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katzzeye · 4 days ago

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PLEASE. PLEASE. PELASE

Private Collection — Manon Bannerman (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content · g!p tattoo artist!manon · camgirl!reader · oral sex · facefucking/deepthroating · worship · cumplay · breeding kink/creampie · mutual masturbation · overstimulation · voyeurism · tattooing kink? · dubcon undertones · light angst

Summary: When an anonymous camgirl walks into Manon’s tattoo studio asking for something personal, the line between obsession and intimacy shatters. Manon, secretly addicted to her streams, never expected to meet her offline—let alone touch her. But when they finally fall into each other, it’s filthy, it’s emotional, and it’s real. Neither of them can go back to pretending. Not when they’ve already gone too far. (14.3k words)

The studio smells like disinfectant and ink. Black tiles, sharp lines, matte finish—a clean kind of sterile that tries too hard not to look like it. At the center of it all, lit like an exhibit under low gold light, is Manon.

She sits behind the front desk, sketchbook open, hand moving lazily with a charcoal pencil. Her legs are wide, feet planted firm on the ground like she owns it—because she does. Tongue flicking the edge of a lollipop, her phone screen dims beside her elbow, the last paused frame still showing: an anonymous live stream, muted.

People are not supposed to jerk off at work; they’re not supposed to have favorites, but Manon, for all her cocky stillness, is deeply fucking flawed.

Manon’s favorite’s not just anyone; it’s her.

The girl with the faceless body and the unscripted moans; the camgirl who doesn’t perform like the rest—doesn’t pout, doesn’t call anyone “daddy,” doesn’t fake anything. She doesn’t even show her face. All you get is the silhouette of her mouth when she gasps and the way her stomach tenses when she cums.

For Manon, it’s not porn, it’s more intimate than that, and it drives Manon fucking insane.

She tells herself it’s just the authenticity, the art of it. But that’s a lie; she watches for the way you touch yourself slowly and how you whimper when you edge too long. She watches your streams to see the way your fingers tremble when you cum so hard you forget to mute your mic. She’s probably heard you cum more times than she’s heard her ex say she loved her.

Manon shifts in her seat, spreading her legs wider beneath the desk. Her cock presses tight inside her jeans, uncomfortable. She adjusts her cock when no one’s around, and she only jerks off to you now.

Nobody else does it for her, not even the girls who beg to get tattooed by her or the Instagram models, or the girls she drinks under the table. Not even the ex who still DMs her every now and then.

Only you—you, who could be anywhere or anyone. You, who have no idea (or so she thinks).

It’s past midnight when the neon buzz of the tattoo shop finally goes dark. It’s time to go home but Manon doesn’t leave. She never does—not on Thursdays. The others think she stays late to clean her guns, prep stencils, or sketch on the walls again. But in reality, it’s for this.

The old leather couch in the room squeaks beneath her as she settles in—shirt off, sweatpants low. Her laptop is bulky, but she brings it anyway; she likes the bigger screen when she’s in her tattoo studio. It feels more immersive, like you’re really there with her—one-on-one. She opens it, and her heart skips when she sees the notification: Live now.

You.

No face and fake moans, just fingers, skin, and your own pleasure humming through the screen.

The camera is steady tonight—angled just enough to show your parted lips as you breathe against your wrist, your thighs slick and twitching with each circle of your fingers. You’re on your back, hips rolled to the side like it’s instinct, like it’s real—because it is, and that’s what kills Manon. It’s not some performative, pornified show for men. You’re not hamming it up for coins.

You’re doing this for yourself, and maybe, if she lets herself be delusional, you’re doing this for her.

Manon’s cock is already hard beneath the band of her briefs, thick and aching from the moment you gasped into the mic. She palms herself slowly, like she’s scared to miss a second. Her thumb drags over the wet tip, breath catching when you spread yourself open and moan. Quiet, raw, but not needy—needy would imply you didn’t know how to get what you want.

You do.

You whisper something soft, just a breath of “just like that”, and Manon loses her rhythm. Her hips twitch off the couch and her fist tightens, jerking her cock in slow, hungry pulls, matching the rhythm of your fingers.

She watches as you arch, knees bent, toes curling, and the vibrator comes into view—a small one, barely buzzing, but you nearly sob when it touches your clit. Manon swears, low and breathless. Her other hand slides down to cradle her balls, rolling them gently while her hips jerk up again.

She imagines being under you, forcing you to keep going, licking you through your orgasm, tasting it straight from your pussy while your thighs tremble around her head. She bites her lip at the nasty thoughts.

Your breathing stutters—you’re getting close. Manon watches with laser focus, her grip tightening, speed picking up, jerking herself just the way she knows it would feel best if she were buried in you, cock twitching as you clench around her.

You cum without warning, your body seizing, hand shaking, a soft “fuck” spilling from your lips, and that’s all it takes.

Manon chokes on her breath, thighs shaking as she cums hard into her hand, warm ropes striping across her stomach. Her eyes don’t leave the screen, not even for a second.

You lie there panting, soft and still, and undone.

And Manon’s still watching, staring at your beautiful frame, still thinking about the way you touched yourself like you knew someone was watching—someone like her.

It should’ve ended there, with her hand sticky, her breath caught somewhere between shame and satisfaction. The screen dimming, the stream ending, the guilt setting in like clockwork. But it doesn’t really end there.

Because even after she cleans up, even after she throws on a hoodie and pretends the orgasm didn’t rattle her bones, the image of you lingers—head tossed back, breath catching, fingers wet and glistening under pink LED light.

Before she even closes the tab, her fingers move on instinct as she sends over a fat tip, enough to make your notifications pop. She doesn’t leave a message, never does, but she knows you’ll see the name. You always do.

Perhaps it’s stupid, maybe it’s nothing but wishful thinking, but the thought that you might smile when you see it—that maybe you already know she always gives more than she should—keeps her from shutting the laptop just yet.

You were too much and too real unlike the others. You couldn’t be bothered to perform for the pleasure of your viewers; you only touched yourself like you meant it, like you didn’t need anyone watching but let them look anyway.

Manon doesn’t even know your name.

So when the bell above her studio door jingles just past noon the next day, she doesn’t think anything of it. Manon doesn’t look up right away thinking it was just another client. Another appointment in her calendar. Another blank canvas.

She’s still wiping her hands, still half in the last sketch she was working on. But the confident sound of your shoes against concrete, with just the slightest suggestion of a sway, made her pull her eyes up.

And at that moment her breath stops cold and her stomach flips.

The girl in front of her isn’t dressed loud; it was nothing over-the-top. Just a simple tank top, baggy jeans that sit low on the hips, a few gold rings that clink against your phone as you scroll for something, but there’s something about the way you move. You acted like you’ve already been seen; that you’ve always known how to be watched.

You’re… striking, but also familiar in a way she can’t place. Like a distant memory wearing lip gloss and confidence. She doesn’t know why her palms go clammy or why her jeans suddenly feel too tight. Manon doesn’t even know it’s you.

“Hey,” you say, eyes flicking up. Your voice is soft, but there’s that thing in it; it was warm and slow, like honey poured over something sharp, “I have a 12:15?”

Manon blinks at you then glances at the clock. It’s 12:23. She nods anyway, “Yeah. Come in.”

You smile, and it hits her like a wave of déjà vu she can’t place. She chalks it up to hunger or thirst, or maybe even the fact that she hasn’t gotten laid in a while—aside from the livestreams.

You follow her into the back room, gaze sweeping the shop. Your eyes studying the posters of past clients, the rows of ink bottles arranged like candy jars, the machine tucked neatly beside the chair.

“So,” Manon says, glancing at your form again, trying to keep her thoughts buried, “What are we doing today?”

You scroll again on your phone before holding it up to her.

A kiss mark. It looked messy but classic, a little smeared, but it was deliberately placed.

“I want this,” you say, “At the base of my neck.”

You thought it was the safest place to start; it was hot, chic, sensual in that effortless way you always tried to be. It’s not very vulgar nor desperate. Just you—a living contradiction of performance and privacy.

Manon raises an eyebrow, nodding at the photo, “Any particular stencil?”

You pause, shrugging a little, “I figured you could use yours.”

She laughs with a slight hint of nerves, sharp and surprised, “My lips?”

You nod, acting so calm about it, so casual, like it’s nothing, but there’s a little upturn in your lips that tells Manon that you know exactly what you’re doing.

“You don’t have to, if that’s weird,” you add, “I just thought it’d be more… original.”

Original. Sure.

Manon’s mouth felt dry. She doesn’t trust herself to speak right away, so she just nods again and moves toward the drawer where she keeps her lipstick—deep crimson, waxy, matte. She doesn’t wear it for herself that often and thought that this would be a great opportunity to put it to use.

She opened the tube, smearing lipstick over her lips with a practiced swipe. Her hands don’t shake—tattoo artists don’t get to do that—but her cock stiffens under her sweats the moment she steps into your space.

Then she turns to you, “Sit.” You do, settling on the tattoo chair, tilting your head to the side, hair falling like water to reveal your neck.

Manon doesn’t breathe, because now that she’s this close, there’s a softness to your skin that has her heart doing something uneven. Her lips hover, just a second too long.

She leans in. Her lips press against the base of your neck in a kiss that lasts longer than it should.

A soft moan automatically escapes you, and it was not performative, you really didn’t mean to. But you catch the way her nostrils flare; she heard.

God. It’s her voice. It sounds just like her. She sounds like the fucking streams—

No. Don’t be stupid. It’s just a voice.

The kiss, or more specifically the mark, was precise. It was simply all business, if anyone asks. But in Manon’s head? Her brain is short-circuiting.

Her lips tingle, sweatpants feel tighter than before despite it being loose. She doesn’t even look at your face when she pulls away, afraid that she’ll see amusement there, or worse, recognition.

She cleans the ink, puts her gloves on, the machine whirring softly in the background, “You good?” she asks.

You smile, with that same knowing tilt on your lips, “Yeah,” you say, “I trust you.”

And she has to clench her jaw at that—don’t say that, not with a voice like that, not when she still hears you moaning in her head, not when she still doesn’t know why your body feels like something her hands already know.

