La to Paris getaway | Manon bannerman
After attending KATSEYE’s concert alone in Seoul, y/n accidentally ends up backstage, lost, overwhelmed, and one dead phone away from disaster. She never expects to be noticed by Manon — the effortlessly beautiful idol who seems more lonely than famous.
One reckless invitation to a club turns into seven days of stolen kisses, late-night drives through neon streets, messy hookups, soft hotel room confessions, and conversations that feel too intimate for people who just met.
Warning: small smut, angst, I am sleep deprived that's why it's messy, one night stand, idol x fan
The roar of the crowd at the Arena was deafening, a living wave of sound that crashed over you again and again. This was your first KATSEYE concert, and you had flown in from a quiet life on the East Coast just for this night. Your heart hammered in sync with the beat as the group performed “Touch.” Lights exploded in sapphire and rose gold, and your eyes kept locking onto her.
Manon moved like liquid confidence across the stage. Tall and poised, her long dark hair swayed with every sharp choreography hit. Her voice—rich, slightly raspy on the lower notes with that elegant Swiss-French accent—cut through the mix and wrapped around your ribs.
When she hit the bridge, eyes scanning the sea of lightsticks, it felt for one impossible second like she saw you.
After the final encore, your friend Elsie grabbed your wrist, eyes wild with adrenaline. “Eclipse club is doing an after-party. My cousin works in security. We’re getting in.”
The club was a haze of strobing purple lights and heavy bass. You wore a simple black slip dress, hair still slightly damp from the arena heat. Bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You were halfway through a vodka cranberry when Elsie elbowed you.
Manon leaned against the railing in a cropped black top and low-slung pants, silver chains glinting. She laughed at something one of her members said, but her gaze drifted across the floor and settled on you. A slow, curious smile curved her lips. Minutes later, a security guard appeared.
“You two—upstairs. Manon’s invitation.”
Your legs felt unsteady as you climbed the stairs. Up close, she was intoxicating. The subtle sheen of sweat from the stage still glowed on her collarbones.
She smelled like vanilla, warm skin, and expensive perfume.
“You were really into it tonight,” she said, voice low enough to cut through the music.
“Screaming every word. What’s your name, pretty stranger?”
“Manon.” She offered her hand like it was the most natural thing, then pulled you gently toward the private table. “Drink with me?”
Shots arrived—sweet, burning. Conversation flowed surprisingly easily. She asked about your flight, why KATSEYE, and what you did back home.
You told her you were a fashion designer scraping together a portfolio, about to move to Paris for an internship that could launch everything.
“Paris? Lucky,” she murmured, eyes sparkling. “I love that city.”
Her fingers brushed yours when she passed a glass. Electricity.
The dance floor in VIP was smaller, more intimate. She pulled you in during a slower, sexier track. Her body moved against yours—hips rolling, one hand resting lightly on your waist. Heat pooled low in your belly.
When she kissed you, it wasn’t tentative. It was hungry. Cherry lip gloss and tequila, her tongue teasing yours. Your back hit the wall and she pressed closer, thigh sliding between yours.
“My hotel is close,” she breathed against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Come home with me.”
You whispered yes before your brain could catch up.
The suite overlooked the glittering city. The door clicked shut and Manon had you against it instantly, kissing you deep and messy. Her hands roamed—sliding under your dress, gripping your thighs as she lifted you. You wrapped your legs around her waist, fingers threading through her hair.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she murmured between kisses, carrying you to the king-sized bed. Clothes shed as they offended her: your dress pooled on the floor, her top followed, revealing smooth skin and the delicate curve of her breasts.
She took her time. Mouth on your neck, sucking lightly, then lower to your breasts. Her tongue circled a nipple until you arched, gasping. Lower still—kisses down your stomach, hands spreading your thighs. When her mouth found your centre, hot and wet, you moaned loudly.
She was skilled, relentless—alternating between broad licks and focused suction on your clit, two fingers curling inside you with devastating precision.
You came hard, thighs trembling around her head. She crawled up, smiling wickedly, lips shiny. “Good girl.”
You flipped her over, eager to return the favour. She tasted sweet and salty. You explored her with your tongue and fingers until her back bowed and she cried out your name in that accent, hips grinding against your face.
Later, she was on top, riding you slowly, fingers intertwined. Eye contact never broke as she chased her second orgasm, moaning softly. You followed right after, bodies slick with sweat.
She collapsed beside you, pulling you into her arms. “Stay the night,” she whispered, kissing your temple. You fell asleep to the steady beat of her heart.
Morning light woke you. Manon was sitting up, phone in hand, brow furrowed. “There are photos. Outside the club. People recognised me.”
You sat up, sheet clutched to your chest. Your phone buzzed relentlessly. Blurry images of you two leaving together. Comments ranged from excited to vicious.
The Eyekons were already mobilising.
Who is this bitch? Manon would never. We’ll find her.
Direct messages flooded in—threats, slurs, someone claiming they had your Instagram.
Manon looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry. My team is handling it, but it might get intense for a bit.”
You laughed shakily. “I leave for France in five days anyway. Visa ending. New life waiting.”
Her expression shifted—surprise, then something like determination. “Five days…” She set the phone down and cupped your face. “Then let’s not waste them. I want to know you, Y/N. The real way.”
