vamp

wheezing out a last laugh between coughs, voice hoarse as you gasped. “jesus, yves—i’m gon’ die ‘fore you get your answer.”

she rolls her eyes, completely over your antics as she pinches the joint between her fingers and lifts it up to her lips to take a hit, smoke blanketing the both of you for a brief moment before dissipating, her gaze burning holes in the closed doors of the chapel.

“i just don’t know how keeho does it, man. fuckin’ asshole always barges into my room every few days just to rub it to my face ‘bout how he’s hooked up with another girl from our school.” 

you hummed in response, grabbing the joint from her and taking a long hit, glancing at her and blowing it in her face—which earned you a punch in the arm. 

“please, it’s like you don’t know how your cousin is. i mean, d’you remember that time he got caught in the middle of doing it with someone in mr. bell’s barn—”

“shut up, y/n. door’s open.” 

you huffed at her words, sitting up straighter in the truck bed and eyeing the doors of the church that slowly trickled out with churchgoers, groaning and jumping off the truck to open the door of the driver’s seat, with yves following suit.

“say, is mr. whatchamacallit really down to lend your momma some money? seems out of his capability, y’know, with him bein’ a preacher and all. ain’t seem like he makes much.” she’d commented as you grabbed your cowboy hat and haphazardly put it on.

“it’s mr. laforteza, and he said he’d apparently take some from the church offertory.” 

yves’ eyebrows furrowed, adjusting the baseball cap she had swiped from your truck’s glove compartment. “ain’t that a sin? stealin’ from god?”

“ain’t stealin’ if he gon’ bring it back. if my momma ends up payin’ him back, that is.”

you’d merely shrugged, making your way toward the chapel, the sun glaring down at the both of you so harshly that heatwaves shimmered off the pavement like mirages. sweat clung to your back, and each step felt like walking through molasses. 

ahead, the chapel stood proud and pristine, untouched by the sweltering heat, where the preacher—mr. laforteza—stood outside, all smiles and handshakes, chatting with the townspeople like he didn’t have a single bead of sweat on him. 

like the heat wasn’t killing him as much as it was killing you. 

goddamn the southern heat.

and as you neared the chapel steps, the air shifted. not just because of the heat, but from the way the townspeople’s eyes began to trail toward you. conversations quieted, glances sharpened. they all knew your last name. 

they all knew the stories. the fights, the screaming matches at 2 a.m., the broken windows, and the trouble that followed your family like a bad smell. you weren’t just a girl—you were that girl. 

the girl every mother warned their children about.

their stares weren’t subtle. they never were as you’ve come to know. but you were used to it. you were born to be used to it.

mr. laforteza noticed the tension instantly, his smile faltering just for a breath before he caught your eye. and then, with a gentleness that felt like an unexpected reprieve, he offered you a small smile and nodded.

“come inside, y/n.” he said simply, holding the door open like the judgment behind you didn’t exist. 

“i’m here to take what my momma had asked of you, uh… pastor.” you murmured unsurely as you glanced behind you to see if yves had still followed, but the woman had stayed down the steps of the chapel and just shot you a look, crushing the joint under her foot but not without one last drag.

he’d nodded, continuing to usher you in. “yes, yes. i’ve got it ready.”

he led you deeper into the chapel, footsteps echoing softly against the cool wooden floor as the heavy wooden doors shut behind you, muffling the heat and whispers from outside.

the sudden dimness inside made the stained glass glow, casting fractured blues and reds across the pews and altar. 

ahead of you, mr. laforteza was already loosening the crisp white collar around his neck—no, not the collar, you realized, but something longer, more ornate. some kind of stole? you weren’t sure what it was called. religion wasn’t exactly a family tradition in your household.

you hadn’t grown up surrounded by gospel hymns or sunday rituals. your home worshipped a different altar. one stacked with overdue bills, liquor bottles, and whatever was left of last week’s paycheck. 

the only thing anyone ever knelt for was dropped change or forgiveness after a screaming match, and the closest thing to prayer was someone muttering “please just one fucking lucky break.” 

god had no place in your kitchen, no seat at your dinner table.

so all the symbols around you now—candles, crucifixes, golden goblets—felt foreign, maybe even a little intrusive. still, you followed quietly, eyes trailing the length of the chapel while mr. laforteza moved quietly, and you felt incredibly out of place.

“sophia?” he called out gently in the silence of the chapel, grabbing the folded papers scribbled with the day’s gospel and hymns and the like, gathering them in a pile as he exhaled softly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

he offers you an almost sheepish smile. “sorry, my daughter’s helping me clean up after today’s mass. my wife’s out of town with my boys, so it’s just me and her.”

you wave it off, leaning against the end of a pew with your arms crossed. 

“s’all right, pastor,” you say, voice soft and worn with that drawl of yours. “ain’t like i’m in a rush. take your time.”

he nods, appreciative, before disappearing behind the small archway that led toward the back of the chapel. 

you take a moment to let your eyes wander—at the candlelight flickering low, the faint scent of incense clinging to the air, the silence that somehow presses against your chest more than the noise outside ever could.

your fingers drum lazily against the polished wood as you exhale, trying not to let the quiet make you feel more unsettled that you already are.

god’s house, they called it—but it didn’t really feel like home. not with all the gold and solemnity, the pews too neat, too empty, too honest.

“didn’t know god needed that much help cleanin’ up,” you mumble under your breath, mostly to yourself, mostly to fill the silence.

and then you hear it.  footsteps. lighter this time. smaller. and when you glance up toward the back room, that’s when you see her.

sophia laforteza.

and god help you, she looks like every good decision you’ve never made.

you felt your hands go clammy and your throat go dry at the sight of her stepping through the archway—the kind of dry that made you swallow twice, like that’d somehow fix the way your heart did jumping jacks. 

she held a white envelope sealed with red wax in one hand, the other brushing delicately at the hem of her white lace dress like it was second nature. sunlight from the stained glass hit her just right, casting a rosy hue over her cheeks, and for a second, she didn’t look real.

 like you needed to touch her to make sure she’s alive.

mr. laforteza trailed just behind her, but your eyes didn’t leave his daughter. not once.

as they made their way toward you, you scrambled to get your act together. cleared your throat, tugged off your hat with a fumbling hand and held it against your chest like it might keep your heart from jumping out. 

you even straightened your collar, trying not to look too much like the mess you knew you were. the mess your family made you to be. 

you weren’t too sure what she thought of girls like you, with her pretty, neat, white lace dress, a stark contrast to your worn out boots and second-hand shirts from your brothers. 

she was the preacher’s daughter, and you were a death row inmate’s daughter.

mr. laforteza shoots you a smile. “y/n, this is my daughter, sophia. sophia, this is y/n tucker, willoughby’s younger sister, if you remember him. i’d assume you both know each other from school?”

your lips tightened into a forced smile. willoughby was the best of you. part of the church choir, charming in a way that made church ladies adore him and teachers call him gifted. always had a bible in one hand and a joke in the other. 

he was the only one who stood tall when your father got dragged into court, voice steady while the rest of the family cracked. when the sentence came down—death row, final—willoughby was the one who actually gave a damn about what happened next.

and then he vanished a few months back.

drove off with ethel, the girl he used to call his “saving grace,” and didn’t even leave a note. not even a goodbye.

you’d looked up to him. hell, maybe too much. and now, every time someone mentions his name with that nostalgic fondness, it leaves a bitter taste sitting on your tongue. 

you don’t tell mr. laforteza that.

you also don’t tell him you barely go to school anymore.

sophia smiles at you in response, surprisingly enough. even offers her hand out for a handshake, to which you’d unsurely accepted. “hi, you took woodwork with keeho, right? mr. bell’s class?”

she knew you? you cleared your throat again. “uh, yeah, yeah. were you… there when the whole thing with keeho went do—”

 her pointed look at you shuts you up, remembering you were in god’s house with a preacher closely watching the both of you.

you let go of her hand, stuffing it back in your pocket and nodding awkwardly. mr. laforteza kindly gestures at sophia to hand you the envelope. 

“that’s got all of what your mother could ever need, y/n. please tell her to take care of herself and if possible, to bring it back again so we could be at peace with the lord.” he murmurs as sophia extends the envelope for you to take. 

you hum. “‘course, pastor. thank you for your time.” you glanced at sophia. “see you around.”

down the steps and back into the simmering heat of the south, yves follows you like a lost puppy, groaning under the force of the sun while you tugged your cowboy hat back on, kicking some dirt as the pastor closed one of two doors to the entrance. 

“so, d’you see sophia? is she as pretty as they say? as religious as they say?” yves’ questions flowed like water into river, continuous even until you reached the inside of your pickup, shoving your hat back in your glove compartment without a care.

“she’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. could see why boys at school are so hellbent on getting her hand in marriage.” you’d mumbled nonchalantly like you weren’t about to burst into a ball of nerves upon the sight of her.

“ha, i think i’d shoot my own cousin just to have a chance with her.”

yeah, me too.

—--

she looks like she works with her hands and smells like marlboro reds.

sophia never thought that she’d be sitting inside a short-bed truck under the stars behind the chapel, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. the pastel blue flannel she wore didn’t belong to her. it hung loose off her shoulders, sleeves rolled sloppily like you’d done it for her in a rush. 

the collar was stretched a little, worn soft from use, and smelled faintly like you: a mix of sweat, sun, and marlboro reds.

she was hunched forward, elbow braced on one knee, the other hand trembling slightly as she held the cigarette between her fingers. 

she coughed once, then again, harder, the sound ripping from her throat like her body didn’t quite know what to do with itself. foreign.

this was her first time, of course she didn’t know what she was doing. and it’d be embarrassing now to pretend like she did.

you looked just like an expert on the topic.

strings of giggles slipped from your mouth, cracked with amusement as you reached out and rubbed her back with one palm, half-concerned, though mostly entertained.

the cigarette still burned between your own fingers, the filter wet from being passed back and forth between your lips. does this count as an indirect kiss? sophia wonders. oh god, would this be my first kiss then—

“you good there, church girl?” you drawled, grinning.

she nodded, barely, ripped from her thoughts. cheeks pink, hair a little messy, pupils blown wide not from the nicotine but from you. so close, so smug, so goddamn intoxicating.

and god, if she weren’t so mortified, she might’ve smiled too.

she never thought she’d end up here, with you. not just in your truck, but behind the chapel.

behind the actual house of god, hidden from the road by oaks and old fences, where the choir’s voices couldn’t reach and the stars blinked down like they knew a secret. this was sacred ground. and yet, she wasn’t kneeling in prayer. though she might if that meant she could spend more time with you like this.

sophia laforteza, the preacher’s daughter. prim, sweet, composed. the girl with folded hands and spotless shoes, always helping her father set up communion or hand out hymn books. the one with the perfect reputation. the one mothers pointed to and said, “why can’t you be more like her?”

smoking in your passenger seat.

it was everything she wasn’t supposed to be.

yet it thrilled her. she’d never known life outside the church, and god, you. you with your tattered reputation and camo jackets (occasionally) and fucking corner store robbings. 

you’d never been indicted, though. the town felt it too much of a bother to keep you locked up in state juvie where you’d most likely influence more teenagers to act out.

enablers? sophia thinks so, but with the way you gazed at her and batted your eyelashes like you weren’t what the mothers think you are, she might as well be an enabler too.

because fuck, she’ll feign sickness to skip church as many times as she could if it meant being with you.

“so,” she utters after a beat as she passes the cigarette back to you, placing it between your lips as you take a deep hit of the tobacco, her eyes flitting down to watch the smoke escape and continue to fog up the car. 

“what brings you to the chapel this late at night?”

“what brings you to join me?”

“don’t turn the question back to me.”

you held your hands up playfully, brows raising in surprise at her response, chuckling softly as the stick of tobacco hung loosely around your lips. 

“damn, alright. came to church thinkin’ i’d possibly, maybe, pay the dude up there a visit.” you’d shrugged, slightly cracking a window open and letting the the fog spill out in waves upon the notice of sophia starting to cough at the compiled toxic smoke.

“you good there, laforteza?” you mumbled in concern, continuing to crack the window open and grabbing the stick between your lips to transfer over between your fingers, sticking it out the window and skimming the pad of your thumb to shrug off the ashes.

sophia waved a hand in front of her face, still coughing a little, brows pulled together. “i’m fine. nothing i can’t handle.”

the two of you sat there for a moment, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. the hum of crickets filled the air outside, soft and steady. she was unsure what to do next. she’d never found herself in this situation, much less stuck in a car with you of all people.

“so…” you started, lips jutting out slightly as you thought of what to say next. sophia’s eyes flicked down, almost on instinct, watching the movement before she could stop herself. she bit her lip, then blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the sudden thought of what it might feel like to kiss you. she faked another cough, hoping it’d hide the colour creeping into her cheeks.

you eye her. “you ever kissed anyone before, laforteza?” 

her head snapped up, eyes wide at the question. you weren’t teasing, not really. just curious, your voice smooth and even, smoke curling lazily from between your fingers as you pulled your arm back in the truck.

“um… why do you ask?” sophia chuckled nervously, voice soft but a little shaky. 

her eyes darted everywhere but you. the dashboard, the windshield, the faint glow of the chapel lights in the distance. anywhere to avoid the weight of your gaze. her fingers fidgeted in her lap, brushing over the hem of your flannel still draped across her shoulders.

you tilted your head, the corner of your mouth curling up just slightly as you took another drag and leaned back against the seat. “just curious,” you said, smoke spilling from your lips with the words. “you don’t strike me as the type who’s been kissed.”

she laughed again, too high-pitched, too awkward. “well, i-i have!” it was more of a squeak, really.

“yeah?” you asked, looking over at her with a lazy smile, glossed over eyes twinkling playfully. “by who, your hand?”

sophia’s mouth fell open, an incredulous sound escaping her as she swatted your arm, cheeks blazing pink. “oh my god, shut up!”

your laughter filled the truck, loud and warm, echoing off the metal doors. she tried to glare at you, but the corners of her lips betrayed her, curling into a reluctant smile.

you looked at her for a moment longer, the humour softening in your eyes. “i’m just sayin’, church girl like you? i figured you’d be too busy followin’ rules to break one like that. ‘specially with the dude up there.” you’d pointed up at the roof of the truck.

her smile faltered, replaced by something quieter. she looked down, thumb brushing against the fraying edge of your flannel sleeve. 

“yeah, well,” she murmured, almost to herself, “guess i’m starting to learn.”

and the way she said it, barely above a whisper, almost like a confession, made your grin fade into something else entirely. something slower. heavier. 

the cigarette burned low between your fingers.

you leaned back a little, studying her face, the way she avoided your eyes but kept tugging at the flannel sleeve like it grounded her. your voice came out low, quieter than before.

