’t play with me right now, Maya.”

“It’s confirmed.” Maya presses both palms down on his desk, practically vibrating. “The Witch. Her film. My girl’s film. It’s nominated. For multiple categories. And she…” Maya chokes, then laughs, then says it again like she can’t quite believe it herself, “she’s nominated for Best Director.”

Matt goes silent.

Maya counts them off, fingers shaking with adrenaline. “Best Director. Best Picture. Best Score. Best Script. Best Actress for Tilda.”

A beat.

Matt screams. “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

He’s out of his chair, knocking into his standing desk controls, sending it up at a weird angle. “This is it. This is our moment. This is my Rosemary’s Baby, you marketing GENIUS! This is our fucking moon landing!”

Maya snorts. “She’s going to hate you for saying that.”

“I don’t care.” He’s already pacing. “We need to do a full rollout. Press, social, that Variety piece she agreed to — fuck, fuck, we’re going to have a table, right? Like an actual table?”

Maya just laughs. She’s flushed. Breathless. Beaming. “She’s gonna be a wreck. She hasn’t even checked her phone yet.”

“She has to win something right?! All those nominations! Fuck horror films never fucking get this level of respect!” Matt was practically vibrating on the spot.

“And she’s the youngest woman ever nominated in both categories.” Maya adds smugly.

Matt grabs his phone, starts firing off voice memos. “Petra. Confirm a table. I want to be in the front. Score guy, Tilda, Patty, me, see who else from the main cast and production can be seated.”

Maya says nothing. She’s still standing by the door. Her hand is clenched around the phone.

Matt looks up, grinning. “You look like you just won something too.”

She shrugs. “It’s her win. And it’s a Continental win.”

“You should be there. Without you, we wouldn’t have this win Maya” Matt softened for a second to give credit where credit is due.

She smiles again, tighter this time. Familiar. A little sad. “No one invites marketing to the Globes, Matt.”

And before he can say anything else, she turns and walks out, already dialing.

The champagne’s already flowing.

Matt’s got a flute in each hand. Patty’s sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet in sparkly mules and laughing about something Quinn just said. Sal’s slumped in the armchair, half-celebrating, half-scowling because it wasn’t his project that got five nominations and made the industry wet itself.

The door swings open hard.

Maya strides back in, sleek and flushed and thrumming. She doesn’t wait. She snatches a glass off the tray, tips her head back, downs it in one long pull.

Everyone stares.

“Jesus,” Quinn mutters, impressed.

“She’s gonna be here in fifteen,” Maya announces, setting the empty glass down with a little clink. “I’m telling her then.”

Matt spins. “Wait she still doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Patty blinks. “How?”

Maya shrugs. “She doesn’t do the internet.”

“Seriously?”

“She’s like a cryptid. A sexy, blood-soaked cryptid who only comes out to direct a movie and then disappears back into the mist with a scarf over her face.”

“She’s literally nominated for five awards how the fuck does she still not know?!” Sal laughs.

“I know,” Maya says, eyes shining. “And she probably hasn’t even opened her texts yet. She still has a flip phone somewhere in our underwear drawer. She’s gonna walk in here wearing my t-shirt and Prada sunglasses and act like nothing happened.”

Quinn shakes her head in awe. “She’s a fucking icon.”

“She’s my icon,” Maya says, softer now. “And I get to tell her she just changed her life.”

The room quiets a little.

Even Sal manages a slow clap.

Matt raises his glass. “To the freak in the shadows.”

“To the witch with the camera,” Patty adds.

“To her,” Maya says.

They all clink glasses just as the elevator dings down the hall.

The elevator doors part with a hiss.

You step out like a specter: long coat over sleep-rumpled silk, dark sunglasses, hair long and unbrushed. One hand clutches a tray, iced coffee with too many pumps of vanilla, a warmed muffin tucked into a napkin. The other holds your phone, screen cracked, texts unopened.

You’re not online. You’re not part of the buzz. All you know is Maya sounded off, her voice too high, too breathless, asking you to come in “please, just for me.” So you came. Muffin and caffeine in hand. Worry coiled tight in your ribs.

The office hallway is loud.

You hear the champagne laughter before you even round the corner. A glass shatters. Someone yells. Patty shrieks something about her couture.

You pause, shifting the tray in your hands. “Oh no,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re drunk.”

You nudge the door open with your shoulder.

She turns the second she hears the door click. Maya’s eyes flick to your hands, and something breaks in her.

You don’t even get a word out before she’s striding over.

“It sounded serious so I got the coffee you like,” you say, holding it up stupidly. “And the muffin with the—”

She grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. Hard. Right there, in front of everyone. It’s not a show. It’s not for the room. It’s relief. Euphoria. Pride. Love.

You drop the tray.

The coffee hits the floor.

Nobody cares.

When she finally pulls back, her hands still cradling your jaw, you blink up at her.

“What… was that for?”

Maya’s eyes are glassy. Her voice is soft. “You’re nominated.”

You blink again. “For…?”

She laughs and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your mouth again. “Golden Globes baby. Best Director. Best Script. Best Picture. Tilda got Actress. Score too. Five nominations.”

The world tilts.

You sway slightly, and Maya’s arms are already there. Holding you steady. “Oh,” you whisper.

Behind her, Sal screams, “YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND.”

You don’t hear it.

You’re just staring at Maya, lips parted, stunned and still. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” you whisper.

“I wanted to do it in person,” she says. “I wanted to see your face.”

You blink once. Twice. Then bury your face in her neck. “Oh my god.”

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, holding you close. “I know.”

You’re still next to Maya. One arm looped around her waist. Your body is humming. Your spilled coffee is forgotten on the floor.

Matt’s in full award show mode. He’s pacing, phone in hand, rattling off strategy like a man possessed.

“Okay. Carpet first. You’ll talk to Vanity Fair mic, E! livestream, the usual outlets with Tilda and Dafoe. You’re gonna be the director they will want to talk to!”

You nod vaguely, still trying to process.

“Then there’s the luncheon thing, you’re gonna hate the luncheon but the food is surprisingly good,” Patty interjects, “and then the red carpet, obviously, then we end up at the table right up front. You, me, Patty, the score guy, Tilda, some of the cast and crew…”

You blink. “Where’s Maya?”

Matt looks up. “What?”

“For the Globes,” you say. “Where’s she sitting?”

There’s a pause.

Matt chuckles awkwardly. “Oh… marketing doesn’t usually go to awards stuff.”

“It’s a very exclusive event,” Patty adds. “It’s producers, talent, and studio heads like Matty. Not marketing.”

You turn your head slowly. Look at Maya.

She’s frozen. Just for a second. Then she laughs. That classic Maya Mason laugh, tight, breathy, self-deprecating. “Yeah, no, I’m not going. I mean, I never go. I’ll be running point from here. Social, press strategy, everything the next morning—”

“No.” Your voice is quiet but sharp.

Matt freezes. “Uh. No to what?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Maya has to be with me for all of it. My girlfriend goes or I don’t. It’s that simple.”

There’s a pause.

Matt blinks. “You mean, like… on the carpet?”

You just stare. “Yes,” you say. “On the carpet. At the table. At the fucking afterparty. Maya’s with me.”

Everyone turns to look at Maya.

And Maya? She lights the fuck up.She stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted. The kind of expression Maya Mason never wears. Not in meetings. Not in negotiations. Not even when she’s talking someone into a seven-figure deal with nothing but a smile and a slideshow.

She looks like someone just cracked open her ribs and kissed her heart.

“Wait, wait, wait… are you for real?” she says, eyes wide. “You want me, like ‘with you’, with you? Like, holding your hand on the carpet, getting glammed, ‘who are you wearing?’ energy, next to you at the table kind of with you?”

You nod once.

She gasps like someone just offered her equity in Valentino.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going to the fucking Golden Globes.”

Matt stares. “Okay well I guess we need another seat.”

“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “Center.”

Sal whistles. “Fuck. Okay.”

And Maya, still blinking, still breathless, leans in and kisses you, messy and fast and grateful, like she’s trying not to cry but maybe doesn’t care if she does.

She turns to you, a little out of breath.

“I get to stand next to you. While you win. I’m gonna be the first person to touch you when you come off that stage. That’s so… I mean that’s so fucking hot.”

You blink, then smile.

She smiles too.

You reach out, hook a finger through her belt loop, and pull her back toward you.

“I want you there,” you say. “You’re the other half of my soul.”

Maya exhales, soft and wrecked. “Damn right I am.”

The next hour passes like a blur. You’re curled on the couch next to Maya, your legs over hers, stealing lazy kisses while she tries to act composed. Matt begins pacing as the calls start rolling in, congratulating him on the nominations, questions about Oscar buzz, various brands reaching out for sponsorships, representatives of the Award Show itself talking logistics. Sal’s taken to sulking upon learning he’d have to fork out $30K for a seat at the back of the room. Patty is regaling tales of her first Globes night to Quinn.

Then Tyler walks in, holding his iPad like it’s a message from God.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Maison Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Gucci have all reached out. They want to dress the whole ‘The Witch’ team.”

There’s a pause. The room buzzes.

You glance up from your spot curled on the couch, still half-tucked into Maya’s side. Voice low, calm.

“Maya likes dressing up,” you say softly. “She can choose. As long as they agree to dress her too.”

The room freezes.

Maya turns to you slowly.

“Wait. what?”

You blink at her. “You’re coming. With me. So they have to dress you too. If they want me.”

Maya stares at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality. “… I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

Quinn mutters, “Oh fuck, she’s gonna lose it.”

You meet her eyes, deadpan. “Well if they want me, then they have to dress you too.”

Her mouth drops open. “ON GOD?!”

Patty snorts.

Sal chuckles, “Here we go.”

But Maya is gone. She’s up. She’s pacing. She’s vibrating.

“Shut the fuck up,” Maya snaps, eyes still on you. “Are you being serious right now? Are you… you’re telling me that I get to pick any of those designers I spend half my paycheck on, walk the carpet in full glam, next to you, and actually get photographed and credited and tagged and asked who I’m wearing?!”

You nod, amused. “Well yes, that’s the plan.”

“On fucking GOD?!”

She screams. She stands. She immediately circles the room like she’s trying to walk it off but can’t. “Shut UP. Shut the fuck UP. I’m gonna be hot at the Globes?! Me?! In Margiela?? With the winning director of the night?! I’m gonna be someone’s Pinterest board. I’m gonna be on every gay moodboard in the country—” she began to waffle on in pure unfiltered joy.

You smile softly, eyes lowered. “Honey, I haven’t won. I’m nominated, there’s a difference”

Matt watches her spin out and says, “She’s not gonna make it to the carpet.”

Maya turns back to you, breathless. “Are you really serious?”

You nod, smiling at her unbridled joy. “Deadly.”

Maya melts. Fully drops her phone, rushes across the room, and kisses your face, your cheeks, temple, and all the way up your jawline in a blur. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she mutters into your hair. “And I work in marketing.”

You blush, becoming shy. “Love you.”

“I’m gonna fuck you in a McQueen bustier,” she announces.

Quinn cackles.

Patty groans. “Jesus Christ, Maya…”

“No. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I feel like I’m being proposed to. I’m gonna cry and then ride your face in couture.”

You raise your brows, soft and steady. “So… can we go back home?”

Maya grabs your wrist like she’s about to drag you into a supply closet. “I need you. Now. Or I’m going to black out.”

You can’t help but laugh, letting her pull you toward the door.

Matt yells, “Maya, think of HR … Maya? MAYA!”

The door of Maya’s office slams shut behind you.

You barely have time to register the sound before Maya’s mouth is on yours—hot, open, starving. She’s kissing you like her hands are on fire, like she’s waited her whole life for this moment and just realized it’s real.

You stumble backwards with her, tangled in her grip, until your back hits the sleek marble of her desk. Papers scatter. Her laptop slides. You don’t care. Neither does she.

“Baby,” she gasps between kisses. “You just, fuck, you broke me.”

You smile against her lips, smug and breathless. “You like designer dresses that much?”

She moans and kisses you harder.

“You’re going to the Golden fucking Globes,” she pants, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like she wants to crawl inside you.

“We” you corrected breathlessly, “we are going to the Golden Globes”

“And you just told four fashion houses to fight for the right to put me in a free fucking gown?! Are you, god, are you trying to kill me?”

You murmur cheekily, “Maybe.”

She groans, attaching her mouth to your throat. “I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.”

You arch into her, neck tilted, letting her press you flat against the desk.

“You’re gonna win,” she whispers, voice shaking with pride. “You’re gonna win Best Director and look like a fuckin spooky goddess or something doing it. And I get to be there. Next to you. In fucking Prada.”

She kisses you again, messy, desperate, and worshipful, like she’s trying to eat the words off your lips. “I swear to god,” she breathes, “you say one more thing nice to me and I’m gonna—”

You cut her off with a whisper: “You deserve all of it.”

She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Okay,” she says, hitching your skirt up to your hips, “I need you now. I’m about to climax just thinking about a Maison Margiela custom glove moment. I’m going to come just from being tagged in a Getty caption next to you.”

You laugh into her mouth. “Maya—”

“No. Shut up. My girlfriend’s a genius auteur witch who gets nominated for Globes and tells Gucci to dress me like I’m a fashion icon. I’m fucking feral, do you understand?”

You nod.

And then you gasp as she drops to her knees.

Your breath catches, your hands automatically go to her shoulders, fingers curling in the soft stretch of her tee. “Maya…”

“No. No talking.” Her voice is low. Dangerous. Reverent.

She looks up at you like you’re sacred. Like you’re art. And you are, pressed against her desk, blouse open, breath coming shallow, eyes glassy and dark.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk in here,” she growls, “casually say ‘Maya can pick the designer,’ like that’s nothing, and not ruin you?”

You tremble. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive.

“Maya, please…”

“Say it again.”

You blink, breathless. “Say what?”

“What you said that made me drop to my fucking knees.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve all of it.”

She groans, like the words physically affect her. “Oh my god,” she mutters, pushing your skirt up, “I’m gonna be good to you for weeks.”

And then her mouth is on you.

You cry out, a sharp, broken thing, and clutch the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

She eats your pussy like she’s starved. Like you’re a goddess that demands worship through orgasms alone. Like you belong to her.

Her tongue is fast, her grip unrelenting. She moans into you, arms wrapped around your thighs, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer. She’s possessed, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence.

You whimper. Your knees buckle. “Maya… baby, please, please—kiss me?”

She pulls back, lips slick, panting. “You want kisses, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet. “Please. Need you.”

“Oh my fucking god.” She’s up, grabbing your face, devouring your mouth like she’s claiming it. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”

You’re gasping into her kiss, your fingers gripping the hem of her pants, trying to pull her closer, anything, everything.

She kisses you harder. Slower. Deeper.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth.

You whimper again. “I love you. I love you Maya…”

She presses you back against the desk again, her hand sliding between your thighs, fingers slick and steady.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Be good for me. My girl. My babygirl. Gonna come for me?”

You nod, desperate.

And when it hits, when your body breaks open under her touch, she kisses you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your neck, like she’s tasting every part of you, like you just made her immortal.

You slump against her, dazed. Shaking.

She holds you there, her fingers stroking gently over your thighs, her mouth pressed to your hair.

“You just gave me the best gift of my entire life,” she murmurs.

You blink up at her, eyes full of tears. “What, the Globes?”

“No,” she whispers, eyes full of something dangerous and devoted. “You want to tell the world you’re mine.”

You wake up sick. It’s not the flu. Not food poisoning. Not anything you can name. Just that slow, steady churn in your stomach. Dread curling under your ribs. Your body feels tight and hollow all at once.

It’s still dark outside.

And you’re still wrapped in Maya.

She’s asleep, limbs tangled in yours, bare skin pressed to bare skin. One arm flung over your waist. Her hand resting just beneath your breast. Her face tucked into your neck like she doesn’t want to miss even a breath of you.

You should feel safe.

But your throat is tight, your skin itches with nerves.

You can’t stop thinking that today is the Golden Globes. Today you’re going to walk a red carpet. Today you might win. Today you’ll be paraded out like a show pony. Fully. Publicly.

And all you want is to disappear.

You bury your face deeper into Maya’s neck, your breath shaking. You try to be still. Try not to wake her. But your hands shake where they grip her waist. You feel like a ghost in your own body.

You whisper, “I don’t want to go.”

She stirs. Not fully awake, just half-dreaming, but her grip tightens around you.

“You cold?” she mumbles, voice wrecked with sleep.

You shake your head.

But you don’t speak again. You just bury closer. Tangle your legs around hers. Press your face into the curve of her shoulder and try not to cry.

You need her. Today. Now. More than ever.

Because if she lets go, even for a second, you’re afraid you might float away.

Maya stirs again.

A soft grunt in the back of her throat as she shifts, adjusting to your closeness. Her nose brushes your hairline. She mumbles something incoherent, fingers flexing over your waist.

Then she stills.

She feels it.

The tension. The way your breath is caught in your throat. The way your body’s curled into hers like a girl trying to disappear. Her brows twitch. One eye opens.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice scratchy and deep, barely awake. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”

You shake your head into her chest, arms clutching her tighter. You don’t answer.

She blinks herself more awake. “Are you—?” She pauses. Then, gentler. “You feel sick?”

A nod. Small. Barely there.

Maya lets out a soft exhale. Both arms curl around you, wrapping you up like you’re something precious. Her lips find your hair. She kisses your temple. Your cheekbone. The top of your ear.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into her skin. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold. It’s just everything.

“I don’t wanna go,” you murmur, voice trembling. “I don’t wanna be looked at. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Her mouth finds your jaw, slow and steady. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says. “You’re not on a carpet. You’re here. With me. You’re just a sleepy little cryptid in my bed and I’m gonna hold you till you remember how fucking brilliant you are.”

You make a broken little sound.

Maya kisses it away.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispers. “You made something huge. You told the world who you are. And now they’re celebrating you for it. That’s terrifying. But I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her hand drifts down your back, drawing soft circles into your spine.

“You’re my genius. My scary, spooky little auteur,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna zip you into that dress and stand next to you all night and remind them all who they’re dealing with. But right now? I’m just gonna keep kissing you until you fall back asleep or start complaining about how I can’t wear latex on the carpet.”

You let out a soft laugh. A real one. “It just feels too impractical for an event where we’re will be predominantly sat” you explained softly

Her smile presses into your skin.

“That’s it,” she says. “There’s my baby.”

You don’t say anything.

You just cling tighter.

And let her hold you until the world feels a little less loud.

The sunlight is creeping in now.

It catches in the fine strands of Maya’s hair, paints gold across her cheekbone, her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped.

She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to be gentle about it. Trying not to pull away too fast. “Baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “We have to start getting ready.”

You shake your head, face buried in her neck. “No.”

“They’re gonna be here in, like, twenty minutes.”

“No.”

She laughs softly. “Glam team’s gonna break the door down and find us naked and fused together like a two-headed banshee.”

“Good.”

Maya strokes your back, slow and soothing. “Come on. You’ve got a dress that could raise the dead. You’ve got Tilda waiting to take shots with you. You’ve got a nomination for Best Fucking Director.”

You cling tighter, “don’t remind me”

She kisses your temple. “You can do this.”

You just kiss her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her mouth.

Soft, needy, warm. Not trying to start anything. Just needing to feel her. Just needing to stay close.

“I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” you whisper. “I know that’s pathetic.”

Maya’s hand finds your jaw. Tilts your face up.

“Not pathetic,” she says. “Human.”

You blink at her, eyes glossy. “Can we just… stay like this?”

She smiles. “We can stay like this for exactly seven more minutes. Then you have to let me put fancy shit on your face and help you into a dress that’s going to make people cry.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Promise you won’t leave me tonight?”

She pulls you closer. “Baby, I’m gonna be on you like a second skin. I am not letting go. I’ll hold your hand on the carpet. I’ll kiss your shoulder if you get nervous. And if anyone even thinks about asking who I am, I’ll say, ‘I’m the bitch she wakes up next to.’”

You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s romantic.”

“I thought so.”

You kiss her again.

And again.

Until your fingers stop shaking and your heart starts to believe her.

You keep kissing her. Lazy, insistent, endless.

Maya’s half-laughing now, propped up on her elbow as you shift to press your mouth to her collarbone, then her sternum, then her jaw. Each kiss is soft and clinging, more plea than seduction. Your fingers trace her ribs like she’s something fragile. Like she’s your last warm thing.

“Baby…” she breathes, somewhere between a moan and a warning. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna cancel the Globes.”

You smile into her skin. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh my god.” She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”

You crawl after her, half-draped across her chest, eyes shut, lips brushing her throat. “I just want to stay here. With you. That’s all I want.”

