#ft. goblin;;

[psivn]

IF P.A.N.D.O.R.A. NEVER HAPPENED:

AGENT NIGHTSHADE

There would've been no further mutation. No experimentation. No dismemberment. Nightshade; as a construct, would not exist. The identity of whomever took hold would've been just a speck of the man. In fact, he would've been every bit of the instinctual and carnal thoughts that are often attributed to the thoughts that our subconscious and unconscious mind tends to subdue. Dr. Naji Rosemonte's presence in the world would've been noted as the first of his peers to synthesize a compound capable of minor miracles; if it is to be qualitatively analyzed. A substrate capable of isolating illnesses for further treatment. A way to enrich our global health in crop maturation and harvesting. This means: little to no further genetic modification to remove parasites or evasive microorganisms. He'd continue to push for a greener option. Refusing his own personal desires for that of the whole. And yet, he still takes direction from his grandmother as she's all he has left.

AGENT GOBLIN

If you believe his emotional detachment and stunting is bad now, in this version of him, his father only pushed him to work harder and longer. Investing his time and energy in the things that make OSORNIO INDUSTRIES: UNITED more of a household name. His father rakes in all the glory while he reaps the benefits of labor. Some would agree that this is a fair compromise while others would see the lack of reward. Friendships don't last. Romance is truly dead. He truly becomes a human masking a robot only seeking production, performance, and perfection. Huber Osornio desires something in addition to all his success but it only makes him work harder to fill the void.

AGENT PSYNAUT

"I believe even the unfortunate deserve a place at the table with all the same benefits that I've been afforded my entire life." There is no such thing as telekinesis or the rage of Czernobog. He didn't almost lose someone close to him- twice. He doesn't know about performance fatigue nor evacuation protocols. In this light, he continued his family's philanthropic duties domestically and internationally and with sister taking leadership upon the loss of their father, Ji-Ho Geum launches the division that specifies in attaining and dispersing assistance and resources across the globe with a focus on underdeveloped infrastructures to help elevate their communities. He does the legwork. He is the boots on the ground. If it requires extra hands, he's a man that puts action to his promises.

BILIQUIS

̶ ̶A̶g̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶B̶i̶l̶i̶q̶u̶i̶s̶.̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶s̶s̶a̶n̶d̶r̶o̶ ̶G̶u̶i̶d̶r̶y̶.̶ ̶C̶z̶e̶r̶n̶o̶b̶o̶g̶.̶ ̶A̶s̶s̶a̶s̶s̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶F̶o̶r̶m̶e̶r̶ ̶T̶h̶i̶e̶f̶ ̶G̶u̶i̶l̶d̶ ̶M̶e̶m̶b̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶S̶t̶a̶t̶u̶s̶:̶ ̶U̶n̶k̶n̶o̶w̶n̶.̶

AGENT ROUSE

Those messy headlines never disappear. A twenty-eight year preservation never happens. Though the features still remain, he has lived his life in-and-out of the eye of resurging news articles and gossip columns. Those ancient forum posts still tick with regular updates and there are up-scaled and enhanced digital footprint cataloging the man's youth as he tried to simply make it with little. Rumors speculate that he's all sorts of things but he's moved from Miami to Las Vegas. Some of his best work can be seen from one of the stages and vary between audience viewership. Some features are mature. Some are for all audiences. If there was a pop-diva he favors, it's background dancing for [insert famous female artist] or teaching one of the youngsters the proper pole dancing techniques. He lives his life fast. Dangerous. And oh? Leonardo Franklin-Agusti married his ex-husband's distant cousin who helped him take down their family from the inside.

AGENT SOLARIS

"At ease, Soldier. I made a home, for myself. I've done well, if I say so, myself." Ever think about what it would be like to have the years stripped back from your life? To have grind so hard and now you get to breathe? As if the weight is lifted from your shoulders (or eyes)? Colonel Thomas Tyler retired from the Air Force with everything he intended. Some tried to encourage him to serve out four more years but he chose to call it. With no family to return to, he'd decided to relocate to beachfront in Virginia where he tends to his own garden and has picked up a side hustle, constructing and painting wooden figures and picture frames. Most is to keep his mind busy but truthfully? It's to release all those years of enduring some of the most stressful campaign's in his life. Perhaps he'd find love at this stage? Perhaps he'll keep his private life quiet? Who knows? It just may be that little boardwalk stroll with a lemonade that introduces him to his forever partner.

[esmeblaze]

Yeah

[fozzieosbourne]

This man ACTUALLY looks so good with the green filter not gonna lie

[gold-snek-hoe]

Finished my novella and, on Clare's advice, I'm putting it down for a month and coming back to it with fresh eyes. So in the meantime I sewed my King's Wife dress

[cannot-be-cyn]

this is the summary for the orv fic i am trying to write… huhuhu

[begaydodrughailsatan]

Imagining Scenarios in your mind to fall asleep is all fun and games until the fun stories get super sad all on there own and you just have to sit there and finish imagining the scene

[weirdraccoon]

MC *showing Tom around Diagon Alley for the first time*: That's my favorite shop. They got all the ice cream flavors you can imagine and they all taste good.

Tom: And that white building?

MC: That's Gringotts. But mommy and daddy are banned. Goblins hate us for some reason, so we let Ominis deal with them.

Tom: Oh, and that one?

MC: That's Flourish and Blotts. Do you want another book?

Tom: Sure. I want one about the Hunts. Dad was telling me about them yesterday before bed.

-meanwhile in Gringotts-

A poster of "Dangerous Wandholders" hangs warningly in the break room. Sebastian and MC Sallow's faces cover most of it, including a number of goblins' deaths at their hands.

Goblin banker: With some luck she will leave Diagon without causing troubles.

Goblin guard *looking at the witch with the boy*: I won't let her get near.

[junk-jester]

something something Green Goblin joke

"YOU'RE TOO LATE, SCRAPLET-MAN! DARK ENERGON WEED HAS BEEN LEGALIZED!"

[contradictivs]

🛌 okay but more younger kurjak antics w ryder... he's still weird and catcoded 💜

crawl into bed with him

In the short amount of time that he had spent with Kurjak, he had quickly learned to deal with the weirder things in stride. The way that the other spoke in one of the most blunt ways he had ever heard while, somehow, still remaining frustratingly vague. The insane sweet-tooth that would have put any normal person in a coma. The way that Kurjak was able to move around with barely any sound and give Ryder a heart attack every couple of hours. Maybe he would learn to be able to sense Kurjak when he decided to silently move around if they hung out a bit more.

Like he was learning to anticipate the other's more reckless behaviors. He was just in the middle of a learning curve.

Ryder probably would have jumped out of his skin at the sudden noise from the end of his bed if he were more awake. The dip of the mattress had a sudden spark of anxiety rushing through his chest. A sense of anxiety that quickly faded once he was able to make out Kurjak's face in the darkness before the other man was collapsing onto the mattress beside him. "I should put a bell on you," Ryder grumbled after a second, finally able to calm his heartbeat. The blonde rolled onto his side to consider what he could see of Kurjak in the dark even as his eyebrows scrunched together. "Like a cat."

[impiwimp]

[dark-twist-fairytales]

Awww, fuck yeah, dinosaurs!

[rastronomicals]

12:21 AM EST February 12, 2025:

Ty Segall - "5 Ft. Tall" From the album Freedom's Goblin (January, 26, 2018)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: Garage

[speedyseb]

TEXTING: DANTE Bash: Oh, behave. I'll pay. You know I have expensive tastes. Bash: Oh, is that so? And here I thought he was for the girls, but perhaps it was me that was the problem. Bash: Oh, you're a charmer. I'll take what I can get.

TEXTING: BASH Dante: Are you trying to flatter me into paying for this meal you've roped me into? Dante: He's not all that miserable. I've managed to coax a smile or two out of him. I secretly think he might quite like me, you know. Not that he'd ever admit it. Dante: So not to worry, darling, you're still my favourite miserable prat.

[kxsagi]

it’s may first! ^^ can i request a fic with bllk characters having cuteness aggression for the reader? maybe with isagi, nagi, sae, rin, and others?

“𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧(‘𝐭) 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭”

a/n: yesss i genuinely apologize if this came off as repetitive 😭

ft. isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, mikage reo, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, ness alexis, shidou ryusei, niko ikki, hiori yo

isagi yoichi

it starts with him thinking he’s normal. 

he’s like “yeah my girlfriend’s cute” all smiley and in love… until you do something heinous like wear his oversized jersey with messy hair and rub your sleepy eyes. 

next thing you know, isagi’s clutching a pillow, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to explode. 

“you’re so–AHHHH–I’M GONNA LOSE IT I SWEAR ON MY SOUL.” 

grabs you and buries his face into your neck while yelling into it like you just scored a hat trick. 

“stop being so cute it’s pissing me off!!!” 

his form of cuteness aggression is hugging you like a koala until your lungs collapse. 

nagi seishiro

says “meh” but he is screaming internally. 

you do anything mildly adorable, like kiss his cheek and walk away humming, and he just freezes. buffering. overheating. 

“ugh. i wanna squeeze you like a mochi. until you pop or something.” 

gently squishes your cheeks like he’s testing the elasticity of his favorite plush toy. 

he actually doesn’t know what to do with himself when you wear his hoodie. he lies face-down on the couch whispering “i’m gonna bite her.” 

and he does. softly. to your shoulder. out of love. 

itoshi sae

looks calm. he is not calm. 

“you’re doing it again.” 

you blink innocently. “doing what?” 

“looking like that. with your stupid little smile and your stupid cute face and–i can’t deal with this right now.” 

threatens to punt a chair across the room while pinching your cheeks violently (but lovingly). 

he does bite. it’s controlled. calculated. usually on your arm or your hip. 

tells you with a deadpan expression, “you make me want to chew cardboard.” 

you laugh. he sulks. “stop giggling. you’re making it worse.” 

itoshi rin

thinks he’s above it until you do something sickeningly soft. 

like holding a stray cat with a baby voice. or smiling in your sleep. or calling him “rinnie” in public. 

his whole body glitches. twitching eye. twitching jaw. 

“i’m going to bite you. i’m not kidding. i feel violent.” 

stares at you like you’ve committed crimes against his sanity. 

grabs your face and grumbles about how you should “come with a warning label.” 

sulks under a blanket after. sends you a text from the same room: “why are you so cute. this is my 13th reason.”

mikage reo

shameless. will say out loud in a crowded room: “you’re literally too cute. i’m gonna slam dunk you into a pillow and never let you out.” 

squishes your cheeks like they’re made of mochi, buries you in kisses, threatens to bite your nose. 

you trip over something and he’s like “oh my gosh–AHHH–you’re so cute when you’re clumsy i hate you i love you.” 

tells nagi “if she keeps being adorable i’ll explode into confetti and die smiling.” 

kisses you mid-sentence just to cope. he can’t handle your laugh. 

bachira meguru

LITERALLY growls. like a chihuahua. 