After you and her showered and you changed into her clothes since your clothes were back at the hotel with Elsie she took you out to a cafe she wanted to
The café was quiet, tucked behind leafy streets. Manon held your she was dressed up in an oversized hoodie and baseball cap, but her presence still commanded the space.
Two security guys sat discreetly at another table.
Over iced lattes, she leaned in. “I don’t usually do one-night things after shows. But with you… The chemistry was insane. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night.”
You traced the rim of your glass. “It was amazing. But I’m not looking for love, Manon. I have… history. Bad history. Love ends in pain. I don’t fall anymore.”
She studied you. “Trauma. I get it. My life is crazy too—constant travel, eyes everywhere. But these five days? I’m making
it my mission to make you smile. To make you feel something real. No promises. Just… us.”
You and she were done with the food you took small walks around the cafe and you clicked some Polaroid pictures of her and kept them inside your bag while she clicked a shot of you sipping your latte you were wearing a black tight knitted Blouse and dark blue jeans you were out of breath cause of the playing around you and her were doing it was a fun getaway.
“Do you want to go back to my aunt's house?”
That night at her place the sex was slower, more intentional. She undressed you piece by piece, kissing every newly exposed inch. “You’re so soft here,” she whispered against your inner thigh. Her fingers and tongue worked you open until you were begging. When you came, she held you through it, then guided your hand between her legs.
You fingered her while kissing her deeply, swallowing her moans.
Afterwards, tangled in sheets, she traced your spine. “I could get used to nights like this.”
Your walls stayed firmly in place.
She loved this man, and she was happy that you and she looked out from the viewpoint in the hills. At the overlook, wind whipping her hair, she opened up.
“The ideal life is beautiful but lonely. Everyone wants the performer. Not the girl who cries after bad rehearsals or misses home.”
You showed her sketches on your phone—elegant silhouettes with edgy details.
When she gently asked about your trauma, you gave fragments: “An ex cheated for months. Another tore me down until I believed I was unlovable. I stopped trusting love after that.”
She kissed you softly. “I’m not them.”
In the bed, she pinned you down again Clothes shoved aside, her fingers inside you while you sucked marks onto her neck.
She moans first, gasping, then focuses on you until the windows fog completely and you shatter, biting her shoulder to muffle your cry.
After a few minutes of make-out sessions, you felt hungry, Manon, and you ended up in her kitchen
Her temporary apartment smelled like garlic and basil. You cooked together, but she kept distracting you—arms around your waist from behind, lips on your neck, dancing silly to her own unreleased tracks.
“You’re going to burn everything,” you laughed, trying to stir the sauce.
“Worth it to hear you laugh like that,” she replied, spinning you around for a deep kiss.
Dinner was slightly charred, but delicious in its imperfection. Later, in bed, it was tender.
She moved above you slowly, eyes locked. “Look at me,” she whispered as you came undone. “So beautiful when you let go.”
She held you for hours after, fingers in your hair. “What if you stayed a little longer? We could try.”
The trauma voice screamed louder. You kissed her instead of answering.
It was the next day already
You and she went to a private beach for a getaway
A private-ish beach. Barefoot in the sand, she hummed a new melody into her phone, lyrics clearly inspired by you. “Your laugh sounds like this part,” she said shyly.
You shared more: the nights you cried after breakups, the fear of vulnerability. She listened, then pulled you into the water, splashing and laughing until you were both soaked.
The car ride back was urgent. She had you against the door the second you were inside her apartment, dropping to her knees. Her mouth brought you over twice before she let you reciprocate.
That night she said it quietly while moving deep and slow inside you with her fingers: “I’m falling for you, Y/N.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, but the words wouldn’t come.
The bracelet she bought you—a delicate silver chain with a tiny star charm—felt like a promise you could fall in love but the next day you were leaving.
One final time at her place—raw, clinging, nails digging into skin. She rode your thigh frantically while fingering you, both of you moaning loudly.
“I love you,” she gasped as she came. “I know it’s fast. But it’s real.”
You kissed her desperately, coming apart in her arms, but still couldn’t say it back. Trauma won.
At the curb, her final kiss tasted like salt from tears. “Text me. This doesn’t have to be goodbye.”
You boarded the plane to Paris with a shattered heart.
Paris had become home. Your debut collection as an independent fashion designer received glowing reviews—minimalist tailoring fused with bold global prints. You had a small atelier in the Marais, mornings in cafés with espresso and sketches, evenings at shows.
KATSEYE had exploded into true global stardom. Manon’s solo work dominated playlists. Her face smiled from billboards on the Champs-Élysées. You heard her voice in every other café. Tabloids showed her dating a talented producer—happy photos at events, arms around each other, real smiles.
You tried dating. It never lasted. Nights alone, you’d trace the faint memory of that silver bracelet you still kept in a drawer. Remember her mission: the way she chipped at your walls with patience, laughter, and scorching touch. She had succeeded. You had fallen—hard—and never told her.
One crisp evening at a major fashion week after-party, a large screen replayed KATSEYE’s latest performance. Manon glowed under the lights, magnetic as ever, hitting every note with power and grace. Your chest tightened painfully.
You slipped onto the balcony overlooking the glittering city.
The night air was cool. Seven days in Los Angeles had ruined you for anyone else. She lived her superstar life, healed and happy with someone new. You designed beauty around the scar she left.
Whispering into the wind, voice barely audible over Paris traffic,
You finally said the words two years too late:
