Archive of Our Own

Tamara lets out a long, tired sigh as she climbs out of her uber, slamming the door shut behind her. The cold night air bites at her skin, and she tugs her hoodie tighter around herself, muttering another breath out into the silence.

God, her job is so fucking shitty.

Sure, she’s a damn good dancer — probably the best they’ve got, honestly — but she'd trade it all in a second just to be back at her old gig, playing bass and mooching free drinks off the regulars. That? That was the dream.

But life had other plans. She had to move, had to leave everything behind. And now? Now she’s stuck in this stupid fucking club, getting ready to throw on the sluttiest outfit she owns and dance for strangers because she’s broke as hell.

She tried to get other jobs. Really, she did. But none of them ever called back. So here she is.

Tam slips inside and gives a lazy wave to the bartender on her way through, heading straight for the dressing room in the back. No use stalling.

She peels off her hoodie and gets changed, sighing again as she adjusts her outfit — some shiny, tight little black tube top with matching micro shorts. The kind of getup that leaves nothing to the imagination. Thin fabric, barely there. Her belly ring and hip dermals catch the light, glittering under the dressing room bulbs. Her nipple piercings are already poking through.

Slutty.

Exactly what the club wants.

Tamara sighs again as she rummages through her bag, digging past makeup, gum wrappers, and god knows what else until her fingers wrap around something cold and familiar. She pulls out her flask with a tired little grin.

Yeah. She’s definitely gonna need this tonight.

She twists the cap off and downs a mouthful of vodka like it’s water — no flinch, no burn, just muscle memory at this point. The sting barely registers anymore. She’s done this way too many times.

The Brit chucks the flask back in her bag and keeps digging, fishing out her other shoes — the ones she actually performs in. She slips off her scuffed-up Vans and trades them for a pair of black wedge flip flops, bedazzled with cheap-ass rhinestones that match her outfit. Classy.

She glances at herself in the mirror and, yeah… not gonna lie. She looks good. Tam knows she does. It’s just annoying that looking good is basically the only way she’ll make any decent money tonight.

She starts on her makeup — swiping on black eyeshadow like war paint and coating her lips with shiny gloss. She pops her lips once she’s done and leans in to check herself out one last time.

Okay. This might actually be her best look yet.

She better get tipped stupid money for this shit.

Tam slumps into her chair and grabs her phone, scrolling through it with glazed-over boredom while she waits to be called. Just mindless tapping and swiping, trying to kill time.

Then she hears it — her name.

“Tamara.”

She sighs.

Well. Showtime.

The music kicks in — loud, pulsing, sleazy. Tamara steps onto the stage with a practiced sway in her hips, her glossy lips curled into a fake little smile that’s just convincing enough to keep the cash flowing.

She grabs the pole, spins effortlessly, her body moving with that sharp, hypnotic rhythm she’s known for. Tips start flying toward her almost immediately — crumpled bills raining like confetti — and she scoops them up mid-move, tucking them into her waistband with barely a glance.

She’s done this a thousand times. Same song, same stage, same horny crowd of idiots.

It’s boring. She’s annoyed.

Tam rolls her eyes subtly as she bends down to pick up another bill, flashing that pretty little grin she keeps in her back pocket for nights like this.

But then — she freezes.

Mid-move. Mid-smile.

Her eyes flick up and land on her.

That fucking Norwegian girl.

Sitting in the back like always. Leaned back, legs spread, hands in her pockets, face unreadable.

The same smug, quiet bitch who comes in every Friday night and only tips her.

Never talks. Never flirts. Just stares.

Tam doesn’t even know her name. Only heard her voice once — thick accent, cocky tone — so she nicknamed her the Norski  in her head. Fitting.

And now the Norski is here. Again. Watching her like she’s something worth devouring.

Tam’s smile twitches. Her rhythm falters for half a second before she snaps back into it — spinning, swaying, gripping the pole tighter than necessary.

God, why is she here again?

And why does Tam suddenly feel like she’s not just performing — she’s being watched.

Really watched.

Tamara keeps dancing, sliding down the pole with a slow, sultry drop that usually makes the crowd go feral.  And yeah, the bills are still flying — some guy near the stage even yells something gross — but she barely hears it.

Because her eyes drift back.

Back to her.

The Norski.

Still sitting there. Same seat. Same face.

Expression unreadable — but watching. Always fucking watching.

Tamara spins again, gripping the pole tight, letting her hair whip around her shoulders as she lands with a graceful little bounce. Her heart’s beating faster now, but not from the dancing.

She chances another glance toward the back —

And this time?

They lock eyes.

Dead-on. No escaping it. And for a beat, it’s like the music fades out. The lights dim. The club doesn’t exist. It’s just the two of them — Tamara onstage in damn near nothing, chest rising and falling, and the Norski sitting there like she owns the whole place.

Then—

The Norski raises an eyebrow.

Just a little.

Barely a twitch.

But it hits Tam like a truck.

Her stomach flips. Her legs falter for a split second. She catches herself, mask cracking, and she quickly turns away, eyes wide as she fixes her smile — but it’s off now. Crooked. A little too tense.

Fuck.

Why did that eyebrow raise feel like getting undressed with a single look? Why is she blushing? Why is her face hot?

She twirls again, this time with more force — like she’s trying to shake the Norski out of her head. But the moment’s stuck to her skin like glitter. Annoying. Inevitable.

She hates it.

Tamara powers through the rest of her routine, chest still tight from that stupid eyebrow raise. Every move feels sharper now — a little angrier, a little hotter. She’s not dancing for the crowd anymore.

She’s dancing for her.

And she hates that.

(But also… she kinda doesn’t.)

The lights dim as her song comes to an end, a final spin, one last drop to her knees — graceful, seductive, textbook Tamara — and the crowd eats it up. Applause. Catcalls. Bills fluttering to the stage like desperate little love letters.

Tam rises to her feet with her best fake smile, grabbing her tips with well-practiced ease. She always closes the night — the finale girl — and she knows she delivered. But her head is still swimming with that look.

That eyebrow.

She turns to leave the stage, ready to bolt back to the dressing room and scream into her bag, when—

A shadow moves at the edge of the crowd.

Tam glances up.

And there she is.

The Norski.

Closer now.

She’s stepped forward — just a bit — still lingering near the back, still all leather jacket and smug silence. And as Tam meets her gaze, heart doing gymnastics in her chest, the Norski finally lifts a hand.

And slips a bill onto the stage.

Not just any bill.

A big one.

Crisp. Folded. Right at Tam’s feet.

Their eyes meet again.

The Norski doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at her with that unreadable expression — like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she’s daring Tamara to react.

And then she turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Tamara blinks, stunned. Still kneeling. Still flushed. The applause fades out behind her, but all she hears is her own heartbeat in her ears.

She picks up the bill slowly. Checks it.

Yep. A hundred.

She swallows hard.

“...Fuck.”

Tamara storms off stage like a woman possessed, heels clacking against the floor, tips clutched in one hand and that damn hundred dollar bill in the other.

As soon as she’s behind the curtain and out of sight, she practically throws herself into the dressing room, letting the door swing shut with a loud thunk. She tosses her wad of cash onto the counter and just— stands there. Staring at herself in the mirror.

Her heart’s still pounding. Her face is hot.

“What the fuck, ” she mutters, slamming the bill down like it personally offended her.

She paces, stomping around the room in her ridiculous rhinestone flip flops, hands tugging at her hair as she tries to come back to earth. But her brain is still stuck on her.

That stupid jacket.

That smug little eyebrow raise.

That fucking hundred dollar bill.

“Who the fuck just tips a hundred like that?!” she snaps to no one. “She doesn’t even say anything! She just— she just looks! Like she owns the whole damn club!”

She groans and flops dramatically into the ratty old chair by her vanity, head tilted back, thighs spread, arms limp like she just ran a damn marathon.

