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"Unh…fuck!"

"Yeah, you like that, bitch?"

"Oh, God, you're—nnh—so fucking thick!"

Each slam of Maaya's pelvis against the rabbit's pert, perky ass sent ripples through his white-furred cheeks with a resounding smack, the twin globes split apart by her dark, veiny cock. He was sprawled out before her on the bed on all fours: face-down, ass-up, and back shamelessly arched, moaning and drooling into the pillow. He was a skinny little thing, blond hair sticking in sweaty strands to his boyish face, blue eyes glazed over with overwhelmed pleasure as they hazily gazed back at her, long pointy ears flattened against the back of his head. His dress shirt was a wrinkled up mess, haphazardly hiked up to his upper back, briefs still dangling around an ankle.

Maaya tightened her grip on the base of his puffy white tail with a snarl as she thrust harder, pistoning into that tight pink ring hugging her glistening shaft. The tigress's balls slapped audibly against his taint, a steady tingle building in her hips where they kept colliding with his gradually reddening ass. She gave one cheek a solid smack with her open palm, earning a ragged moan and a tighter clench.

"I knew you'd be such a little fag—"

"Yes, YES! God I'm your slutty little bitch!"

Maaya leaned forward, bracing her free hand on the headboard, angling straighter down. She shifted gears, slamming into him with sharper, shallower thrusts, wringing a chorus of hoarse and pleasured groans from beneath her. He deliberately ground back into her, trying to take more of her, take her deeper.

Maaya's thoughts dizzily drifted. God. This was…

This was…

This was fucking exhausting.

Jesus. Christ. Had she always been this out of shape? She couldn't ever remember being this out of breath on past shoots. Man—three years since being on camera, and her stamina was absolutely wrecked. Was it just this dress they'd put her in? It was way too fucking small, some sort of sparkly red Shein club dress with no sense of stretch or mobility, which had taken her five whole minutes and two extra sets of hands to zip herself into. Some bullshit about 'emphasizing her curves'—yeah, it was gonna emphasize the permanent curve being bent into her rib cage. Pushing her stomach up into her tits.

God, if only; her tits could use it. Get rid of these weird, awkward, cone-lemon-things she was currently stuck with. Maybe it would finally get these producers, and directors, and agents, and friends (alright fine, not 'friends', really 'coworkers'—former coworkers, at that) to stop bringing up the question of 'getting work done' all the time. She had only added on progesterone like four weeks ago, fucking sue her.

"Oh, God, you're fuckin'…splitting me apart!"

But that meant this was the type of material she had to deal with, now: some schlocky, cliché fetish video. Wasn't pretty or petite enough for any of the other run of the mill TS genres, no, she was the star of the next 'chick with a secret dick tricks the dude' film. In fucking 2023. Blind date leads to unsuspecting straight twink getting railed by the not-at-all-obvious 'shemale'. Great. Perfect. Groundbreaking.

Also, was it just her, or was it freezing in here? What happened to keeping a set warm? She got it—middle of summer in the Valley, stuffy warehouse with a shit ton of bright lights, a bunch of crew members packed close together—hard to beat the heat, especially if you had a normal amount of clothes on. But was there an AC unit in here or something that they kept turning on between takes? Maaya was almost shivering. Was it really so hard to—

Ow. A twinge of pain shooting up her shaft and through her pelvis. Weird angle—something went in wrong. She quickly tried to adjust, and it almost happened again. It wasn't going in, that was the issue, she was too soft, she was just stuck in—

She was soft.

She had gone soft.

Again.

Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.

She pulled out with a slick pop, leaving the rabbit (what was his name? 'Tyler'? 'Tommy'? She had met him a few hours ago) gaping open, his hole clenching like a hungry pink maw. She spread a cheek with her left hand, her other reaching down to desperately stroke herself.

