yeah daniela was a known hoe on campus. she for sureee fucked around. she was the trending topic on fizz, girls fighting anonymously over daniela and how she screwed around with them and dumped them like it was nothing.

yeah daniela was pretty popular.

but daniela was your hoe. as bad as it sounded, it was true. everyone knew daniela could fuck around as much as she wanted, letting others girls think they have a chance when in reality it was never going to be them. she was always going back to you at the end of the day.

you were the closest thing she had to a girlfriend. yeah, there were times where daniela craved to be nurtured and cared for, and daniela wasn’t letting any random girl see that side of her, hell no. she had a reputation to maintain.

femme!manon. wife!fem. smut at the end.

femme!manon who smells like vanilla with the perfect scent of jasmine musk to bring it all together. her scent is truly unforgettable and it lingers heavily. you always smell her scent on your body after she hugs you.

femme!manon who has a vanity full of fragrances and oils. she loves to smell good and leave her scent everywhere she goes.

femme!manon loves a bubble bath. its her favorite thing to do after coming home from a long day. she would fill the bath with hot water and soaks, sometimes even getting a face mask for the full thing. she would lay in the tub with her eyes closed, a cigarette burning between her fingers as her body relaxed. she could stay in there all night really. she really loves baths.

camgirlau hyperS!megan gp!reader smut.

wc: 5.1k masterlist

the blue light of the monitor was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay in the room. it was three in the morning, that quiet, hollow hour where everything felt amplified and raw, and the only sound was the faint hum of the computer fan. you shouldn't have been awake, but you couldn't help it. you never could when she went live.

you clicked the notification like it was a reflex, your heart already picking up its pace before the stream even loaded. when the video finally flickered to life, there she was. megan.

she looked smaller than she did in the screenshots you'd saved, huddled in front of her ring light with her hair falling over one eye. she wore this oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing just enough pale skin to make your throat go dry.

she looked shy almost timid as she adjusted her webcam but there was something else in her eyes, something hungry that she only let out when the camera was on. she was a contradiction wrapped in soft fabric: a girl who looked like she needed protection, but who performed with a desperation that made you want to unravel her.

you watched her for twenty minutes before you even realized you'd stopped breathing. you were one of the few. that was the thing that kept you hooked the viewer count. it was always low, always intimate. she wasn't performing for thousands; she was performing for a handful of people who knew exactly how to read her.

and you knew her. you had spent two months memorizing every nervous habit, every way her fingers twitched when she touched herself, every half smile she gave the lens when she thought no one was looking too closely.

she started talking softly, her voice honey thick and slightly raspy from the late hour. she asked about everyone's day, her eyes darting to the chat as she read the messages. when she saw your username pop up, she paused.

she didn't say anything special, but she lingered on your name just a second too long, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth that made your pulse spike.

you leaned closer to the screen, your hand sliding unconsciously down between your thighs. you could feel yourself hardening already, the familiar ache building behind your zippers.

watching her was dangerous; it wasn't just about the physical need anymore, it was about the way she occupied your thoughts. she was a ghost haunting your bedroom, a digital addiction that you had no desire to break.

as she began to slowly tug the sweater higher, revealing the swell of her breasts, you felt that familiar wave of possessiveness wash over you. she was doing this for them for the chat, for the strangers but in your head, you convinced yourself she was doing it for you.

you were the one who stayed. you were the one who watched every single night. you were the only one who truly understood the way her breath hitched when she got close to the edge.

you weren't just a viewer anymore. you were becoming something else. something more dangerous.

the shift happened gradually, then all at once. it started with small things a direct question in the chat that felt too personal, a lingering gaze that seemed aimed directly at your webcam instead of the lens. but the real turning point was the first time you received a notification that wasn't a stream alert. it was a private message.

your heart had nearly stopped when you saw her username in your dms. you stared at the screen for several minutes before you even dared to click it. you were terrified that if you opened it, the fantasy would shatter, but the curiosity was stronger than the fear.

you were really quiet tonight, her message read.