And she knows she looks hot right now too, which is the most annoying part. Sweaty, glittery, flushed — that stupid post-performance glow that makes her look like she just got railed instead of danced.

“Fuck,” she says again, staring up at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

Because here’s the worst part — the most embarrassing, soul-crushing part.

That bill? That look? That whole silent routine?

It worked.

Tam’s flustered.

She’s mad.

She’s confused.

And she’s kind of… down bad.

For a girl she doesn’t even know the name of. A hot foreign menace who treats her like a private show. Who stares like she owns her.

Tam picks up the hundred again and stares at it, then grabs her phone.

She’s not gonna text anyone. She’s not gonna be weird.

…She just needs to doomscroll until her brain chills out. Totally normal. Totally not spiraling.

Friday night. Same shitty club.

Different Tamara.

She’s not flustered this time.

She’s focused.

Tam stands in front of the mirror in the dressing room, adjusting her outfit with a smirk playing on her glossed-up lips. Tonight, it’s not the usual black. No shiny tube top. No rhinestone flip flops.

Tonight?

Red.

A blood-red, strappy little number that clings to her like sin — matching thigh-highs, matching heels, matching gloss. Her nipple piercings peek through just enough, and her belly ring sparkles like she planned every angle of this look down to the lighting.

Because she did.

Every time the Norski came in, she wore some kind of red. A jacket. A scrunchie. Always red. Tam noticed. She notices everything now.

So tonight? She’s matching.

Tonight, she’s not gonna be the flustered one.

Tamara slicks back her hair, applies another coat of gloss, pops her lips dramatically in the mirror, and gives herself a little nod.

“Let’s see how you like being watched, bitch,” she mutters with a grin, heading out.

---

The lights are low. The music is loud. The crowd is rowdy.

Tam doesn’t look around for her. Not yet. She’s playing it cool. Her heels echo as she steps out onto the stage, hips rolling slow, purposeful, lethal. Her entrance alone earns a few whistles — she doesn’t even blink.

The beat hits. She grabs the pole.

And then she sees her.

Back corner.

Same seat.

Same stare.

The Norski’s here.

Wearing a deep red button up, sitting like she owns the place (again), and — of course — looking straight at Tam.

Tamara bites back a smirk as she spins, flipping her hair over her shoulder as her body moves like silk. She leans into every curve, every arch, every little bounce of her hips. She performs.

But this time, it’s not for the club.

It’s for her.

Their eyes meet across the room — and Tam smiles.

Not fake. Not forced.

A real smile. Dangerous. Playful. Daring.

Your move, Norski.

Tamara feels the reaction before she even locks eyes.

She spins slow, dragging her hand down the pole like a tease, red fabric hugging her like a second skin, and then she looks up — eyes trained on that familiar seat in the back — and catches it:

A flicker.

the Norski, the stone-faced, silent menace who’s been watching her like a predator for weeks, actually looks…

Surprised.

Just for a second — her brows lift, her posture tenses, her jaw tightens — and Tamara lives for it. She grins, slow and smug, hips swaying as she drops into a lazy little split at center stage, her hands trailing up her thighs like she’s got all the time in the world.

And then?

She blows a kiss.

Right at her.

Direct. Deliberate. Dangerous.

The air shifts. Tamara sees it — the way norski’s jaw clenches tighter, the way her eyes narrow like she’s been personally attacked by that kiss. GOOD. That was the whole point.

The song ends. Lights dim. Crowd claps.

Tam gets up gracefully, gathering her bills with a knowing smirk, chest rising with every heavy breath. She doesn’t look back at Tori — she doesn’t need to. Her job here is done.

Or so she thinks.

Until she hears it.

The sound of boots.

Heavy ones.

Stomping.

Coming closer. Fast.

She turns just in time to see her: The Norski. Marching right up to the stage, face flushed, lips pressed into a hard line. Her hands are balled into fists — and in one of them?

A whole. Fucking. Band.