“you wanna learn how to?”

her head snapped up, eyes wide. “learn how to what?”

you raised a brow, fighting a smirk. “kiss someone.”

the colour rose instantly in her cheeks, her whole posture stiffening as if she’d just been caught doing something more sinful than being in your truck, covered by your flannel. “i—what?” she stammered, voice cracking slightly. “you’re not serious.”

you shrugged, still calm, still leaning back in that lazy way that made it seem like you had all the time in the world. 

“never been more serious.” you took one last drag from the cigarette, flicked it out the window, and turned back to her. “you said you’re learnin’, right? might as well start with somethin’ worth learnin’.”

she laughed nervously again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “you can’t just—ask that out of nowhere,” she muttered, eyes dropping to her hands.

“sure i can,” you said easily. “you can say no, if you want.”

she went quiet for a beat, chewing on her lip, thinking too hard. the hum of the night filled the space between you again. crickets, wind, the faint creak of the truck. and then, so softly you almost didn’t catch it, 

she asked,

“…what if i said yes?”

you smiled, slow and crooked, the kind that made her chest tighten. “then i’d tell you to close your eyes, church girl.”

—--

it makes me so, uh, and i can’t get enough of it. something’s been feeling weird lately. there’s just something about you, baby.

it had been a week since sophia had seen you. not that she’s been looking around for you, or jotting down the days in her calendar since the last meeting. no, certainly not. her diary certainly hadn’t been hearing your name every five fucking seconds as well. definitely not.

but god, my god, she could scrape her knees right now and she wouldn’t even bat an eye because you’d walked into the chapel. you. in the chapel. huh.

it wasn’t every sunday you decided to show up for mass, and certainly not on time.

heads turned almost immediately, conversations faltering mid-sentence as people started noticing your sudden appearance, and you, being such a thorn on their side, met their gazes, mouth curling into the faintest smirk before you pulled your cowboy hat off and held it against your chest. the movement was slow, deliberate, and respectful enough to pass.

their whispers started soon after. you heard your name once, twice, hushed under breaths that weren’t as quiet as they thought. you didn’t care. you found an empty pew near the middle and sat down, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed straight ahead at the altar like you belonged there. maybe today, you almost did.

and from her spot near the front, sophia couldn’t look away.

she froze halfway through setting the hymn books, fingers curling around the spine of one as if that could keep her steady. 

your presence alone was enough to knock the air out of her chest. you looked the same—hair a little messy, boots scuffed from the road, that calm expression that somehow said everything and nothing all at once.

but to sophia, all she could see was that night. her first kiss, still lingering like smoke on her tongue no matter how many prayers she’d whispered since.

and now here you were, sitting in her father’s church like it was the most natural thing in the world.

she should’ve looked away. she knew that. but she couldn’t. she couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d smiled against her lips before pulling back, the faint rasp of your voice when you’d whispered, “see? not that hard.”

now, her pulse was unsteady all over again, her breath catching when your gaze flicked up and met hers for the briefest second across the room.

you didn’t smile. neither did she.

but the look said enough.

after church?

sophia nods.

—----

maybe i’ll just be crazy. and piss her off till she hates me. yeah right, she fucking loves me.

“ow,” sophia hissed as her foot caught the edge of the windowsill again, knuckles gripping the frame tight as she eased herself down. 

it wasn’t her most graceful landing—never was—but at least this time she didn’t knock over the garden lantern like the seventh time she’d tried this. 

by now, she should’ve been better at sneaking out. the bruises on her knees said otherwise.

you stood waiting beneath the window, arms crossed, that familiar crooked grin pulling at your mouth. 

the low rumble of your truck idled a few yards away, headlights off, moonlight spilling just enough to outline you. leather jacket, messy hair, that same air of trouble that made sophia’s stomach twist and flutter all at once.

“you keep makin’ that noise and your old man’s gonna come out swingin’ and i’m dead,” you teased, voice a low drawl that made her pulse skip.

she shot you a half-hearted glare, brushing dust off her nightdress before tugging on your flannel from the truck bed and pulling it over her shoulders. it was far too big, smelled faintly of smoke and motor oil, and fit way too big on her. but that was exactly why she liked it.

“you’d think i’d have learned by now,” she muttered, rubbing at her shin with a wince.

“you’d think,” you echoed, leaning close enough that your breath warmed the shell of her ear. “but maybe you just like findin’ excuses to see me.”

she tried to scoff, but it came out softer than intended, her voice betraying her with how easily it wavered. “don’t flatter yourself.”

you grinned wider, and she hated how it made her chest feel light.

“sooooo,” you drawled om, humming softly. “what’s the move tonight, laforteza?”

“you tell me.” she climbed in beside you, the seat cracked and warm from the southern night. 

your fingers brushed hers on the gearshift, casual and unhurried, and still it made her breath catch. 

as you pulled onto the dirt road leading away from the chapel, sophia glanced back once toward the steeple barely visible through the trees, cross glinting faintly in the moonlight before she looked at you again.

you caught her staring. “what?”

“nothin’,” she whispered, smiling just a little. “just… hoping god’s asleep right now.”

you laughed, low and warm, reaching for her hand. “then let’s not wake him.”

—-----

low slung bad bitch, baby, come and get you some. can you read my mind? i’ve been watching you. couldn’t fight to save your life but you look so cool.

it was the twentieth time of sophia slipping out of her window at an unreasonable time when you’d resembled that of a kicked dog. 

bruises painted your knuckles, a small cut split your lip, and a purpling shadow was already blooming under your left eye. you looked like hell. pathetic, really. and god, it made sophia want to cradle you in her arms and pepper soft kisses all over your battered face.

“god, you look like…” sophia trailed off, glancing back toward the house, eyes flicking nervously to the prayer room window before finishing with a hissed, “shit.”

her words make you laugh, boot scuffing up a bit of dust as you kicked a pebble down the dirt road, leaning lazy against your truck. “usin’ the lord’s name in vain, huh? and swearin’ on top of it. lord have mercy, i really am a bad influence on you, laforteza.”

she giggled, light and unrestrained, like she didn’t just check if the coast was clear to curse. “mm, maybe. i do hang around you too much.”

she stepped closer, thumb brushing across your cheek, her brows knitting at the sight of the split in your skin. “have you cleaned this up?”

“uh… kinda? jus’ threw some water on it, figured that’d do the trick.”

she made a face at that, grabbing your wrist gently as her eyes skimmed over the bruises scattered along your hand.

“you idiot,” she muttered, pinching your cheek. “i heard what happened from lara. i don’t know why you’d fight someone as huge as dustin.”

you groaned, shoulders slouching as you kicked at the dirt. “got me some cool scars outta it, though…”

sophia sighed, pushing you gently back toward the truck. she opened the glove compartment with ease, like she’d done it a hundred times, pulling out a box of bandages and a small bottle of alcohol she’d stashed there weeks ago. your eyes widened in alarm.

“wait, hold on, laforteza—no alcohol.”

“shut up,” she said, tone half fond, half firm. “this is what you get.”

the burn hit instantly, and you hissed, jerking back with a wince. “shit—fuck, sophia, that stings!”

sophia narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile. she caught it immediately. that was the first time you’d ever said her name instead of dragging out “laforteza” like it was a joke.

“really? that’s what makes you use my name? and don’t be such a baby,” she muttered, catching your hand again when you tried to pull away. “you’d think after throwing punches, you could handle a bit of disinfectant.”

“yeah, well, fists don’t burn near like this,” you grumbled, wincing as the alcohol bit into your skin and caused your eyes to water.

her laughter bubbled out before she could stop it. “oh, sweetheart,” she teased, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re gonna cry over a little alcohol?”

“it’s just—” you bit your tongue, cheeks heating up. “it’s just the damn burn, that’s all.”

“swear?” she raised her brows, eyes watching how you sniffled like a big baby at the sting of the alcohol on your split knuckles.

“swear.”

sophia’s smile softened. her thumb brushed under your eye, and something in her chest squeezed tight. the sight of you, rumpled, bruised, and still trying to act tough, made her heart stumble.

she could still smell the cigarette smoke clinging to your jacket, the faint salt of dried sweat, the warmth radiating from your skin under her palm.

and just like that, it hit her. hard, deep, and terrifying.

oh, shit.

she might actually be in love with you.

—------

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you.

sophia stirs at 3 a.m. at the constant tapping on her window, eyes bleary and fuzzy as she sits up in bed. she groans, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand, and huffs, dragging herself out from under the covers. the tapping comes again, sharper this time, and she realizes with a groan that it’s not the house. it’s pebbles, small stones hitting the glass rhythmically.

she pads across her room, the floorboards cold under her bare feet, and squints through the moonlit haze. there you are, standing below her window, hands shoved deep in your jacket pockets, a sheepish grin on your bruised face. the moonlight catches the swelling under your eye and the cut on your lip, and the sight twists something painfully tight in her chest.

her breath hitches. “…what are you doing out there?” she whispers, brows knitting together, voice rough from sleep.

you grin, shrugging lightly. “phia, i’m runnin’ away.”

her heart drops. “what?”

“yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but her. “plannin’ on leavin’ now. came to say bye. my uncle, y’know, the homophobic one? he found out i’m into girls and,” you chuckled nervously, running a bandaged hand through your hair. 

sophia’s blood runs cold, stomach twisting, chest tightening. panic surges through her veins. she’d only just realized what that flutter in her chest meant when you laughed, what that ache behind her ribs was when you smiled at her.

she’s in love with you. and now you’re leaving. without her. headed god knows where, unable to follow you.

the air feels impossibly thick, heavy with the scent of summer night, grass, and something faintly metallic from the bruise on your lip. she stands frozen, gripping the window frame, unable to form words, and watches as you shuffle your weight, shoulders slumping, exhaling softly.

“um… sorry for wakin’ ya, phia,” you continue quietly, voice soft, almost hesitant. “i’ll… see myself out, i guess.”

her lips part, but no sound comes. the silence stretches, taut like a wire.

“are you really not gonna ask me to come with you?” she finally whispers, voice breaking at the last word.

you blink at her, startled. “…you wanna come with me?”

her eyes widen as if she’s seen a ghost. “…are you serious?”

“i just… didn’t think you’d wanna come with me of all people…” you gaped at her, jaw falling slack and she rolls her eyes.

“…give me a few,” she mutters, voice tight, and darts back into her house, boots slapping softly against the floorboards.

inside, drawers slide open and slam shut. her hands fumble, pulling clothes and a small bag together, tossing them over her shoulder with hurried movements. every sound is amplified in the quiet of the house—her breath, the rustle of fabric, the thud of sneakers against hardwood.

you lean against the truck, arms crossed, watching the moonlight trace her movements through the window. after a few long minutes, the window creaks again, and bundles of clothes tumble down to you. 

a second later, she climbs out herself, your missing leather jacket tied around her waist, bag slung over her shoulder, hair messy and wild in the soft moonlight. huh… so that’s where it went.

“hold up,” she hisses, landing lightly beside you, boots scuffing against the asphalt.

you take her hand instinctively, thumb brushing along her knuckles. she shivers at the contact, eyes wide.

“you ready?” you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss on the crown of her head, opening the door for her and placing her clothes in the back of your truck, peering down at her in concern. “no turning back now.”

sophia swallows thickly and glances back at the house, all quiet and dead asleep, then back at you. nodding. “yeah. let’s get out of here,”

she enters the truck and so do you, engine running as you start to drive away from her house, humming under your breath. 

“hey,” you mutter after a moment.

“yeah?”

you grip the wheel a little tighter, then glance over at her with a small grin. “just so y’know… i think i might be in love with you.”

for a second, sophia just stares. like she’s not sure she heard you right. then, soft laughter bubbles out of her. she reaches over, takes your free hand, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“good,” she murmurs, smiling against your skin. “’cause it would’ve been real awkward if i was in love with you and we ran away together without you feeling the same.”

oh, i’d rather be with you. ‘cause good men die too, so i’d rather be with you.

a/n. um... quite embarrassing that it took me almost four months to finish this and not only that... its wayyyy off what i originally wanted this fic to look like... scratched head. nonetheless, i hope u guys enjoyed it😭😭 i'll continue to keep working on the event n the reqs😛

–

megan woke up in a cold sweat, lara shaking her awake like the purge had started.

“megan, what are you doing?! wake up!” lara yells, making megan groan.

she sits up, an annoyed look on her face making lara even more irritated.

“what is so important that you’re shaking me awake?!” megan exclaims, causing lara to hit the girl softly.

“the ep came out mei, we have promo to do.” lara replies, making megan jolt up from her bed.

“seriously?! what time is it?” megan stammered, grabbing her clothes for the day off the edge of her bed.

“uhhh like 6:35..” lara shrugs, making megan’s heart drop.

“don’t we leave at seven?!”

“maybe..”

“why didn’t you wake me up earlier!” megan yells throwing a random shirt at lara, making the latter stumble a bit.

“the hell was that for—“ lara starts, getting cut off by a knock on the door.

the door opens to reveal sophia and y/n, one who looked pissed while the other had a look of sympathy.

“you two need to hurry, we leave in fifteen,” sophia says, her frustration growing when seeing megan, “did you just wake up..?” she asks.

megan grimaces, turning around towards the bathroom before muttering a small ‘yes’. sophia sighs, “just be ready by 6:55.”

sophia shuts the door behind her, leaving y/n alone with the two girls. there was a long period of silence before y/n spoke up.

“sorry, i just wanted to give you this back.” y/n says, holding out a hoodie.

megan recognized it immediately, the memories coming back of last night. her and y/n watched a movie the night before, and it dragged on pretty late. (presumably why megan woke up late, she didn’t know how y/n didn’t.) but it was cold in the living room, so megan gave the girl her jacket. megan tried not to smile at the thought, remembering how cute y/n looked in it.

megan nodded and took the hoodie away from y/n, their hands brushing just enough to make the ginger girl blush.

“thank you.” megan mutters, to which y/n nods.

y/n left the room soon after, a confused look on lara’s face.

“how’d y/n get your hoodie?” lara asks, to which megan shrugs.

“we were watching a movie last night.” megan replies, walking towards their bathroom.

“you mean to tell me that you, megan skiendiel successfully hung out with y/n without embarrassing yourself.. alone?!” lara joked, making her roommate roll her eyes.

“i’m not that bad..” megan mumbles, slamming the bathroom door shut.

she sighed, taking a deep breath before taking her toothbrush out of the cup. megan thought back to her dream the night before, she tried not to dwell on it once she woke up but especially after y/n came into her room it was hard. the dream was reoccurring, and it wasn’t unusual for megan to have dreams about her best friend. most of them had actually happened, her dreams consisting of soft touches and quiet moments between the two. megan could never get them out of her mind, the thought making her groan. she had just finished brushing her teeth, when the door opened revealing lara.