Maya sighs, curling an arm around your waist. “You say that like it’s unreasonable. You say that like I’m not also living for this.” She turns her head, kisses your temple. “But we do need to go. Eventually. Like, very soon. Very awards-season soon.”

“No,” you growled against her throat.

“I love you, but you’re literally the reason they make schedules. The glam team is gonna riot.”

“They can wait.”

Maya laughs. Full-bodied. Real. Her hand rubs your back, fingers lazy. “They’re probably outside trying to break into the house.”

“I have protection spells around the property, I’m not worried” you shrug and kiss her again. And again. Your leg hooks over hers, your nose presses into her neck, and your whole body sighs like it’s finally safe.

“I don’t want to be anyone else’s today,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”

Maya’s hand pauses on your back.

Then she flips the blanket higher over both of you, tucking you in like something sacred. She kisses your hairline, long and lingering.

“You’re always mine,” she murmurs. “Whether you’re in a gown or in this bed. Whether you win or not. You’re mine.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she adds. “Cameras or not. You just keep looking at me. I’ll do the rest.”

You finally lift your eyes to hers. “Swear?”

“On Margiela. On the Prada. On fuckin Valentino. On your haunted little heart.”

You lean in and kiss her again, longer this time. Less desperation. More knowing.

You’re going to go.

Eventually.

Maya doesn’t force you. She just starts moving slowly, like she’s done it a hundred times before. You feel her shift beside you, warmth leaving your chest as she rises, but her hands stay on you. One trailing along your hip. The other brushing back your hair.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you ready.”

You make a soft noise. Protest. Not quite no, but not yes either.

She leans down and kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the spot just behind your ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’ll do it all. Just come sit up for me.”

You blink slowly. Your chest feels full. Heavy. But you nod.

She coaxes you upright with warm hands, murmuring gentle things into your skin as she helps you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The sheet drops away, and the room is cool, but she’s already reaching for the robe draped over the armchair, wrapping it around your shoulders like it’s armor.

“There she is,” Maya says softly. “My scary little director. Sweetest thing in the world after noon.”

You don’t answer, you just look up at her from where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. Eyes glossy. Lip trembling.

Her teasing dies the second she sees your face. “Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”

You try to look away, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

She reaches up, brushes a thumb under your eye. “You don’t have to be.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at her, really stare? and it hits you all over again. How she’s always there. How she never makes you feel too much. How she shows up, always, without asking for anything back. And now she’s kneeling in front of you in a silk robe and nothing else, kissing your knees like you’re a holy thing.

“I’m gonna take care of you today,” she promises. “You don’t even have to think. You just let them glam you up, let them put you in that gown, and you keep holding my hand.”

You nod. Barely.

She kisses your knees again. Stands. “Let me do your hair.”

She leads you gently to the vanity, settles you in her lap like you weigh nothing, and starts brushing long, careful strokes down your back, her lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds, just to remind you she’s still there.

“You’re gonna ruin them,” she whispers. “You’re gonna walk in and every exec who passed on you is gonna spontaneously combust. It’s gonna be so hot.”

You let out a broken laugh. She smiles into your neck.

You hear them before you see them.

Laughter. Heels. The rustle of garment bags. Someone’s yelling about steaming silk like the world is ending.

Maya kisses your cheek, still in her robe, her hair pinned up with golden clips. “They’re here.”

You nod, still sitting quietly at the vanity. The robe clutched tight around you like it’s armor. You’re doing better, your hands have mostly stopped shaking, but you still flinch a little when the door opens.

Tyler walks in first. “Okayyyy ladies,” he calls, grinning like he lives here. “Let’s get glam, baby.”

He’s in a blazer over a vintage silk shirt, juggling two iced coffees and an iPad. He hands one to Maya, kisses the top of your head without asking, and offers the other to you.

“Oat milk, two brown sugars,” he says. “I doubled checked with Maya yesterday that this was your order”

You take it. “Thank you, Tyler.”

“No problem, queen of horror.” He leans in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “You doing okay?”

You nod, small.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Cool. We’ll keep it chill.”

And he does.

Even as the glam team floods in, stylists, dressers, a makeup artist with fangs on her necklace, Tyler runs interference like a champ. You sit still, sipping your coffee, letting them work around you. He distracts the loud ones. Gently redirects energy away from you when he sees your hands start to twitch.

But Maya?

Maya is in her element.

She’s standing by the mirror in nothing but her robe, bare leg peeking out, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone like she’s the main event. Every few seconds she flings off a line like—

“Wait, if I wear the gloves, do I need earrings or is that redundant couture?”

“Is it bad if I bring a purse just for lip gloss and a single Xanax? I want to look like I don’t need it but still have it.”

You catch yourself watching her in the mirror.

Lit up. Confident. Buzzing.

And somewhere deep in your ribs, something unclenches. You’re still nervous. But she’s here. She’s glowing. She’s yours. And she’s making sure the world sees it.

Every time she catches your eye, she winks. “Looking good, babygirl,” she purrs. “They’re not ready for us.”

You’re back on the couch, fresh-faced and wrapped in a robe, while the stylists float around you like shadows. You’re not the focus right now.

Maya is.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, robe half-open, skin glowing under soft ring lights. Her hair is already pinned in place, voluminous, glossy, old Hollywood waves with a modern, streetwear slick edge. Her skin is golden. Lips subtly and strategically glossed.

“Okay, I need the cuff on the left arm, stacked rings on the right,” she says, gesturing toward the tray of jewelry like she’s conducting an orchestra. “No necklace. This neckline’s doing the work.”

Tyler hands her a tray. “Margiela said the gloves are optional but—”

“Gloves are non-negotiable,” Maya cuts in.

You smile behind your coffee cup.

A stylist holds up two clutches.

Maya points. “The smaller one. I don’t need a purse, I need a statement. I’ll shove my ID and a breath mint in my bra like a professional.”

She turns suddenly, locking eyes with you. “Baby, are you watching this? I’m literally manifesting myself into becoming a fashion icon.”

You nod, soft. “You’re doing amazing honey.”

Her grin is crooked, cocky, a little breathless. “I feel like I’m finally able to realise my true potential.”

She steps into the dress, stylists zipping it up in the back. Maya smooths the fabric over her hips, breath hitching. “Okay. Okay. Oh my god, this is dangerous. I’m gonna get arrested. This is red carpet porn.”

Tyler chimes in, totally deadpan. “Your ass should have its own IG.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Finally, someone respects my craft.”

She turns again, checks her profile, lifts one brow.

“You think it’s too much?” she asks you, suddenly quiet. “I mean, I don’t want to outshine you or—”

“No,” you say, and your voice is clear now. “It’s perfect. You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Maya stops.

Softens.

Then gives you that smile. The one that means she’s about to either cry or climb into your lap.

But instead, she straightens her gloves. “Okay. I’m ready to make the Globes my bitch.”

Now it’s your turn.

The team moves around you with quiet precision, zippers whispering, brushes sweeping, powder settling like dust on old bone. You sit still. You let them paint you pale, line your eyes dark, twist your hair into something loose and long and dreamlike.

No sharp angles. No harsh lines.

You are not Maya Mason. You are something softer. Stranger. The goal is not to look hot but older than time.

Your gown is dark, sleek in some places, sheer in others, as if the fabric had been conjured rather than sewn. There’s something witchy in the cut, the drape, the way the hem moves like fog over the floor. You look like someone who should arrive at the Globes in a hearse pulled by a murder of crows.

And Maya?

Maya’s staring. From her spot on the bench, already fully dressed, gloves on, lip gloss perfect, she watches you like she’s being haunted.

“Holy shit,” she says, under her breath.

You glance up at her. Your makeup artist gently adjusts your chin. “Too much?” you murmur, self-conscious.

Maya laughs like you’ve just asked if the sun’s too bright. “You look like a bride of Dracula.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a compliment?”

Maya stands. Walks over slowly. “Baby,” she says, low and reverent, “you look like the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. You look like you’re gonna win Best Director and then ascend into mist.”

You smile, small and shy.

She steps behind you, hands careful on your waist. Her fingers skim the edge of the fabric, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Let them talk,” she whispers. “Let them stare. You’re gonna take their breath away.”

She kisses the space just beneath your ear. “You don’t even have to say a word. They’ll still know who you are.”

You reach up, place your hand over hers. And for a second, the glam team disappears. The camera flashes, the nerves, the noise, it all fades.

It’s just you, her, and the quiet, staggering love between you.

The room is buzzing.Hair is done. Gowns are zipped. A shoe emergency has been narrowly avoided. Tyler is packing backup earrings into a clutch like he’s handling explosives.

And Maya, your goddess, menace, and marketing warlord, is perfection.

She stands by the mirror, hands on her hips, giving angles to no one in particular. Her dress fits like it was born for her. Her gloves are on. Her lip gloss is dangerous. She is peak Mason.

And you? You’re watching her like she’s prey.

“Maya,” you murmur.

She turns, distracted. “Yeah, baby?”

You reach out and tug her hand, just slightly. Just enough. She comes closer without thinking. She always does.

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her gently toward you. Your voice is a whisper. “I wanna make out.”

Maya raises an eyebrow. “Now?”

You nod. “Right now.”

She glances over her shoulder, Tyler’s muttering something about boob tape to a stylist. The rest of the team is sorting lashes and lint rollers.

Maya leans in, lips already parted, ready to give it to you when one of the stylists shrieks.

“No no no no NO—” she protests, diving forward with a powder brush. “LIP GLOSS!”

Maya pulls back fast, blinking. “Oh shit.”

“I just finished her mouth,” the artist wails. “She’s flawless. She has a perfect lip. You’ll ruin it!”

Maya stares at you. Then at the mirror. Then sighs. “Okay yeah no I do look hot as fuck right now. Baby we have to wait”

But you’re already grabbing at her waist again, pouting. “Just one kiss,” you whisper. “I’ll be good.”

She groans. “Fuck. Don’t do that face.” She leans in an inch. “You’re gonna make me throw this whole look away just to crawl on top of you in custom couture.”

Tyler yells from across the room, “IF YOU MESS UP YOUR FACES I WILL TELL VOGUE YOU USED DRUGSTORE CONCEALER.”

Maya barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay! Baby, you get one kiss. A chaste kiss. Like we’re in a fuckin Austen novel.”

You nod sweetly.

Then pull her down and absolutely ruin her. You kiss her hard, hot, a little greedy. One hand in her hair. Her lip gloss smudges immediately and she lets out a whimper into your mouth.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

Maya looks wrecked and radiant. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re a menace. And I’m obsessed with you.”

Tyler walks by, muttering, “I swear to god, next time I’m bringing a squirt bottle.”

You’re in the backseat of a luxury black SUV.

There’s soft music playing. Everything smells like leather and floral setting spray. Maya’s phone is buzzing with texts from Tyler, updates from PR, a Vogue intern begging for a quote.

You don’t care about any of it.

Because Maya’s sitting next to you in full couture. Hair glossy, lip gloss reapplied to perfection, gloves smoothed up to her elbows. She’s crossed her legs, her slit high and skin golden, and her head is tilted ever so slightly, scanning her texts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to you.

You squirm in your seat. Not dramatically. Just… a shift. A subtle exhale. A whine caught in your throat.

Maya glances over. “Baby...”

“I can’t wait.”

She raises a brow. “Can’t wait for what?”

You look at her, actually look at her, and you’re down so bad. The gloves. The gown. The smug little smirk she doesn’t even know she’s wearing. You’re not okay.

“I need you.”

Maya blinks. “Oh no.”

You shift again, pressing your thighs together. Your hand lands gently on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s a threat.

“Baby,” she says, voice hushed but sharp, “I am in custom Margiela. You can’t just squirm at me in archival silk.”

You lean closer. Breathe her in. “You look so good. It’s making me crazy.”

She clenches her jaw. “Fuck.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “Want you so bad.”

She laughs, nervous, aroused and a little desperate. “I cannot finger you in a moving vehicle on the way to the Golden Globes, babe.”

You pout. Whisper against her neck. “Don’t need that. Just your mouth. One kiss.”

“No, because you say ‘one’ and then suddenly we’re dry humping in designer dresses. You’re literally twitching. You’re like a Victorian ghost who caught a glimpse of bare ankle.”

You groan softly, dragging your fingers up her thigh. “You smell like a hot rich woman who I want to ruin me in a guest bathroom.”

“I am that,” she mutters. “But not in this dress.”

You shift again. She lets out a strangled sound and grabs your wrist.

“No. No no no. You need to calm down. This outfit is structured. There is boning. If you wrinkle me before Getty Images even sees me, I swear to god—”

You press your face into her shoulder, laughing softly, desperate. “But you’re so pretty.”

She leans over, kisses your temple, quick, firm, and breathy. “Five minutes, babygirl,” she says. “Hold it together. When we get through the carpet, I’ll find us a bathroom and ruin your mascara.”

You exhale. Shiver. “Okay,” you whisper.

She pulls your hand into hers, holds it tight on her thigh.

“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna kill them all. And then you can climb me like a tree.”

The SUV door opens and the sound hits you like a wave of cameras flashing, fans screaming, press shouting names through a blur of lights and microphones.

For a second, you freeze.

And then Maya squeezes your hand. “Hey.” Her voice is low, just for you. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re doing it.”

She’s glowing. Glossed and gilded and impossibly beautiful, like she was made for this night. Her gown shimmers under the lights. Her gloved hand is still wrapped around yours.

You nod. Inhale. And step out of the car. The moment your foot hits the carpet, the shouting begins.

“Over here!”

“Turn this way!”

“Look here!”

You blink under the flashes, but Maya’s there. One step behind you, one arm slipping gently around your waist. “They’re not ready,” she murmurs. “You look like a goddess.”

You let her guide you down the carpet.

She doesn’t try to outshine you. She doesn’t pose too hard or talk over you. She just stays. Steady. Warm. A presence at your side.

Someone asks what you’re wearing. You falter.

“She’s in archival McQueen,” Maya answers smoothly, eyes never leaving you. “And I’m in Margiela. Custom. Obviously.”

The reporter stammers. Laughs. “You look incredible.”

Maya kisses your cheek right in front of the flash. “She is incredible.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

The cameras catch it. Of course they do.

The witch. The marketer. The moment.

You lean in and whisper, “I love you.”

And she says, with no hesitation, with the lights burning down, “I know. Now let’s go burn this shit down.”

You’re halfway down the carpet and the world has noticed.

Not just you, you two. The flashes intensify. Reporters are turning to each other mid-interview. Paparazzi are whispering to assistants. Publicists are scrambling to Google you again, properly this time.

“Who is that?”

“Oh my god, that’s the director of The Witch. And that’s… wait, is that her girlfriend?”

“Are we looking at the lesbian power couple of awards season?”

Maya’s smiling so wide you think her cheekbones might crack. “Oh my god,” she whispers in your ear, “I just heard someone say ‘Sapphic Succession energy.’ Baby we’re going viral.”

You nod once, eyes slightly glazed. “Can’t feel my feet.”

She presses a kiss to your temple. “Slay through it.”

Another reporter approaches. “Can we get a quick quote for Variety?”

You’re about to panic but Maya jumps in, already glowing. “We’re just honored to be here,” she says smoothly. “It’s been such an incredible year for horror, and I’m just thrilled I get to stand next to a genius who’s changing the genre and looks this hot in black lace.”

You blink. “I just want to go inside for the bread.”

The reporter laughs, not realizing you’re dead serious.

Maya’s still riding the high. “We’re doing afterparty rounds. I want to be on at least three lesbian moodboards before midnight.”

“I want mashed potatoes,” you murmur.

She grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles dramatically. “You’ll get potatoes. You’ll get everything. But we have to serve first.”

“Have we not served enough?”

“Not until someone live-tweets your cheekbones and tags it #SapphicSeduction.”

A flash goes off. Someone calls your name.

You try to smile. You think it looks like pain.

Maya leans in. “You are so close to a bread roll.”

You exhale shakily. “Promise?”

She presses her gloved hand to your heart. “On couture.”

490 notes · View notes

i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

Text

You did what?… With who?

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec!reader

Summary: A casting crisis ruins date night, but things really fall apart when you find out Maya once hooked up with your boss Matt. Hurt turns to heat, and in the aftermath of a messy conference room blow-up, Maya takes back control, reminding her bratty horror queen exactly who she belongs to.

Word Count: 8.8k

Warnings: Explict smut so as always MDNI xo

A/N: I think I’m not the only one who was jump scared at the Maya Matt hookup scenes, which is where this little fic came from ft. Reader being just as shocked as me xo

The clock reads 9:17pm, and the only thing worse than the flickering fluorescent overheads is the fact that you’re still here. Still at Continental. Still in this goddamn conference room.

What was supposed to be dinner and the Boris Karloff Black Sabbath retrospective, one night only, 35mm print, perfect eerie vibes, has instead become stale trail mix, Maya yelling into her phone, and Quinn lying flat on the floor like she’s emotionally decomposing.

The table is a battlefield: headshots, post-it notes, crumpled printouts with studio-approved names scribbled out in Sharpie. Somewhere near the center lies a half-full bottle of Advil and someone’s forgotten vape pen.

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. Mostly because if you open your mouth, you might scream.

Tyler clicks away on his MacBook with the fervor of a man about to quit the industry and go live in a yurt. Matt’s pacing. Sal’s leaning back in a chair that you’ve threatened to destroy three separate times. And Maya, your girlfriend, your beautiful, high-strung, Prada-wrapped, chaos goblin of a girlfriend, is at the head of the table, barking into her AirPods at an agent who’s clearly lying about availability.

“She’s not booked out through Q3, Gary, she’s at Erewhon every morning and she took a Hulu guest star last week, don’t lie to me—”

You look at the clock again. 9:18.

You shift your gaze to Maya, who catches it for a second. Her expression softens just for a moment. There’s guilt there. The kind that says: I’m sorry, I didn’t forget. I wanted to spoil you rotten.

But then she’s back to shouting. “Then give me someone better. We were about to announce. You want me to put out a press release saying our Cannes-contender lead ‘politely bailed due to exhaustion’? Gary, this is not a fucking Benadryl commercial, this is a prestige thriller with blood and teeth and you owe me for that Variety spread!”

Matt slumps into the seat beside you. “He couldn’t wait till after filming to check into rehab?”

Quinn, from the floor: “Mental health is health, Matt.”

You say nothing.

You’re too busy watching Maya. Watching how fast she moves when something goes wrong. How she thrives in chaos. How much you love her, and how much you resent her for being able to switch gears without missing a beat, even when she promised to hold your hand through that haunting Karloff close-up you’ve been dreaming about all week.

You cross your arms and lean back, nails biting into your sleeves. If she notices your silence, she doesn’t show it.

You’re trying to be a team player. You really are.

You get that this is a crisis. You get that losing your lead actor two weeks before announcement is a full-blown, PR-nightmare, press-cycle-imploding catastrophe. You get it.

But also?

You had these tickets for months.

The Karloff screening was one night only. One night. You’d planned it down to the detail, dinner at that weird little vampire-themed French place on Melrose, then the 10:30pm showing at the New Beverly. You had an outfit. You had lipstick named after a fictional vampire. And Maya had said yes. Maya had promised.

And now she’s playing agent chicken in cargo pants while you rot in a swivel chair next to Matt “crisis is my cardio” Remick.

He slumps closer to you again, chip crumbs on his hoodie. “Hey. You okay? You’re, like… very quiet. And your eyes look like you’re planning a murder.”

“I’m great,” you say, voice thin as piano wire.

He squints. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you say, smiling coolly. “I’m mad at the circumstances.”

Matt nods, sagely. “Yeah. Totally. Unforgiving circumstances. You know, I had dinner plans too.”

You blink slowly. “Did you have tickets to a once in a lifetime horror screening and a girlfriend who swore on her Saint Laurent collection that she’d wear a dress with a slit so high it’d make your nosebleed?”

He pauses. “I… did not.”

“Then don’t talk to me.”

Matt sits back.

Maya glances up from her phone at the exact wrong moment, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. She tilts her head like she’s trying to catch your eye, checking in, but you’re already looking away, arms crossed, fingers drumming tight against your elbow.

She sighs. Loudly. Then turns back to the group. “Okay, if we’re tossing out anyone with a criminal record or a secret second family, we’re down to, like, four viable leads. This is a mess.”

Tyler says, “I’m putting the narrowed list in the doc now.”

Quinn mumbles, “Can we manifest Andrew Garfield… oh or Anthony Mackie? We helped him by getting rid of that deliriously boring ending to Alphabet City? Maybe he would want to help us?”

And you sit there, jaw clenched, wondering which will happen first: Maya noticing that you’re barely breathing around her, or you finally snapping and telling everyone in this room to go to hell.