As she starts the tattoo, needle kissing skin, she thinks, maybe it’s just lust. Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe—

Maybe it’s the way your breath hitches just slightly, your lashes fluttering as if this isn’t just ink on skin but something else.

She tattoos the mark carefully, slowly. It’s intimate work and her focus didn’t falter. Her gloves press against your skin with a kind of gracefulness, and you fight the urge to squirm. Every vibration from the machine feels amplified because it’s her.

“Done,” she says after a while, voice husky. She doesn’t meet your eyes. But you do, and you catch the outline in her sweats. It emboldens you.

“Can you do another?” you ask sweetly, “Same kiss, just… here.”

You gesture to the soft swell on your left tit, right where the fabric hides the tenderest part of your breast, already moving to take your tank top off. Manon stills, her mouth slightly parts, involuntarily, then closes again.

Fuck. Don’t get weird. She’s probably testing me.

But what if she isn’t? What if she’s really—

No. Be cool. Be normal. You’re not sucking her tit, you’re just tattooing it. Professionally… Kind of.

“If it’s too much, you don’t have to,” you add quickly, already moving to unclasp your bra. You want to give her an out. You’re not cruel, but you do like this; the tension, the way she’s looking at you like she’s two seconds from folding.

“No,” Manon says—a little too fast, “I can.”

Manon applies the lipstick slowly, eyes flickering once to your now-bare chest, then away, pretending to fuss with the ink even though her hand is already steady. She’s inked a thousand people before. She’s seen skin in every state, but this is different.

You sit upright, arm resting against the chair, the angle lifting your breast just enough for her to see the dip of soft flesh and the way your breath rises, controlled but not calm.

Manon leans in, planting a kiss that lands right under the swell of your breast, a warm press of her lips that lingers a second too long. Not because she’s trying to be seductive—at least that’s what she tells herself—but because her mouth won’t move.

She swears, for a beat, she can hear you moan, but it’s only in her head, her imagination where she hears the same moan that rings through her laptop late at night, echoing off her bedroom walls in pixelated ecstasy. The moan that’s driven her to curl her fist around her cock more times than she could ever admit.

And for a split second—just a second—Manon wonders if her mind is playing some sick joke.

Same tone, same breath, and… same body?

No, no way. It’s just the lipstick fumes getting to her, so she swallows it down and keeps her face neutral.

Manon doesn’t even know what the girl in those videos looks like, and this one in front of her? You’re real; tangible, soft, and not some favorite blur behind a screen. You were just… uncannily familiar.

So she tells herself it’s nothing and that she’s projecting. But her cock twitches in her pants, and she can’t stop the thought,

Would she sound like her if I bit down?

You hold perfectly still, eyes on the ceiling as her fingers steady your chest, and the hum of the machine begins again. Manon is very gentle and precise, and she doesn’t comment when your nipple hardens under her touch.

She’s a professional, and so are you. Except neither of you feel like it right now.

When it’s done, you don’t say thank you; instead, you simply ask her, “You up for one more?”

You added, quieter, tilting your head, “And again, it’s okay if you don’t want to. It’s… low.”

You point just beneath your navel, to the softest edge of your bikini line—right where a kiss would disappear if you had a bush. Low enough to make her stare, high enough to stay a secret. It would be intimate, sacred, and most importantly, yours.

Manon freezes like she’s been hit by lightning, her eyes wide, lips parted, and every possible thought crashing into itself like cars in a pileup.

She must’ve misheard. Right? You’re just messing with her. There’s a hidden camera somewhere, and her best friend Dani’s about to burst in, cackling at her—“Manon’s hard again, what a shock!”

Except you’re not laughing; you’re just watching her expectantly and dead serious. Her throat bobs, her pants feel too tight.

Say yes. Say yes or you’ll regret it for the rest of your fucking life.

“I’ll do it,” she says, her voice just shy of breathless—and she wants to claw at herself for how needy it sounds. You slowly and knowingly flash her a borderline wicked smile.

The way you shimmy your jeans down, hips swaying like you’ve danced this seduction before—like you know exactly what it does to her. You don’t take them all the way off, just enough. Just to show her that you’re not wearing anything underneath but that black lace that was nearly sheer.

You slip it downwards with two fingers, and her jaw clenches so hard you see it. A twitch in the cheek. A muscle pulled taut.

You can feel the air shift; Manon’s on her knees, and suddenly her mouth is right there—so close it makes you tremble, because you can feel her breath ghosting over skin that’s never been this bare for her.

You point lower—just beneath the curve of your stomach, where your jeans used to sit, right at the top of your mound. The spot where low-rise panties would barely cover. A few centimeters below your belly button. A few centimeters above your clit.

The place you want her mark. The place no one else will see unless they’re allowed to.

Her eyes flick there, then back up at you, then down again. Manon leans in slowly, lips parted. She lingers, lips parted against your skin like she’s breathing you in. But she wants to do more than that; she wants to press her tongue right against the dampening lace of your panties. She wants to drag her mouth over your slit, feel you pulse on her lips, hear the way your breath breaks when she sucks.

But she can’t—so instead, she settles on forcing her lips to your skin, right above your mound, right where the tattoo will go. Just a simple kiss for a tattoo, and right before she kisses you—

You move, just a little, it was barely noticeable. Your hips tilt ever so slightly to meet her mouth—like your body’s desperate for her. Like you need her lips there, and Manon notices.

Fuck.

Her cock throbs painfully against her sweats, already straining from the moment she knelt between your thighs. But now? Now it’s impossible to hide. The outline of it presses boldly against the fabric, swollen and twitching. Her heart’s beating too loud. Her mouth opens wider, hovering there like she’s debating whether to kiss or taste.

You swallow hard. She’s so close, too close even. Just a little lower, just a little—if she moved an inch, she’d find how wet you were. If she opened her mouth—just a little wider—

Would she do it? If I asked?

You keep your face still, but your cunt pulses beneath her mouth. You’re soaked, aching, holding your breath like that’ll somehow hold back the heat rushing through your core.

Manon’s thoughts spiral.

I want to lick her. I want to ruin her. I want to taste her through those fucking panties until she whimpers my name, until her legs shake and her voice breaks.

She swears under her breath.

No. No. Just ink her. Just get through this. Pretend you’re not this fucking hard.

Her breath stutters while your thighs twitch, and then she pulls back, fumbling for the tattoo gun with hands that won’t stop shaking. Her fingers graze your skin as she positions herself again, and that’s when it happens.

You shift, almost imperceptibly—just a little adjustment, like you’re settling into place, but that’s all it takes.

Because of the sudden movement, her fingers slide down, the latex catching briefly on something slick. She freezes and her breath stutters. The edge of Manon’s gloved fingers slides across your slit, through the fabric. You feel it, and so does she.

She’s touched wetness through lace before—but this? This is heat. Your arousal, caught on her glove like proof of your undoing.

She exhales sharply through her nose, like she’s trying not to react, but instead of pulling away, her hand lingers, just a second too long. And then she does it again.

Manon drags it back slowly. Just a soft, shameless pass over your folds, like she’s adjusting placement—but you both know that’s a lie. She did it unapologetically and definitely not innocently. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

But something passes between you; something shared and unsaid.

You stay still, eyes low-lidded, pretending not to notice, but your body cannot lie; your thighs twitch, chest rises, and your panties are damp, clinging now.

You want her to keep going. God, you want more. Your clit throbs, and you think,

Please. Just touch me again. Just a little.

Her next touch isn’t clumsy. Another brush, accidental again, but less convincing this time. The edge of her glove brushes just above your clit. Barely-there pressure—but enough to make your breath catch. Her fingers drag lower, ghosting the edge of your slit.

She’s pretending it’s part of the prep, but you know. You both know, and yet you both pretend that it’s an accident.

It was a shared delusion; a mutual dare. It’s a game, and neither of you are losing. That is until the game felt too hard.

Manon’s jaw clenches, her cock pulsing hard and aching against the seam of her sweats. She’s not going to last; not built for this kind of restraint.

Fuck it, she thinks. She peels the glove from her right hand, and before you can even process it, her bare fingers slip under your panties.

You gasp—quiet, breathless. Your hips lift slightly without meaning to.

She slowly drags two fingers down the length of your slit; you were soaked. Her fingertips glide your folds like they’ve been here before.

And without any warning nor hesitance, she lowers her mouth. Just the hot press of her tongue against your clit, and everything in you combusts. You nearly cry out, your hands shoot down, grabbing her hair—not to push her away, but to hold her there, anchoring her in place; practically begging her to stay.

Her tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your cunt. She moans softly into you, like she’s the one being touched. You tilt your hips, offering her more. Manon’s face fits perfectly between your thighs, her hand sliding up, spreading you wider, and her mouth works in slow, adoring laps—like she’s worshipping, not eating.

She’s so pretty like this, you think, dazed. So fucking pretty.

You run your fingers through her curls, stroke her cheekbone with the pad of your thumb. She groans against you when you do, hips grinding into nothing. Her bulge was very evident—hard, twitching in her pants, and desperate, but she’s focused only on you. Manon’s lips wrapped around your clit, her tongue circling in a maddening rhythm.

Your legs start to shake, moans break into little stutters. She hums on you, like praise, and it sends you spiraling, “Manon,” you whisper, like praying to her. She groans gutturally and you swear she nearly cums from that alone.

You helplessly tug her closer, wanting nothing else than to disappear into her mouth. You want to fuck her face until everything else fades; until the only thing left is her tongue and your ruin.

And when your orgasm hits, it does so violently. Your whole body shudders, your hips jerking forward, and her grip on you tightens.

She keeps going at it until your breathing slows and your grip loosens, until you’re a mess beneath her. Only then does she finally pull back, with her lips glossy and her mouth wet with you.

Manon looks up at you, eyes glazed, pink flushed across her cheeks like she’s in love or in heat. Perhaps it was both.

Your pulse still pounds in your ears, the tattoo gun sits forgotten on the tray, and neither of you speaks. Yet.

Manon licks her lips, still wet with your arousal, and stands slowly. Her shadow stretches over you as she rises to her full height, her breath heavy and eyes dark. She looks wrecked and dangerous, “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” she asks, voice husky—a bit accusing, but it also felt like a promise.