“ghhhHHH, baby stop, STOP i can’t take it–WHY ARE YOU SMILING LIKE THAT–” 

full-on vibrating with aggression and adoration. 

grabs you like you’re a teddy bear and spins you around because he has too much cute energy and it needs to come out somehow. 

you could yawn and he’d be like “NOOOOO, stop being cute it HURTS.” 

considers biting your thigh like a goblin. asks permission first. 

chigiri hyoma

the most composed about it… at first. 

you’re used to his little hums of “so pretty” or “you’re adorable.” 

but then you do something extra cute. like falling asleep while waiting for him to get home. 

and he’s like “… i could throw you across the room and then kiss you after.” 

will actually growl into a pillow and blush like a cartoon character. 

mutters “you’re so cute it pisses me off” while braiding your hair or painting your nails. 

refuses to elaborate. you just get a glare and a forehead kiss. 

karasu tabito

he thinks he’s soooo smooth and composed but the moment you giggle at one of his dumb jokes? 

he’s gripping the back of his neck like, “nah, cause you did that on purpose. you want me to die. admit it.” 

covers his face with his hoodie, groaning dramatically. 

“you’re cute in a way that makes me want to scream into traffic.” 

when you pout at him? immediate jaw-clench. physical pain. 

aggressively kisses your forehead like he’s trying to exorcise the cute out of you. 

tells you he’s gonna put you in a glass box so no one else can witness your evil adorableness. 

kaiser michael

he's the definition of “i’m gonna bite you out of love.” 

he gets a twitch in his eye when you do literally anything. 

you say “i missed you” in your soft little voice and he short circuits like, “i could throw you out the window and catch you just to kiss you again.” 

“why are you like this. why are you soft and cute and… ugh!!” 

flops face-down on your lap groaning into your thighs like you’re ruining his life. 

you do your hair in braids and he loses it. grabs your face. threatens to bite your ear. 

“you make me wanna bark. it’s humiliating.” 

ness alexis

the king of “i love you but i also want to scream into a wall” energy. 

he just folds every time you do something small and sweet like reaching for his hand or laughing at his dorky jokes. 

his knees buckle. he makes little squeaky noises. 

“you don’t understand. i physically cannot take this much cuteness in one person.” 

face in his hands, peeking through his fingers like you’re the sun and he’s a fragile victorian child. 

mumbles into your shoulder: “you make me wanna scream into a jar and throw it into the ocean.” 

shidou ryusei

he literally bites. you’ll be cuddling and he’ll chomp your shoulder like a gremlin. 

“you’re cute. shut up. i hate it. i wanna fight god.” 

will squeak like an animal when you do something gentle, like fixing his hoodie strings or brushing hair out of his face. 

he rolls around on the bed kicking his feet like a toddler on pixy sticks when you call him “baby.” 

“GHHHHH you make me wanna chew drywall and scream.” 

will look at you smiling and just… headbutt your shoulder in defeat. 

shidou.exe has stopped working due to excessive adorability. 

niko ikki

blushes. scowls. mutters death threats at the wall. 

literally goes red when you call him “handsome” or hold his pinky. 

he tries to stay cool, but he ends up pacing the room whispering, “i wanna throw her off the couch and wrap her in a blanket burrito.” 

makes this tiny frustrated growl like he’s trying to hold back a feral squeal. 

when you do something REALLY adorable, like fall asleep with your cheek smushed against his chest, he stares at the ceiling like “god. give me strength. i will combust.” 

finally mutters a defeated, “you’re so freaking cute it’s making me ill.” 

hiori yo

hiori doesn’t mean to be dramatic… but you’re literally testing his limits as a human being. 

the way you hum while brushing your teeth. the way you squish his cheeks and say “my baby.” the way you fall asleep mid-movie with your mouth slightly open. 

he can’t handle it. 

he’s so soft spoken but suddenly he’s gripping a pillow like: “i can’t take it. i can’t–what am i supposed to do with this much cuteness???” 

bites his sleeve in emotional agony. physically restrains himself from aggressively snuggling you. 

mutters, “you make me want to scream into a cup and drink it.” 

tells you “stop it” while staring at you with hearts in his eyes. 

he’s like a cat that wants to be picked up and also wants to claw your face because he’s overwhelmed. 

when you kiss his forehead he just… shuts down. 

sits on the floor in a daze like, “i’m in love. i’m dying. help me.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[theballadofharkness]

You did what?… With who?

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec!reader

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

Word Count: 8.8k

Warnings: Explict smut so as always MDNI xo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look at the clock again. 9:18.

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

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

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

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

You say nothing.

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

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

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

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

But also?

You had these tickets for months.

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

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

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

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

He squints. “Are you mad at me?”

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

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

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

He pauses. “I… did not.”

“Then don’t talk to me.”

Matt sits back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone barely glances up. Except you.

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

The assistant blinks. “You didn’t?”

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

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

“It’s not,” you interrupt.

The entire room stills.

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

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

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

Sal blanches. “Okay, wow. Vivid.”

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

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

You don’t take it.

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

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

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

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

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

Matt, for once, says nothing.

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

Good.

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

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

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

“I’m going to smoke,” you say.

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

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

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

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

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

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

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

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

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

Behind you, the door creaks open.

And you know it’s her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t laugh.

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

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

“Baby…”

“I don’t want to do this right now.”

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

You roll your eyes.

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

“Do you?”

Maya pauses.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

You stare at her.

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

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

She grins. “Takes one to love one.”

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

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

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

You huff. “Yes.”

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

You don’t dignify that with an answer.

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

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

You’re still furious.

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

“And I have nothing to eat.”

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

You pause, considering it. “…Yes.”

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

You swat her ass as she turns to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maya hums. “Death penalty.”

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

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

Sal mutters something about needing therapy.

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

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

You glance at her. “Don’t push it.”

She bites back a grin.

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

It’s a full-on war room now.

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

And you?

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

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

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

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

Maya snorts.

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

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

You lean back slightly to see the screen.

A photo. A name.

You blink. “Him?”

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

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

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

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

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

Maya grins. “Then let’s fucking go.”

~ Twenty minutes later ~

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

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

Tyler mouths ‘holy shit’.