Spoiler: it’s going to be the second one.

The door creaks open and Matt’s assistant, that poor trembling twenty-something with crazy eyes and a name you never remember, steps in balancing four greasy brown takeout bags and a drink tray.

“Okay,” she says, voice chipper and doomed. “Dinner run! Um, I’ve got three poké bowls, one salad with no croutons, and one… bacon cheeseburger?”

Everyone barely glances up. Except you.

You sit up straighter. “I didn’t order a bacon cheeseburger.”

The assistant blinks. “You didn’t?”

“No,” you say flatly. “I ordered the spicy miso ramen. With soft-boiled egg and scallions. And the kombu broth, not tonkotsu. It was very specific.”

“Oh,” she says. “Okay. Right. Um. Yeah, I think they forgot to include that one and I had to sub something in and I thought this would be—”

“It’s not,” you interrupt.

The entire room stills.

Matt chuckles, that awkward little I want us all to have fun chuckle. “Hey, it’s food though, right? Fuel for the chaos. That burger probably tastes great if you close your eyes.”

You swivel your head toward him so slowly it’s cinematic.

“Matt,” you say, ice in your voice, “if you say one more thing about this situation being ‘fun’ or ‘quirky’ or anything short of catastrophic, I’m going to take this burger, hurl it through the window, and then I’m going to go home and personally leak to Deadline that you’re considering Armie Hammer for the lead.”

Sal blanches. “Okay, wow. Vivid.”

Tyler is silently typing faster. Quinn has frozen mid-sip. Maya, who had just stepped away to take another call, turns back at the sound of your voice and clocks your expression instantly.

The assistant holds out the bag to you, hands trembling.

You don’t take it.

“Put it down,” you mutter. “And tell them next time, if they can’t handle reading a four-item order, they shouldn’t be in delivery.”

The assistant nods like she’s just been saved from the gallows, barely, and vanishes.

Matt tries again, brave little idiot that he is. “Hey, look, I know tonight sucks, but we’re gonna fix this. We always do.”

You stare at the burger. It’s oozing melted cheese you didn’t ask for onto a paper napkin. Your stomach growls in betrayal.

“I don’t need reassurance,” you say, eyes still on the food. “I need someone to give a shit that this night mattered to me.”

Matt, for once, says nothing.

Maya watches you carefully, lips slightly parted like she wants to say something but knows better than to try right now.

Good.

Because if she tries to talk to you with that soft voice, the one she uses when she’s trying to calm you down ‘baby, come on, it’s not that deep’ you’re going to lose it.

You exhale slowly, blinking down at the offending burger like it personally insulted your family line.

Then you push your chair back, the screech loud and final, and stand.

“I’m going to smoke,” you say.

Across the room, Quinn lifts her head from the couch where she’s now fully horizontal, half a Red Bull can balanced on her chest. “Didn’t you quit?”

You meet her gaze, deadpan. “Yes. I did.”

The room is quiet as you grab your coat off the back of your chair. Not a single person tries to stop you, not Matt, not Sal, not Tyler who definitely pretends to type but is secretly tracking the emotional temperature in the room like it’s a goddamn hurricane warning system.

Maya watches you like she’s deciding whether to follow or give you space. You don’t even look at her as you leave.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And then it’s just the hallway, dim, echoing, empty. You fish through your bag for the emergency pack you swore you threw out three months ago. The lighter’s tucked in your inner coat pocket, because you always keep one on you. Just in case. For moments like this.

Moments where your girlfriend forgets the thing you’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Moments where everyone around you thinks you’re just a work machine who doesn’t need a night off, doesn’t deserve softness or spooky vintage horror or god forbid a meal that tastes like something other than cardboard and stress.

You step out onto the rooftop access balcony, light up, and take a long, furious drag.

The city below sparkles like it doesn’t care you’re having the worst night of your life.

Behind you, the door creaks open.

And you know it’s her.

You don’t turn when you hear the door open. Just flick the ash off the end of your cigarette and keep your eyes on the skyline, all glittering buildings and smog-hazed moonlight. The kind of view people would die for.

You’d trade it for a decent bowl of ramen and thirty uninterrupted minutes in a dark cinema with Maya’s hand in yours.

Her footsteps are soft behind you. Rubber soles on concrete. She’s not in heels today, she never is when shit hits the fan. Maya in crisis mode means sneakers, slicked-back hair, oversized streetwear that still somehow screams money.

“Hey,” she says, soft and casual, leaning against the wall beside you. Not too close. Not yet. “I was wondering where you snuck off to.”

You exhale a slow stream of smoke. “I said I was going to smoke.”

“Yeah, but like… dramatically,” she says with a small grin. “You’ve got that whole ‘tragic noir widow who poisoned her husband’ vibe going.”

You don’t laugh.

Maya shifts her weight, biting at the edge of her thumb. “Okay. So. You’re pissed.”

“Nope,” you reply coolly, eyes still forward. “I’m disappointed. Different thing.”

“Baby…”

“I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Well, tough, because we are doing this right now. I’m not going back in there to listen to Matt talk about how maybe Timothée Chalamet has ‘genre potential’ without fixing this first.”

You roll your eyes.

She steps closer. “I know I ruined tonight.”

“Do you?”

Maya pauses.

You finally turn your head, flicking the last of your cigarette over the railing. “You promised me, Maya. You said dinner and Black Sabbath. You said you cleared your schedule. I wore my stupid little dress and you—”

“I know.” She sounds guilty now. Not soft. Not smug. Just tired.

“I wanted to go,” she says. “I did. But when this shit hit the fan, I had to—”

“No,” you interrupt. “You chose to. And that’s fine, Maya. That’s your job. I get it. I’m not mad you’re good at your job. I’m mad that I didn’t even register to you tonight.”

Silence.

The only sound is the faint hum of traffic below and your own heart, pounding like it’s trying to crack your ribs.

Maya steps in, finally closing the space between you. Her hand hovers at your wrist.

“You always register,” she says, quiet now. “You’re the only thing that registers. Even when I’m on the phone with Gary the lying agent and Quinn’s comparing headshots like she’s swiping Tinder for psychopaths… I’m still thinking about how pissed you are. About how I let you down. I know I did.”

You stare at her.

“And I’ll make it up to you,” she adds, more confidently now. “I’ll find another screening. Or I’ll buy out the fucking New Beverly and force them to show it again. Just us. You can wear your little dress and I’ll wear heels and lipstick and no bra. I’ll make it right.”

Your mouth twitches. “You’re such a manipulative bitch,” you murmur.

She grins. “Takes one to love one.”

And finally you let her reach for you, her hands settling at your hips, her body warm and familiar against yours as the city glows below and the disaster inside fades, for just a second, into something survivable.

Maya’s hands slip around your waist, thumbs pressing into your hips like she’s trying to anchor you. You hate how good it feels. How easy it is to melt into her, even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.

“Still want to be mad at me?” she murmurs, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw.

You huff. “Yes.”

“Okay,” she says, dipping her head lower, mouthing at your neck. “Want to do it while I’m kissing you?”

You don’t dignify that with an answer.

Instead, you grab her collar and pull her in hard, kissing her like you mean to punish her for every moment she made you feel invisible tonight. It’s angry, all teeth and open mouths and smudged lipstick. Her rings dig into your back as she pushes you gently against the wall, one leg between yours, her tongue slipping past your lips like she owns you. (She does. You hate it… you love it really.)

Your fingers tangle in the back of her shirt. Her hand cups your jaw, possessive and greedy, like she’d crawl inside you if you let her.

You’re still furious.

But you’re also starving for her, for closeness, for the night that got stolen from you.

She kisses you like she’s trying to give it back.

You’re breathless when you finally pull away, her forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting like you’ve just run a mile.

You blink up at her. Then pout. “I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And I have nothing to eat.”

Maya sighs dramatically, hand still on your waist. “Okay. Do you want me to go downstairs, threaten that assistant into running to Little Dom’s, and bring you back a real meal while I blackball every poké place in LA?”

You pause, considering it. “…Yes.”

She kisses your nose, grinning. “That’s my terrifying little goblin.”

You swat her ass as she turns to leave.

She blows you a kiss over her shoulder. “Stay mad. I’m gonna fix it.”

And for the first time all night, you believe her.

When you walk back into the conference room, it’s like nothing happened. Well, almost nothing.

Quinn raises one eyebrow but wisely says nothing. Matt offers you a sheepish chip. You ignore him. Tyler avoids eye contact like you’re a wild animal that bites.

And Maya? She’s back at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring at a printout of an actor’s IMDB credits like she can will charisma into his face. The moment she sees you, her expression softens just enough for you to catch it.

Without a word, you cross the room, slide into her chair, and settle into her lap like it’s your rightful throne.

She doesn’t blink. Just wraps her arm around your waist and pulls you in closer, her fingers tracing circles at your hip like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’re not both high-ranking executives in a Hollywood studio actively clinging to each other in the middle of a very serious emergency meeting.

You grab the stack of casting options Quinn’s compiled and start flipping through them, sharp-eyed and fully engaged for the first time tonight.

Maya’s chin rests on your shoulder. “Do we like him?” she murmurs, nodding at a headshot.

You snort. “He looks like the kind of guy who’d get cast in a remake of something and say in the press tour that he’s ‘not really a horror fan.’”

Maya hums. “Death penalty.”

Matt clears his throat. “Are we just… are we doing this? Like, are you… are you just sitting—”

“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Quinn says without looking up.

Sal mutters something about needing therapy.

You sigh, flipping another page. “Okay. We need someone with heat, with depth, and with a name that won’t make Variety think we’ve lost the plot. Who actually wants to do genre. Not prestige posturing. Not some Marvel rebound gig.”

Maya squeezes your waist proudly. “She’s back, baby.”

You glance at her. “Don’t push it.”

She bites back a grin.

And just like that, the meeting resets. The energy shifts. You’re still hungry. Still annoyed. But you’ve got Maya’s warmth beneath you, your hand sorting through the chaos like you’re building an altar out of headshots and spite. It’s not the night you wanted. But it’s yours.

It’s a full-on war room now.

Papers litter the table like battlefield debris. Someone’s ordered more coffee. Quinn’s abandoned the floor and is pacing in socks, muttering actor names like she’s summoning demons. Matt has one AirPod in and two phones on speaker. Tyler’s got six windows open on his laptop and keeps saying things like, “If we shift the press embargo window to Thursday, we could still meet the media lead-in without violating the NDA.” Sal’s in the corner on the phone with someone, you don’t know who, and frankly, you don’t want to know.

And you?

You’re still on Maya’s lap, her arms looped lazily around your waist as the two of you scroll IMDb Pro like it owes you money.

“We’re running out of options,” she mutters, chin on your shoulder.

“No,” you say, flipping through headshots. “We’re running out of good options. We’ve got plenty of bad ones left.”

You scroll past a mid-tier heartthrob and grimace. “He thinks ‘The Babadook’ is a slur.”

Maya snorts.

You feel the vibration of her phone before you hear the ding. She shifts under you, grabbing it from the table, scrolling a few beats, then—

“Wait,” she says, and her voice changes. It sharpens.

You lean back slightly to see the screen.

A photo. A name.

You blink. “Him?”

“He’s free,” she says. “Just left that three-film deal with Netflix, so he’s loose. And he wants awards again. Said it in his GQ interview last month.”

“He hasn’t done a thriller since that Swedish noir remake thing,” you murmur.

“Exactly.” Her eyes are gleaming. “He’s overdue. He wants something gritty, something sexy and smart. We give him this, with you as exec producer, me running the campaign, he eats. He feasts.”

You glance at the name again. A-list. Oscar nominee. Under 40. Still hot enough that the trades would sell it as a comeback. Your gut twists.

“That’s a real star,” you say quietly.

Maya grins. “Then let’s fucking go.”

~ Twenty minutes later ~

The room is silent. Breathless. Tyler’s phone is on speaker.

A female voice says clearly: “He’s in. He loves the script. He’s asking for a quick polish on act three, but he’s in if you’re in.”

Tyler mouths ‘holy shit’.

You and Maya look at each other. She’s grinning like a woman who just closed a million-dollar deal. Because she did.

“Tell him we’ll have a new draft by Monday,” Maya says. “And that we’ll build the whole campaign around him. Fall festivals. Viral drops. Let him play serious again. Full resurrection treatment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the voice says.

The call ends.

The room explodes.

Quinn is dancing around the table, chanting, “WE DID IT! WE FUCKING DID IT!” while holding her Red Bull like a trophy. Tyler’s fully teared up, muttering something about “professional peak” as he rapid-types a new press release draft. Matt’s hugging people he normally avoids. Sal opens his personal stash of whiskey from the bottom cabinet man’s behind to gulp it down in celebration.

And you, you’re just sitting there, dazed, still on Maya’s lap, the adrenaline hitting you in waves as you both watch your team lose their minds in the best way. You feel her hand stroke your back, grounding you.

You turn and face her, and her smile softens.

You’re both exhausted. You’re both glowing.

You kiss her.

Right there in front of everyone, without thinking, just full-on lips crashing together, the kind of kiss that says we did it, that says I love you, that says we’re a fucking empire, you and me.

She kisses you back with a little groan like she’s been dying for it all night.

When you pull away, she tucks a bit of your hair behind your ear. “Fuck me I’m good.”

You smirk. “Baby you know I’m the bottom here.”

She rolls her eyes, but you feel her squeeze your thigh under the table.

Someone cranks music, something loud and celebratory and wildly inappropriate for a work setting, and suddenly Quinn’s tossing around casting sheets like confetti, Tyler’s laughing, and Matt’s on his second glass of Dom Perignon.

Then…

“I’m just saying,” Sal calls over the chaos, already tipsy, “I’m so glad Maya and Matt aren’t fucking anymore because a fucking win like this would’ve ended in one of those weird celebratory makeouts with, like, tongue and teeth and that whole… thing.”

Record scratch.

Everything stops.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. The music is still playing but it sounds underwater now. Distant. Wrong. Because your body just froze around one word: fucking.

Your brain does the math. And the math is bad.

You were not aware that Maya and Matt had ever…

Your gaze snaps to her before you can stop yourself.

And Maya? She’s pale. Like someone just slapped her across the face. Her arms loosen around you just slightly. Like she wants to speak but can’t figure out which version of the truth to start with.

Maya stiffens beneath you. “Sal.”

“What?” Sal blinks, clearly not reading the room. “I’m just saying it’s refreshing not to end a big win with that weird forehead-touching, neck-biting, sweaty thing you two used to do. Like, get a room—”

“SAL.” Maya snaps.

Matt chuckles, a little too defensively. “Okay, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh my god,” Quinn says from the couch, voice deadpan but gleeful. “Wait. Wait. You and Matt actually—”

You slide off Maya’s lap slowly. Mechanically.

No one speaks.

Not even Sal, who finally realizes far too late that he just opened a black hole in the center of the room.

You look at Maya, but this time, you don’t see her in her triumph, or her glory, or the way she kissed you like she’d won a million dollars. You see someone who never told you something big. You see a betrayal you didn’t even know you had to look for. And Maya? She looks like she’d give anything to take the moment back.

“No no no no no,” you say, waving your hand like you can physically clear the words from the air. “This isn’t real. Tell me this isn’t real.”

Matt’s hands go up, palms-out. “Hey, okay, it was a long time ago! Pre-pandemic! Practically a different era. We were hot!”

“No you weren’t,” Tyler mutters.

“Thank you,” Sal says.

“I mean, I didn’t think it was important,” Matt tries, shrugging. “We’re adults. It’s ancient history.”

You round on Maya, who looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

“You fucked Matt?” you whisper. “Matt? My boss?”

Maya’s hands go up in surrender. “I swear to god, it was barely a thing. Like three times. Maybe four and some make outs—”

“Four?!”

“And we agreed it was a mistake! That it was weird and a boundary issue and we were never doing it again!”

“Oh my god,” you say, stepping back. Your face is hot. Your ears are ringing. You genuinely think you might pass out.

Maya stands, panic rising in her voice. “It was before you, okay? It didn’t mean anything—”

“It means something now!” you snap. “You’ve been in meetings with him, pitching with him, touching me in front of him, and never thought maybe, just maybe, I should know this?!”

“Babe,” she says, pleading. “It wasn’t—”

But you’re already walking. Past Quinn, who mouths holy shit. Past Tyler, who looks like he’s about to throw up. Past Matt, who mutters, “I mean, it wasn’t bad,” and Maya, who yells, “Matt, shut the fuck up!”

You don’t look back. Not even when Maya calls your name, urgent and anxious behind you. Because if you do, you’ll cry. And you won’t give her that. Not in front of all of them.

You don’t make it to the elevator.

You barely make it past the hall.

You stumble into the nearest quiet corridor off the main floor, press your back to the wall, and slide down until you’re crouched in the shadows beside the fire extinguisher, hidden from the party you used to be part of ten minutes ago.

Your hands are shaking.

Not in a poetic, trembling-lip way, no you’re shaking like your body’s short-circuiting. You can’t get a full breath in, like your lungs are folding in on themselves. Your fingers fumble for your phone, but it slips once before you catch it again, screen lighting up far too bright in the dark.

You open the Uber app.

It takes three tries to type your address.

You don’t even look at the price. You hit Confirm pickup, then curl your arms around your knees like you’re holding yourself together with sheer force of will.

A car in six minutes.

Six minutes, and you can be out of here. Away from the conference room. Away from the memory of Maya’s arms around you while she neglected to mention her little HR-certified hookup history with your literal boss.

Away from Quinn’s face going no fucking way, from Sal being… well, Sal, from Matt trying to laugh it off like you’re all just characters in one of his shitty improv sketches.

You stare at the blinking dot on your phone.

It says your driver is named Eli.

You’re going to climb into Eli’s Honda and pretend you’re not the idiot whose girlfriend used to fuck the head of the studio you work for.

You wipe at your eyes angrily. No tears. Not yet.

You’ve got to get home, take off your makeup, wash this night off your body like it didn’t happen. Get three hours of sleep, if that. And then come back here tomorrow to the same office, the same glass-walled rooms, and the same people who all know exactly how humiliated you were.

You’ll have to walk into that conference room and look Matt in the face. And worse you’ll have to look at her.

You grip your phone tighter. Try not to scream.

Four minutes now.

Just four more minutes.

You close your eyes.

You do not fall apart in the hallway.

Not yet.

Back in the conference room, the mood has absolutely tanked.

The music’s still playing, some obnoxious party track with a synth drop no one asked for, but now it just feels cruel. Tyler quietly lowers the volume without asking.

Maya’s standing at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hasn’t said a word since you left.

Then she lets go. “Okay. What the fuck was that?!”

Everyone freezes.

Sal, still halfway through pouring another whiskey: “That was not on me.”

“Really?” Maya snaps, eyes blazing. “Because you’re the one who decided to resurrect the ancient, cursed Matt-and-Maya-era like it was relevant.”

Sal shrugs. “Didn’t realize it was classified.”

“Oh my god,” she says, rubbing her temples. “Do you just say things to hear yourself speak or was tonight special?”

Quinn’s still staring like she just watched a plane crash. “You two actually had sex?”

Maya paces now, agitated, unspooling in front of them. “I didn’t tell her because it didn’t matter. It was a blip. It was so long ago, and it was awkward and messy and I thought… it just never came up, okay?!”

Matt nods too fast. “Yeah. And I supported that! I supported not bringing it up! Because I thought it would be weird to tell her!”

“We were stupid. It was sloppy!” Maya barks. “It was during the Blue Fox merger, I had bronchitis and a PR embargo hanging over my head!”

“Oh my god,” Quinn whispers. “Was there tongue?”

Maya throws her hands up. “Yes, okay?! There was tongue. There was stress. There was bad lighting. It was a low point for everyone involved.”

Matt winces. “Okay that’s kinda harsh, I think it was kind of beautiful…”

“Matt,” Sal says, “shut the fuck up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell her,” Quinn mutters, more to herself than anyone.

Maya turns, sharp. “Why would I?! So she could, what? Laugh? Pity me? Set fire to her retinas with the image of me and him in a West Hollywood bar bathroom while Luther Vandross played in the background?”

Quinn blinks. “…it was to Luther Vandross?”

“Of course it was Luther Vandross! I have taste, Quinn!”

The room falls quiet again.

Maya deflates a little. She’s still furious. Still too raw to know what to do with herself. “I didn’t tell her,” she says, quieter now. “Because it was nothing. It was a blip. It was before. Before her. Before I even knew what it felt like to want to come home to someone.”

“She looked at me like I was someone else,” she says quietly. “Like I’d lied about everything. Like I’d humiliated her.”