> i kept wondering if you were still there watching me.

you felt a flush creep up your neck as you typed back, your fingers unsteady. you kept it casual, trying to play it cool even though your stomach was doing somersaults. you stared at your phone for five minutes before typing anything back. your pulse was loud in your ears.

you have no idea. <

you have no idea what you do to me when you look at the camera like that. <

there was a long pause. you saw the little typing bubbles appear, disappear, then appear again. your breath hitched.

> like how? tell me.

you took a shaky breath. you wanted to be careful but you also wanted her to know. you wanted her to feel the weight of your attention.

like you're asking for something without saying a word. <

like you're daring me to reach through the screen and touch you. it makes me want to do things to you that would probably scare you. <

the reply came almost instantly, and you could almost hear her breath catch through the screen.

> maybe i want to be scared.

> maybe i'm tired of being safe.

she followed it up with a photo. it wasn't a stream photo. it was dark, grainy, taken from above. she was lying on her back, her hair splayed across the pillow like spilled ink, and her hands were pulled up to her chest, fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt. her eyes looked blown out, dark and desperate.

> i'm not safe right now

> i'm alone in this bed and all i can think about is how you talk to me. how you watch me.

you felt yourself straining against your jeans, your cock throbbing painfully. you couldn't hold back anymore.

then stop talking about it and tell me where you are. <

there was a silence that felt like it lasted hours, but it was probably only seconds. the typing bubbles appeared again, frantic this time.

> i'll send you my address.

> don’t be gentle..please.

you felt a rush of adrenaline so sharp it almost made you lightheaded. your fingers flew across the screen, unable to match the frantic pace of your own heartbeat.

the address popped up seconds later, a string of numbers and street names that suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world. you didn't even hesitate. you grabbed your keys, pulled on your jacket, and left your apartment without a second thought, leaving the blue glow of your monitor behind in the dark.

all you could think about was her. the way she looked through that lens. the way she had begged you not to be gentle. as you drove through the empty streets, the city blurred past you like a fever dream, but your mind was locked on one single image: megan, waiting in the dark, waiting for you to finally make her fantasy real.

the apartment building was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that makes every footstep sound like a gunshot. you stood outside door 4b for what felt like an eternity, your keys pressed so hard against your palm that they left marks. your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that made your hands shake. this wasn't a stream. this wasn't a fantasy. this was real.

when you finally knocked, the sound seemed to echo down the hallway. you almost turned to run, but then you heard it the soft pad of bare feet against hardwood, and then the click of the lock.

the door opened just a crack at first, revealing one eye framed by messy hair, before it swung wide. megan was standing there, looking even smaller in person. she wasn't wearing the oversized sweater from the stream; she was wearing a thin, silk camisole that left nothing to the imagination. her skin looked impossibly pale in the dim hallway light, and she was visibly trembling.

"you actually came," she whispered. her voice was smaller than it sounded through your headphones, breathier and more vulnerable.

"i told you i would," you said, your own voice sounding rougher than intended.

you stepped inside, and the door closed behind you with a soft thud that felt final. the apartment smelled like vanilla and something warm, something distinctly her. the only light came from a single lamp in the corner of the living room, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

she didn't move away. she didn't ask you to take off your shoes. she just stood there, looking up at you with those blown out eyes, waiting. the air between you was thick, charged with two months of unspoken words and late night fantasies that were suddenly colliding in the same physical space.

you couldn't help yourself. you reached out, your fingers grazing her jawline. her skin was hot, startlingly so. when your thumb brushed over her lower lip, she let out a broken little whimper and leaned into your touch, closing her eyes.

"you're real," she breathed against your skin.

"so are you."

you moved closer, eliminating what little space was left between you. you could feel the heat radiating off her body, could smell the faint sweetness of her shampoo. you wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, your fingers tangling in her hair, while your other hand found the small of her back, pulling her flush against you.

the contact was electric. the moment your hips pressed against hers, you felt her gasp. she was soft where you were hard, a contrast that made your head spin. you could feel her small hands clutching at your jacket, her nails digging into the leather as she tried to anchor herself.