"Yeah," she crooned, trying to hide the slight tremor inching into her voice, "Keep that ass open for me, c'mon—"

"God, please, you're gonna fucking ruin me…"

Christ. Come on. Wake up. Enough weird, dead flesh flopping around in her hand. She aimed her limp dick up and slapped the hooded tip repeatedly against his hole—a hamfisted display of dominance, a desperate attempt to encourage blood flow. The rabbit groaned beneath her, trying to arch back up into her.

It wasn't working. This wasn't working. None of this was fucking working, nothing about this entire—

"Alright, cut."

The entire energy of the room came crashing down with a collective, resigned sigh. The sound of shuffling feet and low murmurs immediately filled the space, the crew sweeping into a tired but familiar choreography around the set, resetting. Maaya plopped down from her knees, sitting on her heels as she caught her breath. She brushed her wavy black hair out of her face, sweeping away sweaty strands sticking to the dampening fur on her forehead. The rabbit flopped onto his side with an exhausted grunt, before propping himself up on an elbow, chest heaving.

The quick once-over he tossed at Maaya was brief but scathing, his eyes darting away before she could fully process it.

"Hey. Moody."

Maaya's ears twitched. She glanced over her shoulder at the slightly older fox posted up behind the kneeling cameraman—dirty blond waves poking out from beneath a baseball cap, toned arms crossed in front of some band shirt, dark faded jeans hugging his hips—who stared her down with piercing green eyes, stone-faced.

"…How you doin'?" he asked, voice frighteningly level, "What's up?"

Maaya swallowed past the dry razor blades in her throat. "I just—I need a second, Damon, I just..."

Damon just nodded slowly, eyes still locked on her. His focus flicked over her shoulder. "Tate, how you doin'?"

God, 'Tate', that was his—

"I'm fine," the rabbit said with a half-hearted shrug, a not-so-subtly catty edge in his voice. He swung his legs off the edge of the mattress, slowly pushing himself off the bed. "You guys can…take your 'second', or whatever…"

Tate's dress shirt un-accordioned as he stood up, Donald Duck-ing it as he dragged disinterested feet towards a half-empty Celsius waiting in a chair behind the lights. Maaya's eyes trailed back up to Damon's.

There were a lot of different things going on inside of them. A lot of different things that she couldn't quite read.

But whatever was in there was making the fur prickle on the back of her neck.

"Let's take a ten," he said, much too calm. "Go get some air."

---

The alley behind the warehouse was now cast in shade, the early evening sun finally far enough behind the sharp edge of the building's roof to provide Maaya some respite in this narrow hallway of brutalist concrete, the sound of distant traffic reverberating sleepily off of the walls. She was sitting in a shitty plastic folding chair that bowed slightly under her weight, towel draped over her lap, her zip-up hoodie slung loose over her shoulders. Her right knee repeatedly brushed against her left as it steadily, unconsciously bounced, tiny but rapid. She held the smoldering joint in her fingers off and down to the side as she exhaled the smoke from loose lips, her other hand white-knuckling her phone.

She had left her AirPods in the car.

Her phone buzzed. Maaya tilted it up and glanced at the text notification.

AUTO-MSG-PSHLA: This is a reminder of your

upcoming appointment at 6:45 p.m. tomorrow,

Tuesday, July 18th, at Proud Sexual Health LA. If yo…

Maaya clicked her phone off.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the dark black screen.

Black hair fell in hairsprayed waves just past her chin, framing her somber feline face, a chorus of stray flyaways haloing her head. Thick mascara coated her eyelashes, dark heavy eye shadow and eyeliner caked into the white and orange of her fur, somehow clashing with the myriad of black stripes naturally carving across her face (she had to be the only person in the world who could manage to clash black with black). Thick, sharp eyebrows—ones that she had always hated, even as a kid, that she had spent hours yesterday trying to shape into something usable—pinched together slightly in a vacant frown. Naked lips in their usual, leathery black were tightly pressed together, jaw clenched.

This didn't feel like her. This didn't look like her. She had always sucked at makeup. Even after months and months and months of experimentation and video tutorials, it always just felt and looked like face paint, no matter what kind of face she tried. And especially with the classic pornstar beat…she just felt ugly.