“She’s not wrong,” Sal says, uncharacteristically soft.

That’s what makes Maya go still.

Sal shrugs. “I’m just saying. If I found out my girlfriend used to bone the guy who signs her paycheck, and she didn’t tell me? I’d be halfway to my dealers for medical grade coke by now.”

“Well it’s not technically me who signs them.. that would be Lucille from accounting…” Matt interjects

Maya’s jaw clenches. “Not helpful Matt.”

You slam the door behind you.

Hard.

The keys hit the floor. Your bag drops somewhere near the entryway. You don’t even bother turning the lights on, you just march straight into the kitchen like a storm in heels, throw the fridge open, and stare inside like something in there’s going to fix this. Spoiler: there’s nothing but a bottle of white wine, a leftover oat latte, and a Tupperware of pad thai that’s three days past edible.

You grab the wine. Twist the cap off with shaking fingers and drink straight from the bottle.

The second the first gulp hits your throat, you pace back and forth, back and forth, bare feet slapping hardwood like you’re wearing a hole into the foundation.

“Matt,” you hiss, to no one. “Matt fucking Remnick?”

You laugh. It’s ugly. “Of course. Of fucking course.”

You fling yourself down on the couch and dig your nails into the throw pillow like it personally betrayed you.

So let’s just tally it up, right?

The guy who pays you, the guy who nods along during your pitch meetings like he’s just smart enough to track the plot but not smart enough to understand why it works, that guy? That doughy, beige suit wearing, oat milk-drinking, workaholic dipshit?

He fucked your girlfriend.

Your Maya.

The Maya who kisses your throat when you’re reading in bed. The Maya who calls you her “creepy little horror wife” in meetings like a badge of honor. That Maya?

Fucked. Matt. Remnick.

You press your hands into your eyes. Oh, and the best part? Sal knew. Sal. Fucking Sal, who you’ve sat next to in a hundred meetings, who’s texted you bad memes at midnight, who’s thrown shade at every actor you’ve ever cast.

He knew.

How many people knew? How many people sat across from you in conference rooms, watched you and Maya flirt and smolder, and thought, Wow. Hope she told her she used to hook up with the boss?

You drag your hands down your face and make a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob. You feel sick. Like the butt of a joke you didn’t know was being told.

Your phone buzzes from your bag across the room.

You don’t even look.

If it’s Maya, she can wait.

You wake up face-down on the couch, blanket halfway off, one leg tangled in your throw, and a wine bottle dangerously close to rolling off the coffee table.

Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry. It’s 5 a.m. and you feel like someone took your rage, poured it through a filter of grief, and blended it with three hours of half-sleep and one unfinished nightmare about Matt Remnick in a hot tub.

You groan. Sit up. Immediately regret it.

Then you see your phone.

18 texts.

4 voice notes.

1 missed call.

All from Maya.

You stare at the screen for a long moment before thumbing open the thread.

The first one hit around 12:23 a.m.

<Maya: ok so i’ve been lying in bed for two hours staring at the ceiling like the little match girl but instead of cold i’m dying of shame>

<Maya: just fyi tho the matt era was VERY short-lived and powered entirely by alcohol and bad decisions and i got bronchitis right after. draw your own conclusions.>

<Maya: I should’ve told you. I didn’t because i thought it was irrelevant and then i convinced myself it was embarrassing and then it turned into a weird shame snowball and then sal threw a grenade and now we’re here>

<Maya: i’m gonna go to sleep before i drive to your place in a hoodie and crocs and throw pebbles at your window like a fuckin Lana song but specifically for lesbians>

<Maya: unless that would work??>

Your alarm didn’t go off.

Actually, no, your alarm did go off. You just threw your phone across the room sometime around 6:30 a.m. after rereading Maya’s latest text for the fifth time and muttering “fuck off” into your pillow.

So now it’s 9:12 a.m.

And the Continental morning meeting starts at 9.

You bolt out of bed with a groan, mouth dry, head pounding, last night’s wine and rage still thick behind your eyes. You shower in record time, slap on concealer, mascara, a black turtleneck, and sunglasses that scream do not speak to me I will kill you where you stand.

No breakfast. Just coffee in a to-go cup that tastes like cardboard and regret.

Traffic’s hell. You scream once in your car just to get it out. You park like a menace, don’t even check the mirror, and stomp across the lot toward the building with your bag half open and your badge clipped to your sleeve.

When you push through the glass doors and into the marble lobby of Continental Studios, you’re ten minutes late and vibrating with fury.

Matt spots you immediately from the hallway. He’s holding a protein bar and his big dumb reusable water bottle and smiling like it’s casual Friday.

“Hey,” he calls, jogging to keep pace beside you. “You’re late for the morning slate check-in.”

You don’t even look at him. Instead you snarl, voice low and venomous, “bite me, Remnick.”

He freezes mid-step.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair. You’re mad. Totally valid. Just… don’t bite me in the meeting, okay? Bite Sal. He can take it.”

You don’t respond.

You just keep walking. Because the only thing worse than seeing Matt today… is knowing she’s already in the conference room.

And you have to sit through the morning meeting like none of this happened. Like your entire sense of stability didn’t just crack open in front of half the fucking team.

The door swings open.

You step inside the conference room with that perfect blend of silence and menace, black silk shirt, razor-sharp tailored blazer, sunglasses pushed up into your hair like a crown. You’ve got your coffee in one hand, your notes in the other, and the kind of expression that says I dare you.

Tyler starts the meeting like he doesn’t smell the emotional blood in the air. “Okay, so first things first—our guy’s officially confirmed, and the trades are prepped. We’re greenlit to announce end of week if we can finalize rollout assets.”

“Cool,” you say crisply, flipping open the folder. “We’re not announcing Friday.”

Everyone looks up.

Matt blinks. “We’re not?”

“No. It’s too crowded. Dune: Part Three has an early stills drop Friday morning and Searchlight’s doing an ‘Anatomy of a Fall’ deep-dive with the New Yorker that afternoon. We’ll get buried. We push to Monday and own the morning cycle.”

Maya opens her mouth to speak, and you don’t even look up. “Unless you’d like to announce our Oscar-bait thriller between a sandworm and a French woman falling down the stairs.”

Silence.

Then Quinn mutters, “God, you’re scary when you’re on.”

You still don’t look at Maya. But you feel her eyes burning into you.

Matt clears his throat. “Okay, Monday. We can make that work. Uh… Maya, what do you need for assets?”

The rest of the meeting trudges forward like it’s wearing lead boots.

You don’t speak unless you have to. Every sentence that comes out of your mouth is clean, clear, and lethal. Maya keeps glancing your way like she’s trying to find an opening, a soft edge, a tell, anything.

But there’s nothing.

You give her nothing.

No warmth. No flicker of forgiveness. Not even a look.

Just silence and strategy.

“If we’re shifting, talent needs their glam appointments moved up. We’ll need rep confirmation before lunch.” No snark. No emotion. Just fact.

Maya nods slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

Still, you don’t look at her.

Even Sal picks up on it now. He’s not cracking jokes. Matt fumbles through the updated calendar notes. Quinn adds a few scheduling tweaks. Tyler asks something about embargo coordination, which you answer with the kind of precision that makes Sal mouth “yikes” into his coffee.

Eventually, the meeting wraps.

Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. No one says much.

And Maya? She stands. Lingers behind her chair, one hand resting on the back of it like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. You don’t look up. You’re reviewing the press deck. You are calm. You are composed. You are the queen of horror at Continental fucking Studios. And right now? She doesn’t get to have you.

You gather your papers in silence. Neat. Controlled. No sign of the volcano beneath the surface. You slide them into your folder, close it with precision, and stand.

You don’t look at Maya. You’re halfway to the door when you hear her.

��C’mon, wait.” Her voice is low. Urgent.

You pause just enough to let the tension snap taut, but not enough to look back. “I have work to do,” you say coolly.

She scoffs. “Oh come on. You can’t get mad at me for having a past, fucking hell.”

Your spine stiffens.

“I’m nearly double your age,” she continues, stepping forward now, voice rising just slightly. “I’ve fucked people. Like, sorry? Grow up.”

That’s when you freeze.

Turn.

Your voice shakes, not with weakness, but fury. “Yeah. I’m fucking aware, Maya.”

She blinks. Like maybe she thought you wouldn’t bite back.

“But this isn’t just anyone,” you hiss, stepping closer now. “This isn’t some ex from New York or a personal assistant you ghosted after Sundance. This is my boss. This is the man who signs my paychecks. Who I have to pitch to, smile at, navigate. And you didn’t think I deserved to know that you two had history?!”

“It was barely history…” she starts

“It doesn’t matter!” you snap. “It matters to me! And you didn’t tell me because what? You thought I’d be jealous? Uncool? That I’d what, throw a tantrum? Guess what, I’m throwing one now!”

Everyone else outside the glass conference room is simultaneously edging closer and pretending not to exist. You can still feel everyone’s eyes on you, even if they’re all pretending they aren’t. Sal suddenly finds the far wall very interesting. Quinn’s fake AirPods are basically a theater curtain. Matt’s holding a water bottle like he might use it as a shield.

Maya runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Look, I know I should’ve told you.”

You cut her off. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I was embarrassed, okay?” she blurts. “It was a shitty, messy mistake and I didn’t want to bring that into us. I didn’t want to give it weight. You matter. He never did,” she says, too fast now, words spiraling. “You know how this studio works. Half the people in that room have fucked each other. And yeah, I messed up not tell you, but you can’t just crucify me because I have a past you didn’t pre-approve.”

You laugh, cold and wounded. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

She sighs hard. “Then what the fuck is it about?”

“It’s about respect, Maya!”

Now you’re really in it. Eyes burning. Breath ragged.

“It’s about the fact that I was the last to know. That Sal knew. That Tyler didn’t blink. That you let me sit next to Matt in meetings like it was nothing. Like I was some clueless intern with a clipboard and not your…” You stop. Swallow. “Not someone you say you care about.”

Maya’s face crumbles for real now.

“I do care about you,” she says, stepping forward, eyes desperate. “You think I don’t? You think I haven’t been losing my fucking mind since last night? I’ve sent you like sixty texts, I drafted a notes app apology, I didn’t even put on moisturizer this morning, do you understand how deranged I am right now?”

You blink. “That’s your barometer for grief? Moisturizer?”

“It was Dr. Barbara Sturm, you psychopath!” she snaps. “That shit is eighty-five dollars a pump!”

There’s a beat.

And despite yourself you almost laugh. Instead, you just shake your head, trying to calm your own heart, your own hands, your own instinct to forgive her too fast.

She’s watching you. Chest rising and falling. Waiting for you to say something. Anything.

And the room?

The room is silent.

She’s watching you. Breathing hard. Jaw tight. But her eyes? They’re tracking every inch of you like she’s trying to memorize your silhouette before you vanish.

Then she moves.

She closes the distance with one sharp step, and before you can stop her, her hands are at your waist. Light at first. Testing.

You flinch. “Don’t.”

But she doesn’t back off. Instead, she leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice low and warm and dangerous in your ear.

“Baby, come on,” she murmurs. “I love you.”

Your breath catches.

Her hands slide lower, fingers curling at your hips like she’s staking a claim. She presses in close, intimate, entirely inappropriate with your coworkers still very much looking through the glass conference walls into the room and brushes her lips just beneath your ear.

“You’re pissed. I get it. Be pissed,” she breathes. “Yell at me later. Call me names. Tell me I’m a stupid, emotionally constipated corporate nightmare.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

She nips lightly at your neck. “But don’t leave me.”

Her fingers tighten, sliding up under the edge of your blazer, thumbs brushing your sides, mouth now trailing lower like she can seduce the forgiveness out of you.

“I love you,” she says again, lower now, desperate. “I was a coward. I fucked up. Let me fix it. Please.”

You should push her away.

You don’t. You don’t because she knows exactly where to touch you and she’s touching you there now, hands firm on your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft spot just beneath your ribs like she’s trying to hold you together before you shatter again.

And then she kisses you.

Hard. No warning. No room to think. Just mouth on yours, hot and hungry and completely insane given the fact that you are very much not alone.

Your folder hits the floor.

Maya walks you back a step, her hands tangled in your blazer, mouth moving over yours like she needs it more than breath. There’s no gentle easing into it, it’s immediate, consuming, and deep. She kisses you like she’s trying to rewrite the memory of Matt fucking Remnick out of your bloodstream.

You pull back hard, breath heaving, mouth swollen from her kiss, mascara smudged, and Maya’s staring at you like you just gave her a second chance at life.

She reaches for you again.

You stop her with a single raised eyebrow and one lethal line, “…Matt? Really?”

The room goes dead silent again.

“Matt Remnick?” you repeat, voice dripping with horror. “You were into that?”

Sal audibly snorts and pretends to choke on his drink. Quinn lets out a wheeze and turns fully to the wall like she’s entering witness protection.

Maya groans. Loud. Embarrassed. Absolutely desperate. “Oh my god,” she mutters, eyes wide as she grabs your face and kisses you again.

Hard. This time it’s needy. Almost angry.

“I’m into you,” she growls against your mouth. “I’m into this. Not him.”

You’re still breathless when she pulls back.

You look at Maya.

She’s flushed. Wrecked. Entirely yours. And completely aware she’s still on thin ice.

You smooth your blazer. Pick your folder up off the floor. And say, as calmly as if you’re discussing box office projections: “We’re still having this conversation later. Somewhere private. Somewhere where I’m less inclined to claw your eyes out and let you fuck me against a filing cabinet.”

Maya exhales shakily. “Copy that,” she whispers.

Sal gives you a little golf clap. Quinn doesn’t look up, but says, “I hope we never stop working here.”

And without a word, you turn and walk. Down the hallway. Past the open offices. Through the glass doors.

Maya follows like a shadow. You swipe your badge and push open the door to your office, stepping inside with controlled hurt still radiating off your skin.

Maya barely gets the door shut behind her before you’re on her again.

You grab her jacket lapels and slam your mouth to hers, no buildup, no words, just heat. She groans into it, hands going immediately to your waist, pulling you in like she can’t stand to be apart from you another second.

This kiss is filthier. Sloppier. More desperate. You bite her lower lip and she gasps, nails digging into your hips as you press her back against the door.

“You drive me fucking insane,” you whisper against her mouth.

“Yeah?” she pants, licking her lips. “Well you’re fucking infuriating and I love you.”

Her hands roam over your back, up your spine, under your blazer. She tugs it off your shoulders like it’s offended her.

She laughs into your neck, breath hot as she whispers, “Is this… our version of conflict resolution?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, pushing her down into the couch with one hand on her chest.

You climb into her lap and kiss her again, harder this time, her fingers slipping under your shirt like they know exactly what kind of damage they caused and exactly how to earn forgiveness.

You grind your hips against hers and she groans, low in her throat. “You’re still mad at me.”

You pull back just enough to look her dead in the eye. “Yes I am.”

She smiles. “Liar.”

And then you’re kissing again like you want to ruin her, like she’s the only one who could ever deserve to be ruined by you. You’re breathless in her lap, lips swollen from kissing her too hard, your blazer long forgotten somewhere on the floor. Your fingers are clenched in the fabric of her shirt, your eyes hot, your body humming.

You’re still upset. Still bruised with betrayal. But god, her hands feel good on you. You pull back, panting, trying to steel yourself, to glare at her.

But your voice comes out shaky. “I’m still mad,” you whisper.

Her hands slide from your waist to your thighs, spreading you just slightly over her lap. “Good.”

And then she moves.

Suddenly you’re on your back on the couch, gasping as she pins you there, her body over yours, her mouth hovering just above your throat.

She’s looking at you differently now, like she’s done pretending you’re in control.

You shiver. “Maya?”

She kisses you. Slow. Possessive. Deep enough to make your stomach flip. When she pulls back, she speaks low against your mouth. “You’re being a little brat.”

Your thighs twitch.

Her hand slips between your legs, pressing over your panties, hot, firm, and unrelenting.

“Still think you’re mad at me?”

You whimper, arching into her hand.

She grins. “Thought so.”

She pulls your underwear aside, slides her fingers over you, slick, slow, maddening. You gasp, hips twitching. Her mouth is at your neck now, sucking lightly, just enough to make you writhe.

“You’re soaked,” she murmurs, smug. “Say you need me.”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No.”

She presses two fingers in, deep and smooth, and you whine.

“Say it.”

You grip her shoulders like you might fall through the floor.

“I need you,” you breathe. “I need you, I need… fuck—”

“Good girl,” she says softly.

And then she fucks you. Harder now, fingers working you open, her body flush against yours, her mouth at your ear whispering things that make you gasp her name like a prayer.

“You gonna be good for me now?” she whispers.

“Yes! Yes, I promise… please don’t stop…”

You’re shaking beneath her, legs spreading wider, body losing every ounce of control you fought to hold. She’s everywhere, her voice, her hands, her breath, her mouth, and she doesn’t let up until you’re begging.

You come with a sharp cry, arching into her, body going taut, her name spilling from your lips like you were made for her.

She holds you through it, kissing your cheek, brushing your hair back, whispering, “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

When the shaking slows, you cling to her, flushed and fucked-out, heart pounding. You nuzzle into her neck, voice tiny. “I’m not mad.”

She smiles against your hair. “I know.”

The room is quiet now.

Your body is warm and shaking gently, curled half on top of Maya on the couch. Her shirt is unbuttoned, your blouse’s somewhere on the floor, and your legs are tangled like you never plan on moving again.

She’s holding you. One hand stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades. The other resting lazily on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re breathing against her chest, face buried in the crook of her neck, eyelids fluttering. Safe. Fuzzy. Boneless.

Maya kisses your hair. “You alive down there?” she whispers.

You nod, slow. Muffled. “Mhm.”

She smiles, running her fingers through your hair now, kissing your temple.

You nuzzle closer, arms tightening around her waist.

Then, softly, voice quiet and thick with exhaustion, you apologise. “Sorry I was so dramatic.”

She blinks. Pulls back just enough to look at you. “Babe.”

You shrug against her. “I know I was bratting out. I just…” You sigh. “It’s Matt.”

There’s a beat.

Then Maya snorts.

You lift your head to glare at her, but she’s already laughing quietly, shakily, that signature Maya Mason chuckle that sounds like she can’t believe her life.

“I know it’s Matt,” she wheezes. “Believe me. I have to live with that fact every day.”

You flop your head back onto her chest. “God. Well I guess that’s punishment enough.”

Her arms tighten around you, still laughing as she presses kisses into your hair.

“You’re insane,” you murmur.

“I love you,” she says instantly.

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you whisper, “I love you too.”

She stills. Then lets out a soft little exhale, like the air just came back into her body.

You both lie there like that for a while. Quiet. Safe. Outside your office, the day goes on. Inside? It’s just you and her.

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i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

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if you’ve been following me for 4+ years i’m certain you could make a chart of every character i’ve gotten attached to and it would tell you more about me than any therapist’s notes ever could. but we don’t have the time for that. there are other things at hand. do not even worry about it. next exhibit. we’re moving along. we’re walking

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i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

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Maya Magdalene Mason, the diva you are ✨💅🏻

—

You cannot convince me her middle name is anything except Magdalene and she absolutely hates it because it makes her soft.

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i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

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The Thread Between Us (18+)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal/Reader

Rating: Mature

Challenge: Agatha All Along Week, Day 5: Soulmates/Soulmarks (@agathaallalongweek)

Summary: You arrive at the house expecting a temporary apprenticeship - lessons in magic from two of the most formidable witches of the century. What you don’t expect is the flicker of your soulmark, reacting to their presence like it’s been waiting. Agatha and Rio are already bound to one another, their connection legendary and unshakable. But when your mark begins to glow for both of them, everything changes.

Agatha resists. Rio leans in.

And you stand between them - drawn in by fate, magic, and a bond neither of them knew was still incomplete.

The house knows before any of you do. The thread was always meant to pull three.

Tags: 18+, NSFW, soulmarks, soulmates, magical bonding, magic, triad, mutual pining, established relationship

AAA Week Day 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | Ao3

The Thread Between Us

The house sits at the end of a quiet street, all pointed roofs and ivy-covered stone, like it’s been plucked out of a different century and dropped here just for you. There’s something strange about the air around it - shimmering faintly, like heat off asphalt. But it’s cool out. Still. Watchful.

You tighten your grip on the suitcase handle. The letter in your coat pocket feels heavier than paper should. You read it too many times on the train, fingers tracing the elegant signature at the bottom. Rio Vidal. You don’t know what made her choose you, but when a witch like her says you’re worth teaching, you don’t say no.

The front door creaks open before you can even reach the steps.

