ones-g

[ones-g]

sisterhood. —————— katseye.

They’re not just a group. They’re not just a team. They’re something softer. They’re something stronger. They’re sisters.

It’s late. After a week of days that bled into each other — alarms going off in the dark, voices calling from down the hall, cameras, choreography, the inside of vans and dressing rooms — there’s nothing left to say.

The dorm living room feels like it’s suspended between waking and sleep. Dim except for the kitchen’s light spilling across the carpet like honey.

A half‑finished blanket fort droops in the corner, the pillow wall already caving in. The air is warm, holding faint traces of shampoo, vanilla lotion, and the lingering scent of takeout cartons cooling on the table.

They’re here, all of them, collapsed into a tangled sculpture of limbs and blankets across couch and floor. Legs draped over laps. A head against a shoulder. Hair brushing across someone’s cheek, brushed away without a word. The weight of each other — that quiet, grounding presence — keeps them from drifting apart.

It’s quiet, not because anyone’s asleep, but because breaking it feels wrong. This is the first moment all week where the world isn’t pulling them in every direction.

Call times and choreography don’t exist here. Cameras don’t exist here. Just the slow, shared rhythm of breath.

No one moves.

Manon.

She’s curled into the far end of the couch, small, folded, instinctively trying not to take up more space than she’s sure she’s allowed. Her head rests on what she thought was a pillow but turns out to be someone’s arm. She doesn’t shift. She doesn’t apologize — though the urge flickers through her like it always does — because her bones are too heavy tonight. If they mind, they’ll move, but they don’t.

Her eyes droop half‑shut, catching the kitchen light in lazy blinks. Her body is wrecked with exhaustion, but her mind is still running, looping the last performance over and over. Every small imperfection glows in her head — the slightly misplaced footstep in the second chorus, the breath that caught where it shouldn’t have, the one moment she forgot to tilt her head toward the camera. Things no one else would notice. But she noticed. She always notices.

They’d tell her she’s being too hard on herself. That she was perfect. And maybe they’d mean it. But there’s a voice inside her that doesn’t believe them. A stubborn, whispering thing: You just got lucky this time. You’re not as good as they think you are.

She hates that voice. But it’s hard to turn down the volume. Tonight she lets it hum like static in the background — until something interrupts it.

Fingers. A warm, sleepy hand brushing against hers, clumsy in its aim, before curling into her palm. Not deliberate. Not careful. Just instinct — like the body beside her knows she’s here and doesn’t want to let her drift away.

It shouldn’t matter as much as it does. But her throat tightens in that good way, the way it does when the crowd sings back to her, or when someone says they’re proud and really means it.

The voice inside her goes quiet, just for a moment.

Maybe they wouldn’t hold my hand if I didn’t belong here.

Her shoulders loosen. Her breathing slows. She closes her eyes and, for once, doesn’t think about the performance, or the next one. She just stays.

Manon’s fingers stay tangled with the other hand.

Across the couch, Lara lies flat on her back, one arm draped over her eyes. The blanket over her smells faintly of laundry detergent and someone else’s perfume. Somewhere under it is her phone, buried deep when they first collapsed here. She could reach for it if she wanted to. She doesn’t want to.

She knows what waits there: comments, critiques, strangers talking about her like they know her. Some harmless, some not, all heavier than she’ll admit.

It’s not the worst ones that get under her skin — it’s the casual ones. The offhand remarks tossed out by people who will never think of them again, even as Lara carries them for days. Weeks.

Here, there’s no scrolling. No performance. Just the faint rise and fall of the others’ breathing. She shifts her arm from her eyes, stares at the ceiling.

Without meaning to, her breathing falls in sync with everyone else’s. One inhale. One longer exhale. The whole room in the same tide.

This is what’s real. Not the noise. Not the strangers. Not the pull of the outside world. Just this room. These people who’ve seen her messy‑haired, barely awake, eyeliner smudged — and stayed.

Her chest loosens. Her hand falls open on the couch cushion, palm up, a quiet invitation. She doesn’t care if anyone takes it.

Nearby, Yoonchae is sprawled in a way that would be uncomfortable if she were with anyone else. Her legs drape over two laps, one ankle hooked loosely around an arm. Her head rests on the armrest, turned just enough so her hair spills toward the floor, brushing the carpet.

She’s not asleep. Too aware of the warm pressure beneath her, the steady weight of the blanket over her knees, the muffled rustle whenever someone shifts. Somewhere in the back of her mind, that familiar worry creeps in again — the one she never voices.

The fear that she’s disappearing.

It doesn’t come on stage, where every move is lit up and tracked by a dozen cameras. It waits until the lights cut, the makeup comes off, the crowd fades away.

When she scrolls through fan photos and barely finds herself in the crowd shots. When cheers for others ring louder than for her. When her parts get talked over, or when she’s quiet enough in a group to be forgotten altogether.

It’s not jealousy — she loves them all fiercely. But it’s the ache of wondering if she’s fading into the background. If one day, no one will see her at all.

But here… here none of that matters.

No one asks her to be louder or fight for space in the frame. She doesn’t have to angle her shoulders toward a camera or make sure her laugh is picked up. Here, her legs are tangled with theirs and they haven’t moved her away. Her hand rests casually on someone’s knee — and it stays there. Half-buried under blankets, yet entirely visible.

She shifts enough to glimpse Manon, curled at the far end of the couch, still holding that sleep-softened hand. Lara stares at the ceiling, eyes soft in the half-light. Here, in this quiet heap of limbs and warmth, she knows she doesn’t have to earn her place. She already has it.

Sophia is half-asleep, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but her mind keeps racing. Tomorrow’s schedule loops endlessly — rehearsal blocks, fittings, interviews, travel — piling up until her chest aches in that familiar way.

She’s used to carrying so much. Maybe too much. She tells herself she’s strong, organized, responsible. But the cost weighs deep. She’s almost forgotten what it feels like to set it down.

Then, a small shift beside her. The gentle, trusting weight of someone’s head resting on her shoulder. Barely there, but enough to pull her from the loop. The warmth grounds her, anchoring her in the now. Her chest eases. She doesn’t have to think about what’s next. She just has to be here.

She leans her head lightly against theirs. For a few moments, she carries nothing at all.

Megan’s eyes are closed, but her thoughts have drifted far from the dim dorm room. They’ve wandered homeward — to her family’s voices echoing from the kitchen, the uneven creak of familiar stairs, the smell of her mother’s cooking filling the house before dinner.

The ache of homesickness is sharp tonight, sharper than she wants to admit. She misses the ease of familiarity, the unspoken comfort of being known since childhood. The thought presses into her chest until she opens her eyes.

She sees it then: the slow, steady rise and fall of others’ breathing. A blanket slipping off a shoulder. A half-hidden smile on a sleeping face. Nearby, someone hums softly, the tune barely audible but weaving itself around the quiet like a thread.

And she realizes — this is also home. Not the one she grew up in, but the one she’s built here. The one she’s lying in the middle of now, surrounded by those who’ve seen her highest and lowest, and still love her.

Her heart aches differently now — softer, steadier. She closes her eyes again, not to dream elsewhere, but to sink deeper into this.

Daniela is stretched out on the floor, one arm tucked under her head, the other draped across her stomach. She’s always been the quiet caretaker — the one who notices when someone’s cup is empty, when a jacket should be draped over someone’s shoulders, when a mood in the room dips just low enough to need lifting. She’s the one who asks softly if they’re okay, who stays behind to tidy up without being asked.

But tonight, she’s not watching out for anyone. Tonight, she’s letting herself be the one taken care of.

Fingers run lazily through her hair, slow and gentle, the way you might soothe a child without thinking. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow, and she can feel the knots in her shoulders loosening one by one.

It’s rare for her to let herself just… receive. But she thinks maybe she should do it more often. It feels nice, this quiet reminder that she doesn’t have to always be the one holding everyone else together.

She sinks further into the carpet, further into the touch, and lets herself believe — for tonight — that it’s okay to need.

eyes slip shut, and the room begins to blur — the dim light, the weight of bodies tangled together, the low hum of someone’s breathing. And just like that, the stillness starts to crack open, spilling into color and noise.

Laughter.

Not the polite kind, but the loud, uncontainable kind that makes your stomach ache. Somehow, all the girls remember it at once. They can all see it — all of them jammed into a single practice room on that one night when nothing was going right.

The choreography was a mess, everyone kept missing cues, and then Sophia tripped over her own foot and took half the group down with her like dominoes.

They remember Lara on the floor clutching her side, wheezing, “We are so fucked,” while Dani tried to fix her ponytail and couldn’t stop giggling long enough to tie the elastic. Sophia was leaning against the wall, face buried in her hoodie, but her shoulders were shaking from how hard she was laughing. It wasn’t perfect — it wasn’t even good — but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

And then — the first performance.

The memory drops in sharp and bright. The stage lights so hot the girls’ skin couldve melted, the roar of the crowd vibrating in their bones.

Backstage, their hands had been shaking so hard they thought they might drop their mic. Manon squeezed Megans fingers — just once — and she remembers thinking, okay. I can do this.

When the music started, something in them shifted. The nerves melted into adrenaline, every beat syncing with their pulse.

By the final pose, they were all breathing like theyd run a marathon — and smiling so wide it hurt.

But maybe the biggest memory isn’t a performance at all. Maybe it came months before.

When their names were called.

The Dream Academy announcement plays back in their head like it’s happening all over again. They could all remember the cold bite of the air on their face outside the venue.

The way their hearts thudded in their throat as the names were read, one after another. Dani didn’t even process her own name — not until she heard the screams, felt arms slam around her from every direction. Laras voice in her ear, breaking on the words we made it. Yoonchae crying openly, Dani clutching her own hands, Sophia repeating over and over, this is real, this is real.

And then — their very first night together.

The dorm was still strange then, smelling faintly of fresh paint and new furniture. No one had fully unpacked. Suitcases were piled against the walls, clothes spilling out in little heaps. It was late — too late for the energy they all still had — and no one wanted to be the first to sleep.

So they ended up in the living room, cross‑legged in a loose circle, eating chips straight from the bag and swapping the silliest stories they could think of.

Someone put music on a phone speaker, and before long, the circle turned into a dance‑off. They didn’t even realize until hours later that it was 4 a.m. and they were all lying flat on the floor, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

Those memories don’t feel far away. They feel layered over this moment, here in the dim quiet. they can almost hear the echoes — the laughter, the cheers, the shouts of their names, the whispered “we did it” in the dark.

And maybe that’s why this little pile of breathing bodies feels so safe. Because they’ve been through every version of themselves together — the chaos, the wins, the beginnings, the nights where it was just the six of them and the whole world waiting.

And in the warmth of that thought, they drift even closer to sleep.

They’re not just a group. They’re not just a team. They’re something softer. They’re something stronger. They’re sisters.

a/n:

hello my loves. as someone who has supported katseye since the very beginning of dream academy, i have to say — the situation unfolding right now is absolute madness to me. please remember: we do not know these girls personally. if there’s drama, that’s for them to navigate, not us. no one appreciates having strangers speak on their behalf, and frankly — this is none of our business. if you feel bad for manon in light of the daniela and naisha situation, that’s fine. but stop putting words in manon’s mouth. we don’t know what’s happening behind the scenes, and this is just a reminder to keep that in mind.

thank you cuties.

[ones-g]

Taste Test

→ poly!ot5 katseye x private chef!reader

masterlist

word count: 6.7k

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

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

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

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

You weren’t supposed to stay long.

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

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

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

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

Private chef. Three months. Confidential. Ridiculous cash.

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

Meal preps. Calorie counts. Macros. No distractions.

And most importantly? Don’t get attached.

But KATSEYE had other plans.

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

You’d prepped everything three hours in advance.

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

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

Not awkward. Not hostile. Just… watchful.

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

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

The one with the killer lashes and matching attitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pretended not to hear that. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Point for you, you guess.

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

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

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

She took a bite. Chewed once. Twice.

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

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

A chorus of motion followed.

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

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

“I’m gonna cry. This slaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow: honey butter toast?” -M

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

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

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

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

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

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

You started slipping handwritten notes beside each plate: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then… there was Sophia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were their constant. Their comfort. Their craving.

And that terrified you.

Because you were starting to crave them right back.

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

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

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

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

Then her lips graze your ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up, wary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me dream.”

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

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

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

Your brain is loading… loading… failing.

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

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

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

“Hm,” she murmurs, lips glossy.

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

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

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

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

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

Yoonchae blinks once. Then sighs, long and suffering.

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

“I’m really not-”

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

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

“I’m just making sinigang-”

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean literal children…”

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

The others don’t even try to deny it.

“I’ve been corrupted,” Manon shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

We.

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

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

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

You blink. “About what?”

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

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

Your breath catches. “You what now?”

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

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

Daniela. Of course.

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

“Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle.”

“…Eventually,” Megan smirks.

“UNNIES!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a co-op,” Megan says brightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe whipped cream.”

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

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

You should go after her. You really should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not-” You start, only to falter.

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

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

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

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

You flinch.

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

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

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

“Then let us be terrifying,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

“And we haven’t even kissed you yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper; and Megan laughs, delighted.

“God, we’re going to ruin you.”

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

You feel sacred. Adored. Wanted.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t slouch,” she murmurs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all they need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like you’re still hungry.” You whined

“Oh, we are,” Manon purrs.

“But we’re being nice. For now.”

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

“You’re so red,” she murmurs. “Cute.”

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

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

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

“Atta girl,” Megan coos as you drink.

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

“No,” Sophia says gently, without hesitation. 

“You deserve this.”

Lara kisses your cheek, grinning when your blush deepens.

“You’re ours now,” she singsongs.

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

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

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

They don’t let you finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air shifts again. Less electric. More reverent.

And then-

Bzzz bzzz bzzz.

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

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

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

“We are done” Daniela mutters 

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

The call ends.

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

“No arguments.” Daniela nods. 

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

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

You’re not just wanted.

You’re needed.

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

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

“Still walking like that.”

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

“Could’ve had her crawling.”

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

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

“I have the scratches to prove it.”

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

“She won’t,” Daniela says smugly. 

“She knows better.”

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

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

“We’re alive,” Lara beams. 

“Well-fed. Thriving actually.”

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

“I almost proposed over breakfast.”

“Again,” Megan winks.

The chat erupts:

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

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

The silence is short.

Then:

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

Sophia clears her throat, smirking. 

“She’s ours,” she says smoothly.

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

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

Manon giggles in the background.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That you’re ours,” Sophia whispers.

“In our own ways,” Lara smiles.

“I said five times,” Manon says thoughtfully. 

“Too humble, honestly.”

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

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

“You’re not just our chef anymore.”

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

Just then, Sophia’s phone buzzes again.

“Unnie?” Yoonchae’s voice pipes through. 

“Can I go to the kitchen now or...”

The girls erupt into fresh laughter.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t just their private chef anymore.

You were something else entirely.

You were theirs.

[ones-g]

Taste Test

→ poly!ot5 katseye x private chef!reader

masterlist

word count: 6.7k

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

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

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

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

You weren’t supposed to stay long.

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

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

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

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

Private chef. Three months. Confidential. Ridiculous cash.

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

Meal preps. Calorie counts. Macros. No distractions.

And most importantly? Don’t get attached.

But KATSEYE had other plans.

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

You’d prepped everything three hours in advance.

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

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

Not awkward. Not hostile. Just… watchful.

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

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

The one with the killer lashes and matching attitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pretended not to hear that. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Point for you, you guess.

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

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

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

She took a bite. Chewed once. Twice.

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

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

A chorus of motion followed.

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

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

“I’m gonna cry. This slaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow: honey butter toast?” -M

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

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

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

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

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

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

You started slipping handwritten notes beside each plate: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then… there was Sophia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were their constant. Their comfort. Their craving.

And that terrified you.

Because you were starting to crave them right back.

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

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

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

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

Then her lips graze your ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up, wary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me dream.”

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

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

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

Your brain is loading… loading… failing.

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

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

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

“Hm,” she murmurs, lips glossy.

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

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

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

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

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

Yoonchae blinks once. Then sighs, long and suffering.

