Marked- Daniela Avanzini
✏️: Humor, alternate universe- college, werewolf!Daniela, smut, 18+, parties, reader is a little bit of an ass, fem!reader, Daniela is a BITCH (11.7k words)
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The red Mustang was parked crooked.
Again.
Front tire on the curb, rear bumper flirting with a fire hydrant. Like it owned the fucking sidewalk. You could practically hear the vehicle humming in smug satisfaction under the late afternoon sun, polished so aggressively it reflected the world in a blur of red and chrome. It gleamed like it was somehow sentient. Like it paid taxes and wore heels to class.
You stepped around it with the grace of someone who had definitely flipped it off before- twice- and adjusted the oversized hoodie slipping off your shoulder.
“Someone should key it,” Manon muttered beside you, dark hair tucked under a slouchy beanie, sipping her third matcha of the day.
“Someone did last semester,” Lara added, scrolling on her phone. “Daniela almost tore the fencing captain’s throat out in the quad.”
You snorted. “Almost is generous.”
The fencing captain still had a limp.
Daniela Avanzini. Top bitch of Crescent Moon. Dance prodigy. Owner of the world’s most obnoxiously loud muscle car and an even louder walk. You knew the rhythm of it. Four-inch boot heels. Confident. Calculated. The kind of girl who didn’t just enter a room- she claimed it. Like a queen. Or a menace. Or both.
You’d grown up side-by-side through every academy audition, every studio showcase, every sweat-drenched rehearsal where someone’s extension was just a little higher, their fouetté turns a little cleaner. It had always been you. Until senior year. When Daniela- claws out, mascara lethal- finally snagged the top solo. You didn’t even show up to the final gala.
Because, frankly, you were over it. Dance? Overrated. All turns and no plot. You’d rather shotgun a tequila bottle and write your sociology paper at 3AM.
But Daniela?
She never got over it.
And judging by the thudding of those familiar heels behind you right now, she still hadn’t.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up to campus dressed like she rolled out of a frat basement,” came that voice- smooth, smug, velvet with a bite.
You didn’t have to turn. You could smell the vanilla perfume she wore. You could feel the heat of her eyes burning a trail down your back. “Hi, Avanzini,” you chirp, without looking up. “Didn’t peg you as someone who parked like a drunk raccoon.”
“Didn’t peg you as someone who still doesn’t own a bra,” she snapped back.
Manon choked on her drink. Lara didn’t even pretend not to laugh. You turned slowly, letting your eyes drag across her- ripped jeans clinging like sin, a blood-red crop top just barely obeying gravity, thick curls pulled into a high ponytail that bounced when she walked like it had its own damn fan club. She had a bag slung over one shoulder and a pair of designer sunglasses she clearly didn’t need this late in the day.
And that smirk. That perfect, punchable smirk.
“Aw, baby, did you rehearse that in the mirror? You’re adorable.”
“I don’t need to rehearse, Y/N. Not all of us quit when things get a little hard.”
Oh.
Your eyebrows raised. The air got thicker. Manon made the international “do not fight her in the quad again” hand gesture. Lara silently filmed the whole interaction, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“You’re still mad about that?” you snorted, a grin teasing at your lips. “I thought you’d moved on. You finally beat me, after all. What more could you want?”
Daniela stepped closer- just enough for you to smell the faintest edge of something underneath the perfume. Pine needles. Rain. Blood.
“I want you to admit I was better.”
You blinked. Then burst out laughing. “God, you really are obsessed with me.” She scowled, then recovered instantly. “Please. If I wanted a burnout with no direction and a hangover schedule, I’d go date a freshman.”
“Ouch. Did it hurt when that came out, or was it pre-chewed by your PR team?”
She stepped even closer. Chest brushing yours now. The air between you crackled. Sparks. Sweat. That weird thing where you couldn’t tell if you wanted to slap her or shove her against the Mustang and bite her. Her voice dropped. “You still think you’re untouchable.”
You tilted your head. “You still think you’re not trying to touch me.”
For one breathless second, she just stared.
Then her gaze flicked down- over your lips, your jaw, the lazy rise of your hoodie. Her pupils dilated. Her nostrils flared. A low growl curled from her throat- so soft you barely caught it. Then she turned. Walked away. Boot heels echoing down the pavement like a challenge.
You watched her go, tongue against your cheek. Lara nudged you. “You guys are gonna hate-fuck before finals, huh?”
“Hard,” Manon agreed. “Like, drywall damage levels.”
You rolled your eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time she tried to pin me down.”
Your dorm smelled like coconut shampoo, incense, and the ghosts of half a dozen bad decisions. Manon was on the floor in front of her vanity, applying eyeliner like she was preparing for battle. Lara was on your bed, wearing your hoodie like she paid rent here- which she didn’t- and eating hot Cheetos directly out of your tote bag.
And you?
You were sitting cross-legged in a fluffy pink towel, hair wet, one eye lazily twitching as you tried to remember if you’d submitted your essay or just hallucinated doing it at 4AM.
“I think my brain is dying,” You finally spoke, staring blankly at the wall. “Like genuinely, not in a fun way. In a ‘this is how the Netflix documentary opens’ kind of way.”
“Maybe drink some water?” Manon offered, blending glitter into the corners of her eyes.
“I did. It was mixed with Tito’s and in a red Solo cup but the intention was there.”
Lara tossed a Cheeto at you. “You’re dramatic. You’re hot, your skin is perfect, and you know how to do taxes. You’re like the bimbo version of Good Will Hunting.”
You blinked. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I mean it,” Lara shot back through a mouthful of Cheetos. “You’re like if Barbie got a 1600 on the SATs and then smoked enough to forget how to spell it.”
You rolled over and groaned into your pillow. “Being a child genius wasn’t real. I peaked at twelve, and now I have three brain cells and one of them is obsessed with iced coffee.”
“No,” Manon deadpanned, pointing at you with a mascara wand. “You didn’t peak. You just got over being emotionally exploited by a broken academic system built on capitalist trauma.”
There was a snort, followed by a “When did you get all philosophical?” which you and Manon promptly ignored. Instead, you peeked out from under the pillow. “Are you calling AP Chem capitalist trauma?”
“I’m calling your existence a Marxist case study.”
You sat up, towel slipping slightly- not that you cared. Lara didn’t even blink. At this point, the three of you were so codependent the RA had stopped trying to separate you. Megan- Lara’s roomie- usually joined in, but recently she’d been too busy hanging out with this cute freshman on campus… Yunchee, was it? You couldn’t remember- maybe all the alcohol really was fucking up your game.
“You know who actually did peak in high school?” You smile, rubbing moisturizer into your face.
Lara perked up. “Oh my God, if you say Daniela, I will throw myself into the shower and scream.”
“…I didn’t even say her last name.”
“You didn’t have to,” Manon muttered. “You only get that specific tone of voice when you’re about to trauma-dump about werewolf Barbie.”
You paused. “Wait, how do you know she’s a-“
“She’s not,” Manon cut in fast. “It’s a joke. Calm down, Edward Cullen.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re both assholes.”
“Hot assholes,” Lara corrected. “Now get dressed. We’re pre-gaming in twenty and I’m not letting you show up to the Phi Delt house in a towel unless it’s part of a very specific fantasy.”
Oh right, that.
Phi Delt.
You had kind of forgotten it was that house. Or maybe your brain had just suppressed it like a responsible organ. Either way, the moment Lara said it, your expression glazed over the way it always did when someone brought up finals or past relationships or, you know…
Jonah.
Technically, it hadn’t been your scandal. You were just tangentially involved. Like the accidental protagonist in someone else’s daytime drama.