Rio leans against the frame like she’s been waiting there all morning. She’s dressed down - loose sweater, soft jeans, bare feet - but she wears her confidence like armor. Her smile is warm, crooked at one corner. Lazy, but sharp.

“You made it,” she says, eyes dragging over you slowly. “Cute coat.”

Your throat feels dry. “Thanks.”

You barely register the sound of footsteps behind her before the temperature shifts again - cooler, charged.

Agatha Harkness steps into the doorway like she owns not just the house, but the air inside it. Her eyes sweep over you, unblinking, clinical. Beautiful, in a terrifying, too-much kind of way. She doesn’t speak at first, just tips her head and studies you like a spell she hasn’t decided whether to cast or break.

“She’s younger than I expected,” she murmurs to Rio, but her eyes never leave yours.

“Barely,” Rio replies. “And powerful.”

Agatha hums. It’s not approval. It’s...consideration. Then she turns and walks back inside, leaving the door open in her wake.

“She does that,” Rio says, like it’s normal. “Don’t take it personal. She just doesn’t trust easily.”

You nod and step forward. The moment you cross the threshold, it’s like walking through a veil. The air thickens around your skin - warm, tingling, intimate. The wards. You can feel them slip beneath your clothes like unseen fingers. For a second, something flickers just beneath your skin. A spark. You tell yourself it’s nerves.

Inside, the house smells like herbs and old wood and smoke. Magic hangs in the corners like cobwebs - buzzing faintly, drawn to you. A candle on the entry table bends toward you as you pass, its flame dancing in your direction.

Rio’s smile falters for just a second. “Interesting,” she says.

You turn to her. “What?”

She studies you, like she’s seeing something new. “You feel...familiar.”

And somewhere deeper in the house, you swear you hear a teacup crack.

Rio picks up your suitcase before you can protest and nods for you to follow her.

“You’ll be on the second floor,” she says, already halfway up the stairs. “Closer to me. Agatha’s in the attic suite - more space for all her…weird shit.”

You glance at the walls as you climb. Every inch is covered: framed spellwork, enchanted botanical prints, crystals hovering in glass domes. The house feels alive. It likes you. That much is clear.

“Don’t touch the obsidian mirror,” Rio adds over her shoulder. “Or the cat skull in the study. And definitely not the crystal ball in Agatha’s room unless you want her to actually bite you.”

“Bite?” you echo, breath catching.

She glances back and grins. “Kidding.”

You’re not convinced.

At the top of the stairs, she nudges open a door with her hip. “Here you go. Home sweet haven.”

The room is bigger than you expected. A slanted ceiling, big bay window, and a bed that looks like it’s seen a hundred naps and even more dreams. There's a desk already stocked with charmed ink and blank grimoires. A small armoire hums with a protective spell. The air smells faintly of cedar and moonflower.

“It’s warded for privacy. Only you, or someone you invite, can cross the threshold. Unless Agatha decides to override it, which she can, but she won’t unless you piss her off.”

“Reassuring,” you murmur, stepping inside.

Rio follows anyway, ignoring the implied barrier. She sets your suitcase down gently, then pauses, eyes roaming the room.

“You feel it too, right?” she asks, softly now. “The way the house hums when you walk through it. The way it…responds.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. It’s like it knows me.”

Rio doesn’t move for a moment. She just watches you. Then her voice dips low.

“I think Agatha noticed it, too. She won’t say anything yet. She’s stubborn that way.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thudding.

“What does it mean?” you ask.

Rio tilts her head, fingers tapping lightly on the windowsill. “I don’t know. But it’s rare. The last time this house reacted like that was when Agatha moved in.”

She pushes away from the wall and straightens. “Come on. I’ll show you the garden before she catches me alone with you and assumes the worst.”

You blink. “The worst?”

Rio gives you a look - equal parts mischief and warning. “She’s protective.”

Then she opens the door and steps back out into the hall, waiting for you.

You follow Rio out the back of the house, through a side door layered with protective sigils. The moment you step into the garden, the air cools - not cold, just crisp, like dusk in early autumn. Moonlight catches on dewy leaves, and the plants here aren’t just decorative. You can feel them breathing.

“This is her sanctuary,” Rio says, voice low as you step onto the cobbled path. “Every herb, every warded bloom - it’s all hand-grown. Half the stuff out here is sentient.”

You pass a pale blue foxglove that leans subtly toward you. A vine with silvered leaves curls slightly at your ankle, brushing your skin.

“They like you,” Rio says, watching.

You don’t look at her. “You keep saying that like it’s strange.”

“It is,” she says. “They’re picky.”

You pause at a circle of black stones surrounding a thorny bush with blood-red flowers. The petals shimmer slightly, as if dusted with ash.

“What’s this one?”

“Heartroot.” Rio steps closer behind you. “Only blooms in the presence of soul magic. Agatha swears it’s dead, but…” Her voice trails off. “You’re standing in its ring.”

You glance down. Sure enough, the flowers have begun to unfurl - slowly, but unmistakably.

Rio doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then she reaches out - tentatively - and brushes her fingers against your sleeve. Just a light touch. But your pulse jumps like she’s touched skin.

“Do you feel that?” she asks.

You nod, barely breathing. “It’s like the air shifted.”

“No,” she says, stepping closer. “You shifted.”

Her hand moves from your sleeve to your wrist. Just a graze. Your skin tingles under her fingers, and for a split second, something under your skin flares - heat, gold, a whisper of something ancient.

You gasp.

“Shit-sorry,” Rio breathes, letting go. “That wasn’t-”

“It’s okay,” you manage. “I-what was that?”

But before Rio can answer, a sharp voice cuts across the garden.

“Rio.”

You both turn.

Agatha stands at the edge of the path, one brow arched, arms crossed over her chest. She’s dressed in black again, her hair pinned back with a twist of silver that gleams like a blade.

“I thought I said not to bring guests near the Heartroot alone.”

“She’s not a guest,” Rio says, steady but softer now. “She’s part of the house.”

Agatha’s eyes flick to you, lingering on your wrist - just where Rio touched you. You can’t be sure, but for a moment, her expression fractures. Not with anger. With something else. Something close to fear.

Then it’s gone.

“Come inside,” Agatha says coldly. “It’s getting late.”

She turns without waiting, her long coat trailing behind her like smoke.

Rio sighs. “Well. That went great.”

You don’t move.

“She’s scared,” you say.

Rio looks at you. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “And that should scare you, too.”

But then she smiles - just enough to make you feel warm again.

“Come on, kid. Let’s give her something to panic about.”

**********

The house creaks at night. Not in a haunted way, but in a living, breathing way - like it exhales in the dark, stretches through the walls, shifts in its old bones.

You can't sleep.

The mattress is soft, the room warm. But something itches just beneath your skin. A heat, a pull. So you slip quietly from your bed, careful not to wake the wards. The floor is cool under your soles as you step into the hallway, dimly lit by flickering sconces that burn with ghostlight.

You don’t expect to find Rio there, leaning against the wall in her pajama pants and a loose tank top, hair mussed from sleep, one hand cradling a chipped mug of something that smells like mint and clove.

Her eyes land on you immediately.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “You either?”

She shrugs, sipping from her mug. “I don’t sleep much. Mind won’t shut up.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re out here. Just tilts her head toward the far end of the hall and starts walking, expecting you to follow.

You do.

She leads you to a little alcove with a tall window and a built-in bench. You both sit, close enough to feel each other’s warmth but not touching.

Rio glances sideways at you. “The house feels louder tonight.”

“Louder?” you echo.

“Yeah. Like it’s...talking. Or listening. I don’t know. Sometimes it does that before a shift.”

You lean back against the wall and let your eyes drift shut for a second. The magic in the house is humming louder than usual. And under your skin, something is stirring.

“Can I see it?” Rio asks suddenly.

You open your eyes. “See what?”

“The mark. If you have one.”

You tense. “You think I do?”

Rio’s gaze softens. “I know you do. I just don’t think you’ve noticed it yet.”

Your pulse kicks.

After a moment, you pull up the sleeve of your left arm - nothing. Then your right.

There, just at the inside of your wrist, faint and flickering in the candlelight like a half-healed burn - a mark you’ve never seen before. Circular, woven lines like intertwined threads, pulsing gently with a glow that almost disappears the moment you notice it.

Rio leans in.

Her breath brushes your skin as she studies it. Her fingers hover but don’t touch.

“Shit,” she whispers. “It’s active.”

You swallow. “What does that mean?”

Rio’s voice drops low. “It means someone near you bears the match.”

You don’t ask who. You're not sure you want to know. Not yet.

You just sit there, close enough to touch, heart pounding. The magic hums louder in your ears.

Rio draws back slowly, something unreadable in her eyes.

“We should get some sleep,” she says, but neither of you move.

**********

You sleep, eventually.

And when you do, you fall.

Not through space - but into something soft and golden, like memories you’ve never had.

You’re standing in a circle of stone, the sky pulsing violet overhead. There’s firelight dancing in the corners of your vision. A voice - familiar, low, laughing - calls your name.

You turn.

She’s there.

Agatha.

Her face is different - sharper, younger, but it’s her. She’s dressed in ancient robes, hair unbound and wild, power practically glowing in her veins. Her soulmark is visible, curling up the side of her throat like a brand. The same design that flickered on your wrist.

She steps toward you, her smile wicked and soft all at once.

“I knew you’d come back to me,” she says.

And then she kisses you - fierce, desperate, like it’s been lifetimes.

The moment her lips touch yours, your soulmark flares. Gold, then violet, then white-hot. You cry out-

-and jolt awake.

Breathless. Sweating. The mark on your wrist still glowing faintly in the dark.

And across the hall, behind her own locked door, Agatha wakes up too - eyes wide, heart racing, fingers pressed against her throat where her own mark burns to life.

**********

The scent of coffee pulls you downstairs. Spiced, rich, comforting. There’s a hush to the house - like it’s holding its breath.

You follow the smell to the kitchen.

Agatha is already there.

She stands by the stove, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled, collar open just enough to make you ache a little. Her hair is twisted into a loose knot, and she’s barefoot, of all things, elegant and wild in the same breath.

She doesn’t look at you when you enter. Just gestures vaguely toward the counter.

“Coffee’s there. Mug’s warm.”

You pour one, hands trembling slightly. The mark on your wrist is still faintly visible, like it refuses to vanish fully now. You swear you can feel her mark pulsing too, across the room.

Rio wanders in next, sleep-rumpled and yawning. She brushes past you and steals a sip from your mug before grabbing her own.

“Morning,” she mumbles, squinting. “Did anyone else dream of past lives and soul-burning kisses, or just me?”

Agatha shoots her a look sharp enough to slice air.

You choke slightly on your coffee.

Rio raises a brow. “That’s a yes.”

You sit at the table in tense silence, the three of you. Toast appears on a plate. Jam materializes in a jar. A spoon stirs itself in someone’s cup. The magic is on edge - excited, restless, watching.

You meet Agatha’s eyes once. It’s only a second - but it lands like a strike. There’s recognition there. And something she’s trying very, very hard to bury.

“I need to check the perimeter wards,” she says, voice tight, and disappears out the back door before either of you can respond.

Rio watches her go, then turns to you slowly. “You dreamed of her, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

**********

Later that day, you find her in her study.

The door creaks as you push it open - risky, but something inside needs to see her.

Agatha’s seated at her desk, surrounded by tomes older than countries. She doesn’t look up.

“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” she says coolly.

You stay anyway.

“Last night,” you say, voice quiet. “That dream-”

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp. “Don’t say it out loud. It’ll make it more real.”

You step closer. “It was real.”

Her hand clenches around the quill she’s holding. Ink spills across the page in a jagged stroke.

Slowly, she lifts her gaze. Her eyes are darker than usual. Shadowed. Afraid.

“I’ve waited a long time to not believe in soulmarks,” she says. “And now you show up with mine burned onto your skin.”

“Is it so bad?” you ask. “That we might be...tied?”

She laughs once. Bitter. “You don’t know what you’re asking. What it means to be bound to someone like me.”

“I saw you,” you say. “In the dream. You called me back.”

Her breath hitches.

You take one more step. Close enough to touch. “I’m not afraid of you, Agatha.”

She stands suddenly - fast, like she’s going to run. But she doesn’t. She just stares at you like she’s drowning.

Then - slowly - she reaches out, fingers grazing the edge of your wrist.

The mark glows.

So does hers.

“Gods help me,” she murmurs, and then she kisses you.

Not like the dream.

This time, it’s real.

Hot. Fierce. Terrified.

And full of the magic that’s always been meant for the two of you.

Agatha's lips are still on yours when the door creaks again.

You don’t hear it at first - not over the rush of blood in your ears, the heat of her mouth, the shiver of your soulmark singing against your skin.

But Agatha hears.

She breaks the kiss like it burns her, pulling back so suddenly it leaves you breathless. Her eyes are wide, raw - panic just behind them.

“Shit,” she whispers, and turns.

Too late.

Rio stands in the doorway.

Her expression doesn’t give much away. She’s holding a book in one hand, something casual and worn, but her eyes are locked on the two of you. On the space between you. On Agatha’s trembling hands and your swollen lips.

She leans her shoulder against the doorframe.

“Well,” she says softly. “This got interesting.”

Agatha moves first, straightening like she’s about to deflect or deny, but Rio lifts a hand.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. I felt it.”

“You felt-?” you start to ask, confused, but Rio’s gaze slides to you, and something in it crackles.

“I dreamed of you too,” she says.

Your heart stutters.

“It wasn’t the same as hers,” she adds, nodding toward Agatha, “but the mark lit up. I saw it. I felt the bond pull, and it wasn’t just toward her.”

Agatha is frozen. Her breath shallow.

“You knew,” Rio says to her. Not accusing, but not kind, either. “Didn’t you?”

“I suspected,” Agatha admits, voice thin. “I didn’t want it to be true.”

Rio laughs under her breath, disbelieving. “Of course not. Because that would mean letting anyone in.”

You look between them, a strange knot growing in your chest. “What does this mean? If it’s not just between me and her - if it’s all three of us?”

Rio steps forward, slowly. Her eyes on you now.

“It means we’re a triad,” she says simply. “A soulmark triangle. Rare. Dangerous. And...intense.”

She stops right in front of you. Close enough to touch, but doesn’t - not yet.

Agatha hasn’t moved from behind her desk. She looks like she’s bracing for impact. But her eyes are on the two of you now, and not with jealousy. With fear. Longing.

Rio turns slightly toward her, voice quiet.

“You said you didn’t want to believe in marks. Fine. But you believe in us, don’t you?”

Agatha swallows. Her throat moves. She says nothing.

Rio reaches out - past you - and takes Agatha’s hand.

Her own mark, a slivered line along her forearm, flares to life.

Yours responds.

So does Agatha’s.

You’re not sure who breathes first, but the room shifts.

Something ancient wakes.

And for the first time, the space between the three of you doesn’t feel like a divide.

It feels like a circle, finally closed.

**********

The intention room is quiet when you arrive. Nestled at the back of the house, it feels like a secret - sun-drenched and filled with warmth, the air laced with the scent of cedarwood and rose. Everything here is hers - draped fabrics, enchanted wind chimes that hum without wind, a low table surrounded by plush floor cushions and scattered spell materials, all carefully organized in chaotic harmony.

Rio’s already seated when you step in, sleeves rolled, soulmark faintly pulsing under her skin. She’s adjusting a small brass bowl in the center of the table, filled with water that glows just faintly in the late afternoon light.

“You made it,” she says without looking up, her voice like dusk - soft, edged with amusement. “I wasn’t sure you’d come alone.”

You settle opposite her. “Agatha asked what we were doing. I told her it was none of her business.”

That gets Rio’s attention. She glances up, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment. Just gestures to the bowl.

“Water remembers,” she says. “And intention is the purest form of magic. We don’t speak. We don’t chant. We feel. And if it’s true enough, the water listens.”

You hesitate. “What kind of intention?”

“Something you’d never say out loud,” she replies. “At least not yet.”

The quiet between you deepens.

You close your eyes. Let the thought rise: I want to be wanted. Fully. Without conditions. Without caution.

You press your fingers to the water.

It shimmers, the surface rippling outward in a smooth, silvered pulse that lingers.

When you open your eyes, Rio is staring - not at the bowl. At you.

“Interesting,” she murmurs. “Very.”

You smile, just a little. “Your turn.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She touches the water.

And it moves - sharper than before. A surge, a flash, the energy thick for just a moment in the space between you.

“What did you give it?” you ask.

She lifts her hand, droplets falling back into the bowl. Her voice drops low.

“Desire. Wanting. The kind that knots in your stomach when someone walks into the room.”

You don’t breathe.

“Was it about me?”

Her eyes lock with yours. “Yes. But more than just wanting you. I asked it to hold the hope that you’d want me too.”

The soulmark under your skin glows warm, flickering faintly. Yours. Hers. Somewhere, you feel Agatha’s too, distant but aware.

The bond doesn’t flare - it settles. Tightens like thread between you.

There’s still time to pull away.

But neither of you do.

The water stills, but the silence between you trembles - thick with everything unspoken. Your fingers rest near the edge of the bowl, the memory of Rio’s touch still echoing in the surface.

She doesn’t move at first. Just studies you like she’s trying to read more than your face - like she’s listening to the bond itself.

Then, softly, “May I come closer?”

The question is simple, but your heart stutters.

You nod.

She shifts from her cushion, moving around the table until she’s beside you, close enough that the warmth of her body bleeds into your skin. Her knee brushes yours. Her hand rests near yours, palm open, waiting.

You place your fingers in hers.

It’s not fireworks. It’s gravity.

Slow and deep and inevitable.

She watches your face as her thumb brushes over your knuckles - just once, like a question.

“You feel it too,” she says quietly. Not asking. Knowing.

You swallow. “Yeah. I do.”

Her hand lifts, fingers grazing your wrist, tracing the edge of the mark hidden beneath your sleeve. Not enough to fully reveal it, just enough to acknowledge it. To recognize what’s been there all along.

Your breath catches.

Her touch drifts upward, feather-light along your arm, and then down again to rest at your thigh, grounding you.

Still not rushing. Still giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Rio shifts, leans in slowly, eyes flicking between your lips and your gaze. She’s so close now you can feel the words before she says them.

“I want to kiss you.”

A beat.

You tilt your chin up. “Then do it.”

Her mouth brushes yours like a secret - soft and searching, the press of her lips delicate and reverent. She kisses you like the moment might break. Like you might.

But when you exhale into her, when your hand lifts to rest gently at the nape of her neck, something in her breaks open.

She deepens the kiss - not rough, not demanding, just more. Her other hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like she’s memorizing the shape of it.

And the mark flares.

A pulse of heat blooms beneath your skin, glowing faintly through the sleeve between where your arms meet. You feel her feel it, through the bond. The answering hum of hers. The third, still distant - Agatha, tethered by the same thread, brushing up against your awareness like a whisper in the back of your mind.

But right now, it’s just you and Rio.

Just the slow burn of her lips on yours, the soft sigh she lets out when your fingers twist into the fabric of her shirt, holding her to you.

She pulls back only slightly, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve been trying to be good,” she murmurs.

You smile, breathless. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

Her laugh is quiet and wrecked. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

You shift closer, whisper against her lips: “Show me.”

Rio kisses you again - slower now, deliberate. Her hand cups the back of your neck, anchoring you to her as her mouth moves with quiet urgency against yours. Her thigh brushes yours, just enough friction to set your skin alight beneath the fabric. She leans in closer, and for a moment, it feels like nothing else exists.

Just her breath against your cheek. The heat of her hand on your hip. The mark under your skin flickering with recognition, brighter now, stronger, echoing hers in syncopated rhythm.

Your hand slips under the hem of her shirt, fingers grazing the warm skin at her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, barely a sound, just a breath that catches. She leans into it like she’s starving for it. For you.

Her lips find the line of your jaw, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear.

“You feel good,” she whispers. “Gods, you feel like…”

She doesn’t finish.

Because something changes.

A sudden, subtle tug deep in your chest, like the thread between you has pulled taut in another direction.

Rio goes still.

You both feel it. That soft, magnetic pull - not painful, but insistent. A presence in the bond, stirring.

Agatha.

Not angry. Not even upset. Just present. Curious. Watching. And stronger now than before.

Rio lifts her head, her breath warm against your skin. “She’s pulling,” she says softly. “Not on purpose. I don’t think she realizes how much.”

You nod, pulse still racing. “It feels like…”

“Like she misses us.”

Rio exhales, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your cheek before drawing back.

“Come on,” she says, brushing your hair back with a soft touch. “Let’s at least pretend to finish the lesson.”

You laugh - quiet, shaky. “Yeah. Sure. Lesson.”

