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yvesolace · 15 days ago

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WHAT THE FUCKKKKKK

Fantasize

-> sophia laforteza x fem!reader

masterlist

word count: 3.1k

request: hi eros, if you would be so kind as to write a fic inspired by ariana grande's unreleased song "fantasize" with sophia, i would be eternally grateful

summary: a literature major stumbles into obsession after discovering a rising pop idol at a tailgate event. what begins as casual interest spirals into viral fanfiction fame, a secret identity, and an unexpected moment at a fanmeet that changes everything. as fiction and reality start to blur, you're forced to question what happens when your fantasy stares back, and maybe even reads your work.

authors note: surprise! for the sake of the plot that I had in mind, I'm cherry picking lyrics for fantasize and not… the whole song 😓

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): SMUT, men and minors do not interact, sophia is a pervert, reader has no survival instinct whatsoever, mentions of obsession, sophia reads your fanfiction and is actually intrigued, cam sex, SMUT

A few weeks ago I saw you front row

And my heart stopped at the sight

And my life ain't been the same

You first saw her at a tailgate event your older sister dragged you to.

At the time, you couldn’t think of anything worse; sunburnt strangers crammed together, the smell of beer and body spray in the air, all for some pop girl group you couldn’t even name. You were already rolling your eyes before the music started.

And then she stepped into view.

She wasn’t even on a stage. She, along with some girls, are singing and jumping on the back of a red truck. Her skin was glowing in the LA heat, a small grey handheld fan doing nothing to cool her down, and that smile; bright, effortless, like it hadn’t even occurred to her that she was the prettiest person in a five-mile radius.

You froze. Mid-complaint, mid-eyeroll, mid-breath.

That’s when you knew you were hooked.

Been feelin'

Mentally, physically weak

Boys blowin' up my phone

They just ain't you, oh, baby

You got addicted after that. Hopelessly, pathetically addicted.

At first, it was just curiosity, googling the name of the group she was in, clicking on a YouTube link out of boredom. But curiosity quickly spiraled into obsession. You binged the survival show that formed her group, devouring every teary confessional and chaotic rehearsal scene. You memorized her trainee moments, the exact moment she ranked up, and stayed number 1, the first time she cried on camera. You knew her laugh in every pitch. You knew her from every angle.

Soon, your nights were spent combing through interviews, fancams, reaction videos, fan edits with glitter filters and slowed-down vocals. You weren’t even pretending anymore. You liked her. You really liked her. Eventually, you did the only thing your literature major and shamefully active imagination could think to do:

You started writing about her.

At first, it was harmless; bite-sized one-shots, mostly fluff, maybe a little angst, posted under vague usernames across every platform you could think of: Wattpad, Tumblr, AO3, Quotev, Fanfiction.net. You cross-posted like your life depended on it. Anonymity gave you bravery. You wrote her like a goddess, like a villain, like a woman in love.

People started reading. People started sharing. And before you knew it, you weren’t just some girl with a crush anymore.

You were that fanfiction writer. The viral one. The one who turned fantasy into something that felt dangerously close to real. You were that fanfiction writer that writes exclusively for Sophia Laforteza. Every genre, every AU, every fever dream of a plot, you’d written them all for her. Mafia boss, barista, demigod, vampire, failed idol, CEO, pirate, florist, runaway bride. In every universe you built, Sophia was beautiful and unknowable and yours. You wrote like your life depended on it. Sometimes, it felt like it actually did.

It wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was a compulsion. A craft. An identity.

Your final project for your creative writing class? A thinly veiled, heavily edited fanfic about Sophia Laforteza masquerading as “original fiction.” You changed the names, tweaked the setting, buried the references just deep enough, but the plot? The longing? The way the main character worshipped the other like a religion? Untouched.

You got an A. Which only fueled your delusions further.

Your older sister, smug as hell, still bragged to her friends that she was the one who “created a monster.” Every time she saw your username trending on a niche K-pop forum or quoted in a fan edit, she’d smirk and say:

“You’re welcome. I made her an Eyekon.”

And now? You had one more thing in common with her. Which led you here. To this moment.

Standing in line at a fanmeet. Sweaty palms, stomach doing Olympic-level flips, clutching the first-press version of their latest EP like it was a holy artifact.

You were about to meet Sophia. In the flesh. At her table. A few steps away.

She was real.

And you were freaking out.

I'm meant to be on my own

But just before I go

There's something you should know

You were already lightheaded by the time you stepped up to her table.

Sophia Laforteza glanced up, and for a second, everything else blurred. She looked even more unreal in person: lashes curled to perfection, cheeks dusted with the softest shimmer, smile sharp enough to carve into your ribs.

“Name?” she asked, pen poised.

You stammered it out, and she repeated it back, low and lyrical. You swore you could feel your name warming in her mouth.

She signed the EP cover in neat, looping script. And then, because the universe wasn’t done tormenting you, she looked up again.

“You got socials?” You blinked, jaw dropping slightly.

“Uh…yeah! Here-”

In your nerves, you didn’t even double-check. You just handed her your phone, already open to your profile.

Except it wasn’t your personal account. It was your fanfiction account. The fanfiction account.

Profile picture? A dreamy Sophia shot from Studio Choom. Bio? “Laforteza's Whore. Ask box open.” Your last update? A 12k enemies-to-lovers fic titled “Sa Ngalan Ng Pag-Ibig” [In The Name Of Love]

Sophia’s eyes flicked down to the screen.

And then…nothing.

No gasp. No laugh. Not even a raised brow.

Just a pause. And a smirk.

It was subtle, barely there, but unmistakable. Like she’d been waiting for this moment and wasn’t going to let you off easy.

She said nothing. Just passed your phone back like it hadn’t happened, like you hadn’t just exposed your entire unfiltered brain to her in one swipe.

You nearly collapsed from relief. Maybe she didn’t recognize it. Maybe she was just being polite. Maybe she didn’t even read fanfic-

Then you glanced down at the signed album. Beneath your name, in her looping, practiced handwriting, she’d added:

“My favorite fanfic author.”

Your ears rang. You looked up, eyes wide, mouth parted, and found her watching you with that same unreadable smile. Calm. Controlled. Like she’d just rewritten the script and handed you the pen.

“Hope you liked Beautiful Chaos.” she said sweetly, like nothing had happened.

You nodded. You were pretty sure you were still breathing. Maybe.

I fantasize about it all the time

If you were mine

I'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine

Tryin' to behave, but I'm feelin' some type of way

That just ain't me

Months passed.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not even your sister. Not about the smirk. Not about what Sophia wrote in your album. It felt too unreal, too delicate, like saying it out loud might unravel it. So you kept it to yourself. Pressed the signed EP under your mattress like a secret, let the moment bury itself in your chest, still pulsing.

And you kept writing. God, did you keep writing.

You told yourself you’d cool it. Be normal. Move on. But instead, your work only got more intense: longer chapters, heavier emotion, hungrier scenes. Sophia was still your muse, your obsession.

Until you wrote that one. The most detailed, indulgent, delusional, deliriously unhinged smut you’d ever dared to post.

You hadn’t planned for it to be practically written porn. But the way the words poured out of you: molten and breathless and unfiltered, it just happened. Fingers tracing along silk-strapped thighs. Lips parted around soft gasps. The stretch of her mouth. The weight of her body. The way her voice would dip when she said your name.

You uploaded it at 3:17 a.m., feeling wrecked and weightless, shaky from the rush. You didn’t even bother to queue it. Just hit "post" and shut your laptop, heart still beating somewhere in your throat.

The next night, you got the message. From an account you didn’t recognize. No profile picture. No followers.

User06282024:

“Tell me more about how you think I’d touch you.”

You stared at it.

Once. Twice. A third time.

Your first instinct was to block. Obviously. Creepy, right? Probably a troll. Some horny reader who got too bold. But something made you pause.

The phrasing. It didn’t feel like a random fan. It felt... specific. Familiar. Pointed.

You clicked the account.

Blank. But the username, just a jumble of letters and numbers, nagged at you. You couldn’t explain it. You’d seen that style before. Like a burner.

Your stomach twisted. Because that message, those words? They didn’t read like fantasy. They read like reality. Like someone who had read everything. Like someone who had smirked at you across a table months ago, sharpie in hand, knowing exactly who you were.

You typed back before you could stop yourself.

You:

“Who is this?”

The reply was almost instant.

User06282024:

“Wouldn’t you like to know, mhm? My favorite fanfic author.”

Your breath caught.

Only one person in the entire world had ever called you that in a tone that felt like heat curling around your ribs.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then came the message:

User06282024:

“Your tags were wrong, by the way. I wouldn’t be soft about it.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen. Every rational cell in your brain screamed this had to be a joke, some sick, calculated prank. But the voice in your head, the one that had whispered her dialogue into your fics, that had filled in every breath and bite and filthy, beautiful detail, was louder.

What if it’s her? What if she was always lurking all this time?

Another message blinked into existence.

User06282024:

“Cat got your tongue, darling author?”

You swallowed hard, your room suddenly too hot, the air too thick. Your fingers moved on their own.

You:

“If this is who I think it is…”

Seen. Then:

User06282024:

“Then what?”

You stared at the screen, your heart in your throat. You should’ve closed the chat. Shut the laptop. Logged out and gone to sleep like a sane person.

Instead, your phone buzzed again.

User06282024:

"Why don't you show me what you're fantasizing about?"

You didn’t breathe for a full ten seconds.

User06282024:

“Video.”

You blinked.

You:

“Right now?”

The typing bubbles popped up again. And then:

User06282024:

“Right now. Let's see if you can write with your hands full.”

You bit your lip, pulse ricocheting between your thighs. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny voice reminded you that this was probably a terrible idea, that his is how you get hacked. Or sold. Or doxxed. Or scammed.

You didn’t listen.

Not when she sent a locked link. Not when she added:

User06282024:

“Private room. No screenshots. Just us.”

Not when you clicked. Your screen shifted. The window opened. And there she was.

Sophia Laforteza.

Lit only by a bedside lamp, no makeup, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, eyes pinned straight to the camera.

Like she knew exactly what this meant. Like she knew that you'd do everything she'd ask for. Like she’d done this before, but never like this. Never with you.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then her lips curved.

“Take it off.” She said

You obeyed.

Hands shaking. Nerves on fire. You thought you’d be embarrassed. But when her gaze dropped and she exhaled: slow, deliberate, you felt powerful.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, smirking like she already knew how the night would end.

“Go on,” she murmured, voice soft and dangerous.

“Show me what you’ve been writing about.”

And you obeyed, without hesitation.

You started shy; nervous fingers, shaky breath, skin burning under the weight of her gaze. This was Sophia Laforteza. Your muse. The woman who lived in your drafts and dreams. And now she was watching you, fully clothed, lips curled in amusement, while you sat there exposed, protected only by your trembling hands.

Her eyes tracked your every movement, slow and searing. Still propped on her elbow, still smirking. Her gaze alone sent sparks down your spine.

“What?” she teased.

“Shy now? I thought you were my whore, baby. Why are you being a brat?”

You shivered, heat surging at the word, at the tone. Your arms dropped, surrendering to her. You were a gift now, unwrapped and offered freely.

She let out a low, pleased hum.

“Mmm. You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”

Her lip caught between her teeth as her eyes swept over you, dark with something primal.

“Should’ve known,” she sighed, reclining onto her back. The camera tilted slightly. Her shirt lifted with the movement, revealing a sliver of bare waist, just enough to make your thighs press together involuntarily.

“You always had a way with words.”

Your breath hitched. She knew. She read them.

“Touch yourself for me, baby. Can you do that?” You nodded, embarrassingly, pathetically eager. Her grin widened, sharp and smug.

“Yeah? You gonna be a good girl? Start slow.”

You obeyed.

You leaned back just enough to give her the full view, heat crawling across your chest as your hands trailed downward. You closed your eyes, mind spinning with fantasy, every nerve ending tuned to her.

You imagined it was her fingers. Her grip. Her mouth against your thighs. Her teeth marking up your skin. Her-

“Fuck” she gasped.

Your eyes snapped open.

Sophia was fully reclined now, shirt pushed higher. Her hand was already moving between her thighs, slow and deliberate. Her nipples were stiff, her expression wrecked.

And then came her voice, smooth and soaked with lust.

“Is this what you imagined when you wrote those filthy words for me?”

You whimpered, breath catching as her words hit you in that raw, sacred place between desire and delusion.

“I have it here” she said, grabbing her phone.

Her voice dipped lower, reciting:

“You don’t just want her. You want her looking at you like this. Like you’re the only thing she’ll ever ruin gently.” She looked up, eyes burning.

“Would you let me ruin you, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you gasped. Your mouth? Dry. Your skin? Wet with sweat. Your cunt? Dripping.

