#or anyone else’s if anyone wants to chime in!

[harkharknessness]

kiss city

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

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

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

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

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

“Adoculos.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyler snapped his fingers in agreement beside her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-*-*-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room went quiet as everyone took in that truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-*-*-

Stay calm. Stay calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We got her.

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

That’s my fucking girl!!!!

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

You answered before the first ring ended.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one word for it.”

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

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

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

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

“That set?” Maya asked.

“Yeah. That one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, too.”

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

That was the easy part. The pleasant surprise.

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

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

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

-*-*-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maya shrugged. “They’ll be fine.”

“And you?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You tired?”

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

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

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

“Painfully aware,” she said, deadpan.

“I can’t go MIA,” you sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Louder.”

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

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

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

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

“Spread.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lift your hips.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maya was fucking herself.

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

You let out a wounded whine.

“Quiet.”

You stilled.

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

Maya noticed. Of course she did.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you said. “God, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed and nodded.

“Words.”

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

“Yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you said softly.

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

You hummed in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, she sighed.

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

[lucydixon]

Euronymous x Pink Girly Metal Headcanons

Are we rocking with the moodboards, or should I go back to potentially recycling photos? Anyway, here are some headcanons for Euro x Girly Pink Reader, who is also a metalhead.

I think that if you walked into Helvete, dressed in all pink, Øystein would immediately be a huge dick to you and try to get you out of his store. He’d shake his head right away and point at the door. It might go a little like this,

“You’re lost, sweetheart.” He scoffed, eying you with clear distaste, “Candy store’s down the street.” 

“I’m actually looking for an album.” You held your hands up in surrender, very much used to this kind of treatment whenever you crossed paths with other people from the scene. “I can’t find it anywhere else, and everyone I talked to told me that if anyone had it, it’d be you.”

“I don’t have anything you’d be looking for.” 

“I dunno,” you shrugged, looking the slightest bit amused, “I’d think you sell anything released by your label, no?” 

“You’re looking for something that came out on my label?” He looked unconvinced. “You?” 

“Death like silence, right?” 

He nodded, looking skeptical. 

“It’s the Abruptum album.” You explained, watching as he raised his brows, “You do have it, don’t you?” 

“Tell whoever it’s for to come get it themselves.” 

“It’s for me.” You frowned. “Is that a problem?” 

“I don’t sell label stuff to posers.” He snapped, unable to believe that someone dressed the way that you were could possibly be into metal enough to know of his obscure label. 

“What do I have to do to prove I’m not a poser?” 

“I can tell just by looking at you.” 

“Quiz me.” You shrugged, eyes locked onto his in a challenging stare. 

“You’re that confident?” He crossed his arms over his chest, sizing you up as you nodded. 

“Alright. We’ll start off easy. What’s the tracklist for the album you’re looking for? Name every song.” 

“Gonna call a trick question easy?” You raised a brow and smirked slightly when you saw the clearly taken aback look on his face. “It’s just the two tracks. Part one and Part two.” 

“Okay, so you did your research.”  Øystein brushed you off dismissively, “Black metal, who started it?” 

“Venom or Sarcofago, depends who you ask.” 

“Rise of the mutants, Who’s album is-” 

“Impaler.” 

The two of you stared at eachother for a full minute. 

“So you know your stuff.” He nodded, finally conceding, although it looked like it pained him a little, “I’ve never seen a metalhead dressed like that.” 

“That’s why I don’t go around calling myself one.” You tried not to look too smug.

He’d be impressed and would hand the album over. Your hands might brush against eachother while you paid, and he’d jerk back like he’d been burned, completely caught off guard by the current flowing between you. 

I think he’d call out to you while you were on your way out the door, a little confused as to why he already felt like he wanted to see you again. 

“You can come back if you want.” 

“I will.” 

You’d be stuck in his head. He’d run through your interaction over and over again, trying to figure out if he was just still completely shocked by your metal knowledge despite your clothes, or if he wanted to fuck you. 

You’d come back a few days later after having listened to the album, looking for another. This time, he wouldn’t try to kick you out. He’d find himself asking if you’d liked it while he helped you look for your next vinyl. He’d be friendlier. Still standoffish, but a little less so than before, as he looked you over discreetly. 

When you leave, he’d conclude that it wasn’t just shock. He would want to fuck you, but more than anything he’d found you interesting and wanted to know more about you. This would unsettle him a little. 

He’d find himself looking at the door every time the bell above it chimed, slightly disappointed every time that it wasn’t you.