The two of you return to the low table, but the water no longer glows. The intention is scattered now, disrupted by heat and want and something far older than either of you fully understand. You try to settle, to focus, but your hands still tremble slightly.

Rio gives up first.

“Let’s call it,” she says, gathering the tools with practiced ease. “Neither of us is going to get anything useful done in this state.”

You nod, stomach still fluttering, and follow her out of the room.

But as you walk down the hall, you feel it again - the flicker of Rio’s eyes on you, the spark in the mark between your skin. Not gone. Just waiting.

The night stretches ahead.

And you have a feeling it’s far from over.

**********

You don’t remember making the decision to walk.

One moment you’re in your room, restless under the sheets, the mark humming faintly under your skin like a melody half-remembered. The next, you’re padding quietly down the hallway, drawn by something you couldn’t name if you tried.

The house isn’t silent - it breathes. Wood creaks like a sigh. The walls shift subtly, directing your steps. Lights bloom softly ahead of you and dim behind, coaxing you along as though it’s guiding you.

You pause at a door you don’t recognize - not yours. But you already know whose it is.

You don’t knock.

The door opens under your touch, and inside, Rio turns toward you.

She’s sitting on the bed, legs folded beneath her, her shirt rumpled and her mark glowing soft and gold. Across the room, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like a shield across her chest, is Agatha.

Her expression flickers the moment she sees you - half relief, half resistance. “Of course,” she mutters, like she’s just lost an argument.

Rio smiles gently. “You came.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice hushed. “I just…ended up here.”

Agatha exhales sharply. “Because the house wants you to. Because the bond is doing what it does. Drawing you in.”

Rio pats the space beside her on the bed. “Come sit.”

You cross the room slowly. Agatha doesn’t move, but her gaze follows every step you take. When you sit, Rio turns toward you fully, one leg brushing yours.

“She’s scared,” Rio says quietly, eyes on you but voice pitched for Agatha. “Because we already have something. But she forgets that bonds aren’t cages. They’re invitations.”

“I’m not scared,” Agatha snaps, too quickly. Her voice drops into something bitter. “We’re already bonded. What we have is complete.”

“You feel it too,” Rio says, her hand reaching for yours. “I know you do.”

You glance toward Agatha. Her hands have clenched into fists at her sides. Her soulmark pulses faintly beneath the sleeve of her robe. Her throat works as if she’s trying to swallow something down.

Rio leans in - close enough to kiss. Her lips ghost over yours, and when she finally presses in, it’s soft, steady, filled with a reverence that hums through your veins.

And the mark flares.

It glows brighter - your arm warm with it, the bond stretching open like a door blown wide by wind. You feel seen. Wanted. Claimed.

Agatha’s breath catches audibly.

Rio breaks the kiss only to glance at her. “See?”

Agatha’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t mean-”

“It means you’re next,” Rio says, not cruel, just certain. “You’re already tethered to both of us. You’ve just been too proud to admit it.”

Agatha’s eyes narrow. “And you think just kissing Y/N will-”

“Try it,” Rio interrupts, gaze unwavering. “And if nothing happens, I’ll never bring it up again.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, slowly, Agatha pushes off the wall. Each step she takes is deliberate, wary - like she’s approaching something dangerous. She stops in front of you, studying your face, searching for resistance.

She doesn’t find it.

She reaches out, fingers curling gently under your chin, tilting your head up.

“I shouldn’t want this,” she says, almost like a prayer.

“But you do,” you whisper.

And then she kisses you.

Unlike Rio’s, Agatha’s kiss is fire wrapped in armor - controlled and consuming, her hand firm at the back of your neck. The moment her lips press to yours, the mark erupts.

Gold. Violet. A third pulse of blue-green sparks through the bond like a song hitting its climax.

The house shudders around you - shutters rattle, magic blooming in the walls. Light swells through the wood like laughter, the chandelier chiming with joy above your heads.

Agatha breaks the kiss, stunned.

She stares at you, then at Rio. “What the hell…”

“You felt that,” Rio says, voice hoarse, awestruck. “Didn’t you?”

Agatha nods. Barely. “I-yeah.”

You reach for both of them now - one hand to Agatha’s waist, the other still twined with Rio’s. The bond thrums, a living, breathing thing. No longer flickering, but singing.

And it wants more.

The room is warm with possibility. With magic. With need.

The mark still glows - steady now, pulsing with quiet certainty.

Agatha’s breath comes in shallow waves. She’s still standing before you, her hand lingering at your jaw like she can’t quite let go. Like she’s afraid the moment will collapse if she pulls back too fast.

But it doesn’t.

You lean into her touch, your fingers curling gently around her wrist, calming her.

Rio is still seated beside you, her hand resting at the small of your back now - light pressure, a reminder that she’s here too, watching the bond settle into shape around the three of you.

The moment doesn’t rush.

It unfolds.

Agatha sinks slowly to her knees in front of you, hands sliding up to your thighs. She’s hesitant, not out of uncertainty, but reverence - like she’s handling something sacred. Something rare. She presses her lips to your knee, then your inner thigh, through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. A kiss of apology. Of confession.

“I fought this,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fought you.”

“I know,” you whisper, and your fingers thread into her dark hair.

Rio shifts behind you, her lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. “But you’re here now.”

The weight of her body settles against your back - comforting, anchoring. One of her hands slips under the hem of your shirt, spreading warm across your belly.

The magic hums louder now, the mark gleaming golden on your arm and mirrored in theirs. You feel the bond like a heartbeat in your blood - each of them pulsing at a different rhythm, but all in harmony with yours.

Agatha moves with care, lips trailing higher, her fingers slipping under the edge of your waistband. She pauses, looks up - waiting.

You nod.

Her hands slide your shorts down slowly, and Rio helps lift your shirt away, her mouth never leaving your skin. You feel held. Touched from both ends - Agatha’s kiss, Rio’s breath.

Exposed and wanted.

Agatha’s mouth follows her hands, slow and unhurried, like she wants to savor the way you tremble under her. She kisses your hip, then lower, while Rio shifts behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist as she settles at your side, her other hand rising to cup your breast.

She watches - breathless and spellbound - as Agatha parts your thighs with steady hands and leans in.

You gasp when Agatha’s tongue finds you, tentative at first - testing, then tasting with precision only she could possess. Her grip on your thighs tightens, grounding you as she begins to truly devour.

Rio kisses your shoulder, her hand stroking in slow, rhythmic circles just beneath your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it stiffens beneath her palm.

“You should see yourself,” she whispers. “Glowing for us.”

You are.

Lit from within, the mark burning with golden light that reflects in Agatha’s eyes every time she glances up - lips glistening, dark hair falling around her face like shadow and silk.

You're wrapped in them.

And the bond pulses stronger than ever.

Agatha moans against you - a low, vibrating sound that rolls through your core and coils tight in your belly. Every flick of her tongue is deliberate, every press of her mouth confident and unbearably controlled, like she’s memorizing how you fall apart.

Your hips twitch, your breath catching, and Rio hums against your neck, voice a velvet thread pulling you tighter.

“You’re taking it so well,” she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Letting her worship you.”

Agatha’s fingers dig into your thighs in response, just enough pressure to claim, to ground. She’s shaking a little now - whether from restraint or need, you don’t know. But the sound she makes when you tug gently at her hair is nothing short of feral.

The magic shifts again - thicker now, tangible. It dances across your skin, drawn from your soulmark and mirrored in theirs. Rio turns your face toward her, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“Let me kiss you,” she breathes.

You nod, and she doesn’t wait - her mouth captures yours, lush and warm, tasting of wine and want. She drinks you in slowly, rhythm matched to Agatha’s mouth between your thighs. Her hand moves lower, trailing down your stomach, fingers brushing lightly, teasingly, until you're squirming under her touch.

“Please,” you whisper, unsure which of them you’re pleading to. Maybe both.

Rio smiles against your lips, then trails kisses down your jaw, your throat. “Gods, you're beautiful…”

Agatha groans in agreement, voice muffled as she presses in deeper, her pace growing more confident, more needy. You cry out, the sound caught in your throat as pleasure coils, sharp and fast, threatening to crest.

You feel them - truly feel them - through the mark now. Agatha’s hunger, Rio’s awe, their matching need twined with yours like a current. The bond isn’t a line anymore - it’s a loop, complete, spiraling with no beginning and no end.

The house seems to pulse with it, its walls humming like they’re singing along. Lights flicker in rhythm with your heartbeat.

“I-” you gasp, trembling.

Rio leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. “Let go.”

Agatha groans against you again, and that’s all it takes.

Your body arches, the world tilting sideways as the orgasm crashes over you - intense and slow and whole. Agatha holds you steady through it, her tongue still coaxing every last tremor from your core, and Rio strokes your hair, kissing your cheeks, your mouth, your temple.

You feel like light.

Like fire.

Like you’ve been waiting to burn for them your whole life.

124 notes · View notes

i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

Text

My saviors.

415 notes · View notes

i-just-cannot · 3 months ago

Text

What happens in Vegas…

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec fem!reader

Summary: When you, the horror queen of Continental Studios, accidentally eat 14 grams of shrooms at a Vegas suite party, your girlfriend Maya Mason, marketing genius, streetwear icon, and the only thing keeping this presentation together, must wrangle her melting girlfriend, a missing studio head, and a PR nightmare in the making. Featuring chaotic executives, Kool-Aid mascots, wall cheese, and one very public descent into babygirl delirium.

It’s CinemaCon. What could possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 10.2K

Warnings: smut warning and mentions of drug use so as always MDNI

A/N: this is looking to be a three parter… also sorry angels for taking so long I wanted to watch the finale first incase it changed how I wanted to end it ❤️

The private jet smells like luxury and something suspiciously herbal.

Quinn’s already got her sunglasses on despite being indoors, lounging across two seats like she’s in a music video. “I’ve always wanted to do shrooms in Vegas,” she says, voice high with excitement.

Matt chuckles as he pulls a tin from his backpack, eyes gleaming. “Well, today’s your lucky day. These babies are from my Dave Fanco’s dealer in Topanga. They're microdosed which I think means we probably won’t die.”

“Cool cool cool,” Sal says, settling into a seat with a can of hard seltzer already cracked open. “As long as I don’t piss myself in front of Dave Franco again, I’m chill.”

Patty doesn’t look up from her tablet. “Again?”

“I was nervous, okay?”

“Hey don’t even worry about that dude, let’s party hard! Viva Las Vegas!” Matt holds up a silver tin, presumably full of drugs, with mock ceremony.

“You’re such a good boss,” you murmur, dry as dust. Your black nails curl around the edge of a glass of sparkling water. You’re in a tailored black suit and vintage sunglasses even though you’re inside a plane. You look like you could summon a demon or greenlight a Sundance darling with the same raised eyebrow.

“Aw, come on,” Matt says, angling his body to face you. “Don’t you wanna trip in the Bellagio fountain like a horror priestess?”

You tilt your head. “I want Maya.”

Your leg bounces, restrained but constant. You’ve already read the CinemaCon itinerary twice, checked the slate updates, reread Maya’s 1 a.m. text about venue stress five times. You’re not worried, she’s Maya fucking Mason. You just miss her. You want her voice in your ear, her laugh in your mouth. You want her to see you in the black silk blouse you wore specifically because she said it makes you look like a wicked little Victorian ghost.

Matt leans in. “Hey. You’ll see her in a few hours. She’s gonna be at the venue with Tyler doing final run-throughs, right?”

You nod, absentmindedly twisting a ring on your finger. “She’s been texting. Said she thinks she’s finally got the Kool-Aid segment tight.”

Patty eyes you. “You good, spooky?”

You hum. “I will be.”

Quinn leans over the seat. “Okay, I have to ask, do how the fuck are you surviving two whole days without her? Like. Genuinely.”

“I’m not,” you say, with complete seriousness.

Sal laughs. “You are down bad. It’s so gross.”

“She told me not to come early,” you mutter. “Said I’d throw off her concentration.”

Matt looks up. “You’d throw off Maya Mason’s concentration?”

“She said I’d make her horny in front of the cinema con people...”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Sal says.

You sigh and lean your head back, already picturing her: Maya in cargo pants and a cropped tank top, headset on, yelling at a PA while sipping a matcha and wearing sunglasses she refuses to remove indoors. She’s probably pacing the stage in her Jordans right now, doing a run-through of the Kool-Aid bit like it’s her own personal Super Bowl. You know the lines already. You know her cadence. You want her voice in your ear and her hand on your thigh. You want her to shove you into a broom closet and ruin your lipstick.

You’re curled in your seat, legs tucked up, fingers flying across your phone screen with precise little taps. The last message from Maya is two hours old. You’ve reread it five times.

<Maya: Final run-thru at 10. Kool-Aid bit is tight. I’m so fucking smart it’s sickening.>

<Maya: Miss you, don’t come early I’ll get distracted and try to finger you behind the LED wall.>

You bite back a smile and type:

<You: I’m 35,000 feet in the air and this tin of shroom chocolate is glaring at me. Matt said the dose is “probably” fine.>

<You: If I die, tell the ghost in the Continental elevator I say hey.>

<You: Also I miss you. Two days without you and I’m unwell. I think Quinn’s starting to worry.>

A second passes. Then two.

<Maya: typing…>

You lean forward, heart doing that humiliating little skip.

<Maya: Don’t take the chocolate, baby.>

<Maya: I want you lucid when I see you.>

<Maya: Also Quinn’s always worried. She’s high half the time and thinks you might be a vampire.>

You grin and type back quickly.

<You: I’m saving myself for you. Spiritually, sexually, and psychotropically.>

<Maya: That’s my good girl.>

You go still.

The plane roars under you, Sal’s yelling something about Vegas strip clubs, and you… you sink into your seat like your spine’s made of warm honey. Maya always knows how to shut the world up with one text.

You type slower this time.

<You: What are you wearing.>

<Maya: Gucci. Supreme. Headset. Clipboard.>

<Maya: Why? You touching yourself in the sky?>

You bite your lip and glance out the window.

<You: No. But I’m thinking about what I’ll let you do to me once you’re done selling the shit out of our movies and making millions my gorgeous marketing genius xo>

She doesn’t respond right away, and when the typing bubble comes back, it stutters like she had to compose herself.

<Maya: Fuck. I should’ve let you come early.>

The Vegas sun slaps the side of the taxi like it’s owed money. You’re all crammed into one SUV, Matt in the front talking poor Quinn’s ear off about 80’s classics set in Vegas, the rest of you stacked like unstable luggage in the back.

Sal’s practically bouncing in his seat. “Wait, wait, wait, you’ve never seen Casino?”

Quinn shrugs, scrolling on her phone. “It’s three hours long and it’s mostly dudes in suits yelling.”

“It’s Scorsese! It’s Vegas cinema! It’s essential!” Matt twists around from the front seat like he’s about to start a TED Talk. “That movie is why we’re here. It is the reason.”

Patty, wedged between you and Quinn, mutters, “Matty, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“No,” Sal says, wild-eyed. “Hold on. Hold on. You’ve never seen Showgirls either?”

Quinn blinks. “I’ve seen the gifs.”

Matt gasps like she kicked him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not gonna apologize for being Gen Z.”

“Okay but even Y/N’s probably seen Showgirls,” Sal says, flailing dramatically. “And she only watches like, demon nun films and that one where the guy bleeds out of his eyes in a haunted motel.”

Quinn smirks. “Bet she hasn’t. She’s too busy watching underground horror films from cursed VHS tapes.”

You glance up from your phone with a slow blink. “Honey. I live with Maya.”

Everyone looks at you.

You arch a brow, deadpan. “Of course I’ve seen Showgirls. I’ve seen Casino. I’ve seen Leaving Las Vegas and Fear and Loathing. I’ve watched Cocktail on VHS because Maya said watching it while doing edibles is a spiritual experience.”

Matt makes a sound like a strangled wheeze. “I knew it. I knew she was secretly romantic.”

“She sobbed during Leaving Las Vegas,” you add, with zero shame. “Wouldn’t let go of me for an hour after.”

Sal cackles. “That’s so her.”

“Okay but in fairness,” Quinn says, pointing at you. “You also made us watch a Swedish found footage film about a haunted puppet that speaks in tongues.”

“And it was brilliant,” you say, lips twitching.

“It gave me nightmares,” Quinn says.

“Art should haunt you,” you reply sweetly.

The car hits a bump and Matt groans, slumping back into his seat. “You two are so fucking weird.”

You grin, texting Maya beneath the window line:

<You: They’re trying to drag my taste in movies. Im defending my taste in a cab full of normies.>

<Maya: If they slander our love of leaving Las Vegas, I will light that whole venue on fire.>

You snort softly and tuck your phone away, pulse buzzing. Almost there.

Almost time to see her.

The hotel lobby is pure Vegas, mirrored ceilings, gold trim, the faint scent of chlorine and sin clinging to the air. You walk through it like you own the place, long black coat trailing, sunglasses still on, a walking omen in heeled boots.

The rest of your crew trails behind, wheeling carry-ons, already vibrating with party energy.

Matt’s mid-rant. “So I called the front desk and sweet-talked our way into that ridiculous suite, the one with the piano and the hot tub in the living room. We’re partying tonight. No excuses.”

“You sweet-talked?” Patty says, eyebrows raised.

“I offered to name my firstborn after the concierge. Don’t worry, we’re good.”

Quinn spins in a lazy circle as you pass the lobby bar. “I want to get high and cry on a piano like I’m in a breakup montage.”

Sal stretches his arms over his head, grinning. “I’m getting so drunk I forget how movies are made.”

“You say that like it isn’t your usual Monday,” Patty mutters.

They all glance at you as you pass through the gleaming hallway, making your way toward the auditorium. Your boots echo with every step.

“Y/N,” Matt says, like he’s been saving it. “You and Maya have to come tonight.”

“Yeah, come on,” Sal adds. “It’s not a party unless the hot gay horror couple shows up and makes everyone feel deeply unsexy.”

“You’re not allowed to say no,” Quinn calls. “Vegas law. You and Maya must attend. She has to wear something unreasonably expensive and you have to stare at her like you’re under a spell. It’s your whole dynamic.”

You smile without looking back. “She is unreasonably sexy when she wears things that sparkle.”

“Exactly!” Quinn yells. “Lean into it!”

“You haven’t even seen the outfit she planned to wear for the after party,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. “I’m going to need to be sedated.”

Matt groans dramatically. “Please. Come tonight. It’ll be epic. We’ll do karaoke. There will be mushrooms. There will be blackout confessions. There will be someone peeing in a closet, probably Sal—”

“I said I only did that once!” Sal protests.

Quinn nudges your shoulder. “Come on, make an appearance. Let people see what it looks like when the goth girl and the streetwear goddess take over CinemaCon.”

You glance down at your phone.

<You: On our way to the auditorium. Lobby’s chaotic. Matt says if we don’t come to the party he’ll scream.>

<Maya: Tyler just said Matt texted him the same thing. We’re cornered.>

<You: I can’t wait to see you. Bet you look beautiful.>

<Maya: You’re gonna pass out when you see me.>

You pocket your phone and finally glance at the others, deadpan. “Fine. We’ll come.”

They erupt into cheers.

“But only if I get to go to our hotel room with her before midnight,” you add.

“Like anyone doubts that,” Patty says.

The stage lights are already up when you’re ushered into the auditorium. It’s freezing in that distinctly Vegas, over-air-conditioned kind of way. Tyler waves you in without even looking up from his checklist, gesturing to the stage like you’re late for something sacred.

Maya is in the center of it all, giant screen behind her, production crew moving around like clockwork, but she’s the one setting the pace. She’s in a khaki oversized Gucci x Adidas collab co-ord, hair long and wild beneath a camo hat that says Supreme in faded red. Clipboard in one hand. Radio in the other. Gold bracelets jangling as she barks, “If this screen isn’t crisp enough to slap God in the face by morning I swear to Christ—”

The second she sees you and the others filter in, she raises her voice and grins wide, headset already half slipping off one ear.

“Welcome to my fucking Thunderdome!”

Quinn lets out a whoop. Sal gives a dramatic bow. Matt raises his arms like he’s witnessing a miracle. “Mason!”

You don’t say anything. You just stare.

Because holy fuck.

You wave shyly and she goes still briefly, subtly, but you see it. You feel it. That flicker of softness. Of heat. Becuase fuck, there she is.

And you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You cross the auditorium in four quick strides, boots hitting the floor like you’re possessed. Maya barely has time to drop the clipboard before you’re in her arms, flinging yourself at her like something feral that’s just come home.

She catches you hard, one arm banding under your thighs as she lifts you clean off the floor and crushes you to her chest. Her radio clatters to the floor. You wind your arms around her neck and bury your face in the curve of her jaw.