“I wouldn’t be gentle.” She moaned, her legs shifting just slightly on screen.

“Can you take that?”

“I can.” You begged, already undone.

“I can take it, ’Phia, please-”

“Yeah? If I said hump your pillow, would you do it for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?”

You scrambled. Grabbed the nearest pillow, shoved it between your legs. The second it brushed against you, a moan punched out of your chest. Your hips twitched, instinct already taking over.

“Good girl.” She purred.

“Your writing’s accurate after all.”

She quoted again:

“One command from her and your spine would arch on instinct, like you were written to obey.”

You whimpered, nearly sobbing now, your hand shoots up to muffle the sounds spilling from your lips

“Please, ’Phia…”

“Don’t cover your mouth,” she growled.

“I want to hear exactly how you sound when you think of me.”

You obeyed, gripping the pillow tight, grinding slowly like you were on her thigh instead of cotton and dreams. The friction was just enough, it felt just like her: cruel and perfect.

“Ride it,” she whispered.

“Ride it like I told you to. Like I’m there. Put on a show for me, pretty girl.”

You did.

Moans slipped out of you in messy bursts, syncing with the rustle of sheets, the creak of your bed, and her breathy curses pouring through your shitty laptop speakers.

“Keep your eyes on me. I want you to watch me watching you.”

Your gaze locked to the screen, to her; her hand, her body, her flushed cheeks and parted lips. Her hips rolled once. You gasped like it was your body moving.

“You really are my whore, aren’t you?” she cooed.

“So good. So eager. I should ruin you every night.”

You could barely hold your rhythm now. Your thighs trembled. Your whole body ached.

“You want my hand around that pretty throat?” she asked.

You cried out pathetically.

“Yeah? Want a collar too? Let everyone know you’re mine?”

You could taste how close you were, like static in your teeth, like poetry on fire.

“Are you close, angel?”

You nodded, breathless.

“Yeah? You wanna cum for me? Say my name.”

You did.

You chanted it, gasped it, screamed it. You let it wreck your throat and stain your sheets. You gave her every last piece of yourself through that name.

And just before the world fell apart, You heard her voice one last time.

Low. Confident. Possessive.

:)) wrote this in church btw

“You’re mine now, beloved author. Mine.”

#tay's thoughts #katseye x reader #katseye smut #sophia laforteza x reader #sophia laforteza smut #sophia laforteza #oh i need her so bad what the fuck

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yvesolace · 20 days ago

Text

need.

Taste Test

→ poly!ot5 katseye x private chef!reader

masterlist

word count: 6.7k

summary: when a renowned private chef takes a discreet job with the world’s rising global girl group, she expects long hours and quiet kitchens; definitely not heated glances, flirtatious games, and a chaotic house full of dangerously charming idols. what begins as harmless teasing spirals into something much more intense as tensions simmer, lines blur, and the roles of hunter and hunted shift. a slow-burn, sharp-witted story of temptation, dominance, and what happens when you're the only sane one in a house full of beautiful chaos.

authors note: since you all begged so prettily <33 also this is so shit ngl- I fear I gave in to my horny mind and this got away from me, I’m sorry if this isn’t up to standards hshshshshs i’m practicing my smut leave me alone hshshshhss first full smut btw…well if it can be counted as full smut lol

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): SMUT, fluff, poly!katseye legal line, nsfw, men and minors do not interact PLEASE, don’t like? don’t read, the girls are kinda…mean…, shitty characterization, uhhhhhh just very unholy, feral katz, yoonchae is a traumatized little sister

You weren’t supposed to stay long.

In fact, sometimes you still wonder how you even ended up here.

After graduating culinary school, you were lucky, no, fortunate enough to land a mentorship at one of the most acclaimed restaurants in the city. You were taken under the wing of a head chef who only ever chose one mentee every few years. The kitchen was brutal, the pace relentless, but the pay was more than generous, and the prestige? Unmatched. You were on track. Focused. Set.

So when the head chef asked you to stay behind after closing one night, you expected another critique. Maybe a rare compliment.

Instead, you found yourself sitting across from a woman you’d never met before; sharp eyes, sharper tongue, all business. No introductions. No pleasantries. Just a folder slid across the counter and a contract inside.

Private chef. Three months. Confidential. Ridiculous cash.

Your only job? Keep the girls of KATSEYE healthy, energized, and on schedule. Minimal interaction. Maximum efficiency.

Meal preps. Calorie counts. Macros. No distractions.

And most importantly? Don’t get attached.

But KATSEYE had other plans.

The day you met them was the day your life threw itself off its course.

You’d prepped everything three hours in advance.

Every container was labeled. Every garnish precisely packed. Your knives, arranged in a black leather roll beside your hip like you were walking into battle. You wore your cleanest chef coat. Hair tied back. Not a smudge in sight. You even triple-checked the macros one last time, just in case the company nutritionist decided to test you on the spot.

The moment you stepped into the KATSEYE dorm, the silence hit you.

Not awkward. Not hostile. Just… watchful.

Six girls sat at the long kitchen island, fresh-faced and unreadable. No makeup, no stage lights; just sweatpants, ponytails, and varying levels of suspicion. You felt their eyes follow your every move as you unpacked your kit and started plating.

“Is this like, a trial?” one of them asked.

The one with the killer lashes and matching attitude.

Indian. Charming. Dangerous smile. You'd later learn her name was Lara.

“No,” another voice replied; calm, measured. Filipino accent, laced with amusement.

“It’s dinner.” She continued, smirking up at you

That was Sophia. The leader. The one who gave you the smallest nod when you arrived. You couldn’t tell if she was calming the group… or warning you.

“I’m hungry,” Megan said, cheerful but blunt. She was sprawled across the counter, chin on her arm, watching you assemble the dishes like you were a magician instead of a chef.

“She’s cute,” she added under her breath, not nearly quiet enough.

You pretended not to hear that. Barely.

Daniela hadn’t said a word. She sat farthest from you, arms folded, curly hair still damp from the shower. Her eyes moved from your hands to your face, then back again. Calculating. Curious. Like she’d already made some kind of decision and was waiting for you to catch up.

Manon was openly smiling. Not just at you, at everything. Your plating. The nervous tap of your finger. The way Lara kept sniffing the air dramatically.

She laughed once, quietly, and covered her mouth like it betrayed her.

Yoonchae was perched on the edge of a stool, legs swinging. She looked the most unimpressed. Or maybe just the most honest.

“This better not be boiled chicken,” she muttered in Korean.