You’d come by every few days and give him a review of whichever album you’d bought the time before, looking for a new one. I think that the two of you would become friendly, making small talk at first, then getting to know eachother a bit. Eventually, it would blossom into full-on flirty banter and casual touches. A hand on the arm here, fingers purposely brushing against eachother when an item changed hands. 

He’d invite you to a show at some point, trying to be casual about it while watching a grin stretch across your face. Your excitement would give him a little bit of reassurance, especially if you immediately said yes. 

You’d be so easy to spot in the crowd. He’d look for you the second he stepped on stage and find you already staring back at him. It would be hard for him not to smile, but he’d have to bite it back, unwilling to look soft while they were on stage. 

After the show, you’d be waiting for him by the bar. You’d gush over how good the show was, and he’d immediately go backstage to blow off his friends to go get a drink with you, dead set on using his post-performance confidence to make a move. And he would. 

Before you’d even made it to the bar two blocks away, you’d find yourself pinned to a brick wall, kissing him. It would be a little unexpected, but immediately reciprocated. You’d melt right into him, and the two of you would spend most of the night making out like teenagers. 

You’d start dating not long after that, but he wouldn’t want his friends to see him with you. Your feelings would be hurt. How could they not be? Your boyfriend didn’t want to be seen with you.

Finally, you’d walk into Helvete one afternoon, all sad because his friends are there, which means you aren’t allowed to talk to him. He’d feel so bad that it made his chest hurt, so he’d hop down from the counter, march over there, and kiss you in front of everyone while they watched, slack-jawed.  

Everyone would get used to it after a short adjustment period, especially after you open your mouth in front of them for the first time and jump right into whatever conversation they’re having about obscure metal things, shocking them all with your extensive knowledge. 

Anytime anyone makes a comment about your clothes, Øystein would slap them upside the head and shoot them a threatening look. He’d be fiercely protective of you and would make sure that you were always in reach, especially at gigs. 

You’d always be touching in some way, an arm draped over your shoulders, a hand on the small of your back or resting on your ass posessively. I don’t see him as much of a handholder, but he’ll always be holding something. 

If you’re sitting anywhere, it’s in his lap. Always. 

If he ever sees anyone making eyes at you, he’d pull you in for a sloppy makeout, grabbing your ass in plain view of whoever it is, all while maintaining eye contact. 

Øystein would love seeing you in his leather jacket. Anytime you’re even a little bit cold, he’d be shrugging it off and draping it over your shoulders. 

This man would absolutely try and get you to dress more metal, even if you try to shut down every attempt he makes. He’d constantly be buying you leather cuffs and little black accessories, and of course, you’d wear them, only because he went out and bought them for you. He’d learn pretty quick that you never said no if he bought something for you and would take full advantage. 

I don’t think he’d completely try and change your style. I think he’d slowly start to love the pink and the intensity of the contrast between the two of you when you’re out in public. It would draw people’s attention, and if anything, having a super girly, pink girlfriend would make him look a bit tougher. 

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[persephoneprice]

hey lily!! sorry i feel like you’ve answered this question before but i couldn’t find anything about it sooo..

do u have any thoughts on how the mentoring system operated after the 10th games? and/or maybe how the mentors from the 10th games reacted to the all the changes made over the years?

hello sol!!! thank you so much for the question because it’s actually not something i’ve ever really nailed down my thoughts on! so i’ll give you the different scenario’s i’ve considered:

they immediately went with the past victors as the mentors.

while it’s true that not every district had a victor (actually, i’m assuming the majority didn’t)- i don’t think the capitol would care that much. if anything, they would see it as a bonus way to 1.) punish the districts and 2.) make the games more of a spectacle because it would motivate the tributes to work harder so they’d have someone to mentor their tributes. technically, district 12 didn’t have a victor that could act as a mentor until the 50th games and i’m sure that they didn’t wait until them to establish the victors as mentors situation.

i think this would also explain why the stronger districts like 1 & 2 continued to have so many victors over the years because they started off on much better footing than the other districts by having the mentors on top of being well-fed.

peacekeepers as mentors

i’ve seen this suggested before and i suppose it makes sense. they’re already armed and trained so the capitol wouldn’t have to worry as much about them doing something stupid and getting themselves killed (looking at you arachne!). but honestly, i just find this theory to be kind of boring.

gamemakers (or gamemaker adjacent) as mentors

this could be interesting! and a good way to help make the tributes more of a spectacle. i don’t think active gamemakers, but maybe past gamemakers or people who have worked closely with them. they have the best knowledge of the games and would be able to help the tributes navigate the games unlike anyone else.

personally, i lean towards them immediately diving in with former victors. i don’t think there would be many of them but i think they would try to spin it like a huge honor to get more viewers (victors of the past- back again to prove they’re the best of the best!)