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

“I’m really not-”

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

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

“I’m just making sinigang-”

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean literal children…”

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

The others don’t even try to deny it.

“I’ve been corrupted,” Manon shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

We.

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

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

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

You blink. “About what?”

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

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

Your breath catches. “You what now?”

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

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

Daniela. Of course.

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

“Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle.”

“…Eventually,” Megan smirks.

“UNNIES!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a co-op,” Megan says brightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe whipped cream.”

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

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

You should go after her. You really should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not-” You start, only to falter.

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

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

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

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

You flinch.

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

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

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

“Then let us be terrifying,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

“And we haven’t even kissed you yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper; and Megan laughs, delighted.

“God, we’re going to ruin you.”

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

You feel sacred. Adored. Wanted.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t slouch,” she murmurs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all they need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like you’re still hungry.” You whined

“Oh, we are,” Manon purrs.

“But we’re being nice. For now.”

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

“You’re so red,” she murmurs. “Cute.”

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

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

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

“Atta girl,” Megan coos as you drink.

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

“No,” Sophia says gently, without hesitation. 

“You deserve this.”

Lara kisses your cheek, grinning when your blush deepens.

“You’re ours now,” she singsongs.

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

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

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

They don’t let you finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air shifts again. Less electric. More reverent.

And then-

Bzzz bzzz bzzz.

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

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

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

“We are done” Daniela mutters 

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

The call ends.

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

“No arguments.” Daniela nods. 

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

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

You’re not just wanted.

You’re needed.

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

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

“Still walking like that.”

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

“Could’ve had her crawling.”

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

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

“I have the scratches to prove it.”

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

“She won’t,” Daniela says smugly. 

“She knows better.”

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

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

“We’re alive,” Lara beams. 

“Well-fed. Thriving actually.”

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

“I almost proposed over breakfast.”

“Again,” Megan winks.

The chat erupts:

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

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

The silence is short.

Then:

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

Sophia clears her throat, smirking. 

“She’s ours,” she says smoothly.

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

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

Manon giggles in the background.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That you’re ours,” Sophia whispers.

“In our own ways,” Lara smiles.

“I said five times,” Manon says thoughtfully. 

“Too humble, honestly.”

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

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

“You’re not just our chef anymore.”

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

Just then, Sophia’s phone buzzes again.

“Unnie?” Yoonchae’s voice pipes through. 

“Can I go to the kitchen now or...”

The girls erupt into fresh laughter.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t just their private chef anymore.

You were something else entirely.

You were theirs.

[ones-g]

the sexual tension between me and the "everyone lives/nobody dies" tag

[ones-g]

looking at myself in the mirror after reading smut

[ones-g]

bark bark bark

[ones-g]

Sophie Thatcher as Natalie Scatorccio YELLOWJACKETS | 3.02 Dislocation

[ones-g]

biblically accurate sam giddings pt 2 <3

[ones-g]

NATALIE SCATORCCIO 1.01 "Pilot"

[ones-g]

Travis Martinez - Spiderman

"With great power comes great responsibility"

(In love w this idea, and yes I headcanon Nat as Gwen Stacy)

[ones-g]

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 jeans 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 jeans, 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 comes 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 inked the 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, branded it.

While the thousands watching only get pixels and illusions, Manon gets to remember how you felt when you kissed her slowly. 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 your ankles 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 come 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 inner thigh, hot and slick, leaving a streak of precum against your skin.

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 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,” she 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.

[ones-g]

𝑺𝒆𝒙 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒍, 𝓜.𝓑.

♱ yt video: it’s always been all about manon, but even the most beautiful powerhouses have their kryptonite

♱ cw: mdni, 7th member!au, flirt/tease!r, loser!manz, yall are freaked out, insinuations of sex, sexual/suggestive undertones

𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆

clip one: [ weverse ] peanutbutterlover02’s last words

it’s been officially a month and thirteen days since manon has been on weverse dms. fans were beginning to feel withdrawal from the lack of manon content they’ve been receiving lately. but considering this was the last thing she sent to the public channel of her chat, nobody was exactly surprised:

peanutbutterlover02 no i told lara not to read them guys

peanutbutterlover02 i swear i tried to save her

peanutbutterlover02 rmb when i read the wattpad stories of me and sophia in the live like the day after coachella

peanutbutterlover02 i was so shocked idek what to say yall

peanutbutterlover02 *voice memo* transcription: [ manon ] yall i was so… frozen when i read that shit, but, like, don’t get me wrong, it was such an experience, ‘cuz if someone wrote stories about you online, you’d wanna read it too.

peanutbutterlover02 but hey at least it was quality literature

peanutbutterlover02 *voice memo* transcription:

[ manon ] but it was actually so funny ‘cuz the wattpad story i was reading was like me cheating on sophia-- *a door swings open loudly, a low, sultry, but muffled, voice purred*

[ ??? ] fuck, manz, i need you to let me-- *voice message is abruptly cut short after a quick struggle*

the voice memo was quickly deleted from the chat shortly after it was sent. but, of course, the devil works hard, but eyekons work harder, because in an hour, a tiktok posting the incident had gathered over 2.7M views and 76.8k reposts.

user01 y/n begging to be fucked wasn’t on my 25 bingo card

user02 omg my girl was ovulating what the fuck

user03 the whine?? oh god i need to be baptized in her spit

user04 i love how we all collectively recognized y/n’s voice

user05 teardrops on my thighs or whatever taylor said

user06 yall someone isolated y/n’s voice at the end

another tiktok video, which has just about a quarter of the engagement the original post had, contained an edited version of the voice memo, where your voice was singled out. what they could make out seemed to dig the hole deeper.

peanutbutterlover02 *voice memo* transcription:

[ manon ] but it was actually so funny ‘cuz the wattpad story i was reading was like me cheating on sophia-- *a door swings open loudly, a low, sultry, but muffled, voice purred*

[ y/n ] fuck, manz, i need you to let me sit on your f--

user07 oh. my. fucking. god. it smiled at her voice

user08 manon’s stronger than me we’d never leave the room

user09 seven rounds a night or whatever jungkook said

user10 i am not normal abt this. i am not normal abt this.

user11 and neither of them hv been on weverse since

clip two: [ ig stories + post ] odessa’s birthday rave

odessa’s parties were renowned for being an absolute disaster in the best ways possible. nobody ever left an azion party empty-handed, sober, or sensually coherent, and that was a guarantee. and since you and manon were both good friends with the actress, an automatic invite went unsaid.

on odessa’s instagram, there was a two second clip of the two of you clamped amongst her party dump.

you had an arm around manon’s neck, both of you swaying lightly to whatever music the dj was playing. both of your had drinks in your hands, and in the short second span of the video, you cupped her cheek with a hand, biting the other. manon’s hand instinctively brushed away your hair, grabbing at your neck, before it retreated just a bit when she realized the two of you were being recorded by a sly odessa.

the video, unlike most leaks inconveniently for the two of you, wasn’t taken down. the post itself racked up double the attention odessa’s social media feed does, and it was safe to say #n/nmanz had successfully started trending again.

some other videos from the party surfaced following the post:

influencers who attended posted videos of the party at different points in time, and eyekons could make out the two of you in some of them. even your pr management team had trouble trying to keep these videos to a minimum.

quenblackwell give me one margarita and i’ll open my-

the montage of clips compiled for quen’s tiktok was a series of three to five second videos of the party. some of her and billie, odessa, and other friends in attendance.

in the short four second feature you made, quen’s hips were anchored under your hands as you danced to charli xcx.

you immediately let go of the woman when manon comes into frame, grabbing her hand and twirling her into your arms. your hand toggled the belly chain around her exposed stomach, your fingers dancing across her warm skin, tracing her hips.

user01 quen is our number one n/nmanz soldier

user02 clicked for quen stayed for the n/nmanz crumbs

user03 not quen accidentally hard launching y/n being manon’s sneaky link lmao

user04 nobody loves a n/nmanz slip like quen lmao

madelyncline I could fix you (champagne emoji) @/ynmn

“baby, say ‘hi’!” madelyn yelled into her phone, grabbing your jaw. your cheek was pulled flush against hers, smiling ear to ear as you circled your arms around the blonde’s neck.

“hello!” you slurred, eyes half-lidded with a glossed-over look.

“manz, come here,” the actress called, and both your heads snapped off-camera towards the same direction.

the fans deducted it was much later into the party, considering everybody seemed much more intoxicated and sweaty from the partying. when the familiar ghanaian woman came onscreen, your palm slid across the curve of her ass, pulling her into you. she blew kisses at madelyn’s phone, her cheeks flushed and a sheepish grin across her lips.

the video slow zoomed into manon, who tried greeting madelyn’s story, but could only muster nervous laughter when she felt your nose graze her jaw, teeth scraping her skin.

her hands pressed against your chest, resisting, but the adrenaline pumping in her system wasn’t exactly helping her attempts at not thinking about you sucking her neck. you eyed the phone out the corner of your eye, smirking against the woman’s neck. to the camera, it looked only like you had burned your face into the crook of her neck. but come on, the eyekons knew you best--y/n was a major in freakology.

ynmn *reposted the story* no fixing required ;)

alishaboe some fools told us no eating in the lady’s room… @/odessaazion @/rachel.sennott @/quenblackwell @/ynmn @/meretmanon @/pheobedyenevor @/billieeilish

alisha posted a mirror selfie taken in the bathroom of the air bnb odessa rented out. everybody was striking a pose. on the very side, manon had a hand in her curls, winking at the camera as she fixed her hair. you leant in the very front, a stick of gloss in your hand, swabbing across your lip.

laradevito this is gold ahaha manon’s gonna kill you

rachel.sennott u abt to pass out there @/meretmanon ?

meretmanon omg delete this right now

ynmn nooo keep it we look so fucking good here manz

drewstarkey hiding in plain sight (tongue emoji)

a story from drew was a poorly-taken photo, the flash blowing out his eyes as a cigar hung from his lips. he had one arm around you, the other around manon, middle finger raised on both hands. the two of you, like in alisha’s post, had flushed cheeks and drinks in your hands. you leant into the man, mid-laugh as manon bent away, a hand over her grin. manon had red spots littering her neck, and a familiar jacket draped over her shoulders. judging from pictures of the party before, it had you written all over it. a priceless addition to the n/nmanz file.

user05 drew and y/n and manon?? where do i look wtf

user06 didn’t even tag them but eyekons assembled

user07 drew blink twice if they held hands behind you

clip three: [ weverse ] ep promo / manon’s bday live

the lived kicked off with six members sardined onto a couch that clearly wasn’t made for a group with this much energy. sophia’s in the middle of having a squeak off with daniela over the ipad, yoonchae’s keeping things on track, and lara’s reading off the staff teleprompter behind the camera. you were pushed to the very edge of the sofa, wedged between a jumpy megan and the armrest. beside you, sat in a chair, was manon.

“yes! beautiful chaos is out now.” lara read off the prompter, earning a couple scoffs from the girls. “y’know, go stream it, go buy it, or get it tattooed, anything, really--!”

“no! don’t get it tattooed!” yoonchae interrupted abruptly.

“dedicate it to your relationship. or your situationship, whichever fits the mold right now.” daniela added, nodding with pursed lips. “this is definitely a pro-girls record.”

you perked at the word ‘relationship’, gaze trailing off.

you sneaked a peek at manon out the corner of your eye, watching her toy with the ends of her durag. she sat slumped in the lawn chair, a hand on her the armrest and her legs spread wide. she looked too good for a casual promotional live, can she really blame you for not being able to focus on work?

user01 omg not a thought behind y/n’s eyes rn

user02 “you coming?” yes all over the screen catch!

user03 why is manon aura farming lmao

the corner of your lips gently quirked upwards, your fingertip finding its way between your teeth as you stared shamelessly.

user04 if looks could impregnate manon would be in labour

user05 like damn we know she look good but y/n’s drooling

user06 when you’re in a “being manon’s thirstiest fan” competition and you see y/n (you’re cooked lol)

when the eldest noticed you eyeing her like a piece of meat, she couldn’t resist the smirk creeping onto her expression. her hand raised to rest over her features, covering the fluster radiating from her cheeks. she subtly adjusted how she sat, faking a stretch before one hand steadied the ipad in her lap, the other hand falling into yours smoothly.

your hand pressed against your forehead, shielding the tiny snark of amusement you couldn’t resist. when you regathered yourself, you didn’t look at the ghanaian woman.

instead, you focused on sophia’s rant about disney movies.

user07 will proudly say the hand placement made me ovulate

user08 oops! looks like manon’s hand accidentally fell into y/n’s leg guys! she’s such a clumsy little baka > v <

user09 they thought sophia’s yapping distracted us lmao

user10 y/n trying not to bend manon over in public challenge!

user11 i feel like i’m a man watching a victorian era stripper taking off one of her gloves or showing her ankle

“what? i’m team ‘mean girls’ all the way.” manon scoffed, her thumb tracing the inner-lining of your thigh as she argued with daniela, who was beyond theatrically inclined in response.

you had tuned out the latina’s whining long ago, your eyes fixed on the woman’s warm palm against your flaming skin.

you laced your fingers between manon’s, nails scraping along the crevices of her hands. chills ran up her arm, the hair on the back of her neck standing as the petty bickering with her roommate suddenly fell dull. you heard her swallow, clearing her throat in an attempt to distract herself from the way your fingers encouraged her to grope at your plush thighs.

alas, when has she ever been able to stay away from you?

you guided her hand, now squeezing you on its own volition, just an inch higher. she doesn’t notice, not right then.

“--manz. manon!” daniela yelled, sneering at the older.

“hm? what?” she snapped out of the fluster briefly, a serious expression riddled across her face. “what’s happening?”

“do you want your cake or not, bruh?” megan cackled.

“she’s losing her…” yoonchae gestured towards her ears, and lara was quick to help finish her thought. “…hearing. yes.”

“oh, yeah, of course.” manon smiled, “do we do it now?”

“guys, pray for manon, she’s already getting alzheimer’s from being a grandma.” megan faked a sob for the camera, before earning herself a harsh scowl from the latter.

her hand, clasped under yours, moved higher once again.

just as the staff prepare to hand over manon’s cake to sophia, you finally caught her timid eye. you smirked, a wordless challenge for her to accept, though it wasn’t exactly by will.

as sophia held the cake out for daniela to light the candles, you dragged her hand all the way up your thigh. she felt your body heat nurse the back of her hand, and her fingers involuntarily tightened around your flesh. you giggled into your free hand, still very much composed, contrary to a now boiling manon. she fidgeted, unable to sit still, her fingertips burning its mark into you as she threw her head back against her chair, inhaling deeply. she was quickly forced to snap out of it, when two figures began walking over, carefully cradling her cake.

the first note was mangled, and your voices all melded together not long after. though sophia’s soothing tone rang just by her ear, manon could hear only one voice out of you.

you sung ‘happy birthday’ in a way manon could only wish was one she heard every year. her tongue prodded her inner-cheek.

user12 damn y/n knows what she’s doing fr

user13 10 other ppl in the rm and manon only looks at one

user14 nobody’s gonna talk abt manon’s hand placement???

“happy birthday, manzanita!” you cheered once the singing had ceased, the girls all clapped as you pulled her in by the neck, placing a tender smooch on her cheekbone. the glossy line of your lips marking her tan skin. “i love you.”

user15 y/n l/n you are absolutely. fucking. insane.

user16 pussy whipped y/n was in fact on my 2025 bingo card

user17 love how none of the girls are fazed anymore

“open.” manon mouthed, picking at the cake with a fork. she held the big glob up to your lips, in which you parted on cue.your eyes lingered on the camera, then at the staff shaking their heads disapprovingly. you giggled, smiling as the older stared at your lips, smeared in cream and frosting.

she grabbed your jaw, turning you to face her. she carefully wiped the gunk from the corner of your mouth. a tiny piece of cream fell onto your beautiful chaos shirt, she picked it up, sticking it in her mouth. she grinned, feeling you rest your head against her shoulder. the ipad now in your hands.

user18 “open” my legs? i’m spread and ready for you manon

user19 ppl who don’t think n/nmanz are friends are right

user20 they love starting rumours huh

user21 oh the editors abt to have a field day with this one

“okay, it’s y/n’s turn to do a fit check.” daniela waved you up. you tore away from manon, getting pushed into the middle by a whooping megan. “show it off, mami!”

you tugged at the beautiful chaos shirt. “okay, so the most stylish, amazing, fantastic shirt a girl could ask for.” you then did a 180, flashing the camera your entire outfit. “and yeah, y’know--oh! you guys wanna know a little secret?”

you tucked your shirt up, a chain flickered across your torso.

manon bit her lip, grinning as she raised both arms to cross behind her head. all eyes fell on her, but hers fixed on you.

“looks good, right?” you purred, twirling your hips.

“more like familiar,” lara burst into laughter, “since when do you let other people wear your belly chains?”

manon shrugged, “what? i’d let all of you if you just asked.”

“what!” daniela squeaked, “you told me to go shove my lame jewelry up my ass when i asked if i could borrow your--!”

“that never happened,” manon answered calmly, her hands clasped together behind her durag. “dani, stop spreading lies. stop spreading hate.” she shook her head in disbelief.

“what!” daniela repeated, shooting up this time, ipad in hand.

as yoonchae and sophia try and talk an agitated daniela down, you took your seat again beside megan. she gave the both of you a knowing glance, shielded by the curve of her cap, but the smirks both of you threw back were hard to miss.

user22 if this is their marketing strategy then i’m falling for it

user23 i’m always down for some n/nmanz propaganda

user24 poor megan’s always at the scene of a wlw crime lmao

the staff quickly turned on the tracklist to beautiful chaos. when the familiar sultry beat to gabriela came on. the dirty synth melding into the snapping bass served a club bathroom, except there were a dozen staff members on the other side of the camera. as sophia yanked daniela up with her, one by one, the others joined them on the floor.

you started dancing to the choreo, catching everybody’s attention when your hips jerked to the prechorus, laughing as the girls lets out harmonized “oohs” and “ahhs”.

“where are all my gabriela lovers?” you teased, a throwback to earlier when nobody agreed with your personal favorite pick. just as sodani salsa danced together, megan pulled yoonchae into the little circle her and lara had made. you hyped them up, grabbing manon’s hand as she stood to the very left of the screen. all six of you, in sync, began dancing to the chorus.

user25 i feel like a female bird watching a mating dance

user26 made a 1hr whimpering audio to celebrate this album

user27 my rose toy flew into my hand like thor’s hammer

you turned, front facing megan, hands still lingering on manon’s. slowly, the older came up behind you, slow, and her hands found their way around your hips. she moved with you, subtle at first, the way friends would at a club a couple shots in. you don’t miss a beat, as daniela began mouthing the spanish lyrics, you ground back into her with your tongue poking out the corner of your mouth.

she smiled, shying away from the camera as her hand slid back, palming the side of your ass.

user28 ref do something?? they dry humping on the floor??

user29 nah this ain’t no soft launch this full softcore porn bro

user30 they bout to be unemployed omg please

the thrill is short-lived, because quickly, it was obvious all seven pairs of eyes shot up to glance behind the camera setup. lara was first to clap her hands, before encouraging megan to finish off the song with an ending fairy pose.

as the others settled back onto the couch, you looked past the phone, pressing your lips thin as you pulled away from manon.

manon stepped back, the tiny smile entirely wiped from her face as she tightened the durag around her head. she cleared her throat, red-faced and trying not to make a sound as she plopped back into her chair. she held her hands up, widening her eyes in a faux innocent flail. you tried not to giggle.

user31 y/n should charge manon rent the way that girl is always all up in her personal space lmao

user32 i get it guys the ep was just a prelude to their sex tape

user33 challengers w me y/n and manon go!

user34 the staff saw their lives flash before their eyes

clip four: [ youtube ] “gnarly” behind the scenes part 1

just between a take of the girls walking around incheon airport and rehearsing for the music video, there were shots of the six of you lounging about the rehearsal room. sophia was tasked to narrate, mostly, but you could see the others entrapped in their own ‘getting ready for the session’ routines.

while megan began stripping herself of the baggy clothing she was wrapped in at the airport, lara practiced her little part in the second verse, and yoonchae folded her hoodie neatly.

laying on the floor belly-first, giving the camera a little tour of the new braids she had gotten specially done for this music video, was manon. her acrylics dragged along the creases of her braids, tracing the letters as she explained how long it had taken her to get them done the day beforehand.

in the background of sophia’s point of view just before manon’s cut, you could be seen taking off your beanie and zip-up, left in something much lighter, but still in baggy sweats.

you laid down beside the eldest, who only watched in silence as you propped yourself against the floor, laying elbow-first. your hair slide to the other side of your neck, and the back of your shoulder was flashed on camera for a quick moment.

neither you or the camera man noticed, but the pink scratches lining the muscles on your back were hard to miss.

they were diagonal. shallow. fresh. blink and you’d miss the way yoonchae’s eyes widened behind them, immediately turning away to shield her red face from the cameras. still, it wasn’t censored, it was left clear as day for all fans watching.

user01 1:24 hello??? the scratches on y/n’s back?????

user02 omg and guess who got new acrylics (it’s manon)

user03 holy fuck ik manz’s new nails are sharp but damn

user04 “she fell” no babe she was fucking thrown

user05 y/n trying not to break a hip to lay down next to her girl we didn’t just see evidence of her strapping someone down

user06 i just know they have crazy sesbian lex

another shot you’d see the scratches clearer than peering through glass would be when you were leaning out the window of a car with lara, where your outfit was a backless piece with a fur coat. the lights flickered, wind combing through your hair, blowing it away from your nape, where marks scattered across the top of your back. most would assume it was part of the makeup for the music video, if not for its earlier appearance.

a short clip of the others gathering around the screens to watch, and briefly, manon’s eyes widened, and a hand slapped over her mouth. their dialogue was inaudible, but daniela and megan had begun teasing the eldest behind the roommates.

user07 11:01 manon testing out her new set huh

user08 imagine showing up to work on katseye’s set for the first time and having to cover up a girl’s claw marks on y/n

user09 manon trying not to walk funny is so stupid

user10 omg it’s a freak on freak crime

clip five: [ fancam ] the (n/nmanz) debut performance

at a performance organized for the manila showcase, some fans gathered for the soundcheck as part of a special treat for their vip passes. as the stage crew made their last round of checks, the seven of you began putting on gear.

sound checks were arguably one of your favourite ways to interact with fans. it was always such a laid back atmosphere, in clothes that didn’t chafe you to death.

a lot of fancams began recording when feedback could be heard blaring from the speakers. there were snippets of dialogue heard here and there, earning a few whoops and cheers of excitement from the crowd.

“--don’t stop, i’ll ruin--!” the audio cut in and out just like that.

the fans erupted in havoc, screaming and screeching at the top of their lungs. the audio was brief, but unmistakeable.

especially to the fans rewatching the video on tiktok.

it was obvious you were the one speaking, but considering no other response came after your slip, they had no idea who you were speaking to. luckily, the fans sitting at the very edge of the floor could just video the seven of you standing behind the stage, and though she had a beanie and some sunglasses on, the tan complexion, sharp eyebrows and belly chain were hard to miss--none other than the visual queen herself, manon.

you stayed in place as the staff helped adjust the settings on the mic pack clipped to the back of your pants, but you returned the smirk manon threw at you. she continued making obscene gestures, flashing you teasing expressions as you stood, helpless. it was just before the audio cut in.

user01 i need me a lip reader right now cuz what did y/n say

user02 “if you don’t stop, i’ll ruin your lip combo again”

user03 ugh it’s always y/n with the unhinged thirsty replies

user04 need a gf asmr video from y/n right now

user05 ik their pr team is absolutely sick of them by now

user06 she said again??? what do you mean again?????

user07 i would’ve said fuck the soundcheck and folded

user08 whoever experienced this live i hope your pillow is hot

© sillymommy6969 2025. all rights reserved.

[ones-g]

┈─★ 𝘩𝘪𝘫𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘪 (𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺'𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭.)

  ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you and daniela have been divorced for years, keeping cordial for the sake of co-parenting your perfect angel of a daughter. but when a snowstorm traps you in a cabin with your ex-wife, you realize there might be more unfinished business than you care to explore.

   ˎˊ˗  ❄️  ⊹ ࣪ ˖  🔓୭˚.  ⠀ ᵎᵎ ⠀ 🗝️

   ➴ pairing: hockey daddy!daniela avanzini x f!reader

   ➴ genre + wc: 7k, pining, bickering, parenting!au, daniela is our fuckass baby daddy/ex-wife, we hate her but she wants us back lowkey <3

┈─★ a/n: more daddy!kats! i highly encourage reading the college hockey!au verse this is based in! <3

sometimes, you wish you could be extremely fucked up for custody swaps. ideally, so blackout drunk that you can tune out any of daniela’s annoying comments or innuendos she so relentlessly throws at you, as if you haven’t been broken up for years at this point.

but you have a teenage daughter you need to be a role model for, and you sure as hell know your ex-wife is severely lacking in that department, so the responsibility falls to you. you bite your tongue and bear it: every friday, after school, one week one and one week off as per the custody agreement written in your divorce.

you see the stupid cherry-red mustang pull up along the curb of your house. the house, now yours, but once hers too, the house that she used to share with you and esme, before she had moved out following the divorce. 

you wish you could say she was a terrible parent, or that your daughter hated her time with her other parent, but esme is beaming from ear to ear as the two of them roll to a stop. the car is blasting with a classic reggaeton song that they’re both head-banging to. seeing the two of them laughing, swinging their heads around, curls flying in sync, even down to the stupid dimple your daughter inherited might actually warm your heart.

(at least it would, if daniela wasn’t 15 minutes late to the swap, as she always is.)

“you could have at least tried to be on time today. the twins’ birthday trip is this weekend,” you remind her, gritting your teeth as dani steps out of the car to give esme a hug. “we have to leave before the road gets bad. if you can’t reach esme, text lara. service might be spotty on the mountain. i’ll go get her sunday morning.”

esme gives you a quick hug and a kiss on your cheek before running inside to grab her things for the trip.

“i remember, i remember. see you next week, hermosa,” daniela waves esme off. she reaches out to you with open arms, peering at you over her sunglasses with that infuriating smirk. “what, no hug for daddy?”

you roll your eyes, ignoring her. you focus instead on esme, who runs out of the door with her suitcase. you focus on helping your daughter pull her suitcase down the curb and towards the sidewalk, hoping it’ll help you ignore your aggravating ex. 

“i’ll order the uber in a few minutes, esme. are your hearing aids charged, baby? i’ll ask auntie megan to bring her spare batteries if they haven’t left yet,” you offer, pulling out your phone.

“uber?” daniela arches a brow. her arms cross over her chest. “isn’t the cabin like an hour and a half away?”

you glare at her. “my car is in the shop and the rental isn’t ready until tomorrow.”

“sorry again, mami,” esme grimaces.

“baby, don’t apologize. i’m so glad you’re going on this trip,” you reassure her, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

for as head-strong as you are and as hot-headed as daniela is, you two were lucky to end up with the most considerate, mild-mannered child you could have possibly imagined. esme is shy, thoughtful, and had never gone through a phase of terrible twos or moody pre-teen years. she’s always been the most insanely sweet kid, never causing any trouble, and you couldn’t be more grateful for her. for all the chaos in your relationship with daniela, your daughter was never something you’d regret, not for a second.

“an hour and a half uber? i have today off,” daniela interjects, looking down at her watch. “i can drop you guys there.”

the offer is generous, sure, but the idea of being stuck in the car with daniela sends a shiver of horror down your spine. the last time you two had been together for longer than 10 minutes was for esme’s parent teacher conferences, and even the hour of those felt like torture, always ending in you two bickering.

“that’s almost three hours,” you point out.

“i don’t want to throw off your plans,” esme shakes her head.

dani reaches out to grab your daughter by the chin, squeezing her cheeks playfully. 

“hey, no. i’d do anything for this face.”

the girl lights up at the offer. 

you freeze, but the way esme seems genuinely excited is enough to make you swallow your pride. it’s not about you, you remind yourself, it’s about your daughter. you can play nice with your ex-wife if it means making your daughter this happy to have both parents for a little longer.

“fine,” you say simply, reaching for the suitcase to help throw it into the trunk.

esme wraps daniela up in a giant hug, burying her face in your ex-wife’s chest. “no way! thank you, papi.”

you pause. maybe you can give her the benefit of the doubt. could dani be turning a new leaf?

“your turn to thank papi,” daniela smirks at you, reaching out once more.

your face drops. nope. same old stupid daniela avanzini. 

“not a chance in hell,” you roll your eyes. “just get in the damn car.”

-

daniela’s eyes, still hidden behind her sunglasses, are focused on the road, the white of the snow painting the road up the mountainside towards the resort where the cabins await. 

“thank you again,” esme pipes up from the backseat.

“no hay de qué, mi amor.” daniela shakes her head, peeking at the girl through the rearview mirror. “my wife and kid alone in a car with a stranger? stuck on the side of the mountain? in a snowstorm or something? the thought alone would have kept me up like a freakin’ nightmare.”

“ex-wife,” you remind her sharply. 

daniela grins, shrugging. “meh. potato, potah-to.”

“tomato, divorce settlement, totally the same,” you snip back.

“mami’s coaching zuri’s cheer team this year,” esme randomly interjects. you try to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“yeah?” daniela grins, peering at you. “you got bit by the coaching bug all of a sudden, mami?”

“don’t piss me off, daniela,” you hiss back, hating when she uses the nickname.

“auntie megan convinced her,” esme explains. “she says she has a lot of fun coaching our hockey team. it’s less pressure than college level.”

“i’ve tried to get meiyok to come coach for us so many times. she always refuses. but a fucking high school hockey team she’s got all the time in the world for? insane,” daniela rolls her eyes. but as she sits on esme’s words, something seems to stick with her. 

“pause. megan convinced you?”

you arch a brow back at her challengingly, seeing the way she bristles.

“and if she did?”

“did she?” daniela presses, her gaze unwavering.

“she’s always been my favorite between all of you,” you say simply. “her and yunjin.”

you see daniela’s jaw clench. maybe it’s immature, but you can’t help but grin to yourself at how the mere mention finally gets her to shut the hell up.

“auntie yunjin and auntie chaewon pitched in for me to go see a pro game,” esme offers gently. you realize she’s trying to salvage the conversation, knowing daniela’s longstanding beef with yunjin. 

and it works. daniela instantly softens, esme’s gentle voice enough to disarm her and distract her from your guys’s standoff.

“they paid for you to get a ticket? mi amor, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go to that game? i could have gotten you tickets,” daniela asks.

“um, i don’t know.” esme rubs the back of her neck nervously, her eyes screwing shut. “i’m gonna take my hearing aids out. my head hurts.”

“take a nap, baby,” you reassure her, reaching backwards to stroke her knee.

she nods, resting her head against the window. “love you guys.”

you quickly sign back an “i love you” and watch her as she closes her eyes. as soon as she takes her hearing aids out, you let out a groan.

“daniela,” you say sternly.

“y/n,” she responds. “love hearing you say my name like that. again, please.”

you have half a mind to punch her there and then, but knowing your ex, she’d probably somehow like it. 

“she didn’t ask you because the huh-kim kids are going too and she knew you’d throw a fit.”

daniela blinks in surprise. “how do you know that?”

“because she told me,” you grit irritatedly. “our daughter actually talks to me.”

“she talks to me too. about lots. things going on inside my own house.” daniela pivots quickly, almost disarmingly fast. “are you still seeing that dude from your old job?”

“daniela,” you warn her. you empathize with esme in that moment. how difficult does dani make it to talk to her? you think back to your relationship, and the way it ended. 

daniela has always been impossible to talk to. as much as you’d love to be a united front, you can’t blame your daughter for wanting to keep some things from her dad.

“what?” the brunette questions.

“i’m not talking about this with you.”

daniela squares her shoulders and focuses on the road. 

“fine.”

-

the two of you manage to keep the peace for the rest of the drive, not wanting to disturb your sleeping daughter. by the time daniela pulls the mustang into the parking lot, the snow is coming down decently hard. esme runs excitedly to go join her friends who wave to her from the window of the main cabin, having been watching her arrival.

“y/n, hi!” lara beams, greeting you as you emerge from the car. “wifey’s inside setting ground rules for the girls. no exploring the woods after midnight type shit, you know.”

“who all came?” daniela asks, eyeing the area curiously.

“josie, esme, the twins obviously, arin, and kj.”

“no boys?” daniela asks.

lara shakes her head. “girls trip only.”

“that’s sweet,” you smile. 

if there is anything good that came out of your marriage to daniela, it was also the community of her friends and their families. the tiny village that surrounded esme made it that much easier to trust that she was in good hands. she’s kept the same best friends since she was a baby, and being the youngest of the group, you feel reassured that she’s got good people keeping their eyes on her, both the kids and their parents.

“no,” lara wrinkles her nose in irritation. “it was the only way we could keep zuri from begging to bring her little boyfriend.”

“oh god,” dani says, running a hand through her hair. “i’m not ready for the whole dating thing.”

“esme’s cabin is down this way,” lara says “but they’ll honestly all probably spend the whole trip in the twin’s cabin.”

daniela wrinkles her nose. “waste of money, bro. if you knew they’d sleep over why’d you get them individual cabins?”

“honestly? zuri and priya have been fighting a lot recently. sometimes over literally nothing, bro. i wanted everyone to have somewhere to run away to if they have one of their little twin spats on this trip,” lara breathes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “the beauty of teenagers, right?”

you laugh, giving lara one last hug before you and daniela turn to head back to the car. but before you can warn her to behave, a man is placing bright yellow cones by the parking lot exit, roping it off from the main road.

“the road’s closed!” he calls out to you all. you and daniela exchange looks of disbelief.

“what!?”

“ice too thick,” he says simply, motioning up to the snowbanks blocking up parts of the road. “it’ll take the snowplow until the morning to get up here.”

“oh hell no,” you groan, throwing your head back in irritation. just your fucking luck, stuck on a mountain with your aggravating ex-wife.

“you can stay with us, dani,” lara immediately offers, realizing what this means for you both.

“no, you guys have your hands full chaperoning,” she waves lara off. “we can stay at esme’s cabin.”

“together?” you question, nearly in disbelief at how calmly she’s taking this.

she shrugs, letting out a sharp breath. 

“do you have a better option?”

you bite your tongue, and pray it’s a short night. knowing daniela, however, it probably won’t be.

-

esme chews anxiously on her lower lip. outside, the snow falls, mounting up on the windowsill. the three of you are crammed into the queen sized bed, esme in the middle, but you don’t mind. anything to spend more time with your daughter is a win in your book.

“i’m sorry you’re stuck here,” the girl apologizes, her eyes darting between the two of you on either side of her.

“if i have to be stuck anywhere, i’m grateful it’s with you,” you reassure her.

“i love you,” she beams, resting her head on your shoulder. the three of you lay side by side, backs propped up against the headboard.

“well, we’ve got all night, so let’s start killing some time,” daniela grins, poking your daughter in the stomach. “esme. any crushes?”

the question catches the both of you off guard. you feel your eyes go wide.

“um…” esme’s eyes dart to you.

“what, something you’re not telling me?” daniela prods, still playful. she tilts her head. “you’re keeping secrets from your bestie?”

“n-no,” esme quickly scrambles.

daniela arches a brow suspiciously. “is it a he?” 

“no,” esme blinks.

“oh thank god.”

“daniela,” you warn.

“what? i have two criteria— no huhs and no teen pregnancy.”

esme blinks between the two of you, squinting as she gets up and heads towards the bathroom. “i’m gonna go wash my face.” 

once the door closes behind her, you glare at your ex-wife.

“have you ever actually talked to her about any of this?” you question.

“what?”

“dani, you and your daughter have a great relationship, but you need to stop acting like she’s going to be 4 years old forever.” you shake your head. “the more you try to shelter her, the more she’s going to act out and keep things from you.”

“she’s…” daniela’s argument trails off, and you continue.

“and we need to suck it up, for her sake. she was probably excited to go have a weekend away from us, and now she’s stuck feeling like she has to babysit because we can’t be cordial with each other for more than 5 minutes without fighting,” you sigh, realizing how anxious she must be with the change in plans.

“she looks like she’s having fun,” dani pushes back.

“she’s 16,” you remind dani. “we’re ruining her trip. she was probably excited to sneak a bottle of alcohol and get tipsy with her little friends.”

daniela instantly bristles. “no fucking way. she’s too young for that.”

“daniela, you’re forgetting that you were almost an alcoholic your freshman year of college. that didn’t happen overnight.” you remind her. “better safe and in a controlled environment than going buckwild rebelling against parents.”

dani runs a hand through her dark hair, her nose flaring. “this parenting shit is so stressful. maybe i do owe your pops an apology. i might actually be the reason he’s bald.”

“i did enough of that on my own, before you,” you can’t help but laugh.

you see something mischievous flash in her eyes.

“bad girl.”

“don’t fucking start,” you roll your eyes. “that shit has to stop, for 24 hours, for our daughter.”

“what do you mean?” dani feigns ignorance.

“we spend all our time together arguing instead of focusing on her.”

“i’m not arguing with you. i’m flirting with you.”

“no, you’re intentionally trying to push my buttons. enough. get your head out of your ass. esme deserves our best. she is the perfect child,” you remind your ex.

“you’re right. parent mode activated.” dani lets out a deep breath. “fuck.”

“thank you,” you nod, grateful your pleas got through to her.

she looks at you, something softening in her gaze. “thanks for believing i could be better.”

you pause, realizing the sincerity in her voice. old dani, coming back in familiar flashes. “then i should tell you something.”

“oh.” she grins. “you’re still in love with me.”

“you lasted a whole 10 seconds. you’re so annoying.” you groan, throwing your head back, but you persist, knowing this piece of information is pretty significant for your co-parent to know about. “she has a crush on arin.”

“huh’s kid?” you see dani’s eyes widen. “the captain?”

“yes,” you nod. “but arin’s not very nice to her. that kid is built different. she’s not nice to anyone.”

dani lets out a low whistle. “she’s damn fucking good on the ice, is the worst part.”

“esme likes arin, but i think one of the other girls has a crush on esme.”

“which one?”

you laugh, realizing how silly you two must look. “christ, we sound ridiculous. gossiping like we’re the teenagers.”

“fuck.” dani wrinkles her nose, but she smiles back at you. “yeah we sound nosy as hell. but don’t leave me hanging. esme likes arin, arin’s a shit-head but i could have told you that with the parent she’s got, and some other kid likes esme?”

“one of her teammates,” you whisper. “you’ll pick up on it if you pay attention.”

“god, i’m not ready for this.” daniela buries her face into the pillow. “i can’t fucking do this.”

the door swings back open, and you and dani share a look to agree to put this conversation on pause.

“i’m back,” esme waves.

“hi baby,” you greet her.

her eyes dart between the two of you suspiciously. “you guys okay?”

“great, actually,” daniela jumps in. “we were talking about your friends.”

“oh god.” esme drops back in between you and daniela, covering her face with her hands.

“no, all good,” dani reassures her. “max is applying to the university this year.”

esme nods. “so is seongwook.”

you lean towards dani, filling her in on the tea between their little friend group. “wookie. zuri’s boyfriend. arin’s brother.”

“huh’s kid.” you see dani’s eye twitch, but you’re proud as she quickly pivots away. “if you applied, i bet you’d get in on hockey. three generations there, you, me, and your grandpa. it’d be pretty cool, no?”

“i’m not that good, papi,” esme shakes her head.

“esme, your team is second in the conference,” daniela reminds your daughter. “you’re the strongest left wing in the state. anywhere would kill to have you play for them.”

your heart warms at dani’s affirmations. when esme had first started playing, and megan recommended her at left wing, daniela’s first response was apprehension. that was her position, and daniela reminded megan of all the injuries she had sustained. but megan had been quick to remind her that esme was tiny, but she was fast and she was smart, and when she hits the ice with josie at center, they two kids are just as good as she and megan were at their age. 

“thanks,” esme drops her gaze shyly, and dani reaches out once more to play with her hair.

“i watch all your games,” she tells your daughter. “and if i can’t make it, i watch those tapes like my life depends on it.”

“really?”

dani smiles. “hell yes, mi amor.”

“but you’re so busy.”

“never too busy for you,” dani insists.

“i didn’t know that,” esme admits. 

“got your back, kiddo.”

before you can realize that you’re staring, esme’s phone goes off in between all of you. she holds it up apologetically.

“um, priya is calling me. i think her and zuri are fighting again. can i take it?”

“of course, mi amor,” dani nods, and esme bolts off to take the phone call.

daniela watches her rush to the twin’s aid and sighs. “she’s such a good kid. got so lucky with her.”

“she’s always there for her friends.” you breathe out quietly. “gets that from you.”

daniela’s eyes light up, turning immediately to narrow her eyes at you. “did you just compliment me?”

“you were shit at being consistent for me, but every time megan was in crisis, there you were, taking her to the ice, calming her down.” you recall all those late nights where dani would drop everything just to support whoever needed it. “whenever lara had some grand scheme she got up to, you never questioned it. you’d go along with it.”

“you were also a great friend. loyal. it’s what drew me to you,” daniela tells you, her voice softening. “it was cool to hear that you cared that much about the people in your life. honestly, i just thought you just had a bad attitude.”

“and i thought you only cared about yourself,” you smile.

daniela’s voice does something bizarre, hardening and softening all at once. you can tell you’ve hit a nerve.

“i tried caring about other things too, you know.”

you feel your chest tighten, and before you can stop yourself, you’re already saying it.

“you stopped trying.”

“i did.” she nods solemnly, and the accountability makes your heart ache. “i’m sorry.”

before you can say anything else, esme pops back inside, her big brown eyes looking between you hesitantly. 

“they’re asking if i can come over to their cabin, and spend the night,” she starts, slowly, pausing as if to choose her words, before holding up her hands. “but i don’t have to if you guys aren’t okay with that.”

“we’ll be okay here, mi amor,” dani nods.

“um… i know you guys don’t hang out alone any more,” esme admits quietly, looking to you specifically. “i feel bad.”

“we’ll be fine,” you nod reaching to her to press a kiss to her head. “we’ll catch up.”

“promise?” she breathes. 

“you can trust me, baby,” dani nods. 

esme lights up as she reaches for her backpack, giving you both a tight hug before escaping out to join her friends, leaving you and dani alone in the cabin. 

you figure it won’t kill you to be cordial, so you try to start with small talk. 

“how’s coaching going?”

“i don’t think you wanna hear it,” dani laughs, rubbing her nose. 

“since when do you censor yourself?” you question, narrowing your eyes at her. 

there’s distance between you, but that doesn’t stop you from taking her in. her eyes are heavier, darker, and granted you’re both older now, but she still has that dangerous dimple and that mischievous smile that makes you remember exactly what you fell in love with. her dark brown curls, now back to her natural hair color, pulled up and out of her face. you take in the lines, the creases, the face you had once said yes to no matter what. the face you had picked, over and over, time and time again. the face you pictured being alongside for forever. 

“your dad hates me as head coach. he’s taking that promotion super personally,” she confesses. 

you scrunch your nose. your father and your ex-wife working together was never ideal, but it’s your reality, and you know how difficult your dad can be. “i’ll talk to him.”

“that’s the last thing i need,” dani laughs, waving you off. “i can talk to him myself.”

you take a second, thinking about dani’s relationship with your dad. you had seen it first hand for yourself all those years ago— how badly you knew he would have preferred lara as captain, how hard he was on dani, how much pressure he put on her and how little he believed in her capabilities. he was always intense as a coach, and you know that, but he had been extremely hard on dani as a player.

and unfortunately, things only got worse when you started dating. whereas your mom had always welcomed dani with open arms, and your brothers loved having another hockey buff in the family, your dad had never shifted in his stance, treating dani like she couldn’t be trusted despite all the things she had done to give you the most perfect, beautiful romance possible. you’ve made peace with the fact that you and daniela are over, but there’s no doubt in your mind that she was absolutely the love of your life, and realizing that that’s over is admittedly a tough pill to swallow.

“is he part of it?” you finally ask, feeling your stomach flip into a knot. “part of why you gave up?”

you see dani’s temples tighten, her brows tensing. she could make a joke, lighten the conversation, avoid the topic altogether, but she doesn’t. she addresses it head-on, unafraid, ready to be vulnerable. 

“he told me i was gonna ruin esme’s life. i already ruined yours.” you hear the rasp in her voice. she can’t manage to look at you. “you called him that night, when i left.”

“i was scared you would do something stupid,” you admit, remembering the night you had first given dani the divorce papers after months of trying to save her from herself. “i was scared you weren’t coming home in one piece that night. i didn’t know what to do. esme was so little, you were in such a bad headspace, i didn’t know what else to do.”

her face is stony as she stares down at the foot of the bed. “you could have called megan. you could have called lara.”

your throat tightens and dries as you blink back memories of that night. just how angry daniela was as she stormed out, not knowing where she was going, how scared you were for her.

“i panicked. i made the wrong choice, and i’m sorry.”

“i put you in a horrible position.” she shakes her head, and you appreciate that she acknowledges the severity of the situation you were forced to face. “but i think when your dad got involved, that was it. that was the beginning of the end. like you stopped believing in us.”

“dani, that’s not fair. you know i pushed him out whenever he was bad to you. i didn’t even tell him when we eloped. that was just between us for months,” you push back. yes, he was a strain on your relationship, but you had always chosen dani over him, no matter what. “this wasn’t all on me, or on him.”

daniela chews on her bottom lip, her only real anxious habit for an otherwise confident facade.

“i cared too much about what he thought. kept thinking about his voice, in my head, that i would never be good enough for you.”

“all you needed to do was try,” you tell her, watching the way her face tenses in clear distress. “dani, that would have been good enough.”

“i didn’t trust myself to get it right,” she admits. “when esme heard us screaming that night…”

you grimace thinking about it. esme was so, so little, coming out in the middle of the night to ask if everything was okay, seeing your face streaked in tears and daniela on the verge of a breakdown. your yelling must have been strong enough to vibrate through the walls to wake her up.

“that was it,” she finishes. “confirmation. your dad was right. i wasn’t good enough to get through this without hurting anyone.”

you and your ex have had a few conversations here and there about how things ended, but never before has dani given you this level of reflection. your conversations were always limited to your daughter, given that daniela has the emotional intelligence of a literal child, but you catch glimpses of the old her here and there, a version of her who faced challenges head on and confronts everything with a mindset of getting through it, no matter what.

“you’re so hard on yourself, dani,” you sigh, knowing who daniela is at her core, beneath all her bravado. she’s passionate, she’s intense, and worst of all, she wants to be someone who might never be obtainable. “i never wanted you to be anyone else, i never needed you to be perfect. i just needed you to show up.”

“i had everything, and i fucked it up,” she breathes, before finally looking up at you. “i haven’t dated since that.”

“don’t tell me that,” you roll your eyes. leave it to her to ruin the moment.

she shakes her head, almost earnestly. “i’m serious, y/n. and you can do so, so much better than the guy from your old HR department.”

“daniela, he gave me a ride home once and that was it,” you groan, realizing she’ll never drop this topic. “we were never dating.”

“esme told me about how you let him inside.”

“yes, to offer him a coffee,” you emphasize. it was one time, and it was an act of kindness, but daniela continues to treat it like you agreed to marry him. “i’m allowed to offer people coffee inside my own home. he left immediately after.”

“that’s my home, and my family.” she sits up, her gaze intensifying. you thought at first that she was joking, but you quickly realize she’s dead serious. “and that was my bed, once upon a time.”

“the whole territorial thing is so not fucking cute, daniela.” you roll your eyes and push her away, scooting further from her. “it’s gross, if anything, you possessive weirdo.”

but daniela isn’t letting up. 

“y/n, if i ever find out someone else has been in that bed, in my bed, i’ll fucking kill them.” 

“shut up, daniela,” you groan.

“listen to me,” she drops her gaze. “i will kill them.”

“we are not together, and that’s not your bed.” you’ve had enough of her constant whiplashing you, switching so quickly between someone who makes it easy to remember why you once were so obsessed with her, then transforming into someone you wish you had never met. “i can’t fucking stand you, dani. so arrogant.”