You understood it. Barely. You weren’t supposed to respond. You did anyway.

“No boiled chicken,” you said, glancing her way. “Promise.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Then she smiled: tiny, smug.

Point for you, you guess.

You cleared your throat, presenting the final dish: grilled salmon over miso-glazed eggplant, sesame wilted greens, and brown rice; high protein, balanced carbs, low sodium, and enough umami to punch through even the pickiest palate.

“Dinner is served,” you announced, forcing your voice not to shake.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Sophia reached for her chopsticks first, always the leader.

She took a bite. Chewed once. Twice.

Then blinked. “Okay...” she said softly, as if surprised.

Then louder: “Okay, wait… this is actually-”

A chorus of motion followed.

Lara took a bite and groaned so dramatically you nearly dropped the rice cooker. “God. Marry me.”

“I told you she was cute,” Megan said, mouth full.

“I’m gonna cry. This slaps.”

Manon kept giggling through every bite, clapping once as if she’d just seen a baby panda. “You made vegetables bearable, what the hell!”

Daniela didn’t say anything. She just met your eyes, took another slow bite, and licked her lips.

Yoonchae muttered something in Korean that you didn’t catch, but it sounded suspiciously like, “Okay… fine…” before she kept eating.

And just like that, the tension in the room shifted. You weren’t just the new chef. You were someone they wanted to keep.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed and the dishes were done, you found a post-it note stuck to the fridge.

“Tomorrow: honey butter toast?” -M

You smiled. And ignored the way your heart was already tasting more than just food.

Since then, you didn’t just learn to cook for them, you learned to cook for their soul. Not in the mechanical, order-up sense, if they wanted that, they’d have gotten takeout. No, this was something else. Something deeper.

You memorized their cravings like sacred scripture. You stocked their favorite snacks like a love language. You redesigned their meal plans to be nourishing but indulgent, every dish a balance of what their bodies needed and what their hearts craved.

You knew whose eggs should be runny and whose should be brown and crisp around the edges. You knew which sauces belonged to which burger, which syrup belonged to which stack of pancakes. You knew which bacon to serve crunchy and which bacon to serve chewy.

Manon had a particular taste for utensils, so you made sure her set is up to her standards. Lara couldn’t stomach food without a touch of heat, so you always added a spicy surprise. Sophia had an obsession with sinigang that bordered on spiritual. Daniela would always, always choose arroz con leche over rosquillas, and you didn’t even question it. Yoonchae didn’t believe in sweet breakfasts, you made sure to give her something savory, something Korean, something that spoke her language. And Megan? Megan’s ears turned pink when she ate something too spicy, so naturally, you made it spicier, just for the fun of it.

You brewed soothing teas after brutal vocal rehearsals, set out icy drinks and light sandwiches after hours of dance. You knew what they reached for when they were bone-tired, what comfort food stitched them back together when the day tore them apart.

You started slipping handwritten notes beside each plate:

You’re doing great. Rest, I’ve got this. The world is harsh, but I’ll always be here for you. You have me on your corner I’ll make sure you eat, so make sure to serve cunt onstage Slay.

Then they started coming to you in their moments of weakness.

Lara once stormed into your kitchen, fists clenched, cursing through tears about the racism in the comment sections. You listened quietly while wiping down the counter, your presence steady. Sophia cried into her tea while you flipped kariokas, her stress as leader dripping from her lashes. Manon sobbed over anonymous hate comments, asking you in a trembling voice if you could make her something from Switzerland. You did. No questions. Yoonchae once sat in silence, staring blankly, only murmuring for dak kalguksu. Daniela dragged herself in with a raging hangover after drinking herself numb over a pointed comment about her body. Her face only lit up when you slid over a greasy, comforting plate you knew she’d torch through anyway. Megan snuck in during a Netflix marathon, trying to steal snacks like a raccoon. You caught her, made her a snack board, and flushed when she kissed your cheek in thanks.

Your supposed three-month contract bled into four… then five… then longer. You started calling their families. Learned their childhood dishes. Took notes from their parents. Soon, you were a constant: birthdays, holidays, tour prep, comeback stress, you were there. Always. Consistent. Immovable.

And because of that, it was inevitable, really. They began to orbit you like planets around their sun.

It started with Yoonchae, casually sending you TikToks of recipes with captions like “pls?” or “this looks good, unnie 💅.” You hadn’t even realized your DM streaks with all six girls had begun until hers hit 200 days. Megan became your unofficial podcast host, trailing after you in the kitchen, chattering non-stop about video games and animated dishes she wanted brought to life. You nodded along, filing every request away like a secret mission.

Lara, in her usual chaos, began gifting you knives. Dead serious. And soon after, she started hugging you from behind at the stove, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chin on your shoulder as you stirred broth.

“It’s dangerous,” you warned, trying to peel her off gently.

“Then make me let go,” she’d murmur against your ear, fingers digging in like you were hers to keep.

Daniela, never one to be outdone, would scream bloody murder from the hallway.

“Let go, koala bitch! I’m next! I get first taste!”

She’d march in, dramatic as ever, opening her mouth expectantly while glaring daggers at Lara, daring you to choose.

Then came Manon’s love letters. Sticky notes scattered on the fridge, your notebook, sometimes even the spice rack.

“Your cooking makes my heart, and thighs, throb.” “Will you butter my croissant next, please?” “You stole a pizza my heart.”

Some were so bad you groaned. Most made you blush. All of them? Saved in a box in your drawer.

And then… there was Sophia.

Your saving grace. Your one lifeline. Sweet, savior, knight in shining armor Sophia

She’d sigh like a tired mother and shoo the others out when the kitchen got too loud, voice calm but firm. She’d make tea, slice vegetables beside you, stir broths when your hands were full. She called herself your “quality control,” though you suspected the real test was how long she could lean in under the guise of tasting. She’d lock eyes with you as she licked her glossy lips, innocently, of course, and hum as if the broth was the most sinful thing she’s ever put in her mouth.

You’d gotten better at hiding how flustered they made you.

You no longer dropped knives when Lara hugged you like a personal teddy bear. You could handle Daniela demanding to be spoon-fed like a Roman empress. You learned not to combust when Manon left you her 14th “bun in my oven?” joke. And during post-dinner debates on who would do dishes, you even had the reflexes to hand Yoonchae a tube of Pringles without missing a beat.

She’d accept it with a grin, chew slowly, then turn to you with a look of knowing pity.

“I feel bad for you, unnie,” she’d say, gesturing at the chaos. “You’re the final boss they all want to romance.”

You’d blink at her, unsure if you were being teased or warned.

“Swear to god,” she’d continue, offering you a chip, “I’ll hide you in my room and adopt you as my sister if you make me galbitang every day.”

You laughed. Every time. Because somehow, amidst all the fire alarms, forehead kisses, bad puns, and waist grabs, you’d become something more than just their chef.

You were their constant. Their comfort. Their craving.

And that terrified you.

Because you were starting to crave them right back.

And you’re starting to realize something you force yourself to push away for the sake of professionalism.

The kitchen used to be your sanctuary. It still is, technically, but it's harder to call it that now when five gorgeous women seem to have declared war over your personal space and sanity.

And you? You’re the hapless general under siege, armed with a cutting board, a sharp knife, and the last shreds of your dignity.

You’re chopping vegetables for the sinigang when Lara slinks in like smoke, all lazy elegance and feline precision. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps into your space, her body aligning perfectly with yours, her knee slotting between your thighs, a soft wall of warmth against your back.

Then her lips graze your ear.

“Careful,” she purrs, her hand curling over yours on the knife. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin those pretty fingers. Not when I’ve seen what they can do.”

Your breath hitches. “You gave those fingers a combat knife last week.”

She hums, pleased. Her lips ghost your jaw. “Exactly.”

She disappears just as your brain begins to short-circuit, only for Daniela to take her place.

She’s leaning against the counter like temptation incarnate, tank top clinging, toned arms crossed, eyes unapologetically raking over you.

“I was thinking,” she says, slow and deliberate, swiping a piece of tomato from your board and slipping it between her lips, “next time you make arroz con leche… feed it to me.”

You glance up, wary.

“In your lap,” she adds, lips curling. “With a spoon. Maybe while you run your fingers through my hair. For comfort.”

You blink. “That’s not how comfort works.”

“It is when you wear that apron like that,” she murmurs, gaze sliding over your chest, your hips, your legs.

You’re halfway to combusting when Megan skips in with a suspiciously large bag of snacks and zero shame.

“Heyyy,” she grins, popping a chip into her mouth as she leans into your pot. “If you ever get tired of being hot and competent, you could come join me on Minecraft. I’ll build us a cozy cottage. Grow heart-shaped strawberries. Raise chickens. Or kids. Whatever.”

You splutter. “That’s not how Minecraft works either- ”

“Let me dream.”

Then a post-it flutters onto the cutting board. You glance down. Neat cursive. A faint trace of perfume. A kiss mark embedded on the paper.

“French onion soup tonight? Also: is it hot in here, or is your ass trying to kill me?”

You look up. Manon is sprawled against the fridge like she walked off a perfume ad, all silk robe and bare legs, sipping juice straight from the bottle. She meets your gaze, smirks.

Your brain is loading… loading… failing.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Sophia appears at your side like a fever dream.

She dips a spoon into the broth, tastes it, then, Jesus Christ…

She swipes a bit with her finger and sucks it clean, eyes never leaving yours. Her tongue lingers, darting out once again to lick her glossy lips

“Hm,” she murmurs, lips glossy.

“Almost perfect. Want me to stay and help you… stir?”

She’s not talking about soup. You’re not sure you’re breathing.

Then salvation, or maybe damnation, arrives in the form of Yoonchae.

She stomps in, hoodie half-on, hair tousled from sleep, and halts at the doorway like she’s walked into a fever dream:

Lara practically draped around your waist again. Daniela lounging like a siren on the kitchen stool. Megan cross-legged on the floor, face in her palms, blatantly admiring your calves. Manon biting her straw like it owes her money. Sophia still way too close.

Yoonchae blinks once. Then sighs, long and suffering.

“Oh my God,” she deadpans. “You’re seducing my entire group.”

“I’m really not-”

“Unnie. Please. You’re a menace,” she groans, grabbing a can of Pringles and theatrically collapsing at the table.

“A domestic femme fatale. A culinary siren. A walking apron fantasy.”

“I’m just making sinigang-”

“In a tank top that’s practically NSFW!” she cries, chucking a chip at you. “With collarbones out! Boobs bouncing every time you stir!”

You glance down at yourself, scandalized. “I- what?! Also, did you just say ‘NSFW’ out loud?”

“My little maknae heart can’t take this,” she whimpers, shielding her eyes. “You’re corrupting them. Look at Sophia! She just licked soup off her finger like a K-drama villainess! And Megan said children. CHILDREN.”

“I didn’t mean literal children…”

“Oh my GOD,” Yoonchae wheezes. “You’re nesting already?!”

The others don’t even try to deny it.

“I’ve been corrupted,” Manon shrugs.

“I was born corrupted,” Daniela says, utterly unfazed.

“I’m getting you a matching apron,” Megan adds brightly.

“It’s the way you say our names,” Lara murmurs again, arms tightening around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder like she belongs there.

You glance at Sophia. She meets your gaze, raises a brow, and languidly sucks a fingertip clean of broth.

“…Who let Yoonchae read Wattpad?” you mutter, flustered, overwhelmed, and fine… just a little smug, as Yoonchae hurls another chip your way.

“I want a transfer,” she mumbles. “To a nun group. Or the army. Maybe I’ll go back to training.”

You laugh at their antics and finally shoo them away, carrying out the rest of the dishes.

Time passes. You survive their grabby hands and honeyed words, for now. Their chaos becomes background noise, familiar and weirdly comforting. So maybe that’s why you don’t notice it at first: the quiet. The stillness. The way the air shifts.

It hits you while you’re at the sink, rinsing rice and humming to yourself like a fool, still recovering from the earlier flirt-ambush. You’d assumed they’d gone back to their rooms. To choreography. Skincare. Expensive sheet masks and glowy lip oils.

But no. They’ve gone quiet. Calculated. Worse.

You glance over your shoulder.

Sophia and Lara are whispering, not the usual biting sarcasm or flirt-laced jabs. No, they’re smiling. Plotting. Like witches about to cast something irreversible.

Megan’s on her phone. Or pretending to be. Really, she’s watching you from her spot on the counter, eyes half-lidded, smirking every time your shirt rides up.

And Daniela? She’s leaning against the far counter, sipping iced coffee like a villain in the third act of a romance film. Her gaze hasn’t left you in five full minutes.

Then Manon reappears, this time with two wine glasses in hand and a look that can only be described as indulgent mischief.

“Thought you might need a break,” she purrs, offering you the glass. “You’ve been working so hard lately. We figured... it’s our turn to take care of you.”