“are you ready?” the girl at the door exclaims, shouts being heard in the background (from sophia) making megan suppress a laugh.

“yeah almost.” she replies, packing up her bag.

“good. sophia’s fuse has already blown.” lara mumbles.

“where to first?” megan asks, but even while lara explained all she could think about was y/n and their hands brushing momentarily.

“are you listening?” lara deadpans.

“yeah, yeah. you said a netflix interview?”

“lord.. just get in the car.”

—

the girls had finally arrived at their set, everyone getting ready for the long day. megan was getting her makeup done right next to y/n, the latter making small talk.

“mei, did you see this?” y/n asks, moving her phone up to megan’s line of sight.

it was an edit of megan with her ginger hair, during their first ‘debut’ performance.

“they captured your beauty so well.” y/n mutters, completely in awe at the edit.

the compliment made megan flustered, the girl mumbling a small ‘thank you’. megan’s makeup artist nudged her softly, choosing to ignore the interaction between the girls.

“keep your head this way.” she scolds, tilting megan’s face towards her.

megan sunk into her seat, ignoring y/n giggling at her. she already knew this was going to be a long, grueling day. and a lot of it was going to end in scolding from sophia.

–

the set was like just about another set the girls had been on. there were bright lights, crew members running around in the back, an interviewer smiling at them with professionalism, and all seven of them seated together. four of them on a couch, the other three seated on arm chairs surrounding the couch. megan was sitting on the arm chair closest to the couch, y/n to her left, lara to her right. she was bouncing her leg due to nervousness, lara catching this quickly.

“megan.” lara whispers, catching the attention of the nervous girl next to her.

“yeah?”

“keep your composure for an hour and i’ll get you hainan chicken rice.” lara says.

megan could barely contain her smile, the girl stopped bouncing her leg and focused in on the interview that was just beginning.

the interview started off smoothly, sophia leading the way and surprisingly her co-leader was y/n. they answered question after question, but still left room for additions or new perspectives. the qualities katseye were known for shined in this interview, they all seemed so close to each other (especially a certain two girls).

“so,” the interviewer starts, “who do we think is the light of the group during promotion times?” she asks.

y/n speaks first, “i say megan, she never fails to make my day.”

this caught megan off guard, and she looked at y/n with admiration in her eyes.

“thank you.” she responds, trying to hide her big grin.

some of the other girls agreed, others choosing their own. but megan didn’t pay attention, all she was focused on was y/n’s soft smile. y/n never smiled big for the camera, like if she did it would show a different side of her. a side only those close to her knew. megan noticed it all the time, the way her smile changed from their moments together behind doors to when they were filming anything. it made megan feel special, that she was one of the only people who truly got to see that smile. a smile so beautiful it melted her heart everytime.

the interview soon came to a close, the staff clapping once the camera was shut off.

“great work today!” someone announces, leading to more celebration.

the katseye girls shook hands with all of the crew before leaving. and what happened next, megan couldn’t have expected it in a million years to happen. y/n took her hand and squeezed it, obviously anxious about something. megan felt nervous for a moment, her loose grip on her crushes  friends turning into a tight grip. they had stepped outside now but megan didn’t care, paparazzi taking pictures of them as she leaned in.

“everything alright?” she whispers, simply the closeness making y/n red.

“yeah, just feel safer with your hand in mine.” y/n whispers back, smiling.

megan nods, “whatever you need, I'm here.”

it didn’t matter to either of them that they were gonna be the top of both headlines the next day, what mattered to them was a feeling of being free. they felt safe from judgement with each other.

—

unfortunately that moment was how megan woke up to hundreds of text messages from just about everyone she knew.

the bright light of her phone makes her groan, her face dropping once she reads the messages.

“shit.” megan mumbles.

“what’s up?” lara asks, the girl turning on her bed to face megan.

“management texted me, so did y/n. assuming i have a meeting with both soon.” megan replies, throwing her face into her pillow in annoyance.

“what even could it be about..”

“i don’t know, maybe the fact the two of you are trending right now.” lara shrugs.

“huh?!” megan exclaims.

lara just gave the girl her phone, a short clip of her and y/n holding hands the previous day being displayed. the text on the video speculated that they might be dating, to which megan laughed at.

“dating is crazy.” she says, giving the phone back to lara.

“right sooo crazy, i’m sure you’re so opposed to that.” lara teases, laughing at her roommate.

“okay shut up.” megan replies, rolling her eyes.

“it’d never happen.” megan mutters before closing the bathroom door shut to get ready.

yeah, she spoke too soon.

—

once megan had arrived at the company, she parked and made her way to the front where she saw y/n.

“megan!” y/n calls, immediately hugging megan as she approaches.

y/n’s hands wrapped around megan’s neck, the latter wrapping hers around y/n’s waist.

“i hope everythings okay..” y/n mumbles into megan’s neck.

megan begins to nod, before stopping to think about it.

“yeah, i’m sure it will.” she replies.

“ready to go in?” megan asks, to which y/n nods.

the atmosphere of the building felt off, the girl at the desk immediately recognizing the two.

“katseye..” she mutters, her voice trailing.

“follow me.” the receptionist says simply, leading the two girls up the elevator.

they soon approached a room, to which the receptionist opened. the two girls being met with a multitude of management. y/n sucked in a breath, her hand instinctively going to interlock with megan’s but instead it went right back to her side following the gazes of the higher ups.

“both of you sit.” one of them says, which megan recognizes to be their group manager.

they both sat, all of the people in the room keeping a stern look on their faces. it intimidated megan a bit, but y/n felt something was off. she knew they were going to ask something of them, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“i’m sure you’ve seen the clips by now. the two of you have taken the internet by storm..” their group manager starts.

“your chemistry is undeniable and for damage control we’ve decided..”

“the two of you will be fake dating, appearances will start the next time we do promo, and an announcement will be made as soon as possible.” he finishes.

the room went completely silent, megan and y/n not daring to look at each other in fear.

“but what if they find out it isn’t real?” y/n asks, the words making megan’s heart sting.

megan didn’t know why y/n’s words hurt so bad, and she chose to just shake it off. she couldn’t be mad it wasn’t like they were exclusively or anything.

“they won’t, you’re already fooling them now.” their manager shrugs.

that made megan and y/n look at each other finally. they gave each other a look of approval, before megan spoke up.

“we’ll do it.”

–

the first few weeks of pretending was hard, all of it hurting megan’s heart. but she told herself it would be okay, she’d get over y/n eventually right? megan remembered the day the announcement came out like it was yesterday (probably because she skimmed over it almost everyday), and the words from the meeting were echoing in her brain.

‘but what if they find out it isn’t real?’

the words made megan grimace as she thought about them, leading her to also remember their first appearance together. they were scheduled to appear at a coffee shop together and to walk in holding hands and out holding hands. it was overwhelming for the both of them, paparazzi finding them almost instantly. the flash bothered y/n and megan could tell, leading the latter to take off her sunglasses.

“here.” she whispered to her ‘girlfriend’, holding out the sunglasses.

“thank you.” y/n replies, smiling as she put them on.

the cafe was quiet before they walked in, faces staring their direction after the commotion outside. megan ordered for them, quickly apologizing to the workers before ushering y/n to a table.

“this is crazy..” megan murmured, to which y/n nods.

“didn’t know people would be so interested in two idols dating.” y/n says.

“i mean, maybe it’s cause you look really good.” megan breathes out, her pulse quickening as she realizes her words.

“they need to capture your beauty.”

y/n recognized the words, remembering back to last week when she had said them. she suppressed a smile, rolling her eyes at her friend.

megan’s eyes never left y/n, the latter smirking at her words.

“really?”

“really.”

“you know they can’t hear us, mei.” y/n teases.

“mhm, just wanted to make sure you knew.” megan shrugs, making y/n nudge her gently.

“save your flirting for when we leave.” y/n mumbles, megan’s words clearing affecting her.

megan just laughs, the interaction was cut short by their food and drinks being served. small talk was made while they ate, snippets of it being caught on camera and posted. in one of the videos from an outside view, y/n and megan were seen sitting very close. megan reached her hand up to brush y/n’s hair away from her face, the girl in question turning red. this clip in particular blew up, which led to edits and fanart being made for the two referencing the interaction.

now in the present (two weeks later from the cafe), the katseye girls were having their weekly movie night.

“megan you and y/n are such cute fake girlfriends.” manon says.

unfortunately, y/n was asleep during this so megan had to deal with the teasing.

“it almost feels a little too real.” manon follows up, making megan laugh.

“right, whatever you say grannie.” megan replies, making her oldest member hit her.

megan grimaced in pain, “ow..”

“i am not that old, i’m only 21.” manon insists, rolling her eyes.

“right..”

“hey!”

megan found it hard to sleep that night, her thoughts loud. she couldn’t stop thinking about what manon had said, her face flushing. sometimes it did feel a little too real, interacting with y/n. the two hadn’t kissed yet, but it felt as though they were courting each other. megan wanted more, she knew she did from the beginning. but she also knew she couldn’t have more, not unless she actually did anything more than flirting with y/n. megan sighed, rolling onto her side. she tried to sleep for a moment, before a loud ‘ping!’ came from her phone. megan rolled back over, picking up her phone.

megan couldn’t stop herself from smiling at her phone. she quickly got up though, pocketing her phone. megan tip-toed through her room to make sure lara wouldn’t wake up and gently closed the door. she made her way into the living room, her smile reappearing at the sight of y/n.

“hi.” y/n whispers, smiling back.

“hey.” megan replies.

“let’s go?”

“yeah.”

–

the walk upstairs was quiet, but not the awkward kind. the two girls had their hands interlocked, the action feeling so natural now. it still made megan a little nervous in all honesty, but she didn’t cherish anything more than these moments with y/n. they both sat near the edge, far enough to be safe but close enough to see the city.

“do you ever feel like this is weird?” y/n asks, her voice soft.

megan swallows, “what do you mean?”

“sometimes—” y/n starts, taking a deep breath.

“sometimes, i forget this isn’t real.” she admits.

y/n’s words make megan look at her, as if she would run away any minute now. megan contemplates what she say next, a love confession on the tip of her tongue. yet, she bites it back choosing a more neutral option.

“i do too.” megan confesses, making y/n smile.

y/n lays her head on megan’s shoulder, “the stars are so beautiful.”

“yeah they are.” megan replies.

she wasn’t looking at the stars though, her eyes stuck on the girl next to her. what did y/n mean?

megan just sighs, her eyes turning to the stars now. they really were beautiful, but not as much as the girl next to her.

—

the next day megan woke up with a headache. not from anything crazy, but from the silent crying she had done the night before. it irked her to admit but the fact she couldn’t confess her feelings to y/n made her angry with herself. it was the perfect moment, y/n even admitting that she forgot their moments weren’t real. but it was too late now, and megan couldn’t have regretted anything more.

they had rehearsal now unfortunately, so she had no time to process what had happened the night before. megan got up and began getting ready, gaining an incredulous look from lara.

“you look rough.” lara remarks.

“i’m stressed about jingle ball.”  megan says lying through her teeth.

“you sure it has nothing to do with your fake girlfriend?” lara teases.

“no.” megan deadpans.

megan quickly grabbed her bag before leaving the room, in arrogance. she just wanted to get rehearsal over with fast.

yet she couldn’t focus at all during it, getting frustrated with herself numerous times for stupid mistakes. megan couldn’t bring herself to stop thinking about last night, her eyes trailing on the girl dancing. megan sucked in a breath, before getting nudged by daniela.

“you gonna stare at her all day or tell her?” dani asks, taking megan out of her trance.

“tell her what?” megan acts innocent, making daniela roll her eyes.

“that you’re secretly in love with her. well.. not secretly but–” daniela says.

“shut up.” megan retorts, cutting her off.

“i’ll tell her after practice.” megan says.

“you better.”

–

megan stayed after practice to polish her steps up, not noticing the door open behind her.

“megan? you’re still here?” y/n ponders, making megan turn around.

“oh. yeah, need to make sure i have it down.” megan replies.

“you push yourself too hard.” y/n scolds.

“can’t get better if i don’t.” megan shrugs.

“you say that like you don’t work hard at rehearsals..” y/n mumbles, moving to stand next to megan.

“it’s not enough.”

“megan.” y/n warns, “what’s up with you? like actually. you’ve been so off today.”

megan’s face softened at her words, y/n was always so observant. sometimes it was a blessing, other times it was a curse.

“can i tell you something?” megan whispers.

y/n just nods, her eyes moving to megan’s face now.

“i think– i think i’m in love with you. no actually i know i am, i’ve loved you since we became friends.” megan confesses, her words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

there was a beat of silence, one that could end in many different ways.

“megan.”

“yeah?”

“i’m in love with you too.”

megan starts smiling like an idiot at this, “wait like actually?”

y/n laughs, “i would never lie to you mei.”

“so what now?” megan asks, keeping her distance from y/n like something would happen if she got too close.

y/n quickly closed this distance, wrapping her hands around megan’s neck. leading to megan instinctively holding her waist.

“there’s a lot that i’m thinking about right now,” y/n breathes out, the proximity making both girls nervous.

“but i need to do this first. before it drives me even more crazy.” she finishes.

y/n’s hands moved up to megan’s face, cupping her cheeks.

“are you gonna—“

“less talking.”

y/n lips crash onto megan’s, the latter’s hands tightening around y/n’s waist. y/n had been waiting for this moment since forever, just the feeling of her lips on megan's driving her crazy. the kiss lasted for a good while until they both broke away for air.

“that was.. wow.” megan stammers, making y/n laugh.

“so what are we?” megan asks.

“together?” y/n replies.

“wait but i wanted to ask you on one of our dates..” megan frowns.

“have you been picturing this?” y/n teases.

megan rolls her eyes, “no..” she says suppressing a smile.

“right.” y/n says giggling.

“but okay, you can ask me out formally. for now, we can still be best friends.” y/n jokes, making megan groan.

“we can be unofficial together..” megan asserts.

y/n nods, taking megan’s hand into hers.

“can we go to the rooftop?”

people said it every time you showed up anywhere together: “oh my god, that’s megan in mini form.” it happened at grocery stores, on sidewalks, at the dentist, and this morning, right there on the kindergarten steps where all the parents gathered with travel mugs and sleepy smiles for the class field trip.

your daughter—bug (pls i’m bad at naming)—had both pigtails crooked on purpose because “it’s funnier that way,” a hoodie with jellyfish on it, and megan’s exact whisker dimples stamped into her cheek like proof of purchase. she had megan’s mischievous eyebrows too, permanently tilted like they were mid-prank. when she grinned, you saw the same mouth as your wife, and when she ran, she ran like megan: full send, zero braking.

“you’re sure we don’t have to sign an extra form for... you know,” you had whispered to megan, nodding at your daughter as she hopped from one paving stone to the next, narrating her life like a podcast no one asked for.

“for what?” megan asked, clicking the cap back on a strawberry yogurt tube and tucking it into the tiny cooler you insisted on bringing because nerd preparedness was your whole brand. you had your glasses pushed up, a folded aquarium map in your back pocket, and an entire tote dedicated to snacks, wipes, bandaids, and a laminated list of “top ten questions children ask about stingrays.”

“for property damage,” you said. “or emotional damage. or... general gremlin activity.”

megan laughed, bumping your shoulder with hers as the teacher, ms. hana, clapped to get everyone's attention.

“that’s my girl. i’m so proud.”

bug barreled back to you, skidding on her sneakers. “mommy. mama. this is my girlfriend elia.” she tugged a shy, curly-haired girl out from behind a taller parent. “elia likes apple slices and biting crayons, and we‘re getting married, but not today because field trip.”

“girlfriend?” you repeated.

elia waved, and you crouched to her height. “nice to meet you, elia. i’ll keep the apple slices coming.”

“tell ‘em your favorite color,” bug told her solemnly.

“rainbow,” elia said gravely, then tucked her hand into bug’s like they'd been doing it for fifty years.

the parents around you melted. megan straight-up clutched her heart. “my baby has taste,” she whispered. “she picked the sparkliest partner in the class.”

ms. hana handed out name tags. bug peeled hers off the sheet and stuck it to your forehead instead. “you‘re mine,” she announced.

“you‘re both mine.” megan said, sliding behind you to press a kiss to your temple, then another just to be excessive because megan skiendiel was too lovey-dovey by default.

“noooo,” bug squeaked happily, trying to wedge her small self between you. “mine.”

“everyone buckle up for the bus,” ms. hana called, and the herd began to move.

the bus smelled like crayons and hope. other parents chatted in the aisle; someone passed a box of mini pastries; a dad in a baseball cap asked if stingrays were just flat sharks and you had to physically restrain yourself from opening your tote, finding your laminated facts, and doing a powerpoint with hand gestures.

but then bug crawled into your lap and all your nerd impulses softened. she patted your cheeks. “mama, your glasses are so shiny today.”

“that’s because mama used the nerd cloth,” megan said from the seat across, completely sprawled, one arm slung over the back, smiling so hard her eyes curved into crescents. “did you bring your nerd cloth, baby?”

“i brought three,” you said, because of course you did.

bug peered at your tote like it contained the mysteries of life. “snacks?”

“authenticated snacks,” you confirmed, producing a small container labeled “fruit-non-sticky” and a second labeled “emergency gummy bears-post meltdown only.” megan kissed your knuckles like you‘d just presented the crown jewels.

“remind me to marry you again,” she said.

“you already did,” you said, cheeks heating. megan never hid affection, not even in a bus full of parents; she wore it like a jacket. she always had a hand on you—your wrist, your waist, the back of your neck—like she needed to make sure you were really there.

bug, meanwhile, stuck an apple slice in her mouth like a walrus tusk and side-eyed elia across the aisle. “girlfriend,” she said, muffled. “do walruses live at the aquarium?”

“if they do, mama will know,” megan told them. “mama knows everything.”

you swore you were unaffected, but you smiled so big your glasses slid. “i know some things,” you said modestly, kissing bug’s hairline as she wiggled. “for instance, i know your mommy pretends she’s cool but she cries at penguin shows.”

“i do not,” megan said, already dabbing under one eye. “shut up.”

“mommy bites mama all the time,” bug announced suddenly to no one and everyone.

the entire row went silent, then burst into muffled laughter like a wave. you choked on your own spit. megan pressed her forehead to the seat and wheezed. “out of context, that sounds—”

“—like your mom needs to stop chewing on me in public,” you cut in, fanning yourself. “bug, tell the court what you mean.”

bug rolled her eyes, megan-coded. “like this,” she said, leaning forward and chomping your shoulder with the gentlest baby goat nibble. “mommy does bite-bites when she loves you. it’s like kitty kisses.” she turned to the world at large. “do not worry. mama is fine.”

the dad in the baseball cap gave you a thumbs-up like, good for you, and you hid behind your laminated stingray sheet until the bus pulled up to the aquarium.

inside, it felt like you had walked into the ocean without the inconvenience of drowning. everything glowed blue. children squealed. the giant tunnel arched ahead like the inside of a whale’s smile.

bug vibrated. “i have so many questions,” she declared, already sprint-walking, jellyfish backpack bobbing. elia galloped beside her. megan caught your hand.

“you‘re doing your thinking face,” she said softly, squeezing.

“just calculating how to keep our child from adopting a moray eel,” you said. “or starting a coup among the clownfish.”

“i’ll distract her,” megan said. “you do your nerd thing. we‘ve got this.”

you believed her.

first stop: the coral reef wall. tilting, darting fish like living confetti. bug went nose-to-glass immediately, exhaling fog onto it before wiping a heart shape with her sleeve. “hello, fishie family,” she said pleasantly. “do you have taxes?”

“not that kind,” you said, because your brain was broken in a specific way where you answered everything. “but they do have jobs. like cleaning stations where wrasses—”

bug gasped. “wrassles?!”

“wrasses,” you repeated, laughing. “little cleaner fish. they help keep the big fish healthy.”

megan crouched beside bug, chin on her shoulder. “see, bug? everyone takes care of everyone.”

bug nodded solemnly, then smushed her cheek to the glass. “i volunteer to be me and elia’s cleaning fish. i'm very helpful.”

elia agreed, because of course she did.

you drifted behind them, reading placards, connecting dots, explaining quietly when bug asked, and kissing megan‘s hair when you passed close enough.

“mama,” bug said at the next tank, pointing at a vaguely grumpy, magnificently plump giant grouper. “that fish has grandpa’s... tummy.”

you choked, then snorted so hard your shoulders shook. “oh my god.”

megan put a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling. “don’t you dare send that to the family group chat.”

you were already texting a photo to the family group chat.

“he looks cuddly,” bug added thoughtfully. “like a couch fish. hi couch fish.”

the couch fish did not respond, which, fair.

the stingray touch pool was where your blood pressure did a swan dive. bug approached the edge like a scientist, elbows high, fingers wiggling.

“gentle,” you reminded.

“two fingers,” megan added, demonstrating in the air.

bug nodded gravely, then reached down and squealed when a ray slipped past her hand like living velvet. “SLIPPERY,” she announced to twelve strangers. “HELLO MR. FLAPPY PANCAKE.”

“excellent observation,” you said, handing her a towel. her sleeve was soaked; your heart was a hummingbird; megan kissed your jaw because she knew the exact frequency of your worry and loved you right through it.

you caught a few other parents watching the three of you with fond smiles.

one mom leaned over as bug rushed away. “she really is your wife in miniature," she said to you.

“i know right,” megan replied, pride warming her voice until it was practically steam. “she’s my little carbon copy.”

“i thought i was the carbon,” you whispered.

megan kissed the corner of your mouth. “you’re my everything copy.”

“we’re in public,” you hissed, smiling so hard your face hurt.

“mm. public sees what love looks like then.”

bug returned at a sprint. “mommy,” she said, tugging megan’s sleeve, “come see the marshmallow jellies.”

the jellyfish room felt like the inside of a lullaby. blue light. slow motion. little parachutes rising and falling. bug pressed both hands to the glass and went quiet for the first time all day.

“jelly bellies,” she whispered, reverent.

“jelly bellies,” megan whispered back, just as reverent, and you squeezed her hand because you’d never loved two people more than you did in moments like that.

“can i squish one?”

“no, my love,” you said, crouching. “we only squish stuffed animals and your mommy’s cheeks.”

bug immediately squished megan’s cheeks with sticky little palms. megan accepted it as her fate.

“eyeballs only,” you added gently. “we look, we appreciate, we respect.”

“eyeballs only,” bug echoed, calming all at once like someone had turned the dial down. she leaned her forehead against the glass, and her reflection—the tiny megan face—blinked back at her.

megan watched you watching them, eyes gone soft. she covered your hand on the railing and laced your fingers together. “if a photographer tries to sell us a print for fifty bucks, we’re buying it.”

“obviously,” you said.

spoiler: a photographer did try, and you ended up with a glossy photo of the three of you under the tunnel arch—bug mid-gasp, you wide-eyed and laughing. megan was on the photo, by the way, in the most megan way: both arms around you, head tilted like she had invented affection. you planned to frame it the second you got home.

of course, peace had a timer. it went off right as you turned to answer another parent’s question about seahorses and megan leaned in to whisper something scandalous about how you looked with your glasses slipping and then—silence. empty space where a child had been.

“megan,” you said, already scanning. “where is she.”

megan’s grin fell right off her face. “bug?”

no bug.

you moved. you were a searchlight. megan was a siren. “i’ll take left,” she said, sharp and focused now in the way she always got when it mattered. “you take the tunnel. i’ll tell staff.”

you nodded, heart in your throat. you walked fast, eyes snagging on every small backpack, every set of pigtails. you had almost reached the end of the tunnel when the overhead speaker crackled.

“attention,” said a cheerful voice, “would the parents of a very charming child answering to the name ‘bug’ please come to the photo kiosk? she has made friends with three dolphins on a keychain and is currently giving us a TED talk.”

you exhaled color back into the world.

you and megan found her standing on a stool at the counter, hands parted like she was presenting a thesis. when she saw you, she didn’t even look guilty—just delighted. “mommy! mama! i did exploration.”

“exploration is good,” you said, kneeling so your eyes were level with hers. you wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap except she’d chew through it. “but you have to take us with you when you explore, okay? we were scared.”

bug blinked at you, then at megan, and her little mouth quivered. “oh.” she folded in with a soft whimper, arms out. “sorry. i forgot to bring you.”

megan scooped her up in one move and kissed every square inch of her face: cheeks, nose, forehead, the spot between her brows. “thank you for remembering now,” she murmured. “next time, we explore together.”

bug nodded into her neck. “together.”

the woman at the kiosk leaned over. “she told us stingrays are pancakes and some fish do cleaning like dentists. she also said her mommy bites her mama ‘like a tiny dinosaur when she loves hard.’”

“okay,” you said, ears burning. “field trip over. we‘re moving to a cave.”

megan laughed, eyes wet, mouth beautiful. she hugged you again in the middle of the gift shop because she could. bug peeked between you and cupped your cheeks with all the seriousness in the world.

“no more losts,” she said.

“no more losts,” you repeated, nodding.

you tried to leave without buying anything. you did. you failed within twelve seconds.

bug spotted a stuffed manta ray the size of her torso and declared its name was marshmallow wings. elia chose a glittery dolphin the color of mermaid scales. you added a pressed penny to the pile because your tote had a pocket just for those, obviously. megan bought a keychain of a grouper and elbowed you when you laughed.

“grandpa’s tummy, god i miss my father-in-law,” she whispered, wicked.

“i already texted him,” you whispered back.

on the way out, you passed the penguin feeding and yes, megan cried. “shut up,” she said, wiping furiously. “they’re in tuxedos.”

“it’s not a contest,” you told her, patting her back. “but if it were, you would win crying.”

bug clapped. “mommy wins.”

“see?” megan sniffed. “my biggest fan.”

back at school, the parents regrouped on the steps. kids compared treasures. elia pressed a solemn kiss to bug’s cheek. “bye, girlfriend.”

bug swooned, then recovered instantly. “mommy, can elia live in our house forever?”

“i’ll discuss a lease,” megan said. “terms and conditions apply. must love apple slices.”

“today was chaotic,” you muttered suddenly. “but it was good... great.”

“i loved it,” megan said like a vow, like she said most things to you. “ten out of ten, would parent with you again.”

bug put both palms on your cheeks. “i loved it too. jelly bellies were twinkly. couch fish was round. mommy cried. mama did facts. i'm very tired.”

“same,” you smiled.

“god i love this, i love you guys,” megan chuckled, leaning in to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth in the softest, silliest peck.

bug flopped dramatically. “no more kissies.”

“one more,” megan bargained, kissing your cheek. “for the road.”

“fine,” bug said magnanimously. “you may kiss the bride, i mean mama or whatever.”

she shrugged, “sorry, mami, you don’t deserve it. you can’t be disrespecting me when you’re eating the pizza i bought.”

you stood, knocking manon’s chair back a couple inches. you shot her a faux look of irritant, scrunching your nose. “well, i’m grabbing another piece of the pizza you bought. you asked me to join you, so i expect some kind of compensation.”

just as you wedged yourself between daniela and her desk, she grabbed your hips roughly, pulling you back and down into her lap. her hand grabbed the underside of your knees, the other supporting the small of your back. she pushed her chair back with her feet, wheeling away from the camera. her name rolled off your tongue like a cursed chain, you grabbed onto her tightly in fear of rolling off her thighs and onto the floor.

daniela quickly stood up, taking advantage of the momentum to throw you on her bed. though, she couldn’t let go quick enough, and her body tumbled into yours. just out of frame.

user05 born to ride or whatever lana del rey said

user06 i’ll have what they’re having… and the pizza too ig

user07 okay guys jokes over who took my clothes

daniela laid atop of you, her arms still around your body as you playfully slapped her back. you groaned, struggling to move from under her. thankfully, the two of you were just conveniently out of frame. “dani--!” you whined, struggling to wrong free from her grasp. “get off, you’re heavy.”

she gasped, sitting up. “i’m not heavy! don’t fat-shame me.”

“maybe stop eating so much pizza, you little--!” you rolled over, grabbing daniela’s pillow and smothering her with it. you hear her scream at the top of her lungs into the fur, before grabbing at your hips anchored over hers.

user08 so y/n’s the type gf to straddle you?? scotty beam me

user09 we used to pray for a ankle reveals i feel so blessed

user10 i just know these two have the craziest sesbian lex

you managed to wriggle away from a laughing daniela. you returned to the desk, leaving the younger panting, lying alone on her bed. you grabbed a new slice from the box, biting into the corner. “anyway--sorry you had to witness that little pause, guys. dani woke up and decided to be a brat today.”