“you’re always going to be the mom of my kid,” she reminds you, unphased by you moving away as she simply scoots closer. her eyes are sharp, intense, like she’s on a mission to prove a point. “that makes you mine in some way.”

ooh. if there’s anything about your ex wife, it’s that she knows how to make your fucking blood boil, and she has since day 1.

“i don’t belong to you,” you spit back harshly.

“you know that’s a damn lie,” daniela snaps back with lightning fast speed.

“you’re so fucking irritating,” you seethe.

“you miss me pissing you off all the time,” she grits back. “miss me being under your skin.”

“i most definitely do not,” you tell her. “my life got so much easier when you left.”

“i don’t believe you,” she bites back.

“you don’t have to,” you snap, realizing this is what she wants. she wants to get into the back and forth with you, wants to get a rise out of you. “believe whatever you want. i don’t have to prove anything to you.”

and then, something in her face changes, like a dam breaking. her face tenses.

daniela cracks. 

“there’s no way you don’t think about me, ‘cause i think about you, all the damn time,” she finally confesses.

the absolute ache in her words makes your stomach drop. it disarms you. “dani.”

“i miss you when your dad calls me a shit-head, and i remember how much love you used to say it to me with,“ she laughs, but there’s something painful in her voice. “or when i drive and the air is up too high, and it reminds me of when i used to drive you home in lara’s car from our place.”

you want to ask her to stop, not because you can’t handle hearing it, but because you can’t handle seeing her like this. since your divorce, you had worked through all the feelings involved with letting daniela go, hardest of all being the expectation that you had to fix her. but here she is, looking so small, so vulnerable, all of a sudden you’re back to when you first met and you realized the hockey team captain with a terrible reputation wasn’t bad at all. just painfully, dangerously misunderstood.

“sometimes it’s hard sharing a daughter with you, ‘cause she’s perfect, but she’s perfect because she’s got all the best parts of you, and i look at her, and it makes me miss you,” she goes on. “and i miss you the most when esmeralda laughs, ‘cause she laughs like you do, and it’s like we’re 21 and i’m hitting backflips in your front yard just to make you smile at me even for just a second.”

you absolutely hate how easy it is for you to fold for her in that exact moment. what, all it takes is some vulnerability, some nostalgia, and now you’re imagining letting her back into your arms? she can put you through absolute hell, but all you need is a quick sob story from her to feel your heart tug in her direction again?

the fact is that you loved her, and she loved you. you try to make peace with that and hope you can keep yourself from doing anything stupid. 

“i think we should go to sleep,” you finally manage, peeking out the window to see that the sun has dropped out of sight. you’re not sure how long you and your ex-wife have been talking, but clearly it was enough to keep you focused.

she blinks a few times, nodding as she looks away. “yeah, guess you’re right. i’ll take the couch.”

but before she can get out of the bed (or perhaps before you can think about it) the words rush out of your mouth.

“don’t.”

you see her brows furrow in confusion. “don’t?”

it’s one word, so simple, but it carries the weight of everything left unsaid between you two. you nod, curling up underneath the covers, before letting your voice soften.

“don’t.”

you half-expect her to say something stupid, but without further fanfare, she’s slipping into the bed behind you, the weight of the mattress shifting. it’s foreign and familiar all at once, but once her arm wraps gently around your waist and you feel the warmth of her body pressed against yours, all you can think of is just how undeniably, head-over-heels in love you two were, once upon a time.

you let out a soft breath as her familiar touch causes all the stress in your body to melt away. her hand rests innocently on your waist, but you want to make it abundantly clear that your intentions are pure. 

“don’t get any stupid ideas.” 

you can practically hear her grin. 

“i’m nothing but stupid ideas.”

you roll your eyes, but all she does is pull you closer, and you’re not protesting.

“i will kill you, avanzini.”

“do you ever miss being mrs. avanzini?” she asks curiously.

“god, i should have divorced you sooner,” you groan. 

“so you could remarry me again sooner?” she teases, shuffling to cuddle up behind you more comfortably. “true love finds a way.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t help but feel yourself dozing off, daniela’s comforting familiarity sending a sense of peace throughout your body. “can’t stand your annoying ass.”

“esme’s so perfect. tell me another baby doesn’t sound exciting…”

if you rolled your eyes any harder, they might just pop out of your head. 

“good night, daniela.”

but instead of insisting on another stupid joke, she simply presses a tender kiss into the back of your neck. it’s not aggressive, or possessive, not meant to stir anything. it’s gentle, familiar, as if she’s wishing you a restful sleep. you remember it now— her old habit of a good night kiss whenever you guys would go to bed.

“good night, mami,” she whispers gently, holding you just a little tighter, before you both drift off.

-

you wake to the first sunbeams shining in through the window, striking you just across the eyes. daniela’s arms are still wrapped around you, anchoring you in place, and it almost breaks your heart to have to peel her off of you. you turn slightly to see her, eyes screwed shut, lips just barely parted, her chest rising and falling rhythmically against your back. it stirs something in you, but before you can explore it any further, you hear the rustle of the doorhandle.

daniela stirs, and the two of you quickly part as you realize your daughter is back, racing inside, her eyes lighting up as she spots the two of you still there in one piece, neither parent having killed the other overnight.

“good morning!” she greets excitedly, throwing herself in between the two of you. you laugh and think about how she’s never outgrown this habit, even squeezing between you two from when she was a little girl.

“hi mi amor,” daniela greets, her voice raspy from having just woken up. she presses a loving kiss into esme’s head and looks out the window. “snow looks like it’s clearing up. i’ll head down with your mom soon.”

esme’s eyes go wide in eager curiosity. “can we maybe get breakfast together? nobody else is awake. i just haven’t had you both in one place for so long.”

you and esme look between each other, before you exchange looks with daniela. you smile at your daughter. “of course my love.”

“thank you guys for being nice to each other,” she beams.

the three of you get ready and make your way to the main lodge for breakfast. you sit by a window, admiring the mountainside view, the snow melting under the warmth of the emerging sun.

“hey,” dani says gently, poking esme’s snow boot with her foot from under the table as you all enjoy your breakfast. “hope you had fun.”

“i did,” the girl nods happily.

“you’ll tell me about it another time?” dainela offers. “i’d love to hear. at your age, i was setting off fireworks in lara’s backyard and aiming them at her window.”

esme laughs. “auntie lara was telling us about that. said you’ve always been a menace.”

you’re half expecting for daniela to say something stupid, as she always does, but suddenly, she catches you off guard with an unexpected confession. 

“esme, did you know auntie lara was my first kiss?”

“what?” you balk. this is news even to you. before you can question her further, you realize what she’s doing— she’s trying to give your daughter a safe space to open up.

“no way,” esme gapes in shock. 

“gross to think about, right?” daniela laughs, wrinkling her nose. “we were just kids. a few of us on the team stole a bottle from her dad’s liquor cabinet one day, over the summer. we both threw up immediately afterwards.”

esme bursts out laughing. “that’s insane!”

daniela grins, shoveling another spoonful of eggs into her mouth. “i was a naughty kid, believe it or not.”

you shake your head, laughing. “trust me, she believes it.”

daniela smiles at you, before reaching you to hold esme’s hand from on top of the table.

“cariño, i don’t want you feeling like you have to keep things from me,” dani tells her gently. 

the gesture is obviously enough to soothe esme, and whether it’s a parent’s instinct or blind intuition, daniela manages to say the exact perfect thing to get your daughter to clear her throat and look between the two of you nervously.

“i um… can i tell you something?”

“you okay?” you ask, looking at her in concern. “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

esme shakes her head, playing with a piece of fruit on her plate. you can tell something is bothering her as she musters up the courage to open up.

“arin and i kissed last night, during spin the bottle,” she finally confesses. “it was my first one.”

you see your ex twitch, her body tensing. “arin huh-kim?”

“daniela,” you warn, hoping to remind her of your guy’s expectations to be supportive and not difficult.

“i kind of regret it,” esme breathes, her gaze glued to the strawberry on her plate that she keeps poking about. “i thought it’d be more special, but she was so fast about it. like she was over it.” 

“i’m sorry, mi amor,” daniela sighs. 

“you’ll have a million chances to get a good first kiss,” you try to reassure her, sensing her disappointment. “one worth remembering.”

“you only get one first kiss,” esme frowns. “you didn’t forget yours, papi.”

“i forgot a lot about it. but i remember my favorite kiss,” daniela says. “i remember everything about it.”

esme’s eyes light up, but you can tell she’s hesitant about asking dani to open up and dive in. “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“are you a romantic, esme?” daniela asks, taking a sip from her orange juice.

“yeah, i think so,” the girl smiles.

“where’d you think you got it from?” daniela puffs up her chest. “definitely not your hard-ass mom’s side. she’s one of the least sentimental women i’ve ever met.”

“watch it, avanzini,” you laugh.

“my favorite first kiss was right after a party,” daniela goes on, reminiscing, esme’s eyes going shiny as she clings to every word of dani’s story. “i had been wanting to kiss this girl so many times before. kept stopping myself. didn’t want to get it wrong. she was dancing with one of my teammates and i just butted in and stole her away. there were so many people there, but it felt like we were the only people left in the room.”

“you still remember it?” esme asks.

daniela smiles. “you don’t forget the good ones.”

“thank you,” esme breathes appreciatively. “i was scared, and kinda sad. but that made me feel better. i’ll have more chances or whatever.”

“you’re a perfect kid, and anyone who knows you is lucky,” you reassure her.

“i’m gonna go back with the girls,” esme says, cleaning up her plate, before she looks between the two of you. “thank you both for coming.”

daniela reaches out to wrap her up in a hug. “always gonna show up for you, mi amor.”

“thanks for reminding me.” esme reaches out to scoop you up too, the three of you crushing into a warm group hug. “i love you guys.”

you both admire your perfect angel of a daughter as she bounds out in search of her friends. you clean up your own plate in silence, meeting daniela outside as she gets the car started to head back down into town. you’re both sitting in silence, in her red mustang, waiting for the engine to warm up before you start the drive back down the mountain.

but something is gnawing at you. you need answers.

“that kiss at the party. when yunjin and i were dancing together. you kissed me that night. you were talking about me,” you finally say, watching as she adjusts the rear-view mirror. “that was our first kiss.”

daniela simply smiles back at you. 

“i know.”

you let out a quiet breath. 

“still your favorite?”

she blinks a few times, staring out at the road, and you half-expect her to make a joke, but she disarms you with one simple word.

“yeah.”

you pause. there’s no use in lying.

“mine too.”

you’re not sure who reaches out first, you or her, but your fingers are intertwining, holding hands on top of the gear shift.

she offers you a gentle, tender smile, looking you over once more. you see it in those warm dark eyes, the eyes of someone it seems you’ll always know.

“let’s go home.”

you know things will be different when you’re back to the real world. but for the next few hours, as your daughter hangs out with her best friends on a mountainside resort, and the snow glistens around you on the icy road, you can let yourself pretend with daniela just one more time.

[ones-g]

Hot-Broke and Holy — Daniela Avanzini (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content · semi-public sex · possessive!dani · mirrored/voyeuristic imagery · fingering · oral · jealousy · switch!dani · switch!reader · class/power imbalance

Summary: She wants to train you. Shape you. Own you. In the studio, she makes you sweat. In the dressing room? She makes you hers. (10.7k words)

The first time you see her, she’s standing in the center of the dance studio with one foot flexed, hip cocked like she’s waiting for applause she hasn’t earned yet. Or maybe she already has. The room sort of bends around her like heat warping glass.

You don’t know her name yet. You just know she’s beautiful in that almost-unreal kind of way. Golden. Untouchable. Like someone you’d see in a perfume ad, holding a crystal bottle and laughing into the wind.

You’ve only been at this conservatory for three days and already the walls feel too clean. Too white. Too cold. Everyone moves like they’ve been choreographed since birth. You’re still finding your rhythm. And then there’s her.

She looks at you once.

Not long. Not dramatic. Just enough to make your chest feel tight, like she saw something you didn’t mean to show. And then she turns away.

Daniela notices you before you even walk fully through the door.

It’s not your posture or your technique. It’s your aura; untrained, a little messy, but raw. There’s no shine yet, but there’s fire. You walk like you’re used to having to fight for the floor. Like you’ve danced in rooms with broken mirrors and no air conditioning, and probably someone yelling in the background.

She knows that energy. She’s studied it. Danced over it. Stepped on it.

But you? You don’t look like someone who can be stepped on.

You look like someone she could lose to. And she hates that.

“Who’s the new one?” she mutters to the girl beside her, not taking her eyes off you. Her tone is lazy but there’s tension in it, coiled under her voice like a blade tucked into silk.

“I think she’s the scholarship girl. Transfer. From… Michigan or something?”

Daniela doesn’t answer. Her jaw tightens.

Scholarship, huh. Figures.

You try to focus. The room is intimidating. Mirrors on all sides. No hiding. Everyone’s in their perfect Lululemon sets, limbs like ballerina porcelain. And you—well. Your shoes are worn. Your top’s from Target. You haven’t replaced your sweatpants in months. You’re aware of it. You feel the eyes.

But mostly, you feel hers.

She’s stretching in the corner now, leg up on the barre, back arched like she’s modeling. She probably is. Every now and then, she glances at you. Not obviously. Just a flick of her gaze and a shift of her lips, like she’s privately amused.

You’re not sure if she wants to talk to you or kill you.

And honestly? You kind of want both.

Daniela’s thoughts are a mess.

She’s annoyed. She doesn’t like how you hold tension in your shoulders like you’re bracing for the world to take another swing. She doesn’t like how the instructors are already whispering about your “potential.”

And she really doesn’t like how you looked at her.

Not afraid. Not impressed. Just… curious. Like she was a puzzle you might solve if you had the time.

She finds herself imagining your hands. What they’d feel like on her waist in a duet. If you could keep up with her. If you’d dare outshine her. Her stomach twists. She shakes it off.

“Don’t fall for the eyes,” she murmurs under her breath.

By the end of class, your body’s aching and your head’s swimming, and she’s still in the back of your mind like a song stuck on repeat.

You don’t even know her name until someone says it casually in the locker room.

“Daniela’s definitely doing the solo for the Winter Gala. No one’s touching her level.”

Daniela.

It fits. Sounds like perfume and money and secrets.

You pull on your hoodie, still sweating, still shaken. You tell yourself it’s just nerves. Just competition. She’s just another dancer.

You don’t believe it. Not really.

Daniela throws her bag into the passenger seat of her car and climbs in, slamming the door harder than necessary.

The studio’s still glowing behind her, lights cold and clinical in the rearview mirror. She hates how sterile it looks. Everything in there felt too sharp today. Her skin’s still buzzing and her face is flushed and it’s not from the workout.

The latina twists her hair up into a claw clip, fingers moving fast, agitated. The windows fog slightly from her breath.

God. She needs to calm down.

She scrolls through her playlist, skips four songs, then just turns the music off entirely.

You, whoever the hell you are, are still in her head.

And not because you were good. Not yet, anyway. You were messy. Raw. Sloppy in the pirouettes. Arms too stiff. But you didn’t look scared.

And worse: you didn’t look impressed by her. Everyone else always looks impressed. Or jealous. Or scared. Or obsessed.

But you? You looked at her like you’d seen that kind of girl before. And maybe even didn’t care which is infuriating for the girl. Because she’s not just some girl.

She’s Daniela fucking Avanzini. She’s been on stage since she was five. She has danced with Juilliard people, got scouted at a young age, modeled for a luxury tights brand when she was sixteen and still had braces. She’s won. Everything. Every time.

She should not be thinking about you. And yet—

She leans back in her seat. Stares at the ceiling.

“You’re not special,” she says out loud, to no one. It sounds flat. Her phone buzzes. A text from Adele.

omg who tf is the new girl. she’s kinda intense?

she looks like she shops at goodwill lol

Daniela glares at the message. Her fingers hover over the keyboard. She types out shut up, then deletes it. In the end, she sends nothing.

You don’t need her defending you.

But also… no one should talk about you like that. Not unless it’s her.

If anyone’s going to tear you down or build you up or decide whether you rise or fall—

It’s going to be Daniela. Only Daniela.

You’re stretching after your second rehearsal. It’s late. Most people have gone home. You stayed behind, too wired to leave. Still trying to find the beat of the place.

You’re on the floor, working into your splits, when a shadow appears behind you.

“Your back foot’s sickled.”

You look up. It’s her. Daniela.

Her tone is neutral. Her expression isn’t.

“Fix it,” she says, stepping closer. Her hands are in her pockets, hair tied back today. She’s still glowing like she walked out of a magazine, but there’s something off about her energy. Like a bottle about to pop.

You adjust your foot.

“There,” you mutter, not sure if you’re annoyed or just flustered. Maybe both.

She watches you a second longer, then exhales sharply through her nose.

“You need work,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got presence, but your execution’s… hmm. Clumsy.”

“Thanks,” you reply, voice dry. “Nice to meet you too.”

She smiles. It’s not warm, “Oh don’t take it personal. I wouldn’t say anything if you weren’t already pissing me off.”

That catches you off guard, “How am I pissing you off?”

“Because,” she says, walking past you and grabbing a resistance band from the wall rack, “you’re wasting it. You’ve got something and you don’t even know what to do with it. I see it. They all do. And you’re letting people, who don’t even deserve to be your competition, eat you alive.”

She tosses the band down beside you.

“I’m gonna help you. Train you. Whatever.”

You blink. “Wait—why?”

“I don’t like watching bad dancers ruin my day.”

“That’s not a reason.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I just want you to reach my level. Fast.”

You hesitate. “So you can beat me?”

She leans in just a little. Eyes dark, unreadable.

“So I don’t have to share you with anyone else.”

The silence after that is sharp.

You’re not sure what she means. You don’t ask. And she doesn’t explain.

She just straightens up, tosses her ponytail over her shoulder, and says, “Meet me here tomorrow. 7 a.m. Don’t be late.”

Then she’s gone.

You sit there for a moment, heart beating a little too fast.

And you’re left thinking the same thing you thought yesterday… You don’t know if this is going to be good for you. Or dangerous. Maybe both.

The studio’s empty when you get there.

It’s 6:57 a.m., still pretty dark outside, and the place smells like lemon floor cleaner and humidity. You stretch in the corner, trying not to psych yourself out. You tell yourself it’s just practice. Just dance.

But your stomach’s doing weird flips.

She walks in at exactly 7:01.

No apology, no greeting. Just slides her duffel bag down by the mirrors, pulls off her sweatshirt, and starts rolling her neck like she owns the room. Her hair’s up again. High bun, clean and tight. Her leotard’s blood red today.

“Warm already?” she asks, eyeing you without really looking at you. You nod. “Sort of.”

“Sort of doesn’t cut it here. Up.”

She starts leading without waiting for a response.

The first hour is brutal. She doesn’t go easy on you. You mess up twice and she doesn’t hide her sighs. She corrects you mid-turn, taps your hip too hard once to fix your alignment. You glare at her. She smirks.

“You want them to take you seriously, you gotta stop moving like you’re apologizing.”

You wipe sweat from your brow. “Is this how you usually train people?”

“I don’t usually train anyone,” she says. “Most people bore me.”

She’s not trying to flirt. Not exactly. But her eyes linger on you longer than they should. Her hands stay on your waist just a second too long when she adjusts your line.

And when you fall out of a turn and mutter fuck, she laughs softly, like it’s her favorite sound, “You get mad when you’re frustrated. That’s good. Keep that.”

You’re exhausted by the end of it, muscles shaking, shirt damp. Daniela’s not even winded. She watches you sip water, arms crossed.

“You’re improving,” she says casually, like it annoys her.

“I thought I was clumsy.”

“You are,” she shrugs. “But now you’re clumsy with potential.”

You look at her, breathing hard. There’s sweat on your collarbone and your back aches and your ankle’s a little sore. But for the first time since you got here, you don’t feel invisible.

And she’s looking at you like she sees something no one else does.

That’s what scares you.

Later that week, you’re in the hallway outside the studio, unlacing your shoes, when you hear voices around the corner.

“Scholarship kids always come in cocky. They burn out by second semester.”

“She’s not even that good. If Daniela’s helping her, it’s probably out of pity.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look up. But your stomach twists.

Then the hallway goes quiet. A second later, Daniela rounds the corner. Her expression is unreadable.

“They won’t say it again,” she tells you.

You look up. “Did you—”

“They talk too much.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“Why do you care?” you ask. Not accusing. Just confused.

She blinks. Then, like it’s obvious, “Because they’re mine to silence.”

She pauses, then adds, almost too low to hear, “And so are you.”

Your breath catches. You don’t know what she meant by that. You don’t ask. Again.

But that look in her eyes, the one she gives you when she thinks you’re not paying attention, it’s there again.

Sharp. Quiet. Hungry.

And you’re not sure if you should run from it or lean into it.

Training the next morning is different.

Daniela doesn’t say much, she just positions you. Touches your back, your waist, your arms. No gloves on it now. Her hands slide over you like she owns the blueprint of your body.

At one point she steps in close, real close, aligning your posture. Her chest brushes your shoulder.

“You’re stiff,” she murmurs near your ear. “Let your body lead. Not your thoughts.”

You nod, but you can’t breathe. Her breath smells like cinnamon gum. Her fingertips press into your ribs.

She doesn’t move away right away.

Her voice drops a little, “You’re starting to look like someone they should be afraid of.”

You swallow, “And you?”

Daniela tilts her head slightly, lips curving, “I’m not afraid of you. I just don’t want anyone else touching what I’ve been shaping.”

You laugh nervously, “You talk like I’m clay or something.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“You’re mine,” she says, almost like she’s testing the words. “At least for now.”

It’s mid-week, the studio smells like sweat and tension, and the instructors announce a switch-up for duets.

You’re paired with Adele.

She’s talented, sharp, one of the top dancers—clean technique, zero warmth. The kind of girl who never laughs unless it’s at someone. You’ve never even spoken more than a “hey” in passing. You don’t expect much.

But the second your hands touch hers? Something clicks.

It’s not love, hell not even desire. It’s something darker. Something hungrier. Your body knows how to speak the same language hers does, and the routine you’re given doesn’t help. It’s breathy, close. Almost a seduction. One dancer leads, the other melts. Then reverses. Over and over.

By the third run-through, you’re sweating. Adele’s palms are hot against your skin. Your chest brushes hers with every lift. She grips your waist harder than needed and you don’t flinch.

You lean into it. Eyes locked. Lips parted. 

And the entire room has gone quiet.

Daniela’s standing at the back, arms crossed, not even pretending to warm up anymore. Her jaw ticks every time Adele touches you. The way you lean your head back during the turn. The arch of your spine. The way you don’t blink when Adele’s mouth hovers too close.

You’ve never danced like that with her. Not once. You’re fire in someone else’s hands and it’s killing her.

Daniela doesn’t even notice her nails digging into her own skin. A small voice in her head says, ‘It’s just choreography. It’s just movement.’

But it’s not. Not the way Adele looks at you when you drop your weight into her arms, trusting her completely. Not the way your lips part just slightly when you land the last beat, face tilted up, chest heaving.

You’re not trying to seduce anyone. That’s the worst part. You’re just that kind of girl.

And Daniela knows it. She knew it the second you walked in.

Daniela’s still sweating from rehearsal.

She didn’t dance today, not really. She simply watched. Seethed. Tried not to show it. And now she’s in the quiet hallway locker room, the one no one really uses. The vents don’t whistle. The floor doesn’t squeak. She always liked it for the silence.

Right now, the silence is unbearable.

She pulls off her leotard too fast and catches her fingernail on the strap. Doesn’t even flinch. Her hands are shaking. Her mouth tastes like salt and metal.

She can’t stop seeing it, you and Adele, the way your hips rolled with hers, how your hand gripped her shoulder like you meant it, like you felt something. Daniela hated it. She hated every second.

Not because you were good. But because you didn’t look at her that way.

You looked like you were playing, and Adele got to be the one you played with.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be hers. Her rival. Her project. Her obsession. Not anyone else’s.

She slams her locker door too hard. Then she hears it.

Footsteps. Laughter. Voices trailing down the hallway, unaware she’s there behind the corner.

Adele’s laugh, smooth and dry. “She doesn’t even try, does she?”

A beat, then, “I touched her once and it was like—Jesus. That girl’s trouble.”

Daniela freezes.

Her body goes still. Her breath catches somewhere in her throat. The corner of her lip twitches.

A second voice joins in, low and snide. “She walks around like she doesn’t know what her body’s doing.”

Another chuckle. “She looks like she gets railed behind a bar, not on a dance floor.”

Daniela doesn’t blink.

Adele again, biting off her words through a grin, “I’d bet money she’s wild in bed. You can feel it when she moves. Like she’s got something to prove.”

Then, “I mean, did you see what she was wearing? That hoodie? Those busted ass tights? Girl looks like she stole them from a lost-and-found bin.”

Some girl snorts, “She’s like, hot-broke. You know what I mean? Like, you’d sleep with her but then make sure she left by morning.”

They laugh again. Then they’re gone. Footsteps fade. Doors swing. Silence.

Daniela’s still standing in front of her locker. But she’s not really there anymore. Her throat is dry. Her jaw hurts from clenching.

Trouble.

Cheap.

Hot-broke.

Something to prove.

They think they can look at you. Touch you. Talk about you like that. They think you’re theirs to define.

No.

She shoves her arms through her jacket sleeves, movements sharp, fingers trembling.

No one gets to talk about you like that.

Not Adele. Not those stuck-up dancers with their smug little smirks and designer leggings. Not the instructors who treat you like a charity case.

No one.

If they want to look, they’re going to look at you the way she tells them to. If they want to talk, they’re going to use words she allows.

You don’t belong to them. You belong to her.

She doesn’t even realize she’s moving until she’s halfway down the hall. Doesn’t remember grabbing her keys. Doesn’t care that she’s still in half her dance gear.

Her heart’s pounding in her ears.

She’s not even angry anymore.

She’s done pretending.

You’re halfway through a plié sequence when the studio door slams open. Everyone looks. You freeze.

It’s Daniela.

Her hair’s barely tied back. She’s still in leggings and her hoodie, not even zipped. No makeup. No smile. Just fury simmering behind her eyes.

Your heart stutters.

She walks across the floor like she owns it. Doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t see anyone.

Just you.

“Get up,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. You blink. “What—?”

“Now.”

Someone snorts in the back, one of the dancers who always side-eyes you. Someone else whispers, “What the hell?”

You stand, slowly. Cautious. “Daniela, what’s—”

She grabs your wrist. Firm. Unshakable.

“You’re coming with me.”

“I’m—wait, I’m still rehearsing—”

“I don’t care.”

You look at the instructor. She doesn’t stop you. No one does. The whole room watches as Daniela pulls you toward the door like you’re hers to take. Like this is normal.

It’s not. But your body follows anyway. Your bag’s still in the corner. You don’t even get it.

Her car is waiting in the side lot, and it’s not the kind of car college girls drive.

You don’t even know what it’s called, but it looks expensive in a way that feels wrong against your hoodie and cracked phone screen. It’s sleek and silent, black like polished obsidian, not a scratch on it. When she unlocks it, the handles slide out automatically, like it’s alive.

You hesitate before getting in.

The inside smells like leather and something vaguely floral, something light and designer that definitely isn’t from a drugstore. The seats hug your body like they were built to. The screen on the dash lights up without a key, and the speakers are playing some low, ambient classical track that you know she didn’t queue up today, it’s just always playing. It fits her.

You glance at her hands on the wheel.

Her nails are clean, short, perfectly shaped. There’s a silver ring on her right index finger, expensive-looking, understated. Her wristwatch probably costs what you pay in rent for three months.

You sit back, slowly. It sinks in, a little heavier now.

You knew she came from money. Everyone knows that. You heard the rumors, saw the shoes, the dancewear with actual tailoring, the fact that she never once mentioned tuition.

But this? This makes your stomach tighten.

You’re sitting in something she didn’t earn, or maybe did, in her own way, but either way, you’d never have it. Not even close. You’re just here because she decided you should be.

And that… does something to you. Makes your skin hum. Makes your head spin.

She doesn’t speak during the ride. She just drives, fast and smooth, like this is normal. Like dragging someone out of class and into a world they don’t belong in is just what she does.

And part of you, the smallest, most shameful part, doesn’t want her to stop.

You’ve been in her car for fifteen minutes and not even a word was shared between the two of you. Daniela hasn’t even looked at you.

She parks in front of a building that looks like it belongs in another city, sleek glass, palm trees, fountains outside. You’ve never been here. You didn’t think you were allowed to be here.

Daniela steps out, slams the door, and waits. She doesn’t ask if you’re coming.

Inside, the air smells like vanilla and old money. You trail behind her, dazed, still sweaty in your dance clothes. 

Daniela doesn’t speak. She just walks into one of those stores with mannequins in sheer, silk things and one security guard who definitely judges your outfit the second you enter.

Meanwhile, she ignores everyone. Daniela simply starts grabbing clothes. A slate gray wrap skirt. A sculpted black bodysuit. A mesh-panel crop top that looks illegal.

You don’t even know where to look, “This is insane,” you murmur.

She tosses a jacket onto your arms. “You need better rehearsal clothes.”

“You don’t even know my size.”

She glances over her shoulder, eyes flicking down your body once, quick but too sharp. You feel it in your spine. 

“I know enough.”

“Daniela, seriously. I’m not gonna wear any of this.”

“You will.”

“I don’t need this.”

She turns fully this time, hands on her hips.

“It’s not about what you need,” she says, low and sharp. “It’s about what they think they’re allowed to say to you. And I’m not letting that happen again.”

You hesitate, “You heard them.”

She doesn’t answer, and that’s all the confirmation you need.

You look down at the pile of clothes in your arms. They’re beautiful. Way out of your budget. Way out of your world.

And for a second… part of you wants to keep holding them.

She softens slightly. Just a bit.

“You shouldn’t have to explain yourself,” she says, quieter now, “Not to anyone. And you sure as hell shouldn’t be dressing like someone who’s easy to dismiss.”

You exhale slowly, “So what, this is your revenge?”

She shrugs, “No. This is correction.”

You roll your eyes, “You sound like you’re trying to fix me.”

The latina steps closer. Her voice lowers, “No,” she says. “I’m fixing their view of you.”

Daniela takes you to a restaurant where everything smells like truffle oil and the water is served in wine glasses.

You try to insist on ordering for yourself. She ignores you and tells the waiter you’ll have the salmon.

You don’t argue again.

You’re in the new clothes. Just one piece, the mesh top. Daniela made you wear it out. Said it “fit better than your hoodie.” You didn’t have the energy to fight her.

She’s drinking a glass of red, turning it slowly in her fingers. The silence stretches until she breaks it, “Are you always like this?”

You glance up, “Like what?”

“Quiet. Unbothered. Like you don’t know people are obsessed with you.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Daniela interrupts, “They talk about you when you leave. They look at you like they’ve never seen skin before.”

You fidget in your seat. She leans in a little. Her voice goes quieter, “You move like you know what you’re doing. But you dress like you’re trying to disappear. Why?”

You look at your fork, “Because it’s easier.”

Daniela studies you. Sharp. Focused. Her eyes squinted.

“And your… sex life?”

You nearly choke. “Jesus. What kind of dinner is this?”

The latina smirks, but doesn’t back down. “I’m curious.”

You sigh. “I’ve been with people. I guess. But nothing that ever really… saw me.”

Daniela sips her wine again. Then, after a pause, “You wear sweatpants to rehearsal like you don’t know you have that body. That’s criminal.”

You go quiet.

She tilts her head, smiling just slightly, “I’m going to fix that too.”

You don’t even argue this time.

She’s already pulled you out of your chair. Already dragged you back into her car. Already parked in front of a boutique with blacked-out windows and gold handles.

“I’m not doing this,” you say, but it’s weak. Too tired. Too overwhelmed.

“You are,”  Daniela pulls open the door. Inside were velvet curtains, lace everywhere, mirrors in every corner.

She starts picking out sets. Silks. Straps. Lace in dangerous colors. Not a single thing practical for you.

You try to speak, but she cuts you off, “I want to see what happens when you finally start looking like you’re not sorry for being wanted.”

Staring at the girl, you don’t say anything. She grabs one last thing—a barely-there red set—and hands it to you, “You’re trying this one first.”

You step into the dressing room, dazed. A minute later, the curtain rustles. And she slips in behind you. 

The lock clicks.

You spin around.

She’s inside. Her body flush against the velvet drape, her hand still resting on the little gold lock. Her eyes burning.

“Daniela—”

“Shhh…” The latina’s voice is low, not soft. Almost warning. And then with a low whisper, “Take it off.”

You blink. “What?”

“That top,” she says, stepping closer, “and the one under it. I want to see you in this.”

She holds up the hanger—red lace, thin straps, nothing safe about it.

You stare at her, “You can’t be in here.”

“I’m already in here,” Daniela murmurs.

You open your mouth to argue but something about her face, her eyes, her jaw, the way her pupils are dilated, which makes your stomach drop. Not in fear.

In heat.

She steps closer.

“I watched you melt in Adele’s hands like it was nothing,” Daniela says, voice just above a whisper, breath ghosting your neck. “Saw the way your back arched for her. The way you let her guide you like she knew your body.”

She leans in until her mouth is next to your ear, “She doesn’t. I do.”

Your breath catches.

Daniela’s hands move before you can respond, one sliding to the hem of your mesh top, lifting it, the other pressing flat over your stomach.

“Say stop if you want me to,” she murmurs. “But I know you won’t.”

You don’t, and that’s all she needs.

Daniela should be patient. She should slow down and let you adjust. Ease into this. But she can’t. She won’t.

She’s been watching you for weeks—dripping sweat in that pathetic hoodie, spinning too close to people who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. Letting their hands near you. Letting their eyes linger.

All while pretending you don’t notice. You do. Daniela knows you do. You like being watched. You just haven’t been watched by her yet.

And now she’s here. With you. Alone. And you’re letting her touch you.

Your breath stutters under her hands, but you’re not pulling away. You’re letting her peel the top off. You’re letting her unzip the skirt she picked, let it drop to the velvet floor.

Her hands shake, just for a second, when the lace hits your skin. It’s almost too much. The contrast of red on your body, delicate and sinfully see-through.

Daniela bought this for you. She chose it. And now it’s hers to ruin. She walks around you slow, like you’re something she’s circling before the first bite. She looks at you in the mirror. You try not to.

“No,” she murmurs, stepping behind you. Her hands rest heavy on your waist, “Don’t look away.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror. Your pulse is in your throat. Daniela’s body is flush to your back, warm, firm, everything about her touch claiming.

You whisper, “Why are you—”

Her mouth brushes your jaw, slow and hot, “Because I can’t watch you pretend anymore.”

You feel her everywhere. Her hands, her breath, the way her voice slides down your spine.

“I think about this,” Daniela says, her tone rough now, “More than I should. More than I’d like to admit.”

You swallow hard.

“Thinking about peeling off those useless sweats,” she continues, her lips ghosting down the side of your neck, “spreading you open in front of that damn mirror so you can finally see how wrecked you look when it’s me touching you instead of some talentless bitch with pretty arms.”

You shudder, knees weak, head spinning.

“And you’d let me,” she breathes, “You let me take you shopping, let me feed you, dress you, undress you—because you want to belong to someone.”

Her hands slide lower, “Don’t you?”

You can’t speak. You nod.

And that’s when she loses the last bit of control.

You don’t remember when your back hit the mirror. You’re not even sure how your legs stayed under you when Daniela’s hand slid up your thigh, just enough to let you feel the weight of her palm, but not enough to satisfy anything. Not even close.

Daniela’s breath is ragged against your ear. She hasn’t even touched herself, and she’s already falling apart.

Her moan is soft, unsteady, like she’s the one being undone. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” she murmurs. “Every time you walk into the studio like you don’t fucking belong there.”

Her voice cracks. She presses her forehead to your temple like she needs the contact just to breathe, “I saw the way Adele touched you. I could’ve torn her apart.”

Her hands are everywhere now, firm at your hips, sliding up your sides, teasing over the thin lace she chose. Her thumb presses along your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like she has all the time in the world. But her voice says otherwise.

“You wore this for me,” she whispers, just behind your ear, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “Don’t care what you said. You put this on, knowing what it would do to me.”

You try to respond, some small protest, maybe. But it dies in your throat when she pushes your legs just slightly apart with her knee.

She still hasn’t touched you where you need her. And still, she moans. Long and low. Into your neck. She’s shaking. You feel her grip your waist tighter, not to steady you. To steady herself.

“I think about you every night,” she admits, almost drunk on the words now, “how you’d sound. What your skin tastes like. How soft you’d go for me when I finally let myself have you.”

You whimper, and that’s the moment it changes. That’s when you let go. Because something inside you snaps at the sound of her moan, the desperation in it. You can feel how much she’s held herself back, how long she’s wanted this, wanted you. And no one’s ever wanted you like that before.

You lift your hips against her thigh without thinking. The movement is small, but purposeful.

And she growls. Not softly. It’s guttural. Raw. Daniela’s teeth catch your earlobe, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to make you gasp.

“You like being wanted like this, don’t you?” Daniela pants, voice shaking, “You’ve been acting like you’re above all of it, like you don’t care who watches, but deep down you’ve been dying to be owned.”

Your fingers dig into her shoulders. You don’t even realize how loud your breathing’s gotten until you catch your own reflection—flushed, pupils blown wide, mouth parted. Your hands trembling.

You don’t look like the quiet girl anymore. You look like what they said you were. Like trouble. And Daniela sees it, too. She smirks into your neck, teeth grazing your skin again.

“There you are,” she whispers. “Finally.”

You gasp as her hand presses between your thighs, over the lace, not enough, but enough to ruin you. You bite your lip to stay quiet, because there are people just feet away. But Daniela moans again,louder this time, needier, completely untouched.

She’s losing it. And she doesn’t care who hears.

“You’re mine,” she breathes, fingers curling into your thigh. “Not Adele’s. Not theirs. Mine.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, your body pulsing where her mouth meets your skin, where her breath hits your chest.

Then she moves against you, grinding her thigh between your legs in slow, hard circles that make your knees buckle. You brace yourself against the mirror, lips parted in a gasp, and she moans again at the sound, louder this time, breathy and raw, like she’s unraveling just from your reaction alone.

She’s not faking it. She’s coming apart.

“I want you loud,” she whispers, “but you can’t be, can you?”

She pulls you harder against her thigh, “Not in here. Not unless you want them to hear.”

You bite your knuckle. She watches you do it and groans, it breaks right out of her chest.

“Fuck, you’re so good like this,” she breathes. “You’re trying so hard to be quiet.”

You whimper, pressed flush against her, your lace-clad body slick with heat and nerve endings and the kind of need that could swallow you whole.

She doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop moaning. She’s starving for you—every breath, every brush of skin, every gasp you let slip.

And the worst part? You’re just as hungry.

Daniela should stop. She knows she should.

You’re flushed, breathless, barely standing. Your back’s pressed to the mirror, your eyes glazed with heat, and she should pull herself back; she should regain control.

But she doesn’t want control anymore. She wants you. She wants everything; every part of you you’ve never given anyone, every sound you’ve ever bitten back, every place on your body that hasn’t been seen, touched, tasted properly.

And suddenly, her desire isn’t cruel. It’s worshipful.

She steps back, breath shaking, jaw tight. Her hands tremble at your waist. Her eyes flick up to yours—wide, wild, hungry.

And then she does it. She lowers herself. Kneels.

Her knees hit the velvet floor, slow, on purpose. Her hands slide down the backs of your thighs, anchoring herself there, grounding. And it’s not performance. It’s not about power.

It’s surrender.

Her mouth parts, breath warm and unsteady. Her chest rises as she looks up at you from the floor, like this is a prayer, like you’re her altar.

You stare down at her, stunned. Because Daniela Avanzini does not kneel. Not for anyone. 

Not for teachers. Not for choreographers. Not for her mother or the board of directors or the dancers who line up to try and impress her.

But she’s kneeling now. For you.

Her voice cracks when she speaks, “I’ve never done this for anyone,” she says. Not cocky. Not calculated. Just quiet. Almost confused, “I’ve never wanted to.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because she looks beautiful like this, on the floor, breathless, undone. The black of her hoodie sliding down her arms. Her curls frizzed and out of place from heat and friction. Her lips swollen from biting back all the things she’s never said to anyone.

She presses her cheek to your thigh. Not seductive, worshipful, “I want to taste you,” she whispers, “Not to own you. Not to prove anything.”

Her hands slip up your legs, just barely, “I want to taste you because no one deserves to know your body but me.”

She kisses the inside of your knee. And then your thigh. And then—

“I want to make you fall apart,” she breathes, “just so I can watch you come back together.”

And when her trembling hands slowly tug at the lace she picked out, she moans, already overwhelmed. You haven’t even let her in yet. But she’s already gone.

You’re flush against the mirror, lace barely hanging on, hips trembling, thighs slick with heat, and Daniela is on her knees in front of you.

You don’t speak. You can’t. You just stare down at her, meeting her needy gaze. No one’s ever looked at you like this. And certainly not her.

Not Daniela Avanzini, with her perfect hair and perfect mouth and vicious little smirks. Not the girl who walks through the world like it owes her attention.

But now, she’s here. On the floor. For you. Her eyes are wild, blown black, her hands gripped hard around your thighs like she’s grounding herself, like if she doesn’t hold on, she’ll fall through the floor.

And her lips—god—her lips are so close. Daniela’s breathing hard. You feel every warm exhale against the heat between your legs, feel it ghost through the thin lace she made you wear. Every slow breath pushes you higher. Your knees tremble.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice rough, “I haven’t even touched you and you’re already dripping.”

You gasp, not from the words, but from her tongue. It slides over the lace. Slow. Testing. And then she moans. Loud.

It vibrates through you, shakes the breath from your lungs. You brace against the mirror, knuckles white, thighs tensing under her hands. You’re not used to being seen like this, undone like this. But Daniela’s eating you with her eyes.

“God, this is mine,” she breathes, lips brushing right where you need her most, “No one else gets to taste this. No one.”

And then, without warning, she pulls your underwear to the side with her teeth. You whimper. Her breath catches. And then… she devours you.

There’s no other word for it. It’s not delicate. Not slow.

It’s wet and messy and urgent. Daniela’s tongue flicks, curls, presses deep, desperate and unrelenting, like she’s starved and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted. And all the while, she keeps moaning, like your taste alone is wrecking her. 

You glance down, dazed, and the sight nearly ends you. Her flushed face between your legs, her mouth slick, her chin shining with you. You can’t even breathe right. You pant, tremble, rock your hips forward without meaning to, and she groans like you just blessed her.

Daniela loves this; loves the way your thighs shake, the way your voice catches when she sucks harder, the way your hips twitch when she gets the rhythm just right. It’s too much. Too loud. Too wet. Too perfect.

You glance down again, and that’s when it hits you—No one’s ever seen her like this. No one’s ever had her like this. She’s never lowered herself for anyone. Never been on her knees, lips swollen, tongue buried in someone else’s cunt.

This is for you. Just you.

And god, you can feel it, in the way her fingers dig into your ass to pull you closer, the way she moans when you buck against her mouth, the way she chokes on it and doesn’t stop.

She’s addicted. She’s yours.

And when you finally cum—hips grinding against her mouth, head thrown back, a strangled cry barely muffled by your wrist—Daniela holds you through it, never pulling away, drinking in every last shake of your thighs like it’s holy. She doesn’t stop until your legs give out. Even then, she kisses the inside of your thigh like a promise.

When she finally pulls back, her mouth is soaked. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes dazed. She stares up at you, chest rising, lips parted, panting like she just climbed out of hell. And she smiles. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s possessive. Wrecked and proud. 

She licks her bottom lip, “Taste that?” she breathes. “That’s mine now.”

You’re still gasping, unsteady, one hand braced against the mirror to keep yourself upright, the other tangled in the velvet curtain behind you. Your legs are shaking. You haven’t even caught your breath. And Daniela’s still on her knees.

She drags her mouth up your thigh, lips slick and bruised. Her jaw’s shining with you. And her eyes, they don’t look real. Wild. Ferocious. Wrecked.

She rises slowly, pushing herself up your body like she’s still tasting you through the air. Her hand slides along your waist, possessive. No hesitation. No mercy.

She presses her mouth to your neck and growls, low and raw, like she’s angry you’re not still falling apart, “You think we’re done?” she rasps.

You don’t answer. You can’t. She doesn’t wait. She spins you around. Your front hits the mirror hard enough to fog it with your breath. You try to catch yourself, palms flat on the glass, but she’s already behind you, already dragging your hips back against hers.

You see her in the reflection. Eyes dark. Mouth parted. Her fingers wet from you. She pushes your legs open with her knee again. Her hand slides between your thighs—and when her fingers press inside, you choke on a sound you can’t contain.

Your body jerks. Your forehead drops to the mirror.

But she pulls your hair, gently, to make you look up. “No,” she whispers, lips right behind your ear. “Watch.”

You do. You have to.

Her fingers curl deep inside you, and the mirror shows you everything. The way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open. How your hips grind back into her without even meaning to.

You look wrecked. And she looks satisfied. You try to close your eyes again. Daniela bites your shoulder hard, “I said watch.”

You do. Because now she’s whispering filth into your ear. Low. Constant. A string of things no one’s ever dared to say to you; about how good you feel, how wet you are, how ruined you look like this.

Daniela’s teeth find your neck. She doesn’t just suck. She claims. And she doesn’t stop; she drags her tongue over the bite, lips hot and wet, then sucks again right below it. You cry out, try to twist, but her fingers thrust deeper in retaliation and you melt.

You can already feel the bruise blooming. Another. And another. Your skin is hers now. And she wants people to see.

“Wear a leotard tomorrow,” she pants, working her fingers harder, “Let them all see what I did to you.”

You moan loud. She groans right back, pressed to your shoulder like she needs to feel your voice through her bones, “Let them wonder what you sound like when you’re not being quiet. Let them know who you belong to.”

She thrusts again, deep and rough, and you shatter. Again. Eyes wide open this time, face flushed, your entire body slamming forward as your cry fogs the glass. Her name rips out of your throat before you can stop it.

And Daniela, chest rising hard, mouth still open against your skin, lets out a sound like she’s breaking, too.

She doesn’t pull her fingers out. She doesn’t let you go. She just holds you there, panting into your neck, soaked in your heat, your taste still drying on her lips. Her mouth drags up the shell of your ear, “You’re not walking into that studio tomorrow without my fingerprints all over you.”

The mirror’s still fogged from your breath.

Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, thighs slick. You’re barely standing, hands braced against the glass, knees trembling, your body still twitching in the aftermath.

You feel her pull back, slow. Her chest peels away from your spine. Her mouth lifts from your shoulder. But her hand stays between your legs… until it doesn’t. 

You feel her fingers slide out—wet, slow, obscene. You let out a soft, broken sound. Then—

“Look.”

Her voice is quieter now, low and dangerous, wrecked but clear. You lift your head. The mirror meets you. You, dazed and glowing. Her, behind you, lips parted, eyes dark. And then you see it—

Her hand.

She holds her fingers up in the reflection. Still glistening. Still twitching slightly from the tension in her knuckles. And without breaking eye contact—

She licks them. First one. Then two. Then her tongue slides between them, slow, savoring, like she’s tasting something sacred. She moans around her fingers. She doesn’t blink. And neither do you.

You watch her jaw move, watch her eyes flutter closed for just a second, overwhelmed, before she breathes out a shaky, “Fuck…”

It’s not for show. It’s not to tease you. It’s real. The latina looks like she’s in pain from how good you taste. Like she could live off it. And when her eyes open again, locking onto yours through the mirror, she says nothing. Daniela just smiles, a slow, crooked thing. Possessive. Filthy. Proud. 

Her fingers leave her mouth with a soft pop, “You’re mine now,” she whispers, breath warm against your shoulder, “You know that, right?”

You can’t speak. You just nod—breathless, flushed, ruined.