She felt like a clown.

She felt like a parody.

Maaya brought the joint back to her lips with trembling fingers, taking another long drag. Her throat tightened.

She felt like a man in a dress.

The heavy metal door of the warehouse unlatched and creaked open behind her, before softly closing with a controlled click.

"Hey."

Maaya peeked over her shoulder. Damon stood by the door, hands riding in his pockets. He reached up to lift his hat off of his head, eyes scrunching closed as he ran his free hand through flattened-down tufts, scritching at his scalp with blunt claws. He let his arms fall down to his sides with a tired sigh, eyes trailing back up to Maaya. His palms flipped outward expectantly.

"…What's goin' on, man?"

An exhale burst out of Maaya's nose, her eyes gazing blurrily towards the ground. She gave a weak shrug. "I dunno," she mumbled, "I dunno, I just…something's…"

Silence filled the air. Damon gave a small, inquisitive gesture.

"Something's what?"

"I don't know, dude," she tossed back, "Something's—it's there and it's fine, but then I lose it, and it—I dunno if it's, just, the hours are getting to me, and my stamina's just…"

"Do you need some Viagra, Cialis, or somethin'? We can get you—"

"No, I—I already took some, this morning—"

"Oka—well do you need more?"

"No, no," Maaya said, twisting around to face him, "That's…that could get, like, weird, I don't wanna…"

Maaya gestured vaguely towards her heart and her body. Damon's eyes popped wide with annoyance, searching through the air incredulously.

"Alright, well, well, do we—" he sputtered, "Do we need somebody to go pick up some injectables? Like, what do you—"

"No, dude!" said Maaya, "I really don't wanna stick a needle in my dick, alright?"

"Well sure, nobody does, man," Damon shot back. He stared her down, hard. "But we need your dick working. 'Cause we have a film to shoot."

Maaya's throat was dry. She averted her eyes again, staring into the concrete wall.

"…And I'm tryin' to ask you what you need," Damon continued, "And you won't tell me anything, and I'm offering solutions, and you're shooting 'em all down, and we're gonna start hitting overtime in…" he tossed a quick glance at his smart watch, "…two hours? If even?"

It felt like poison was churning deep in her gut.

"…Like, is it the, the hormones, or something, like do you need to stop taking them before a—"

"Jesus Christ we're not gonna have this conversation right now!" Maaya snapped, whirling towards Damon with a sharp hand. She glared up at him, heart pounding in her ears. "Don't, fucking…"

Damon just held her gaze, blank but stern.

"…I mean…we are," he returned, cold and level, "Because you're not the only person on this set trying to earn a paycheck, today."

Maaya was trembling—she didn't know if it was fury, anxiety, or shame. She slowly untwisted, turning away from Damon and leaning back into the chair, ears pressed flat against her head. She impulsively raised the joint to her lips again, but stopped herself mid-drag. "…I think I—I just need a few minutes," she murmured, letting the small cloud of smoke weakly pour out of her mouth, "…To, to pull myself together, and…then I'll…"

There was a long silence. Maaya could feel Damon still standing behind her, completely frozen.

"…Yeah?" he asked. The hint of a challenge.

Maaya didn't respond. Couldn't.

Slow footsteps approached her, tennis shoes crackling over loose pebbles on asphalt. Damon crouched down next to her, placing his cap back on his head. He rested his elbows on his thighs, and Maaya felt his piercing gaze lock back on to her face.

"…You know that, like…I didn't have to do this, for you…right?"

Maaya's eyes snapped over to him, the building sneer already twitching at her muzzle. However, Damon's eyes held a softer, albeit somewhat detached glaze to them now as he gazed up at her. He held up a gentle, defensive hand.

"I'm not saying that to, to guilt trip you, or anything," he muttered, "I'm just…I think you need to fully realize, Maaya, like…"

Maaya's chest hurt. Her eyes darted uncertainly about him.