"i've been thinking about this every single night," you muttered against her ear, your lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

she shuddered, her whole body going limp against you for a second before she found her strength again. she wrapped her arms around your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads rested against each other. you could feel her hot breath mingling with yours, each exhale shaky and uneven.

"show me," she whispered, her voice cracking. "show me what you've been imagining."

you didn't need to be told twice. you backed her up against the wall, the solid thud of her spine hitting the plaster making her gasp again.

you didn't give her time to breathe, pressing your mouth to hers in a kiss that was less about tenderness and more about claiming. it was desperate and hungry, tasting of vanilla and pent up need.

your hands wandered shamelessly, sliding down from her neck to the hem of that thin silk camisole. when your palms finally made contact with the bare skin of her stomach, she arched into you, a low moan vibrating in her throat.

you could feel how ready she was, how her body seemed to be seeking yours out like it was starved for it.

you pulled back just enough to look at her, your eyes dark with a possessiveness that made her pupils dilate even further. you reached down, your fingers fumbling with your belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding deafening in the quiet apartment.

when you finally freed yourself, the cool air hitting your cock made you hiss through your teeth, but the sight of her reaction made the ache intensify tenfold.

megan's eyes dropped down, tracking the movement with an intensity that made your blood boil. she reached out, her fingertips hovering just inches away from you, trembling violently.

"oh god," she breathed, her gaze lifting back to yours, raw and shameless. "you're even bigger than i imagined."

her fingers finally made contact, and the heat of her touch felt like a brand against your skin. she didn't grab you immediately; instead, she traced the length of you with agonizing slowness, her fingertips light as feathers but leaving trails of fire in their wake. she was watching your face as she did it, her eyes tracking every flinch, every sharp inhale you took.

"you're shaking," she whispered, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips despite the tremor in her own hands. it was that slutty little streak coming through the part of her that loved being watched, even now, when there was no camera between you.

"you do this to me," you growled, your hands sliding down to grip her hips. you pulled her closer, forcing your cock to press against the soft swell of her stomach. "you've been doing this to me for months."

you didn't wait for an answer. you scooped her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around your waist as you carried her toward the bedroom. she felt impossibly light, her breath hot against your neck as she buried her face in the crook of your shoulder.

when you dropped her onto the mattress, the bed creaked under the sudden weight, and she sank into the pillows, looking up at you with an expression that was pure, unadulterated hunger.

the dim light from the hallway spilled across the bed as you stripped off your clothes, your movements urgent and clumsy. when you finally crawled over her, the full weight of your body pressing her down into the sheets, she let out a sound that was half sob, half moan.

she reached for you, her hands roaming over your shoulders, your chest, before sliding down to find you again. she guided you between her thighs, parting her legs slowly. she was already slick, the faint scent of her arousal mixing with the vanilla in the air.

"please," she whined, arching her back, her hips lifting off the bed to meet you. "i need to feel you. i need to know you're real."

you gripped her thighs hard enough to leave marks, your knuckles white. you positioned yourself at her entrance, the tip of your cock teasing the sensitive folds of her cunt. she shivered violently, her eyes rolling back in her head as she waited for the invasion.

"look at me, megan," you commanded, your voice dropping to a dangerous register. "don't close your eyes. i want you to watch."

she obeyed. her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, fixed entirely on you

fixed entirely on you.

you pushed forward, slow and deliberate, feeling the way her body stretched to accommodate you. she let out a broken noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scream, as you filled her completely.

her inner muscles clutched at you instinctively, milking you, and the sensation almost sent you over the edge right then and there.

"oh fuck," you hissed, your forehead dropping to rest against hers. "you're so tight, megan."

"don't stop," she begged, her fingers digging into your shoulders hard enough to bruise. "please, don't ever stop."

you started to move, finding a rhythm that was raw and uncoordinated at first before settling into something deeper, more punishing. every thrust sent her head back into the pillow, her hips rising to meet every stroke with a desperate need to close the distance between you.

you watched her face the way her lips parted, the way her eyes rolled back, the way she looked utterly undone by you. she wasn't the shy girl from the stream anymore; she was something primal, something beautiful and wrecked.

the friction was building, that familiar pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your gut. you reached down between your bodies, your thumb finding her clit and working it in sync with your thrusts.

she shattered almost instantly, her body convulsing beneath you as she cried out your name not your username, not a fantasy name, but your actual name.

the sound of it broke something inside you. hearing her say it, hearing how wrecked she sounded, pushed you over. you drove into her one last time, hard and deep.

your vision blurring with the intensity of it. you collapsed against her, both of you panting, sweat slicked and shaking in the aftermath.

for a long time, the only sound was your synchronized breathing. you stayed tangled together, the reality of what had just happened settling over you like a heavy blanket. but as you pulled back to look at her, you saw something in her expression that wasn't just satisfaction. there was a spark there a wicked, calculating glint that you recognized from her streams.

she reached out, her hand brushing against the webcam that sat on the nightstand, just out of reach of the bed. she looked at it, then back at you, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips.

"we should have shown them," she whispered, her voice dripping with something dark and inviting. "we should show them what you do to me."

you froze, the words hanging between you like an unspoken contract. you should have been terrified. you should have been recoiling from the implications of bringing your private, raw reality into her digital world.

but as you looked at her really looked at her you didn't see the shy girl who had been hiding behind a ring light for months. you saw someone who wanted to be seen, and someone who wanted you to be the one holding the camera.

the possessiveness that had been simmering in your gut since the first day you watched her stream flared into something hot and consuming. the thought of other people watching her of them seeing the way she arched her back under you, seeing the way you claimed her should have made you angry.

but instead, it made you feel powerful. it made you feel like you were finally marking your territory.

"you want them to watch us?" you asked, your voice low and dangerous, testing the waters.

she nodded eagerly, reaching over to grab the webcam, her fingers fumbling with the cord. "they need to see you," she whispered, her eyes dark with a mix of arousal and something that looked suspiciously like ambition. "they need to see what i've been talking about. they need to see how you make me feel."

you watched her set up the camera, her movements quick and practiced. she knew exactly how to angle it, how to catch the light, how to make herself look like the goddess she was.

when she finally sat back on the edge of the bed, adjusting the camera to capture both of you, she looked up at you with that same hungry expression.

"turn the stream on," she commanded.

you reached for her laptop, your heart hammering against your ribs as you clicked the button to go live. within seconds, the viewer count began to climb. one, five, ten, twenty. the chat started moving at lightning speed, a blur of question marks and disbelief as your joined presence appeared on screen.

you didn't say anything. you didn't have to. you simply crawled back over her, your body a dark silhouette against her pale skin. you leaned down, pressing your lips to the hollow of her throat, and as you heard her first shaky exhale pierce through the speakers, you knew there was no going back.

the shy girl was gone. the fantasy was dead. and as you drove into her again, hearing the chat explode into chaos, you realized that you weren't just watching her anymore you were making her yours in front of the entire world.

you didn't say anything. you didn't have to. you simply crawled back over her, your body a dark silhouette against her pale skin. you leaned down, pressing your lips to the hollow of her throat, and as you heard her first shaky

the glow of the ring light was different now. it wasn't soft or inviting; it was harsh, clinical, exposing everything. the camera lens stared at you both like an unblinking eye, recording every slick slide of skin, every flushed inch of megan's body, and every way you claimed her.

the chat was a fucking hurricane. the text moved so fast it was almost impossible to read, a blur of screaming caps lock, fire emojis, and desperate questions.

who is she with?

is this real?

oh my god look at her face

fuck fuck fuck

the numbers were climbing. thirty. fifty. eighty. she was blowing up in real time. the shy girl who used to whisper to five people was now performing for a crowd that was growing with every thrust you drove into her.

you didn't care about them. you didn't care about the numbers. you only cared about the way she looked when she looked at the camera while you were inside her. she would arch her back, her eyes rolling toward the lens, making sure they saw exactly how you were stretching her, how her cunt gripped you, how she was coming apart.

she was performing for them, yes, but she was also using them to amplify what you were doing to her. she was feeding off their attention like it was oxygen.

"look at them, baby," she whined, her voice cracking as you gripped her hips and pulled her upward, forcing her to take you deeper. she leaned toward the camera, her face flushed and damp with sweat, lips swollen from your kisses. "they're all watching you. they're all watching us."

she reached out, one hand finding the camera to tilt it down, angling it to capture the way your cock disappeared inside her. you saw her fingers tremble, but it wasn't fear anymore it was adrenaline. she wanted them to see every detail. she wanted them to witness her being taken.

"you're mine," you growled against her ear, your teeth grazing her lobe. you wanted the camera to hear it. you wanted every single person in that chat to know that while they were watching, you were the one who owned her. "they can watch all they want, but you're mine."

you felt her shudder beneath you, a wet, needy sound escaping her throat. "always yours," she gasped, her eyes locking onto yours even as she glanced back at the screen. "always."

the climax was explosive. it felt like the room was spinning, the blue light of the monitor blurring into streaks of neon as you drove yourself into her one last time, your muscles locking as you came.

she screamed, a raw, uninhibited sound that drowned out the noise of the laptop fans, her body convulsing in waves as she came along with you. the chat went absolutely feral.

when you finally collapsed on top of her, the silence that followed was deafening. the only sound was the frantic clicking of the chat as the viewers realized what they had just witnessed.

you stayed there for a long time, your face pressed into the crook of her neck, breathing in the salt and vanilla of her skin. you felt her fingers card through your hair, gentle and possessive in their own way.

but when you finally lifted your head, the reality of what you'd done hit you. you looked at the laptop screen. the viewer count hadn't dropped. it had tripled.

the stream was still running, and the notifications were pouring in donations, follows, messages. she had done it. she had gone from a lonely girl in a dark room to something massive.

you looked at megan. she was staring at the screen with a hungry, satisfied expression. she looked like she had just won a war.

"we did it," she whispered, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips.

you felt a cold shiver run down your spine. you had wanted her. you had wanted to claim her. but as you watched her eyes light up at the attention of thousands of strangers, you realized that by bringing her into their world, you might have just lost her to it.

the possessiveness in your chest shifted, turning from something hot and consuming into something sharper, something more territorial.

she was famous now. she was everyone's fantasy. but as you pulled her closer, marking her skin with fresh bruises and fresh kisses, you made a silent vow.

they could watch, they could donate, they could scream her name from behind their screens but you would be the one who held her when the lights went out. you would be the one who knew what she sounded like when she wasn't performing.

the laptop screen finally went black when you finally reached out and closed the lid, severing the connection between your private sanctuary and the hungry eyes of the world. the sudden absence of the ring light left the room swallowed in a thick, velvety darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds.

the silence that followed was heavy, almost physical, pressing down on you both as the adrenaline began its slow, inevitable retreat.

for several minutes, neither of you moved. you stayed tangled together on the sweat slicked sheets, your bodies still humming with the residual electricity of what you'd just done.

your heart was still hammering against your ribs, but the frantic pace had slowed to a steady, exhausted thrum. you could feel the heat radiating off megan's skin, a feverish warmth that seemed to seep into your own bones.

"come here," you whispered, your voice hoarse and wrecked. you pulled her closer, tucking her head under your chin. you needed to feel her really feel her without the performance, without the audience, without the blue light of the screen between you.

she made a small, needy sound in response, burrowing deeper into your embrace. her fingers traced idle patterns across your chest, her touch light and hesitant.

the triumph you'd seen in her eyes earlier had faded, replaced by something softer, something almost childlike in its vulnerability. the performance was over; now she was just megan.

"let's wash up," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "you're covered in sweat."

she nodded weakly against your skin. you helped her up, your movements slow and careful, as if she might break if you moved too fast. you guided her toward the bathroom, where the air was already starting to warm as you turned on the shower.

the sound of water hitting the tile was soothing, a steady rainfall that promised to wash away the grime and the intensity of the last hour.

the shower was small, a confined space that forced you together even closer. as the hot water cascaded over you both, the steam rose in thick clouds, blurring the edges of the world until there was nothing left but the two of you. you grabbed the soap, lathering it between your hands before beginning to wash her.

you were gentle, your palms sliding over the curves of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hips. you treated her like something precious, something fragile that needed to be tended to.

megan let out a long, shaky exhale as the water hit her skin, her eyes closing. she leaned her forehead against your chest, letting you take care of her. it was a moment of pure, unadulterated aftercare the kind that heals the cracks left behind by intensity.

but then, something shifted.

as you moved to wash her thighs, your hands sliding between her legs to rinse away the evidence of your passion, you felt her hips twitch. she didn't pull away; instead, she arched toward you, her breath catching audibly.

when you looked down, you saw her eyes open they weren't glassy with exhaustion anymore. they were dark, dilated, and fixed on you with a desperate, single minded hunger.

before you could react, she sank to her knees in the shower. the water sluiced over her shoulders as she reached for you, her hands fumbling with your cock. she was still slick, still sensitive, but she wanted you again. she wanted to taste you, to feel you in her mouth, to prolong the high that was already threatening to crash.

"megan, no," you said, your voice firm but not angry. you reached down, catching her wrists before she could take you in. "stop. we're not doing this right now."

she looked up at you, pouting like a chastised child, her lips parted and wet. "please," she whined, the sound echoing off the tile. "just a little. i need it. i can't stop thinking about how you felt inside me."

she tried to tug at your hands, her movements frantic and uncoordinated. she was chasing the ghost of the climax, trying to recapture the lightning in a bottle.

you shook your head gently, forcing her to meet your gaze. you kept your grip on her wrists soft but unyielding. "look at me," you commanded. when she finally met your eyes, you saw the desperation there, but you also saw the exhaustion underneath. "you're exhausted, baby. your body needs to rest. we're not going back there yet. not until you can actually breathe again."

"but i want you so bad," she whispered, a tear escaping and tracking through the water on her cheek.

"i know you do," you said, your voice softening as you let go of one wrist to cup her face. you thumbed away the tear, your touch tender despite the scolding. "and you'll have me. i promise. but right now, we're just going to be here. together. just you and me."

you pulled her back up to your height, wrapping your arms around her and holding her against you while the water hammered down on both of you. you guided her back against the tile wall, letting the spray hit her back as you held her close. you didn't try to fuck her; you simply held her, your bodies pressed together in a way that was more about connection than conquest.

you took the sponge and continued to wash her, your movements slow and meditative. you washed her hair, massaging her scalp with careful fingers that made her whimper with pleasure but this time, it was a different kind of pleasure. it was the pleasure of being cared for, of being seen as something more than an object of desire.

she eventually stopped fighting it, her body going limp against yours as she surrendered to the quiet intimacy of the moment. she rested her head on your shoulder, her breathing evening out as the warmth of the water and your touch finally began to ground her.

"thank you," she breathed against your skin, so quiet you almost missed it.

"always," you replied.

you stayed there for a long time, two bodies lost in a cloud of steam and silence. the world outside the streams, the fans, the fame felt a million miles away. in here, under the steady rhythm of the water, there was no audience. there was no performance.

there was only the heat of her skin, the scent of soap, and the quiet, steady knowledge that no matter how loud the world got, this this simple, tender connection was what was real.

you were her secret, and you would make sure she stayed yours.

𓂃

𓏻i: okay i didn’t make em roommates sue me cs if they we’re roomates that would be so boring

content warnings. 18+, tattooartist!manon, fem!reader, established relationship, flirting, kissing, mild suggestive themes and domestic fluff.

word count. 1.6k

♫ sweet boy — malcolm todd.

tattooartist!manon who comes home smelling faintly of coffee, clean gloves, and the expensive perfume she put on before leaving that morning. she always drops her keys into the little bowl beside the door, toes off her shoes without bothering to line them up properly, and immediately starts looking for you. she doesn’t even say hello at first. she just finds you in the kitchen or curled up on the couch, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and rests her chin against your shoulder with a tired little hum. “did you miss me?” she’ll ask, even though she already knows the answer and has probably been texting you between appointments all day.