“aye, i leave you alone with the camera for a minute and you’re talking shit about me, mami?” the latina chuckled, setting herself down beside you. she pulled your chair by the armrest, close, and into her embrace as she leant over to bite your slice. “you’re the one messing up my momentum up in here.”

she refused to back away, getting in your personal space like her life depended on it. her head rested on your shoulder for the rest of the live, her hands roaming your midsection as she hugged you from the side. you didn’t seem to notice, or mind, as her fingers dragged across your body like she was writing.

user11 damn gotta pry y/n out of dani’s cold dead hands huh

user12 girl chill ain’t nobody tryna take her from you

user13 y/n got our girl acting up like how good is that strap

user14 i wish someone would put me in my place too

˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆ clip two: [ yt video ] katseye’s routine (@glossier)

daniela could stare at you for days on end. it was an issue.

she’s seen the edits, she’s seen the tiktoks, but it didn’t matter how many times she told herself she was going to be careful the next interview or the next press event, she just couldn’t. it was almost like she wasn’t physically able to.

setting her up with you for the glossier video was such bullshit. she swore the team was praying on her downfall. this was their doing--can they really blame her when she couldn’t control it?

“good morning, people of america.” you sang, adjusting your headband in the mirror. daniela’s eyes trained on you, and though the camera sat faced away from the mirror, the fans were certain she was watching your reflection. “this is a ‘get ready with me’ with y/n and daniela from katseye.”

she waved to the camera, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. “today, we’re showing you our makeup routine.”

“wait, i love the braid band.” you complimented, turning your back towards the latina. she couldn’t keep the smile from creeping on her lips. “that’s so easy, i wish i could do that.”

the video cut to manon and sophia, then the maknae line. it wasn’t long before the two of you were back on screen.

“personally, i love a more glossy look. i used to really enjoy the matte finish back in, like, 2013, when it was all about youtube tutorials and king kylie tumblr girls, y’know?” daniela hummed, watching you spray mario bodescu all over. your cheeks glisten, the mist highlighting your features. she stilled, like she had forgotten she was supposed to be starting her routine as well. “but now, i just think the sweaty look works.”

daniela laughed, “you did not just quote tyla at me.”

“no, but she’s so real for that!” you giggled, fanning your face as the primer set. “honestly, i don’t think i can pull off the matte look the way i did when i was like thirteen. my friends from home still clown me with those pictures.”

“like you could ever look that bad.” daniela rolled her eyes, “didn’t we do that style for the debut concept shoot?”

you glared at her, a small teasing smile on her lips. “okay, didn’t have to call me out like that--aren’t we supposed to start? why am i the only one doing a routine right now?”

one of her hands were around your waist, the other picking up her facial spray. she snuck one last glance at you through the mirror before her hand left your hip, misting her features.

after a few interludes of the others starting off their routine, the two of you were centre of attention again.

“valerie put us on this amazing foundation,” daniela said, holding the bottle up to the camera with a hand behind. she once again, snuck you a look, watching you put it on before she does it herself. “it’s the glossier stretch fluid foundation.”

“yeah, it makes me look like i actually drink water.”

“i know you drink water, mami,” the latina added, putting on her own foundation. “i got you that big owala, remember? i made sure you put that thing to good use. wait, isn’t that--!”

she leant over you, covering the camera with her arm for a brief moment before she pulled back, a large bottle in hand.

“oh, yeah, it’s here. i bring it with me everywhere.” you said.

daniela struck a few poses with it, pouting before handing it to you. as your lips latched around the straw to take a sip, her hand found the small of your back, before she got in close to take a large swig of water as well. “see? drink your water, kids.”

user01 is this a grwm or a third-wheeling campaign

user02 dani acting up again she be all over our girl lmao

user03 ok guys not funny who took my clothes

user04 so did glossier just decide we were third wheeling tdy

“i love this liner. i was asking ariana greenblatt about her lip combo at the barbie premiere afterparty last year, and she put me onto makeup forever.” your body leant in close to the mirror, pressing your lips together. you carefully dragged the tip of the pencil across your lips, but you were struggling to keep the tip within your lips. you sighed in frustration. “fuck, i need to sharpen this thing, it’s not working.”

daniela’s hand left your back, grabbing your pencil. she rummaged through her makeup bag. “here, i have mine.”

when she was done sharpening your pencil, she twirled her finger, and naturally, you turned towards her. your eyes flickered to the floor as her fingers gently grabbed your chin. she pursed her lips, you mirrored her action. she carefully fixed the missed lining, before dragging her thumb across the top of your lip for a cleaner edge. “there we go. isn’t that better?”

you knew it closer to the camera, smiling and tilting your head side to side. “we love a clean liner here.”

“si, mami, me encanta el buen maquillaje,” daniela announced in a sing-song voice. she circled her arms around your neck, burying her nose into your cheek. “y te amo, guapa.”

“yo tambien, te quiero, dani.” you whispered, hugging her hips.

user05 the fact she knows the spanish ilyt is crazy

user06 the way it rolled off her tongue so fast too she knew

user07 oh baby had that answer locked and loaded

“wait, i’ve never tried that one before.” you said, trying to read the label on daniela’s lipgloss. it was a new edition glossier gloss, one you haven’t seen yet. “can i try yours, please?”

she nodded, handing you the tube. you quickly applied it, but in the short couple seconds you were fixing your lips, daniela’s eyes never tore away from your face. she smiled.

“mmh. this isn’t really my colour,” you sighed, setting it down.

“no, no, you look good. you look sexy,” daniela assured, her lips spreading into a wide smile. “

˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆ clip three: [ weverse ] making gnarly sandwiches

“absolutely the fuck not, that shit looks radioactive.” daniela scoffed, her head pulling back and away from manon’s sandwich. the older pouted, insistent with the way she kept leaning forward. “manon--stop! i don’t consent!”

“come on, it’s not even that bad. just try it!” the ghanaian woman barked back, chasing daniela around the set.

you focused on stacking the ghastly ingredients in between the two flimsy slices. mustard was sliding out, and as you crushed the bread into each other, the tuna juice dribbled all over your fingers. it was beyond disgusting, but somehow, not the grossest thing sitting at the table right then.

user01 danon divorce preachers been real quiet in this live

user02 y/n’s so focused this gg is so unserious

user03 omg not megan force feeding sophia her sandwich

the eldest eventually gave into daniela’s protests, growing tired of chasing the woman around with a plate in her hands.she managed to give yoonchae a tiny bite, as the youngest made a face, diving towards the sink to spit out the disgusting bite.

daniela found her spot beside you, shooting her roommate a disapproving scowl as manon tended to a hacking yoonchae by the sink. the latina rested her chin on your shoulder.

“someone said, ‘i need y/n in my life’.” sophia read off the ipad at the edge of the table. she peered over at you, who was still focused on the sandwich before her. daniela’s arms wrapped around your midsection tightly, she snarled at the main camera. you weren’t fazed, holding up your plate.

“too bad, she’s all mine.” the latina purred, “get your own.”

user04 damn ok girl ain’t nobody tryna square up rn

user05 until she forgets how to speak spanish

user06 don’t know who i want to be more honestly

you picked the sandwich off your plate, holding it up to daniela’s face. the girl instinctively pulled back, but upon seeing your look of excitement, she couldn’t deny the request that followed. “wait, dani, try mine. it’s not that bad.”

though the girl grimaced, and eyed your sandwich like it was radioactive, she didn’t need another beat to move in for a bite.

it was disgusting, gnarly, if you will. but still, daniela persisted. she managed to swallow the bite, but washed the gamy aftertaste down with half a bottle of water. you laughed at her reaction, dusting your hands off before brushing some hair out of her face. she faked a dramatic gag, a hand on her chest.

“jesus christ, it tastes like monkey ass.” she scoffed. you hit her chest lightly, clicking your tongue. “i mean--mmh, yum.”

user07 damn gotta fake it for the wife huh

user08 seven times a day or whatever jhope said

user09 they finna make me hit the ggum emote

“manz, will you come try it?” you pleaded softly, beckoning her over with a wishful pout. “it’s not that bad, i swear.”

manon raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. she dramatically eyed your plate, then back up at your eyes. “don’t play with me, babe, i saw the way daniela just choked to that.”

“no, dani loved it. right, babe?” you grinned, awaiting support.

daniela’s eyes widened immediately, she was about to choke out some lazy reply before she caught the hopeful glint in your eye. it was just too precious to ruin, so she bit back whatever sass she would usually spit. if you were anybody else.

“it wasn’t that bad.” she shrugged, her fingers trapping at your stomach as they found their way under your shirt. “y/n made it, so of course it was good. definitely better than yours.”

“uhm, excuse you?” the eldest scoffed, “you’re biased.”

“i don’t know… if you try it, you won’t think so.” you wiggled the sandwich in your hand, as if enticing manon. still, the older woman didn’t seem to budge from her stance.

“just try her sandwich, manz.” daniela ordered, “come on.”

the eldest groaned, slowly sauntering over before hesitantly leaning in for the tiniest bite she could manage. and though the mixture of ingredients looked atrocious, the taste was meshed awfully well. manon’s eyes narrowed, humming.

“oh my god, that’s actually not bad.” she was promptly pushed out of the way by megan, who pleaded for a taste too.

daniela smiled as you beamed at the members lining up to judge for themselves, front pressed against your back in a tight embrace. the only people who seemed fazed was eyekons.

user10 the fact that this is a normal occurrence

user11 dani fighting invisible demons for her woman rn

user12 “married couple making sandwiches for their kids” ahh

˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆ clip four: [ weverse ] roommates hanging out

“okay, what’s a rumour you guys want to debunk?” manon read, turning to give you a look. you laid beside her on the bed, picking at your newly filed nails. “y/n? you wanna go?”

you looked off camera at lara, who smirked teasingly between you and daniela, who was eating the kimchi stew she ordered.

“uh--ooh! i saw some tiktoks like clipping that picture of me and dylan at coachella. we are not dating, guys, i’ve known dylan for years, he’s like my brother.” you announced, earning a loud series of hysterical laughter from lara and manon.

if only they knew how many you could’ve chosen from.

at coachella, you spent some time with dylan. it was such good luck katseye and the wallows were set to perform on the same day, because it gave you some quality time to see your friends. but tabloids being tabloids loved taking things out of context, so of course the pictures of you hugging him, or the ones of him with his arm around you as the both of you stand to tyler, the creator’s set, were posted as ‘dating confirmations’.

“oh my god, i remember my sister sending me this tiktok that’s like ‘y/n and dylan’s story’ and it was like clips of them from five years ago.” lara laughed, “she was all like, ‘y/n’s dating the guy from thirteen reasons why?’ it was so stupid and funny.”

you rolled your eyes, sighing deeply. “stop, it was so bad.”

“guys, stop exposing y/n and dylan like that,” manon whined, unable to hold back her smile. “leave the couple alone.”

“guys, dylan has a whole ass girlfriend, don’t get me in shit for something that isn’t true.” you warned, leaning close to the phone. “me and dylan are not dating. we’re not a couple. we’re just really good friends, stop tagging us in the ship edits.”

user01 the fake eyekons are forgetting they’re actual people

user02 yeah they’re both taken guys come on now

user03 dani going quiet rn is so out of character lmao

the latina sauntered around the beds, you felt manon’s bed dip behind you as she curled herself around you. she stuck her legs through your arm propping yourself up, you lay on her instinctively, your arm across her lap as you held your head up. her fingers stroked your hair, as you droned on and on.

“no, ‘cuz i remember you were like on the phone with dylan talking about it after coachella.” manon added, “it was like when… that one article dropped, right?”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, we were fighting for our life, girl.”

“it was actually such an era. dylan took it like a champ though, props to him.” lara chuckled, “dani? any rumours to debunk?”

it took her a split second to snap out of her daze, you shot her a look from under her. she coughed, clearing her throat.

“no…? nothing’s really coming to mind right now.” she faked a moment of thought, but ended up shaking her head anyways.

user04 girl is sweating rn lmao all eyes on her

user05 she knows she’s lying out her ass right now

user06 address the #dann/n allegations mother

manon, who was reading the comments, had a growing grin on her face. she snapped her head back, and all she needed to do was give daniela one sly smirk, the latina knew exactly what the fans were begging for. “you sure about that, dani?”

she glared at her roommate, who just made a very unsubtle face. you lightly smack manon, the eldest held her hands up.

“god, must you always instigate?” you asked, scowling.

user07 damn she got her wife stepping up for her

user08 she’s so hot guys i can’t do this shit anymore

user09 she said shut down those allegations fr

user10 manon is our strongest dann/n warrior i fear

“--lara!” daniela suddenly raised, her eyes finding the indian singer’s, but her hands still tending to your hair. “what about you, babe. you got any rumours you want to debunk?”

and though the topic of discussion seemed to shift away from you, clips of you and daniela cuddling and being unable to pry yourselves away from each other were a hot topic on weverse and eyekonville. the two of you might not need to verbally debunk anything, because your actions certainly prove the fandom’s speculation may be more than just rumours.

˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆ clip five: [ yt video ] katseye spilling truth on allure

“mami, don’t lie, we know you better than that.”

you were caught right then and there, as if you could ever convince anybody daniela wasn’t the first person you looked for when you entered a room. the girls collectively gave you ‘seriously?’ looks, pinning a spotlight all on you.

“y/n, how are you like when you have a crush?” lara repeated.

you hated answering questions like these. it gave the fans too much power. “uhm… well, i’m not a big physical touch person, but if i like someone, i’ll get really touchy.”

a quick compilation of you only letting daniela anywhere near your personal space was inserted. then a couple clips of you shying away from the other members’ grasp.

“let me tell you, one time, like a long time ago, y/n and i were on a double date. like, we snuck out of my parents’ house and we had a double date, and y/n was so disgusted by the thought of letting him hold her hand, she was like icing her date out the whole time.” lara laughed, “it was so funny, like she was allergic to his hand or something.”

the girls all broke into laughter at the story. they were no stranger to this inside joke, much to daniela’s dismay.

“well…” manon started, peaking at the card in lara’s hand, “the follow up question is, ‘do you have a crush on someone now?”

you fell silent, your cheeks flushing with heat.

sophia wheezed, poking the side of your cheek. you jerked away, trying to hide your smile. “look, y/n’s getting red. aww!”

“can i pass this question?” you asked, “is that an option?”

“no, no, you have the answer the question, that’s the game!” yoonchae yelled, standing from her seat. “spill, or drink!”

daniela was awfully quiet this entire turn. she only stared at you, not even tearing her gaze away for sophia’s shouting or lara’s vicious laughter. she had a small smile on her lips, her piercing eyes trained on your flustered state.

“y/n actually has a crush on our beloved eyekons.” the latina stepped up, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. “she only has time for our fans, right?”

you grinned, grateful for her rushing to your rescue. “mhm.”

“dani’s helping her answer, it’s not fair!” megan whined.

“aye, no answer is an answer in itself, y’know what i mean?” megan mumbled, “keep your secrets then, y/n.”

daniela’s hand reached for yours under the table, fans zoomed in on the gesture the two of you tried keeping subtle. but of course, by now, you knew nothing escaped your fandom.

how much longer will #dann/n be subtle and secret?

𝒂𝒏; god gabriela era dani is doing sth to me. guys a bet fic is in the works trust the process. chat w me my inbox is open!!

just out the corner of your eye, you felt sophia’s relentless fidgeting. she sat one leg crossed over the other, trying to keep the hem of her orange miniskirt from riding up. she pulled a cushion into her lap, her arms laid across it, and her shoulders tense. you watched her just a bit too long--it wasn’t unusual for sophia to be styled in something skimpy, she enjoyed playing into the aesthetic, but the way her knees kept brushing together, the way her fingers tugged at the ends of her skirt, you could tell she was cold. the other two didn’t notice.

whilst lara ranted on about some prank yoonchae had pulled on her, you, wordlessly, began shedding your hoodie. pawing at the hood until you could lousily pull it over your head.

tugging your shirt back down, you leant forward, sleeves in both hands before you looped your arms around her head and lowered the hoodie, draping it across her lap. sophia’s head snapped up at you in surprise, before her hand gloved yours, giving them a tight squeeze. her fingers lingered as yours brushed over the inside of her thigh, setting the cushion down back over her covered lap. slow enough to hitch her breath.

she didn’t thank you verbally, smiling up at you as you mirrored her expression. you whispered something in her ear.

(“if you were cold, you could’ve just said something, babe.”)

not that the fans could hear, the way your lips brushed her ear.

just as you were about to pull back, she grabbed your wrists, holding them just at her chest. you were yanked forward, resting against sophia’s frame as she leant back into your touch. a soft smile tugged at her lips, cheeks tinted pink.

lara and yoonchae bickered on, oblivious to the way sophia was overcame with a giddiness. but the chat wasn’t as heedless.

user04 so y/n’s that kinda gf and sophia’s that kinda gf??

user05 y/n chillll my girlfriend watches your lives

user06 and just like that i’m pregnant and y/n’s the baby’s father (my baby’s father but i call her daddy ykwim)

eventually, sophia let go of your arms, and you resumed your standing behind the younger members. just as yoonchae and lara dragged you into some game of “acting out a slap scene” masterclass, sophia filmed the three of you. you stood over the youngest member, listening to the indian singer’s instructions before striking the air just beside yoonchae’s cheek. paired with lara’s clap and sophia’s godly camerawork, it was a riot.

she set the phone down, leaning over to adjust it before your hand reached beneath her to cup the cut of her top against her chest. one of her hands palmed over yours, her lips pursing to keep the smile on her face from slipping. but it does.

you moved out of her way so she could sit, but her hand gently clutched your wrist, pulling you back hesitantly.

“mahal, you sit. you’ve been standing for half an hour.”

user07 mahal?? oh i’d give her a coffee that’s extra creamy

user08 using my precum as my new skincare product!

user09 her voice when she said that? it did things to me

“you’re offering me your seat?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at yours lips. “no, baby, you stay.”

user10 y/n’s habit of calling ppl baby is gonna her in trouble one day cuz if it were me i’d have bounced on that strap alr

sophia smiled sheepishly, her hand sliding up to grab at your arm. you wouldn’t budge, jerking your arm back just enough to knock her off balance. she plummeted back into the couch, earning a whine from yoonchae when she accidentally hit the side of her head. your hand clasped onto the back of her neck, feeling her tense under your touch. “i said ‘stay’, baby.”

user11 yes whatever you say daddy i mean y/n

user12 guys surprise flash sale! 100% off on all my clothes

user13 y/n unnie take it out it hurts…

“it’s not a suggestion, y/n. sit your ass down.” sophia stated firmly, standing abruptly once again, a hand clutching the cover over her thighs as you let her pull you into where she sat. the back of your knees buckled as they hit the couch.

you were careful not the hit yoonchae with your arm, but the way the filipina spun had her shielding you from view.

she bent slightly, pushing your into the plush cushions when you resisted, but her stance flipped a switch in your head.

your arm circled around her hip, hand immediately palming her skirt so she wouldn’t flash the camera. your grabbed her waist, pulling her down into your lap, a serious look unwavering, and not looking to crack before you made sure she was safe.

sophia landed with a startled giggle, grabbing your shoulders instinctively to steady herself. “y/n--!” she squealed.

you adjusted your hoodie over her thighs, before gently placing the pillow back, your arms circling around her waist like they had done it before. “now i’m sat, and i can keep you warm. it’s a win-win, baby.” you played it off, but the two beside you could not have been more grateful you caught the slip before any footage could have been altered, especially yoonchae.

flustered, sophia’s smile fought to stay composed, her eyes darting to the phone like she was caught in a moment too intimate for show. she cleared her throat, leaning forward to read what the live had to say about this clearly discussion-fuelling moment. it was then you eyed the dip of her top lowering a bit low for comfort, so you pulled her back by her hips, hands cradling them like they were a molded fit.

“careful. don’t give them a show like that for free.”

user14 need to throw it back in her lap cuz it’ll fix me

user15 if yall get a flood warning that’s on me

user16 guys something’s off… oh wait it’s just my clothes lol

her breath hitched, and for a second, she didn’t move. but the next, she melted into you, the tension in her shoulders easing. she leant back into your chest, playing with your fingers.

lara rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue as she shook her head. “oh my god, they’re clip-farming for edits right now.”

yoonchae laughed, falling back and out of view as lara panned the camera away from the two of you. just before she did, sophia slapped both hands over her face. you just smirked, not rising to the bait, eyeing sophia’s fluster instead.

user17 dream blunt rotation but i’m what’s being passed

user18 had a nightmare about someone chasing me with a knife but then they took off the mask and turns out it was y/n so it was actually a wet dream and not a nightmare

user19 i have two holes and a bed three way let’s go!

♱ manon bannerman; [ yt ] katseye iheattradio feature

“so, manon, there’s always been talk surrounding your performance and commitment in dream academy. do you care to talk about your own experience throughout the project, and how you found your footing among your talented peers?”

you narrowed your eyes, lips soured into a sneer at what the very unprofessional interviewer was implying: that manon was nothing more but a fortunate pawn with no gift.

you watched the tiny, polite smile on the ghanaian woman’s face fall for a split moment before it returned, much more strained, and much harder to miss. she only nodded along to the man’s ruthless questioning droning down on her.

his smile didn’t reach his eyes, you could see. every question dripped with fake charm, thinly veiled jabs, surface level respect that strayed into personal territory.

you were so close to punching his teeth in. so, so close.

“well, i…” she stammered, fingers fidgeting in her lap beside you. though you were seated in the back row, her nervous guise could still be caught if you watched just close enough.

“we’re all very work-oriented people, we can fall into a flow of getting things done pretty easily.” you interceded, not sparing the man your innate disgust at his unprofessionalism. none of the girls were smiling, none of them nodding politely along with his words, but instead just glared. as you spoke, the chill that ran up the man’s spine was indescribable. “especially manon. she can be a perfectionist, but she strikes the best work-life balance among us, and i find that an incredibly difficult line to tread, and she does it perfectly.”

the man faked a cough in attempts to tear through the tension, but when the girls simply stared back with zero amusement, he cleared his throat, glancing down at the question cards.

“okay, now that the group has been active for a while, do you feel secure in your roles as of now? or is there still a sense of competition amongst the members to prove themselves?”

the question was nursed in industry lingo, but the subtext wasn’t as subtle. what the fuck was wrong with this guy?

your eyes shifted towards manon instinctively, sat beside you in silence and engrossed in an upsetting silence. she glanced down at her restless fingers twirling her ring. her lips pressed into a tight line, pointed brows furrowed together. you knew her, and you knew she was trying to make her anxiety.

you caught sophia’s gaze, and she knew exactly what to do when she saw the scowl threatening to crack through your poker face. “growing into a position is a very… diplomatic way of thinking about growth. i’d say we’re more learning in an open space where we’re allowed to grow freely. where we can learn to thrive and breathe at the same time, y’know?”

he glared straight at the ghanaian woman beside you. “and you, manon? ever feel like the pressure is catching up?”

she smiled, the practiced, razor-thin one. “i think every one of us brings something different to the table, there’s no need to compare different stages in different areas. i just focus on doing my part well, and improving best i can.”

you added: “nobody here has anything to prove.”

heads turned at your sudden intrusion, you took advantage of the attention hooked on you. “we don’t owe anybody anything explanation. we earned our place here on dream academy, and we continue to earn it. she’s exactly where she should be.”

the eldest’s eyes met yours; you could tell she didn’t expect that. but she held your gaze just a little too long to be casual.

the interviewer fumbled out a vague, “of course.”

as the interview carried on, you couldn’t help but let your eyes linger on manon. you found her laying low, unwilling to speak up after the invasive interrogation. she nervously fidgeted the entire time, her smile fading as her eyes carried a melancholy edge. you couldn’t focus on the interview yourself.

you reached out, grabbing her hand. you covered her mic with your free hand, leaning over to whisper, “are you okay?”

she nodded, but the polite smile she gave you didn’t quite reach her eyes, and you felt her breath hitch. your fingers brushed hers in her lap, threading between them.

“you’re doing amazing, baby.” you squeezed her hand.

you didn’t lean too closer, but just enough for your lips to brush her ear. her head dropped to conceal her growing smile.

later, as you left the venue, you and the girls were led towards a tunnel where fans were gathered for photos and autographs. as the others spread out to greet and engage with awaiting fans, you stayed by manon’s side the entire time. by the way she could only give gated responses, you knew she was trying to keep it together. you were hollered at immediately.

“manon! y/n! can you please sign my monster high dolls?”

“manon! speak some spanish for us mexican fans!”

“why don’t you smile more? you’re always so serious!”

the last one wasn’t mean, not outright, but it hit her like it, and you noticed with the way she swallowed thickly and laughed.

she stiffened, reaching out to sign some of the things people were shoving in her face mindlessly. her smile stayed, her eyes glazed over with a dissociative layer, and your stomach churned. she went a little quiet, providing strict responses.

without a word, you moved closer, a hand finding the small of manon’s back as you ushered her along. you grazed the skin just under her top, thumb rubbing circles to soothe her. you turned down disrespectful gestures and personal questions, keeping the poised charm you weren’t afraid to flash. gently, you tugged at her until she was tucked behind you, your arm looped low around her waist. you held her, the other hand waving at and keeping the overwhelming chaos away from her.

“sorry, guys, i wish we can stay long, but it’s been a long day and our staff really wants us to get to our next thing.” you announced, grinning widely at the masses.

contrary to megan, who seemed to be actively escaping.

manon blinked up at you, the panic in her eyes thawing as her finger curled into your palm. the fanfare roared at your intimate stance, snapping videos and pictures of solely the two of you, which earned the attention of the other members.

as the seven of you stood at the very end of the tunnel, waiting for your car to arrive, you stood, hands cradling her cheeks.

your thumb stroked along her cheekbone, other hand resting lightly on her hip. you whispered to her, which the crowd couldn’t quite make out, but your positions were enough to cause a crazier frenzy. her eyes fluttered shut, caressing your wrist before nodding with a small, but genuine, smile.

user01 every time y/n does that thing with her hands and calls one of the katz baby an angel gains its wings

user02 y/n is a soft dom/service top confirmed ted talk over

user03 manon’s better than me cuz i would’ve immediately fell to my knees and started barking like a dog

user04 so guess we’re feeling team n/nmanz today

♱ daniela avanzini; [ weverse ] peanutbutterlover02’s sesh

another day, another vlog to film for the new comeback. it wasn't an unusual occurance, your manager shoving a camera crew down your throat at five in the morning just as you land. being the older members of the group, you and sophia took it upon yourselves to entertain the vlog as the others rest up.

when you landed in korea, the first thing on the itinerary was a rehearsal for the music video shoot the next morning. by the time you got to the practice room, all of you were ready to go.

and unluckily, whilst practicing gabriela in heels, daniela lost balance and landed on her ankle wrong. practice was called.

whilst the others caught up on their rest, you and manon, being the only ones with an ounce of energy still circulating your systems, decided to go live. as daniela showered, the two of you started a weverse stream in their shared room.

“what even is that? what’s a skibidi?” manon tilted her head.

you couldn’t resist laughing, throwing your head back and falling into her bed as she glared back at you in confusion.

“oh my god, this is too good.” you chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just like a meme people like to reference. its called brainrot.”

“brainrot? oh hell no,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “i like to keep my brain fresh and smooth, thank you very much.”

you rainsed an eyebrow. “y’know a smooth brain is bad, right?”

“okay, genius, when did i ask?” she nodded, lips pursed.

just as you were about to retaliate with some smartass quip, the door creaked open--daniela popped in with her dripping hair clipped up, a graphic tee on and some shorts. but there was something off about the way she walked; when she was fully in-view, you caught the faintest wobble whenever she’d land on her left foot. she suppressed a grimace, playing it cool as she smiled and waved in greeting at the live.

manon didn’t notice the slight wince she let out, but you did.

you immediately rose from your seat by manon on the floor, scrambling across the room to steady the girl trying to make her way over. confused, the eldest snapped her head back to see what you were so eager to tend to, but witnessed:

“i’m fine,” the latina hissed, but the way her hand was gripping your arm for dear life said otherwise. “hey, i’m fine!”

“mhm,” you hummed, grabbing her waist. the more she tried to struggle out of your grasp, the more she was shifting weight onto the bad foot. finally, over her stubborn behaviour, you grabbed her by the knees, throwing her over your shoulder as she dangled over your back. she let out a shrill scream, hands pawing at your hips in attempts to wiggle from your grasp.

“oh my god,” manon sighed, a hand cradling her temple.

“y/n! on my god, i’m gonna fall and break my neck--put me down!” her voice turned into a pitched shriek at the end of her whining. “stop! stop! you’re gonna drop me!”

“you weigh six pounds in a weighted vest, dani, stop your bitching.” you scolded, turning around so your back faced the live, which meant daniela, who was propping herself up against your butt. she immediately ducked, tucking her face into your frame as she let out yet another scream. “oh, come on, you look pretty right now. don’t be rude, say ‘hi’.”

user01 if y/n told me to stop bitching i'd just moan in reponse

user02 they way i'd just start eating her ass lol

user03 hybe killed futch y/n ik this woman is a masc on the dl

when she began beating against your back, you chuckled, strolling off-screen to lay her down on her bed with a thud.

manon stayed quiet, a cheeky smirk tugging at her lips. she turned a blind eye to whatever was happening off-camera, scanning the flooding meltdown the chat seemed to be collectively having. you could hear the faintest squeals and whines from the latina, and by the way your feet hung off the bed, it was obvious you were propping yourself over something. single-handedly, it increased your viewers by 50k.

user04 her laugh… my body… it’s like it recognizes her…

user05 nah daniela’s real for that i’d break her back too if she manhandled me like that

user06 the dann/n agenda stands strong these days huh

user07 all twenty fingers and her thick ass strap

user08 sorry i was gone guys had to put my phone in rice

you didn’t return to the live, even though you were the one who insisted on starting one. manon was left to host alone, unfazed by the noises sounding from daniela’s side of the room. her eyes darted past comments targeting the suspicious activity.