You don’t answer; you don’t need to. The silence between you is thick with everything already said through gasps and glances, through touches pretending not to be touches.

She rounded the chair, and then suddenly, she stood before you. On your side now, towering over where you sit, legs still parted, lace panties tugged to the side like you’ve been ruined and left that way.

And then you see it; the outline of her cock—huge and straining against her sweatpants, the waistband tented obscenely. There’s a wet spot forming where her tip presses against the fabric. She’s been holding back for too long.

You exhale, slow and shaky. Your eyes drag down, lingering on it, “Fuck,” you mutter, lips parting slightly.

Manon raises a brow at your reaction. Her smirk is tight, strained, like she’s on the edge.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband, eyes locked to yours. Slowly, Manon lowers her pants. Her cock springs free, flushed, hard, and dripping. Your mouth waters instantly, licking your lips in response.

And then, like a little knife between the ribs, you whisper, “Are you gonna fuck my mouth with that?”

Her breath catches while something in her gaze snaps. She steps closer, cock bobbing at the movement, heavy and impossibly hard. One of her hands tangles in your hair, not yanking—just holding, guiding you closer.

You look up at her from under your lashes.

“You want it that bad?” she murmurs, voice ragged, “Want to feel me fuck your mouth like I own it?”

You nod, but it’s not enough, so you open your mouth a little wider. Barely part your lips making it feel like a silent invitation.

Her thumb drags over your bottom lip, smearing it with the precum that coated her finger.

“I’ll ruin you,” she whispers. You just smile as a response, eyes gleaming with excitement, “Try me.”

Manon’s hand tightens in your hair—not cruelly, but firm enough to hold you where she wants you. Her other hand wraps around her cock, just beneath the head, the shaft slick with precum that beads and drips.

You can see every inch of her now. She’s thick, flushed dark with need, a vein pulsing along the underside. Her tip is glossy, wet, practically leaking. You’re not sure who’s trembling more; if it’s her or you.

“You really want this?” Manon asks, but there’s no real question in it. Her eyes are already blown wide with hunger. Her chest rises and falls like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

You don’t nod this time; you open your mouth instead. Your tongue out, eyes steadily on hers, and she fucking groans.

“Jesus,” she mutters. Her hips twitch forward like she can’t help it. She guides her cock to your mouth, letting the tip rest on your tongue. She feels heavy against your muscle; salty and most importantly, hot.

You close your lips around it, slowly, teasingly, until your lips meet the fingers she used to hold up her cock to your mouth. Her lashes flutter, “Fuck, you feel good,” Manon breathes, voice cracking.

You start to suck slowly, pulls that make her thighs tense on either side of you. Her hand stays in your hair, guiding but not thrusting.

She watches you, stares right into your eyes, jaw clenched, lips parted. Her lipstick is already smudged from earlier. Her neck glistens with sweat. She looks ruined, feral, like she can’t believe this is real.

You moan around her just to see what it does, and what it does was nothing short of amazing. Manon’s hips jerk forward, forcing more of her cock into your mouth. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, “Don’t—fuck—don’t tease.”

But you do; you hollow your cheeks and pull back slowly, tongue dragging along the underside. You swirl it around her tip, tasting the salt and slick, keeping your gaze locked on hers.

“God, you’re filthy,” Manon whispers, more to herself than to you, “Filthy little slut.”

You smile around her cock, and that’s when she breaks.

Her hand tightens in your hair and she starts to fuck your mouth with slow, deep thrusts that make your throat flutter and your jaw ache. Manon doesn’t go too hard, it’s just enough to take control, to feel you struggle a little. She watches every twitch of your face, every flicker of emotion.

You love the way she handles you—like she’s thought about this a thousand times. Like she’s been dying for it.

She pulls out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your lips to her cock, “Open wider,” she says, “Let me see your tongue.”

You obey wordlessly.

Manon strokes herself once, twice, then presses her cock back in—deeper this time, past your tongue, but not your throat. Just where she wants to be.

“Yeah,” she breathes, “That’s it. Right there.”

You let her use your mouth; you let her fuck it. Messy and lewd sounds echo through the room—wet suction, stuttered breathing, the soft slap of skin against skin as her cock slides in and out of your lips. Your mascara’s probably smudged. Your chin is soaked. But all you see is her.

Manon.

Jaw tight, brows furrowed, eyes wild. You reach for her thigh, grip it, dig your nails in as she begins to tremble.

Her breathing quickens, her hand twitches in your hair while her thrusts falter. She’s close, “Fuck,” she hisses, “I’m gonna—shit—I’m gonna cum—”

You hold eye contact, pressing your tongue flat… and she does.

Manon groans as she spills hot across your tongue, thick and salty and overwhelming. She doesn’t bury herself in your throat—she stays shallow, watching the way her cum paints your mouth. Her cock pulses against your lips, leaking more with each twitch.

She cups your jaw after, thumb swiping some of the mess, “Don’t swallow,” she murmurs, “Let me see it.”

You tilt your head back, tongue out, mouth full of her, and naturally, Manon moans at the sight. She sounded low and wrecked.

“You’re perfect,” she says, almost in disbelief and in awe.

Manon doesn’t even give you time to swallow; she leans down and kisses you—mouth open, tongue deep, tasting herself on your tongue like she’s starving for it.

Her lips crush against yours, cum sticky between you, slick and warm, smearing across your lips and hers. It drips from your chin. From hers.

You moan into her mouth as she devours you, hips still twitching like she could cum again just from this. She groans when she tastes it.

“Fuck,” Manon breathes between kisses, “I taste so good on you.”

You nod, dazed, drunk on her, and that’s all it takes. She grabs you again, rougher this time, her fingers digging into your scalp as she drags your head back into place.

She steps forward, presses the length of her cock back to your swollen lips, already hardening again, already leaking, “You’re not done,” she says.

And just like that, Manon fucks your mouth again, harder this time, her pace faster than the last round. This time, there was no more gentleness, no more slow teasing—just the wet slap of skin, and the hot, wet choke of your lips around her cock.

Her hand holds your head in place, palm flat against the headrest of the tattoo chair, anchoring you while her hips snap forward; she’s using you now.

Thrusting so deep your nose is buried in the soft fabric of her shirt. The edge of the leather digs into the back of your neck but you take it, every inch, every ragged thrust, every shuddered curse as she drills your mouth like it’s the only hole she wants to own.

Your eyes tear up and your jaw aches, but you don’t stop her. Instead, you look up at Manon—make her see you gagging around her cock, make her feel every twitch of your throat, every desperate inhale around her.

And God, does she watch; Manon’s eyes were wide, ferocious, and a little bit cruel, ��You look so fucking good like this,” Manon growls, “Fuck—fuck—your mouth is perfect.”

Her abs tighten and her voice turns guttural, like it’s ripped from her chest.

You feel her cock twitch again—and then she pulls out just in time to slap it across your face, cum still smeared on your lips from earlier, your mouth still open, still begging.

And she just stares, with her chest heaving and her cock twitching. She looks at you like she’s ruined you; like she’s not done yet.

You’re moaning again involuntarily. There’s something about the way it slips out of you that feels… familiar. Not the act, not the setup—just you.

The shape of your pleasure, the cadence of your breath, and the way you hum, even now, with her cock still heavy on your tongue. It shouldn’t feel familiar, yet it does.

It’s in the way your lashes flutter and the tilt of your hips. Perhaps it was the soft whimper you let out when her fingers graze your cheek, her thumb smearing spit and cum across your jaw.

Manon’s blinking through the haze, struggling to ground herself. Her pulse stutters with something more than arousal—it’s recognition, clawing its way through the fog.

“Do you… want me?” she asks suddenly, voice husky, hesitant even. Her gaze drops to your soaked panties, clinging to you like a second skin, then drags back up to your flushed face.

You don’t speak, you simply nod. Manon starts to pull out of your mouth, to line herself up with your slick, needy cunt, but before she can—

You move; you shift your weight, press her back onto the tattoo chair with a soft thud, and climb on top of her.

Her breath immediately catches as she stills beneath you, wide-eyed.

You straddle her hips with aching precision, the leather of the chair creaking softly beneath you both. Her sweatpants are low, cock still slick and hard between you. She’s a mess—shirt bunched up, hair wild, pupils blown out, every muscle trembling with restraint.

You reach between your bodies, guide her cock to your entrance with a confident, practiced ease. Your hand is steady and your lips are parted.

“Wait—” Manon pants, barely audible, “what are you—”

But you’re already slowly sinking down onto her entirely, and Manon breaks. Her jaw goes slack, a soundless moan catching in her throat as you sheath her to the hilt, your cunt warm and devastatingly tight around her. It’s all-consuming—soft heat and steady pressure that makes her vision blur.

You weren’t bouncing; you’re moving—with purpose, hips rolling in a rhythm that feels studied, sensual, and earned.

It isn’t shy, but you weren’t eager-to-please either. Instead, the way you fucked her felt indulgent.

Manon watches you ride her like it’s something you do for yourself, like you’re using her cock as a means to pleasure, not as the prize, and it guts her… because it’s fucking beautiful.

Your pace is hypnotic; the drag of her cock inside you is intense and thorough, the way you clench every time your hips grind down on hers like you know exactly what you’re doing… because you do.

Manon’s arms tremble from where she grips the sides of the chair, eyes darting to where your bodies meet, then back to your face.

She’s spiraling because there’s something about this, about you, that feels too familiar. But it wasn’t your face, and she doesn’t think it’s your voice either, but she wasn’t sure.

It’s the way you fuck. It lives somewhere in her muscle memory. Her hands twitch like they’ve followed this rhythm before. Her spine arches when your walls flutter around her, not because of surprise—but because of recognition.

She watches the way your mouth parts in a breathless moan, still shining with spit and cum. Manon watches the subtle shake in your thighs when your clit brushes her pelvis just right. She watches the way you ride her like you’re chasing something divine.

And that’s when it clicks. Not fully, and not even consciously. But it creeps in the back of her mind like a fever dream—like the soft echo of something she’s watched a hundred times in the dark.

You’re her camgirl. She just doesn’t know it yet—not fully and not with certainty. But her body does. She’s seen this exact sway of hips, heard those exact moans.