tattooartist!manon whose hands look intimidating when she’s working. covered in black gloves, steady around a tattoo machine, careful enough that clients immediately stop fidgeting when she tells them to.. but become unbelievably soft whenever she touches you. at home, those same hands are always somewhere warm and familiar: rubbing slow circles over your thigh while you watch television, resting at your waist when she passes behind you, or slipping beneath the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin while she kisses your cheek.

tattooartist!manon who pretends she doesn’t give you special treatment at the studio, even though absolutely everyone knows she does. you can walk in without an appointment, sit quietly near the front desk with a drink for her, and watch her expression soften the second she notices you. she’ll try to remain professional while finishing with her client, but the tiny smile she keeps fighting gives her away every time. once the client leaves, she immediately comes over, takes the drink from your hands, and kisses you like she hasn’t seen you in weeks instead of five hours.

tattooartist!manon who always complains when you sit on the counter after closing, mostly because she knows you’re doing it to distract her. she’ll be wiping down her station, reorganizing inks, or checking that everything is properly put away while you swing your legs and watch her move around the room. “stop looking at me like that,” she’ll mutter without turning around, already smiling because she can feel your eyes on her.

tattooartist!manon who forgets what she’s doing anyway. it starts with her stepping between your knees, one hand resting beside your hip on the counter while the other tilts your chin upward. she tells you she only has ten minutes of cleaning left, but then you kiss her once and suddenly she’s leaning closer, her forehead pressed against yours while she quietly laughs at how easily you derail her. she still finishes cleaning afterward, though. manon may be distracted, but she refuses to let romance interfere with sanitation.. what a lovebird.

tattooartist!manon who lets you choose the music when you stay with her after hours, even though she acts like your playlists personally offend her. she’ll roll her eyes when the first song starts, ask whether you genuinely listen to “this mess,” and then catch herself singing along ten minutes later while wrapping cords and locking cabinets. whenever you point it out, she immediately stops and claims she only knows the lyrics because you play the song too often.

tattooartist!manon who keeps tiny reminders of you scattered around her station without realizing how obvious they are. a hair tie you left around her wrist, a picture of the two of you tucked behind a mirror, the lip balm you swore you lost, and a small note you wrote before one of her longer appointments. her coworkers tease her whenever they notice something new, and she always responds with a bored expression and a quiet, “mind your business,” while carefully making sure nobody moves any of it.

tattooartist!manon who sketches constantly when the two of you are together. restaurant napkins, grocery receipts, old envelopes, the corner of your notebook.. anything within reach becomes covered in tiny stars, flowers, eyes, moons, or unfinished linework. she insists she’s only keeping her hand busy, but you eventually notice that half the designs are inspired by things you’ve said. a flower from the first bouquet she bought you. the shape of your favorite pendant. the little heart you always draw beside her name.

tattooartist!manon who gets visibly shy whenever you call her talented. compliments about her appearance are easy; she’ll smirk, thank you, and sometimes ask you to say it again. but tell her that her work is beautiful and she suddenly looks away, pressing her lips together while pretending to organize something. later that evening, she’ll casually show you three unfinished designs and ask which one you like best, as if your opinion isn’t the one she secretly values most.

tattooartist!manon who has a habit of tracing your tattoos when the two of you are lying in bed together. she follows each line slowly with the tip of one finger, even when the tattoo wasn’t done by her, studying the shapes like she’s memorizing them. sometimes she asks what you were thinking when you chose a certain piece. other times, she simply presses a kiss beside it and murmurs that it looks beautiful on you.

tattooartist!manon who has designed tattoos for you but refuses to pressure you into actually getting them. she’ll show you the sketches, explain why she chose each detail, and then tuck them away again with a soft shrug.

tattooartist!manon who becomes extra attentive whenever you do decide to let her tattoo you. she checks the stencil from every angle, asks whether you’re completely sure about the placement, and watches your face closely once she begins. she knows you can handle it, but she still pauses whenever your breathing changes and asks, “you good, baby?” in that calm voice that immediately makes you relax.

