@vampyr-louis requested: a gifset of 4.08 "Habeas Corpses"/pairing of your choosing ("obviously weslah!")
"Funny thing about black and white. You mix it together, and you get gray. And it doesn't matter how much white you try and put back in you're never gonna get anything but gray."
Summary: Maya feels confident taking her spooky girl to Halloween Horror Nights, after all this year is a collaboration with Continental Studios she made happen. How can she possibly get scared of something she created? As it turns out? She can. She can get very very scared…
Word Count: 7.5K
Warnings: spooky jump scares and explicit smut so as always MDNI! Xo
A/N: She’s baaaaaack… this might just be one of my favourite things I’ve ever written I won’t lie it’s actually really sweet x
It’s a very good day.
Not just good. Great.
The kind of day where you wake up before your alarm, lipstick goes on in one stroke, the traffic lights seem to turn green just for you.
The calendar says October, usually your busiest month, a cursed carousel of notes calls, budget fires, and festival politics, but today? Today you’re floating. The room is bright, the espresso in front of you still hot, and your lipstick is perfect even after two hours of meetings.
You’ve been riding a streak of wins for weeks now, but this morning you walked out of your office with the kind of news that makes all the endless meetings, late nights, and budget brawls worth it.
Because you just did the impossible.
Guillermo del Toro is making Frankenstein with Continental Studios.
Your heels snap against the polished concrete as you cut across the lot, tailored coat cinched at your waist, hair spilling in soft waves over your shoulders. You don’t even need the extra coffee in your hand, you’re buzzing on sheer triumph.
You can already see the headlines. Del Toro resurrects the Creature at Continental. You’re riding a high so potent not even Griffin could knock you off.
You round the corner toward the glass walled conference room you know that Maya’s camped in. Sure enough, there she is at the head of the table, in layers of various designer brands, gold hoops gleaming, iPad propped in front of her. Sal’s in his eternal suit, Patty immaculate in a silk scarf, Matt hunched over notes like the walls are closing in. Tyler and Quinn are hunched together overseeing blueprints.
Through the glass, you catch Maya mid-pitch.
“Maze three’s locked. The blood corridor’s going viral on TikTok whether Legal likes it or not. We’re negotiating a trigger warning system so no one sues when they piss themselves.”
Patty’s poised but clearly invested, as she is the producer of two of these films that are being turned into scare mazes. Matt looks like he’d sell his soul for one quiet lunch.
And then you push the door open.
“Prepare to love me even more than you already do.”
Four heads swivel.
Maya’s brows lift, skeptical. “Excuse me?”
Matt groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can this wait? We’re literally in the middle of a meeting.”
You smirk, sliding a hand onto your hip. “Oh, I can come back. I just thought you’d want to know I got Guillermo del Toro on board to do Frankenstein with Continental. Which means Maya gets to market it.”
Silence.
Then the room explodes.
Quinn laughs a little too hard. Tyler actually claps.
Patty sits forward sharply. “What?”
Sal actually drops his pen. “You… you’re serious?”
Maya just stares at you, lips parted, jaw tight, like she’s not sure whether to laugh, scream, or drag you out of the room and kiss you senseless.
Matt half stands, eyes wide. “Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein?! At Continental?! Holy shit!” He’s grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, already muttering about Oscar’s projections and festival rollouts. “This could get Oscars! Do you understand? Del Toro! Frankenstein! Prestige horror with a capital P! We could be walking into award season history!”
Maya leans back in her chair slowly, eyes narrowing, lips curling like she’s not sure she heard you right. “Wait.” Her voice is low, dangerous, and careful. “I get to market it?”
You don’t even hesitate. You step further into the room, heels clicking, eyes locked on hers. “It’s in the contract, my love. Del Toro’s Frankenstein is your new marketing baby if you want it.”
For a split second, the room holds its breath.
And then Maya explodes.
She shoots to her feet, sunglasses flying off the table, both hands slamming down against the wood hard enough to make Matt flinch. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” she practically shouts, eyes blazing. “You’re telling me I get to roll out Frankenstein with Guillermo del fucking Toro at the helm?!”
Her voice pitches higher, faster, words tumbling over each other. “The campaign writes itself! The monster! The legacy! The merch! The fucking Oscar campaign! Oh my God!”
She’s pacing now, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other flailing like she can barely contain the energy surging through her. “We’re talking prestige horror, we’re talking global footprint, we’re talking every single goddamn outlet bending over to worship my-”
“Okay, breathe,” Matt mutters, but he’s grinning too.
“No, don’t breathe,” Sal counters. “This is going to make us millions!”
You’re just standing there, smug as hell, arms crossed, watching her combust.
And then Maya turns on you, eyes bright, mouth open like she’s about to kiss you in front of the entire room.
“You’re the love of my life,” she breathes.
You shrug, smug as sin. “I know, you too.”