They’ve gotten her off before, more than once, more than she’ll ever admit.

It hits her so hard her hips jerk upward, chasing more depth inside you. You gasp—head tipped back, mouth open.

She hears it, feels it, watches the way your body opens up more with every stroke, and she can’t tear her eyes away.

Manon has never seen anyone fuck like you—authentic, wild, and very sure of themselves. You don’t care about impressing her. You don’t care if she moans, or begs, or loses her mind.

You’re just enjoying it.

You reach for her jaw without thinking, palm warm on her flushed cheek.

She leans into it, almost delirious from the sensation. Your thumb swipes her bottom lip, slick from where she’d kissed you messy earlier—tongues tangled, cum smeared across your mouths like a confession.

Manon swears she’s going to die here because she doesn’t know who you are, but somehow, she already does.

She’s close, too close. Her hands are gripping your hips, fingertips digging into your skin like she’s scared you’ll disappear mid-thrust. She’s panting now, sweat beading along her hairline, jaw slack from the way your cunt milks her cock so fucking perfectly—tight and slick and greedier than anything she’s ever known.

You don’t let up, not one bit, you ride her like you mean it. Like you’ve needed this for days and no one else has ever been enough. You’re flushed and stunning, the bounce of your hips measured, and your rhythm lethal. Manon watches you take her all the way in with every drop of slick—her cock disappearing inside you over and over like you’re trying to break her on it.

Then it hits her, Manon’s ragged breath catches in her throat, her body locking up under yours as the orgasm barrels into her, unstoppable. Her thighs twitch and her hips jerk up, trying to meet you one last time, and she cums hard.

It was hot and deep, and most importantly, it was inside you. You feel it almost instantly—the way her cock pulses violently inside your cunt, the first spurt of cum thick and scalding. Then the next. And the next.

Her cum fills you fast, and it drives you mad, your whole body jolts with arousal as you realize she’s cumming in you, as you feel it spill, warm and heavy, the slippery rush of it coating your insides.

It only makes you wetter—makes it easier to ride her, harder, faster, and more shameless. Her cum slicks your walls and you moan, louder this time, desperate, grinding down against her like it’s the best fucking feeling in the world.

Because it is. Your pussy swallows her whole, clenching and fluttering around her cock, squeezing out the last drops of her orgasm as you chase your own. You feel the mess between you both, the scandalous squelch of every thrust now amplified, heat and slick and everything that shouldn’t be this good but is.

Manon is wrecked—muttering something incoherent, eyes fluttering, too overstimulated to process the way you’re still moving, still using her cock to get yourself off.

And then your own climax violently tears through you; you were shaking as it felt breathtaking. Your back arches, your mouth parts in a silent cry, and your pussy clamps down on her so hard Manon gasps out your name like a confession. Cum spills again, pushed out around her cock, hot and messy between your thighs as you collapse forward.

Your lips find hers without thinking, still moving even as your body trembles, riding the aftershocks of your orgasm like you refuse to let the high go.

And still—she’s inside you. She’s still hard and twitching. But most importantly, she’s still yours.

You stay like that for a moment; you’re all draped over her, breath stuttering against her collarbone, your chest rising and falling with hers. The room smells like sweat and sex, thick with heat and something more fragile, like the trace of a truth neither of you is ready to speak yet.

Your cunt still pulses faintly around her, oversensitive, stuffed full, your thighs sticky with the mess you both made. You feel every twitch of her still hard cock inside you, still seated deep, and instead of discomfort, it makes you exhale a soft laugh. A real one; breathless and light. It escapes before you can catch it.

Manon stiffens, her brows knit together just slightly, her arms around you loosening—not enough to push you off, but just enough to hesitate. You don’t see her face right away, but you feel the shift.

She’s overthinking, and you can tell by the way her breathing changes, like she’s scanning every beat of silence for mockery. Like she’s waiting to be made fun of. Like some buried shame just wriggled out from beneath the euphoria.

And you hate that for her, so you lean back just enough to look at her, to really look at her, your expression soft. Then slowly, you leaned in to kiss her again—slow this time, your lips plush, parted, and unhurried.

You kiss her like you mean it, like you didn’t just fuck the soul out of each other, but now you want to give something back, and only then was when she exhales.

Manon kisses you back with something like disbelief. She melts under you, hands finding your hips again, not to guide or grip but just to hold, like she needs to remember you’re real.

You’re the one who breaks the kiss, “Looks like I’ll have to reschedule that last tattoo,” you murmur against her mouth, teasing, as if you aren’t still seated on her cock, both of you ruined beyond repair.

She huffs a breath, dazed, “The one near your…”

“Cunt,” you finish for her, eyes glinting with mischief. Manon nods, like she’s forgotten every other word in the dictionary.

You finally sit up, carefully lifting yourself off her with a wince and a quiet gasp, and she watches as her cum leaks out of your pussy; it was thick, creamy, and unmistakable. It pools between your thighs and she’s never been more tempted to pull you back down and start again.

But you’re already moving, reaching for your discarded clothes, for your phone, for your wallet. When you try to pay her, Manon immediately shakes her head, “No. You already paid enough,” she says, voice rough.

You raise an eyebrow, “If anything, I should be the one paying more. You gave me a very generous extra service.”

Her ears flush pink, but she still shakes her head. You don’t push it. You just tuck the bills back into your wallet and say, with a faint smirk, “I’ll pay for the next one.”

She watches you like she wants to believe this isn’t the last time, “As long as it’s you,” she murmurs, “other payment methods are open.”

It’s a joke; half a joke. But it lands somewhere deep between your legs anyway.

You kiss her one last time—on the cheek this time, and it was both gentle and grounding—then pull what seems like her hoodie over your head and walk out the door like you didn’t just rearrange each other’s lives.

You leave smelling like sex and lipstick, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. Manon’s still lying on the table, one arm draped over her eyes, her other hand resting on her stomach, where the memory of you lingers like heatstroke. Her cock twitches uselessly, overstimulated and drained.

She doesn’t move for a long time.

Eventually, Manon drags herself up, cleans the studio in a daze, and tells herself it was just a one-time thing. A beautiful anomaly. Something to be kept between stained tattoo chairs and smudged lipstick tubes.

By the time Thursday rolls around, she’s convinced herself of it. She’s evened out, putting the gloves back on, and masked it behind the familiar.

And tonight, like always, she’s alone in her closed shop—lights low, ashtray full, laptop screen casting a soft blue glow across her bare thighs. She’s already got her cock out, hand lazily wrapped around the shaft as she scrolls to find her. The one she never misses.

The camgirl with the whimpers that doesn’t beg for attention. The moans that sound too real. The performance that never feels like one.

And there you are. Live again.

Wearing that sheer black robe you only wear when you’re feeling dangerous. There’s a little delay on the stream, but it’s fine—Manon knows the rhythm. She knows how long you like to tease, how you drag the show out just to make your viewers squirm.

Except tonight is different; there was something Manon would have never anticipated.

Because when you strip slowly and shamelessly, as you pull your panties down and sink to your knees for the camera, you turn your body to the side and that’s when Manon sees it clearly,

Two tattoos.

One on your neck, the other near your breast—both of them hers. Hers in technique, hers in placement, hers in memory. She doesn’t need to squint. She knows the linework, the angle of her kiss, the faint smear of intimacy preserved in ink.

It hits her like a punch to the gut because these aren’t just tattoos—they’re evidence. Proof that the woman she’s been jerking off to for months, obsessing over in dark corners of her mind, is you.

The one who walked into her shop like a fever dream. The one who rode her until she was shaking. The one who asked her soft, teasing, so casually cruel, if she could use her lips as the stencil.

It’s you.

The realization tears through her chest and down to her cock, which stiffens in her grip like it’s reacting to memory alone. She gasps, mouth parted, eyes wide and locked on the screen.

It shook her—the knowledge that she made them, and not just the work, but the way she made the stencil by kissing your skin, staining it with red lipstick and worship. She remembers how your thighs tensed when her mouth met your chest, how you arched into her when she kised a mark just above your underwear.

It was you.

The girl she’d been obsessing over for months. The one she’d never thought she’d actually meet. The one she’s watched with her hand down her pants more times than she can count.

And now, she’s been inside you.

You shift on camera, effortlessly sensual, touching yourself in full view of a faceless audience, but all she sees is the way your back arched when you came on top of her. All she hears is the laugh you gave when you looked down at both of you, wrecked and messy, and told her you’d have to reschedule the third tattoo. The one on your mound.

And now it’s clear you haven’t yet because that space is still bare. But not for long. Because you are coming back. You said so with a kiss. You promised it with your smile.

She blinks at the screen like she’s trying to wake up from a dream, but her body moves on instinct. Her cock pulses in her grip, harder than it’s ever been. Manon moans aloud—deep and hoarse—as her hand tightens even more. She strokes herself faster, the ache turning sharp with knowing. You’re not just a camgirl behind a screen. You’re the girl who made her tremble. The one whose voice she could recognize blindfolded. The one who made her feel.

You’re right there on screen, fingers spreading your slick folds, speaking directly into the camera—but all she can hear is the way you gasped her name in real life. The way your body clenched around her. The way you laughed in her arms like you could stay.

Suddenly, it’s not about the fantasy anymore because as she’s watching you put on a show for everyone else, Manon knows that only she had the pleasure of the truth of that skin. Only she’s kissed it, bitten it, and branded it.

While the thousands watching only get pixels and illusions, Manon gets to remember how you felt when you kissed her slowly, her cum on your tongue. How your cunt milked her cock when you came.

Her hips jerk up from the couch, a groan slipping out sounding loud and broken. She’s cumming hard, cum spurting onto her stomach, her hand, the leather couch. She bites down on her own knuckle to muffle the noise, but it’s too much.

At this point, she doesn’t even care anymore. She keeps watching your livestream as she was panting, and all she can think about is this:

You’re coming back, and she has no fucking idea how she’s supposed to keep it together when you do. Especially now that she feels ruined.

It only gets worse when the stream ends, and she’s left staring at the afterimage of you—tattoos still glistening on your skin. A reminder burned into her; you were never just a fantasy and now she doesn’t know how to go back to pretending.