"Like, I think it's—it's great that you've had this…epiphany, about yourself," he said, giving a vague gesture to her whole body. "I support it. It's awesome. It's—COVID was an eye-opening time for all of us, man. It made me realize I can't keep performing. Y'know? I'm gettin' old, it's gettin' harder to keep up with the, with the lifestyle, made me realize I wanted to shift behind the camera more, so I—"

"It wasn't just COVID," she interrupted, more timid than she had hoped, "It wasn't…"

The words just kind of died. Damon just stared at her, before letting his eyes drift down with a soft exhale through his nose.

"Right," he said quietly, "Sure. I'm just, I'm tryna—"

Damon rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, pressing his palms deep into the side of his muzzle as he smeared them down his face.

"It's just that, you're kinda startin' from square one, man," Damon said heavily. His eyes blinked rapidly as they drifted in thought. "Like, it's—yeah, you've been doin' this for a while now, and you're awesome, and you've got a great—not a lot of people get nominated for an AVN for Male Performer of the Year. Let alone three years in a row. Not a lot of people can just hop between both the straight and gay market like you've been able to do, like that's…that's kind of unheard of, dude. Like, you've got the experience. You've got the, the reputation. Nobody's arguing with that."

Maaya kept one ear still tweaked toward him as she absentmindedly tapped the joint with a finger, letting the excess ashes fall.

"But you're leaping into an entirely new niche here," Damon emphasized, "Which I know you know, but—you aren't doing the same type of movies anymore. You're in a new market, with a lot less flexibility. And you don't wanna get any work done, and you don't wanna bottom—which is fine, all of that's fine, do whatever you wanna do, but…I mean, you can understand why a lot of people are hesitant, to…"

"…To hire me again?" Maaya finished, still staring at the wall, "Yeah, Damon, I've had this exact conversation with my agents, like, three times now, I know that it's…"

Damon just nodded, vacant. He scratched his forehead. "…How's that been goin', by the way?" he murmured in half-interest, "Kimmi told me that you've been—like, as an assistant, right?"

"…Yeah," Maaya mumbled, "It's fine. Fully remote. Admin stuff, messenger pigeon. Pays the bills."

Damon's empty nod continued, eyes glassy. "Well, that's the important part, right?"

Maaya didn't respond. She just wanted this conversation to end.

Damon readjusted a bit, still crouched down next to her. "…I'm doing this for you 'cause you're a friend," he continued, "And I care about you. And I know you had some of these same issues on your first shoot back, which caused some problems—but when I heard that, I was like 'Aw, but it's Moody, I know he can—she can do it. She's a fuckin' beast, I believe in her.' And yeah, we had a moment earlier today with the deepthroat scene, and we took a minute, you shook it off, and we leapt back into it. But…and I'm not saying this to scare you, but like, you need to realize, if this becomes a pattern, man? Like, if you can't perform like—"

"I—sorry, can you not call me that?" Maaya croaked. She looked over at Damon with sad, tired eyes. "Please?"

Damon just stared at her, his brow flickering with brief confusion. His gaze slowly steeled over, his jaw setting as his white-tipped tail gave a single tense flick behind him. He let out a big sigh as he lowered a knee, planting a stable hand on the ground to push himself up.

"Sure, man," he said plainly, rising to his feet with a grunt. His fingers immediately tensed in the air, his head giving a sharp little shake. "Or—I—yeah. Sure. Whatever."

Maaya's ears tracked him as he walked back towards the door, her eyes locking back onto the dirty concrete wall across from her. The footsteps stopped. There was a silence.

"…This is my third directing credit," Damon said. "Alright? I'm not sending anybody home until we hit our contracted hours for the day. 'Cause I wanna make sure rents are getting paid. And food is getting put on tables."

Maaya tried her best to stifle her shaky inhale.

"But if I show back up to Bangarang with an unfinished project?" Damon continued, "That they financed a full day of production for? Somebody's gettin' fucked over. And it won't just be you."

The tear spilled over before she could stop it. Her bottom lip quivered.