as far as how i think the mentors reacted- obviously i think that widely varies depending on which mentor. i think a lot of them would be relieved that students aren’t involved anymore because it was such a traumatizing experience (clemensia). some of them would feel special that no other students got to mentor (livia). some of them were possibly excited about the new changes and helping (festus). some of them were horrified to see the victors be brought back and essentially tortured more (lysistrata).

i think all of them were affected by their tributes on some level and i can’t help but think all of them had some form of guilt from it all- even if they don’t want to admit it to anyone, including themselves. watching the games over the years either made those feelings worse or it turned into such a spectacle for them that the feelings went away because they lost the humanity in it all.

[sofiadragon]

Now hold on, what in the untouched grass is this all over my dash today?

If you are talking about HP characters in the 70's how else do you tag them but by using the Maurauder's Era tag? I'm today years old after being a fan since '98 finding out that this entire era is currently being gatekept by people with specific elaborate headcanons about characters who exist on five lines of text or less and have 0 physical descriptions.

Are we really going to throw around accusations of racism as if they are real historical people who need to be defended from being whitewashed? Whatever fanfic or headcanon long post you read that said Mary Macdonald was anything other than that girl Lily once used to dismiss the bullying of her male friend is neither undeniable fact nor a personal attack. If someone has a different headcanon than you, scroll on. I think a lot of canon ships in a lot of the media I fangirl about are underbaked, but you won't see me attacking real humans because of how they make the paper dolls kiss even if I find some of them problematic. I just scroll on because that's not for me. Yes even if it is in a tag with stuff I do want to see provided the tag makes sense.

Someone posting a headcanon with correct tags that doesn't match what your circle of friends have as a headcanon is not only inevitable but also not a commentary on your headcanon. Someone tagging Draco Malfoy on an analysis post that ships him with Parkinson isn't incorrect or homophobic due to the canon ship or the popularity of Drarry, it's the correct tag for that character analysis - and that's a character we know more than just the gender and a single fact about!

The characters are fictional. You can't offend a paper doll. You shouldn't defend a paper doll in ways that hurt real humans. If you identify so strongly with the paper doll that someone having a different headcanon (yes, even an offensive one, even one that invokes slavery, even one that makes no sense to you, even the coldest bad take) makes you this angry please go take that energy offline. Go call your real life political representative to chime in some real life solutions to whatever you think would improve the world. Go rage clean your bathroom. Go for that jog you've been meaning to have. Even if you are ten billion percent correct, you aren't going to convince anyone to not be racist this way and you are only giving a person you hate a bigger platform to say stuff you disagree with from.

The only reason I'm seeing this is because of all the energy ya'll are pumping into the drama and harassment. It's in suggested posts being pushed to people seven degrees of separation removed from this thing. I'm not defending anyone I'm saying everybody hit the shower because I keep seeing these posts from both sides and there is nothing -- and I do mean nothing in any of the so-called evidence screenshots -- that couldn't have been resolved by quietly blocking someone who posted a thing you found distasteful without starting a brigade or announcing your departure. You are not the fire department and this is not an airport.

Go touch it.

Welp. Seeing as I'm blocked by the Mary MacDonald is Black and You Guys are Racist bullshitters, let me say something:

The normal HP fans don't know shit about your headcanons for race. Especially when it's characters they're not interested in. And nobody's fucking interested in Mary MacDonald.

I've seen all sorts of fanon bullshit (and fuck you guys for making me think Snape did stuff that never happened because you lot like to use words like Incel and Racist, you utter idiots), and Mary's race is not one of them! I only happen to know what Dorcas and Marlene supposedly look like because of their fanarts keep appearing on my fyp for whatever fucking reason (and i know what they actually looked like because I looked them up and found their official art). It's insane to assume that someone knows what the "popular" fanon is for Mary when they're not part of your insane fanon. Do you guys seriously assume you're that important? Because I promise you, you aren't.

There's also the fact that you guys ignore canonically black characters, and instead use race headcanons to push diversity in, all while mocking the character who has non-white features. Hooked nose, oily hair? That describes plenty of poc. If anyone's poc, it's Severus Snape. But then again, god forbid you guys actually acknowledge the actual victim of discrimination.

So anyway, this is all bullshit, and it's very much bullshit to assume anyone, least of all @maxdibert , magically knew Mary was supposedly a poc. I got into the fandom post 2020, which was when this fanon allegedly got popular, and I had no idea anyone thought she was anything other than a white girl.

Then again, I had no idea anyone even saw her as a character.