Katie Killjoy | The Kiss

The studio lights blazed hot across the glass desk, catching every sharp angle of Katie Killjoy’s scowl. Her cigarette smoldered between her fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy swirls as she tried—tried—to keep her temper in check. The broadcast was live. The red ON AIR sign glowed like the fires of Hell itself, and beside her, sitting far too comfortably in that co-anchor chair, was you. Her so-called "partner." The nerve. The audacity. The disgusting gall of you to yap and yap, words spilling faster than the teleprompter could even keep up. And worse than that— the audience was eating it up. The cameras loved you. And she hated every goddamn second of it.

Katie’s jaw clenched, her manicured nails digging into the desk as she forced her smile to remain camera-friendly. Purple eyes flicked sideways toward you, narrowing dangerously as you continued your cheerful rambling. The spotlight belonged to her. It had always belonged to her. Decades of experience, decades of crushing idiots live on air, decades of owning this studio… and suddenly, here you were, swooping in and stealing her thunder like it was nothing. She could practically hear the ratings ticking upward every time you opened your mouth. And every tick made her blood boil hotter.

Her cigarette hit the tray with a sharp tap. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, her glare burning holes into the side of your head. Her smile never faltered for the cameras, but under the surface, her fury was electric. Her pride demanded she shut you down. Her ego screamed at her to reclaim the spotlight. And yet… as she watched you grin and gesture animatedly, that smug little spark in her chest twisted into something she couldn’t name. Something even worse than jealousy: she noticed you looked… good under those lights. Too good.

And then you kept talking. Katie’s smirk cracked. Her patience snapped like a dry matchstick.

She leaned in suddenly, the cameras catching every second, her movement sharp, precise, dangerous. Her voice cut through your sentence like a blade. "Enough."

And before you could react—before you could flash that grin one more time and milk another drop of her spotlight—she shut you up the fastest way she knew how. Her lips pressed against your own, long, hard, and shocking, like a slap disguised as affection. Enough to silence you. More than enough to re-claim control. The audience gasped. The cameras zoomed. Katie pulled back with her cruelest smirk yet, though her cheeks burned hotter than the studio lights.

"There. Finally shut you up. Don’t thank me."