It was one of those nights. Sweaty, loud, neon-drenched. You were drunk, obviously. Tequila? Maybe. Definitely. There was a bottle of something blue involved and someone had dared you to dance on the beer pong table (which, to be fair, you won).
Jonah had been leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a Solo cup like he was in a shampoo commercial, throwing out lazy compliments between big wounded-boy sighs.
Something about your smile.
Something about your thighs.
Something about how ‘Daniela’s been cheating on me anyway’, and ‘she doesn’t even like me’, and ‘she keeps talking about how you think you’re better than her, like I’m supposed to know what that means.’
Which, okay. Red flag.
But also, he was hot and drunk and easy to tune out. You half-listened. Mostly nodded. Then made out with him in the downstairs bathroom. Then made out with him a lot more.
You never even got his last name.
Just Jonah.
Phi Delt Jonah.
Daniela’s Jonah.
Oops.
No one made a huge deal out of it afterward, surprisingly. Daniela spiralled, as per usual, but she got over it pretty quickly. You figured it was because no one really liked him to begin with. And also- and this part made Lara cackle every single time- because you didn’t even pretend to care. You had the nerve to act like it was a minor side quest in your otherwise feral week.
You sighed, dragging yourself up from the bed and rifling through your closet like it owed you money. Manon clicked her tongue. “Wear the lace cami. The black one. With the flared jeans. You look like a hot burnout in it.”
“I am a hot burnout.”
“You’re a hot burnout with abandonment issues and glitter eye shadow. Own it.”
You slipped the top on, letting it hang slightly off one shoulder. Your hair was still damp, curling softly around your collarbone. A delicate golden necklace rested on your neck, inscribed with your name in Arabic. It had been a gift when you were born- and Lara had insisted on personally fixing the chain for you so it could fit around your now adult neck. The two of you were matching, much to Manons constant chagrin (“Y’all just hate me”).
Lara nodded in approval at the sight of you. “You’re gonna ruin someone’s life tonight.”
“Hopefully not mine,” you murmured.
Manon handed you lip gloss. “Manifest chaos.”
You took it, groaning in exasperation. “I can’t believe we’re going back there.”
“You can believe it,” Lara drawled, stretching like a cat. “You just don’t want to make eye contact with the bathroom door.”
“I’m pretty sure that doorknob still has my shame on it.”
“Your shame and, like, maybe your lip gloss.”
Manon barely looked up from her eyeliner. “Wasn’t Jonah the one who said your thighs were, and I quote, ‘angelic but dangerous’?”
You squinted. “…Gross. But yeah.”
“I miss him,” Lara sighed- she always found his face interesting. Not in the “i’m attracted to you” way. It was more-so “It’s giving ET… but hot”- her exact words of encouragement before she disappeared from the party drunk and wrapped around some blonde chick.
“He’s not dead.” You scoff.
“He might as well be. He unfollowed you on Instagram like a coward.”
“Yeah,” you sighed, applying Manon’s gloss. “That must’ve been tough for him. Being constantly- and publicly- cheated on by a girl who’d rather claw her way through me than hug him in public.”
Lara let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised as she popped another Cheeto into her mouth.
“Damn. She’d combust if she heard you say that.”
“She’s combusted for less,” you roll your eyes, blotting the lip gloss with the kind of detached grace only someone truly over it- or deeply, wildly in denial- could pull off. You reached for your heels, high and black, slipping them on with a practiced ease that made Lara slow clap.
“She’s going to combust tonight,” Manon muttered, standing to grab her jacket. “I’m manifesting it.”
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Are we pretending we don’t think that’s hot?”
Manon opened her mouth, paused, then shut it. “Unfortunately, no.”
“She’s probably not even gonna be there,” you offered, which was a lie. A dumb, blatant, ridiculous lie. Because Daniela was always there. She owned that place. Not officially, but spiritually. You couldn’t throw a ping pong ball without hitting a guy she’d made cry or a girl who’d tried to fight her.
“I mean,” Lara drawled, swinging her legs off your bed and standing, “it is her ex’s frat. Which means we’re all going to pretend not to see her and then end up orbiting her like she’s the sun and we’re just slutty little planets.”
You gave her a look. “That was… poetic?”
“I know.” She winked. “I had two Red Bulls.”
Manon slid her purse over her shoulder, flipping her hair. “I’m not orbiting anyone unless they offer me free weed or a weird prophecy.”
“That happened one time,” you sighed.
“Yeah,” she muttered, “and I’m still trying to figure out what ‘beware the girl with teeth in her smile’ means.”
The three of you stood in silence for a moment, the weight of collective delusion and good lighting sinking in.
You checked yourself in the mirror one last time. Makeup soft and glowing. Hair still slightly damp, giving you that whole “ethereal chaos nymph” thing. Shirt just barely clinging to your shoulder. That nameplate necklace catching the light like it knew what kind of night it was about to witness.
Your eyes met your reflection.
Cool.
Hot.
Braindead, but in an expensive way.
She could be there.
She probably would be.
And if she wasn’t? You’d still look like the kind of girl people wrote messy songs about.
“Okay,” you said, slinging your purse across your body. “Let’s go make some poor decisions.”
“Already packed mine,” Lara said, pulling out a mini bottle of Fireball.
“I want to get kicked out this time,” Manon announced proudly.
“That’s nice sweetie…”
And with that, the three of you headed out- lip gloss shining, heels clicking, and absolutely no plan for what you’d do if Daniela did show up.
But you knew one thing for sure:
If she was there?
She’d see you.
And that would be enough to start something.
Even if neither of you admitted it yet.
………………………………………………………………………………
The Phi Delt house was already vibrating when you got there- music pounding through the walls like a desperate heartbeat, bass so deep it rattled the Solo cups on the porch railing.
Someone had wrapped fairy lights around a stop sign out front. There was glitter on the sidewalk. A girl was crying in a glittering halter top while her friend offered her a vape like it was CPR.
So, yeah. Standard start.
The door was open. Of course.
Inside: chaos.
A beer pong tournament was happening aggressively in the living room. Someone had hung a piñata from the ceiling fan. Every hallway was a crush of bodies, sweat, and too much body spray. People were dancing- badly. The lights were either too bright or way too red. There was no in-between.
It was loud. It was stupid. It was perfect.
You weaved through it all with practiced ease- your little trio a hot, high-heeled unit of effortless dominance. People greeted you as you passed. Some offered shots. One guy asked if you were “that girl who ruined Jonah.” You just smiled and kept walking.
“Bar,” Manon said.
“Dance floor,” Lara said.
“Bathroom,” you said. “Gonna touch up my lips and emotionally detach for five minutes.”
The crowd swallowed your friends instantly- Manon off to flirt with a psych major who read her tarot last semester, Lara already disappearing into the cloud of vape smoke near the DJ booth.
You made it to the bathroom. Miraculously unoccupied. You locked the door, exhaled, and stared into the mirror.
You touched up your gloss. Smoothed your hair. Tilted your head.
You looked good.
Now you needed to feel like shit. Well, even shittier than you already feel.
By 11:04 PM, you were drunk enough to dance but sober enough to notice things.
Like the fact that people kept glancing toward the front door.
Like the way someone whispered “She’s here” in a tone usually reserved for celebrities and active shooters.
You grabbed another drink. You weren’t sure who handed it to you. Probably someone who thought you were someone else. Or someone who just wanted to get into your pants. You smiled gratefully and kept walking.
And that’s when you saw her.
Daniela.
Crimson crop top. Black leather pants. A dangerous smirk painted perfectly in red. Her hair was wild tonight- half-up, half-down, curls like fire. Gold hoops. Gold rings. Gold aura.
She didn’t walk into the room.
She claimed it.
People looked. Of course they did. She moved through the crowd like she’d choreographed it, every step placed, every glance calculated. Her laugh rang out once, sharp and lazy. She looked like someone who’d already won the fight and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up.