And she leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice almost gentle now, “Good.”

Daniela doesn’t even let you breathe.

The second your body starts coming down, trembling against the mirror, knees weak, sweat cooling, she grabs your face, kisses you hard, and whispers, “Get dressed.”

You blink, dazed. “What—”

She already has your skirt in her hands, “I said get dressed,” she growls, not angry, just wild, flushed with want, “We’re not done.”

You’re still dizzy. You fumble for your clothes as she yanks the curtain open like nothing happened, grabs your bag, shoves the lingerie sets into the crook of her arm, and struts to the register like her mouth isn’t still soaked with you.

She doesn’t wait for the total. Doesn’t ask for a bag. Just tosses her card on the counter and says, “Put everything under Avanzini.”

You follow her out in a daze, barely walking straight, thighs sticky, mind swimming. And then you’re in the car. Back in that impossibly sleek, silent space. The doors close with a hiss, and before you can say anything, she leans over, grabs your chin, and kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue warm and slow, like she needs you in her mouth just to stay sane.

She pulls away, slams a hand on the wheel, and tears out of the lot, “You taste so fucking good,” she mutters, voice ragged.

Daniela shifts into another gear. Faster. The streetlights blur. You sit in stunned silence until she suddenly takes your hand and shoves it between her thighs.

You gasp. She’s soaked. And not subtly. Her leggings are damp, heat radiating through the fabric like she’s burning up from the inside out.

“I’ve been dripping since I had you in my mouth,” Daniela says, voice low, broken. “I want your fingers.”

You glance over, heart hammering, but she keeps her eyes on the road. “Now,” she adds, like she’s asking, but not really.

You don’t even hesitate. Your hand slides past the waistband, and she whimpers, head tipping back for a split second, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel.

“Fuck—yes,” she breathes, spreading her legs wider as she drives, “Just like that, baby.”

You curl your fingers inside her, slow, then deep, and her hips stutter against the seat. She moans. Loud.

“Faster,” she pants, and when the next red light hits, Daniela grabs your jaw, drags you into another messy, wet kiss, her moans muffled against your mouth, her breath ragged, her hands twitching like she doesn’t know whether to drive or touch you back.

“You’re so good at this,” she groans, “like—fuck—like you were made for me.”

Her thighs twitch. She grinds down into your hand like she’s trying to break your wrist.

Another red light. Another kiss. Hotter. Deeper. Her tongue fucking desperate in your mouth.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Daniela pants, “I could come just from the way you’re looking at me.”

You say nothing, just thrust harder, faster, and she breaks. Her hips jerk, her breath catches, and she lets out a moan that tears straight through her, guttural and unfiltered, body curling around your hand.

“FUCK—yes, yes—don’t stop—”

You don’t. Not until she’s panting into the air inside the car, voice hoarse, thighs slick and trembling beneath your fingers.

She pulls into her driveway on a shaky breath, gripping your wrist still inside her. And then she turns to you, eyes glassy, lips swollen, “This night’s not over.”

Daniela barely cuts the engine before she’s out of the car, yanking her door shut like she’s seconds from tearing something apart. You follow on shaky legs, not from nerves anymore, but from something deeper.

Want. Not need. Not desperation. Just pure, driving hunger.

She throws open her front door, doesn’t even flick on the light. Moonlight spills in through the windows, silvering the sleek, modern lines of the house, all marble and glass and clean, curated wealth. But it barely registers. Because you’re already moving.

Daniela heads toward the stairs. You grab her wrist. She turns, surprised. You slam her back into the wall—not rough, but hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

Her gasp is sharp. You grab her face and kiss her deep, messy, overwhelming, and she melts into it with a moan that vibrates against your teeth.

When you pull away, her lips are red and her chest is heaving, “You said this night wasn’t over,” you murmur, “So don’t stop now, where’s your room?”

Daniela’s pupils blow wide. You don’t wait for her to lead this time. You take her hand, pull her up the stairs like you own the place. She follows. Breathless. Silent. And when you reach her room, all soft sheets and big windows and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you don’t even hesitate. You push her onto the bed.

She hits the mattress with a stunned little laugh, like she can’t believe this is happening. Like she didn’t know you had this in you. She props herself on her elbows, legs parted slightly, eyes searching your face. 

“You’re different now,” she says. You crawl over her. Straddle her hips. Lean down until your mouth brushes her throat, “You made me this way.”

She exhales hard. And then you slide your hand beneath her waistband again, and this time you’re the one moaning at how soaked she still is.

You press two fingers into her, no teasing, no warning. She arches. Hard. Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. You move slow at first. Deep. Intentional.

“Do you want me to mark you?” you whisper, biting her collarbone. “You want everyone in rehearsal to see what I did to you?”

She nods fast—too fast. You suck hard enough to bruise. Her breath stutters. Her thighs twitch. You trail your mouth lower, tasting her neck, the salt of her collarbone, the edge of her bra.

And still, your fingers never stop moving. Inside her. Curling. Filling, “You made me watch myself come apart,” you murmur against her skin. “Now you’re gonna watch me ruin you.”

Daniela makes a sound that’s not quite a moan, not quite a sob, somewhere between surrender and shock. Because this isn’t about payment. This isn’t you giving back the lingerie or the mall or the ride home.

This is you returning what she made you feel. The craving. The ache. The kind of hunger that eats you alive.

You kiss her ribs. Her stomach. Her hipbone. And all the while, you fuck her with your hand, slow and deep, curling just right, dragging moans from her that no one else has ever heard.

Not like this. Not from her. Not Daniela. She fists the sheets. Her back arches. She tries to reach for you—

“No,” you say. You grab her wrist. Pin it above her head. Climb up over her body again. You whisper it into her mouth, “Stay there. Let me have you.”

Daniela doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. She just takes it. And when she finally cums, with your mouth on her throat, your fingers inside her, your breath whispering everything she made you into, it’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s not composed. It’s ruinous. And it’s hers. Just like you are now.

Daniela’s still trembling beneath you, your fingers still inside her, when she blinks up at you, dazed, flushed, wrecked—and something shifts. Deep in her chest. Her lips part. Her brows knit. And then—

She flips you. Fast. Stronger than you expected. Your back hits the mattress, and the air punches from your lungs. Daniela’s eyes burn as she straddles your waist, stripping herself bare in one fluid movement. She peels your clothes off too, not frantic, not rough, but with the same purposeful grace she dances with. Like this is choreography. Like she’s studied every beat of your breath.

You try to sit up, but she pushes you flat again, hard enough to sting. Her mouth brushes your ear. “You think that was enough?” She whispers, “You think we’re done?”

Your throat goes dry. She moves lower, one thigh sliding over your shoulder. And then she sinks down, slow, controlled, her slick heat settling over your mouth like it’s her rightful place.

You moan into her, helpless. She exhales a shuddering breath, fingers threading into your hair, guiding you. “We’re going to have another lesson,” she says, breath hitching as your tongue flicks against her, “I’m gonna teach you how to ride a woman.”

She starts to move. Hips rolling. Graceful. Sinful. Her thighs tremble as she finds a rhythm, each motion fluid like water, precise like a dance routine drilled to perfection. But nothing about it feels rehearsed. It feels like instinct.

Then Daniela’s eyes catch on the mirror across the room.

Floor-to-ceiling. Perfectly angled. And suddenly, she can see it, all of it. The arch of her back. The sweat sheen across her spine. Her thighs spread wide around your face. The way your tongue disappears between her folds, your jaw straining as you take her. How your hands clutch at her hips like you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you loosen your grip.

Her breath catches.

She moans deep, involuntary, as something cracks open inside her. She’s hypnotized by her own reflection. By the rhythm of her body, the way she rolls her hips, rougher now, each movement deliberate, claiming you again and again and again. She sees it in her own face, flushed, wild, mouth slack with pleasure, and the power turns molten in her veins.

You can feel it. The shift. Her thighs start to shake. Her pace turns erratic, almost mean. Her breath is high and gasping, and when you glance up, you see her staring right at herself.

And then she laughs. Low. Breathless. Wicked, “Oh my God,” Daniela chokes out. “Look at me.”

You are. You can’t stop. Her taste floods your tongue, sweet and sharp and unmistakably hers. Her scent wraps around you, heady and dizzying, like expensive perfume over sin. And the way she rides your mouth, fuck, it’s not just carnal. It’s divine. Like she’s dancing with her own body and you’re just the stage beneath her.

You moan into her, tongue flattening, desperate to give her more. To take more.

Daniela watches your fingers tighten on her hips. Sees your stomach tremble. The way your body reacts to her, instinctively, worshipfully. She can feel how much you want this, and it makes her burn. It makes her hungry.

So she reaches for her phone. She doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t need to. Years of training let her keep that punishing, perfect rhythm as she opens the camera app, flips it to video, and points it straight at the mirror.

Her voice is hoarse, breathless, “God, you look so fucking good in my camera.”

You don’t even flinch. You look up. And when you see her, wild and glorious and dripping, holding the phone steady while she fucks your mouth, making you groan, loud, into her cunt. The vibration makes her jolt.

“You’re not gonna stop me?” she pants, tilting the camera lower, catching your eyes beneath her, “You’re gonna let me film how wrecked you are for me?”

You shake your head, unable to speak, but if anything, it drives you. You grip her harder. Suck deeper. Let your tongue circle just the way she likes, and she gasps, legs twitching, hips stuttering mid-thrust.

“Fuck—fuck, yes. Just like that. God,” she moans, shifting to frame your tongue perfectly in the shot. “You like it, huh? Knowing I’m gonna have this on my phone. Knowing I’m gonna watch this tomorrow. Touch myself to the way you beg for it.”

Her words melt into your skin like heat. You’re not embarrassed. Not even close. You want her to remember. You want her to relive this. The mess of it. The moans. The desperation. The way your hands claw at her skin, worshipping her like she’s something sacred and profane all at once.

Daniela can barely hold the phone steady now. She catches a glimpse of her own reflection, pupils blown, sweat dripping down her chest, her lips parted around a sound she can’t even name, and it unravels her. She looks like a goddess. A beast. A thing of raw need and brutal grace.

She’s never wanted anything more. And still, you’re giving it to her. Your tongue working her open. Your mouth soaked with her. Your eyes locked on her through the mirror like you’d die if she asked.

Her thighs start to tremble again. She nearly drops the phone. One last thrust, harsh, perfect, and then she gasps.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

But then she pauses. Breathing hard. Hands shaking. And you feel it, her weight lifts for a second, just enough to leave your lips wet and wanting.

Then she shifts. Turns. Straddles you backwards now, ass in your face, thighs tight around your ears. You groan, mouth finding her again without hesitation, tongue fucking into her as she grinds down with a moan that borders on unhinged.

But this time, Daniela leans forward. You feel her breath against your thigh. Her hand on your knee. Her tongue—

“Couldn’t leave you out,” she murmurs, voice ragged, “Not when you taste this fucking good.”

And then she’s eating you out while riding your face, both of you drowning in the filth and heat and mirrored obsession of it all. It’s not just sex. It’s a performance. A possession. A memory in the making. One you’ll both replay until you come apart again.

She’s tasting you, fucking you with her mouth as she rides yours, like she needs to feel every part of you, own every sound you make. It’s unrelenting. Filthy. Symphonic.

Her rhythm falters. She’s close. You feel it in the way she tightens around your tongue, in the way her moans go high and desperate, in the way her mouth stutters over your clit like she’s losing control—

“God—” she gasps, “Fuck, I can’t—”

You don’t stop. Neither does she. It’s messy. Mirrored. A duet of chaos and hunger. The perfect partnered dance routine.

And when she finally cums, it’s explosive. Her whole body goes rigid, thighs clamping around your head, her cry muffled against your cunt as she falls apart. You follow seconds later, shaking, wrung out and soaked, her name shattered on your tongue.

Daniela collapses on top of you, breathless, slick and sweat-drenched, your bodies tangled, your mouths still sticky with each other.

And when she finally rolls off you, her chest still heaving, she says nothing. Because she doesn’t need to. Not when your body’s still humming from every lesson she just taught.

The room smells like sex and sweat and skin. The sheets are tangled around your legs, your chest still rising and falling as you lay there—your head on Daniela’s stomach, her fingers absently threading through your hair.

Her skin is warm beneath your cheek. Damp. Still twitching now and then from the aftershocks. You both haven’t spoken in minutes; you don’t need to.

Her hand shifts, brushing sweaty strands from your forehead. She looks down at you—eyes softer than they’ve been all night. Almost… delicate.

“You okay?” she asks, voice rough from moaning.

You nod, too relaxed to even open your eyes, “More than okay.”

A small smile tugs at her lips. She leans down and kisses your forehead. It’s slow. Lingered. Like she’s trying to memorize the taste of your skin after you’ve come undone for her.

“I should run us a bath,” she murmurs into your hair. “You need to soak.”

You hum something sleepy and unintelligible. But when she tries to shift away, your hand curls around her waist, “Wait.”

She stops. You don’t open your eyes. You just press your cheek a little tighter to her skin. Your voice is barely above a whisper, “Don’t go far.”

She stares at you for a second—something unreadable behind her lashes. Then, gently, she cups your jaw and tilts your face up. Her thumb brushes over your bottom lip. And she kisses you again—not rushed, not rough.

Just a slow press of mouths. Real. “I’m not going far,” she whispers, almost to herself.

You let her go this time.

And when she returns—ten minutes later, wrapped in a robe, hand outstretched toward you with steam behind her—you take it.

The walk to the bathroom is slow. Quiet. Her thumb circles your palm the whole way there. And when she helps you step into the bath, easing down behind you, pulling your body into hers again—

You know the night hasn’t ended. It’s just changing shape.

The bathroom looks like something out of a magazine. Marble everything. Brushed gold accents. A tub big enough to drown in; sunken, square, deep enough to disappear. There’s steam already curling from the surface, warm and lazy.

You step in first. Hesitant. Daniela watches you with something soft in her eyes. Not smug. Not hungry. Just watching.

You sink down into the water, it cradles you instantly, heat soothing all the muscles she worked. You glance around, dazed.

“This… bathroom,” you murmur, looking at the backlit mirror, the heated floor, the shelves with rolled towels so soft they look fake. “It looks better than everything in my apartment combined.”

She laughs softly, not at you. Just amused, a little sheepish.

“I know,” Daniela says, stepping in behind you, “It’s stupid. I didn’t even pick it. My mom just had it done while I was away at summer intensives.”

She sinks into the tub behind you, pulling you in without asking. Her arms slip under yours, hands curling around your stomach, chin resting on your shoulder.

It should feel possessive—her hold, her body wrapped around you. But it doesn’t. It feels… still. Oddly real. You relax into it, breath slowing. The water laps softly around you both. Her cheek brushes against yours.

Then her lips. A kiss, gentle and unguarded, right at your temple. Then again, softer, on your hair.

You don’t speak. You just shift, turn slightly in the cradle of her body, and press your lips to her neck. A quiet kiss. Not lustful. Just… a kiss.

Daniela breathes in like it startles her. But she doesn’t pull away. You stay like that. Soaking. Touching. Breathing the same humid air.

You let your head rest against her collarbone, and you realize you don’t want to move. Not just from the warmth or the water, but from her.

You don’t want to be anywhere else. Not if it means losing the way she’s holding you. Not if it means losing her.

You think of the mirror. The bruises. Her mouth on your skin. Your fingers inside her.

And none of it compares to this, her arms around you like you’re something fragile, and she knows it. You close your eyes. She tightens her hold. And for the first time, you don’t feel like a guest in her world.

You feel wanted. Held, yes. But not owned. Wanted. And you know, if she let you, you’d stay right here, in her bath, in her arms, for as long as she’d let you.

[ones-g]

The Double Life of Veronique (1991)

Dir. Krzysztof Kieślowski

[ones-g]

Stefan Salvatore's the kind of boyfriend who would remind you to do your homework. He would gentle parent you to the right answers and warmly encourage you when you went about trying to explain your thesis for an essay

[ones-g]

I need the Sapphics and Lesbians to watch this show please

I need more fanfics and more of them

Don't listen to the haters. This show is good

Bet is BASED on Kakegurui, (NOT A LIVE ACTION REMAKE)