“‘manon should’ve went to bed’? yeah, i agree.” the eldest grumbled, slicking back her hair with her brush.

“you’re just salty!” daniela shouted from the other side of the room, propping herself up. you grabbed her jaw, yanking her back down to smother her in your arms. she squealed, burying herself into you as the both of you disappeared in bed.

“do ya’ll see what this house is like when yoonchae’s asleep?”

user09 dann/n dry humping wasn’t on my 2025 bingo card

user10 i just know dani gets pampered like a pillow princess

user11 not a katseye live without softcore p0rn

♱ lara raj; [ weverse ] danonlarzn/n late-night shenanigans

manon insisted you started a live to end the amusement drought you were suffering from in the hotel room whilst you waited for the delivery to arrive.

you sat behind lara and manon, who bantered back and forth, head between them as daniela tried her best to squeeze her way into frame with her arms wrapped around your neck. it was all light-hearted memes and brainrotted quotes until the only voices left talking were you, manon and daniela’s.

“stop!” lara grimaced abruptly, sneering at the phone.

three pairs of eyes found her, watching her confidence shatter with each passing silent second. but only you instinctively reached out to toy with the ends of her hair, tucking a rogue strand behind her ear before her eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your palm and turning into you to shield herself.

“lara?” you muttered softly, “what’s wrong, baby?”

“they keep saying i look like momo.” she groaned into your collarbone, sniffling lightly. your hand found the back of her neck, fingers soothing the tension from her nape. manon and daniela shared a look whilst you comforted the singer. “i keep telling them to stop, but it’s making it worse.”

the look you shot the camera next was uncanny, even the other two didn’t dare speak up before you gestured for manon to pull the phone closer. she does, holding it upright.

“let’s see what you look like, dumbass.” you snarled into the camera, scrolling through the comments before permanently blocking the user spamming negative comments. your jaw tensed, eyebrows furrowed. “if i see one more fucking insult, i’m ending this live. don’t ruin this for everyone.”

lara grabbed your arm, wrapping herself around it before laying her chin on your shoulder. her bottom lip jutted out slightly, shielding herself from the camera behind your frame.

you leant back, letting manon slide forward to read the comments. your hand fell into lara’s lap, palming her inner-thigh. your thumb rubbed circles against her skin, gradually flushing the negative feeling from her body. manon let out her own scoldings, you buried your nose in lara’s jet-black locks. you placed a gentle kiss on her head, light and loving.

she smiled, eyes flickering between your own and the soft smile you hung on your lips. just then, and just for her.

slowly, but gradually, you shifted so she could be onscreen.

you felt her shimmy away from the live, camera-shy, unsure of herself before you gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“no, don’t hide.” you felt a hint of a smile return to her face. you grabbed her chin, affectionately pinching her. “you’re absolutely breathtaking, don't let losers tell you any different.”

her lips quivered, unable to contain the smile on her face.

user01 need her hands on gabriela (it's me i'm gabriela)

user02 "whats your love language" y/n standing up to haters for me and then splitting me in half on her strap

user03 love me a bicon and scissor sister mashup fr

user04 lara's stronger than me we'd break manon's bed

for what seemed to be half an hour, manon made jokes and teased her roommate for little habits she didn’t approve of. whilst you and lara sat to one side, she had practically moved into your lap. you had one hand resting on her stomach, the other toying with her fingers as your hand gloved hers. the soothing gestures seemed to be easing the negativity from her tense shoulders, and she puddled into your touch.

"no, girl, that shit problematic as hell!" manon cackled at the indian singer's hoodie. after a good five minutes of pure hysterics from the four of you, the room was calm once more.

"look who's talking." you joked, wrapping your arms around lara tightly, as if you were shielding her from potential threat. "little miss scandal-lover, herself." if you had been anybody else, manon would've smacked you across the face. she just rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips at your teasing.

"oh yeah? says the group slut?"

"okay, bitch, you tryna go?"

"no, if ya'll fight, then i'll have to get off and i don't wanna..." lara whined. she turned to straddle your lap, arms tightening around your neck as the both of you fell backwards. you let out a small huff at her squeezing the air out your chest, before you began running your hands up and down her back.

"oh my god, you gaywads are doin' too much."

"stop being a homophobe, daniela andrea."

"what! i'm not homophobic!"

user05 istg every live is just the members third wheeling y/n and somebody like

user06 yeah y/n IS the group slut bro can literally come out dating anyone in katseye and nobody would bat an eye

user07 if i had her face card i'd be a slut too ngl

user08 i get her ispiritually cuz f i was surrounded by baddies 24/7 i would too start behaving whorish

♱ megan skiendiel; [ yt ] katseye with a side of slime

you could barely register the loud sound the canon made, before neon-green gunk shot up your sinuses like an unwanted fever. instinctively, you turned away, spitting whatever had shot into your mouth. you heard cheers roar as the cameras zoomed in on your faces to put on the jumbotrons. you loved nothing more.

following sophia's lead, the lot of you waved to the masses, blowing kisses and bidding your goodbyes as the leader guided the rest of you offstage. you stood on the very edge of the group, the last in line, with megan before you. but as you readied to head offstage, slime dripping from your nose, you noticed the hawaiin hadn't moved an inch.

concerned, you quickly turned your back towards the crowd and the cameras, blocking her form view. you brushed the tangled hair from her face, feeling her hands frantically grab at your wrists. she was struggling to open her eyes, and you could tell she was anything but calm.

"mei, close your eyes." you instructed. she followed.

you scraped the slime from your thumbs onto your top, before carefully swiping it from her lids. you pinched the end of her nose, swabbing any gunk there as well.

"you okay? can you open your eyes?"

she let out a strangled hum, the edge of her eyes brimming with green tears as she blinked the rest away.

you slung an arm around her shoulder, tugging her towards backstage. you waved to the restless fans. soothing the concern they had for megan's state.

backstage, your team was already ready to capture the behind the scenes content needed for the next vlog. you see the girls giving their post-sliming interview, drenched head-to-toe in that disgutingly sweet syrup glazed over your features.

carefully, you grabbed a paper towel, handing it to megan. your hand found the small of her back, thumb rubbing circles against her skin in comfort.

"so megan, you really took that slime hit like a champ. i see you were standing directly in front of the canons. how're you feeling?" the interviewer questioned holding the microphone out towards her.

the chinese faked a chuckled, pulling the paper towel back from dabbing her eyes. "really sticky. is this what being a jell-o shot is like?"

as she answered questions, you gently picked the slime from her matte hair. unwilling to pry yourself away from the girl, despite the disgusting feeling of slime sliding between the two of your frames. sophia eyed you, raising an eyebrow at your behaviour, but you couldn't even spare her a passing glance.

"well, i'm glad to see your personal glam artist at work." the woman joked, winking at you.

both of you let out a nervous laugh in response, not expecting her to call you out like that. your hand left the chinese girl's hair.

"more like personal clean-up." sophia chimed.

in the vlog, the girls moved off the carpet after thanking the interviewer, one after another making comments and describing their experience to your camera crew before dispersing. you and megan lingered at the back of the group, as you tried to wring the slime from your skimpy outfit. she shrugged off her mircophone set.

you wagged a finger at the camera, and the cameraman stepped closer to you. you gestured towards megan behind you, whispering, "that was iconic as *bleep*, like, at least i wasn't standing in the splash zone. rookie mistake for a nickelodeon kid."

"hey! i was a disney kid." she hugged you from behind her cheek against yours as you tried to wring free. you whined as she rubbed all the slime on her against you. warm, sticky, and disgusting. keep talking, and we'll see what happens."

she strolled past, tongue sticking out at you.

"holy ungrateful!" you yelled after her, before she disappeared into a trailer. you rolled your eyes playfully at the cameras. "i saved her ass and this is how she repays me? do ya'll see this?" as your manager gestured for you to get cleaned up as well, you sighed to yourself. "well, i could let megan go clean up alone, but she'd probably miss a spot." you raised your eyebrows cheekily, pressing a finger against your lips. "we can't have that for the afterparty now, can we?"

user01 well someone knows her audience

user02 guys they had sesbian lex i was the trailer

user03 only way to come out cleaner and dirtier atst

user04 if u listen closer u can hear me moan

user05 the cameras cut but my imagination didn't

♱ jeong yoonchae; [ weverse ] yoonchip's live english lesson

yoonchae was already practically pressed into your side and melded into the curve of your arm when the fans began flooding into the live. unusual, for somebody as against physical touch as the maknae, but she was almost shameless about it, despite her shy demeanour.

she's clearly trying to answer some english comments whilst you engaged with the chat, but she kept hesitating, cheeks puffing in frustration when she couldn't find the right words.

you eyed her through the camera, watching the way her lips would part, then shut before any sound could come out. you grinned, cooing at the korean's adorable character. your hand found her lap, fingers brushing her knee in encouragement, nodding towards the phone.

user01 chip! what's your favorite childhood memory?

"chip... what is your... favorite... childhood mem--memory?" she recited carefully, stumbling over her pronounciation. she pasued, eyebrows furrowed together, clearly trying to string the sentence toegther, but the words remained sprawled across her mind. she bit her lip in frustration, you chuckled.

"they just want to know one happy memory from when you were little." you made gestures that corresponded to the words you spoke slowly, watching her face light up in recognition.

she started explaining about her grandparent's and her upbringing, you occassionally interjected with words she was trying to scramble together. you onyl watched her confidence in her second language grow, a warm smile ghosting your lips as your hand trailed comforting patterns above her knee.

user02 she's so gentle... hope she's not in bed tho

user03 this is peak wife behaviour none of yall say nothing

user04 need to see her oiled up and wrapped under my tree this chirstmas or santa's catching these hands

user05 yoonchae being so comfortable around her omg

user06 another day another guess which y/n ship is real

"what is that word?" yoonchae asked, her hand slipping to make a smooth, curvey gesture. "slid?"

you leant in, grabbing the hand she was gesturing with. "good try, baby, but try dragging out the note. slide."

she repeated the word and nailed it.

you beamed, hand squeezing her thigh in praise. "see? perfect. you're getting too good at this."

every time she got something right, you gave her little rewards or words of praise--light pats to her thigh, brushing hair behiind her ear or whispering feel-good comments and teasing the shade of pink flushing to her ears.

user07 babe wake up new n/nchip content just dropped

user08 i hate seeing things i can’t have

user09 ur honour y/n has taken yet another hand in marriage

𝒂𝒏; and here she is. thank you for 1.7k guys, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i do writing. more things to come. happy reading ;) xx

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 you didn’t even 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, staring 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, but it was 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 at her, “Wait—why?”

“I don’t like watching bad dancers ruin my day.”

“That’s not a reason.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, “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 simply 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. Perhaps 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. It was just dance. But your stomach’s doing weird flips.

She walks in at exactly 7:01.

No apology nor any kind of greeting, she 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 says as 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 you could feel your stomach twist at their words.

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 to meet her gaze, “Did you—”

“They talk too much.”

You’re quiet for a moment, “Why do you care?” you ask. Not accusing. It was purely confusion.

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. It’s 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 even dance today, not really. She simply watched. Seethed, although she 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, and that’s when 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 as she walked across the floor like she owns it. She 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 and your friends  — megan, sophia, and manon, were at an outdoor restaurant. it was a relaxing night. even though the restaurant was full of people, everyone was chilling at their own tables, having talks, and some of them were just dancing to the music that was playing.

you guys had already ordered food and drinks. however, there was one thing that caught your interest more than the order that you had placed.

a woman sitting at the table next to yours.

she was absolutely beautiful.

her hair was brown, and the curls certainly caught attention. the makeup highlighted her face. she spoke some words in spanish to her friends who were also on the table  — it made her even more attractive. she was glowing.

you two kept looking at each other since you and your friends entered the place.

and every single time, she gave you a smirk.

the music changed, and started playing one of your favorite songs. recházame, by prince royce.

some couples got up from their tables to dance together, and you saw the woman at the next table get very excited.

“go, daniela!” one of her three friends said.

a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

“tú me enamoraste a mí, tú me hiciste sonreír…” 

daniela stood up, her body dancing softly to the beat of the music. just from her little steps, you could tell she dance very well. you saw a great opportunity to get closer to the woman. you weren’t a professional dancer, but you knew how to get by.

because it was a romantic song, most of the people standing were couples. you and the woman were one of the only people without a partner.

you took small steps back until you were close to her, still in the rhythm of the song.

“ay, recházame, es que no puedo aceptar tu amor…"

you two stared at each other. you extended your hand to her in a charming way, and she accepted it with a seductive smile on her face.

both of your hands intertwined. to your surprise, she placed her hand on your waist  — and also, realizing your difficulty in keeping up with her. your steps were a little clumsy. 

“soften your steps, mi cariño.” daniela said, as she held you closer to her.

the nickname slipped from her lips in a tender whisper, sending butterflies through your stomach.

you obeyed the woman.

you two got in sync  — hips brushing against each other gently. 

“daniela, yeah?”

she smiled and nodded. “i think when it comes from your mouth it is even better.”

“y sé conmigo tu eres feliz…”

it wasn’t just the dancing that caught everyone’s eye  — it was the energy, the chemistry you two radiated.

foreheads pressed together. 

hands intertwined.

bodies so close to each other. 

everything just seemed to fit perfectly for two people who had only just met.

you both didn’t even realize when the song ended.

moving away a little from her, you asked. “do you wanna dance with me again?”

BEFORE THE FLIGHT

the video opens in low, amber-toned lighting—clearly still dark outside. the frame is shaky, like it was grabbed in a hurry, and when it finally stills, it focuses on ivory, curled up in bed. her blanket is slipping off one shoulder, her hair a little mussed, eyes barely open. she blinks at the camera, squinting against the glow of the screen.

her voice is thick with sleep, low and mumbly. “it’s 4:37 in the morning,” she whispers, then flips the camera around to show her digital clock glowing on the nightstand in bold red numbers.

there’s a pause before she speaks again, the lens now pointed at the ceiling. “she said we’re leaving at ten,” ivory mutters. “and do you know what time she told me to be at her house?”

another beat of silence. then the camera flips back to her face. her expression is completely deadpan, eyes blank as she slowly drags a hand down her cheek in disbelief.