You turned away.
Fuck that.
You found Lara dancing with some tall girl in a Hawaiian shirt and Doc Martens. You almost laughed- your head already brewing up a “Is that Megan’s cousin?” joke. For now, you let the corny thought subside (You’d been working on the “think before you speak” thing after all) and instead just poked Lara.
“Shots!” You yelled over the blaring music.
Lara didn’t ask. She just grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the kitchen. Already pouring yourselves drinks and grabbing limes from the diminishing bowl- neither of you were surprised when Manon burst into the kitchen, slightly out of breath, glitter on her cheek, holding two cupcakes and a half-smoked joint.
“I made a friend,” she deadpanned. “Also, someone’s crying in the bathtub. I told them you’d be a good person to talk to.”
You blinked. Even Lara seemed bemused for once. “Why would you-“
“They said they got cheated on by their girlfriend and I figured you could… I don’t know, relate?”
You stared at her. Lara cackled.
“Too soon?”
“Leave me with the joint and back away slowly.”
Manon held the cupcakes like they were sacred offerings and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously though, they’re crying over a girl who cheated on them. That’s, like, your specialty.”
“I don’t cheat,” you respond flatly, accepting the joint anyway.
“No,” Manon agreed, “but you are the final boss people fight after they’ve been cheated on.”
Lara snorted. “You’re not a rebound, you’re a punishment arc.”
You took a drag and exhaled with a dramatic sigh. “I hate you both.”
Manon offered you a cupcake. “Do you want red velvet or existential crisis?”
“I want to be reincarnated as someone with healthy boundaries.”
Lara grabbed the red velvet. “You’d last five minutes. You need the drama for skin clarity.”
You leaned against the counter, drink in one hand, joint in the other, letting the chaos swirl around you. Someone behind you was yelling about a missing bong. A pair of girls were dancing on the kitchen island. Someone else was making out against the fridge like it was a plot point.
And somewhere in the background- barely audible over the music- you heard her laugh again.
You didn’t turn.
Instead, you nudged Manon. “So what’s the friend’s deal?”
She shrugged. “Freshman. Sad. Has good eyeliner, though. Might be a witch.”
“Cool,” You drawled, licking icing off your thumb. “Tell her to hit me up if she wants to trauma bond.”
“Already did. She’s convinced you’re, quote, ‘an omen in lip gloss.’”
You blinked. “…Lowkey poetic?”
Lara elbowed you. “That’s the second person to call you that this week.”
You were halfway through finishing your drink when someone passed behind you- just close enough that your bare shoulder brushed leather. Warm, worn-in, and unmistakably expensive. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.
But still- you turned your head.
Just enough to see her retreating figure.
Red crop top. Gold hoops. That walk. That goddamn walk.
She hadn’t said anything.
Just made sure you felt her.
Lara caught the look in your eyes. “Do you want me to trip her?”
You raised a brow. “She’d like that too much.”
“She’s been circling you like a shark for twenty minutes.”
“I haven’t even looked at her.”
“Exactly.”
Manon popped a piece of cupcake into her mouth and spoke with her mouth full. “You know she’s gonna come over eventually.”
“Let her.”
“You say that now,” Lara muttered, “but last time she was within five feet of you, the air got heavy. Like, sin-heavy.”
“She probably just uses musk-scented perfume,” you deadpanned.
“She probably uses your name as her lock screen password.”
You couldn’t help but smirk at that one. Because it wasn’t impossible. It never made sense to you, really- her thing with you.
You weren’t rivals.
You’d never been enemies.
You’d never done anything to her.
She just… hated you.
Loudly. Beautifully. With a grudge so long-lasting it had started to feel romantic.
And back in high school, you genuinely didn’t know why. You’d danced. You’d won. You’d quit. You left the medals behind without thinking twice. Meanwhile, Daniela had clawed her way to the top, finally beat you in senior year, only for you to vanish from the scene without so much as a dramatic monologue.
You didn’t realize you’d left behind a rivalry.
You’d just been tired.
Tired and bored and so done with the grind of perfection.
Apparently, she hadn’t gotten the memo.
Lara broke the silence again. “She’s talking to a guy near the window. He’s hot.”
“Cool,” you shrug.
“She’s not looking at him.”
You didn’t reply.
You didn’t need to.
Because even now, with the haze of alcohol and music and a secondhand sugar crash settling into your bones, you could feel her.
Like gravity.
Like static in your teeth.
Like the itch you get before lightning joints.
“She’s gonna come over,” Manon said again, matter-of-fact.
You licked the icing off your finger. “Let her.”
And this time, you meant it.
………………………………………………………………………………
You were halfway through a stolen cupcake, the joint still burning slow between your fingers, when the air shifted. Not in a poetic way- more in a biological threat detected kind of way.
Lara clocked it first. Her eyes flicked past you and narrowed. “Incoming.”
“Who?” you asked, licking icing off your thumb.
Manon followed her gaze, already smirking. “Oh no.”
“What?” you ask again, turning lazily.
Oh.
Oh, god.
There she was.
Leaning in the kitchen doorway like she paid rent to exist in dramatic entrances.
Daniela Avanzini.
Clawdeen-core.
Leather-jacketed, gold-ringed, stomach-baring menace to society. She had her hair up in that half-ponytail again- the one that made her look like she just finished filming a perfume ad in downtown LA. Glossy lips. Arched brow. Cropped top that could probably bankrupt someone in emotional labor alone.
Her eyes were on you.
And yeah, okay- maybe she was hot.
Maybe she was sickeningly hot.
But you weren’t about to acknowledge that.
You met her stare with a smile that was pure serotonin-depleted evil. “Lose your boyfriend again?” Lara audibly choked on her drink. Manon took a very pointed step back.
“No,” she sneered, stepping into the kitchen. “Lose your filter?”
You just smiled even harder. “Nope. I keep it in my bra. Right next to my patience.”
Daniela stopped in front of you, the tension buzzing louder than the speaker behind her. She was close- too close for casual. Just enough to brush shoulders. Just enough to get a whiff of that overpriced vanilla-and-violence perfume she always wore.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
You blinked. “You just did.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, me too.” You leaned back slightly, gaze faux-innocent. “But go off.”
Daniela stared at you for a beat- long enough that Lara actually muttered “oh my god” under her breath like a middle schooler watching a slow-motion car crash.
Then-
“Did you sleep with Jonah just to piss me off?”
And just like that, the kitchen went silent.
Like, party-in-the-other-room-still-going-but-God-left-this-zone silent.
You raised both brows. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, unfortunately.”
Daniela crossed her arms, leather creaking. Her jaw was set, lips pursed, looking every bit like someone trying very hard not to lose composure.
“He told me,” she added. “That you knew. That you were smug about it. That you-”
“Oh, he said that?”
You laughed. Hard.
The sound bounced off tile and tension.
“Jonah also told me you’d been cheating on him for months, Dani. Don’t throw rocks from your Hot Girl glass house.”
She looked like she wanted to hit you.
Or kiss you.
Or both, possibly at the same time.
“That’s not the point,” she snapped.
“Oh, isn’t it?” you said, tossing your hair over one shoulder. “Or are you just mad I was bored and he was available?”
Silence.
She glared at you, lips parted, breathing just slightly harder than before.
“Wow,” Lara whispered. “They’re gonna fight. Or fuck. I can’t tell.”
“Or both,” Manon added. “I hope it’s both.”
Daniela didn’t look at them. She didn’t look away from you.
“Do you just like messing with people?” she asked, voice low now. Too low.
You tilted your head. “Do you?”
“No.”
You took a slow step forward. “Then why are you here?”
She didn’t move.
She just blinked. Once. Jaw clenched. Lips twitching like she wanted to bite through her own words.
Then-
She bit you.
Not hard. Not enough to draw blood.
But enough to press her teeth into your shoulder- just above your collarbone- through the thin strap of your top.
Sharp. Sudden. Deliberate.
You yelped. “Did you just-“
“Accident,” she said, clearly lying.
“You bit me.”
“You were annoying.”
“That’s not a medical reason to bite someone.”
She smirked. “Sue me.”
And just like that- she turned and walked away.
No explanation. No follow-up.
Just those godforsaken hips in those godforsaken pants and the knowledge that her teeth were now part of your evening.
Manon was howling with laughter. “She bit you like a feral squirrel.”
“She bit me like she’s never bit a guy in her life,” you muttered, rubbing your shoulder.
Lara sipped her drink with the solemnity of a priest. “Congrats. You’ve officially been claimed by the world’s angriest straight girl.”
You stared at the doorway Daniela disappeared through, still half-stunned.
You weren’t mad.
You weren’t even that surprised.
You were just…
Curious.
What the hell was she so afraid of?
………………………………………………………………………………
The sun was too bright. The air was too loud. Everything in your dorm smelled vaguely of frosting and weed, and Manon was groaning into her pillow like a Victorian orphan with constipation.
You blinked at your reflection.
The bathroom mirror wasn’t being kind this morning. Your eyeliner was still ghosting around your eyes like a war crime. Your hair looked like it had been involved in some kind of bar fight. And your neck?
Yeah.
Your neck was fucked.
Right at the junction of your collarbone and throat- slightly off-center, just below your necklace- a dark, faintly swollen bite glared back at you.
Not a hickey.
Not a bruise.
A bite.
With teeth marks.
And now, the worst part?
It itched.
It itched like hell.
You scratched it. Then stopped.
Then scratched it again.
Then stared at yourself and muttered aloud, deadpan:
“She gave me rabies.”
There was a beat of silence from the dorm.
Manon mumbled something unintelligible from the other side of the room, arm draped over her face like she was shielding herself from God.
You ignored her, still staring at the bite.
“Why is it itching?” you whispered, pulling the neckline of your tank top aside to get a better look. “It wasn’t itchy last night. It was just violent. Now it’s violent and evolving.”
You poked it. It stung.
You sighed like a woman on the edge.
“Daniela Avanzini is a rabid bitch,” you declared, loud and clear, “and I’ve been medically assaulted.”
Manon made a muffled sound into her pillow. “What are you talking about?”
“She bit me.”
“You said that last night. Loudly. Five times. You also tried to Google ‘can bitches transmit diseases through dramatic tension.’”
“I stand by that search.” You rubbed your neck again, gently. “I’m serious. It’s itching. And I have health insurance, but I don’t want to use it. I don’t even like hospitals.”
Manon peeled one eye open. “Have you considered the possibility that she just has weird teeth and you’re being dramatic?”
“One, her teeth are perfect. Two, she broke skin.”
“Barely.”
“You know who else breaks skin? Werewolves.”
Pause.
Silence.
Manon sat up slowly, her pillow deflating like a dying soufflé. “Okay. No more edibles for you.”
“I’m just saying,” you said, turning your head side to side in the mirror. “Why did she bite me? Why was it so deliberate? And why is it suddenly doing this?” You gestured at the bite mark like it was a medical exhibit. “I’ve had hickeys. I’ve had weird hickeys. But none of them made me feel like I need to scratch myself until I become legally classified as a skinless entity.”
“She’s unwell and you’re irresistible,” Manon muttered. “It was probably a weird power move.”
“It was a power move,” you grumbled. “But now I think it’s a curse.”
You reached for the concealer in the drawer but paused- your fingers hovering in mid-air as you stared at the mirror again.
“Does it look… darker to you?”
Manon squinted from her bed. “I’m not getting up.”
You turned toward her, yanking your collar down like a pirate wench with a vendetta. “Look at it.”
She stared. Blinked. Then winced.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s… yikes. You’re either turning into a werewolf or developing an allergy to leather mommies.”
“I knew she had the devil in her,” you muttered.
Manon shrugged, flopping back onto the mattress. “You’re not allowed to hook up with people who bite, babe. That’s a vetting question now.”
“I didn’t hook up with her!”
“She bit you.”
“That’s not sex!”
“It’s mouth-on-body contact, and I don’t make the rules.”
You sighed dramatically and tossed the concealer aside. No point. It wouldn’t cover it. At best, it’d just make you look like you had a flesh-colored birthmark shaped like poor decision-making.
You went to your desk and opened your laptop.
“Don’t you dare Google-”
Search: signs of infection from human bite
Manon groaned. “We’re gonna need holy water and a tetanus booster.”
You ignored her.
You had bigger problems.
The bite itched.
It was getting darker.
And Daniela?
Was somewhere on campus.
Walking around like she didn’t just bite you in public like an unhinged forest nymph.
You scratched your neck one more time and muttered to yourself:
“Next time she comes near me, I’m bringing a spray bottle.”
You dressed with intent.
Not with style- that was already second nature- but with sheer, calculated spite.
Black jeans. The vintage tee you cropped within an inch of its life- the one that read BITE ME in rhinestones. Not on purpose. Not originally. But it felt prophetic now.
You topped it off with sunglasses despite the overcast sky and a large iced coffee that you purchased purely to throw if needed.
“This is stupid,” Manon said as you slathered concealer on your neck anyway, even though it just made the bite angrier. “You’re not going to find her.”
“She bit me.”
“You’ve said that seven times.”
“She bit me with intention.”
“And what are you going to do if you find her?”
“I’m going to hiss. And if she gets within a five-foot radius? I’m going to spray her in the face.”
You held up the travel-size rosewater facial mist you’d found in the bottom of your makeup drawer.
Manon blinked. “So… witchcraft?”
“Self-defense,” you corrected. “She’s probably got some weird dominant gene that activates when she’s challenged. I need to assert my own instincts.”
“You have zero instincts.”
“Not true. My instincts are just usually drunk and bisexual.”
You grabbed your bag, flung your hair into a messy high ponytail like you were going into battle, and marched out the door.
A girl on a mission.
A woman wronged.
Campus, unfortunately, was thriving.
The sun had finally come out- loud and smug. People were littered across the quad like spring break extras. There were couples on blankets, frat boys tossing a frisbee with all the grace of sleepy golden retrievers, and somewhere in the distance someone was absolutely butchering “Wonderwall” on guitar.
You stormed through it all like a hot, fast-moving weather event.
Boots stomping. Sunglasses on.
That weird feral buzzing still flaring in your shoulder.
Daniela.
Where the hell was she?
You checked the usual spots.
The front lawn by the language building (empty).
The bleachers behind the gym (full of theater majors).
The café patio (occupied by a very intense DnD game and two girls making out).
Nothing.
Not a trace of red lipstick or tortured curls or gold fucking hoops anywhere.
You were about to give up and angrily buy a protein bar when a voice rang out behind you.
“You looking for someone?”
You turned.
It was not Daniela.
It was Sophia- glowing in natural dewy makeup and soft brows, the kind of girl whose aesthetic makes you forget your hangover… for a second.
Ugh. Even her under-eye area looked hydrated.
You blinked. “Wow. Don’t you look suspiciously put together for a Tuesday.”
She gave you a small, knowing smile, like she got that a lot. “I drank water between shots. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
“Disgusting,” you muttered, adjusting your sunglasses like they were the only thing holding your moral compass in place. “What do you want?”
“Me?” She leaned back against the vending machine you were half a second from punching. “I’m just on my yogurt run. You, on the other hand, are marching across campus like a tiny war god. So I thought I’d say hi. Check in. Make sure you weren’t about to set something on fire.”