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

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

“Yes, ma’am,” the voice says.

The call ends.

The room explodes.

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

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

You turn and face her, and her smile softens.

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

You kiss her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

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

Record scratch.

Everything stops.

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

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

You were not aware that Maya and Matt had ever…

Your gaze snaps to her before you can stop yourself.

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

Maya stiffens beneath you. “Sal.”

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

“SAL.” Maya snaps.

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

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

You slide off Maya’s lap slowly. Mechanically.

No one speaks.

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

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

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

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

“No you weren’t,” Tyler mutters.

“Thank you,” Sal says.

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

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

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

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

“Four?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t make it to the elevator.

You barely make it past the hall.

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

Your hands are shaking.

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

You open the Uber app.

It takes three tries to type your address.

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

A car in six minutes.

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

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

You stare at the blinking dot on your phone.

It says your driver is named Eli.

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

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

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

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

You grip your phone tighter. Try not to scream.

Four minutes now.

Just four more minutes.

You close your eyes.

You do not fall apart in the hallway.

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

Everyone freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

Maya paces now, agitated, unspooling in front of them. “I didn’t tell her because it didn’t matter. It was a blip. It was so long ago, and it was awkward and messy and I thought… it just never came up, okay?!”

Matt nods too fast. “Yeah. And I supported that! I supported not bringing it up! Because I thought it would be weird to tell her!”

“We were stupid. It was sloppy!” Maya barks. “It was during the Blue Fox merger, I had bronchitis and a PR embargo hanging over my head!”

“Oh my god,” Quinn whispers. “Was there tongue?”

Maya throws her hands up. “Yes, okay?! There was tongue. There was stress. There was bad lighting. It was a low point for everyone involved.”

Matt winces. “Okay that’s kinda harsh, I think it was kind of beautiful…”

“Matt,” Sal says, “shut the fuck up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell her,” Quinn mutters, more to herself than anyone.

Maya turns, sharp. “Why would I?! So she could, what? Laugh? Pity me? Set fire to her retinas with the image of me and him in a West Hollywood bar bathroom while Luther Vandross played in the background?”

Quinn blinks. “…it was to Luther Vandross?”

“Of course it was Luther Vandross! I have taste, Quinn!”

The room falls quiet again.

Maya deflates a little. She’s still furious. Still too raw to know what to do with herself. “I didn’t tell her,” she says, quieter now. “Because it was nothing. It was a blip. It was before. Before her. Before I even knew what it felt like to want to come home to someone.”

“She looked at me like I was someone else,” she says quietly. “Like I’d lied about everything. Like I’d humiliated her.”

“She’s not wrong,” Sal says, uncharacteristically soft.

That’s what makes Maya go still.

Sal shrugs. “I’m just saying. If I found out my girlfriend used to bone the guy who signs her paycheck, and she didn’t tell me? I’d be halfway to my dealers for medical grade coke by now.”

“Well it’s not technically me who signs them.. that would be Lucille from accounting…” Matt interjects

Maya’s jaw clenches. “Not helpful Matt.”

~

You slam the door behind you.

Hard.

The keys hit the floor. Your bag drops somewhere near the entryway. You don’t even bother turning the lights on, you just march straight into the kitchen like a storm in heels, throw the fridge open, and stare inside like something in there’s going to fix this. Spoiler: there’s nothing but a bottle of white wine, a leftover oat latte, and a Tupperware of pad thai that’s three days past edible.

You grab the wine. Twist the cap off with shaking fingers and drink straight from the bottle.

The second the first gulp hits your throat, you pace back and forth, back and forth, bare feet slapping hardwood like you’re wearing a hole into the foundation.

“Matt,” you hiss, to no one. “Matt fucking Remnick?”

You laugh. It’s ugly. “Of course. Of fucking course.”

You fling yourself down on the couch and dig your nails into the throw pillow like it personally betrayed you.

So let’s just tally it up, right?

The guy who pays you, the guy who nods along during your pitch meetings like he’s just smart enough to track the plot but not smart enough to understand why it works, that guy? That doughy, beige suit wearing, oat milk-drinking, workaholic dipshit?

He fucked your girlfriend.

Your Maya.

The Maya who kisses your throat when you’re reading in bed. The Maya who calls you her “creepy little horror wife” in meetings like a badge of honor. That Maya?

Fucked. Matt. Remnick.

You press your hands into your eyes. Oh, and the best part? Sal knew. Sal. Fucking Sal, who you’ve sat next to in a hundred meetings, who’s texted you bad memes at midnight, who’s thrown shade at every actor you’ve ever cast.

He knew.

How many people knew? How many people sat across from you in conference rooms, watched you and Maya flirt and smolder, and thought, Wow. Hope she told her she used to hook up with the boss?

You drag your hands down your face and make a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob. You feel sick. Like the butt of a joke you didn’t know was being told.

Your phone buzzes from your bag across the room.

You don’t even look.

If it’s Maya, she can wait.

~

You wake up face-down on the couch, blanket halfway off, one leg tangled in your throw, and a wine bottle dangerously close to rolling off the coffee table.

Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry. It’s 5 a.m. and you feel like someone took your rage, poured it through a filter of grief, and blended it with three hours of half-sleep and one unfinished nightmare about Matt Remnick in a hot tub.

You groan. Sit up. Immediately regret it.

Then you see your phone.

18 texts.

4 voice notes.

1 missed call.

All from Maya.

You stare at the screen for a long moment before thumbing open the thread.

The first one hit around 12:23 a.m.