You tilt your head back, eyes wide, lips parted, needing her to see you. “Hi, mommy,” you whisper, quiet and soft and so sweet.

“Fuck,” she breathes, staggering slightly from the force of it. “Jesus, baby. You missed me that much?”

“Uh huh” he captured her lips in a kiss.

“I know,” she says, and her mouth is already brushing your ear. “You’re such a good girl.”

Your stomach flips.

From across the auditorium, Patty says flatly, “I always forget she’s a bottom.”

Maya smirks. “She’s not just a bottom. She’s my bottom.”

You blush so hard your ears burn, but you press yourself closer to her anyway, letting her loop an arm lazily around your waist and tug you into her side like she’s just reclaiming what’s hers. She smells like hotel soap and heat and Sharpie ink.

Quinn laughs. Matt makes an awww sound. Sal mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking hot.”

Maya ignores them all. Her lips are at your ear now, voice low and velvet-rough. “You always this needy for me, huh?”

You blush so hard your nose scrunches against her neck. You don’t answer. But your fingers curl tighter in the fabric of her shirt.

She pulls back just enough to look down at you, her baby, her haunted little nightmare in a silk blouse and lipstick designed to be ruined.

“Tyler!” she calls. “Run the Kool-Aid slides again. I’m gonna give my baby a tour of the dome.”

“Copy,” Tyler says, not looking up.

“Come on,” Maya murmurs, nudging your temple with the brim of her hat. “Lemme show you how im going to make us fucking billions.”

You take her hand.

You’d follow her anywhere.

Maya’s hand is hot against your lower back as she guides you up onto the stage, clipboard tucked under one arm, headset mic slipping slightly as she multitasks like a chaotic god.

“Alright!” she barks, spinning to face the group. “Everyone shut the fuck up and pay attention. I’m walking you through the entire CinemaCon run-of-show. Tyler, cue the visuals.”

“Copy,” Tyler calls from the tech pit.

You, Matt, Sal, Patty, and Quinn fan out across the massive stage as the LED screen flickers to life behind Maya. You try to stand like a professional. But she keeps brushing against you. Keeps shooting you those looks. The ones that say you’re mine.

You cross your arms to look casual. You’re failing.

Maya starts pacing. “We open with Black Wing. Big visuals, massive IP energy. Sal, you say Zoe Kravitz is locked?”

“Yup. Just no one ask about the incident with the bird, and we’re golden.”

She nods. “Then it’s Silver Springs, then Alphabet city with Dave Franco which- Matt, did you finally get Ron Howard to stop calling it his redemption arc?”

“He’s calling it his magnum opus now,” Matt says. “It’s… fine.”

“Whatever, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Maya mutters, already turning back to the screen.

“Patty, you are going to introduce Silver Springs. Then once they’ve screamed themselves hoarse—” she flicks to the next slide, a flickering title card in bone-white on blood-black:

WITCH’S CURSE

The latest film you’d gotten made. She doesn’t even look at the screen. She looks straight at you.

“And then,” Maya says, voice dropping, “we go with blood.”

Everyone’s quiet for a moment.

You swallow. Try to keep your voice level. “You really think it’ll land?”

Maya cocks her head. “Baby. You know how people scream when they see the Devil in church? That’s what’s gonna happen. The horror heads in that audience? They’re gonna weep.” She grins. “Then we go full nuclear. Kool-Aid comes third. I need the vibes to be explosive. Like borderline-litigated. This is our Barbie moment.”

She waves at the visual cue and boom—an animated mock-up of the Kool-Aid Man bursting through a hotel ballroom wall plays across the screen. The next slide? A rendering of the actual suit rig Maya commissioned, with him descending from the ceiling on wires like some kind of fruity Messiah.

Sal claps. “It’s so dumb. I love it.”

Quinn gasps, “I’m high already just looking at it.”

Maya grins. “Exactly. Dumb sells. The crowd’s gonna lose their shit.

You try to nod. Try to stay sharp. But she’s standing too close. Her voice is too low. Her lips are right there. And everyone’s watching.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Yeah. I mean, it’s solid. Good build. Nice neon mascot chaos reveal baby.”

Patty raises a brow. “You alright over there, Countess Dracula?”

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice comes out weirdly breathy. “Totally. Focused.”

Sal’s whispering to Matt “She’s gonna combust.”

Matt’s whispering back, “I’d combust too. Look at Maya’s fucking outfit.”

Maya, grinning like the cat that owns the whole damn dairy farm, turns to the group. “Alright, any questions?”

Quinn raises a hand. “What’s the protocol if the Kool-Aid Man suit gets stuck mid-descent?”

“Then we go full Carrie,” Maya says. “Dump red liquid on the crowd and call it avant-garde.”

You snort, because of course she has a plan B.

And then her hand slides over yours. Casual. Hidden. Possessive. You squeeze back before you can stop yourself. Professional. Totally.

You are so fucked.

Maya’s flipping through her clipboard like it’s a holy text, lips moving as she runs lines in her head.

“Matt,” she says sharply. “Where the fuck is Griffin?”

Matt flinches like he’s been caught texting in class. “Uh. Probably still in the spa? He texted me an hour ago saying he was ‘rejuvenating his cells.’”

Maya exhales like she’s trying not to throw her radio across the room. “He needs to be here for the Kool-Aid segment. If he’s gonna shout about synergy while the mascot drops from the rafters, he needs to rehearse it. This isn’t high school theater, it’s CinemaCon.”

“I’ll call him,” Matt mutters, already speed-dialing.

While the others shuffle around debating Griffin’s whereabouts, the stage lights shift, and then, with a low mechanical whir, a man in a Kool-Aid Man suit descends from the ceiling.

You instinctively take three steps back and glare up at it like it just declared war on your bloodline.

The actor inside the rig flashes a peace sign. “Yo! Can I get a selfie with everyone real quick?”

You immediately shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

Quinn wheezes. “Y/N looks like she just saw her sleep paralysis demon in hi-res.”

Patty grins from the side of the stage. “Come on, baby, don’t you want to pose with the eldritch fruit god?”

You narrow your eyes. “If that thing touches me I will hex the whole convention.”

The Kool-Aid Man lowers slowly to the floor like an omen. Sal pulls out his phone anyway. “Okay but he’s kinda iconic. I’m gonna frame this.”

As the mascot’s rig clicks out of sight, Quinn walls closer to Maya. “Okay, more importantly, Maya. You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

Maya raises a brow. “The one Matt bribed the front desk for?”

“Yeah!” Sal says. “The suite’s massive. Hot tub in the living room, DJ setup, Zoe Kravitz might make an appearance. You have to come.”

Quinn leans in conspiratorially. “Because let’s be honest… Y/N’s only gonna show if you show.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sal says, smug. “You’re so ride or die for her it’s, like, scary. You’ve been sulking without her for two days.”

Maya hums like she’s enjoying this way too much. “Is that true, baby?”

You give her a warning look. “Don’t.”

“Did my girl go full tragic Victorian ghost without me?” she purrs.

Quinn cackles. “So you’re coming, right? For the vibes?”

Sal grins, “for the power couple appearance. Like c’mon. It’s Vegas.”

Maya looks directly at you. “You wanna go, baby?”

You hesitate.

Because the idea of being pressed up against her in a giant suite while she lets you sit on her lap and whisper filthy things in your ear sounds amazing. But it also means… people. Mingling. Noise.

She tilts her head, reading you like always. “We’ll go,” she says, low and final, “but only if I get to keep you close all night.”

Your heart lurches. “Okay,” you whisper. “Deal.”

Quinn fist pumps. “YES. Gay chaos confirmed.”

Sal’s already texting someone. “I’m getting my Vegas guy to bring medical grade cocaine.”

But Maya? She’s already planning what she’s gonna do to you the second she gets you alone.

The moment the stage clears and the clipboard’s handed off to Tyler, Maya’s hand wraps around your wrist. “Come with me,” she says with no room for argument.

You barely get a breath in before she’s tugging you down the hallway behind the stage, past flashing EXIT signs and a stressed-out tech guy who takes one look at Maya and vanishes down a side corridor. Her grip is firm, fingers sliding between yours like she’s reminding your whole body who you belong to.

Then suddenly she’s stopping. Shoving open a heavy door to a backstage alcove with blackout curtains and a wall of rigging. And pushing you up against it.

Hard.

You gasp, not from fear, but from how fast her body presses into yours, how instantly she takes control. Her mouth hovers inches from yours, breath hot, jaw sharp, hat brim brushing your forehead.

“You think I didn’t see you squirming through that whole run-through?” she murmurs. “You think I didn’t notice how you couldn’t stop staring at me? At my hands? At my mouth?”

“Maya…” you breathe, already dizzy, already gone.

She smirks, one hand cupping your face. “You were trying to act like the big scary horror exec. But you’re just my baby, aren’t you?”

You whimper, barely nodding.

Her fingers trail down your side, slow, possessive. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over that lighting rig and let the Kool-Aid Man watch.”

“Maya!” You can’t help but giggle.

She kisses you. Rough. Deep. Like she’s staking a claim. When she pulls back, you’re gasping, your back still pressed hard against the cold wall.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” she says, voice dangerously soft. “You and I are going up to our suite. You’re gonna strip. And I’m gonna take my time with you.”

You swallow hard, wide-eyed.

“And then,” she adds, “we’ll go to the party. You’ll wear something tight. You’ll sit in my lap. You’ll behave. And everyone will know you’re mine.”

You nod, because you can’t speak. You’ve melted. Fully. Irrevocably.

Maya steps back, adjusting her hat like she didn’t just rearrange your soul.

“Come on, baby,” she says, smirking. “Let’s go ruin that suite.”

The door clicks shut behind you and the suite is suddenly silent, no crew, no tech, no Kool-Aid mascot descending from the heavens. Just you and Maya. And four uninterrupted hours.

She turns, slow and cocky, like she’s going to tease you.

You don’t let her.

You’re on her in an instant. Mouth crashing into hers, fingers yanking at the hem of her track jacket, pushing her back step after step until she bumps into the edge of the massive hotel bed. She grunts against your lips, one hand trying to keep her hat on like she actually thinks you’re going to be gentle.

You shove it off her head.

It hits the floor with a soft little flump.

“Careful, baby,” she breathes, lips already swollen. “That’s Supreme.”

You kiss her harder with teeth and tongue and heat. “Don’t care if it’s vintage Valentino,” you growl. “You’re wearing too many fucking layers.”

“Oh fuck,” she gasps, laughing, breathless. “Okay then.”

You tear her jacket off, flinging it somewhere toward the minibar. Your hands slide under her tank top, greedy and rough, dragging the fabric up over her stomach, over her ribs, baring inch after inch of golden skin. She arches into your touch, biting her lip.

“You’re feral,” she mutters, delighted. “You missed me that much?”

You push her back onto the bed with one hand, the other already pulling her track pants down over her hips.

“You don’t get to be smug right now,” you snap, climbing on top of her. “You left me alone for two days with nothing but your voice memos and a haunted VHS tape of Possession.”

Maya smirks, legs parting without hesitation. “You love that tape.”

“I love you,” you snap. “Now shut up and let me take my time.”

She groans, throaty, ruined, her hands sliding up the backs of your thighs as she exhales, “There’s my girl.”

You don’t make it more than a few steps toward the bed before she spins you, pressing you back into her chest with arms like iron. Her breath hits your neck first, hot and teasing, as her hands slide up your thighs, under your skirt, fingertips dragging slow, delicious trails.

“God, I missed you,” she murmurs, voice ragged with it. “You don’t even know my h.”

You’re already breathless, melting back into her touch. “I do. I know. I’ve been—” You cut off, swallowing hard. “I’ve been aching for you.”

Her hand slips higher. “I can feel that, baby.”

You whimper.

She kisses the side of your throat, slow and open-mouthed, biting just hard enough to make you jolt. “Tried to be good. Tried to focus. But all I could think about was you. Crying on my fingers. Making those sweet little noises in my ear.”

You moan softly, body twitching in her arms. “Maya…”

“Shhh, I know, baby,” she coos, walking you backward toward the bed. “You were so patient. My good girl.”

Your knees hit the mattress and you go down for her easily, willing, desperate, and already trembling.

She climbs over you, one knee between your thighs, her hair falling forward, mouth brushing yours like a secret. Her fingers hook into your underwear and tug, slow and rough.

“Open your legs for me.”

You do. Instantly.

Her fingers are warm, confident, and unrelenting, like she never forgot your rhythm, like she’s memorized the sound of you falling apart.

And god you do.

You gasp, legs trembling, thighs slick, hips rolling up to meet her hand with every ragged breath. Your hands twist in the sheets, trying to hold on to something real.

She kisses your jaw, your neck, her breath catching when you whimper her name like it’s sacred. “There you are,” she whispers, curling her fingers deeper. “There’s my baby.”

You cry out, sharp and broken. “Maya…please—”

“I know, angel. I know,” she pants, forehead pressed to yours. “You need to come for me? You want to show mommy how much you missed her?”

You nod, frantic, so close you could shatter.

“Then do it,” she growls. “Be good. Come all over my fingers.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking, sobbing, head thrown back, thighs trembling. Her mouth is everywhere, whispering praise, soft kisses, breathless groans. She holds you through it, never letting go, like her hands are the only thing tethering you to the earth. And maybe they are.

The room is quiet now.

The storm of your own release has passed, and you’re still trembling slightly, curled in her arms, flushed and breathless. But Maya? She’s not done.

She’s sprawled across the bed like something divine and untouchable, hair a wild mess, tank top rumpled, gold bracelets pushed up one arm. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling in deep, lazy breaths. Her track pants are still halfway down her hips. One thigh cocked lazily, waiting.

She smirks at you, and it burns. “My turn, baby.”

Your knees hit the floor like instinct.

She spreads her legs wider, dragging her panties the rest of the way off and tossing them aside without a thought. “There you go. Let me see those eyes.”

You look up at her as you settle between her thighs, wide-eyed, pupils blown. Your breath catches at how wet she already is, just from touching you, from talking to you. It makes your chest ache.

You start slow. Kisses on the inside of her thighs, tongue dragging warm and wet over sensitive skin. You want her to feel worshipped. And Maya, god, she lets you.

“Mm, baby,” she hums, eyes fluttering shut, fingers finding their way into your hair. “Been dreaming about that perfect fucking mouth.”

You press a kiss just above her slit. “Been dreaming about tasting you.”

Maya groans, low and real. “You say that shit and I’ll come before you even start.”

But you do start. Your mouth closes over her and her body jerks, a hiss slipping from her teeth as your tongue works slow, languid circles over her clit. Her grip tightens in your hair, grounding herself as she lets her head fall back against the pillows.

“Jesus fuck,” she pants. “You’re so good at this. So fucking good.”

You moan into her, and the vibration makes her hips jump.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, legs tightening around your head. “You missed this, didn’t you? Missed my pussy? Missed how I taste?”

You nod, tongue flicking quicker now, more desperate, and she just laughs, head thrown back, a hand dragging down her own body like she’s overwhelmed with herself.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” she groans. “God, I love watching you down there.”

You whimper, sucking softly now, mouth slick and messy. Her thighs are trembling, one foot planted against the bed like she’s bracing herself, the other dragging across your back, possessive and shaking.

And then she starts talking, filthy and focused, her voice going dark. “We’re gonna get high at that party,” she says, breathless and shaking. “You’re gonna wear something tight, something short. Let everyone look. Let ‘em wish.”

You moan helplessly against her.

“And you know what happens after?” Her voice drops to a whisper, her fingers curling into your hair like a leash. “After they all see you hanging off me like my pretty little girl?”

You nod, desperate for her to keep going.

“I’m gonna take you back to the room,” she growls. “Get out the strap I packed in my fucking suitcase.”

Your hips buck against the mattress, breath catching.

“I’m gonnao put you on the bed,” she continues, voice rough and so low, “and I’m gonna fuck you until your mind goes blank. Until all you can do is cry and say my name.”

You moan, high and needy.

“Gonna make you ride me till you’re fucked-out and stupid.” She pants. “Gonna fill you up so good you won’t even remember your name, just mine. Just mommy’s.”

And that’s when you push her over the edge.

Her thighs lock around your head and she screams, a guttural, broken sound as her hips jerk up into your mouth and she comes, hard and long, pulling your hair, writhing beneath you as she chants your name like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You keep licking, keep moaning into her, your face soaked, your body on fire with need just from the way she falls apart for you. Finally, finally, she pushes you back with a shaky hand, breathing ragged.

You look up at her, wrecked and shining.

She stares down at you like you’re her favorite fucking thing in the world.

“Oh, baby,” she whispers, reaching out to cup your jaw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You’re still on your knees, panting softly, mouth swollen and wet, when Maya finally reaches for you. Her fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up to hers, and the look in her eyes… fuck. It’s all hunger and awe. Love and power. Like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“C’mere,” she murmurs, voice hoarse.

You climb into her lap without hesitation, straddling her thighs, your trembling arms wrapping around her neck. She pulls you in close, tucking your face into her shoulder, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking softly over your thigh.

“Good girl,” she breathes, pressing kisses to your hair, to your temple, to the damp corner of your mouth. “God, baby, you’re so fucking good for me.”

You sigh into her skin, lips grazing the spot just under her jaw. You’re still high off her, off the sounds she made, the way she came on your tongue, the way she let herself break for you.

She reaches for the tissues on the bedside table, gently wiping her own slick from your mouth, from your cheeks, murmuring soft little nothings with every pass. “Look at this sweet fucking face. All messy for me.”

You let her, eyes fluttering closed under the warmth of her touch.

And then, soft and aching, you press your lips to hers. The kiss starts slowly. Gentle. Her hands still, trembling slightly against your jaw. But it grows hotter, deeper, heavier, your body shifting in her lap, hips beginning to roll just slightly.

Maya pulls back with a breathy laugh, lips brushing yours. “Still needy, huh?”

You nod, nuzzling her cheek, your voice just a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

“I know, baby. I missed you too.”

You press another kiss to her neck. Another to her collarbone. Your hips twitch in her lap again, instinctual, greedy. “Maya…” It comes out soft. Pleading.

She hums, one hand sliding under your ass, palming you gently. “Yeah, baby?”

You breathe in against her throat. “Maya, my pussy…”

She pulls back, brow raising, a smirk blooming slowly across her swollen mouth. “What about your pussy?”

“Please,” you whimper. “Need you. Want your fingers again. Wanna come for you. Please, Maya.”

She laughs, low and dangerous. “Oh, honey.”

Her hand moves instantly, sliding between your thighs, cupping you through soaked lace. You gasp, full-body shiver, already rocking into her palm like a thing possessed.

“You really want more?” she whispers. “You’re that desperate?”

You nod, dazed. “Always. Always want you.”

“Fuck,” she breathes, kissing you hard, open-mouthed and greedy, hand already slipping past the lace to drag her fingers through your soaked folds. “Lay back, baby. Let mommy take care of you.”

You barely have time to whimper before Maya’s got you on your back.

She rolls you beneath her like she’s done it a thousand times, your body light in her hands, your thighs already falling open as she climbs between them and leans over you, her hair loose, mouth swollen, breath hot.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, eyes trailing down your flushed chest, your parted lips. “You’re fucking trembling. You came once and you’re still desperate.”

You nod, breath catching. “Need you.”

“Oh, I know, baby.” She brushes her nose against yours, soft and tender, even as her hand trails back down your stomach. “I could feel it when you were licking my pussy. All that hunger. All that need.”

She hooks her fingers in your underwear and drags them down slowly, like she’s unwrapping something expensive. You can barely lift your hips to help, you’re too wrecked, too raw, but she takes care of you. She always does.

When she sees how soaked you are, she groans, deep and guttural, her hands flexing around your thighs. “God, look at that. Look at what a fucking mess you are.”

“Maya…” you whimper.

She hushes you with a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, her fingers slipping through your folds, dragging through the slick there with reverent ease. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Your fingers,” you breathe. “Please… want you inside. Deep.”

“Good girl,” she whispers, and pushes two fingers in slow.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. She curls them the second they’re fully seated, dragging a strangled cry out of you that only makes her smile. She kisses your jaw, your throat, her other hand pinning your hips to the bed so you can’t escape her rhythm.

“That’s it,” she coos. “You’re so wet. You needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

You nod helplessly, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from how full you feel. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby. Missed this tight little pussy clenching on my fingers.”

You sob, back arching.

Maya loves it. She fucks you harder now with slow, deep pumps that hit your spot every time, dragging obscene wet sounds from between your legs. She presses her lips to your ear, voice low and filthy.

“Tonight we’re gonna party, and everyone’s gonna see you clinging to me. They’ll see how needy you are. How sweet you look with your lipstick smudged and your knees shaking.”