"…I need you back in here in three minutes," Damon muttered, empty. "Pull it together, Moody."

The metal door unlatched and creaked open, before heavily slamming closed.

Maaya choked on a whimper, fighting to keep her breathing steady. She quickly flicked off the tip of the joint onto the asphalt, before digging into her tote bag with shaky hands for the small plastic case. She quickly slotted the joint in and slapped the case closed, before opening up her phone's camera and checking herself. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, a trail of watery mascara carving a black stripe down the fur on her left cheek, much more out of place than the rest naturally adorning her face. She quickly dabbed and smeared at it with the edge of the towel sitting in her lap, cussing to herself under her breath. It just smeared messily across her cheek like watercolors, seeping deeper into the white and orange of her fur like dirt. Her throat closed tighter as her face gradually wrenched into a pained grimace, more tears building in her eyes, threatening to—

"Yo, are you—"

Maaya practically leapt out of her chair, her phone flipping wildly out of her clumsily juggling hands to clatter and skid across the ground. She immediately whipped around, tail puffed and fur bristling, wide eyes snapping down the opposite end of the alleyway.

A gawky opossum stood in an awkward slouch a few feet away, big scuffed up Doc Martens pigeon-toed and hesitant. They were young, some college kid draped in all black, baggy skater jeans and an oversized t-shirt haphazardly tucked into the waistline, all types of silver rings adorning their pink fingers. Strips of long, straight, platinum hair fell in uneven, jaggedly-cut ribbons from beneath the black beanie tugged over their head, the very tips carrying a faded ombré of neon green. Their face was an absolute pin cushion of piercings—septum ring, snakebites, a spike across the bridge of their muzzle, matching studs lining each shaved and slitted eyebrow—and their fleshy black ears were a mess of bars, gauges, and dangling chains, a black KN95 hanging loose from one by an elastic loop. A carabiner clipped through a belt loop held some rolls of gaff tape, a little flashlight, and a multi-purpose pocket knife.

"Whoa," they immediately drawled with big eyes. They threw up defensive palms, a limp cigarette butt slotted between two fingers. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Jesus Christ—"

"I need to get better at, at…being louder…"

It was some P.A.; they had been helping out with the lights earlier in the afternoon. Maaya leaned out of her chair to grab her phone, awkwardly holding the towel over her lap with a hand.

"Sorry."

"I—it's okay," Maaya lied as she sat back down. No cracks or scratches, thank God. She quickly wiped at her cheeks with a sniffle, glancing at the slight smudges of black smearing across her fingers. "What do you…or, what's—sorry—"

"No, I just…" they slurred, glancing off over Maaya's shoulder. They gave a limp gesture back towards the warehouse. "Don't, um…he was being kinda…that was really fuckin' stupid. Of him. To be like—like, he shouldn't've…"

Maaya just stared at them. Her eyes narrowed, her tail giving a sharp lash behind her.

"…Were you—" Maaya started, "—were you listening to our conversation?"

"I mean I—I was just—I was on my smoke break," the P.A. said, awkwardly presenting the cigarette butt between their fingers, "Around the corner. I came out here when he called for a ten, and then I heard you guys talking about…I didn't wanna just, like, walk through you guys while you were…in the middle of…"

They didn't finish their thought, just staring at her dumbly.

Something ice cold hardened in Maaya's chest. "…What do you want?" she enunciated.

"Nothing!" the P.A. said, "Nothing, I just—I just wanted to make sure you were, like…okay, and every—"

"I'm fine," Maaya bit. She remained frozen, glowering eyes blazing and unmoving.

The P.A. gave a weak, innocent nod. "…'Kay," they said, "Bet. Yeah. Cool."

Their eyes remained locked. Long. Unstoppable force, immovable object.

"…Can I take the rest of my break?" Maaya threatened.

