#Collateral maximum

[sobredunia]

Chat we're so back

I did a bunch of comics following a similar format to the famous cpau comics a while ago but i decided I'd save them up for christmas. So. Yeah. Every day leading up to december 25th I'll post a new comic, and this will be the masterpost!

Edit: Virgil has joined the comic sharing and he'll also upload some of their KCPAU comics from time to time!

AUs and links to them (literally all of these are done by Virgil lmao):

-Collateral Maximum (or CoMax for short (basically a swap AU)) -The overlooking monarch (Mastermind Murasaki AU) -Limbus/Project Moon AUs (Uzomi's branch. Bee's branch)

Comic masterpost:

(names in bold are comics done by Virgil)

Opening jars and opening hearts

My brother in christ

Never have I ever

We can nuke it if we try

Weird smiles

Ignorance is bliss

Fanfic situations

FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

Who tf invited these guys

Sounds and songs

HE invited these guys

Keep Yourself (un)Safe

White boy spotted

Friendship

[virgilmoira]

Finally more CoMax posting 😭

[abtl]

Although I may not make text posts that are unhinged bloodthirsty rants, one can find them gently nestled in the tags of relevant posts.

[theballadofharkness]

Mine to Manage (2/2)

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: At Continental Studios, power is currency and chemistry is collateral damage. You’re the sharp-tongued horror exec with a red-lip reputation and no patience for games. Maya Mason is the dangerously charming head of marketing with a Rolodex full of directors and a closet full of designer chaos. You were supposed to be keeping your relationship quiet, but when flirtation becomes a business strategy and jealousy starts bleeding through the seams, secrecy stops feeling smart.

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: explicit smut so as always MDNI 💜🪻

A/N: as promised here is part 2 of mine to manage!!

AO3 link: Mine to Manage

The energy in the room is already chaotic.

Sal’s pacing near the whiteboard with a pen tucked behind his ear like he’s about to diagram a hostage situation. Quinn is typing furiously on her tablet, brow furrowed, muttering to herself about “visual comps” and “emotional architecture.” Matt has two coffees in front of him, one half-finished, the other untouched, and looks like he slept in his car.

And Patty? Patty is in the corner sipping something very not coffee out of a Continental-branded mug, watching it all go down like it’s a particularly slow-motion car crash.

No one notices the door open. Not until it swings fully inward and you and Maya step inside.

Together.

You’re dressed like someone’s cool, terrifying ex-wife in soft linen, black silk, the kind of chic horror executive look that makes grown men second-guess their pitches. Dark lipstick. Composed. Effortlessly haunting.

Maya, beside you, is in full “don’t fuck with me” mode, slouchy designer trousers, vintage bomber, perfect skin, smug mouth. One hand in her pocket. One glance from her would level the room.

The second the team clocks you both, it goes quiet.

“Oh thank God,” Matt says, standing like you’re the cavalry.

Sal doesn’t even look up from his notes. “Okay, Maya, we need maximum charm. Like, pull-out-all-the-stops charm. This woman’s in the mood to be courted and Warner’s dangling a bigger check.”

Quinn looks up from her screen. “And if she doesn’t feel like the center of a Cannes-ready thinkpiece by the end of the hour, she’ll walk.”

“Didn’t even wear the blazer,” Maya says coolly, sliding into her seat at the table. “Bold of me.”

You take your spot a seat away from her, pretending your knees didn’t touch in the elevator, pretending she didn’t push you up against her bathroom mirror just hours ago whispering “mine” into your mouth.

Patty glances between the two of you with a vaguely amused look. She doesn’t say anything. But she clocks something.

Maya pulls out her tablet and casually crosses her legs, one foot bouncing. She leans slightly back, eyes sliding across the table to where you sit, still composed, still silent.

Matt claps his hands. “Alright. Team Continental. One last pitch, one last chance. Let’s close this thing.”

Maya leans forward, propping her chin on her hand like she’s bored and powerful and has absolutely no intention of playing fair.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye.

And she winks.

Like she didn’t make you come three times last night. Like she’s not about to flirt with someone else just to win. Like she’s daring you to keep it together.

And you? You square your shoulders. Fix your lip color. And dare her right back.

The energy is thick.

You’re seated at the long glass table, hands folded, your red lipstick sharp as a knife. You’ve been called terrifying by more than one junior executive and once by a producer who meant it as a compliment and never pitched to you again.

Across the table, Maya leans back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her gold jewelry catching the light, her smirk effortless.

And beside her, seated like a queen at the head of the table, is Olivia Hartley. Director. Visionary. Ridiculously talented. And currently eyeing Maya like she’s the main course at a tasting menu.

She’s dressed in an expensive sweater the exact shade of aged blood, hair twisted up in a way that says don’t fuck with me while she absolutely prepares to fuck with everyone.

Matt opens. “We’re thrilled to have you back, Olivia. Since our last conversation, we’ve done a lot of work on how this project would look at Continental. We believe in it. In your voice. In letting this story stay as uncompromising as it was when it landed in our inbox.”

Quinn jumps in. “This isn’t a pitch where we say all the right words and gut it later. We want to make your actual movie okay? Not the safe, marketing-friendly version. The weird, feral, uncomfortable thing you meant to write.”

You nod once, adding coolly, “We don’t buy scripts we plan to defang.”

Olivia smiles. She’s not here for the men.

Her eyes flick toward you, appreciative and curious, but then they slide right back to Maya.

“You brought your secret weapon,” she says smoothly.

Maya arches an eyebrow. “You wound me. I’m not that secret.”

Olivia leans back, draping an arm along the back of her chair. “I was talking about this,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward Maya’s whole body. “The quiet confidence. The good lighting. The fact that I already trust you to sell this better than anyone at Warner.”

Maya grins, not wide, but sharp. “I’m flattered.”

“Are you?” Olivia tilts her head. “You’re hard to read.”

“I’m very readable,” Maya replies, resting her chin on her hand, voice dropping. “You just need to know the language babe.”

You stare straight ahead, unmoving. Your nails dig slightly into your palm. You’re fine. You’re fine.

Quinn is furiously taking notes like this is a masterclass in queer chaos.

Matt gestures to you. “Y/N’s our head of unconventional horror development. She’s got a read on this genre like no one else in the industry.”

Olivia turns to you now, interested but still with that flirtatious gleam in her eye. Like she knows you’ve seen all the monsters and still thinks she could surprise you.

“And what’s your take?” she asks.

You meet her gaze evenly. “You’ve written a script about grief and power and gendered violence. I think it’s brilliant. And I think if anyone else gets their hands on it, they’ll sanitize it.”

Olivia hums, pleased. “And what would you do with it?”

You glance once at Maya. Then back. “Let it burn.”

Olivia smiles. “I like her.”

Maya smirks. “Yeah. Me too.”

You nearly flinch. It’s nothing. It’s harmless. It’s all part of the dance.

But your stomach coils tight.

Because Maya’s leaning closer now. Her voice is pitched lower, just for Olivia. She’s talking about rollout strategies, about festival positioning, about how to make this movie a moment. But she’s doing it the way she always does, with warmth and charm, and a gaze that lingers just a second too long.

And Olivia’s eating it up. Leaning in. Laughing. Touching Maya’s wrist when she makes a joke.

Your jaw clenches so tight it clicks. You lean back in your seat, red lips pressed into a perfect line. Cold. Controlled. Deadly.

Quinn nudges you gently, whispering, “You okay?”

You nod once.

But your eyes stay on Maya who’s now sliding her iPad across the table, letting Olivia scroll through a mock-up teaser campaign.

“This is how we sell it,” she says softly. “With teeth. With seduction. With the kind of marketing that hurts a little.”

Olivia murmurs, “I do like pain.”

Sal mutters, “Christ.”

Matt says, “If we’re doing taglines, maybe not that one.”

You don’t speak. Because if you do, your voice might crack. Not because Maya’s doing her job. But because you love her. And this is the part of her job you hate the most.

The presentation has dissolved into something else now.

Matt’s still trying to keep it tethered to reality, timelines, packaging, and pre-sales but the air has shifted. Like the power’s been pulled out of the spreadsheet and into the space between Maya and Olivia.

Olivia leans forward again, her hand on Maya’s iPad, fingers brushing hers like it’s casual, like it isn’t the third time she’s done it in fifteen minutes.

“This is impressive,” she says, voice low. “You get the tone. The tension. The way this story lives under your skin.”

Maya gives her that slow, knowing smile. The one that says, I know I’ve already won you. “Well,” Maya says smoothly, “I know how to sell possession. I’ve done it before.”

Your heart thumps. Hard.

Olivia lifts her eyebrows. “I bet you have.”

Quinn’s stylus freezes mid-note. Matt glances up, about to speak, then clearly decides not to. Sal’s grinning like he’s watching a particularly good episode of a show he didn’t have to pay for.

You lean back in your chair, arms folded, trying not to look at Maya. But every breath, every little laugh, is a needle beneath your skin.

Then Olivia does it. She rests her hand lightly, delicately, on Maya’s knee. The room holds its breath. And Maya? She just smiles. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks Olivia right in the eye and says, “We can talk about refining tone and rhythm. Maybe over lunch?”

Your spine stiffens.

Sal mutters under his breath, “Charm level: assassin.”

Matt looks mildly horrified but says nothing.

You keep your expression neutral, you’ve perfected the art of stillness. But your nails are digging into the armrest of your chair. Your jaw is locked.

And Maya knows.

She knows you’re watching. She knows what this is doing to you. And still, she lets Olivia lean in and say, “I’d like that. One-on-one’s always more illuminating, don’t you think?”

You nearly break the pen in your hand.

Maya finally, finally turns her head and glances at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for her eyes to ask something you don’t have an answer for.

But you meet her gaze. And you let her see just a flicker of the hurt behind the mask.

She blinks. Like maybe she wasn’t expecting that.

Olivia doesn’t notice, she’s still talking. “Your team is sharp,” she says. “But you? You know how to make people feel things.”

Maya doesn’t reply right away because now she’s looking at you and something in her has shifted. Her smile falters for just a fraction. And you know she’s finally realizing just how far this has gone. And how badly it’s hitting you.

The energy curdles.

The last of the actual meeting structure collapses into something looser, more dangerous.

Olivia’s still smiling. Still leaning toward Maya like a sunflower tracking the sun. Barely glancing at the rest of you anymore.

You sit there, arms folded across your chest, jaw locked so tight it aches. You’re not just mad, you’re humiliated.

Because you know you’re the scariest bitch in this room. You know you’re the one whose contacts made this project even possible. You know you’re the one whose name in horror means something real, not just a marketing tool, not just a pretty pitch face.

And yet here you are. Watching Olivia flirt with the woman you love like you’re furniture.

Matt tries, bless him, he tries. He clears his throat and shifts awkwardly. “I mean, Maya’s amazing obviously, but if we’re talking about horror credibility? Y/N’s the heavy hitter. She’s the one directors call when they want to push boundaries without getting studio notes killing the vibe.”

You lift your eyes slowly, fixing Olivia with a look like you could rip the skin off her bones if you cared enough to move.

Olivia, still smiling, tosses a polite but empty glance your way, and then she looks right back at Maya.

“Maybe Maya and I can workshop some ideas offline,” she says sweetly. “She seems to really get it.”

Your hands clench in your lap. You feel Quinn’s glance flick toward you. Even Sal looks a little uncomfortable now.

Matt, sensing the tension spike, plows ahead, desperate. “Y/N’s also the one who kept Harkness House from being turned into a Netflix slasher. She’s got pull at every major genre festival, if you want critical buzz, you want her on your team.”

You give Matt half a nod, quiet and controlled.

But Olivia barely registers it. She’s smiling at Maya again, only at Maya, as if Matt and Sal and Quinn and you aren’t even in the room.

“You’ll love working with us,” she says, voice steady. “Promise.”

Olivia smirks. “I already do.”

Olivia slides the signed agreement across the table, all smiles and gloss and knowing.

You sit there, straight-backed, spine made of steel, as Olivia reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a sleek, black business card and writes something on the back.

Then she slides it across the table, not to Matt, not to Quinn, not to Sal. To Maya. “In case you want to brainstorm… privately.”

Quinn, bless her, is the first to move, standing quickly. “Let me walk you out, Olivia. Reception’s a nightmare this time of day.”

Olivia beams. “Such service.”

Maya offers a polite, perfectly professional smile, the one she uses when she wants people to think they’ve gotten something from her.

You watch as Quinn escorts Olivia out of the room, her heels clicking down the hallway.

As soon as the door shuts a heavy silence falls over the boardroom.

You slump back into your chair, muscles unwinding in a kind of exhausted fury, hand dragging down your face. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, voice deadpan. “I fucking hate that woman.”

Sal barks out a laugh, clapping a hand on the table. “Right? What a piece of work.”

“Seriously,” Matt says, shuffling the papers Olivia left behind. “She’s brilliant, but Christ, she’s got the social subtlety of a brick.”

“I don’t know,” Quinn says, reappearing in the doorway with a wicked little smirk. “I thought she was very subtle. You know, when she practically mounted Maya in front of us.”

Sal snorts.

You roll your eyes and pick up a pen just to have something to do with your hands.

You know Maya’s watching you. You can feel the way her chair creaks as she shifts. The way the energy between you stretches so taut you think you might snap from it. You don’t look at her, you can’t, because if you do, you might break. And she knows it.

Maya stands slowly before crossing the space between you with that slow, deliberate Maya Mason energy, all gravity, all purpose, all you.

You glance up, finally.

And then she kisses you.

Hard.

Right there, in the middle of the goddamn boardroom.

No warning. No hesitation.

Her hands frame your face, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back as her mouth claims yours in a kiss that’s messy, desperate, hungry.

Sal makes a strangled noise.

Matt blurts, “Oh my God.”

Quinn just mutters, “Finally.”

You gasp against her mouth, shocked and breathless, but she doesn’t let you pull away. She kisses you again, deeper, slower this time, like she’s trying to pour every fucking apology she can’t say into your mouth instead.

When she finally pulls back, you’re blinking up at her, stunned.

And Maya, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, just smirks and says “you’re mine. I don’t care who sees it anymore.”

The room is dead silent but you don’t care either. You just grab her by the jacket and kiss her right back.

You’re still wrapped around her, your hand fisted in the front of her jacket, your lips tingling, your breath short. Maya’s looking down at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

Around you, chaos is setting in.

Sal’s half-standing, wide-eyed.

Matt’s blinking rapidly like he’s trying to reboot his brain.

Quinn’s just smirking into her coffee cup, clearly thrilled.

Matt clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. So. Like… HR’s probably gonna have questions about this.”

Your face is burning. You press your forehead into Maya’s shoulder, hiding, completely and utterly wrecked.

Maya just shrugs. “Don’t care anymore.”

She kisses the top of your head, casual and possessive. “They can send whatever passive-aggressive emails they want. She’s important.”

Her voice drops just for you. “You’re important.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, clinging tighter to her jacket like you can anchor yourself there.

Quinn pipes up, setting her tablet down with a loud thunk. “Well, they can’t fire either of you unless they want the horror division and marketing to implode overnight, so… power couple immunity?”

Sal’s laughing helplessly now. “Jesus. First Olivia trying to fuck her way onto the slate, now this.”

Matt, still recovering, mutters, “Okay, okay, okay. Let’s… maybe not shout that part.”

You finally peek up at Maya, blushing, lips parted, eyes wide, and she just grins at you, big and smug and wrecked herself in the best way. She’s still holding your face in her hands like she’s staking a claim. Still looking at you like you’re the only thing she’s ever been sure about.

“You’re mine,” she says again, softer this time. Fiercer. “And I’m not hiding it anymore.”

Your fingers tighten in her jacket, helplessly needy for her.

Sal raises an eyebrow. “Are you guys gonna bang it out on the conference table or should we clear the room?”

You bury your face back into Maya’s chest as she laughs, deep, warm, and happy. She presses a kiss to your hair again, then leans down to whisper in your ear, “let them talk.”

And you believe her.

The second the boardroom door swings shut behind you, Maya’s hand is on your wrist, tugging.

You barely stumble after her, your heart slamming against your ribs, your cheeks still flushed from the public kiss, the heat of everyone’s stares.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just drags you down the hallway like she owns you, her fingers tight around your wrist, her pace fast, hungry, unstoppable.

You pass two assistants. A junior creative. Tyler, who just raises an eyebrow and keeps walking. You’re breathless by the time she shoves the door to her office open and yanks you inside.

The door slams shut.

The lock clicks.

You don’t even have time to gasp before Maya crowds you against it, her hands braced on either side of your head, trapping you there.

“You’re mine,” she breathes, voice low and rough. “Say it.”

You look up at her, wide-eyed, lips parted. “Maya I-”

“No.” She leans in, her nose brushing yours. “Say it.”

You shiver. “I’m yours.”

Her hand tangles in your hair and pulls, just enough to tip your chin up, and she devours you, kissing you hard, teeth scraping your bottom lip until you gasp. She takes advantage, sliding her tongue into your mouth, owning you all over again.

You’re already trembling.

Her hand trails down, rough and deliberate, along your ribs, your waist, your hips. She hikes your skirt up without ceremony, sliding her fingers between your thighs, groaning when she finds you soaking.

“All this for me?” she murmurs, voice dark and fucking delighted.

You whimper.

She presses you harder against the door, two fingers teasing at your entrance, not inside yet, just hovering, driving you insane.

“You get so needy for me,” she whispers, kissing your throat, your jaw, your cheekbone. “So desperate.”

You nod frantically, grabbing at her jacket, pulling her closer. “Please,” you gasp.

“Please what?” she says, smug and deadly.

“Please touch me,” you beg, voice cracking.

She smirks. “That’s better.”

Finally, finally, she slides her fingers inside you, deep, slow, curling just right, and you nearly sob from the relief.

“Fuck, you feel good,” she growls, grinding her palm against your clit, building a rhythm that has your knees buckling in seconds.

You cling to her, nails digging into her shoulders, letting her fuck you against the door like you’re the only thing that matters.

Like she’s the only thing that matters.

“You’re mine,” she says again, punctuating it with a thrust that makes you cry out.

“Always.”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Yours.”

Her mouth finds yours again, swallowing your broken moans, her body pinning you to the door like she can’t stand being even an inch away from you.

You come hard, gasping her name, shuddering against her as she rides you through it, kissing you softer now, sweeter, like a promise.

When you finally collapse against her, boneless and shaking, she just holds you there, strong, steady, hers.

You bury your face in her neck, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat hammering against yours.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” you whisper.

She laughs against your hair. “And you love it.”

You smile, exhausted, blissed-out. “I love you.”

She kisses your forehead, soft and sure. “I know.”

You’re still trembling in her arms, clothes rumpled, breathing uneven.

Maya kisses the top of your head again, slower now, more reverent, her fingers smoothing down your spine like she’s trying to anchor you back to earth.

You cling to her for another minute, letting yourself just exist in the safety of her body.

Eventually, Maya pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing under your eye, catching the stray smudge of mascara, like it matters.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re all wrecked,” she says, grinning.

You laugh, hoarse and exhausted. “You’re so cocky,” you murmur, nuzzling into her neck.

“I have reason to be,” she teases, kissing your forehead again.

You let her fuss with your clothes, smoothing your skirt back down, fixing your hair a little, licking her thumb and wiping your smudged lipstick (terribly, messily, so you’re sure you still look like you’ve been thoroughly ruined).

But you can’t let her go. Not completely. Not yet. You press your hand to her chest, feel her heartbeat thudding under your palm and look up at her.

And you ask softly, “what made you change your mind?”

She stills for a second. You see it, the flash of nerves, the memory of earlier, the look she gave you when Olivia slid her number across the table.

Maya exhales “I saw you,” she says finally, voice low.

You blink.

“I saw your face,” she says again. “When she touched me. When she handed me her number. When you just… sat there, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you.”

Your throat tightens.

Maya cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone gently. “And I realized,” she says, “that you were sitting there, trying to be professional, trying to protect me even while I was letting her flirt with me for a deal.”

You shake your head and try to protest but she leans in, kisses you softly to stop you.

“I realized,” she says again, voice thick, “that hiding you wasn’t protecting us anymore.”

You feel your eyes sting.

Maya leans her forehead against yours. “I don’t want you to ever sit there like that again,��� she whispers. “Like you’re not the most important thing in the room.”

You close your eyes, breathing her in, letting the words settle into all the broken places inside you.

“And I don’t care what anyone says,” she murmurs. “I don’t care if Sal makes filthy jokes, if Quinn writes fanfiction about us, if HR sends us passive-aggressive policy updates.”

You laugh, a watery, broken thing.

She tilts your face up. “I love you,” she says again, like she’s daring the world to take it from her. “I love you and I’m not hiding it.”

You nod, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

She kisses you slow, careful, devastatingly tender. It’s not rushed, it’s home.

~

The fairy lights overhead glow soft gold against the purple dusk. It’s warm but not sticky, the kind of rare, perfect LA night that feels almost cinematic.

The table is small, intimate, tucked into a corner of the patio like it was made just for you and Maya. You’re holding her hand across the table, your thumb brushing lazy circles over her knuckles. Every now and then, she lifts your hand to her mouth and kisses your fingers, casual, almost absent-minded, like she can’t help herself.

You’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

“This feels illegal,” you tease, voice soft, a little breathless.

Maya smirks that lazy, devastating smirk that undid you the first time you ever sat across a table from her. “It is. HR’s already plotting. Probably a whole color-coded dossier.”

You laugh and nudge her foot under the table, playful and giddy.

She leans in slightly, voice dropping to that dangerous low that makes your stomach flip. “Let them.”

You’re about to say something when a shout slices through the soft night air.

“NO FUCKING WAY!”

You both whip your heads around just in time to see Sal barreling across the street, dodging traffic like a lunatic. Matt is following behind, trying and failing to look cool while carrying a six-pack of beer. And then there’s Quinn striding purposefully like she owns the sidewalk, phone tucked under her arm.

Maya groans immediately, dropping her forehead to the table. “No. No. No. No.”

You’re laughing already, helpless, delighted, hiding behind your menu as Sal practically sprints onto the patio.

“You two are on a DATE?!” he bellows, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear.

Maya lifts her head just enough to glare at him. “Indoor voice, jackass.”

Sal drags a chair over and Matt and Quinn aren’t far behind, grabbing chairs from neighboring tables like they own the place.

You glance at Maya, wide-eyed.

She looks murderous.

You look back at your friends, your weird, dysfunctional little work family, and sigh. “Apparently, yes. This was supposed to be a date.”

Matt plops the six-pack down between you all like an offering. “It can still be a date,” he says, overly cheerful. “With, you know, a live studio audience.”

Maya makes a strangled noise.

Quinn’s already flagging down a server. “We’re celebrating,” she says brightly. “Olivia signed. You two kissed in a boardroom. It’s a banner fucking day.”

You bury your face in your hands.

Sal leans across the table, grinning like a wolf. “Okay. How long has this been happening?”

Maya raises an eyebrow, wrapping her arm casually around the back of your chair, pulling you in without even thinking about it.

“A while,” she says smoothly.

“How long’s ‘a while’?” Sal pushes, waggling his eyebrows.

You glance at Maya.

She shrugs.

“A few months,” you admit.

“MONTHS?!” Sal yelps.

Matt chokes on his beer. Quinn just laughs.

“Explains so much,” Quinn says, stealing a breadstick. “Like why Y/N always looked ready to commit a felony when Maya flirted with anyone under 35.”

Maya smirks.

You glare at Quinn, cheeks flaming.

Sal, clearly having the time of his life, leans in again. “Okay, okay, but WHO made the first move?”

Maya’s grin is predatory. “She did.”

You elbow her in the ribs, scandalized. “You kissed ME first!”

Matt leans forward eagerly, completely enthralled.

“What about the ‘I love you’? Who dropped the bomb first?”

Maya snickers. “She did. Sobbed it, actually.”

You gasp, mortified. “I did NOT sob-”

“There were tears,” Maya says serenely, sipping her wine.

Quinn raises her hand like she’s in class. “Follow-up: what’s the over-under on how long until you two get banned from making out at work?”

You groan into your hands again.

Maya just smirks and tugs you closer under her arm, kissing your temple unapologetically. “Let ‘em try,” she murmurs, and the confidence in her voice makes your whole body warm.

The server comes back, setting down more wine, a couple plates of food you didn’t even remember ordering.

The table settles into that easy, buzzing chaos you always secretly loved, Quinn telling some terrible story about her early days in indie film making, Sal making increasingly filthy jokes at your expense, Matt trying to referee and failing miserably.

You and Maya keep sneaking touches, your hand on her thigh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of your neck. Every so often, she leans down to kiss your hair, or your cheek, or your jaw.

Halfway through a shared plate of pasta, Matt raises his glass. “To the best fucking team in the business,” he says.

Everyone clinks.

Maya clinks her glass against yours last, leaning in so only you can hear, “to you.”

You flush so hard you have to hide in your wine glass. But you can’t stop smiling.

The patio is loud now, your little table tucked away, half-devoured plates and abandoned menus spread out between clinking glasses and crumpled napkins.

Sal’s halfway through a story about his failed attempt to get cast in a Lifetime movie in his twenties, complete with terrible reenactments.

“I’m telling you,” he says, raising a breadstick like a mic, “the casting director told me I had ‘too much chaotic energy’ for a Christmas movie. Me! Chaotic!”

Matt’s crying laughing, slumped over his chair, while Quinn actually wipes a tear from her eye.

“You are chaotic,” Quinn says, shaking her head.

“You’re the reason we needed two lawyers at the ‘Flesh and Bone’ premiere,” Matt adds, snorting.

Sal shrugs. “You’re welcome for the stories.”

Maya leans back, her arm slung lazily around your shoulders, smirking into her wine like she’s been waiting for this all night. You’re tucked under her side, warm and loose and happy, letting yourself laugh, letting yourself have this.

“Okay, okay,” Matt says, sitting up, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter. “Serious question now. Was it, like, obvious to everyone that you two were hooking up? Or are we just idiots?”

You start to speak, to say something deflective, something smart, but Quinn cuts in immediately. “Oh, it was obvious.”

Sal nods sagely. “Painfully obvious.”

Matt throws his hands up. “WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME?!”

“It was more fun this way,” Quinn says, grinning.

Maya just smirks, tugging you closer by the waist.

“You’re all just mad that we’re hotter than you,” she teases.

“You’re not wrong,” Quinn deadpans.

Everyone laughs again, real belly laughter that bubbles up and fills the whole patio like champagne. You’re so full of warmth you feel like you might float away.

“I’m just saying,” Sal says, raising his hands, “I think we deserve a full timeline of the relationship for context.”

You glance at Maya.

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “First date was the Harkness House premiere party,” she says casually.

Quinn gasps. “No. Way.”

“Way,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

“You mean when Y/N disappeared for like an hour and came back looking like she’d seen God?” Sal demands.

You choke on your wine.

Maya just laughs, rich and smug, and kisses your temple again like it’s her trophy.

“Good memory,” she says to Sal.

You’re about to shove her or kiss her senseless, maybe both, when Matt glances at your wine glass.

“Hey, you’re almost empty. You want me to… ?”

You shake your head, already standing, tugging your skirt down. “I’ll get it.”

Maya’s hand slides down your back as you pull away.

You weave through the tables toward the little outdoor bar, heart pounding a little faster now from the wine and the heat of her touch. When you reach the bar, you wave for the bartender, just as someone leans in close behind you. You don’t have to turn. You know it’s her.

Maya presses in at your back, crowding your space, her mouth brushing your ear. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re laughing,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “I’m gonna mess you up when we get home.”

You shiver.

She trails a finger down the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Gonna make you beg for it,” she whispers. “Gonna take my time. Make sure you remember exactly who made you feel this good.”

Your whole body tightens, heat pooling low in your belly, your knees actually wobbling a little.

The bartender appears and you barely manage to stammer out your drink order, blushing so hard you’re sure you’re glowing.

Maya’s still pressed against you, her hand casually sliding down your hip, fingertips teasing along the hem of your skirt, invisible to everyone else but undeniable to you.

She nips at your ear once, playfully. “Can’t wait to have you, baby.”

You turn just enough to glare at her, breathless and wrecked and so in love it hurts.

She grins, all teeth and wicked promises, and pulls back just in time for the bartender to set your drink down.

You grab it, trying to look normal, trying to breathe normally. You fail miserably.

You glance back over your shoulder at her as you walk away and Maya is just standing there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the bar, watching you like a fucking meal.

You want to run to her.

You want to crawl into her lap.

You want to skip dinner and let her wreck you the way she just promised.

But instead you walk back to your chaotic, beautiful little family with your heart racing, thighs pressed together, a smile tugging at your mouth, and sit back down like you aren’t dying for her.

Maya follows a second later, dropping lazily into her seat, sliding her foot up the inside of your calf under the table. And you can’t stop smiling.

~

The Uber pulls up, a sleek black SUV, and you barely finish saying your goodbyes to Sal, Matt, and Quinn when Maya’s already tugging your hand, pulling you toward the car like she’s seconds away from losing her mind.

You climb into the backseat first, scooting across.

Maya slides in after you way too fast, way too eager, and slams the door behind her.

The driver asks your address, barely glancing back.

You rattle Maya’s address off automatically, heart hammering.

The second the car pulls into traffic, Maya’s hand is on your thigh, very high up on your thigh, her fingers slipping under the hem of your dress like she can’t wait another second.

You inhale sharply, glancing at the driver. But Maya doesn’t care. She leans in slowly, deliberately, her breath hot against your ear.

“I can’t fucking wait,” she whispers.

Before you can respond, her mouth crashes into yours, messy, hungry, and desperate. You moan into her kiss, grabbing at her jacket, pulling her closer, needing her like oxygen.

FHer hand slides higher, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh, dangerously close to where you’re already aching for her.

The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongue and panting breath, and it’s taking everything you have not to climb into her lap right there.

Maya groans against your mouth, like she’s barely holding herself back. Her other hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you close, tilting your head just right so she can kiss you deeper, wetter, harder.

You break away for half a second, gasping. “Maya,” you whisper, glancing at the oblivious driver.

She grins wickedly and kisses along your jaw, your throat, her teeth scraping just enough to make your stomach drop.

“He’s not looking,” she murmurs against your skin.