<Maya: ok so i’ve been lying in bed for two hours staring at the ceiling like the little match girl but instead of cold i’m dying of shame>

<Maya: just fyi tho the matt era was VERY short-lived and powered entirely by alcohol and bad decisions and i got bronchitis right after. draw your own conclusions.>

<Maya: I should’ve told you. I didn’t because i thought it was irrelevant and then i convinced myself it was embarrassing and then it turned into a weird shame snowball and then sal threw a grenade and now we’re here>

<Maya voice note: Hey. Um. I don’t know what I’m doing. You know I’m shit at this. I just… fuck, you looked at me like you didn’t know me and I’ve never wanted to crawl into a Bottega clutch and die more. Just… please tell me you’re okay?>

<Maya: i’m gonna go to sleep before i drive to your place in a hoodie and crocs and throw pebbles at your window like a fuckin Lana song but specifically for lesbians>

<Maya: unless that would work??>

~

Your alarm didn’t go off.

Actually, no, your alarm did go off. You just threw your phone across the room sometime around 6:30 a.m. after rereading Maya’s latest text for the fifth time and muttering “fuck off” into your pillow.

So now it’s 9:12 a.m.

And the Continental morning meeting starts at 9.

You bolt out of bed with a groan, mouth dry, head pounding, last night’s wine and rage still thick behind your eyes. You shower in record time, slap on concealer, mascara, a black turtleneck, and sunglasses that scream do not speak to me I will kill you where you stand.

No breakfast. Just coffee in a to-go cup that tastes like cardboard and regret.

Traffic’s hell. You scream once in your car just to get it out. You park like a menace, don’t even check the mirror, and stomp across the lot toward the building with your bag half open and your badge clipped to your sleeve.

When you push through the glass doors and into the marble lobby of Continental Studios, you’re ten minutes late and vibrating with fury.

Matt spots you immediately from the hallway. He’s holding a protein bar and his big dumb reusable water bottle and smiling like it’s casual Friday.

“Hey,” he calls, jogging to keep pace beside you. “You’re late for the morning slate check-in.”

You don’t even look at him. Instead you snarl, voice low and venomous, “bite me, Remnick.”

He freezes mid-step.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair. You’re mad. Totally valid. Just… don’t bite me in the meeting, okay? Bite Sal. He can take it.”

You don’t respond.

You just keep walking. Because the only thing worse than seeing Matt today… is knowing she’s already in the conference room.

And you have to sit through the morning meeting like none of this happened. Like your entire sense of stability didn’t just crack open in front of half the fucking team.

The door swings open.

You step inside the conference room with that perfect blend of silence and menace, black silk shirt, razor-sharp tailored blazer, sunglasses pushed up into your hair like a crown. You’ve got your coffee in one hand, your notes in the other, and the kind of expression that says I dare you.

Tyler starts the meeting like he doesn’t smell the emotional blood in the air. “Okay, so first things first—our guy’s officially confirmed, and the trades are prepped. We’re greenlit to announce end of week if we can finalize rollout assets.”

“Cool,” you say crisply, flipping open the folder. “We’re not announcing Friday.”

Everyone looks up.

Matt blinks. “We’re not?”

“No. It’s too crowded. Dune: Part Three has an early stills drop Friday morning and Searchlight’s doing an ‘Anatomy of a Fall’ deep-dive with the New Yorker that afternoon. We’ll get buried. We push to Monday and own the morning cycle.”

Maya opens her mouth to speak, and you don’t even look up. “Unless you’d like to announce our Oscar-bait thriller between a sandworm and a French woman falling down the stairs.”

Silence.

Then Quinn mutters, “God, you’re scary when you’re on.”

You still don’t look at Maya. But you feel her eyes burning into you.

Matt clears his throat. “Okay, Monday. We can make that work. Uh… Maya, what do you need for assets?”

~

The rest of the meeting trudges forward like it’s wearing lead boots.

You don’t speak unless you have to. Every sentence that comes out of your mouth is clean, clear, and lethal. Maya keeps glancing your way like she’s trying to find an opening, a soft edge, a tell, anything.

But there’s nothing.

You give her nothing.

No warmth. No flicker of forgiveness. Not even a look.

Just silence and strategy.

“If we’re shifting, talent needs their glam appointments moved up. We’ll need rep confirmation before lunch.” No snark. No emotion. Just fact.

Maya nods slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

Still, you don’t look at her.

Even Sal picks up on it now. He’s not cracking jokes. Matt fumbles through the updated calendar notes. Quinn adds a few scheduling tweaks. Tyler asks something about embargo coordination, which you answer with the kind of precision that makes Sal mouth “yikes” into his coffee.

Eventually, the meeting wraps.

Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. No one says much.

And Maya? She stands. Lingers behind her chair, one hand resting on the back of it like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. You don’t look up. You’re reviewing the press deck. You are calm. You are composed. You are the queen of horror at Continental fucking Studios. And right now? She doesn’t get to have you.

You gather your papers in silence. Neat. Controlled. No sign of the volcano beneath the surface. You slide them into your folder, close it with precision, and stand.

You don’t look at Maya. You’re halfway to the door when you hear her.

“C’mon, wait.” Her voice is low. Urgent.

You pause just enough to let the tension snap taut, but not enough to look back. “I have work to do,” you say coolly.

She scoffs. “Oh come on. You can’t get mad at me for having a past, fucking hell.”

Your spine stiffens.

“I’m nearly double your age,” she continues, stepping forward now, voice rising just slightly. “I’ve fucked people. Like, sorry? Grow up.”

That’s when you freeze.

Turn.

Your voice shakes, not with weakness, but fury. “Yeah. I’m fucking aware, Maya.”

She blinks. Like maybe she thought you wouldn’t bite back.

“But this isn’t just anyone,” you hiss, stepping closer now. “This isn’t some ex from New York or a personal assistant you ghosted after Sundance. This is my boss. This is the man who signs my paychecks. Who I have to pitch to, smile at, navigate. And you didn’t think I deserved to know that you two had history?!”