“Fuck,” you moan, hips twitching beneath her grip.

“And then we’ll come back here,” she growls, curling her fingers again, making you scream. “I’ll put you on your knees. Put the strap on. Make you beg for it.”

Your thighs are trembling violently now, your hands tangled in the sheets. “Maya… I-I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” she whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “Come for me. Let me feel you. Let me hear you.”

You cry out, voice ragged, back arching high as your orgasm tears through you, violent and gasping, your body shaking apart under her hand.

She doesn’t stop.

She fucks you through it, kissing your tears, whispering praise against your cheek until you go soft and boneless beneath her.

And only then does she slow her hand, easing her fingers out gently. She kisses your forehead, your jaw, your lips. Tucks you into her chest and holds you like something precious.

“My good fucking girl,” she murmurs. “So sweet for me.”

You cling to her, still trembling, still catching your breath.

She smiles into your hair. “And we haven’t even made it to the party yet.”

You’re both still tangled in the sheets when she finally stirs, sweaty and sticky, but smiling, her hand stroking lazily down your spine as you lie across her chest, soft and heavy and full of her.

“Okay,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “We’ve got, like… two hours before Matt starts texting us in all caps.”

You make a sound halfway between a whine and a sigh, burying your face in her collarbone. “Don’t wanna move.”

“I know, baby,” she chuckles. “But we’ve got a suite to dominate.”

She rolls you over gently, kisses you once more, then slides out of bed in nothing but her tank top and briefs. She pads across the room, bare-legged and golden in the afternoon light, grabbing her makeup bag off the counter and digging through it.

From under a pile of compacts and glosses, she pulls out a little clear pouch of silver clips. Cool-toned metal, all different shapes and sizes, a little chaotic like her. The biggest couple of slides say ‘Kool-Aid’ in rhinestones as an homage to the film that would make the studio billions.

“I want these,” she says, turning to you with a sly smile. “Can you do them for me?”

You blink. “You want me to—?”

“Yeah,” she says, flopping back onto the bed and into your lap like it’s her throne. “Make mommy feel pretty. You said I deserve it, right?”

You flush immediately, reaching for the brush. “Of course you do.”

She leans back against your thighs, head tilted slightly, the slope of her neck exposed and glowing. You start brushing through the wild knots in her hair gently, slowly, taking your time. The room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional satisfied sigh from her mouth.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs.

“I like taking care of you.”

She hums, low and content. “You’re the only one I let touch my hair like this.”

You smile softly and start pinning the silver clips in place, one at a time, a constellation of glamour and chaos crowning her head.

When you’re done, she shifts to turn and look at you. “How do I look?”

You take her face in your hands and kiss her gently, reverently. “Like the hottest woman in the fucking building… on the planet.”

“Damn right,” she grins, licking her lips. “Now let’s get you dressed, my creepy little witch.”

She pulls you up from the bed and walks you over to your open suitcase, sorting through your outfit options like she’s styling a client. “Wear the black silk one. The tight one. With the lace at the hips. I want them looking at you and knowing they can’t touch.”

She glances at you over her shoulder, silver clips glinting under the lights. “And baby?”

You blink up at her.

“Don’t wear panties.”

You whimper.

She tosses you your outfit, smug. “Atta girl.”

The suite is already packed.

People are spilling in from the hallway with red Solo cups and half-tied ties, the bass thumping through the carpet. Someone’s made a DIY DJ setup out of an ice bucket and a Bluetooth speaker. There’s champagne chilling in the bathtub. The place smells like weed, cologne, and expensive anxiety.

And then the door swings open, and she walks in.

Maya Mason.

Head held high, lips glossy, chains shining under the light. Silver clips glitter like little weapons in her hair. She’s still in her Valentino pants and crop top with a keyhole on the chest, but it’s elevated, jewelry layered, walk fierce, voice already cutting through the crowd like a sword.

“Let’s FUCKING GO!” she yells, arms up, grinning wide like she owns Vegas. “Where are little execs at?!”

Cheers erupt from across the room.

Matt’s already halfway to her with a drink. “Mason! I was just saying we needed someone to do a shot out of a novelty skull.”

“I love a skull,” Maya yells, grabbing the cup. “Where’s Sal?!”

“Probably doing coke with someone in the hallway!” Quinn calls from the couch, legs kicked over the armrest. “Or crying!”

Patty’s standing by the bar, sipping tequila like it’s medicinal, already rolling her eyes fondly.

And you?

You’re standing just behind Maya. Silk and lace hugging your body, no underwear between your thighs, lips still pink from where she kissed them clean.

You’re not really a party person. You don’t like the noise or the bodies pressing in too close. But watching her? Watching Maya in her element, lit up and loud and herself?

It’s fucking electric.

She turns to look at you, eyes scanning your outfit with a predator’s grin. She leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “You look unreal, baby.”

You smirk, voice low. “You gonna behave?”

“Absolutely not.”

She grabs your hand and pulls you into the room like a trophy and a weapon all at once. You settle into the corner of the couch, legs crossed, drink untouched, letting the party swirl around you while Maya does her thing, shouting, laughing, hyping everyone up like she’s the queen of every fucking Casino in Vegas.

You watch her pour a shot into someone’s mouth. You watch her command the aux cord. You watch her dance a little too hard to a remix of Barracuda.

And when she finally locks eyes with you again across the room, breathless and glowing, she mouths one thing:

Mine.

Eventually the noise gets a little too much. Maya’s dancing with Quinn and Sal to Le Freak in the middle of the suite like she’s at Studio 54, and while you love watching her, love the way she moves, the way she commands every room she enters, you also need a minute.

You drift toward the snack table at the far end of the suite like a beautiful little banshee in sheer black lace, bare thighs catching the light, hair still a little messy from her hands. No one stops you. You move like a ghost. You are the horror exec, after all.

The table is chaos. There’s a bowl of chips, two half-eaten charcuterie boards, a pack of what looks like gas station cupcakes, and a little pile of chocolate squares on a black napkin. Right next to them: two perfectly rolled blunts.

You raise a brow.

“Classy,” you mutter, striking a match from the little book Maya always keeps in her bag, black with Continental Studios: Sin Is In stamped in blood red across the front.

You light one of the blunts and take a drag, exhaling slow as you lean back against the wall. Your gaze flicks over the party as you take another puff, Sal is doing body shots off someone from distribution, Patty looks like she’s mentally editing everyone out of her will, and Maya is still the center of gravity. Glowing. Wild. Yours.

You glance back at the chocolates.

They’re fancy. Little squares, dusted with pink sea salt and chili flakes. No label. No note.

And surely, surely, Matt would’ve labeled the drugged ones. Right?

You shrug, grab one, pop it into your mouth.

Rich. Spicy. Kind of perfect.

You lean against the wall by the snack table, blunt between your fingers, eyes heavy-lidded as the smoke curls up toward the glittering hotel light fixture overhead. It’s warm in here, buzzing with bass and chatter and the glittering energy of a party that’s about to tip over into chaos.

The chocolate melts perfectly on your tongue. It’s rich and spicy, dusted with something salty and weird, and you hum softly to yourself as you pop another one.

You assume it’s the blunt making you feel like this. A little floaty. A little slow. Like your limbs are made of melted wax and velvet. The bass feels deeper now, like it’s crawling up your thighs.

But it’s not unpleasant. It’s… warm. Lazy. Sweet.

You lick your thumb clean.

Everything tastes like it’s glowing.

Maya laughs across the room, and the sound makes your chest flutter. You glance over, smiling softly as you watch her throw her head back, silver clips glittering, teeth bared in that gorgeous wide grin.

She’s so in her element. Hair wild. Hands flying as she tells a story that has Sal howling and Patty trying not to smile. She looks high off her own power and it makes your knees weak.

You take another drag from the blunt and let your head fall back against the wall.

This party is weird.

But in a good way.

Like the kind of weird where if you stared at the carpet for too long, it might start whispering secrets to you.

You blink slowly.

Probably just the blunt.

Everything’s fine.

You take another slow drag from the blunt and close your eyes, letting the bass rattle through your bones. You feel… floaty. Not bad, just kind of untethered, like your soul is trying to ghost out of your body but politely, like it’s waiting for your permission.

Your fingertips tingle. Your thighs are buzzing. It’s fine. It’s probably just the weed. And the party. And the fact that Maya kissed you so hard before she left for the balcony that your legs still haven’t recovered.

You shake your head gently, trying to center yourself.

Just breathe. Chill out. Maybe get some water. Then go find Maya and ask her to take you back to the suite so she can fuck you into the mattress. That’s a normal plan. You’re a smart girl. You’re okay.

You turn toward the drinks table, only to freeze when you catch sight of Matt near the suite door.

He’s standing next to Zoe Kravitz and Dave Franco, and Zoe is looking at him like he just told her the building is on fire.

“Wait, are these drugged?” she asks, eyeing the chocolates on the snack table.

Matt is standing beside her, sipping from a half-empty LaCroix with tequila in it. “Yeah? It’s an old-school Hollywood buffet. There’s drugs in everything.”

Zoe blinks. “Are you kidding? I just had three.”

Matt tries to calm her. “It’s fine. They’re microdosed. Like a quarter of an ounce. Chill.”

You pause mid-step.

Zoe stares at him. “A quarter of an ounce?! What does that even mean, Matt!”

Dave Franco bursts out laughing up behind them, grinning. “Oh no, they’re not microdosed.”

Everyone turns. Dave’s holding a plastic cup of god knows what, sunglasses on inside, absolutely vibing.

“They’re seven grams each,” he says casually. “Whole thing’s heroic dose territory. Old-school style.”

Matt’s mouth drops open. “What?!”

Zoe’s already spiraling. “I’ve had twenty-one grams of mushrooms?!”

Matt is pale. “I thought they were just, like, chill party chocolates!”

Dave takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. “Nope.”

The words echo like a shot in your skull.

Seven grams. Per piece.

You blink. You had two.

You stare down at your hands. They’re tingling.

You try to speak, but your lips feel too far away from your brain.

Fourteen grams.

You’ve never done shrooms before.

Suddenly, the light overhead hums louder. The floor dips. You feel the shape of your body trying to melt into the wall.

“Oh no,” you whisper. “Oh, fuck.”

Your heart starts to race.

You clutch the edge of the snack table and whisper the only word that makes sense anymore:

“Maya.”

It’s all happening too fast.

Zoe’s voice is high and sharp, her hand clutching Matt’s arm like it’s the only real thing left in the world. “I had twenty-one grams, Matt. You drugged me and I’m going to die!”

“I thought you knew! I said it was an Old Hollywood buff-”

“Stop saying Old Hollywood buffet!” Zoe interrupts him frantically

Sal appears behind them, wide-eyed. “Wait- wait. 21 grams? Why the fuck didn’t you label them?”

Matt is pale, sweating, stammering. “I thought… I thought it was like a chill thing! Like an eighth of an ounce!”

“Do you even know what an eighth of an ounce is?!”

“I thought it was less than fucking 7 grams!”

Sal grabs Zoe’s arm. “Okay. Okay, no. We’re going to the bedroom. We’re doing deep breathing. Someone get cold towels. Matt, you need to shut this shit down.”

They half-carry her across the suite, her designer shoes clacking against the floor like a horror movie heartbeat.

You’re still frozen at the snack table, hands gripping the edge like it’s a lifeline. Your breath’s coming short and fast, and the floor feels like it’s breathing underneath your feet.

Fourteen grams.

Your mouth tastes like smoke and sugar and doom.

You turn, stumbling away from the table, heart racing, limbs heavy. Your pulse is thundering in your ears. You’re not even sure where your legs are taking you until you spot Maya in the corner of the suite.

She’s got one hand curled around a shot glass, the other thrown around Patty’s shoulders. Maya’s head is tilted back, her lips shaped in a wild grin, silver clips in her hair catching the light like glittering stars.

She looks radiant. Powerful. Untouchable.

And then she turns her head and sees you. White-faced. Wide-eyed. On the verge of tears. Her grin drops like someone killed the music.

You stumble toward Maya, chest tight, vision narrowing. The lights flicker like they’re breathing. The music warps, slows, then speeds, then folds in on itself. You can hear your pulse in your teeth.

Your knees almost give out when you whisper, “Maya… I had two of the chocolates.”

She freezes mid-laugh, arms already wrapping around you as you sag against her.

“Fourteen grams,” you croak. “I’ve never… Maya I’ve never done shrooms before—”

Her whole body locks around you.

And then Matt and Quinn come barreling over, panic painted all over their faces.

“Matt!” Quinn shouts. “What the fuck were in those chocolates?!”

Matt looks panicked, glassy-eyed, shirt wrinkled. “I thought it was, like… microdoses? A eighth of an ounce or something?”

Maya’s head whips around. “A eighth—?”

And then Dave Franco appears, too calm, way too calm.

“Dude, I told you! They’re seven grams each, it’s a fuckin mega dose!”

Quinn’s jaw drops. “WHAT?!”

“Zoe had three of them, we’re fucked.” Matt admits in defeat.

“Yeah, she’s in the bathroom trying to negotiate with the wallpaper,” Sal adds, appearing behind them. “It’s not going well.”

And that’s when Maya loses it. “IS THAT WHY I’M SO FUCKING HIGH?!”

The music doesn’t stop, but the party does. People turn. Look. Someone across the room drops a shot glass. The Kool-Aid Man in the corner freezes mid-thrust.

“You drugged me,” Maya snarls, eyes locked on Matt. “You drugged my girlfriend.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“She’s on fourteen grams! She’s never even done shrooms before! And we’re presenting a full studio slate to a room of executives in less than twelve hours!”

She shifts you in her arms, one hand smoothing over your back protectively. Your face is buried in her neck, eyes glassy, breathing shallow.

“Maya…” you whisper. “I think the carpet’s trying to talk to me…”

She kisses your hair. “I know, baby. I know. Stay with me, okay? I’m right here.”

“I don’t want the Kool-Aid Man to eat my soul.”

“I won’t let him.”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad!” Matt whisper-screams

“You don’t get to think,” she growls, “when I’m in charge of a fucking CinemaCon presentation tomorrow and the love of my life is melting into the floor.”

Dave Franco raises his hand casually. “Just for the record, I did know. And I’m having a great time.”

Maya turns on him. “I will end you, Franco.”

You groan quietly. “Are we dying?”

“No,” Maya says, lips brushing your temple. “But he might be.”

She’s breathing heavily now, trying to keep her cool, still high, furious, terrified, and still trying to act like she has control over anything. But she’s not leaving. She can’t. This is still her presentation. Her fucking Thunder Dome.

And now her girlfriend’s high as balls, pressed against her chest like a trembling kitten in a horror film.

She looks up at Matt again, teeth clenched. “You’d better fix this.”

Zoe’s reappears, shouting something about “seeing sound” and “textures trying to kill me” as Matt and Sal rush to practically drag Zoe down the hallway, muttering frantic apologies and trying to convince her that the curtains aren’t bleeding.

The party doesn’t stop. Not really. The music keeps pounding, the bass now vibrating through your ribs like it’s trying to tunnel into your bones. People are still drinking, laughing, taking selfies with the Kool-Aid Man.

And Maya’s still holding you, her arms locked tight around your waist like she’s scared you’ll float away.

You blink up at her, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, the world turning syrupy at the edges. “Maya…” you whisper.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. “Yeah, baby?”

You lean in close. Mouth brushing her neck, lips soft, breath hot.

“You know the white streak in your hair?” you murmur, voice thick with awe.

Her brows raise, just slightly. “Yeah?”

You kiss right beneath her ear. “It makes you look like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

She laughs, shaky and breathless. “Okay, you’re so high.”

You kiss her again, trailing lower now. “It makes me wanna ride you.”

Maya chokes on air.

“Like… hard,” you whisper. “Like… monster-fucking on a science table. You’d look so hot strapped down.”

“Jesus Christ,” Maya hisses, gripping your waist tighter, glancing around. “Okay… okay, no. We are not doing this here, you are tripping your tits off.”

You pout against her neck. “I like your tits.”

“Babe,” she says, somewhere between a moan and a warning.

You’re swaying against her, messy and dreamy and so gone, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands slip beneath her jacket, fingertips grazing bare skin.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper. “I wanna lick your collarbone.”

Maya groans. “You are so lucky I love you.”

You hum sweetly, nuzzling her jaw like a cat in heat. “I’m your babygirl. You said so.”

“I did say that,” she mutters, trying to suppress a smile.

You end up in her lap.

Of course you do. She’s sat back on the couch now, arms open, and you just melt into her like there’s no other place on Earth you’d ever exist. Your legs drape over hers, hands tangled in her collar, face buried in her neck like you’re trying to crawl under her skin. She smells like sweat and perfume and danger. She feels like home.

“Maya,” you whimper. “I’m so wet it’s insane.”

She groans into your hair. “Don’t say that to me right now.”

“But it’s true,” you moan, squirming slightly in her lap. “I keep thinking about your strap. About the hotel bed. About your fingers…”

“Okay,” she mutters, adjusting you on her thigh. “Stop. No, actually. You need to stop.”

You shift again, hips moving slowly, absentmindedly, your cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Maya…”

She grits her teeth. “Baby. You’re high.”

“You’re high too.”

“Yeah, but I’m functioning. You’re currently gazing at the Kool-Aid Man’s reflection.”

You glance across the room. “He’s staring at me.”

“He’s not.”

“He wants me dead.”

Maya sighs and tightens her arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You exhale shakily, nose brushing the curve of her jaw. “I just… I want you to touch me so bad.”

She tenses beneath you.

Your voice softens. “I feel like if you touched me right now, I’d come instantly.”

Her hands flex on your hips. She swears under her breath.

“I want to, baby,” she says, her voice low and wrecked. “You have no idea. But I won’t, not while you’re like this.”

You pout, shifting again, pressing your body tighter to hers. “But I’m yours. You always say that.”

“I know,” she breathes. “You’re mine. You’re my good girl. And that’s exactly why I’m not gonna fuck you while you’re tripping your pretty little brains out on fourteen grams of shrooms.”

You make a sad, needy little sound and bury your face in her throat. “Then can I just stay right here?”

She softens, instantly. “Yeah, baby. You stay right here.”

She wraps her arms tighter around you, rocking you just slightly as the party swells and warps around you both. People are dancing. Shots are flowing. The Kool-Aid Man is dabbing in the corner.

But none of it touches you.

Because Maya’s here.

And even if your mind’s somewhere in the clouds, your body’s safe in her lap, in her arms, her lips on your hair as she whispers, “You’re gonna ride it out. You’re gonna be okay. And when you come down… I’m gonna take you apart so fucking slowly.”

You’re curled in Maya’s lap like a sleepy little shadow creature, hips occasionally twitching against her thigh, her arms a fortress around you. She’s rubbing slow circles into your back, her lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft things like:

“You’re so pretty when you’re high,” and “I’m gonna ruin you when your pupils come back to normal,” and

You hum sweetly and nuzzle her jaw. “You’re my wife.”

Maya chuckles, low and warm. “We’re not married, baby.”

You pout. “Not yet.”

She presses a kiss to your forehead. “Alright, spooky. You proposing to me mid-trip?”

You nod into her neck. “You’re hot and powerful. I wanna haunt you forever.”

She’s laughing, properly laughing, when suddenly a blur of beige and panic crashes into your line of vision.

“Maya!” Quinn breathes, flushed and wide-eyed. “We have a situation.”

You blink at her, dazed. “Urgh. Go away, Quinn. Stay away from my wife.”

Maya snorts so hard she almost chokes. “Oh my god.”

Quinn ignores you. “Maya. Seriously. Griffin’s gone.”

Maya blinks. “Gone?”

“Like. Gone gone.” Quinn runs a hand through her hair. “He was doing rails off a lighting cue card like an hour ago, and now no one can find him.”

You lift your head from Maya’s neck, frowning. “Who’s Griffin?”

“You work for him, babe,” Maya mutters, already shifting into damage control mode.

“Oh.” You pause. “The old guy that smells like cologne and capitalism?”

“Yeah. That one.”

Quinn is pacing now. “He was last seen near the fake tree in the lobby, talking to a planter. Said he was ‘ready to ascend.’ Tyler tried to follow him but he lost him near the staff elevator.”

Maya’s already standing, setting you gently onto the couch like a possessed little doll. “Okay. Okay. We are not losing our studio head the night before CinemaCon.”

You reach for her, hands wobbly. “Don’t leave me. My wife.”

She groans. “I’m coming back, spooky girl. Stay here. Drink water. Don’t start levitating.”

Quinn adds, “Don’t eat anything else. Literally nothing.”

You glare. “You’re not invited to the wedding.”

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