tattooartist!manon who gives you the full aftercare speech every single time, even though you’ve heard it before. she points at the wrap, reminds you not to scratch it, and watches you repeat the instructions back to her because she knows you have a habit of pretending you remember everything. later that night, she asks for a picture of the tattoo, zooms in to inspect it, and sends a mildly threatening text when she sees your hand anywhere near it.

tattooartist!manon who absolutely does not trust you when you say, “i wasn’t touching it.”

tattooartist!manon who comes home with sore wrists after long sessions and tries to hide it. you usually notice when she flexes her fingers too many times or switches which hand she uses to hold her glass. when you pull her onto the couch and start massaging her hands, she protests for approximately thirty seconds before melting against you, her head dropping onto your shoulder while she watches your thumbs press carefully into her palms.

tattooartist!manon who becomes ridiculously affectionate after difficult workdays. she doesn’t always want to explain what happened or discuss the client who kept moving. sometimes she only wants to stand behind you while you cook, arms wrapped around your middle, face buried against your neck. she’ll leave lazy kisses there between quiet complaints about her day, occasionally squeezing your waist when you laugh at how dramatic she’s being.

tattooartist!manon who knows exactly how much you like those neck kisses and uses that knowledge whenever she wants your attention. you could be answering a text, washing dishes, or trying to finish a show, and she’ll quietly come up behind you, move your hair aside, and press one slow kiss beneath your ear. when you immediately lose track of what you were doing, she only smiles against your skin and asks, far too innocent questions.

tattooartist!manon who wears mostly dark clothes to work because ink stains are inevitable (😒), but you keep leaving bright pieces of yourself around her. one of your colorful hoodies over her chair, a charm clipped to her bag, or a pastel water bottle sitting beside her usual black coffee cup. the other artists claim they can always tell when you’ve visited because her entire corner starts looking less serious.

tattooartist!manon who sometimes asks you to sit beside her while she draws at home. she’ll spread her sketchbook, pencils, and reference pictures across the coffee table while you curl up nearby with a book or your phone. the two of you can stay like that for hours without speaking much, occasionally leaning into each other or sharing a quick kiss when one of you gets up.

tattooartist!manon who gets mildly possessive when someone compliments you too enthusiastically at the studio. she won’t make a scene or say anything rude. she simply walks over, settles one hand against your lower back, and joins the conversation with that calm expression that makes it very clear the two of you are together. when you tease her afterward, she insists she was only being friendly. the way her fingers remain hooked around your waist says otherwise.

tattooartist!manon who likes taking pictures of you in the studio after hours. not polished portfolio photographs, just small, intimate moments she wants to remember. you sitting on the counter in her hoodie, your hand wrapped around her coffee cup, your reflection beside hers in the mirror. most of them never get posted. they stay in a private album on her phone with a name she refuses to let you see.

tattooartist!manon who claims she would never get your name tattooed because names are “too risky,” yet somehow ends up with a tiny symbol connected to you hidden somewhere most people never notice. when you realize what it means and accuse her of being sentimental, she looks away with the faintest smile and says it doesn’t count because it isn’t technically your name.

tattooartist!manon who has accidentally fallen asleep with her sketchbook open on her chest more than once. you’ll find her stretched across the couch, pencil still between her fingers, glasses slightly crooked, and a half-finished design beside her. when you carefully move everything and cover her with a blanket, she wakes just enough to catch your wrist and pull you down beside her.

tattooartist!manon who loves slow mornings on her days off. she sleeps later than you, one arm reaching across the bed whenever you move too far away. once she finally wakes, she stays tangled around you, voice rough with sleep while she asks what time it is and whether you can both ignore the day a little longer. breakfast usually gets delayed because every time you try to get up, she tightens her arm around your waist and presses another kiss to your shoulder.

tattooartist!manon who always remembers the smallest details about what you like. your usual coffee order, the jewelry you wear most often, the exact spot on your back that relaxes when she rubs it, and which side of the bed you prefer. she acts casual about it, but her love is hidden in the way everything around you has already been considered.