Patty, cool as ever, is watching you with an arched brow that almost hides the pride in her smile.
Maya is quickly on her feet, stalking around the table until she’s right in front of you, eyes blazing, her grin wide enough to light the whole damn building. She grabs your wrist, yanking you closer like she can’t stand the distance.
“You actually wrote me into the contract?” she demands, voice low but searing. “You made Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein my baby?”
Your smirk widens. “If you want it.”
Her laugh is sharp, disbelieving, feral. She presses a hand to your waist, not caring that the continental team is right there. “Oh, my girl really just did that for me? Wrote me into the deal?”
You tilt your head, lipstick catching the light. “Yes I did.”
Her grip tightens. Her eyes flash with lust.
“Fuck,” she whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. “Just wait till we get home.”
Heat crawls up your neck.
Maya’s whole body is angled toward you, her hand still on your waist, her mouth hovering dangerously close to your ear.
“You set my fuckin world on fire,” she murmurs, low enough that it’s just for you. “And when we get out of here? I’m gonna remind you who I belong to.”
Your breath catches.
Because you know she means it.
Sal sighs as if he’s been brought back to earth and waves a hand. “This is all great, guys. Oscars, Frankenstein, marketing porn, but can we get back to the meeting? This Horror Nights bullshit is giving me nightmares and I’ve got spreadsheets to cry over.”
Maya huffs out a laugh and drops back into her chair. She pats her thigh, and you, with no meetings left on your calendar for the day, take the invitation without hesitation. You settle into her lap like it’s yours by right. Her arm hooks around your waist instantly, steady and casual, but the little squeeze she gives your hip is anything but.
You lean forward, eyes catching the mockups glowing on her iPad. Dark corridors, crooked greenhouse glass, a doll’s room rendered in nauseous pinks. You gasp, delighted. “What the hell, why haven’t I been asked about this? These are my films. My slate. Why is my favorite holiday being planned without me?”
Tyler stifles a grin, Sal rolls his eyes and mutters, “Because it’s marketing.”
Maya smirks. “Exactly.” She tightens her arm around your waist, pressing her cheek briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “Baby, you’ve been busy saving horror. These mazes? They’re in my sandbox.”
You turn in her lap, pout aimed directly at her. “So what, I don’t get a say? I want to go see the mazes and all the scares.”
Her eyes flick up from her tablet to you, sharp and amused. “No. It’s dumb.”
You blink. “Dumb?”
“I don’t like jump scares.” She shrugs, like that’s the end of it. “Fog machines, hormonal teenagers screaming, it’s not my thing.”
Your pout deepens. “But it’s Halloween. This is our season. It’s my Christmas, Maya.”
Her smirk falters just a fraction at that, the smallest crack in her armor. She exhales, thumb rubbing slow circles against your side.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmurs. “My spooky girl, begging me to go get scared.”
You tilt your head, widening your eyes until she groans.
“I’ll think about it,” she concedes at last, voice low, meant only for you. “When it’s finished.”
The grin that spreads across your face lights the whole room, because with Maya ‘maybe’ always turns into a ‘yes’.
Sal groans into his spreadsheet. “Can we get back to work, please?”
But you don’t hear him, not with Maya’s hand still resting heavy at your waist, day dreaming that when the fog machines start, she’ll be right there beside you, no matter how much she hates it.
~
That evening at home the smell of garlic noodles and sesame oil fills the living room, steam curling up from open cartons. The coffee table is a mess of takeout containers, plastic chopsticks, and your half finished wine glasses. The TV is playing something low and forgettable, background noise at best.
You’re curled on the couch in nothing but one of Maya’s T-shirts, oversized and soft, sleeves slipping down your shoulder. Your bare legs are tucked under you, hair messy from a long day, lips still faintly stained red. You look wrecked in the best way.
Maya sits across from you, legs folded, wearing a black tank that clings to her frame. She’s been picking at lo mein, but mostly she’s been staring at you.
Finally, she breaks.
“Alright,” she says, pointing a chopstick at you. “How the fuck did you pull that Frankenstein contract off?”
You grin around your sip of wine. “Which part?”
“The part where Guillermo del Toro signed with us,” she says, leaning forward, “and the part where his contract says Maya Mason, Head of Marketing, gets to run the campaign. I mean what the fuck, spooky? Who does that?”
You shrug, all fake nonchalance, eyes glittering. “I told him about you.”
She raises a brow. “About me?”
“Yeah,” you say simply. “I told him about your work on Witch’s Curse, how you took something weird and niche and made it a cultural event. How you turned Patty’s films into Oscar campaigns. I told him you were the only person who could market Frankenstein without turning it into schlock.”
Maya blinks, chopsticks forgotten in her hand. “You said all that?”
You nod, smug. “I want you on board. So I made sure you were.”
The silence that follows is hot, heavy, magnetic.
She sets her food down slowly, eyes never leaving you. “You…” Her voice falters. She laughs, low and disbelieving. “You actually rewrote the deal to tie me in.”