“six,” she says. then adds, in a monotone: “she’s not okay in the head.”

the video cuts in mid-slide—ivory gliding dramatically across the sleek hardwood floors of her mother’s foyer in fuzzy black socks, arms stretched out like a ballerina. the camera is angled downward, catching the satisfying sound as her socks skim the floor.

from somewhere off-camera, jennie’s voice rings out, sharp and very motherly.

“baby, stop sliding.”

ivory freezes mid-glide, one foot slightly lifted, her phone pointed toward the ceiling like she’s been caught in the middle of a crime.

“you’re gonna fall and break something,” jennie adds from the other room, tone casual but clearly not up for debate.

“i’m literally a trained dancer,” ivory says, panning the camera to her face, which is trying very hard not to laugh. “this is my art form. it’s called coachella floor choreo.”

“do that at coachella then, not in my house,” jennie calls back.

“so you’re saying…i am performing.”

“stop sliding.”

another cut—ivory tiptoeing down the hallway now, whispering dramatically into the camera. “she thinks i’m done. but i’m not done.” she pans to her socked feet again, crouches slightly, and then launches into a full-blown run-slide across the kitchen floor.

you can hear jennie sigh so hard it echoes.

“jane ivory!”

the video shakes as ivory bursts into laughter.

FLIGHT/POST FLIGHT

the video picks up mid-whisper, the camera pointed sneakily across the aisle. ivory zooms in on alison, who’s lounging in her first class cubicle with an eye mask pushed up on her head and a bag of haribo gummies in hand.

"alison, please," ivory begs, her voice laced with quiet desperation. "please, please, please."

alison grins and holds up the gummies like she’s dangling treasure. ivory lets out a dramatic gasp behind the camera, as if she’s been offered gold.

“mom told me i can't have any sugar until we land,” ivory murmurs, reaching forward from her seat like she’s in a wildlife documentary. “the contraband is now crossing the aisle—”

before her fingers can reach the bag, a soft thwack lands on her arm. the camera jolts as she squeals, catching a flash of a plush travel pillow being wielded like a weapon.

"valentine." jennie's voice is flat but so mother-coded. “what did i say about sugar?” the camera spins around to catch jennie leaning over from her cubicle, still in her cozy flight fit, looking unimpressed as she holds the pillow mid-air, clearly ready to strike again.

ivory shrinks into her seat dramatically. “how did you even see that?” jennie just taps her temples, a knowing expression on her face. “eyes everywhere.”

“okay freak,” ivory mutters, shoving the gummies into her hoodie like a raccoon hoarding food. “you’re supposed to be relaxing, not sniping me from seat 2A.”

alison’s trying not to laugh, covering her mouth with the bag as jennie gives her the you’re not helping look. ivory aims the camera at her again. “you saw her give it to me, right? this is entrapment.”

“you’re banned from the snacks until we land,” jennie says, settling back into her seat, still side-eyeing her daughter. “i’m literally an adult,” ivory protests, half-heartedly, mouth already full of one of the stolen gummies.

jennie doesn’t even look up as ivory shifts the camera back down to her gummies. but the idol’s voice is crystal clear before the video cuts again.

“you’re literally on my flight.”

the video cuts in with a gust of wind, the sound sharp and loud in the mic as the camera sways. they’re officially off the plane, walking down the stairs onto the tarmac, the sky bright and cloudless above lax. black-on-black suvs line up ahead like secret service and team members are already splitting off into groups, everyone looking important and exhausted.

ivory, meanwhile, is in full gremlin mode. the camera flips to her face—her hair windswept, sunglasses slightly crooked, lip gloss somehow still intact. “we have arrived,” she narrates. “hello, los angeles. i’m officially just emotional support now.”

she spins the camera toward her mom walking a few paces ahead, hood still up, sipping the same iced coffee like it never ended. ivory catches up in a little half-run, and her voice comes through loud and exaggerated.

“mommy, can i hold your hand?”

jennie, without missing a step, side-eyes her daughter. “aren’t you eighteen?”

“so?” ivory doesn’t even blink. she slides her hand into her mom’s like it’s a red carpet moment, and immediately starts swinging their arms. jennie tries to resist it at first. and fails. “you’re gonna pull my shoulder out.”

“you don’t need it,” ivory chirps. “you have stage presence.”

the camera briefly captures a member of jennie’s team turning around to hide their laugh, then cuts again. now they’re in the suv. it’s quiet, cool, the leather seats pristine. jennie’s settling in, reaching for her phone, when ivory suddenly gasps like there's a spider.

“um your seatbelt.” ivory's tone is dire. her camera is pointed dramatically at her mother, who freezes like she’s being scolded by tsa. “oh my god,” the idol mutters, laughing under her breath as she clicks it on. ivory nods solemnly from the passenger seat. “can’t lose you before weekend one. i have merch to buy.”

“you’re not getting any merch,” jennie warns, pulling out her phone. the younger girl, still filming, turns to the camera and whispers, “she’s lying. i will be getting merch.

COACHELLA DAY 1

the scene opens with alison's camera facing ivory, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. the music is blasting, the crowd is going wild, and she is clearly having fun—except for the fact that she keeps glancing at her mother, who’s standing and watching the stage with an intensity only a perfectionist could have. jennie’s arms are crossed, her face calm and analytical.

ivory holds up the camera to the manager, whispering dramatically, “can you believe this? it’s friday. not even the day she performs yet. and she is already acting like she’s about to go on stage! look at her.” she zooms in on the blackpink idol, who’s standing perfectly still, practically in full “monitoring” mode and completely unfazed by the crowd’s energy.

the younger girl sighs exaggeratedly, throwing her hands up. “this is supposed to be fun! people are dancing, and she’s out here thinking about random things when she doesn’t even go on until sunday!”

alison, barely holding back laughter, continues to record as ivory stands there, biting her lip in frustration. she pans back to jennie, who’s still completely engrossed in her phone, completely ignoring the chaos around her. “mom! MOM!” ivory shouts, but her mother doesn’t budge.

ivory gives the camera a look of complete exasperation, shock on her feline features. “she’s literally not even enjoying the festival, guys. what is wrong with her?” she spins the camera back to alison with an exaggerated shrug. “like, i get it, she’s a perfectionist, but this is coachella. there are dancing people over there, and my mom is analyzing things.” ivory shakes her head, her frustration mounting.

just as jennie looks up from her phone, ivory leaps in front of the camera, dramatically shaking her. “mom, you have to dance with me! it’s coachella!” she whines, trying to pull jennie away from her “work zone.”

the older woman, looking mildly annoyed but not phased at all, raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “baby, this is important. you don’t get it.”

ivory rolls her eyes and points to herself like she’s about to go on a whole tangent. “you’re too busy to have fun. well, this is supposed to be about fun, too. not just boring business.”

alison snickers quietly behind the camera as ivory turns it back on her face, dramatically shaking her head again. “mom, i’m telling you. you can’t just keep working when you’re literally at coachella. just...dance with me!” she pleads, and finally jennie looks up, slightly amused.

“no,” jennie deadpans, “i’ll dance when i feel like it.” ivory lets out an exaggerated gasp, her face in disbelief. “she won’t even dance with me!” she says to alison, wide-eyed in shock and almost mortification. “this is abuse.”

alison tries to keep it together as she zooms in on the younger woman’s face, and ivory dramatically flips her hair back. “i am officially traumatized by the lack of fun at this festival.” with that, ivory turns and runs off toward the crowd, yelling back to jennie, “i’m going to have fun whether you like it or not!”

alison, still filming, lets out a wheeze. jennie stands there for a moment, shaking her head with a half-smile, and mutters, “she’s dramatic.” 

the last clip in the segment is a short shot of ivory and rosie jumping up and down together in the distance during lisa’s set, with the two absolutely shaking the life out of each other as they have fun. 

PRE-PERFORMANCE

jennie’s in full glam now, standing in front of the mirror in her performance fit, looking like she’s ready for her set. her game face is on–calm, focused, commanding. meanwhile, her daughter is lounging on the couch behind her, sipping from a juice box like the world’s most unserious hypewoman.

trying to act casual, ivory throws out, “i'm excited for seoul city.” the younger woman is unable to fight the sneaky grin off her face from her own humor.

jennie freezes mid-hair-fluff. she turns around slowly, blinking at her daughter like she just confessed to a felony. "seoul city?" she asks in utter disbelief, not even looking at ivory’s phone camera but straight at her daughter. jennie then quickly narrows her eyes. “you’re messing with me.”

ivory shrugs innocently, sipping louder. “i mean it is a good song. i think a lot of people already like it, but they’ll like it more with your choreography.”

alison—seated nearby and going over last-minute run-throughs—starts wheezing. jennie looks at her, stone-faced. “cover her ears during seoul city. and her eyes. matter of fact, just get her out of the venue.”

ivory lets out the loudest laugh yet, nearly choking on her juice as the camera shakes from the force of her laughter. “i’ll sing every lyric—”

“stop.” jennie shrieks in embarrassment and grabs a throw pillow and hurls it directly at her daughter’s face. ivory, now dramatically sprawled across the couch like she’s been wounded, is laughing so hard she’s crying. she points her phone camera at her mother who is rubbing her temples in exasperation, while alison and ivory herself are still laughing. “this is so embarrassing for you.”

the next clip is a quick cut of the sun starting to dip below the desert skyline, casting golden rays across the coachella grounds. the camera’s shaking a bit as it follows ivory weaving her way through the backstage barriers, giggling and ignoring the fifteen texts her mother has probably sent her telling her to stay in the artist section.

ivory, naturally, is already pushing through toward the barricade of general admission. she flips the camera around to selfie-mode, beaming.  “hi everyone!” she says into the lens, waving wildly. and then it's instant chaos.

phones are out in seconds, fans scream her name, and someone quite literally throws a capybara plush at her. ivory shrieks when it hits her shoulder, picks it up, holds it like simba, and dies laughing.  “why do you guys always have these?” she yells over the crowd, holding up the capybara like a trophy.

someone hands her a handwritten note. another offers her a phone for a selfie. one girl starts crying. there’s glitter everywhere. ivory, both flattered and slightly overwhelmed, clutches the plushie to her chest and keeps yelling over the barrier, “okay but i literally have to go before my mom kills me!”

she turns to the camera again. “i’m not supposed to be here. she said to ‘stay with alison.’ that was the rule.” she holds the capybara up, showing the camera all its angles. “but would alison have given me this?? exactly.”

she blows one last kiss to the fans and sprints back toward the vip gate, screaming “bye” like she’s just committed a crime.

PERFORMANCE/POST PERFORMANCE

the screen opens to a wide shot of the coachella main stage glowing in deep violet and gold, the crowd pulsing with energy as the beat of jennie’s set kicks off. quick cuts follow—grainy, sparkly clips filmed on a phone from the vip area.

the first clip is where ivory’s phone swings around in dizzy excitement, landing on her face. “it’s startingggg,” she yells into the mic, grinning like a maniac. the camera tilts to show lisa beside her in dark sunglasses and a mesh top, blowing a kiss to the crowd. rosé is behind them, already doing little shoulder rolls in time with the music.

the next cut is a shot of the three dancing together—lisa doing exaggerated hip rolls, ivory jumping up and down like she’s never heard music before, rosé twirling dramatically with her arms in the air. jennie’s voice echoes from the stage, effortlessly cool and commanding, and all three scream like fangirls.

it shifts to ivory panning the camera to the sea of fans behind her, showing glowing lightsticks, flags and a few stuffed animals. she zooms in on one capybara plush someone is holding above their head. “its so cute,” she wheezes, voice half-lost to the music.

the clip following that is lisa with her arm around ivory’s shoulder now, both swaying with their heads knocked together, screaming lyrics as jennie sings “with the ie”. rosé is filming the two of them, laughing so hard she snorts.

the final clip is during the second verse of starlight. the camera stays on ivory, still dancing but suddenly very focused as she’s jumping around. it’s her favorite song—she’s grinning, mouthing along, ready for that line.

“so many after hours…”

ivory beams, mouthing the words—

“i just wanna make my mama prouder—”

but on stage, jennie sings:

“i just wanna make my daughter prouder—”

ivory freezes. the scream she lets out is immediate and primal. “WHAT—”

she nearly drops the phone as lisa grabs her shoulders and shakes her in disbelief. rosé’s mouth is fully open, gasping as she joins in with the shaking. ivory is literally screaming somehow louder than the actual live stage sounds. not words, just pure screams of emotion.

“MOMMYYY!” is the last thing heard, the camera shaking violently as ivory screams her lungs out at her mother on stage before the scene cuts into the next clip. 

the next clip fades in with a shaky but clear shot—courtesy of alison—of jennie and ivory on a golf cart, slowly being driven through the backstage lot under soft festival lights. the sky is dark now, the stars barely peeking through the haze of stage smoke and camera flashes.

jennie’s still in full glam, mic pack wires tucked away, hair a little wind-blown, her stage outfit covered with a cozy jacket tossed over her shoulders. she’s clearly tired—but glowing. there’s something serene and proud in her eyes, even as she leans back on the cart’s seat.

ivory, however, is fully curled into her mother’s side like a sleepy koala.

she’s practically glued to her mom’s torso, legs draped over jennie’s lap and arms wrapped tightly around her middle, face hidden against her shoulder. jennie rests her chin on the top of ivory’s head, gently rubbing her daughter’s back as the cart hums along.

alison, seated opposite them, is clearly trying not to laugh as she records. “ivory,” she says, teasing. “you good? or are we still crying?”

ivory doesn’t lift her head. her voice is muffled but still sharp nonetheless. “don’t talk to me.”

jennie snorts, squeezing her daughter softly as the wind whips around them. “she’s been like this since i got off stage.”

“she’s like, part of you now,” alison laughs. “she might actually be fused to your ribcage.”

“i am,” ivory mumbles, still not looking up. “we’re one organism now.”

jennie grins and looks into the camera. “she’s mad i didn’t tell her about the lyric change.”

ivory finally peeks up, red-eyed and dramatic. “i wasn’t prepared for that!” alison laughs so hard the camera shakes. jennie kisses ivory’s forehead, cradling her like she’s five again. “okay, okay. next time, i’ll give you a heads-up. deal?”

ivory just tightens her grip again and hides her face again before speaking. “deal,” she mumbles. “but i’m still crying. and don’t do that next week, grandma’s coming. you have to keep the original lyrics for her.”

the cart bumps along in the background, the sounds of the festival fading behind them as the clip ends on jennie brushing her daughter’s hair gently with her fingers, looking down at her with all the pride in the world.

masterlist

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