We.

It doesn’t register right away. Not until Lara steps forward, plucks a towel from the rack, and starts drying your hands for you; slow, deliberate, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Your fingers are getting pruney,” she murmurs, and there's a smile in her voice, but her eyes flick toward Daniela.

Daniela flashes a wicked grin. “You know… we talked.”

You blink. “About what?”

“About this little game we’ve all been playing,” Megan chimes in, hopping off the counter with a stretch. “Trying to one-up each other, steal your attention, flirt in shifts; it’s exhausting.”

Sophia leans forward, her voice dipped in velvet. “So we thought… why compete?”

Your breath catches. “You what now?”

“We’re done taking turns,” Manon says as she sets her wine glass down and steps closer, voice smooth but certain. “So we decided… no more rivalry. We’re all in.”

You instinctively take a step back, only to bump into someone behind you.

Daniela. Of course.

Her hands settle on your hips with practiced ease, fingers splaying like they’ve always belonged there.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle.”

“…Eventually,” Megan smirks.

“UNNIES!”

The kitchen door bursts open as Yoonchae storms in, looking like someone just summoned a demon in her living room. Her eyes zero in on the half-circle forming around you like a shark spotting blood.

She freezes in the doorway. “…Oh my God. No. No no no.”

You lift your hands, half in surrender, half in disbelief. “Yoonchae, I swear-”

She cuts you off with a single pointed glare. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you let them form a harem? In my kitchen?”

“Technically, it’s their kitchen too-” you start.

“Nope,” she snaps. “I’m calling the police. Or a priest. Or my therapist. Maybe all three.”

Daniela shrugs, unbothered. “We’re not doing anything illegal.”

“Just expressing… collective admiration,” Sophia adds, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Like a co-op,” Megan says brightly.

“Like hell it is!” Yoonchae grabs the nearest banana and brandishes it like a sword.

“Back! Back, I say! You horny witches! I live here too! You’re gonna burn this house down with your pheromones!”

Manon lifts her wineglass with poise. “Darling, we haven’t even started.”

You groan and press your palms to your face. “I’m going to combust.”

“Then we’ll cool you down,” Megan says sweetly. Too sweetly.

“With ice,” Lara hums, slipping behind you to wrap her arms around your waist again.

“Maybe whipped cream.”

“OH MY GOD!” Yoonchae screeches, hurling the banana dramatically across the kitchen before stomping out like a furious gremlin. “I can’t live like this!”

“No! Wait- Yoonchae, save me!” You dramatically gasp, feeling Lara’s arms tighten around your waist just in case you actually try to escape.

You should go after her. You really should.

But the moment she’s gone, the room shifts. The laughter fades, the teasing dims, but the tension remains.

No more rivalry. No more pretense. Just five pairs of eyes, locked on you; soft and hungry all at once.

You’ve been flirted with before. You know how to handle it. Dodge. Tease. Pretend it doesn’t get to you.

But this? This is different. This isn’t flirtation anymore. It’s claiming. Not physically, at least not yet. But emotionally, mentally, maybe even universely, if that was a word.

You’re surrounded, and the air crackles with shared intent.

Manon moves first, not to kiss you, but to take your hand. Her fingers slip between yours like it’s second nature, and she lifts your knuckles to her lips with disarming tenderness. Like you’re precious. Already theirs.

“You okay, Liebling?” she murmurs, watching you carefully. “You look like you’re about to short-circuit.”

You are. But you don’t want them to know that.

“I’m not-” You start, only to falter.

“Cute,” she finishes for you, smiling. Then she presses a kiss to the space between your fingers.

You turn your head, only to find Daniela watching you over your shoulder. She steps in, effortlessly close. Her hand rests on your waist, smirking slightly as Lara moves away as if by command. The other lifts your chin with two fingers, like she’s about to play you like an instrument.

“Still think you’re in control?” she whispers.

You open your mouth, some cocky retort forming, when Megan wraps her arms around you from behind, her hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. It’s not crude. Not even greedy. Just warm, steady, gentle contact at the small of your back. Skin to skin.

You flinch.

“Relax,” she murmurs near your ear. “We just want to take care of you. Together.”

You laugh, breathless. “That’s the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Lara slides a stool over, sitting with a reverence that’s somehow worse than teasing.

“Then let us be terrifying,” she says.

“You’ve been strong all this time. Let us return the favor and take care of you.”

“Come here.” Sophia tugs gently at your sleeve.

And somehow, you go. You let them guide you to the couch.

Manon sinks down first, legs spread, gaze daring, lips curling into a wicked grin as Sophia guides you to straddle her. Sophia settles behind you, letting you lean back into her chest like you belong there. Lara curls close at your side, her hand roaming around whatever she could reach. Megan drapes herself over the armrest, fingertips skimming the exposed skin of your thighs. And Daniela kneels on the floor before you, arms resting on your thighs like you’re her throne.

No chaos. No competition. They move like a unit now; calm, steady, sure. A pack with a shared prize.

You.

And God, your pulse is racing. Your skin feels too tight. You can’t seem to focus on anyone, because they’re all looking at you.

“You’re blushing,” Megan says with a grin.

“Embarrassed?” Sophia teases, her lips brushing your temple.

“Overstimulated,” Daniela murmurs, voice low and dark.

“And we haven’t even kissed you yet.”

Lara’s fingers trail lazily up your arm. “Would you let us?”

Your voice is barely there. “All of you?”

Sophia’s voice drops into something gentle. “Only if you want.”

That’s the dangerous part. Because you do. You nod.

And something electric ripples through the group; silent, collective understanding.

Manon is first. She leans in and brushes a kiss to your temple, light as a whisper. Lara presses hers to the edge of your collarbone. Sophia nuzzles along your jaw, her breath warm and steady. Megan’s hand glides down your calf, grounding you like an anchor in a storm.

But Daniela doesn’t move. She just watches. Watches them touch you. Watches you fall apart.

Then she tilts her head. “Mine last,” she says softly.

“I want to see what they do to you first.”

You whimper; and Megan laughs, delighted.

“God, we’re going to ruin you.”

And maybe they will. But for the first time, you don’t feel like a target. You don’t feel like a toy.

You feel sacred. Adored. Wanted.

And the altar is warm. But you’re not sure when the heat turned unbearable. It simmers under your skin, pools low in your belly, makes every breath taste like flame.

They're too close. Too many. And far too sure of themselves; especially Sophia and Daniela. They’re not just dominating this unusual dynamic. They’re orchestrating this. Every glance. Every delay. Every stroke of skin on skin.

You’re not just the center of attention. You’re the center of their world.

Sophia’s hand slips into your hair; firm, not rough. She tilts your head just enough to bare your throat, and you feel her smile against your pulse before her mouth follows. Her tongue is slow. Unhurried. A promise wrapped in silk.

“Don’t slouch,” she murmurs.

“If we’re going to have you like this… you’ll look pretty for it.”

You try to sit straighter. Try to breathe. But then Daniela moves.

She rises smoothly from the floor and Manon moves like clockwork. She gently adjusts you off her lap and with Sophia’s help, you land on the soft sensation of Sophia’s lap with a stuttering gasp escaping your lips. Daniela grins, all teeth and fangs, and straddles your lap like she’s claiming her rightful throne. Her thighs lock you in, her body heat folding over yours.

She takes your jaw in her hand, firm and demanding, but her thumb brushes your lower lip with reverence.

“You like being watched?” she asks, voice low enough to burn.

“Then keep your eyes open. Don’t you dare look away from me.”

And you don’t. You can’t.

Manon hums from behind. "This is unfair," she says, almost wistful as she traces light fingers down your spine.

“They’re going to break her before we even get a turn.”

“No.” Sophia says firmly, shooting her a glare. “You’ll take what we give you. When we say.”

She licks a stripe up your neck like she owns you, because in this moment, she does. They all do.

Daniela leans forward, her lips just brushing yours. "Do you want us to stop?"

It’s a test. A final one. You shake your head.

“No words?” Sophia teases. “Use your voice.”

“Please. Don’t stop.” You swallow thickly.

That’s all they need.

Sophia’s hand slips beneath your shirt, nails raking gently over your ribs, over your breasts. She pinches, rolls, and Daniela watches your face shift with every new sensation: hungry, focused.

Daniela finally kisses you, no, devours you. It’s not sweet. It’s not shy. It’s possession, tongue and teeth, and the kind of pressure that makes your knees weak even though you're already seated. She tastes like the edge of a storm: dark, dangerous, unrelenting.

Megan kneels at your legs now, lazily watching, fingers trailing your thighs like she’s plotting something. Lara kisses your shoulder, her lips sucking a dark purple mark on your soft skin. Manon moves beside Megan, her hands trailing up your and Daniela’s legs as she kisses Megan softly.

But something is evident, something is obvious, even through the tension. It’s Sophia and Daniela who command the room, your body, their body. You begin to wonder if they’d done this before.

Sophia tugs your shirt up and off in one smooth motion, eyes dark.

"There we are," she says, like she’s finally unwrapped her favorite gift.

Daniela pulls back just long enough to bite your jaw. "You’ll be good for us, won’t you?"

You nod, dazed. Sophia slaps the inside of your thigh, not hard, but sharp enough to jolt.

“I said,” Sophia breathes, “Use your voice.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

Sophia smiles, slow and dangerous. “Good. Then lie back.”

You do, your body pliant, every nerve strung tight with anticipation.

Sophia and Daniela kneel on either side of you, mirror images of control, while the others orbit like satellites. Megan pulls your pants down with unhurried ease. Lara kisses your hipbone. Manon murmurs in German about how beautiful you look like this.

But nothing compares to the way Sophia and Daniela look at you.

You’ve never been worshiped and ruined at the same time.

And now?

You’ll never survive anything less. You’re not even sure you’ll survive tonight.

Your lips are wrapped around someone’s fingers, your eyes are glassy and your mind is fogged up like trapped moisture under a pot’s lid. You moan as the fingers retreated, only for a new pair to be shoved in.

“Fuck.” You whimpered around your makeshift gag, enjoying the sensation of too many hands wandering, marking your body.

“Such a fucking slut of us.” You hear Lara grunt, you vaguely remember being manhandled to be sat on her lap, on her strap like a slut, your back facing hers as she held your legs open for her girls. She hold you like she's displaying the absolute filth she knows they enjoy watching. Like she knows they enjoy the way her strap disappears in your cunt

“We would have done this a long time ago, had we known you were this easy.” Manon groans in your ear as she played with your nipples, her own pierced ones exposed as you stare at them in wonder and adoration.

“Like ‘em love?” Manon grins in a faux british accent, adjusting her position for you to be able to wrap your lips around the cold metal and warm flesh.

“Oh don’t start.” Sophia snaps, her hand grips Manon’s hair firmly, pulling her head back just as she did yours earlier.

She whispered something to Manon, something that made Manon shudder, a sensation you felt with your lips. You then see that Sophia wrapped her hand around Manon’s throat as she softly kissed her, lips mumbling “such a good girl, hm?”

Your lips detach from Manon as you let out a stuttering gasp, your body squirming against Lara’s hold

“Don’t forget about us, pretty girl.” Megan grins up at you from between your legs, lips damn near sparkling with your slick

She dives back in, tongue darting out flat to lick up and down your stuffed pussy like she’s been starving, like you’re a drug she’s addicted to in an instant. Beside her, Daniela was whispering filthy things in her ear. You swear you hear her spit out something in spanish, something that made Megan moan against your ruined cunt. You were sure that if you could just understand what Daniela was saying, you’d cum again right then and there. But alas, you’re far too overstimulated to hear past the echoing moans.

You're not sure when it ended. Or maybe it never really did.

Because now you're back on Sophia's lap, half-wrapped in Megan’s hoodie, your hair damp with sweat and fingers lazily tangled in Daniela’s as she lies beside you on the couch. The others are sprawled out like cats in sunbeams; Manon is curled behind you, arms looped around your waist; Lara is fiddling with your hair like it’s her personal fidget toy; Megan is feeding you grapes with an over-the-top pout every time you try to reach for one yourself.

"Let me." she says. "You’ve done enough work today, baby."

"You make it sound like I clocked in," you mumble, cheeks burning.

“You kind of did,” Sophia says smugly, sipping water from a glass she’s probably been holding just for show.

"Full body labor. We should pay you, for being such a good girl, letting us use you like that?"

"I think we already did," Daniela mutters, eyes half-lidded, voice all raspy with pride.

You try to burrow into Sophia’s hoodie like it’ll hide your face. It doesn’t.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, feeling the weight of their stares again, softer now, but still intense. Still knowing.

Like they’ve seen you undone. And they liked it.

“Like what?” Lara asks innocently, which is a lie and everyone knows it.

“Like you’re still hungry.” You whined

“Oh, we are,” Manon purrs.