You tilt your head, smile widening. “What can I say? Monsters like me.”
That does it.
Maya leans back, hand dragging down her face like she’s overwhelmed, but when her eyes find you again, they’re dark and hungry. “Jesus Christ.”
You bite your lip, enjoying this, letting her simmer.
She shakes her head slowly, voice dropping into a rasp. “Do you have any idea how turned on I am right now?”
Your pulse skips.
Her gaze drops to your bare legs draped across the couch cushions, then back up, lingering on your mouth. “My babygirl making power plays for me in contracts? Securing me del Toro? Fuck.”
She leans forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes locked on yours like you’re prey she’s about to devour.
“Finish your wine,” she murmurs. “Then come sit on my lap.”
You crawl into her lap, knees framing her thighs, your weight pressing her back into the couch. She tips her head when you start kissing along her neck, slow and teasing, just enough tongue to make her hum. Her hands hover at your waist, torn between holding you closer and pushing you back so she can breathe.
“You know how you can thank me?” you whisper, lips brushing her skin.
Her voice comes out rough. “Pretty sure I already have a plan.”
You smile against her jaw. “Take me to the mazes. When they’re ready. Walk through them with me.”
Maya groans, long and dramatic, head thunking back against the couch. “Oh my God. No. Absolutely not. I told you, I hate jump scares. I don’t wanna pay people to make me scream.”
You pull back, eyes glittering, and peel her T-shirt off your own body in one fluid motion. Her protest dies the second your shirt hits the floor. The way her gaze snaps downward is instant, helpless. She goes still, lips parting slightly. For a long moment she just looks at you, hands still braced on your hips, eyes gone heavy and dark.
You lean in close again, voice syrup sweet. “C’mon, mommy. Please?”
Her hands, traitorous, tighten at your hips. She tries to school her expression, but her eyes keep darting down your chest like she’s fighting a losing battle.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a menace,” she mutters. “Spooky little brat.”
You pout, winding your arms round the back of her neck. “So you’ll go?”
She groans again, shaking her head like she can’t believe she’s doing this. “When it’s ready. One run. That’s it.”
Your smile breaks wide and wicked. “Deal.”
Maya presses her forehead against yours, laughing under her breath. “You’re gonna kill me. You know that, right?”
You kiss her slow, savoring her surrender. “Worth it.”
“Christ,” she murmurs, thumbs sweeping higher, grazing the underside of your breasts. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
You can’t answer, not when she leans in and closes her mouth around you, lips hot, tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle that makes your breath catch. Your hands clutch the straps of her tank as if you’ll float away otherwise.
“Maya…” your voice breaks on her name, half whimper, half plea.
She hums against your skin, satisfied, one hand sliding up your spine to anchor you while the other cups the swell of your breast, kneading gently as her mouth moves from one peak to the other. She takes her time, savoring every gasp she pulls from you, every little twitch of your body in her lap.
You cling tighter, nails pressing through the fabric at her shoulders. Your head tips back, lips parted, and the sound that leaves you is wrecked, helpless.
“That’s it,” she rasps between kisses, dragging her tongue across your nipple before sucking again, harder this time. “My spooky girl. So fucking perfect for me.”
Your hips rock against her thigh, desperate for friction, and she groans, biting lightly before soothing the sting with her tongue.
You cling harder, gasping. “Maya, please…”
She pulls back just enough to look at you, lips glistening, her expression somewhere between smug and reverent.
“Begging already,” she teases, giving your breast a soft squeeze before leaning in again. “And I haven’t even started.”
Her mouth is hot and relentless, lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue dragging circles until you’re whimpering like it’s the only sound you know how to make.
You gasp when she sucks harder, arching into her. Your nails bite down into her shoulders, clinging like if you let go you’ll drown. “Maya, oh fuck!”
She hums against you, the vibration going straight to your core, and pulls back just long enough to flick her tongue across your nipple, quick and wicked. Then she’s moving to the other, sucking it deep into her mouth with a low groan that makes your whole body jolt.
“Look at you,” she murmurs between worshipful kisses, her breath hot on your damp skin. “Fucking trembling for me.”
You can only nod, dizzy with pleasure, your hips rocking in tiny helpless movements against her lap.
She smirks, lavashing her tongue across your nipple again before dragging her teeth ever so lightly, making you yelp. Her hand strokes up your spine, soothing, grounding, before sliding back down to grip your waist.
You cling tighter, head tipped back, lips parted around a broken gasp. “Maya, please, don’t stop.”
Her mouth curves against your breast, smug and reverent at once. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
And then she’s on you again, sucking, biting gently, worshipping like your body is the altar she’s been dying to kneel before and you can do nothing but cling and let yourself be devoured.
Her mouth doesn’t leave you, lips sealed tight around your nipple, sucking until your head tips back with a ragged gasp. But her hands have started to wander.