“Let him hear how pretty you sound when you come apart for me.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and she smirks against your pulse. Her fingers slip higher, brushing the edge of your panties, making your whole body jolt.

You grab her wrist, half to stop her, half to keep her there. “You’re evil,” you hiss, breathless.

“You love it,” she breathes back, pressing her forehead against yours, her hand moving slow and torturous.

You’re panting now, clutching at her, eyes fluttering shut as she teases you, light strokes over the thin fabric, just enough pressure to make you squirm.

Maya kisses you again, slower this time, more purposeful, dragging it out, savoring the way you melt under her.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with her. You can barely think, barely breathe, your whole body tuned to her touch.

“When we get home,” she whispers against your mouth, her fingers pressing just a little harder, “I’m gonna make you scream so loud the neighbors complain.”

You whimper, thighs clenching around her hand.

She chuckles, dark and pleased. “You’re already so fucking wet for me, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Such a good girl.”

You can’t take it anymore.

You kiss her hard and messy, your fingers fisting in her jacket, hips rolling up into her hand without thinking.

The car slows. The driver clears his throat.

You both freeze. Maya pulls back, barely, her grin pure sin.

You glance out the window, her place. You’re home. You scramble out of the car, faces flushed, hearts racing. Maya tosses a deservedly large tip onto the front seat and practically drags you toward the door. You don’t even make it to the elevator before she’s kissing you again, wild, hungry, already desperate to finish what she started.

You’re both laughing, breathless and unhinged, as you stumble up the steps to her home, clutching at each other like you might fall over.

Maya’s got her keys out, but she’s moving slow, teasing, bumping her hip into yours, sneaking kisses against your jaw between giggles.

“Your Uber rating is about to tank,” you gasp, grinning wide.

Maya snorts, grabbing your wrist and spinning you into her chest. “Worth it,” she says, mouth hovering over yours, teasing.

“You’re gonna be banned from the app,” you whisper against her lips, giggling.

She kisses you, quick and hard, and finally manages to jam the key into the door, dragging you inside.

The second the door shuts behind you, it’s on.

Maya crowds you up against the wall, kissing you messy, desperate, hands already tugging at your clothes like she can’t stand the layers between you anymore. “Need you,” she mutters against your mouth, frantic. “Need you right now.”

You whimper, nodding, letting her pull your jacket off, letting her hike your dress up with greedy, rough hands.

Her mouth is everywhere, your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping just enough to leave marks you’ll see tomorrow and smile at.

You grab at her jacket, shoving it off her shoulders, needing to touch her, needing to feel her, skin on skin.

She growls low in her throat when your nails rake down her back.

“Bed,” you gasp against her mouth, dizzy from the speed of it, the need of it.

Maya shakes her head, wicked and grinning. “Can’t wait.”

She slides to her knees right there in the hallway, yanking your panties down, gripping your thighs and looking up at you with pure, feral hunger.

“Hold onto the wall, baby,” she says, voice low and ragged. “Gonna make you scream my name like I promised you would.”

You barely get your hand against the wall before she’s on you, her mouth hot and wet against you, her tongue sliding through your folds, finding your clit instantly, sucking hard.

You wail, no chance of being quiet, your head thunking back against the wall, your legs shaking.

Maya moans against you like she’s starving, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know you’ll bruise, loving it, dragging her tongue over you again and again.

You’re babbling, gasping her name, begging without even meaning to. “Maya, oh my God, please- please!”

She pulls back just enough to murmur against your soaking core, “such a good girl.”

Then she dives back in, licking you through it, coaxing it out of you until you’re shaking against the wall, coming hard on her mouth, sobbing her name just like she said you would.

Your knees give out and Maya catches you, strong arms lifting you easily, carrying you down the hall toward the bedroom.

You’re still gasping, blinking through the haze, clinging to her.

She drops you onto the bed, rough but careful, and climbs over you, tearing her shirt off in one smooth motion.

You stare, wrecked and wanting and so in love you could die.

Maya leans down, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. “Not done with you yet,” she whispers against your lips.

You whimper, spreading your legs for her instinctively, needing more, all of her.

She smiles, dark, dangerous, so fucking in love. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m gonna ruin you, baby.”

You’re panting, wrecked already, but Maya’s not even close to finished with you.

She kneels over you on the bed, straddling your hips, her hair wild and messy around her face, her body flushed from exertion and need.

You can’t stop staring at her, her strong thighs bracketing your hips, toned arms flexing as she pins you down, that smirk on her face that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

You’re so far gone for her it hurts.

She kisses you, slow and filthy, licking into your mouth like she’s tasting her favorite thing.

You whimper against her lips, hips bucking up against her, desperate for more.

Maya chuckles low in her throat, reaching down to trap your wrists above your head with one hand.

“Stay,” she murmurs.

You nod, wide-eyed, pliant under her.

She kisses down your body, your throat, your collarbone, your chest, nipping and sucking little bruises into your skin that you’ll wear like trophies tomorrow.

Her mouth finds your breast, sucking one nipple into her mouth, biting just enough to make you gasp.

You arch into her, desperate, and she growls, sliding her free hand between your legs again, slipping two fingers inside you with no resistance at all.

You moan, high pitched and broken, your body twisting under her.

She pumps her fingers slow and deep, dragging pleasure out of you with ruthless precision. “Such a good girl,” she murmurs against your skin. “Take it. Come for me again.”

You’re sobbing now, thighs shaking, barely able to hold still as she works you open until you’re coming again, gasping her name like a prayer. She kisses you through it, letting you ride it out, never letting you drift too far. And when you slump, boneless and wrecked, she finally pulls back.

You blink up at her and reach for her without thinking, needing to touch her, needing to give her back even a fraction of what she’s given you. You push yourself up onto trembling elbows and kiss along her jaw, her throat, her chest, tasting her skin, feeling her shudder under your mouth.

Maya lets you for a moment. Then her hand fists in your hair, tilting your head up to look at her. Her pupils are blown wide. Her voice is wrecked. “You want to make me feel good, baby?”

You nod frantically.

“Use your mouth,” she says, voice thick with hunger. “Worship me.”

You scramble eagerly, kissing your way down her body, hands worshipful, greedy even, over her ribs, her stomach, her hips. You settle between her thighs, looking up at her once, asking permission without speaking.

Maya cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “Good girl,” she breathes. “Make me come on that pretty mouth.”

You moan at the praise and dive in, licking a slow, wet stripe up her center, savoring the way she gasps, the way her hips twitch. You flatten your tongue against her clit, circling slow and steady, letting her grind against you, riding your mouth with low, broken moans.

She keeps one hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just guiding, while the other fists the sheets.

You suck her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue against it, and her thighs clamp around your head as she curses under her breath.

“Fuck, baby… just like that, don’t you dare stop-”

You moan into her, desperate to make her fall apart, desperate to give her everything, and the vibration makes her shudder above you.

She’s close.

You can feel it in the way her muscles tighten, the way her moans get sharper, the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“Gonna come all over your fucking face,” she pants, voice breaking. “Take it, baby. Be good for me.”

You flick your tongue faster, swirling around her clit, sucking harder, and she breaks, hips grinding against your mouth, a deep, guttural moan tearing out of her as she comes.

You ride it out, tongue gentle now, soothing her through it until she’s gasping, yanking you up by your hair and crashing her mouth against yours.

The kiss is filthy, wet and desperate, her taste all over both of you, and you can’t stop whimpering into her mouth.

She pushes you down into the mattress again, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you, still trembling a little from how hard you made her come. You’re clinging to her, hands greedy on her back, her hips, anywhere you can reach.

She finally breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against yours, both of you panting, wrecked. “Fuck,” she whispers, voice shaking. “You’re mine.”

You nod, dizzy, drunk on her. “Yours.”

She kisses you again, slower now, more tender, like sealing a promise. “Always.”

You’re both a mess.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, your skin sticky with sweat, your mouth swollen from kissing for what feels like hours. You’re still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, whole body humming from everything she did to you and everything you gave back.

Maya’s draped over you, half her weight pressing you into the mattress, her arm slung lazily across your waist, her face buried in the curve of your neck.

You run your fingers through her messy hair, slow and soothing. Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being.

Finally, Maya groans low against your throat. “We’re disgusting,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.

You laugh, soft, wrecked, and nuzzle into her hair.

“We’re perfect,” you mumble.

Maya huffs out a breath, kisses your collarbone. Then she pushes herself up, stretching like a cat, muscles rippling under flushed, golden skin.

You whimper at the loss of her warmth, already reaching for her again without thinking.

She grins down at you, smug, fond, completely in love, and taps your nose. “Nope. Stay there. You’re on clean-up duty after I get you washed up.”

You blink up at her, dazed and confused. “Washed up?”

She smirks and leans down, kissing you slow and sweet. “Baby, you’re all messy. Can’t have my girl falling asleep all sticky and ruined.”

You blush, squirming under her teasing tone, but you don’t argue when she scoops you up into her arms like you weigh nothing.

You squeak, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Maya! Put me down!”

She just laughs, deep and wicked, and carries you toward the bathroom.

“Not a chance, baby. You’re all mine to take care of now.”

~

The light is low, warm. The air smells like her shampoo and skin and safety.

Maya sets you down on the counter, grabbing a fluffy white towel from the rack.

She wets it under the tap and then turns back to you, standing between your legs, nothing but adoration in her eyes.

She’s so gentle. Wiping your skin clean, slow and careful, whispering little nonsense under her breath.

“So good for me.”

“So fucking beautiful.”

“My best girl.”

You bite your lip, heart aching at the tenderness of it.

She presses soft kisses to your knees, your thighs, the inside of your wrists as she works, like she can’t not touch you, not love you even in the smallest ways.

“There,” she says, kissing your forehead. “All clean. All mine.”

You’re blinking back tears now, overwhelmed, exhausted, and feeling so loved.

She notices immediately, cradling your face in her hands. “Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”

You try to speak, to say nothing, I’m fine, it’s stupid,but the words knot in your throat.

And then?

You break.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

Followed by another.

And another.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified, turning your head like you can hide from her.

But Maya’s already pulling you into her chest, arms wrapping tight around you, one hand cradling the back of your head.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, rocking you gently. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

You look up at her, sniffling. “Just love you,” you croak.

Maya’s smile is devastating.

She scoops you back into her arms, carrying you bridal style back to the bed.

“Love you too baby,” she murmurs.

You’re curled up together under the fresh sheets now, your body tucked against hers, her hand stroking lazy patterns across your back. You’re so sleepy you’re slurring your words, every blink getting heavier.

Maya kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple, like she can’t stop loving you, even in sleep. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she whispers into your hair.

You mumble something incoherent but happy against her chest.

She smiles, huge and soft and wrecked, and holds you tighter. “Night baby,” she murmurs again, like a lullaby.

And you fall asleep like that. Safe, loved, hers.

~

The studio was humming in that particular way it did before big meetings, an electric buzz threaded with coffee and tension. In the boardroom, the team had already gathered, scattering papers, coffee cups, and open laptops across the table like the aftermath of a tiny storm.

Matt paced back and forth along the window, running a hand through his hair every few minutes, mumbling through final points under his breath. Every third step he juggled his phone and a stress ball, managing to forget he was holding one half the time.

Sal was sprawled in one of the chairs, tipping precariously backward on two legs, popping gummy bears into his mouth with the air of a man watching a slow-motion car crash he had no plans to stop. His oxfords squeaked every time he adjusted, but no one commented anymore.

Quinn perched on the edge of the table, scrolling through her iPad with quick, efficient flicks of her fingers, occasionally plucking binder clips from the clutter and stacking them into a tiny, precarious tower.

And then there was Maya.

Maya Mason in all her casually disheveled, absurdly expensive glory. She lounged in a chair, stretched out with one boot propped on the table’s edge, slouching like a woman who owned the building but hadn’t decided if she was bored with it yet.

Today’s look was pure Maya: streetwear chaos dressed up with a fortune’s worth of quiet branding. She wore an oversized Balenciaga denim jacket, the kind that slouched just so off one shoulder to reveal a threadbare Amiri tee underneath, black and loose and soft against her skin. Her cargo pants were black, loose, low on her hips like an afterthought, and scuffed Rick Owens boots were laced halfway, heavy and lived-in.

A jumble of delicate gold chains swung lazily around her neck as she leaned back, gum snapping quietly between her teeth. On her wrist, the slim glint of a Cartier bracelet caught the light when she toyed with the Montblanc pen in her hand, rolling it between her fingers like she had all the time in the world.

She looked every bit the reason Olivia Hartley had signed with Continental instead of Warner Brothers.

Quinn flicked her gaze up and smirked. “Think you can behave today?” she asked.

Maya quirked an eyebrow without lifting her head. “Define behave.”

Matt shook his head, shooting a look toward the door. “Let’s not add another clause to the HR manual, okay?”

“Not my fault,” she said with a lazy shrug. “Some of us have natural talents.”

Matt checked his watch. “Where’s Y/N?”

Maya’s hand went into the pocket of her jacket without thinking, pulling out her phone, checking it like she hadn’t already ten times. She tried to look casual about it.

“Tied up with Ari Aster,” she said, tossing the phone back down with a clatter. “Probably gutting some poor bastard’s dreams.”

Quinn grinned. “Our horror queen.”

“Fashionably late,” Sal murmured.

The door swung open.

Everyone turned to watch Olivia Hartley stroll in like she owned the place.

Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, black boots clicking against the floor, sunglasses still on despite the dying afternoon light. She was smiling, lazy, confident, like the cat who had eaten the canary and demanded dessert.

Her gaze swept the room, brushing over you, Sal, Matt and Quinn, landing squarely on Maya.

She smiled wider. “Good to see you again, Mason,” she purred, tugging her sunglasses off and tossing them onto the table.

Maya sat up a little straighter, boots dropping to the floor with a quiet thud. She offered a polite smile, the professional kind with no teeth, and inclined her head.

“Olivia,” she said. “Congrats again on signing.”

“Wouldn’t have happened without you,” Olivia said, breezing closer, her voice low and flirtatious, like it was just the two of them in the room. She perched in the chair at the head of the table, angling her body toward Maya like gravity itself demanded it.

Maya stayed still, composed.

“You know,” Olivia said, reaching out to flick a nonexistent piece of lint from Maya’s sleeve, “I always believe in rewarding good partners.”

Matt looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Sal was smirking openly now, elbowing Quinn, who just shook her head.

Maya smiled again and leaned back just out of reach. “I’m just here to make good movies,” she said smoothly.

Olivia tilted her head, studying her. “And have a little fun along the way?”

The tension twisted tighter.

Everyone could feel it, the line being pulled taut, the way Olivia was pushing, assuming that same flirtatious dynamic still existed now that the ink was dry. She had no idea. Not yet.

The door swung open again but this time you walked in. And the air in the room shifted once more. Black heels clicking against the floor, black silk hugging every perfect, devastating line of your body, red lipstick sharp as a blade, hair smooth and tucked behind one ear.

You didn’t look at Olivia, didn’t even see her. You peeled off your sunglasses slowly, lazily, like you had all the time in the world, and slid them into your clutch.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, voice warm and unbothered, like you hadn’t just made the entire room your stage. “Had a client meeting with Ari.”

You slid into the seat beside Maya, the one Olivia had been half-reaching for without realizing it, and leaned in casually, brushing a kiss against Maya’s cheek.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, soft and low, like you were the only two people in the world. “How’d your meeting with Pedro go?”

Maya practically melted, her smile wrecked and radiant, her hand finding your knee under the table instinctively.

“Good,” she replied fondly.

You settled back in your seat, crossing your legs, nails tapping lazily against the polished wood. Only then did you glance at Olivia.

Olivia’s face had gone tight, polite.

Because in that moment she understood that Maya wasn’t hers to charm, Maya had never been hers to win. She had been yours the whole time.

And now?

You weren’t hiding it anymore.

[laduenadelswing]

Ex Boyfriend Simon x Reader

Part one

Part two

"One day I will marry you," the informant, Arek, slurred, his voice oozing through the comms. Simon's blood ran cold. The words, the exact same words he'd whispered to her, laced with every ounce of his truth, his hope. He remembered the feeling of her soft hair against his cheek, the quiet sigh of contentment as she’d murmured, “I can’t wait to become Mrs. Simon Riley. Fuck I love you Simon.“ That memory was a knife twisting in the wound of her absence.

He waited, every muscle in his body rigid, for her reaction. For the flinch, the subtle sign of discomfort, the tell-tale hesitation that would betray her true feelings. He needed it. Needed to know this was a charade, a means to an end, anything but genuine.

Then she smiled. A soft, almost tender smile. And the words, light as a feather, yet heavier than any blow, drifted through the comms. "I would love to."

The world tilted. The air in the observation van grew thick, suffocating. Price swore under his breath, Soap let out a strangled sound, and even Gaz looked away, unable to meet Simon's eyes. But Ghost saw none of it. He only saw her smile, heard her words, and the carefully constructed wall around his heart crumbled, leaving him exposed and bleeding.

No. It was impossible. It had to be. He’d searched for her, relentless, a ghost haunting his own life, convinced she’d been taken, forced, anything but willing. He’d replayed their last moments a thousand times, searching for a sign, a reason why she’d just… vanished. Ghosted him. And now, this.

His gloved hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white. The initial target, the informant, was irrelevant. Secondary. Because lying in that bed, next to that piece of trash, was his. And Ghost would burn the world down to get her back. Not just to extract her, but to fix her. To strip away whatever lies had been woven around her, to tear down the walls she'd built, and to mend the broken pieces of the woman he loved. Even if she didn't want to be fixed. Even if she no longer remembered the woman who'd once longed to be Mrs. Simon Riley. He would make her remember. He would make her his again.

The radio burst to life, cutting through the stunned silence in the van. "Price, Soap, Gaz, hold your positions. Do not engage the primary target." Ghost's voice, usually a low growl, was sharp, almost feral. "New objective: extraction. Minimal casualties to the building, maximum care for—" He paused, a flicker of something raw in his voice before he regained his composure. "—for the... collateral."

No one on the team needed it spelled out. They knew who the "collateral" was. The sudden shift in orders, the thinly veiled ferocity in Ghost’s tone, it spoke volumes. The informant, Arek, was no longer just an enemy. He was a pawn, and a dead man walking if he harmed a single hair on her head.

Soap, ever the empath, risked a glance at Ghost. The skull mask was an impenetrable barrier, but the set of his shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on his rifle, told a story of controlled, explosive fury. "Understood, Lieutenant," Soap replied, his own voice tight. He exchanged a knowing look with Gaz. This wasn't just a mission anymore. It was personal.

Inside the building, you felt the shift. The atmosphere, already tense with the knowledge of the 141's presence, crackled with a new, terrifying energy. Arek, oblivious to the change in command, tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer. "What's wrong, moy milyy?" he murmured, a confused frown on his face as he sensed the subtle shift in the air.

You didn't answer. Your gaze was fixed on the window, on the shadow that detached itself from the opposite building, moving with a silent, deadly purpose. It was Ghost. He wasn't waiting for orders to breach. He was coming for you.

A new voice, cold and precise, cut through the comms. "Breaching in 30 seconds. Soap, Gaz, provide covering fire. Price, secure the perimeter." This wasn't just a mission anymore. It was an execution. And you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that the man behind that mask would stop at nothing. Not until you were out of Arek’s grasp, and back in his. Even if it meant dragging you kicking and screaming from the life you’d chosen, or been forced into. The silence that had once defined your absence was about to be shattered by the thunder of his return.

The breach was instantaneous. A concussive blast ripped through the apartment door, splintering wood and sending a cloud of dust billowing into the room. Arek, startled, shoved you roughly, scrambling for the pistol on his bedside table.

But Ghost was faster.

He was a blur of tactical gear and contained fury, already across the threshold before the dust could settle. His movements were honed, brutal, a predator scenting its prey. Arek barely had time to register the towering figure before a gloved hand gripped his wrist, twisting, and the pistol clattered to the floor. A swift, brutal strike to the solar plexus doubled the Russian over, a wheezing gasp escaping him.

You scrambled back, pressing yourself against the cold wall, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a strange, morbid fascination. This wasn't the Simon you remembered, the man who’d held you close and whispered sweet nothings. This was Ghost, unleashed.

He didn't spare Arek a second glance once the man was incapacitated. His head snapped towards you, those shadowed eyes behind the mask burning with an intensity that made you tremble. There was no warmth, no recognition of the past. Only a chilling, singular focus.

"On your feet," he barked, his voice devoid of emotion, yet radiating an undeniable command. He didn't offer a hand, didn't soften his posture. He simply stood there, a formidable, unyielding presence.

Before you could fully process his words, Soap and Gaz were in the room, their weapons up, surveying the scene. Price's voice, calm and steady, came over the comms. "Room clear. Perimeter secure. Package acquired." The word "package" hung in the air, cold and impersonal, and you felt a fresh wave of despair. You weren't a person, not to them. Just an asset, a complication in their mission.

Ghost never took his eyes off you. "Move," he ordered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. He gestured with his rifle towards the shattered doorway. You pushed yourself away from the wall, your legs feeling weak, and stumbled forward.

As you passed Arek, slumped and groaning on the floor, Ghost nudged him with the toe of his boot. "Heard you had plans," he said, his voice laced with venom. "Guess those are off the table."

He didn't wait for a response, pushing you gently, but firmly, out of the room. The cold night air hit you, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a strange sense of relief. You were out. But as Ghost’s imposing figure moved to flank you, you knew this was only the beginning. The silent hunt was over. The extraction had begun. And the real reckoning, with the ghost you had tried to escape, was only just beginning.

Ghost looked at you, his eyes scanning you, looking for imperfections. „Mrs Riley….“

[revelboo]

I NEED A FULL FIC OF GIVE UP/GIVE IN NOW. JUST THE WAY YOU WRITE MEGATRON IS SO GOOD AND HOW HE IS WITH THE READER BECAUSE OF HIS GUILT BUT ALSO HOW HES GROWN AS A BOT. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I NEED THE NECT CHAPTER ATLEAST PLEASE.

Give Up/Give In Pt 6

TF Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Rotors humming, he tracks the minivan back to the Malto’s, never letting it out of his sight even as he sweeps the sky around him for threats. With the Seekers ramping up their attacks, he can’t risk an ambush now. And he can’t figure out Starscream’s game. Bold attacks had never really been his style unless he was sure of victory. These strikes feel more like probing, quickly lashing out to try and cause maximum damage and then warping away. Over and over. Always near human settlements-

• Leaning your forehead against the cool glass, you track that silver aircraft. Even though the fact that he’s following, watching, should probably make you uneasy, you just feel safe. He’d saved you when he hasn’t had to. Heard you and reached out a massive, but so gentle hand. Taken you to help. None of that was really his responsibility, so why had he? You’ve heard the stories of the former warlord. Everyone had. Stories that painted him as a monster, but you can’t convince yourself that this is the same Megatron. It can’t be, those big hands were far too gentle.

• Always near human settlements where the fight will inevitably cause collateral damage and maybe fatalities. Primus. Like what had almost happened to his little ward below with the Malto’s. This isn’t about finding a weakness, it’s about undermining human opinion of Cybertronians. Specifically him. A bid to drive a rift between him and the Autobots, then? Circling lower as the van pulls into the driveway near the house, he transforms as he lands. Sees you leaning on the van’s door, staring up at him with wide eyes as the wind stirred from his rotors whips your hair.

• He’s bigger than you remember as he crouches as if aware of how massive he is and trying to make himself appear less threatening. Even shifting the arm with that big cannon attached so it’s slightly behind him as he holds out the other hand to offer you a single servo. And you’re aware of Dorothy glancing from him to you and back, lips pressing into a thin line like she’s trying to not smile. “Here, little one,” he says and that deep, faintly accented voice strokes over you and calms you, lets you rest a hand on that big servo. Moving slowly forward so you don’t pull at your stitches as you crane your neck. Biting your bottom lip, you shiver as he curls another servo around your shoulders, encouraging you closer.

• Primus, you’re tiny. Dorothy is no bigger, but she never felt so fragile, her attitude and presence her armor to make her seem much bigger. But you? Certainly no warrior as you look up at him with uncertain eyes, but at least there’s no fear there. Stumbling a bit and clinging to his servo as Dorothy starts forward and relaxes seeing that he has you. “I wanted to thank you,” you say and he’d almost forgotten how soft that voice is even as his spark twists. Thank him? Your life had only been in danger because of him. “For saving me.”

• “I shouldn’t have let Starscream lure me into a fight near humans,” he says, deep voice lowering into almost a growl. That tone should scare you, but it’s not directed at you and Alex and Dorothy don’t seem worried. Their calm helping you relax, convincing you that you are safe with him. His servo flexes slightly where you’re leaning on it, warm against your skin.

• Jaw working, he cups his other hand around you. Dorothy would put herself in his hand to be lifted, but you hesitate before shifting your weight, letting him carefully pick you up. Can feel Dorothy watching him, can almost feel her knowing smile and he’s sure she’ll have questions later. His servos close loosely around you, feeling your heart beating against him as he stays crouched, unsure if he can straighten without scaring you. And knowing how undeserved your gratitude is, he can’t say what he wants with the Malto’s right there watching him, so he switches to Cybertronian. “I’ll be your shield, little one. And your blade should you need it.” Your protector to repay the debt owed. Your head tips slightly, smiling uncertainly at him because you can’t understand, but that’s okay. He’ll show you.

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[chthonion]

I just wanted to say that reading The Harrowing has been legitimately therapeutic for me and has helped me see/make adjustments to be Mentally Ill/Emotionally Unhealthy thought patterns. sometimes I will do/think something and then Harrowing!Frodo or Finrod or Annatar will pop up in my mind and be like. no. eat a cookie and put on some comfy clothes and go talk to your friends about how you’re feeling. you don’t have to be ruled by Trauma Brain and it is both okay and necessary to ask for help.

and okay, typing it out does make it seem maybe still a little Mentally Ill of me but. I thought you might appreciate knowing that you have made a Genuine Difference in my life and I’m endlessly grateful for the absolutely stunning behemoth of a story you are gifting us all with.

This really means a lot to me, and makes me very happy. ❤️ Navigating Trauma Brain is hard! If a thing I did has given someone extra tools for doing it then that is one of the best things I could possibly accomplish.

Sometimes people leave comments on the Harrowing along the lines of "Wow reading this chapter felt like going to a therapy session and now I am appropriately exhausted." My spouse jokes that the Harrowing IS a therapy session, which I am conducting on myself, and everyone else is collateral damage. Narrative can be a very, very powerful thing, and we joke in the comments about how Annatar's a dumbass, but Annatar is also doing us a public service: his brain has like ten unhealthy thought patterns turned up to their absolute maximum at all times, so that we can look at them and go "Wow. When you put it like that, my manifestation of that thought pattern is maybe not ideal."

On the downside that is actually an upside, I can no longer say anything self-defeating without a solid chance that my spouse will look me dead in the eye and go "Okay, Annatar."

Which, for the record, is very hard to argue with.

[glow-wine]

I am incoherent tonight, but ... Has anybody discussed the parallels between Louis betraying Lestat in Season 1 and Armand betraying Louis in Season 2? There are similarities, for example that both play the happy loving boyfriend in the time leading up to the carnage, that in both cases someone else is the mastermind and driving force behind the plan (Claudia, Santiago), and both Louis and Armand commit to it, but have a change of heart at the last moment and save/spare their BF's life after all. There's always collateral damage. Both Claudia and Santiago go for maximum drama and theatrics with costumes and silly wigs. There are differences, too, and I think the most important one concerns Louis and Armand's respective motives ... I struggle to put this succinctly, but idk ... Louis agrees to Claudia's plan because he needs change and independence, while Armand accepts Santiago's plan because those same things scare him; he'd rather stay in his familiar environment, even in a demoted position, than go off into an uncertain future with Louis, who he fears might end up leaving him. Something about how Louis chooses freedom, Armand chooses stability. The same wrong choice for such different reasons, or something? THERAPY COULD HAVE PREVENTED ALL OF THIS.

I always get ambitious thoughts like this during the day, when I am busy, and in the evening when I have time to think and write them down, my tired brain hides all the good words and won't tell me how to construct an argument. Stupid brain. :(

[axl-ion]

When it comes to missions in trios, the Offense classes go all together when the Administrator doesn't care about the collateral damage as long as the mission is successful.

When the goal of the mission IS the collateral damage it's Pyro, Soldier and Demoman.

When the mission must be maximum stealth, it's usually either just Spy and Sniper, but sometimes Scout gets involved too, depends purely on how much fucking around needs to be done.

Medic used to go on stealth missions, but he tumbled so bad a couple times, he is prohibited.

Engineer and Heavy team up for "diplomatic" missions (Heavy is ready to actually do the diplomacy, even tho he knows he's there just to be a scary big guy).

[mariacallous]

Ukraine faces a precarious future amid waning Western support. The immediate peril comes from the 2024 US presidential election, but the fundamental problem has been the failure of Europe to commit to the defeat of Putin’s invasion.

The new NATO Secretary General, Mark Rutte, lost no time in visiting Kyiv after he assumed office, where he ‘pledged continued support for Ukraine in its war with Russia’. Doubtless his words were sincerely intended, but he knows there are serious political headwinds across Europe and the US.

Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky senses this too as he briefs his ‘Victory Plan’ around European capitals following a mixed reception in Washington.

The forthcoming presidential election in the US represents the point of maximum danger. A win by Donald Trump could see him placing a phone call to Russian President Vladimir Putin as early as 6 November. Any such call would set expectations of a negotiated settlement, with discussions possibly beginning in the early months of 2025. 

Nobody should want this war of ‘meat grinder’ savagery to continue a day longer than necessary. However, Zelensky would have much to fear from a deal negotiated by Trump. The 2020 Doha Accords with the Afghan Taliban have been described as the worst diplomatic agreement since Munich in 1938. Fortunately, Trump was prevented from reaching a similarly disastrous deal with Kim Jong-un of North Korea. 

In any such deal, Zelensky would be unlikely to secure the recovery of Crimea and the Donbas, reparations for the massive damage to his country, war crimes trials or membership of NATO. He might be able to bargain the Kursk salient in return for control of the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant. But, without NATO membership and its Article 5 guarantee, there would be nothing to stop Putin from continuing the war after a couple of years of recovery and rearmament. 

For Europe, too, there would be peril. Both Georgia and Moldova look particularly fragile and vulnerable to Russian active measures or hybrid warfare. Even the Baltics would be justifiably nervous, in spite of their NATO status.

However, it would be misleading to blame everything on Trump. There have been plenty of prior indications of trouble ahead.

US support has always been too little, too late. Given the sheer scale of Washington’s military support this might sound absurd, but President Joe Biden’s hesitancy in allowing Storm Shadow missiles to be used against targets inside Russia is indicative of a general trend. As the head of a global superpower, Biden has always had one eye on ensuring that the war does not get out of hand and become nuclear. The result has been that Ukraine feels it has been given enough not to lose but not enough to win. 

In Europe the support has been varied. Some countries, such as the Baltics, the Scandinavian states, the UK and Poland, have done better than others. Hungary has been hostile, and may soon be joined by Slovakia and Austria. Germany has provided the most weapons but has been politically unreliable. Its refusal to supply Taurus missiles and its public debate about reducing its defence budget have sent all the wrong messages. German companies continue to retain significant interests in Russia, and the advance of Alternative for Germany in elections in Thuringia, Saxony and Brandenburg reminded Chancellor Olaf Scholz that there is little support for the war in Eastern Germany. President Emmanuel Macron of France, having been mercurial about Ukraine from the outset, received a similar jolt from the far left and far right in legislative elections in July. 

The most visible sign of a failure of collective determination to defeat Russia was the decision not to seize Russian financial assets frozen in Western banks, but instead to use them as collateral to raise a much smaller loan. Yes, there would have been a theoretical risk of undermining faith in the Western-dominated financial system, but few countries are yet ready to entrust their savings to Chinese or Indian banks. Furthermore, it would have sent a message to Putin not to invade other countries. 

Meanwhile, the crisis in the Middle East has diverted foreign policy and public attention. In Iraq and Afghanistan 20 years ago, the West demonstrated that it does not have the policy bandwidth to cope with two simultaneous campaigns. The events since 7 October 2023 have done untold damage to Ukraine’s prospects and to the West’s much-vaunted rules-based international order.

A newly elected President Trump would rightly claim that, once again, the US has shouldered the main burden of Western interests with inadequate support from its NATO allies. He would point (correctly again) to the mounting military pressure on Ukraine, its difficulties in replacing front-line soldiers, and the effects on global food and fuel prices. With the war raging in the Levant, he would refer to the US being over-extended once again in ‘forever wars’.

A newly elected President Kamala Harris could be expected to follow the path trodden by Biden. She would inherit his caution at unduly provoking Putin and his reticence about Ukraine joining NATO. Furthermore, her freedom to supply Ukraine with additional weaponry could be restricted by the make-up of the two houses of Congress. 

There could be a third outcome to the election: a Harris victory that is contested by Trump. In such circumstances, we could see an absence of US foreign policy for a period of weeks or months. 

Barring a mutiny by Russian forces or a crisis in Moscow, the prospects for Ukraine (and therefore Europe) look grim. The irony is that Putin would claim victory in spite of his campaign having been a costly disaster.

What would a betrayed Ukraine look like? At least it would retain some 82% of its territory. A guilty West would doubtless provide aid to rebuild infrastructure. It might be given a pathway to eventual EU membership (unless that option had been bargained away at the negotiating table), but joining the Western club may have lost its appeal at that point. Ukraine’s corrupt oligarchs would re-emerge from hibernation. The old post-Soviet cynicism would replace the youthful enthusiasm of the Maidan generation. There would be antagonism towards those returning from abroad after avoiding the fight, and – of course – thousands of grieving families.

This should have been Europe’s war to manage. In spite of decades of discussion about European defence, it proved too convenient to rely on US largesse. This made Europe a prisoner of US electoral factors. It also caused Europe to shirk the difficult decisions that helping win the war entailed: the big increases in defence expenditure, the 24-hour working in ammunition factories, the hikes in food and energy costs and the political risks such as seizing frozen assets. What remains now for Europe is to secure a place at the negotiating table and to argue for NATO membership for Ukraine as part of any settlement.

Failing that, the West will have years to repent the betrayal of the courageous Ukrainians, whose only crime was their wish to join the Western democratic order.

[sobredunia]

The lares are Very Normal about PM!Uzomi

Bonus:

Next ->

Masterpost

[virgilmoira]

Whiteboard shenanigans (and also my own personal drawings from Medibang on last one) from today's stream! Ty for joinin' y'all :D

Drawings are from me, my friend Tat, and @sobredunia the silly :)

Oh god tagging this will be hard.....

[unchaineddragon25]

The Great Beings are Dumbasses

I was reading on Biosector01, and I found the section on the Nova Blast ability of Toa.

"An average Toa's Nova Blast would encompass an area larger than the city of Metru Nui.[8] Safeguards within the Great Spirit Robot likely prevented Nova Blasts from causing collateral damage in other domes; a Nova Blast used outside the Great Spirit Robot can be powerful enough to wipe out all life on a planet or even destroy a planet entirely.[9] Due to its destructive power, Toa only use this ability rarely, as a last resort."

The idea of a single Toa being able to create a blast slightly larger than the diameter of Metru Nui seemed okay for a Toa's maximum output. That's only 50 miles in diameter with a 25 mile radius. Not too much, but still a terrifying feat.

But creating a wide-spread series of elemental warriors with planet-busting potential - the very thing that the Great Beings created Mata Nui to undo - is hands down the dumbest goddamn thing in the Bionicle mythos. I know that the Great Beings are just scientists who ruled over the planet of Spherus Magna and weren't perfect, but this shows how wildly idiotic they were and is the very definition of intelligence and wisdom being separate things. My god. And the Makuta were even stronger than them! Great job, assholes! You're trying to undo the destruction of a planet and made a whole bunch of beings who can undo 100,000 fucking years worth of work.

And that's my Ted Talk on why the Great Beings were absolutely the biggest dumbasses in Bionicle.

[bird-inacage]

Only Friends: Can Ray be Redeemed? Is Sand the Solution?

I know Ray has upset a lot of people in Episode 8. I do find it really fascinating how quickly the tide has turned on him, especially when you compare his actions to those of our villains of the first arc: Boston and Top. Perhaps I'm in the minority, but I still choose to believe that Ray does care. He's hugely misguided but not heartless.

Let me firstly preface that none of what I'm about to say excuses Ray's behaviour but is an attempt to unpack why I still hold hope.

A child lost with no anchor

Ray is emotionally immature (which as cliché as it sounds, is a direct product of his upbringing - or lack thereof). He largely operates on basic needs, as a child would: 'I want. I need'. It's all based on serving the self. He seems wildly incapable of thinking very far beyond that. Like a child, he can barely take care of himself, let alone anyone else. He's pretty helpless on his own in a lot of respects. Most people grow out of this. Through knocks and hardship, we learn the world doesn't revolve around us and how to equip ourselves with healthy and appropriate means to navigate through life. Ray however, still seems to be stuck in his infantile box.

I often joke that Ray is a bit feral, but there is some truth to that. Ray's been left to his own devices for the majority of his life. So it's no surprise he's developed this 'me against the world' attitude which is volatile and defensive, but ultimately keeps him caged in said box.

These traits are abundantly apparent in his relationship with Mew. Ray is the vehicle for Mew's self-destruction, but all he sees is the exhilaration of having a 'partner in crime', someone to be in 'cahoots with'. Like a pair of naughty school kids getting into mischief, rather than an adult partnership. Ray is all about immediate gratification over long term fulfilment because (as children do), they don't possess the wisdom and experience to think ahead. Ray seems unable to grasp repercussions or consequences in his decision making. It's always act first, think second.

To put it simply, Ray hasn't been taught boundaries and how to respect them. He just gets criticised for crossing them which doesn’t help him learn. No one has had the patience to teach him why and how. To guide, to steer, to direct, to mentor. To educate rather than scold. Prevention rather than cure. As a result, everyone around Ray serves to clean up his messes rather than equip him with the ability to not create them in the first place. He falls into patterns of behaviour that no one has seriously attempted to break which has only amplified with adulthood. The longer those habits prevail, the harder they are to change.

Does Ray harbour ill-will or bad intent?

Is Ray the worst? In my opinion, no. (Not yet anyway - I might eat my words later, who knows). I've said this somewhere before but intent makes all the difference when judging someone's actions. Choosing to actively cause harm whilst being fully conscious of the impact versus triggering damage to occur as a symptom of your behaviour is vastly different. This is where Ray and Boston differ. Boston acts without remorse, he purposely and calculatingly makes choices that will cause the maximum degree of suffering. Whereas Ray's a loose cannon. He leaves a trail of destruction where he goes, due to a lack of control and means to channel how he feels in a constructive manner. Boston's victims are targets, whereas Ray's victims are collateral.

I don't think Ray means to purposely hurt or harm the people he cares about. Because in doing so, he'll push them away - which is precisely what he doesn't want. (Though saying that, Ray doesn't seem to give as much of a damn if it's people he isn't invested in, such as Top). Ray's world consists of what Ray needs. It's not that he doesn't care about a single person besides himself, he's just so wrapped up in his own needs to even gauge the bigger picture.

When others do point out to Ray that he's hurt them, he does tend to look guilty and taken aback, as if he's thinking, 'But I didn't know. No one told me. I had no idea my actions would cause you to be upset'. Painful levels of ignorance. But I also see a huge amount of internalised frustration. 'But why? Why didn't anyone explain this to me? How was I to know?'

Ray is capable of showing remorse, of displaying guilt. He's not cold-blooded. Anyone who can demonstrate compassion is capable of redemption. Ray is seen to be genuinely appreciative and grateful when people are good to him. He's fiercely protective over people he cares about. Ray was also willing to jump in when Sand gets a call from his mum being in trouble.

One thing I do have to stress is the difference in Ray's demeanour when he's severely drunk/high versus when he's sober. His addiction tends to amplify his most primal desires, his most 'childlike' traits. The uglier sides of Ray presented in their worst light, set to maximum. The raging tantrums, the absurd and unpredictable demands, an explosive and dangerous impulsiveness. People often refer to addiction as a form of sickness, which is worth noting when the person under scrutiny is effectively not well.

Learning by Example

Now let's talk about the huge importance of Sand in this equation.

Let me be clear - it's not Sand's responsibility to teach Ray how to grow up or behave more like a functioning adult. It's neither his duty to be a stand-in parent or caretaker. The unfortunate truth is that Ray doesn't have anyone in his life who plays that role. Who is the voice of reason. To keep him on the straight and narrow. In order to actually incite change, Ray needs to be receptive to whoever is trying to help him. We've seen he doesn't respond particularly well to the majority of people in his life. He's defensive with his father, his friends, deflective and pandering with Mew. The only person he's seen to show any signs of actually listening to and registering is Sand.

Whilst it's not fair on Sand, he might be the only person who has any real chance of encouraging healthy and positive growth in Ray. Because Sand loves Ray, he genuinely wants to see improvement for Ray's own good. I don't think it's a coincidence that we tend to see Ray's more endearing side when he's with Sand. His childlike qualities take on a sweeter, more harmless, playful tone.

He needs someone with an almost parental level of unconditional love to not give up on him, where others have thrown in the towel. Ray's character is essentially a personified cry for help. His mother was unable to cope. His father seems chronically exasperated and far too busy to actually be present. His friends have always seen him as bothersome and too much of a handful.

I personally don't want to write Ray off as a lost cause. Ironically, Sand may be the saviour he didn't ask for, but the one he really needs. Someone who can save him from himself.

[oldguardleatherdog]

"How now shall we live?"

First steps towards an effective resistance.

What was good and true and right the day before the election remains good and true and right today, and no mass delusion or wrong choice by a misguided and ill-informed majority changes that truth.

A revival of the Resistance movement is starting to stir online and in the real world; resolve is beginning to coalesce among people of goodwill. I would favor an approach designed to prevent the POS from taking office at all, but since Kamala's come out in favor of a boring old peaceful transition (dang it!), a different strategy is called for.

The best ideas I've seen are variations on finding ways to thwart the POS and his gang of idiots at every turn using every tool we have available to us, and I think that’s going to be our way forward.

But for us to have a chance at effective resistance at scale, resolve and energy and a united effort on the LGBTQ+ side and other parts of our “coalition of the good” will be required in abundance to sustain long-term resistance and disruption of the plans and actions of this Administration that are clearly designed to injure and harm us in a multitude of ways; many of us have been put on notice that we’re targets, and the level of fear and uncertainty of our safety is off the charts – something America has not had to contend with in hundreds of years.

What could an effective, robust, muscular resistance look like in our current moment? Well, I have thoughts. Stay with me here, I have specifics to lay out for you, but there are some words to climb - beautiful words, all the best words, strong men with tears in their eyes come to me and say - (continued after the jump)

It begins with individual resolve, and continues by engaging with others. This is not the time to isolate, to stay solo: we need to connect. No self-lockdowns or heads in the sand or hiding under the covers!

It's not important to have a fully fleshed-out game plan at this point. It's important that we view things as they are and discern the next right thing to do. We need to make sure that we walk in the light, that we stay aligned with what we know is right. If we allow darkness or corrupt motives into what we do, we will fail. (This is getting slightly on the woo-woo side of things, but I view it as fundamental to our success.)

Light is a funny thing: it dispels darkness, it provides safety, it guides us through rough waters and difficult pathways, but in concentrated form it can be a laser that slices someone's arm off, and it can give you skin cancer if you're outdoors without sunscreen.

Lucifer, after all, is the Angel of Light, as his name in Latin will tell you - and this activist and spiritual warrior of four decades will tell you that each step we take needs to be effective, morally justifiable, and targeted so that collateral damage is minimized. MAGAs bludgeon with indiscriminate blunderbusses and misshapen cudgels; we wield stilettos, trip wires, keenly aimed photon grenades into unprotected garbage vents.

I am convinced that we will endure, survive, even thrive, and in the end prevail.

This will be the most difficult effort of our lives to date, individually and collectively, and the stakes could not be higher.

We do not yet know the shape and form of the perils in store. What is already apparent, though, is the wanton cruelty and brazen sadism of our enemies now unfurled at full mast, as the vile stench of the devious, depraved methods they’re devising to inflict maximum misery wafts towards us.

They have not been shy or coy in communicating their plans and intentions, and they’ve been gleefully bragging about the methods, implements, tools, and techniques they intend to employ to bring their dark and nihilistic vision into reality.

They are, almost literally, and with the full-throated exhortations of their Christian Nationalist religious auxiliaries and avatars and “prophets,” bringing Armageddon from the fever dreams of St. John out of antiquity and into our real world. For the first time since September 11th, humanity will encounter pure unadulterated evil in ways we can see, hear, feel, taste, smell, made corporeal, physical, inescapable, and we will have to contend with it face to face.

Right now, I'm not advocating leaving the country, but our trans friends in particular will need to have resources and safe pathways to move to sanctuary cities and states. We need to throw our support behind organizations that can effectively and responsibly move people out of danger, and if those orgs don't exist, we need to create them.

I'd intended to retire from activism post-election, but I've changed my plans. I'm here for the long haul.

We are not fools. We know what we see. We know the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, what destroys and what uplifts.

And when we behave accordingly, with smarts and courage and clarity of intent and spirit, we can from time to time do some real good in this world.

Of course, progress comes in fits and starts, and this is a scary time no matter how grown-up we are, but we've got to be brave enough to live and to fight for what’s right, even when all we can see is darkness.

Remember, you are not alone, and we are finding ways to support you when you reach out.

~~~

All these words, Animal, I hear you saying. All these lofty thoughts, all this cheerleading, and you haven’t given us one damn thing to do about this. Do you actually have a plan? Or even a concept of a plan?

Well…the first thing to do is engage.

Staying solo won't help. Human contact is key right now, for the cause, and for our own spirits. Do not isolate.

There are already gatherings and organizations ramping up and calls for zoom meetups and in-person actions. Monitor your socials, keep your eyes and ears open, and you will find a place or places where your help will be uniquely well fitted.

Look at your communities, the people and places that make up the fabric of your daily life and walk, and you will find many dynamic and determined people from all backgrounds and age groups who are ready to do something now.

You may want to consider starting something yourself, first as a mutual encouragement effort among friends, and then as the weeks go by and you see what's coming down the pike, develop counter-actions with the group you've got. Feel free to reach out to me for ideas and advice and encouragement and shoulder to cry on and everything and anything you can imagine. I'm not going anywhere.

~~~

I’ve been thinking about a time many years ago, when I was a young hotheaded activist in local politics here in San Francisco, and a friend said something that rewrote my world:

I was pissed off after our election for Mayor went the wrong way - the former police chief beat the progressive incumbent after running on an anti-gay platform during the height of AIDS.

I was riding with a friend of mine, older than me and definitely wiser, who was a longtime student at the San Francisco Zen Center (perhaps an aspirant or acolyte? He lived there and was more than a novice for sure).

As I growled and seethed in the passenger seat, my friend said to me, quietly and calmly,

“Ram Dass had an expression for moments like these: ‘How now shall we live?’”

I was dumbstruck. Just like that, the scales fell and I got it.

To answer the challenge of “How now shall we live?” is to open our eyes with maximum clarity, in the light of day, and see with truth and courage the reality we see around us in this moment, unvarnished, unobstructed, uncompromising, to take a comprehensive and authentic look at and accounting of our world as it is -

and based on the truth of what we see, do the next right thing – it could be a small act or a large task, affecting just one person or situation or many, to make contact with someone or to repair a broken hinge or to run for office, it will have a million variations but as you think on this and give it focus your next right task will present itself to you, unique to you.

And when that task is done, that thing accomplished, repeat the process and do the next right thing, and the next one, and the next right thing after that, until it becomes second nature, it becomes part of your daily walk through life.

I have seen the positive effects of this approach in my own life and in the lives of others, and I’m not here to lie to you. It’s simple, it’s clear, it’s grounded in our true nature, and it yields positive results that make a tangible difference soon enough that you can begin to trust the process and build on your results.

I intend to make this approach my primary tool for effective resistance and sustained activism against this rotten, misbegotten Administration, and I hope that others will take all or part of this approach and integrate it into their own work as individuals and in their group efforts as well. It’s effective, it’s not complicated, and it gets results.

In this way, we can begin to make things right, and I am convinced that by doing the next right thing, consistently, with focus and intention, with care and clear intent, with enough of us using this approach and taking it to heart, we will drive back, disrupt, thwart, spoil, deflect, defang and defeat the plans and intentions of The Liar Donald Trump and his pack of slavering billionaires, enablers, enforcers, worshippers, and followers.

This fight is worth fighting. They do not have the right to disrupt our lives and our families and our freedom to live as we see fit, and there is nothing about supporting a victorious politician that grants them that power or the license to come waltzing in, order us around, and haul us off to some internment camp built by their construction cronies for kickbacks. ~~~ How now shall we live?

We shall live in ways and acts that reflect our true nature, which rise from the best in each of us.

We shall live in ways and acts that bring positive effects to our lives and the lives of others, that protect the vulnerable, the sick and the disabled,

that rebuke and repel the presence and actions of those who want to injure us, imprison us, strip us of our rights and dignity and humanity,

that renew and restore the basic decency and goodness of heart that has been missing from too many of us for too long.

We shall live with our heads held high, with strength and purpose and focus, with clear intent and forward motion and love for ourselves and for each other and for our world,

We shall live with joy in the present and real hope for the future.

And here, and now, we shall not lose heart.

We are brave enough and strong enough to fight for what we treasure in this world.

We know what matters. We know what to do.

We will fight, and we will win.

Don’t forget to breathe!

[reasonandempathy]

How does universal healthcare contribute to lower car insurance? Your post doesn't explain that, and I'm interested.

In the US if you are hit by a car and sue the insurance company you can get them to pay for your medical bills as collateral damage from the accident, even if you have (or don't have) medical insurance yourself.

As such, in Germany (for example) where medical costs are drastically lower, since the potential exposure is much smaller than the premiums don't need to be anywhere near as expensive.

as an example: if you get hit by a car and break your leg in the US it can cost $17k to $35k. In Germany the average cost is $5,349, with a maximum price of $10,000. Considering it could cost 3.5x more to repair a broken leg in the US than the maximum amount possible in Germany (we are also ignoring additional costs from surgical complications in this instance, but rest assured that only makes the potential risk higher) it makes sense that they would need two, three, or four times as much in premiums to cover those costs.