"Oh! Yeah, sorry," said the P.A., politely averting their gaze and tossing up their hands, "My bad, you're right, you're still—yeah, I'll leave you to it…"

They shuffled with heavy feet behind Maaya, heading towards the warehouse door. Maaya settled back into her chair with a deep sigh, letting her eyes—

"Oh, or, you know what? Actually—"

Maaya's head slowly swiveled over her shoulder with a deadly glare.

"I just—" the P.A. said, awkwardly digging around in their pockets as they stumbled back over, "I was just thinking, maybe, um—you've heard of True Colors, right?"

Maaya's brain stalled. Her lips silently wrestled around uncertain syllables. "I—like, the song?"

The P.A. paused and glanced up at her with vacant, uncomprehending eyes. "…Huh?"

Maaya was ready to throw her chair at this fucking kid.

She shifted in her seat towards them. "What're you asking me?" she interrogated coldly, "What're you actually trying to do, like, what—"

"No no no, I just—like, the studio," the opossum clarified, yanking out their wallet, "The porn studio. They're an indie, ethically produced, um…I P.A. for them, a lot, and I've started doing some Best Boy stuff for them, recent—they're trans-founded, trans-run, trans…um, -focused, um…"

They trailed off as they fingered around in their wallet, spreading open the various pockets and flaps. Maaya just watched, speechless.

"…Just, consistently, one of the better sets I've been on," the P.A. continued distractedly. They stuck out their tongue as their claws dug into a particularly tight pocket, before unsheathing a small black business card. They proudly presented it to Maaya between two fingers. "This is their, uh…their direc—or, founder, or—the person at the top. The boss. I don't know what their exact title is, but…"

Maaya's eyes tried to scan the shiny black business card, the logo and text obscured by the P.A.'s fingers. Something behind their outstretched hand caught the light, and her eyes instinctively darted to it.

A small keychain dangled from their wallet: a little disk of enameled metal, striped with black, purple, white, and yellow.

That thing in Maaya's chest thawed a little.

Maaya's eyes flicked back up to the P.A., softer. "…If I take the card," she mumbled warmly, "Will you leave me alone?"

"No, yeah, you don't have to—I'll leave you alone now," the opossum stated, adorably matter-of-fact, "You don't have to take anything, I just suddenly thought of…"

Maaya reached out and gently plucked the card from the P.A.'s fingers, lips rolling inward with a subdued smirk. The P.A. just nodded at her with an awkward chuckle, attempting to blindly shove their wallet back into their back pocket. They continually whiffed it with each attempt.

"But yeah, you—Jesus," they grumbled to themselves, craning their neck to recalibrate their hand-eye coordination. They shoved their wallet in their pocket. "You should reach out to them, you might…it could be, uh…"

Maaya just nodded. "…I'll think about it," she said, detached but polite.

The P.A. kept nodding, their eyes beginning to gradually drift, unfocused. They did a take back towards the warehouse, hands weirdly gesturing between the door and Maaya. "I should—your break. I'll leave you to your…I'll see you in…"

They punctuated the garbled thought with a loose wave, before turning on their heel and sauntering back over to the warehouse, yanking open the door and slinking inside with a quiet click behind them.

Maaya found herself just staring at the door.

…Hello?

What the fuck was that?

Maaya glanced back down at the card resting in her hand. It was a sleek black strip of cardstock, catching the light with a blurry, textured sheen. A logo of a dripping, claw-tipped handprint sat in the top left corner, smearing a gradient rainbow into something like textured brick. Maaya's eyes skimmed over the clean white text printed next to it.

Jay Phuong (they/them)

Founder, Chief Creative Officer

(310) 555-3928 | jayphuong@truecolors.tv

TRUE COLORS - ADULT ENTERTAINMENT

www.truecolors.tv | @truecolorstv

Maaya flipped the card over. The same handprint logo sat much larger in the center, the name 'TRUE COLORS' paintbrushed in thick white block letters beneath, rough but uniform.

She could feel the gears turning in her head.

Her phone erupted with a timer. She quickly clicked it off, clamping her eyes closed and inhaling slowly.

Break over.

Just get through it. She could do it. Pull herself together, wrap it up, then go home.