The one braced at your hip slips lower, tracing down the dip of your back, dragging slow, firm lines over your waist. The other squeezes your breast possessively, thumb rolling across the sensitive peak before sliding down to stroke the curve beneath.
You whimper when her fingers spread across your ribs, inching lower, brushing the bare skin of your stomach. The touch is maddening, it’s not enough and nowhere near where you need her.
“Maya…” your voice is a broken little plea, hips shifting restlessly in her lap.
She pulls back just long enough to look up at you, lips swollen, eyes dark with heat. “What, baby?” she teases, her hand skating lower, pausing just at the waistband of your panties. “Can’t sit still for me?”
You shake your head desperately, breath hitching when her fingers dip just beneath the elastic, grazing the softest edge of you.
She chuckles low in her chest and bends to your breast again, sucking hard, tongue circling until your back arches. Her hand keeps exploring, sliding lower in teasing strokes, every brush of her fingers making your thighs twitch and clamp around her.
“You’re shaking,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice wicked, reverent. “All this from me worshipping these perfect tits. You’re so easy for me, spooky girl.”
Her fingers skin just a little lower, still not where you need them, and you cry out softly, clinging tighter to her shoulders.
And she loves it. She loves how desperate you are, knowing she hasn’t even really started.
Her lips are hot against you, sucking hard, tongue circling until you can barely breathe. Every gasp, every whimper only spurs her on. And then her hand finally slips lower, her fingers sliding beneath the thin cotton, past the teasing edge, sinking down between your thighs.
You gasp, the sound sharp and desperate, clutching at her shoulders like you might fall.
“There she is,” she rasps against your skin, still kissing, sucking, worshipping your breasts as her fingers drag slowly through your wetness. “I knew my baby girl was soaking for me.”
Your hips jerk helplessly, grinding down against her hand. She chuckles low and satisfied, pressing her mouth harder to you, sucking at your nipple while her fingers slide deeper, stroking you just right.
You cry out, nails digging into her. “Maya, oh fuck!”
She hums, the vibration shooting straight through your chest. “Shhh. I’ve got you.” Her voice is rough, reverent, wrecking you. “Gonna make you come all over my fingers while I taste every inch of you up here.”
Her hand moves faster now, sure and relentless, and your whole body shakes in her lap. She keeps her mouth on your breast, tongue flicking mercilessly, teeth scraping just enough to make you yelp.
You cling tighter, gasping her name, your hips grinding down into her. The coil inside you is winding so tight you can hardly breathe.
Maya is eating it up, her mouth worshipping you, fingers fucking you deep, murmuring between kisses, “that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Show me how much you need me.”
You come with a cry, body shuddering in her lap, and she doesn’t stop, not her hand or her mouth, wringing every drop of pleasure from you until you’re trembling and boneless against her.
You’re still shaking in her lap, chest heaving, breasts flushed from her mouth, when you catch her lips in a frantic kiss. It’s messy, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, all need and no patience. You whimper into her, clutching at her shoulders, grinding against her hand until she pulls back with a gasp.
“Jesus, baby,” she rasps, lips swollen, eyes blown wide.
But you’re already moving. You slide off her lap down to the floor, the carpet cool under your bare knees. You press urgent kisses down her stomach, tugging at her waistband, and look up at her with wild, hungry eyes.
Her breath catches. “What are you doing?”
“Returning the favour,” you whisper, voice low and wrecked.
She groans, head tipping back against the couch, and lifts her hips just enough to let you tug her pants down. She’s already soaked, the sight of it making your mouth water.
“Maya,” you beg softly, kissing the inside of her thigh, “please?”
Her hand tangles in your hair instantly, guiding you closer. “Fuck,” she breathes. “Yeah, baby. You want it? Then give it to me.”
You don’t need telling twice. You bury your mouth between her thighs, licking deep, sucking her clit until she gasps, thighs tightening around your head.
“Christ,” she chokes, hips jerking. “Baby fuck!”
You hum against her, tongue working faster, and she can’t take it, she grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls, grinding down onto your face.
“That’s it,” she groans, voice breaking. “Let me ride that pretty mouth.”
And she does. She moves against you, messy and desperate, every grind making her gasp, every drag of your tongue pulling curses from her lips. Her thighs tremble, her hand holding you in place, you can barely breathe but you don’t want to stop. You cling to her hips, moaning into her, devouring every drop of her need.
“Fuck, baby,” she gasps, head thrown back, sweat glistening on her chest. “You’re gonna make me come, oh my fuck!”
She shudders hard, thighs clamping around your head, grinding down until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.
Her orgasm rips through her, thighs trembling, but she doesn’t stop.
If anything, she pushes harder.
Her hand fists in your hair, keeping you exactly where she wants you, hips rolling in messy, desperate circles against your mouth. “Don’t you dare stop,” she gasps, voice wrecked, raw. “Not when you’re this good, fuck!”