You hesitated, then scratched your neck again with a wince. “I might.”
Sophia’s eyes flicked down. Just for a second. Just to your neck.
And then she smiled again. Calm. Innocent. Entirely too casual. “That a hickey or a felony?”
You gave her a dry look. “Would you believe… mosquito bite?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Okay, well,” you gestured vaguely, “maybe it’s a normal college experience.”
“Bite marks from girls who wear leather in eighty-degree weather and drive red Mustangs? Sure.”
You squinted. “Are you here to interrogate me or just radiate expensive facial serum energy in my general direction?”
“Neither,” she said sweetly. “Just thought I’d remind you that if you’re trying to track someone down… maybe don’t do it while muttering to yourself like a cursed Victorian child.”
“I wasn’t-“ You stopped. Thought back. You might have said something about rabies and spray bottles out loud near the communications building.
Sophia watched your face shift and grinned. “There it is.”
You rolled your eyes and turned like you were going to walk off. But then curiosity gnawed its way in. “Just- hypothetically,” you spoke, not turning around. “If someone had, say, irrationally sunk their teeth into someone else’s neck, what kind of insane sorority hazing ritual would that be considered?”
“Hypothetically?” she echoed, smiling even wider. “I’d say it’s more of a… personal choice kind of thing.”
You turned to face her again, arms crossed. “You’re not gonna tell me where she is, are you?”
Sophia looked delighted. “You think I’m gonna betray the girl who drove me home at 2am while blasting Bad Bunny just because you look like revenge sex in platform boots?”
You blinked. “…I do look like that, huh.”
“Devastatingly,” she confirmed. “But no. Daniela’s my girl. And you-” she squinted at you like she was trying to figure out a particularly unhinged riddle, “-you’re giving chaotic good with a rising thirst for blood. I respect it. But I’m staying out of it.”
You sighed.
Sophia stepped back from the vending machine, grabbing her yogurt and smiling like she’d just watched a reality show from the inside.
“Anyway. If you do find her,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away, “don’t bite back unless you’re ready for whatever that unlocks.”
You stared after her.
Then looked down at your neck.
Still itchy.
Still weird.
Still glowing faintly pink under the makeup.
“Great,” you muttered. “I’ve been bitten by a lesbian Twilight reboot and now I’m being spiritually mocked by a skincare witch.”
And with that, you kept marching.
No Daniela in sight.
Yet.
You’d just left Sophia (hydrated angel, unhelpful snitch) and were cutting across the path behind the Student Union when someone yelled your name like you were late to your own intervention.
“Y/N! Stop power-walking, damn!”
You turned.
Megan.
Lara’s roommate. Daniela’s friend. Perpetually wearing something ripped, caffeinated, and morally flexible. Today: cut-off campus rugby tee, bike shorts, combat boots, three bandaids on one knee like trophies. A lanyard full of student IDs that were definitely not all hers swung from her wrist.
Beside her stood a tiny freshman with glossy black hair, a blunt center part, wireless headphones around her neck, and the cold, assessing stare of a tax auditor. She clutched a bubble tea like a weapon. This had to be the freshman buddy: Yoonchae. You’d heard about her. Lara called her “the silent goddess of judgment.”
Megan jogged up, slightly winded. “You stalking campus like a debt collector. You good?”
“Define good.” You pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m trying to locate a short, leather-addicted Latina with boundary issues.”
Megan smirked. “So… Dani.”
“Don’t say her name like that,” you muttered, scratching your neck.
Yoonchae’s eyes laser-tracked the motion. She stepped closer. No greeting. Just a tiny, unimpressed hum. Then she pointed at your collarbone.
“Dog,” she said.
You froze. “Excuse me?”
She frowned, searching, then pulled her phone, typed, flipped the screen: Bite? Dog? Vaccine need? (💉💉💉💀)
Megan leaned over, snorted. “Dude. Did someone’s emotional support golden retriever get spicy?”
“She bit me,” you said through clenched teeth.
Megan: “Who?”
You: “Take a wild, leather-scented guess.”
Megan’s grin went carnivorous. “Oh my God, she finally did it.”
“Finally?” you echoed.
Megan caught herself. “-uh. Nothing. Ignore me. Freshman week brain.”
You gave her A Look. “You are the second person today to refuse basic bite-related transparency.”
Yoonchae tapped your arm to regain focus, then typed again: No scratch. Worse. Then she mimed claws. Then sneezed at the air like something smelled weird.
“Are you allergic to my perfume?” you asked.
She shook her head, wrinkled her nose, and said, in deeply suspicious English: “Metal. Forest. Wet dog perfume.”
Megan dissolved into laughter so hard she bent at the waist.
You did not laugh. Mostly because the itchy spot on your neck pulsed exactly when Yoonchae said dog. Which was rude. And unscientific.
“Where is she?” you asked Megan. “I’m not mad. I just want to talk.”
“Hmm.”
“Megan.”
“Hypothetically,” she said, spinning her lanyard, “if a certain person went off-campus for… athletic reasons-“
“Gym?”
“-aggressive cardio,” she corrected, “she might be back after late labs. Or sunset. Or, like, whenever the moon says it’s chic.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing!” She clapped your shoulders. “You look great! Don’t bleed on the merch!”
You narrowed your eyes. “If you see her, tell her I’m rabid now and it’s her legal responsibility.”
“Will do.” Megan gave you a salute. “Also Lara texted. She says- and I quote- “if rabies, pls film foamy mouth for content.’”
Your phone buzzed. Group chat: THE GIRLIES (3)
Larz🍑💦 : send bite pic. i’m in econ & bored.
Man-on🏳️🌈 : did you confront her??
You: trying. sophia blocked. megan feral. freshman judge says vaccine.
Larz🍑💦 : lol yoonchae knows things. trust yoonchae.
Man-on🏳️🌈: DO NOT trust yoonchae she said my aura was “expired yogurt.”
While you typed, Yoonchae tugged the chain of your necklace gently, reading your name with surprising care. She looked up, expression softer for exactly one microsecond.
Then: “Strong.”
You blinked. “What?”
She thumped your sternum with one finger. “You strong. Not dead.” A firm nod. Then she pointed toward the athletics complex in the far distance. “Maybe.” Shrug. Sip of boba. Back to judgment face.
Megan sucked in a breath. “Wow, she gave you a clue. That’s like rare NPC loot.”
You stared toward the athletic fields. Long walk. Hot sun. Questionable hydration levels. Still itchy.
“Fine,” you said. “If I collapse, drag me somewhere photogenic.”
Megan fell into step beside you. “I’ll bring campus EMS and ring lights.”
Yoonchae followed at a precise, deliberate distance, texting in Hangul with unnerving speed. Every now and then she glanced at you… then at the sky.
As the athletics complex loomed, Megan slowed, eyes flicking toward the parking lot. “If she’s here, she’s in the aux studio. Dance kids booked it.”
“Of course they did.”
“You going in?”
You adjusted your sunglasses. “Oh, I’m not going in.”
Megan blinked. “You’re not?”
“Nope.” You smiled wickedly. “I’m gonna text her a photo of the bite from outside the building and let her come out.”
Yoonchae actually grinned. Tiny, sharp, and clearly in approval.
You lifted your phone, pulled your collar aside, snapped the clearest, rudest shot of the mark you could, added glitter GIF text: “u owe me shots // symptoms: possible rabies”, and sent it to the contact you swore you saved ironically: Dani 🚗💩
The typing bubble appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then came back.
Then disappeared again.
Classic.
You turned to Megan, holding out your phone like evidence at a trial. “She’s playing with me.”
Megan squinted. “Maybe her thumbs are broken?”
“From what? Dramatic gesturing?”
Megan grinned. “Okay but like… you’re both hot, and this is a sexual lawsuit waiting to happen.”
Before you could respond, the side door to the aux studio banged open with enough force to startle a bird from a tree. And there she was.
Daniela.
Hair scraped up in a messy bun, a few wild curls escaping to cling to her temples like chaos. A black ribbed tank clinging to her like it owed her rent. Track pants low on her hips, sneakers unlaced, a little sweaty, glowing in the way that could only be described as aggressively radiant.
She paused in the doorway, chewing on a red straw from a juice pouch.
Her eyes landed on you.
The smirk bloomed instantly. Slow. Satisfied. Predatory.
“Oh,” she started. “Look who didn’t die.”
You crossed your arms. “Look who finally crawled out of her cage.”
Daniela took a slow, almost obscene sip of her juice, then tossed the empty pouch in a nearby bin with the arrogance of a three-point shot.
“Didn’t think you’d show up,” she drawled.
“You bit me!”
“It was a nibble.”
“It’s infected!”
“Maybe your immune system’s just fragile,” she cooed. “You sure you’re not allergic to me?”
Megan made a choking noise and immediately pretended to check her phone.
You stepped forward, stopping just short of Daniela’s personal space, resisting the urge to scratch the damn bite again.
“I came to tell you that if my neck starts glowing or sprouting fur or something, I will sue.”
Daniela leaned in, eyes flicking down to your throat. Her voice dropped, syrupy. “If it starts glowing, I want a photo.”
You blinked. “What is wrong with you?”
Daniela tilted her head, pretending to think. “Chronically misunderstood. Also-” she grinned, all teeth, “-probably rabid.”
Yoonchae, having witnessed enough, turned to Megan and said flatly, “They need leash.”
“Correction,” Megan said brightly, “Daniela needs a leash. Y/N just needs to stop getting bitten like a sexy Scooby snack.”
You groaned, turning away- but not before catching one last glance at Daniela.
Still smirking.
Still watching.
Like she knew exactly what she’d started.
And wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.
You’ll take the loss. For now, at-least.
………………………………………………………………………………
For the next couple of hours, you laid low.
Sort of.
You ghosted the group chat, left your sunglasses on indoors like a washed-up celebrity, and loitered around the art building pretending to study. You even went to class- mostly to spite Daniela, in case she somehow sensed you were skipping.
(You told yourself that. It had nothing to do with the weird heat that kept prickling at the back of your neck whenever you sat still for too long. Or the headache that bloomed sharp and bright behind your eyes. Or the fact that everything was starting to sound louder- like the vending machine chewing coins, or someone’s bad Spotify playlist echoing from a backpack.)
By 8PM, you were fidgety.
By 8:30, you were pacing the hallway outside the auxiliary studio.
By 8:36, you gave up pretending you weren’t looking for her.
The building was half-lit and echoey- the kind of nighttime quiet that made your footsteps sound accusatory. The main dance studio was locked. But the smaller practice room?
Open.
Of course it was.
You slipped inside.
Hardwood floors. Fluorescent lights overhead. That familiar waxy scent of sweat, ambition, and broken dreams. And in the center of it all- facing the mirror, music playing from her phone- was Daniela.
Alone. Stretching. Shirt damp from exertion, curls even wilder than this morning, her gold jewelry catching the overhead lights like she wanted to be perceived as some kind of problem.
She didn’t look at you.
She didn’t have to.
“You stalking me now?” she said lazily, eyes on her own reflection as she pulled one leg up into a high stretch that made your hamstrings scream in sympathy.
You shut the door behind you with a quiet click.
“You’re avoiding me,” you said flatly.
Daniela rolled her eyes. “Please. If I wanted to avoid you, I wouldn’t have left teeth in your jugular.”
You frowned, taking a few steps into the room. “Seriously. Something’s wrong. That bite- it’s not just, like, a kinky party injury. It’s itchy. And weird. And my head’s all-“
“Throbbing?” she offered, still not looking at you.
“…Yes.”
“You hear stuff more clearly?”
“…Yes.”
She finally looked up. Met your gaze in the mirror. The smirk was still there- but it was flickering now. Barely. Like she was trying to maintain a performance she hadn’t rehearsed enough.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, way too fast.
You narrowed your eyes. “You sure? Because I’m pretty sure my skin shouldn’t be buzzing. And I shouldn’t be able to hear your heartbeat from across the room.”
That made her freeze.
Just for a second.
Then: “That’s creepy. Maybe you need the leash.”
You crossed your arms. “Daniela.”
She turned- slow and sharp- facing you now, and wow. Okay. You hated that she looked like a fucking Calvin Klein ad during confrontation.
“You’re being dramatic,” she said coolly. “It’s just a bite. I barely broke skin.”
You stalked closer. “You broke skin and then vanished. What the hell is going on with you?”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
And for the briefest second, you saw it.
Not the bitchy front. Not the cocky smirk. But something…nervous. Raw.
Like she didn’t know how to lie about this part.
You took one more step, closing the distance between you.
And with a low voice, you said, “Did you do something to me?”
Silence.
You could hear the soft beat of the music behind her. Could see the faint twitch of her jaw. And for once, for once, she didn’t have some smartass reply ready.
Then:
“I told you not to smell like a fucking cupcake,” she said, but her voice was quiet now. Edging into something you didn’t recognize.
“You bit me.”
“And I shouldn’t have,” she muttered, backing up a step like your presence was suddenly radioactive.
You stared at her. “Daniela. I’m serious. What did you do?”
She met your gaze again- full-on this time. Her pupils were darker now, dilated. Her breath shallow.
Daniela was unraveling.
Not in a cute way. Not in her usual “oops, I’m so emotionally layered and hot and broken” way. No, this was full, unfiltered bitchy meltdown. Her voice had gained volume. Her hands had started gesturing like she was orchestrating a symphony of excuses.
“I didn’t mean to do it, okay? But you just- God, you’re always there. Being you. With your fucking perfume and your stupid glitter and that smug little face you make when you pretend not to care about anything-“
You blinked.
She was pacing now. Hair bouncing. Arms flailing. A slow, tragic spiral.
“-and of course you show up to the party in that top. Like you weren’t asking for attention. Like you weren’t practically begging someone to notice you, which, obviously, I did, because I always do, and somehow that’s my fault too. Just like everything else.”
You raised a finger. “Okay, see, now you’re just making stuff up. I haven’t asked for a single thing except maybe an Advil and a clear answer, which- spoiler alert- still waiting on.”
But she wasn’t listening.
“Oh, and let’s not forget senior year, when I finally beat you at nationals- FINALLY- and then you just quit dance like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. And everyone was like, ‘aww Y/N must be going through something,’ but I knew better. You just didn’t care.”
You blinked again, slower this time. “…Are we trauma dumping? Is that what’s happening? Should I sit down or-?”
“I didn’t even want to bite you,” she snapped, as if this was your cue to be grateful for her self-restraint. “But I was in rut, and you smelled like warm sugar and chaos and something mine, and you looked at me like I was a joke, and I lost control for one second-”
“Rut?” you echoed, slowly.
“-and now your dumb mortal nervous system is reacting like it’s been tagged by a mating signal and-“ She froze.
Dead silent.
Her lips were still moving, like her mouth hadn’t realized her brain had pulled the emergency brake.
You squinted. “Back up. Rewind. ‘Mortal’? ‘Mating signal’?”
Daniela went still.
Then she whispered, almost comically: “Fuck.”
Your arms dropped to your sides. “Daniela.”
“No.”
“Daniela.”
“Nope. We’re not doing this.”
“Are you a furry?”
“What?! No!”
“Then what the hell do you mean ‘mortal’?”