You shut the stream down with steady hands, heart still thumping under skin that glows with heat and intention.

You saw her name in the viewer list again. No tip this time, not even a chat, but she was there. You can always tell.

Manon doesn’t say much lately—hasn’t, ever since you walked into that studio and left with her mouth stamped across your chest, but her silence is heavier now, like she knows or is starting to spiral into that same dangerous place you’ve already dived headfirst into.

Because you did know right from the beginning. From the voice note she once sent through the site’s overpriced audio message feature—a slow, husky confession of how she’d ruin you on her tattoo chair, how she’d mark you in ways that had nothing to do with ink. You remembered that voice like a secret, kept it tucked between your thighs, and memorized it.

And when you stepped into her shop and she greeted you with that same voice? You knew.

Even before the glove came off, before she kissed your skin and smeared that lipstick over your chest like it was ritual, you knew exactly who she was.

Manon didn’t, and that was the difference.

You let her take you apart, let her whisper in your ear with the same voice that used to echo in the back of your skull after every private stream. You fucked her with the knowledge she didn’t have, and she gave you everything without realizing she’d already given too much.

Now you’re going back, just like you said you would. A few days from now, your appointment confirmed.

The third tattoo—the one you joked about, low and pretty while her cock was still inside you. The one she kissed before you left, her breath shaky, her lipstick smeared, her hands trembling like she didn’t want you to go.

You exhale slowly and stretch out on the bed, the high of the stream still tingling beneath your skin. You wonder what her hands will do this time. You wonder if she’ll know. If she’ll bring it up. If she’ll snap.

You kind of want her to, because it’s not a game anymore. It never really was.

You really want her to snap; that’s what you were thinking about the whole way there.

The walk to the shop; the sound of your heels against the pavement accompanied by the weight of your robe underneath your jacket—no bra and panties. Not for seduction, but for symmetry. You want her to see your skin bare when she marks it. You want her to see what she’s already ruined.

The shop bell rings low when you push the door open. She looks up from behind the desk, and everything in her stills. That’s when you instantly knew; she knows.

Her eyes flash with something sharp—confusion, disbelief, and hunger that curdles into something darker. Manon looks at you like you’re a ghost; like she’s about to be haunted.

You smile, just barely, “Still have time for me?”

Her voice comes out husked and low, “Yeah. Back room.”

The hallway feels quieter this time; the walls and air felt tighter. Manon doesn’t lead you with the same loose confidence she used to, her shoulders are coiled with tension, and she doesn’t look back. Not even once.

You sit on the same chair you fucked her in, and watch her pull on gloves like armor, eyes flicking away from you every chance they get; she’s avoiding it, avoiding you.

That’s fine. You wait until her hand touches your hip, bare skin underneath the robe, because you undressed for this, and that’s when you say it, softly and perhaps even lethally.

“You saw the stream.”

Manon freezes, the words slice straight through her. She doesn’t flinch, but her hand stiffens on your skin. She lifts her gaze slowly, as if dragging it up your body costs her. When her eyes meet yours, there’s something different in them now; perhaps it was shame, or maybe it was recognition. Like all the lines between real and imagined have finally collapsed into something she can’t ignore.

“I did,” she says quietly. Your head tilts, just slightly, like you’re waiting for more. But Manon doesn’t give it to you. She doesn’t know how to; her mouth feels dry and her pulse too loud.

Because yes, she saw it. Manon watched it from the couch in the dark, one hand wrapped around her cock, the other pressed to her chest. She came as she watched you touch yourself—she released from the way you looked at the camera and the sound of your voice. From the marks she left glowing on your skin.

And when you turned, knelt, and spread yourself open, she saw everything—except that final mark. The one you were supposed to come back for, and did.

She pulls the gloves off.

“Giving up already?” you tease, eyebrow arched.

“No,” Manon mutters, voice low, “Just—don’t need ‘em yet.”

Her palms are cold against the edge of the tray, and she grips it tight; anything to ground herself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Manon asks. You don’t even blink, “Would you have let me fuck you if I did?”

Silence. And then, like a knife, “You played me.”

You let out a small laugh, “And you didn’t?”

Manon stiffens.

“I knew your voice, Manon. Months ago. You moaned into my inbox for forty tokens.”

Her stomach turns, “That was—different,” she says, even though it sounds weak. Even though she knows it’s not true.

“Why?” you press, “Because I was a fantasy, and now I’m not?”

“No,” Manon’s voice drops even lower, “Because you’re worse.”

There’s a flicker of something in your smile; it was mean and knowing, “You liked it.”

And fuck—that’s the problem. She did.

Manon liked it too much; liked it enough to lose herself in it. Enough to forget the lines, to fall for a girl whose real name she never even knew.

Her eyes drop, Manon tries not to look at you, but she can’t help it. Your skin is bare, glowing even. You came here like this, for her.

Her cock twitches, unwanted and inevitable. You lean back, robe slipping from your shoulder, “So? Are you gonna do it?”

She breathes deep, moves to grab the lipstick and the cup of distilled water, but her hands are shaking.

“I’m still going to fuck you after this,” you murmur, eyes locked on her, “But this time, I want to hear you begging.”

Manon doesn’t respond, she just uncaps the red lipstick, rolls it out to the edge. Her reflection in the mirror looks like a woman she doesn’t recognize anymore.

She leans forward, just enough to press her lips to your skin. Manon adjusts the machine in her grip, thumb hovering over the power switch, but she hasn’t turned it on yet.

Because suddenly you’re fully naked. You’d dropped the robe just as she finished pressing her lips to your skin. It pooled at the floor like silk giving up.

And now, you’re reclining on her chair—back slightly arched shamelessly, thighs relaxed open, skin warm beneath the overhead light. You’re unapologetically wet and not trying to hide it one bit. The slick glistens faintly where your cunt kisses the leather.

She forces her eyes up to your face, where she’s met with that familiar smirk.

“You sure you want it here?” she asks, voice rough, “This low?”

You hum, “It’s the only place that makes sense.”

Manon bites the inside of her cheek hard. Her lip mark rests just above your mound. If it was moved just a little bit, she’d have to spread you open.

She tries to steady her breath as she dips the needle, lining the gun up to your skin. The hum of the machine fills the room.

But then, your voice cuts through, “I used to finger myself to your voice notes.”

The gun jerks in her hand, just slightly. Not enough to mar the mark, but enough to make her freeze. She looks up at you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, unbothered. Lazy with mischief, “For a while,” you continue, “nothing got me off. I couldn’t even get wet. I kept trying, but I’d just lie there, hand down my panties, bored.”

Manon says nothing; she can’t. Her heart is pounding so hard it deafens her.

“And then you started leaving messages. Telling me everything you’d do to me in that chair,” You glance around, “This chair.”

The tattoo machine is still vibrating in her hand, ink bubbling at the tip.

“I would cum so hard to your voice,” you murmur, “Over and over. I’d play it on loop. You talking about fucking me in your shop, telling me how you’d bend me, how I’d look with your cock in me.”

Manon swallows hard at your filthy words.

“I stared at that pic you sent,” you say. “The one where you were hard, leaking, fingers wrapped around your dick like you were mid-stroke. You’d just finished, hadn’t you? Came for me.”

Manon’s chest rises with a shaky inhale.

You smile, “That’s when I started getting wet again. Every time your username showed up in my viewer list, I got soaked. Had to imagine it was you, that it was you fucking me, not just strangers watching me get off behind a screen.”

The machine finally shuts off.

Her hand drops to her lap, trembling slightly. You haven’t moved. You’re still bare, still watching her like she’s the one on display.

“I didn’t come here to fuck you that day,” you tell her, “That wasn’t the plan.”

Manon’s throat is tight.

“I just wanted your mark permanently. I wanted it so I’d never forget the way you made me feel. How obsessed you were and how good it felt.”

Her jaw clenches.

“But you were the one who fingered me, Manon,” you say, voice soft but firm, “You ate me out like it was the only thing that mattered. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t the camgirl. That was you.”

Silence stretches between you; she can’t even look at you now.

Because she’s hard again. Desperately, stupidly hard. Her baggy jeans feel unbearably tight. Her briefs are sticky with pre-cum. And you’re lying there, completely bare, cunt wet, leaking against the seat she tattoos on like it’s nothing.

She turns the machine back on, if only to distract herself.

The needle meets your skin again. This time, slower. She has to focus harder to keep her hand from trembling. The buzz fills the air, but it can’t drown out your voice.

“Would you ever tattoo me on stream?”

Manon’s hand pauses, and you don’t even wait for her to answer.

“Like this,” you say, “Bare. Spread. Maybe on my inner thighs. So close it’d ache. So your voice gets shaky because you can see how soaked I am.”

Manon’s eyes flutter closed for a moment; she keeps going, keeping the line steady.

Your moan is soft, more breath than sound, “Mmh. You’re hard, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. You let the silence settle, before addressing her, “Can we take a break?”

Her hand stills.

You pout, just a little, “I’m getting shy.”

Manon raises an eyebrow, “Shy?”

“Well,” you say, gesturing down, “I’m naked. You’re not.”

Her brows lift slowly, “You want me to strip.”

“Fair’s fair,” you whisper.

Manon stares at you, her face unreadable, and stillness stretching too long.

Inside, she’s anything but still; her thoughts spiral, messy and uncontainable, already imagining what you’d sound like with her cock in your mouth again, if you’d choke on it or if you’d finally hold the reins and suck her dick in your own terms. She has to admit, she wants to ruin you, slowly. She wants to stretch you open and keep you full; to mark you inside and out. But she stands there, statue-still, letting none of it show.

She tells herself, Don’t fuck this up. But then again, she already did—didn’t she?

Then wordlessly, she sets the machine down. She peels her shirt off first. No grandeur of any kind, it was simply a quiet movement. Then the sports bra, damp at the band. Then her jeans. Then the briefs underneath, sticky with evidence of her arousal.

Her cock springs free, thick and red, already glistening with precum. It curves up against her abs, flushed and needy, framed by muscle and gold beads.

It’s humiliating how hard Manon is. Her balls ache and her stomach is sticky. She wants to thrust into something, anything—wants to bend you over her chair and fuck you so slow you cry from frustration. And yet she pretends to be calm. Pretends she’s not twitching every time you breathe. But you smile like you know. Of course you fucking know.

“Much better,” you murmur.

Manon picks the machine back up, and starts tattooing again.

You stay just as open, just as wet, thighs parted as she inks you. Her knuckles graze your skin with every pass. She doesn’t look at your cunt, but it’s there, dripping, teasing her peripheral vision, begging for her attention. Her cock hangs in the corner of your vision, begging for attention, leaking like it can’t take much more.

But Manon tattoos you like you’re holy, like she didn’t already fuck you senseless, and as if she’s trying not to cum just from the sight of you. Yet somehow, you’re the one trembling.

You watch her work; focused, steady, and dangerously composed. Her brows are drawn, lashes casting shadows against her cheekbones. Manon’s tongue presses to the inside of her cheek as she leans in to trace along the stencil she herself kissed into your skin. Her machine hums softly, low and rhythmic, like the purring threat of something feral barely held back.

Manon is barely holding it back, her jaw is tight from the clench of her teeth, because if she so much as looks up and sees your eyes again—if she looks down and sees the way you’re dripping for her—she might lose it. And she can’t afford that.

Her thick flushed cock bobs slightly with each precise movement, standing rigid against the toned plane of her abdomen. A clear bead of precum glistens at the tip before slipping down the shaft as it was also catching on the taut curve of her abs. Her waist beads don’t budge, stretched gently above the swell of her hips, framing the way her body moves with artful precision.

You stare. You feel. Every shift in the air, every vibration against your skin as she tattoos just above your mound. You laid there with your chest heaving, cunt shamelessly slick against the leather seat where your arousal has made a mess of you, heat pooling, soft folds glistening, and leaking as she works.

She doesn’t comment, doesn’t even let her eyes wander, but you don’t miss the strain in her jaw as well as the slight tremble in her bicep. The way her cock jumps when your breath hitches, when your thighs twitch involuntarily at a tender pass of the needle.

She’s throbbing; Manon can feel the pulse of it up her spine, her brain short-circuits, flashing with images of you riding her. Of pushing her cock into you raw, watching your body take every inch and beg for more.

You’re so close and so fucking bare, and she hasn’t even kissed you again.

And then, finally, she lifts the machine away.

Her body is stiff, and not just her cock. She wants to cum; has wanted to since the second you undressed. But more than that—she wants you to own her, not just to fuck or to finish.

She wants you to imprint yourself into her muscle and memory, until every orgasm she’ll ever have is because of you. Manon swallows it down and wipes her gloves clean.

You blink, dazed. Manon’s quiet, not looking at you, just methodically setting her tool aside, wiping excess ink away with practiced care. Her hand stills over her fresh mark and then she reaches for a small jar.

The ointment goes on in a smooth, clear layer. It’s cool at first, but her gloved fingers are warm and gentle. She spreads it slowly, her palm steady as she protects the skin she just claimed.

You flinch, not from pain but from the intimacy and silence. The way her touch feels too careful, after everything.

Manon doesn’t say anything right away. She screws the lid back onto the ointment jar, wipes her gloves on a towel, then begins to methodically dismantle her machine—unplugging, wiping, coiling cords. She still appears stoic, silent, but most importantly, naked.

“You knew the whole time,” she says, not looking at you. Her voice is steady, like she’s just making an observation, “You came here knowing exactly who I was.”

Her hand pauses briefly over the tray, then resumes.

“I never expected that to happen…” A small, humorless chuckle under her breath, “But what I never imagined is that you’d hide yourself from me.”

Her words sting. Not in the way she says them, but in the way they don’t ask for anything. She’s not begging for answers. She’s laying them down like tattoos—lines you can’t erase.

You sit up slowly, legs still parted, skin still warm from her touch. The room’s too quiet, too charged, and somehow too tender.

“Is it done?” you ask, voice barely above a murmur.

“Yeah,” Manon says, without turning around.

A beat passes.

“You’re still hard.”

Another.

“You’re still wet.”

That finally draws her back to you, her eyes meeting yours—red-ringed and low-lidded. Her jaw is tight while her cock still leaks against her stomach, thick and flushed and aching.

And even now, she doesn’t move; she just watches you, eyes flicking between your face and your thighs, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your ruin.

You shift, slowly from where you’re laid open on the tattoo chair, you push yourself upright, legs drawing together, before swinging them to the side—bare thighs brushing against leather, feet not quite touching the floor.

Manon watches you, unmoving. You reach for her wrist.

She doesn’t resist when you grab her hand and pull—hard—dragging her close, between your parted legs. Your grip is tight. Her body jolts forward with the motion, chest brushing your knees. Her cock presses against your skin, hot and slick, leaving a streak of precum against it.

Your eyes are dark on hers; they looked unreadable, unsatisfied even. Then you drop your gaze and grab her cock.

She exhales sharply through her nose, jaw clenching, but she still doesn’t stop you.

You lick a slow and steady line from the base of her balls up to her leaking tip, tasting her for the first time today—salty, bitter, already warm from how long she’s been dripping for you. You feel her twitch against your tongue.

Without wasting anymore time, you suck her in. Not teasingly; you take her whole.

Her hips stutter as the head of her cock hits the back of your throat. Your nose presses into the gold beads kissing her pelvis. Her thighs go rigid under your hands.

Still, she doesn’t move—doesn’t thrust into your mouth, but her hand flies to your head. It’s not there to guide, not to fuck—just to keep you there. Her palm spreads over your scalp, long fingers curling through your hair like she’s anchoring herself, like she might cum if she lets go.

You hold her in your throat, breathing through your nose. You feel her pulse against your tongue, her cock is thick and heavy, stretching you wide, but your moan is feral.

You pull back slowly, lips dragging, spit catching, until only her flushed tip is between your lips—connected by a thread of saliva and precum that breaks when you inhale and take her again.

You bob your head now, rhythm building, not for her pleasure but for yours. You like the weight of her; the tension she holds. How she doesn’t dare speak and lets you set the pace. You chase the sensation, and every time she twitches, every time her thighs tense or her breath catches in a stuttered grunt, it makes you wetter.

You want to ruin her, and Manon lets you. She can’t even take her eyes off you.

The way your mouth moves. The shape of your lips stretched wide, tongue greedy, spit coating her length as you take her deeper, again and again.

Your throat clenches around her, and fuck, it’s so good she jerks forward without meaning to. A shallow thrust, her hips twitching from instinct, the need to feel more of your warmth, your wetness, and your ruin.

Manon swears under her breath, eyes fluttering shut, as she tries to still herself. But you moan again, that sound, and her control cracks all over again.

Another thrust, then another, and you don’t flinch. You take her like you were made for it, like you want her to lose control. You’re too good at this and it’s driving her mad.

Manon is soaked in heat, beads of sweat dripping down the hard lines of her abs, catching in the string of beads hugging her waist. Her cock is flushed, slick, too close. Every time her balls hit your chin, she feels her release coil at the base of her spine. She doesn’t want to waste it.

So she pulls out, a ragged breath leaves her. Manon looks at you, curls messy, mouth red and spit-slick, a string of precum and saliva connecting your lips to her tip.

She needs to move.

Wordlessly, she grabs you by the waist and lifts—pulling you off the tattoo chair and toward the leather couch in the corner. The one she always collapses onto Thursday nights after closing. The one she’s ruined with fantasies of you. The one she’s imagined this exact moment on, over and over, until her knuckles were white and her thighs shook.

She doesn’t speak, simply positioning you with a silent urgency. You end up laid back along the cushion, legs hooked over the backrest, head hanging just off the edge of the couch—exposed, upside-down, waiting.

Manon stands in front of you, her cock hovers over your lips, thick and twitching, and finally, she pushes in.

She groaned loudly, it sounded nothing short of real and deep in her chest—because the angle is perfect. She can see everything. She can feel everything. Your throat clenches around her cock just right, and her balls slap rhythmically against your face with every thrust.

Manon braces one hand against the couch. The other grips your jaw, firm but not cruel, just grounding herself.

She fucks your mouth in slow and steady thrusts, long and deep, her eyes glued to the sight of her cock disappearing into your throat, again and again, watching your lips wrap tight around her base.

She’s getting closer and closer to her release but she needs more of you, so Manon pulls out, panting, tip flushed purple and twitching. Precum drips from her cock onto your neck.

She drops to her knees.

Gently, she guides your legs off the backrest, repositioning you so you’re sitting upright on the couch now, your thighs parted. She doesn’t say a word. Just leans in—pressing kisses to your inner thigh, soft at first, as if she’s worshipping your body.

Then her mouth is on your cunt, and she moans as soon as she tastes you. And you—god—you react like you’ve been waiting for this, like this is what it was all building toward.

You grab her by the hair and pull, not guiding—demanding. You roll your hips, grinding against her tongue, fucking her face like she did your throat.

Manon lets you use her for your pleasure. Her hands grip your thighs, anchoring you to her mouth, her tongue licking deep, her nose buried against your clit. She doesn’t fight the pressure and doesn’t resist when you thrust against her, again and again.

You use her solely for yourself and she lets you do whatever the fuck you wanted willingly.

Because she’s been dreaming of this, needing this, since the first time she saw you move on camera, low-res and filtered in blue light, untouchable. But now you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re wet on her tongue and holding her head like you’ll die if she stops.

And Manon, who's famous for being aloof, distant, impossible to shake, fell to her knees and let you ride her mouth like she was made for it.

Because maybe she was.

You moan as you move against Manon’s mouth and she doesn’t stop devouring you. Her tongue relentless, lips soaked, her face buried between your thighs like she needs you to breathe. Her nose nudges your clit with every stroke of her tongue, and the taste of you, raw and slick and overwhelming, has her groaning against your cunt like you’re the only thing that’s ever made her feel real.

You’re grinding against her mouth hard, hips twitching, trying to pull away, too sensitive, but Manon won’t let you. Her hands hook under your thighs, pinning you open, dragging you closer until she’s drowning in it, until her whole face is coated in your release.

When you finally cum, it’s loud and sudden. A sharp cry pierces through the rather quiet room aside from the lapping sounds of Manon’s tongue, your body shudders beneath her.

And she takes it, letting your cum spill onto her tongue, her chin, her flushed cheeks. You gasp for breath, legs trembling, body limp, but she doesn’t move.

Manon just leans in and kisses your thighs, slow now, almost gentle. She licks the slick off her lips like it’s honey. Then she leaves marks—soft, blooming hickeys pressed into your inner thigh, one after the other, like a quiet promise.

When she finally pulls back, her mouth is red and shiny, her eyes almost gone with lust. Manon wipes her face on the back of her hand and leans in closer, resting her forehead against yours.

“You okay?” she murmurs, voice hoarse, low. You nod in response, then wordlessly, you pull her in.

She doesn’t even hesitate.

Manon lifts your hips with practiced ease, settling between your legs, one hand braced on the couch cushion, the other stroking down your side—carefully avoiding the fresh tattoo, even now, even as her cock rubs against your soaked folds.

She lines herself up, her tip teases your entrance, wet and ready and still twitching from earlier. She looks down at you, “You ready for me?” Manon whispers.

You grab her ass, pulling her in. The first thrust knocks the breath out of both of you.

Manon sinks in slowly, inch by inch, fighting every urge to slam, to take, to lose herself. She watches your face as she bottoms out, her abs tight, her breath ragged.

You moan, eyes fluttering shut, and just then, Manon loses it. Her hips started to move, her pace wasn’t reckless but her thrusts were deep. Every stroke is angled just right, and you meet her thrust for thrust, your hips snapping up to meet hers, each collision raw and wet and loud.

Manon’s hands grip your waist tight, but not tight enough to hurt. She’s careful, always—never once brushing your tattoo, like some part of her is still mindful even when she’s fucking you this hard.

And then she starts talking; it was low at first—words pressed against your throat, your cheek, your collarbone between kisses.

“I think about you every week,” A thrust.

“Every time you go live, I have to close the shop early,” Another thrust—deeper.

“I’ve cum on this couch more times than I can count thinking about you.”

You whimper at her words, urging her to keep going, “And now you’re here—taking me like this.”

Her voice cracks a little; she sounds gone.

“Fuck—you don’t fake it. You never perform for them. I see it. That’s why I can’t stop watching. That’s why I wanted you,” you clench around her, moaning her name.

“You take what you want,” she breathes, speeding up, “You look at me like you already know I’m yours.”

Manon’s fingers trail down to circle your clit, rubbing tight little circles in time with her thrusts. Her cock is hitting deep, hard, but not careless.

“I want you to cum again,” Manon growls, “I want to feel you lose it on my cock. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You nod, broken and breathless. Your hips buck up again, chasing the rhythm.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, kissing your jaw, your throat, the corner of your mouth, “Take it—just like that. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

She feels you clench around her again and groans, hips stuttering.

“Cum for me.”

And just as she said it, you do.

Manon feels your cunt flutter around her, sucking her cock in, still trembling from your orgasm—and you’re not even down from it yet when you start begging.

“Please,” you pant, “Inside, Manon—please, I want it—want you to cum inside me, don’t pull out, don’t—”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide, struck dumb for a moment.

You weren’t saying it to please her. You weren’t begging for the effect of it. You meant it; you wanted it, wanted her, wanted the mess and the stretch and the heat of her.

Your hands claw at her back, dragging her down, and you kiss her like you’re about to swallow her whole. Open-mouthed and desperate, your hips still moving, grinding into her cock as she stays buried deep, barely able to keep her rhythm together.

Manon moans into your mouth, choked and shaky. Her whole body’s trembling, “Fuck,” she gasps, nose brushing yours, her breath hot against your cheek, “You want that?”

“Yes,” you groan, “want to feel it, feel you—all of it. Want it inside, Manon—please—”

“Shit—baby—”

Manon loses it.

Her rhythm falters, but her hips don’t stop. She’s thrusting harder now, rougher, her pelvis grinding into your clit every time she drives forward. She watches your face twist with pleasure, and it just breaks her.

Her voice is hoarse, fucked-out, “Gonna fill you up,” Manon pants, “Gonna make you feel everything—I want it so deep you taste it in your throat—fuck—”

You cry out, clawing at her ass to pull her even closer, “Do it—Manon, please—”

Just then she’s cumming hard. She slams in and stays there, hips jerking in tiny spasms as she shoots inside you, pulsing deep within your cunt, her cock twitching as she empties herself with a broken moan.

But she doesn’t stop; even while cumming, she keeps thrusting, fucking her cum into you, like she’s trying to make sure none of it leaks out, her pelvis grinding, dragging more slick sounds from your soaked core.

Manon’s cum is dripping, but she just pushes deeper.

You gasp, grabbing her face, pulling her into a sloppy, feral kiss, all open mouths and wet tongues. Her moans spill into you, hot and helpless, your lips slipping, teeth clashing, breath tangled between whimpers.

“More,” you whisper between kisses, “Don’t stop—more—”

Manon groans, drunk on it, on you, on the way your body won’t let her go.

You’re still moving under her, matching her desperate rhythm with your own, obsessed. Like you want to crawl inside her skin and stay there—like this is the only way you’ll ever feel right again.

Manon cups the back of your head and stays inside, every inch, hips still rolling, deep and slow now, working her cum into you like a promise.

“Fuck,” she whispers, forehead to yours, “I could do this forever.”

You smile—wrecked and breathless, “Then do it.”

And she does; not just in sex.

It’s quiet, finally, except for the sound of your breathing.

Manon’s still inside you, but she’s not moving anymore, she’s just holding you close, your legs cradled around her waist, your chest against hers. Her forehead rests against your collarbone, her curls damp with sweat and sticking to her cheeks.

Your hand is in her hair, fingertips gently scratching at her scalp like you’re trying to soothe her and yourself at the same time.

Neither of you say anything yet, but at the same time, there’s no need. Not when the air still feels charged and your bodies are so completely tangled it’s impossible to know where one ends and the other begins.

And yet—when she finally does move, it’s to pull out carefully, her hands sliding down to hold your thighs as she presses a lingering kiss to your inner knee, then another just above the inked skin. She doesn’t speak yet, only disappears for a moment to clean you up, warm towel in hand, gentle like you’re made of glass.

When she returns, you’ve pulled your robe halfway on but you haven’t wrapped it around you yet. She drops the towel to the side and sinks to her knees in front of you.

And Manon stays there naked, sweaty, spent, and most importantly, worshipful.

Your legs spread naturally for her, one draped over her shoulder now, just to keep her close. Her hands find your waist like they were meant to live there.

“I always watch you on Thursdays,” Manon murmurs, voice raw but soft, “After my appointments. Right here.”

You don’t tease; you just nod once, like you already knew.

Her thumb draws a slow line over your stomach, where the warmth of her release still lingers inside you. Her voice falters for a second, but then steadies.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she says, “Not like this. I was obsessed, and I didn’t know what I was going to do when I found out who you were. But then you showed up in real life, and you were… more. So much more. And I couldn’t just stay away.”

You say nothing, you simply reach forward, cradling her jaw like she’s something delicate. Manon leans into your touch.

“I didn’t want to be just another one of them,” Manon admits, “Another client. Another viewer. I didn’t want you to think I was just… jerking off to the fantasy, because I wasn’t. I mean—I was. But that’s not what kept me coming back.”

You slowly flash her a gentle smile, “What was it, then?”

Manon laughs softly, embarrassed. Her head dips, “You,” she says simply, “The way you don’t fake it. The way you take what you want. How you move like you don’t care who’s watching—but you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re not afraid of being seen. I guess I… I loved that. I love that.”

Your fingers curl into her curls again, “You love me?” you ask.

Her eyes lift to yours—so unguarded now, nothing like the cocky, collected tattoo artist from earlier; just Manon, just yours.

“I do.”

There wasn't any fanfare nor fireworks, it was just that soft, steady honesty that lands deep in your chest and anchors something inside you.

And then your voice, just as sure, “Then choose me.”

“I already did.”

You lean in, kiss her, slow this time. A kiss made of yeses. Her arms wrap around your waist as she pulls herself up onto the couch beside you, your legs still tangled, and you lie like that for a while—two bodies, one rhythm.

Without wearing any masks, not performing for a show; but settling only with the truth.

Eventually, she pulls the throw blanket over your bodies. You’re still naked, still a mess, but neither of you care.

Her fingers trail absentmindedly over your stomach.

“So,” you whisper, “Thursday nights?”

She groans, “Don’t start,” but she’s grinning against your skin. And in her eyes, there’s no shame—no signs of pretending. Just a future that will be shared by the two of you.

You don’t know where both of you are headed, but you know this, you’re not letting go and neither is she.

Forever starts quietly, sometimes.

Just like this.

733 notes · View notes

katzzeye · 7 days ago

Text

I LOVEEEE I LOVEEEE I LOVEEEEEEEE

Right person, wrong moment

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

Summary: During Dream Academy, you, a member of the Venyx group, meet the Dream Academy girls and one catches your eye. But what if this is just not the right moment?

Author's note: 2.5K words, this is my first story ever, and english is not my first language, but I am so obsessed with KATSEYE, I had to try it. Also, I do not speak korean so i used a translator

The moment you step into the room, you feel every pair of eyes turn toward you.

The Dream Academy trainees are already seated on the floor—some cross-legged, some hugging their knees, whispering softly to one another. Son and the rest of the staff stand nearby, calm but observant. There’s a quiet buzz in the air, the kind that lives right between nerves and curiosity.

Missy claps her hands once, and the room hushes instantly.

“Alright girls,” she says. “Before we begin today, we have some guests joining us for a few days.”

You stand between Rina and Sena, your hands tucked behind your back, trying to breathe evenly.

“This is VENYX,” Missy continues, with that cool, professional smile. “They’ll be training here temporarily while working on a few tracks for an upcoming K-pop animation movie.”

A few of the Dream Academy girls exchange glances. One of them, you think it’s Adela, whispers something to her neighbor. Another girl with pink-dyed hair raises her eyebrows slightly.

Rina offers a short wave. Sena throws up a peace sign with her usual over-the-top flair.

You just bow politely, trying to stay composed.

And then—

"unnie?” The word is soft, but unmistakable.

You glance up.

Yoonchae is already rising to her feet, her expression full of disbelief and joy.

Your heart jumps, and you don’t think, you just move.

Crossing the room, you wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, not even caring that every trainee and staff member is watching. Her arms fold around you just as quickly, as if her body had been waiting for this moment too.

A few quiet gasps ripple through the room. Someone whispers, “They know each other?” Daniela is leaning forward slightly, eyebrows lifted.

You pull back just a little and smile at Yoonchae. “잘 지냈어?” (Have you been doing well?)

She nods, her eyes glowing. “진짜 신기해… 여기서 만날 줄 몰랐어.” (This is so crazy… I didn’t think we’d meet here.)

“나도.” You laugh gently. (Me neither.)

You turn to bow respectfully toward Son, who’s now watching with a quiet smile and arms crossed.

“VENYX 노래 너무 기대하고 있어요,” he says. (I’m really looking forward to your songs.)

“감사합니다, 최선을 다할게요,” you reply. (Thank you, we’ll do our best.)

The next few days blur together in a montage of sweat, lyrics, and aching muscles—early vocal warmups, group harmonizing drills, tight choreography that had to feel fluid without losing its sharp edge. It was exhausting, but the kind of exhausting that made your veins feel electric.

And then came the day you remember clearest.

The day they watched.

You were halfway through running your second chorus when you turned toward the side mirror to check your spacing with Rina, and your eyes caught something else entirely.

Just behind the glass wall of the practice room, barely a meter away, you saw them.

Some of the Dream Academy girls. Sitting cross-legged or kneeling, faces pressed close to the transparent barrier like kids watching animals at the zoo. You recognized Sophia, Manon, and Yoonchae immediately. Daniela was there too, arms loosely around her knees, eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

You swallowed and nodded subtly toward the side.

Rina followed your gaze first. Then Sena. They both smiled, and you lifted your hand to give the girls a small wave. A couple of them waved back, wide-eyed.

During the next break, you walked up to Missy, who had been watching from her clipboard in the corner.

“Do you think some of the girls could come sit in… like actually sit inside? Just one session. I think they’re curious.”

Missy tilted her head. “They’re not here to study you.”

“I know,” you said. “But they’re in the middle of forming a group. This is real training. Maybe it’ll help them see how it works when things are further along.”

She didn’t smile, exactly. But she looked thoughtful. After a moment, she nodded.

“One session. Quiet. No phones. No questions.”

A few minutes later, the door opened, and a soft shuffle of feet followed. All the Dream Academy trainees walked in, and settled against the back wall on the floor, whispering softly to each other.

You tried to stay focused, but it was like performing with cameras rolling. Your mind wanted to lock into every tiny shift, every eye, every movement behind you.

You sang the bridge, stretching your vocals just a little more than usual. When the hook came, you and Rina moved with sharper precision, syncing steps like muscle memory had kicked into overdrive.

And when you turned around mid-combo, your gaze snagged again—Daniela.

She wasn’t whispering like the others. She wasn’t even blinking much. Her brows were pulled together in concentration, the way people look when they’re decoding something.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying you.

Son eventually stepped forward with some notes, motioning with his pen as he spoke.

“첫 번째 프리 코러스에는 보컬적으로 더 많은 리프트가 필요합니다. 고음으로 미끄러지지 말고 깔끔하게 가세요. 긴장하지 말고. 가볍게 생각하세요." (The first pre-chorus needs more lift vocally. Don’t slide into the high notes, go there clean. No tension. Think light.)

You all nodded.

As the second verse started, you noticed Daniela lean forward slightly. Yoonchae nudged her shoulder, whispering something that made Daniela smile for a moment, just a flicker, but then her eyes were back on you.

You didn’t mean to look as much as you did. But somehow your gaze always found her.

She wasn’t trying to impress. She wasn’t trying to hide.

She was just present.

And maybe, in some quiet way, you liked that.

A few days before Mission 2, rehearsal had run later than expected. Your body was still warm from dancing, your hair damp at the nape from hours under the studio lights.

You wandered through the quiet hallways, water bottle in hand, looking for Yoonchae. Most of the building had gone dim, shadows stretching long under the fluorescent emergency lights. A faint beat echoed from the end of the corridor, gentle and steady.

You followed it.

Pushing open a side room door, you stepped into the soft music, you recognised the beat of 'fearless'.

But the room was empty.

Until a voice pulled you from the silence. “Looking for someone?”

You turned.

Daniela stood by the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, her hair slightly tousled, lips curved in a tired smile.

“Yoonchae,” you said, smiling. “I thought she might be here.”

“She’s in the dorms, I think,” Daniela replied, walking into the room. She glanced at you sideways. “Do you speak Korean?”

“Yeah, fluently.”

Her face lit up just slightly, a spark of relief crossing her expression. “Perfect. UA’s struggling with a translation, like, badly. Can you help real quick? They called her out for it, and we are trying to help but it is really hard”

You chuckled. “I’ve definitely been there.”

Daniela led you through the halls to another practice room, where UA, Celeste, and Ezrela were going over choreography. UA was visibly stressed, hands on her hips, trying to mimic a move Ezrela had shown but getting tangled in her own timing. (I know UA is not Korean, but I wanted to use this in the story, but I found out too late, but I still left it in)

You stepped in gently. “Hi,” you said softly in Korean, “괜찮아, 내가 도와줄게.” (It’s okay, I’ll help you.)

UA blinked up at you, wide-eyed.

You walked over and gently took her arms, adjusting their angle. “Lift here, no tension in the wrists,” you said, switching smoothly between Korean and English. “Now pivot. Shoulders loose.”

As she tried again, you nodded and clapped. “There it is!”

Manon let out a small cheer. Celeste beamed. The whole room softened, laughter spilling over as UA grumbled playfully, “You make it look easy.”

You stayed for another 30 minutes or so, translating quick notes, correcting footwork, laughing when they teased each other mid-move. It was warm, that space. A kind of quiet sisterhood. Daniela leaned against the mirror, watching.

When they wrapped up, Daniela walked over and nodded toward the elevator. “Come with me?”

You raised a brow. “Where?”

“Dorms.”

You followed.

The second Daniela opened the dorm door, chaos erupted.

“OH MY GOD IT’S HER—” “DID YOU SEE HER IN THE CHOREO ROOM??” “WAIT, IS SHE COMING IN??” “UNNIEEEE!!”

You were pulled inside with zero resistance, half-laughing as some girls were talking over each other. Yoonchae rushed over, throwing her arms around you.

“언니! 왜 이제 왔어?” (Unnie! Why’d you only come now?)

You smiled, ruffling her hair. “연습 늦게 끝났어.” (Practice ended late.)

“밥 같이 먹자!” (Let’s eat together!)

You lowered your voice. “다 같이 갈까? 아니면 그냥 우리 셋이?” (Should we invite the others too, or just us?)

She looked around, then leaned in. “Ask them.”

You turned toward the crowd. “Hey,” you called out in English, smiling, “anyone want to grab dinner with me and Yoonchae?”

The explosion of “YES!” nearly knocked the walls down.

Dinner ended up being a casual spot, rice bowls and cold noodles. You sat between Yoonchae and Daniela, your legs tired but your heart buzzing.

Halfway through, Daniela turned toward you, chopsticks pausing in her hand. “So,” she said, “how do you know her?”

You glanced at Yoonchae. “We met at a training workshop a while ago. Before Dream Academy even started. I got scouted through a showcase and took Korean lessons while prepping. We took lessons together.”

“She was so bad at pronunciation back then,” Yoonchae teased.

Daniela smiled. “I’m impressed. That’s dedication.”

You shrugged. “I figured if I was going to sing in the language, I should understand it too.”

The conversation kept flowing, and you noticed how Daniela leaned in a little when you spoke. How her laugh felt real. How the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with spicy noodles.

You were sitting on the floor of the training hallway, back leaned against the cool wall, scrolling through your phone with a half-finished protein bar in your lap. Around you, the muffled sounds of music echoed from the rehearsal rooms, trainers shouting occasional corrections. The air smelled like fabric softener, floor polish, and sweat.

Rina plopped down beside you, stretching her legs with a groan and sipping from her water bottle. She glanced at your phone, then at your face.

“You liiiike her.”

You frowned. “What? Who?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, nudging your shoulder. “Daniela. You’ve had heart-eyes for her since the first warm-up.”

“I have not.”

Sena walked by, towel draped over her neck, catching just enough of the conversation to smirk. “Ask her out already. You’re both ridiculously obvious.”

Before you could come up with a snarky reply, the door to one of the adjacent training rooms opened.

Laughter spilled out, followed by a cluster of the Dream Academy girls stepping into the hallway. Daniela was among them, flushed from practice, her ponytail loose and bouncing as she walked.

She noticed you, and her smile faltered, just for a second, but then softened. She gave you a little wave, brushing some hair behind her ear.

You waved back, biting the inside of your cheek.

Rina raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Mhmm. That’s what I thought.”

You pushed her lightly, but your eyes didn’t leave Daniela until the group disappeared down the hall.

The next day, your group sat behind the glass of the rehearsal room, watching the Dream Academy girls perform their Mission 2 practice run.

Your eyes were supposed to be on everyone. You were supposed to be taking notes, learning from how they handled their camera presence.

But your gaze kept returning to her.

Daniela was standing slightly off-center, hitting every move with controlled energy. Her expression shifted effortlessly from fierce to soft with the beat. She wasn’t just dancing, she was performing.

“You’re staring,” Sena whispered beside you, nudging your arm.

“Am not.”

“You are. Again.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you, still beating a little faster each time Daniela smiled during the choreography.

When practice wrapped up, the girls filtered out, heading to change or grab snacks. You lingered, hanging by the water dispenser.

Daniela passed by, hair tied up messily, cheeks flushed from rehearsal.

“Nice job today,” you said casually, offering her your water bottle cap to help twist hers open.

“Thanks,” she said with a breathless smile, “you guys watching from behind the glass made me so nervous.”

“You couldn’t tell,” you said. “You were… amazing.”

A pause stretched between you.

And then, without overthinking it, you asked, “Would you maybe… want to go out sometime? Just us?”

Daniela froze, not with fear, not rejection. Just something softer. Conflicted.