“But we’re being nice. For now.”

Daniela slips her hand beneath the blanket, lacing her fingers with yours, her thumb stroking lazy circles over your knuckle.

“You’re so red,” she murmurs. “Cute.”

You make a sound somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, that betrays just how undone you still are.

“Thirsty?” Sophia’s voice glides in, velvet-smooth.

You nod without thinking, and before you can blink, there’s a straw at your lips.

“Atta girl,” Megan coos as you drink.

When you finally pull back, your voice is faint. “This is... embarrassing.”

“No,” Sophia says gently, without hesitation.

“You deserve this.”

Lara kisses your cheek, grinning when your blush deepens.

“You’re ours now,” she singsongs.

The words land with more weight than you expect. Ours.

You sit up a little, untangling just enough from Daniela’s grip to look around the room, at all of them. Soft and warm. So terrifyingly sure.

You chew on your bottom lip. “Is this just… a one time thing that happened? Or…”

They don’t let you finish.

“We want you,” Sophia says first. Steady. Clear.

“In our own ways,” Daniela adds, voice quiet now. “But yes. All of us.”

“I mean, if you’re okay being claimed like a prize,” Megan grins, “because that’s how we see you.”

“Cared for,” Manon corrects, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Cherished.”

“Pinned to the wall sometimes,” Lara shrugs. “But with love.”

You’re quiet. Then you laugh, soft and disbelieving, but real.

“I want you too,” you say, almost shy, eyes dropping. “All of you.”

The air shifts again. Less electric. More reverent.

And then-

Bzzz bzzz bzzz.

Sophia’s phone buzzes on the table. She picks it up without checking and puts it on speaker. “What.”

“Is it safe to go back down or are you all still hounding her like feral dogs?” Yoonchae’s voice cuts through, dry as ever

A beat. Then chaos. Manon cackles. Megan wheezes.

“We are done” Daniela mutters

“Speak for yourself.” Lara shoots back, grinning at Daniela

Sophia sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s safe, Chip.”

“You sure?”

“She’s being fed and pampered and emotionally ruined now. Not physically.”

You let out a strangled sound and bury your face in a pillow.

“Cool.” Yoonchae says flatly. “I’m grabbing a popsicle.”

The call ends.

Silence lingers for one beat too long, then Megan declares, “You’re sleeping in our room tonight.”

“No arguments.” Daniela nods.

“You’re ours, remember?” Sophia kisses your temple as she speaks.

And somehow, even with the leftover heat buzzing through you, all you feel is warmth.

You’re not just wanted.

You’re needed.

The room still hums with the afterglow of chaos and closeness as you wander into the kitchen. Your hair’s mussed, your legs marked, your shirt borrowed, and all five of them are watching you walk away like they haven’t had enough.

“Look at her” Sophia murmurs, eyes tracking you.

“Still walking like that.”

“She’s lucky I let her walk,” Daniela smirks, arms folded like royalty.

“Could’ve had her crawling.”

“She was crawling,” Lara adds, grinning into Manon’s neck.

“Oh, I remember,” Megan says, biting into a grape.

“I have the scratches to prove it.”

Sophia reaches for her phone, barely suppressing a grin. “If she burns the rice, I’m putting her over my knee.”

“She won’t,” Daniela says smugly.

“She knows better.”

The dorm unusually dissolves into silence, save for the soft sizzle of garlic and onions. You move effortlessly in the kitchen: hair up, sleeves rolled, the hem of your borrowed shirt brushing your thighs. You hum to yourself, unaware of five sapphics huddled on the couch, going live on Weverse like nothing’s changed.

“Hi Eyekons~” Sophia waves, all dimples as Manon makes finger hearts and Megan tries to balance a pillow on her head.

“We’re alive,” Lara beams.

“Well-fed. Thriving actually.”

“She means stuffed,” Daniela mutters, sprawled over Sophia’s lap.

“I almost proposed over breakfast.”

“Again,” Megan winks.

The chat erupts:

🧡 who cooked??? 🧡 HOLY FOREARMS 👀 🧡 wait who’s in the background… 🧡 WHO IS THAT?? HELLO???

The camera tilts. Just enough. And there you are. At the stove, back to them. Shorts. Oversized tee. Casual. Domestic. Radiant. And absolutely unmistakable.

The silence is short.

Then:

🧡 THAT’S NOT A STAFF MEMBER THAT’S A WIFE 🧡 WHOSE GIRL IS SHE 🧡 PRIVATE CHEF REVEAL IMMEDIATELY

Sophia clears her throat, smirking.

“She’s ours,” she says smoothly.

“Yeah, hands off,” Lara adds, flicking a glance toward the stove.

“She’s taken. Don’t be a Gabriela now.”

Manon giggles in the background.

Megan leans in. “Taken five times, to be exact.”

Daniela, not missing a beat, bites into a strawberry. “Some of us more than others.”

“Okay. Cut the live!” Sophia snaps, and the screen goes black as the couch dissolves into laughter.

You turn to find all five of them looming, grinning, looking way too proud of themselves.

“Did I miss something?” you ask, cautious.

“You missed being claimed in front of 200,000 fans,” Sophia says, sliding her arms around your waist.

“They wanted to know who you belonged to,” Megan adds.

Daniela rests her chin on your shoulder, eyes dark. “We told them.”

“Told them what?” you ask, though you already know.

“That you’re ours,” Sophia whispers.

“In our own ways,” Lara smiles.

“I said five times,” Manon says thoughtfully.

“Too humble, honestly.”

You look around at them, at every shade of affection they wear for you. You never imagined this. Not when you first wore that apron, first served breakfast, first tried not to blush when they flirted like it meant something.

Megan lifts your chin, gaze tender and unyielding. Her eyes stared into your soul, you swear you felt the urge to kiss her senseless, until she’s whimpering around your tongue.

“You’re not just our chef anymore.”

“You’re our girl.” Sophia says, her fingers slipping between yours.

Just then, Sophia’s phone buzzes again.

“Unnie?” Yoonchae’s voice pipes through.

“Can I go to the kitchen now or...”

The girls erupt into fresh laughter.

“You may approach, little sister,” Sophia says wearily, her voice in that exasperated yet theatrical tone.

“Good. I’m hungry. But if I see anyone kiss her again like earlier, I’m calling mom.”

You hide your face in your hands as the room collapses into chaos again.

And in the middle of it, these hands, these voices, this joy, you finally understand.

You weren’t just their private chef anymore.

You were something else entirely.