You moan into her, the vibration making her cry out, thighs clamping tighter around your head. She rides you through it, grinding down, clit rubbing against your tongue until she’s shuddering, panting, overstimulated but refusing to give in.
“Maya…” you try, muffled against her, but she only groans louder, head tipping back, sweat dampening the strands of hair sticking to her cheek.
“Again,” she rasps, tugging your hair, guiding your mouth. “I’m not done. You keep eating me till I say so.”
Her voice is feral, commanding, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through you. You grip her thighs, nails digging in, and obey, licking, sucking, letting her use your mouth like it belongs to her. And let’s face it, it does.
She’s a mess now, hips jerking, curses spilling from her lips. “Oh my God, yes, baby, just like that, fuck! You’re mine, you hear me? My perfect girl…”
The words tumble out in between gasps as another orgasm crashes over her, sharper, harder, her whole body seizing as she grinds down against your face. She cries out, broken and raw, riding it all the way through until she’s twitching and limp, collapsing back into the couch cushions.
Her thighs loosen around your head, her grip in your hair softens, and she drags you up to her mouth for a sloppy, breathless kiss. You’re both gasping, lips swollen, sweat slicking your skin.
She cups your face, kissing you again, tongue slow, almost tender now. “Fuck,” she whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna kill me, spooky. And I’m gonna let you.”
Her breath is still shaky when she pulls you up, dragging you into her lap again. She kisses you slow, lips swollen and tasting faintly of herself, her tongue sliding lazily against yours.
You melt into her chest, exhausted, still trembling, and she holds you tighter, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other smoothing down your spine in long, steady strokes.
“Easy,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I’ve got you.”
You sigh into her, the tension finally bleeding out of your muscles, your bare skin pressed to the slick warmth of her tank. Her lips brush your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw, soft little pecks like she can’t stop kissing you even if she tried.
The TV hums in the background, takeout forgotten on the table, the world shrunk to the couch and the way she curls herself around you.
You nuzzle into her neck, murmuring, “Stay here.”
She hums in agreement, tightening her arms around you until you’re caged in completely. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Her fingers trace idle patterns along your side, grounding you. When she feels the little shivers still running through you, she kisses your hairline and whispers, “You were perfect for me. Always are.”
You smile against her collarbone, too soft to tease, and let your eyes flutter shut.
And for once Maya Mason, fast talking, brash, and unstoppable, stays quiet, just holding you on the couch, kissing you every so often like she’s making sure you’re real.
~
It’s the opening night of the horror mazes and you’re practically vibrating with energy.
Your boots are already on, jacket zipped, hair styled to perfection, lipstick flawless. You’ve been pacing the living room for fifteen minutes, glancing at the clock, glancing at the door, glancing down the hall to where Maya is still holed up in the bedroom.
“Maya!” you call, voice pitched high with impatience. “Let’s gooooo!”
Nothing.
You groan dramatically like a teenager denied a ride to prom. “It’s Halloween! This is literally my Christmas! We are not going to be late to my Christmas!”
Finally, her voice carries faintly down the hall, “I’m coming!”
You roll your eyes and flop onto the couch, bouncing your knee restlessly. But when you hear the low hum of her voice again, it isn’t the usual lazy drawl, it’s muttering. Fast. Practiced.
You creep toward the bedroom door and lean against the frame.
And there she is perched on the edge of the bed in an oversized hoodie and her gold hoops, iPad balanced on her knees. She’s scrolling through floor plans and notes, mouthing along under her breath.
“Okay, fog triggers in corridor three, mirror drop in greenhouse, air blast in Doll Room… fuck, I hate that one… chainsaw gag at exit, right. Right.”
You cover your mouth, biting back a laugh.
She looks up and catches you smirking. “Don’t,” she warns instantly, eyes narrowing.
You pad into the room, grin spreading. “You’re studying the mazes?”
“I’m… refreshing my memory.” She straightens defensively, tapping her screen. “I planned this whole thing, spooky. If I know when the scares are coming, they won’t get me.”
You climb onto the bed, crawling closer until you’re hovering over her iPad. “Are you scared?”
“I’m not scared, I’m prepared,” she snaps, flipping to another diagram. “There’s a difference.”
You laugh, dropping your head onto her shoulder, shaking with delight. “You’re adorable.”
“I’m not adorable,” she mutters, scrolling faster. “I’m strategic.”
You kiss her jaw, playful, relentless. “You’re strategic and adorable. And you’re still coming with me.”
She sighs, tilting her head back, like she’s accepting her doomed fate. “I cannot believe you’re making me walk through my own goddamn haunted house.”
“Correction,” you say, kissing her cheek now, smug and bright. “I’m making you scream through it.”
She groans. “Oh my God.”
You’re buzzing the second she finally shuts her iPad, tugging her up from the bed by both wrists. “C’mon! We’re gonna miss it!”
She drags her feet just enough to make you whine, lips pressed in a thin line like she’s being marched to her execution.
“Why are you walking like we’re going to the dentist?” you tease, pulling her toward the door.
“At least dentists don’t have chainsaws,” she mutters.
You snort, shaking your head, but as you catching her reflection in the mirror by the door, something makes you pause. Her shoulders are tense. Her jaw’s ticking.
“Maya?”
She hums distractedly, checking her pockets for her keys.
You soften, tilting your head. “Baby… are you actually scared?”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
You bite your lip, suddenly gentler. “We don’t have to go if you’re gonna be too freaked out. It’s supposed to be fun, not torture.”
For a heartbeat, something flickers in her eyes like she’s been caught out. She can see your excitement dip, the tiniest frown tugging at your mouth like you’re about to give up this thing you’ve been glowing about for weeks just for her.
So Maya straightens, her whole posture flipping like a switch. “Oh, hell no,” she says, shoving her arms into her jacket with a sharp snap of fabric. “You think I’m backing out? Please. I helped plan this shit. Bring it on, baby.”
Your eyes light back up instantly, the pout vanishing. “Yeah?”
She smirks, sliding her glasses into place. “Yeah. I’m not about to let some clown in a fog machine scare me. Let’s go.”
You practically bounce on the spot, grabbing her hand. “That’s my girl!”
Maya groans but doesn’t pull away, letting you drag her out the door, muttering under her breath, “fuck. What have I gotten myself into?”
The second you and Maya step out of the car, the fog machines hit you, low, curling mist rolling over the pavement, lit from beneath by sickly green lights. The air smells like caramel corn and cold smoke. Neon signs point toward the entrance, pulsing like a heartbeat. Somewhere up ahead, a girl shrieks, high and sharp, followed by the rev of a chainsaw and a chorus of laughter.
You’re practically bouncing, your grip on Maya’s hand tight enough to bruise. “Oh my God, listen to that! Do you hear it?!”
“I hear it,” she says flatly, pulling her jacket tighter around her.
Her eyes flick to the crowd swarming the gates, packs of teenagers in plastic horns, couples clinging to each other, people already spilling beer on their shoes. Every few seconds someone yelps as a costumed actor lurches out of the shadows with a fake machete.
You beam, absolutely vibrating. “Isn’t it perfect?”
Maya mutters, “Depends on your definition of perfect.”
You glance sideways at her, catching the way she’s scanning the fog like she expects something to leap out any second. Your grin softens just a little. You squeeze her hand. “You sure you’re good?”
She notices immediately. Her jaw sets, her chin lifts. “I told you,” she says, all bravado now. “Bring it the fuck on. I’m ready.”
Another chainsaw roars somewhere behind the gates, and she flinches so hard she nearly stumbles.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
She glares at you instantly. “Don’t.”
You raise both brows, innocence personified. “Didn’t say anything.”
Her fingers tighten around yours, knuckles white. “You’d better kiss me after every single jump scare,” she warns, voice low and dangerous, “or I’m suing.”
You beam, leaning into her side as you join the line. “Deal.”
You’re nearly at the gates to the first maze, the greenhouse one that you’ve been dying to see when Maya’s hand jerks in yours, yanking you sideways.
“Hold up,” she says quickly, nodding toward a food truck parked off to the side. “They’ve got tacos.”
You blink at her. “Now?”
“Yes, now.” She’s already steering you toward the truck, hair catching in the mist. “We can’t go in on an empty stomach. That’s how people faint. It’s science.”
You laugh, half exasperated, half delighted. “It’s stalling,” you accuse, bumping her shoulder.
“Excuse me?” She bristles theatrically, eyes wide. “It’s called strategic fuel.”
“Maya-”
“Baby, come on.” She presses her hand to your lower back, already queuing up behind a couple with churros. “If I’m about to be chased by chainsaws, I deserve carne asada first.”
You cross your arms, trying not to smile, watching her lean toward the menu board like she’s making life or death decisions.
“You are so scared,” you sing song under your breath.
Her head whips toward you, glare sharp, but her lips twitch. “I am not scared. I am hungry.”
You laugh again, looping your arms around her waist from behind, chin hooked over her shoulder. “Hungry for tacos or stalling because you don’t wanna go into the fog tunnel?”
She huffs but doesn’t shake you off, eyes still fixed on the menu. “Two tacos and churros. Non negotiable. Then I’ll let the zombies eat me, okay?”
You grin into her neck, kissing just below her ear. “Okay.”
And you can feel her shiver, betraying herself, even as she mutters, “Still not scared.”
Once Maya finishes her food she has no more excuses to put off facing the first maze. The line moves faster than you expect, and before you know it, you’re at the entrance with a cluster of strangers, a pair of teens in plastic devil horns, a frat boy with his girlfriend, and a group of women in cat ears. The attendant waves you in, fog spilling out around your ankles.
Your heart is hammering, but in the best way. This is your favourite time of year.
Maya squeezes your hand tight enough to cut circulation. “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” she mutters, eyes darting toward the strobing lights inside.
“Too late to turn back now,” you sing song, dragging her forward.
The second you step into the greenhouse maze, the air changes. It’s wet, earthy, filled with the hum of hidden speakers. Strobe lights flash across twisted vines and broken glass panes. Somewhere, faintly, a girl sobs.
You’re grinning ear to ear when the first scare hits, a body slamming against the glass wall with a shriek.
You scream, high, loud, and utterly delighted.
Maya also screams, but hers is less “delighted” and more “in mortal peril.”
“What the fuck?” she shouts, practically climbing onto your back as the group around you bursts out laughing.
You’re laughing too, gasping between shrieks as another actor bursts from the vines with a machete. “Oh my god Maya, look at his makeup!”
“Look at his… baby, he just tried to kill us!” she yells, dragging you behind the couple in front like a human shield.
The strobe flickers again, and a hand shoots out of the foliage to grab at your arm. You shriek, thrilled, while Maya whirls, eyes blazing. “Don’t touch her you creep!”
“Babe!” you laugh, tugging her forward, half bent over from laughing so hard.
But Maya’s glued to your side, arm like iron around your waist, muttering curses under her breath as another group member screams. “This is bullshit. Absolute bullshit. Who the fuck greenlit this?!”
“You did!” you cackle, pulling her down the corridor as the sound of chains rattling grows louder ahead.
She groans like she’s just realized she’s signed her own death warrant. And you’ve never been happier.
Fog curls around your ankles as you’re herded deeper into the greenhouse maze, the strobe lights snapping just enough to make everything look wrong, plants jerking, shadows twitching, glass panes cracking that aren’t actually breaking.
Another scare actor bursts out of a hidden panel, shrieking, face half covered in latex vines.
You scream loud and sharp, immediately breaking into laughter. “Oh my god that’s amazing!”
Maya screams too, but hers is blood curdling. She claws at your arm, clutching it to her chest like a lifeline. “What the fuck?! No. No.”
The group ahead of you is in hysterics, one of the frat boys shouting, “Same, lady!”
The corridor twists, forcing you into single file, and the second Maya realizes she has to go first, she digs her heels in. “Absolutely not. You go. I’m not being the bait.”
You laugh so hard you nearly choke. “Maya, you planned this maze.”
“Exactly! I know what’s in here!” she snaps, pushing you ahead. “You’re the horror freak, lead the way spooky.”
You grin, heart pounding, and step forward, only for an animatronic hand to drop from the ceiling, brushing your hair. You shriek, grabbing at her arm, and she shrieks louder, yanking you so hard you both slam into the wall.
“Oh my god nope nope nope nope nope. No!”
“Maya!” you gasp through laughter, clutching your stomach.
She glares, but it’s useless, another actor lurches out of a greenhouse door, chains rattling, and she screams again, practically wrapping her whole body around you.
You’re doubled over laughing now, tears in your eyes. “You’re worse than me!”
“I am not!” she yells, voice cracking. “I’m just…fuck! Okay, what the hell is that?”
It’s the Doll Room next. There are bright pink strobes, dozens of cracked porcelain faces staring from shelves. The actors are smaller here, teenagers in smeared makeup, moving jerky and wrong. One drops from the ceiling on a hidden harness.
You scream so loud your throat burns, but it’s partly through joy and pure thrill.
Maya nearly falls backward, dragging you with her. “Absolutely the fuck not!” she bellows, shoving through the group like she’s about to bulldoze her way to freedom.
A cat ear girl ahead of you wheezes, “She’s better than the maze!”
You can barely breathe, tears streaming down your face as Maya clamps onto your waist, muttering, “I hate you. I love you, but I hate you,” through gritted teeth.
The exit finally looms ahead, chainsaw revving, smoke billowing.
Maya stops dead. “No. Nope. Nope. I draw the line at chainsaws.”
The actor bursts out, mask glinting, revving the blade inches from you both. You shriek and laugh, bouncing on your toes, exhilarated.
Maya freezes, then in true dramatic Mason fashion, she shoves you forward like you’re sacrificial bait. “Go!” she hisses, eyes glittering.
You stumble into the path, half laughing, half gasping. “You sacrificed me?!” you screech.
She wrenches you back into her chest the instant the actor lunges with more theatrics than threat. Maya screams like she’s being murdered, hauling you into her arms and sprinting for the exit.
You burst out of the maze into the cool night air, both of you panting, your face aching from grinning.
Maya bends double, hands on her knees, hair wild. “Never again.”
You’re still laughing, clutching her arm. “That was the best night of my life.”
She groans, throwing her head back. “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”
And yet, her hand never leaves yours.
“I can’t believe you used me as a human shield and shoved me towards a man with a chainsaw!” You glare at her, still laughing. “You are such an asshole.”