She looked like she wanted to die. Or kill you. Or both. Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again in reluctant agony. And finally, with the pain of a thousand unshed tears:
“I’m a werewolf, okay?”
You stared.
The music in the background had shifted to some moody Carti remix, which felt unnecessarily cinematic for what was happening.
“…Like. Full moon? Fur? Howling at the sky?”
“Yes.”
“Do you transform in denim shorts or, like, actual wolf-”
“I bite you one time,” she growled, stepping closer, “and suddenly it’s twenty questions?”
You took a slow step back, then fumbled in your bag for your phone. “Right, cool, I’m calling Animal Control.”
She blinked. “What?”
You scrolled. “What’s their hotline? Is it 311? 911? Do you count as a public safety threat or an invasive species-“
Daniela launched.
Not lunged. Not stepped. Not leaned.
Launched.
Like her body had been waiting for permission that her brain never gave- and now it was done asking.
One second you were mocking her. The next you were pinned to the mirror, a warm, furious body pressing into you with full wolf-girl momentum.
Your phone clattered to the floor.
Her breath hitched, eyes locked on yours, one arm braced beside your head and the other curling tight around your waist. Her face was too close. Way too close. That wild scent again- cedar, heat, danger, and expensive perfume.
“You are so annoying,” she muttered.
You barely breathed. “You just tackled me like a linebacker.”
“And you’re still talking,” she snapped.
Your eyes narrowed. “Are you gonna bite me again?”
Her mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
“Then I’m definitely calling someone.”
“Try it,” she whispered. “See what happens.”
You should’ve pushed her off.
You really should’ve.
Instead, your hand just… hovered. Caught between her ribs and your pride.
You swallowed. “Is this what you do to all your dance rivals?”
Daniela huffed. “Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”
Your brain short-circuited.
Somewhere, your glitter lip gloss was rolling across the floor like a slow clap.
And in the mirror, your reflection stared back at you- wide-eyed, flushed, tangled in the arms of the hottest Latina werewolf on campus, and deeply, profoundly unprepared for whatever the hell this was turning into.
You didn’t mean to stare at her mouth.
Or maybe you did.
It was hard to tell, with your brain still rebooting in the aftermath of being bodied into a mirror by the living, breathing warning label that was Daniela Avanzini.
Her lips were parted. Breathing ragged. That same too-warm scent curling into your senses, making your thoughts fuzzier than they had any right to be. Her hand had slipped lower-not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to be felt. Claimed.
Your mouth was dry.
You swallowed.
“You’re still not denying the rut thing,” you said, and it came out weirdly hoarse.
Her jaw clenched. “You want a biology lesson? ‘Cause I can give you one.”
“I barely passed freshman bio.”
“Not the kind you learn in class, dumbass.”
She leaned in closer, breath ghosting along your cheek. Her voice dropped lower- low low-like it had been soaked in sin and set to simmer.
“I told you,” she murmured. “You smell like trouble. Like dessert. Like something soft I wanna ruin.”
Your stomach dropped. Somewhere between panic and something a little more dangerous.
You reached up to shove her off- or maybe just to pretend you were going to- but her fingers caught your wrist mid-motion. Held it. Not tight, but firm.
“You don’t want me to stop,” she said.
You should’ve said something. Denied it. Made a joke. Anything.
Instead, your silence held the answer.
Daniela stepped in again. Her nose brushed your jawline, inhaling like it physically hurt her not to. Like she was starving and you were the one stupid thing on the menu that smelled like salvation.
“I could break that mirror,” she whispered. “Put you against the wall instead. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not with her voice in your ear and her hand sliding higher up your side and your heartbeat doing olympic-level gymnastics inside your chest.
She smelled like warm skin, leather, vanilla musk, and chaos. Like everything your mother probably warned you about.
And she knew it.
Daniela pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were molten. Pupils blown wide. Hair a mess of curls and defiance. Lips parted in a way that screamed trouble.
You couldn’t help it.
Your gaze dropped again.
She smirked.
“I’m not gonna kiss you,” she said, a little too proud.
You blinked. “Good.”
“I’m not.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Right,” she said, tone edging into amused. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to let me do whatever I want.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Well. You already bit me.”
Daniela’s smile turned wolfish. Sharp and slow.
“Then what’s one more scar?”
She dipped closer- and your brain officially unplugged.
Your fingers curled into her shirt, just slightly. Just enough to ground yourself. Just enough for her to feel it.
And she did.
“Oh,” she whispered. “There you are.”
There was a beat of silence.
One long, stretched breath between the two of you.
Daniela was still staring. Chest rising and falling too fast. Hand clenched at her side like it was taking everything in her not to move.
You didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
You were tired. Of the games. The dodging. The way she kept looking at you like you were a dare she couldn’t commit to. Like she wanted you pressed up against every wall on campus and was still too stubborn to just admit it.
So you leaned in first.
Just a little.
Barely a tilt of your chin. But it was enough. The spark.
Daniela’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
And that was it.
She surged forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you like she was trying to erase every other kiss you’d ever had.
It wasn’t soft.
It was teeth, and breath, and her rings cold against your jaw. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission- it just took. Like she’d wanted this for so long she forgot how to be gentle. Or maybe she never wanted to be.
You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the mirror again- her body flush against yours, lips moving like she was furious with you and this was the only way she knew how to speak.
One of her hands slid to your throat- not choking, just holding- like she was grounding herself there. Like if she let go, you’d disappear.
And god help you, you kissed her back.
Harder.
Messier.
Your hands were in her hair before you could think about it. Tugging. Testing. And when she moaned- low and startled and not meant for you to hear- it sent heat rolling down your spine like wildfire.
She broke the kiss, just for air, forehead against yours.
“You’re such a brat,” she whispered, breathless.
“You bit me,” you panted.
“Still thinking about that?” she asked, voice dark, lips brushing yours again. “You’re obsessed.”
You laughed- dizzy, high off adrenaline and her perfume and the taste of her mouth.
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. You’re feral for me.”
“And you’re delusional.”
She kissed you again before you could finish the insult. This time slower. Deeper. Her thumb brushed the bite mark on your throat and you felt yourself melt so fast it was embarrassing.
Something about it- her, here, like this- was dangerous. You knew that.
But you didn’t stop.
And neither did she.
Instead, you tugged her closer by the front of her tank, and she growled- an honest, desperate sound low in her throat- before pressing her mouth to yours again with more urgency, more teeth. Her hands skated down your sides, hot and possessive, like she didn’t quite believe you were real.
You bit her lip.
Not hard- just enough.
She gasped, and then her hand slid up under your shirt like it had every right to be there. Like this wasn’t the first time she’d imagined doing it. Her palm splayed over your ribs, fingers sifting under your bra strap, and when she kissed you again, it was slower. Dirtier. All tongue and tension and control she didn’t actually have.
“I should stop,” she mumbled against your mouth, clearly having no plans to actually stop at all.
“You’re not going to,” you whispered.
She kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat- zero restraint now. “God, you’re annoying.”
You smirked, breath hitching. “And you’re obsessed.”
That made her smile into your skin, and then she bit you again. Not hard. Just a little graze with her teeth, right under your ear.
You made a noise you didn’t mean to.
“Thought so,” Daniela muttered. Her voice was lower now, more gravel than silk.
You dragged her back to your mouth and kissed her like it was your only job- tasting the heat off her tongue, the burn of her lip balm, that goddamn smugness she wore like perfume. She tasted like trouble. Like juice pouches and recklessness and the kind of night you wouldn’t come back the same from.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Foreheads touching. Lips swollen. Your bite mark throbbing again- but not from pain this time.
She looked at you- properly this time. No smirk. No walls. Just a flush in her cheeks and something raw in her eyes.
“You should’ve stayed away,” she whispered.