“It was barely history…” she starts

“It doesn’t matter!” you snap. “It matters to me! And you didn’t tell me because what? You thought I’d be jealous? Uncool? That I’d what, throw a tantrum? Guess what, I’m throwing one now!”

Everyone else outside the glass conference room is simultaneously edging closer and pretending not to exist. You can still feel everyone’s eyes on you, even if they’re all pretending they aren’t. Sal suddenly finds the far wall very interesting. Quinn’s fake AirPods are basically a theater curtain. Matt’s holding a water bottle like he might use it as a shield.

Maya runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Look, I know I should’ve told you.”

You cut her off. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I was embarrassed, okay?” she blurts. “It was a shitty, messy mistake and I didn’t want to bring that into us. I didn’t want to give it weight. You matter. He never did,” she says, too fast now, words spiraling. “You know how this studio works. Half the people in that room have fucked each other. And yeah, I messed up not tell you, but you can’t just crucify me because I have a past you didn’t pre-approve.”

You laugh, cold and wounded. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

She sighs hard. “Then what the fuck is it about?”

“It’s about respect, Maya!”

Now you’re really in it. Eyes burning. Breath ragged.

“It’s about the fact that I was the last to know. That Sal knew. That Tyler didn’t blink. That you let me sit next to Matt in meetings like it was nothing. Like I was some clueless intern with a clipboard and not your…” You stop. Swallow. “Not someone you say you care about.”

Maya’s face crumbles for real now.

“I do care about you,” she says, stepping forward, eyes desperate. “You think I don’t? You think I haven’t been losing my fucking mind since last night? I’ve sent you like sixty texts, I drafted a notes app apology, I didn’t even put on moisturizer this morning, do you understand how deranged I am right now?”

You blink. “That’s your barometer for grief? Moisturizer?”

“It was Dr. Barbara Sturm, you psychopath!” she snaps. “That shit is eighty-five dollars a pump!”

There’s a beat.

And despite yourself you almost laugh. Instead, you just shake your head, trying to calm your own heart, your own hands, your own instinct to forgive her too fast.

She’s watching you. Chest rising and falling. Waiting for you to say something. Anything.

And the room?

The room is silent.

She’s watching you. Breathing hard. Jaw tight. But her eyes? They’re tracking every inch of you like she’s trying to memorize your silhouette before you vanish.

Then she moves.

She closes the distance with one sharp step, and before you can stop her, her hands are at your waist. Light at first. Testing.

You flinch. “Don’t.”

But she doesn’t back off. Instead, she leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice low and warm and dangerous in your ear.

“Baby, come on,” she murmurs. “I love you.”

Your breath catches.

Her hands slide lower, fingers curling at your hips like she’s staking a claim. She presses in close, intimate, entirely inappropriate with your coworkers still very much looking through the glass conference walls into the room and brushes her lips just beneath your ear.

“You’re pissed. I get it. Be pissed,” she breathes. “Yell at me later. Call me names. Tell me I’m a stupid, emotionally constipated corporate nightmare.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

She nips lightly at your neck. “But don’t leave me.”

Her fingers tighten, sliding up under the edge of your blazer, thumbs brushing your sides, mouth now trailing lower like she can seduce the forgiveness out of you.

“I love you,” she says again, lower now, desperate. “I was a coward. I fucked up. Let me fix it. Please.”

You should push her away.

You don’t. You don’t because she knows exactly where to touch you and she’s touching you there now, hands firm on your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft spot just beneath your ribs like she’s trying to hold you together before you shatter again.

And then she kisses you.

Hard. No warning. No room to think. Just mouth on yours, hot and hungry and completely insane given the fact that you are very much not alone.

Your folder hits the floor.

Maya walks you back a step, her hands tangled in your blazer, mouth moving over yours like she needs it more than breath. There’s no gentle easing into it, it’s immediate, consuming, and deep. She kisses you like she’s trying to rewrite the memory of Matt fucking Remnick out of your bloodstream.

You pull back hard, breath heaving, mouth swollen from her kiss, mascara smudged, and Maya’s staring at you like you just gave her a second chance at life.

She reaches for you again.

You stop her with a single raised eyebrow and one lethal line, “…Matt? Really?”

The room goes dead silent again.

“Matt Remnick?” you repeat, voice dripping with horror. “You were into that?”

Sal audibly snorts and pretends to choke on his drink. Quinn lets out a wheeze and turns fully to the wall like she’s entering witness protection.

Maya groans. Loud. Embarrassed. Absolutely desperate. “Oh my god,” she mutters, eyes wide as she grabs your face and kisses you again.

Hard. This time it’s needy. Almost angry.

“I’m into you,” she growls against your mouth. “I’m into this. Not him.”

You’re still breathless when she pulls back.

You look at Maya.

She’s flushed. Wrecked. Entirely yours. And completely aware she’s still on thin ice.

You smooth your blazer. Pick your folder up off the floor. And say, as calmly as if you’re discussing box office projections: “We’re still having this conversation later. Somewhere private. Somewhere where I’m less inclined to claw your eyes out and let you fuck me against a filing cabinet.”

Maya exhales shakily. “Copy that,” she whispers.

Sal gives you a little golf clap. Quinn doesn’t look up, but says, “I hope we never stop working here.”

And without a word, you turn and walk. Down the hallway. Past the open offices. Through the glass doors.

Maya follows like a shadow. You swipe your badge and push open the door to your office, stepping inside with controlled hurt still radiating off your skin.

Maya barely gets the door shut behind her before you’re on her again.

You grab her jacket lapels and slam your mouth to hers, no buildup, no words, just heat. She groans into it, hands going immediately to your waist, pulling you in like she can’t stand to be apart from you another second.

This kiss is filthier. Sloppier. More desperate. You bite her lower lip and she gasps, nails digging into your hips as you press her back against the door.

“You drive me fucking insane,” you whisper against her mouth.

“Yeah?” she pants, licking her lips. “Well you’re fucking infuriating and I love you.”

Her hands roam over your back, up your spine, under your blazer. She tugs it off your shoulders like it’s offended her.

She laughs into your neck, breath hot as she whispers, “Is this… our version of conflict resolution?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, pushing her down into the couch with one hand on her chest.

You climb into her lap and kiss her again, harder this time, her fingers slipping under your shirt like they know exactly what kind of damage they caused and exactly how to earn forgiveness.

You grind your hips against hers and she groans, low in her throat. “You’re still mad at me.”

You pull back just enough to look her dead in the eye. “Yes I am.”

She smiles. “Liar.”

And then you’re kissing again like you want to ruin her, like she’s the only one who could ever deserve to be ruined by you. You’re breathless in her lap, lips swollen from kissing her too hard, your blazer long forgotten somewhere on the floor. Your fingers are clenched in the fabric of her shirt, your eyes hot, your body humming.

You’re still upset. Still bruised with betrayal. But god, her hands feel good on you. You pull back, panting, trying to steel yourself, to glare at her.

But your voice comes out shaky. “I’m still mad,” you whisper.

Her hands slide from your waist to your thighs, spreading you just slightly over her lap. “Good.”

And then she moves.

Suddenly you’re on your back on the couch, gasping as she pins you there, her body over yours, her mouth hovering just above your throat.

She’s looking at you differently now, like she’s done pretending you’re in control.

You shiver. “Maya?”

She kisses you. Slow. Possessive. Deep enough to make your stomach flip. When she pulls back, she speaks low against your mouth. “You’re being a little brat.”

Your thighs twitch.

Her hand slips between your legs, pressing over your panties, hot, firm, and unrelenting.

“Still think you’re mad at me?”

You whimper, arching into her hand.

She grins. “Thought so.”

She pulls your underwear aside, slides her fingers over you, slick, slow, maddening. You gasp, hips twitching. Her mouth is at your neck now, sucking lightly, just enough to make you writhe.

“You’re soaked,” she murmurs, smug. “Say you need me.”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No.”

She presses two fingers in, deep and smooth, and you whine.

“Say it.”

You grip her shoulders like you might fall through the floor.

“I need you,” you breathe. “I need you, I need… fuck—”

“Good girl,” she says softly.

And then she fucks you. Harder now, fingers working you open, her body flush against yours, her mouth at your ear whispering things that make you gasp her name like a prayer.

“You gonna be good for me now?” she whispers.

“Yes! Yes, I promise… please don’t stop…”

You’re shaking beneath her, legs spreading wider, body losing every ounce of control you fought to hold. She’s everywhere, her voice, her hands, her breath, her mouth, and she doesn’t let up until you’re begging.

You come with a sharp cry, arching into her, body going taut, her name spilling from your lips like you were made for her.

She holds you through it, kissing your cheek, brushing your hair back, whispering, “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

When the shaking slows, you cling to her, flushed and fucked-out, heart pounding. You nuzzle into her neck, voice tiny. “I’m not mad.”

She smiles against your hair. “I know.”

The room is quiet now.

Your body is warm and shaking gently, curled half on top of Maya on the couch. Her shirt is unbuttoned, your blouse’s somewhere on the floor, and your legs are tangled like you never plan on moving again.

She’s holding you. One hand stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades. The other resting lazily on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re breathing against her chest, face buried in the crook of her neck, eyelids fluttering. Safe. Fuzzy. Boneless.

Maya kisses your hair. “You alive down there?” she whispers.

You nod, slow. Muffled. “Mhm.”

She smiles, running her fingers through your hair now, kissing your temple.

You nuzzle closer, arms tightening around her waist.

Then, softly, voice quiet and thick with exhaustion, you apologise. “Sorry I was so dramatic.”

She blinks. Pulls back just enough to look at you. “Babe.”

You shrug against her. “I know I was bratting out. I just…” You sigh. “It’s Matt.”

There’s a beat.

Then Maya snorts.

You lift your head to glare at her, but she’s already laughing quietly, shakily, that signature Maya Mason chuckle that sounds like she can’t believe her life.

“I know it’s Matt,” she wheezes. “Believe me. I have to live with that fact every day.”

You flop your head back onto her chest. “God. Well I guess that’s punishment enough.”

Her arms tighten around you, still laughing as she presses kisses into your hair.

“You’re insane,” you murmur.

“I love you,” she says instantly.

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you whisper, “I love you too.”

She stills. Then lets out a soft little exhale, like the air just came back into her body.

You both lie there like that for a while. Quiet. Safe. Outside your office, the day goes on. Inside? It’s just you and her.

[emiqip]

apocalyptic ponyo au!! ft. shockweaves little menaces. @keferon

One week had passed since Skids saw the ocean swallow their city whole. 

It happened during one of those lazy days in the Dead End: with the cold season drawing near, few people roamed the dirty narrow alleys, more preoccupied scavenging for a place to settle down and spend the winter. He and his sort-of-not-really-adopted bunch of siblings had the luck to find an old gazebo made of sheets of rusted metal, basically a five star abode especially when your main concerns where a) not getting pissed on by the sky and b) find an actual place able to hold ten scruffy kids.

And even with nothing, life was good- or as good as it can get. Not having to fend and fight on the streets for yourself, having someone to bicker and argue with for the stupidest little things but still knowing everyone will have your back until the very end. The nights spent huddled together for warmth while Thundercracker, being the only one who knew how to read, dramatically re-enacting the scenes from a fairy-tale book and when storms so loud the walls of their shelter shook hit the city, you could pick out the soft humming of Damus, lulling the younger kids back to sleep. 

Yeah, life wasn't anywhere near perfect but it was enough.

But now...

The partially sunken landscape could suck all hope from one's soul. The once lively and bustling city was now a wet husk of rubble and toppled buildings. Abandoned vehicles and all sorts of trash floated on the surface, littering the water for miles. He was honestly impressed at how fast it all went down- them barely making it out only thanks to their shitty shelter, that served as a make-shift raft until they eventually reached a patch of dry concrete.

They've been walking for a few hours now, trudging between shallow water and debris, never daring to test their luck and trying to swim- they all got a taste of what lurked in the deepest parts during their little trip on their rackety raft and came to a general consensus to give those areas a very wide berth and not risk their lives more than they were already.

With a last distrustful look aimed at the water, he re-adjusted the heavy weight of the shotgun strapped on his right shoulder and walked away from shore, joining the others at their new alcove. 

 \\\

Finding a place to truly call their main base of operation was surprisingly easy- the mess of destroyed and eroded buildings that titanic wave left behind made for a pretty cushy place if you ignored the smell of seaweed and moist drywall. 

They were separated from the main patch of dry land and the chance of encountering any survivors was nearly slim to none- not that he was complaining or anything, less the possibility of meeting any hostile adults and being stripped of what little resources they had. From the wrecked remains of the city they managed to find quite a few useful things, but sadly not enough for ten kids. The food was especially low, the only way was fishing and catching it themselves but they had already established it as a big fat No. 

As the evening was slowly closing in, everyone was working to start their nightly routine. The oldest kids were in charge of the fire, which usually entailed watching TC read the partially wet copy of "Little Survivalist" to a very much not interested Trailbreaker and Windcharger. At the mouth of their shelter Soundwave was meticulously arranging their sleeping mats, while Skywarp sorted their blankets. Skids was chosen to stand guard today and soon after Damus would join him to keep watch on the others while they slept. 

Main while Bluestreak and the twins where- uhm. Where were they actually?

"Yo, 'Warp! Have you seen the little goblins?" Skids approached the teen, still intent in choosing the softest blanket for himself- aft. 

"Ah-what? Uhh, i think they wanted to explore the area but it wasn't my turn babysitting them so..." The other shrugged, returning to his task. 

"I swear if they come back with another mutated crab I'm going to lose it." 

"Naaw, everyone loved Bob, why do you have to be such a grump?"

"Well, if 'Bob' had the courtesy to try and not pinch me while I was slee-" 

A shrill scream broke their conversation. 

In a second all of them were at their feet or reaching for their nearest weapon as they watched the small shapes of the twins quickly getting closer. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were sprinting towards them at full speed, and when they arrived they almost toppled Skids over, while still screaming and shouting frenetically. 

Witnessing this, Damus came swiftly forward to try and assess the situation. 

"C'mon guys, deep breaths- what's going on?" The oldest tried to sooth. 

"BLUE IS DEAD! THAT THING GOT HIM AND IT'S MY FAULT" Sideswipe screeched snatching both of Damus sleeves like a lifeline. 

"Whoa- hey 'Sides-" 

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! But me and Sunny wanted to take a closer look- But turns out it was napping! And we tried to run but Blue fell and he hurt himself and that thing sNATCH HIM UP!! HE'S DEAD AND- AND IT'S MY FAULT!!"

After that the thirteen year old broke into a storm of unconsolable blubbering sobs- they all looked at each other in the eyes: 'Sides and Sunny were known for two things, being unsufferable little shits and that they never cried. Even when sad or scared they were used to put on their brave faces and endure like how they were taught. 

So a crying or upset twin meant trouble. 

Damus, understanding this quickly shifted his behavior and started barking orders to the others: he, Trailbreaker and Skids would go and find Blue the rest were to remain at the shelter and prepare in case they needed to flee as fast as possible. 

With that they braced their weapons and ran into the direction the twins came. 

\\\

He felt his heart beating in his throat as they ran towards whatever had attacked the youngest children. He couldn't help but picture small innocent Blue, laying on the shore motionless, a pool of blood beneath him- NO! Blue was okay! He had to be! And they were going to make sure of that. No one was keeping him from getting his littlest brother to safety. 

When they reached the shore, the smell of blood didn't greet them like they were all secretly dreading- but something else did. 

Something much, much worse. 

Bluestreak had always been a talkative little bugger- one of his siblings would sometimes even catch him talking to himself or inanimate objects when none of them were around. He always held conversations all by himself, jumping from topic to topic without catching a breath. 

However Blue wasn't really the type of kid to talk to strangers without getting shy and ducking behind one of the others for safety. 

Apparently, following little Blue logic- GIANT FISHMEN don't count as strangers.

"...and so I thought it would be cool, you know? but then 'Sides told me that I would get worms but I don't mind worms! They can be cute if you aren't a little baby who gets scared of everything and TC reads to me a lot so I know I won't get worms but I'm still very careful you never know..." The young boy happily ranted away as he sat snugly under the fish- man? argh! The mermaids giant flippers. 

The huge being wasn't bother at all by the little morsel chatting away at him- on the contrary, it looked fond of Blue as he let the kid talk. Skids almost pulled the trigger as he looked as the fishman slightly moved his massive head to nuzzle Blue in a show of complete affection. (if Skids strained his ears he could almost hear the soft vibrations the giant fish was producing) 

Only then, as he was giggling like mad, did Bluestreak notice them as he lifted his left hand and waved frantically at them. 

"HI GUYS!! LOOK WHO I FOUND!! SAY HI TO SIR. PANCAKE!!" 

He felt Trailbraker sagging beside him as his weapon almost slipped from his grip. 

"...what the actual fuck."

///

pt.2 :P