“And you love it.”
You do. And you know she does too.
The night air outside the maze is sharp and damp, carrying the sweetness of kettle corn and the acrid tang of smoke. The group you’d gone in with stumbles out around you, laughing and shrieking, retelling their favorite scares already. One of the devil horned teens is doubled over, clutching their stomach. A cat ear woman raises her cocktail in salute before disappearing into the crowd.
You’re laughing too, breathless from adrenaline, cheeks flushed, heart still racing in the best way. You could go again right now. You want to.
But then you glance at Maya.
She’s still gripping your hand like a lifeline, knuckles white. Her other hand presses flat to her chest, like she’s trying to steady her heart. Her lips are parted, breath coming in shallow pulls, and her eyes are still too wide, pupils blown. The mist catches her hair where it’s plastered to her cheekbone, and she looks… rattled. Not just playing it up for you but really shaken.
You slow your laughter, the grin fading from your mouth. “Baby,” you say softly.
She shakes her head quickly, like she doesn’t want to hear it, dragging in another deep breath. “Okay. Okay.” Her voice cracks a little, husky with adrenaline. “I know you want to go to the clown one next but I just… I need a minute.”
You stop dead in the path, tugging her gently to the side so you’re not jostled by the next wave of people rushing toward the entrance. “Hey.” You tilt your head, trying to catch her eyes. “You’re alright.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, too fast, staring somewhere over your shoulder. Her hand is still locked around yours, though, tighter than ever.
You look at her, really look, and your chest aches. As much as your body is buzzing, as much as every nerve ending is screaming for round two, you know instantly what you’re choosing.
So you take a breath, force your voice into something lighter, shakier. “Honestly?” You give a little laugh, perfectly timed. “As fun as that was… it was kind of scary.”
That gets her attention. Her head whips toward you, brows furrowed. “You? Scared?”
You take a breath, the words simple and small. “Yeah it was… really scary,” you say. You let the sentence sit between you. “I don’t really want to do another one. Is that okay?”
For a second Maya says nothing. Around you the carnival hums, a distant sound of a chainsaw, laughter, a PA announcer selling limited edition merch, and you wait, your whole body poised on a thread.
“Yeah?” she asks, as if she needs to hear you say it.
You nod, “yeah. I’m done for tonight. I just want to go home and watch one of your reality tv shows in bed.”
For a second, something flickers across her face, relief. Then it’s gone, replaced by her familiar bravado. Her shoulders roll back, her smirk slides into place, and she shakes her head.
“Oh, baby,” she drawls, voice low and smug again. “If you’re too scared…” She leans in, lips brushing your temple, “…then yeah. Let’s go.”
You blink up at her, feigning wide eyed gratitude. “Thank you baby.”
“Of course,” she says, sliding her arm around your waist as she steers you toward the gates, all protective swagger now. “What would you do without me, huh?”
Maya’s steps are confident now, but there’s a tenderness in how she straightens your coat at the hem, the casual firmness of her arm around your waist.
You smile into her shoulder, letting her have it even though you both know that she was the one screaming the loudest, that you could have easily gone through ten more mazes. Because as much as you love horror, you love Maya Mason more.
~
By the time you get home, your cheeks still ache from smiling. Your coat ends up in a heap by the door, your boots kicked halfway across the living room. Maya tosses her keys onto the counter, exhales loud, and stretches like she just came back from battle.
She smirks over at you, cocky again now that the fog machines and chainsaws are safely miles away.
“My poor spooky girl,” she croons, tugging you against her side, kissing the top of your head. “You were so scared tonight.”
You laugh into her hoodie, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?” She feigns innocence, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “I held your hand the whole time, didn’t I? Protected you from the dolls?”
“You shoved me into the chainsaw guy like a human shield,” you shoot back, but she only grins wider, smug as hell.
“Strategic move. Kept us both alive, didn’t it?”
You groan, batting her with a throw pillow as she steers you toward the bedroom.
A few minutes later, you’re curled up in bed together. She’s propped against the headboard, one arm behind her head, the other scrolling through the TV. You’re tucked against her side in nothing but one of her T-shirts again, hair mussed from the night.
“Housewives?” she asks, already clicking before you can answer. The theme music of Beverly Hills floods the room, bright and ridiculous against the quiet.
You sigh happily, burrowing closer, your cheek against her chest. The faint smell of her perfume clings to the fabric of her tank.
After a minute, you tilt your head, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. Then another. Then another, trailing slow and soft up to her jaw.
She hums, a pleased little sound vibrating through her. “What’s that for?”
You smile against her skin. “My hero,” you murmur.
Her laugh is low and disbelieving, hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You’re so full of shit.”
You kiss her neck again anyway. And when she finally tips her head to meet your mouth, kissing you slow and sweet under the glow of Housewives chaos, it doesn’t matter who screamed loudest.
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