You blinked. “Then why’d you let me find you?”
Daniela didn’t answer.
She just kissed you again- slower this time. And maybe that was the real answer.
The kiss didn’t stay slow.
Not with her hands under your shirt. Not with yours tangled in her curls. Not with the way your bodies kept finding new ways to fit together- like you’d been circling this moment for years without realizing it.
Daniela moved like she danced: all hips, all confidence, all deliberate tension. She pressed you harder into the mirror, stealing every sound you made like she was collecting them, hoarding them like secrets.
You moaned when her knee slid between your thighs. She smirked into your mouth when she felt it.
“This what you wanted?” she murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Or just what you needed?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Her hand was skating up your side again, fingers splayed wide like she was mapping you- learning where to press, where to hold, where to make you gasp. And she did, right under your ribs, tracing skin like it belonged to her.
“You’re still warm,” she whispered against your neck. “Still buzzing.”
“Your fault,” you managed between your gasps.
“Mm. I know.”
And she was cocky again- back in her element, now that your shirt was hitched above your stomach and her mouth was trailing lower, lower, pressing slow kisses down your collarbone like she had time. Like the world wasn’t melting sideways.
You hooked a finger in the waistband of her track pants. “You keep this up,” you warned, “and I’m biting you back.”
Daniela grinned. “I dare you.”
And you did.
Just beneath her jaw, sharp and fast, enough to make her swear and rut her hips into yours like it shocked something loose inside her.
Your shirt hit the floor.
Then her tank top.
Skin on skin, finally.
She kissed you again, rougher now- full-body contact, friction and heat and all the words neither of you were saying. Her necklace clinked against yours. Her hand slid down your stomach, slow and greedy, and when her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your jeans- she moaned.
“I think about you every night,” she breathes, voice a new level of husky now. Her grip is tighter- firmer- though not in a possessive way. It seemed like she was trying to steady herself. You let out a breathy laugh, lifting your hips against her thigh purposefully.
She growls, and in an instant she’s moving- wedging a hand into your jeans and pressing it between your thighs. She swipes a finger between your folds- earning a harsh jolt- before pulling it out and bringing it to her mouth. You watch with bated breath, basking in the sight of her hollowed cheeks and her eyes that were now shut like she was in the middle of something reverent.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. No witty remark, no snark, no sarcasm- just a shaky breath. Her eyes open at that, and her red lips curl up into a knowing-smirk, before she slowly lowered herself onto her knees. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down with a confidence that made your heart seize in your chest. You blinked, stunned- not by the motion itself, but by her.
Daniela Avanzini- queen of every hallway, bane of your adolescent career, sworn nemesis with a lip gloss budget and a God complex- was kneeling in front of you.
And not in a metaphorical, girlboss-takedown kind of way.
No.
On her knees. In front of you. Hair wild, eyes hungry, hands hot against your thighs. She looked up through her lashes, and for a second- just a second- you forgot how to speak. How to move.
The air between you charged, humming with contact and friction and all the words neither of you were saying.
You clutched at the mirror behind you, knuckles whitening. “This… feels like some kind of power play.”
Daniela smirked- of course she did- and slowly ran her hands up the backs of your legs. “It’s not.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, breath catching.
“I don’t need to play,” she said simply, voice low and hot and dangerous. “I always win.”
Your legs trembled- traitorously- and her grin turned wolfish.
Literal. Apparently.
She pressed a kiss just above your knee, slow and deliberate, before resting her cheek against your bare thigh. Her fingers splayed across your hips, possessive and still.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
You scoffed. “So are you.”
And you weren’t wrong.
Her hands- confident, practiced, steady- trembled ever so slightly now, like whatever game this had started as was long gone, drowned out by something deeper. Something real. There was reverence in her touch. Worship in the way her brows furrowed, like this wasn’t some spontaneous decision but a breaking point she’d reached long before you showed up. Her eyes were wild, blown black, her hands gripped hard around your thighs like she’s grounding herself against you.
She looked up again- her face inches from your stomach now, breath warm, eyes shining- and whispered, “I don’t hate you, you know.”
That struck something in your chest.
“I know,” you whispered back.
Daniela pressed another kiss to your hip, slow and soft this time.
Then she lowered her head again- and the room tilted with her. Her tongue slides over your folds slowly- just tasting- before she lets out another loud moan. It vibrates into you, drawing out a shaky groan.
Without warning, she buries her face completely into you- smearing your wetness all over her chin. 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 that can parch her.
You can only moan and tremble against her- not trusting yourself to look down. You know if you look now the sight of her flushed, slick, beautiful face would be enough to push you over the edge- and Dani would positively mock you if you were too finish so soon. Instead, you twitch and shake and clench your thighs around her head- voice breaking and cracking under the weight of pleasure as she curls, nuzzles, sucks, and repeats.
Her hand inches up your thigh- running through your folds as she focuses her tongue on your clit. You’re putty in her hands now- and the numb feeling in your legs only intensifies as she coaxes in two fingers at once- curling deep inside you. You cry out, try to twist, but her fingers thrust deeper in retaliation and you melt. She thrusts again, deep and rough, and you shatter.
You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds- not wanting to inflate her already overgrown ego by revealing the true extent of your pleasure.
You stayed frozen against the mirror for what felt like years.
Your heartbeat was thudding in your ears- faster than it should be, louder than it had any right to be- and your legs, well. They’d gone on strike. Full mutiny. Useless and trembling, barely holding you upright.
Daniela hadn’t moved.
Still crouched in front of you, head tucked gently against your stomach now. Her breath warm against your skin. Her fingers slowly pull out- and you let out a broken sound at that.
You blinked down at her, slowly.
She looked smug.
Unbearably smug.
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 brings them to her mouth. First one. Then the second. Her tongue slides between them, slow, savoring, like she’s tasting something sacred. She moans around her fingers- and neither of you can bear to blink. You watch her jaw move, watch her eyes flutter closed for just a second, overwhelmed, before you breathe out a shaky, “Fuck…”
It’s not for show- she isn’t even teasing you this time. The Latina genuinely looks like she can live off of your taste and your taste alone. She just smiles at you once her eyes open again, locking onto yours through the mirror, a slow, crooked smile blooming on her gorgeous face. Wolfish, even.
Her lips were swollen, her chin glistening, and her eyes glowed like a girl who’d just aced an exam no one else had studied for.
“Stop looking so proud of yourself,” you croaked, voice hoarse and barely there.
She smiled, teeth flashing- lazy, feline, obscene. “But I am proud.”
You groaned and thumped your head lightly against the mirror. “I hate you.”
Daniela rose slowly, like she had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged thing either of you had ever done. She was still composed somehow, like the chaos she brought didn’t apply to her. Like she was the chaos, and that made it sacred.
She stepped in close again- not cocky now, but quieter. Softer. Something else written across her face. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or affection or just the afterglow of turning you into a puddle, but she was looking at you like you were something hers.
And then she dipped her head.
Right to your throat.
Right to the mark she left.
Her lips ghosted over it- slow, deliberate- and the sensation nearly undid you all over again. It was gentler than anything you’d ever expected from her. A kiss, yes. But it felt more like an apology. Or a warning. Or both.
You didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
She just pulled back, eyes still on yours.
And then, maddeningly, she just… stepped back. Grabbed a nearby hoodie and pulled it on like she hadn’t just singlehandedly ruined your day and your life.
You blinked at her. “You’re leaving?”
She shrugged. “You need a minute. And I need a smoothie.”
You stared.
She walked toward the door, pausing just before slipping out. “Text me when your legs work again.”
And then she was gone.
You sank slowly to the floor, dazed, warm, and entirely unsure whether you’d just made the worst mistake of your life- or the start of something very dangerous.
Either way, you were screwed.