Thick roll of bills. Rubber-banded. Heavy enough to knock someone out.

Without a word, she slams it down on the stage. Hard.

Tam flinches slightly, blinking in surprise as the rubber band snaps from the force of it, bills spilling slightly out.

She finally looks at her — really looks — and there’s something almost wild in her eyes. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is low and clipped, her Norwegian accent thick and heated:

“That was for me, yeah?”

Tam’s lips part. She wants to be smug. Wants to say no, actually, or who, you? or maybe it was for the crowd. Something cool. Something hot.

But her brain?

It goes blank.

Completely. Fucking. Blank.

Tamara just stares at the band of cash on the stage.

Still kneeling. Still flushed. Still trying to pretend she’s in control of the situation when her brain is screaming like a fire alarm.

And then?

She speaks again. Voice low. Steady. Fucking criminal with that accent.

“You look good in red.”

Tam’s mouth goes dry. Her lashes flutter just a little. Her lips part like she’s about to say something clever — something catty — but nothing comes out.

She’s still looking at her. Eyes dark. Hungry. A little too satisfied with herself. And then, almost like an afterthought, she leans just slightly closer and says—

“Name’s Tori.”

That’s it.

Simple. Straightforward.

But Tamara feels like she’s been hit by a truck. She blinks rapidly, trying to pull her soul back into her body. All this time — all the quiet, all the tipping, all the staring — and now she finally speaks?

Tori.

It suits her. Short. Sharp. Kinda hot in a punch-you-in-the-face way.

Tam swallows. Hard.

“...Cool,” she manages to say, way too quiet and nowhere near as cool as she meant it to sound.

Tori just grins. That fucking grin that says I won.

Then?

She turns.

And walks away.

Again.

Leaving Tamara onstage with a fat band of cash, a flushed face, and a heart that’s doing parkour in her chest.

Another Friday. Another finale.

But this time?

Tamara’s ready.

Well. She thinks she is.

She kills it on stage — like, actually murders the set. She’s in something tight and sparkly, a little meaner, a little bolder, and her moves? Deadly. Every hip roll screams “I dare you to look away.” The crowd’s going wild.

But Tam? She’s not dancing for them.

She’s dancing for the one pair of eyes that never blink.

And yep — there she is.

Tori. Back of the room. Same jacket. Same stare. Same intensity that makes Tam’s blood buzz under her skin.

She doesn’t even try to look casual about it anymore. She knows she’s being watched. She likes it.

Song ends. The lights dip.

Tamara kneels to collect her tips, breathing hard — heart still racing. She glances up like she’s pretending not to care, and sure enough—

Tori steps forward.

No words. No smirk this time. Just a sharp walk, long strides, purposeful.

She doesn’t say anything as she reaches the stage. Just pulls out another fat stack of cash — thicker than last week. No rubber band. Just gripped tight in one veiny, ring-clad hand.

And she drops it at Tam’s feet.

Hard.

Bills scatter across the stage like confetti. Like she’s declaring war.

Tam freezes again. Mouth dry. Body buzzing.

But this time?

She doesn’t let her walk away.

Her voice cracks before it comes out, but she forces it anyway:

“W–Wait—”

Tori halts mid-turn.

Tam swallows hard, still kneeling on stage, eyes wide like she doesn’t even believe she said it herself.

“Wait for me,” she says, quieter. Then, barely above a whisper—

“I–I just need to get dressed.”

Tori turns her head, eyes cutting back toward her like a slow, predatory blink.

Then?

She nods.

Just once. Simple. Wordless.

And walks off toward the back.

Tam stares after her, stunned, jaw slightly open.

She moves like a woman possessed getting off that stage, scooping up cash like it doesn’t matter — it does, just not right now — and power-walking to the dressing room with her heart in her throat.

Tamara stares at herself in the mirror, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed, and hair still a little sweat-stuck to her forehead. Her outfit now?

Totally different from stage Tamara.

She’s in her old beat-up Vans, a faded blue hoodie that swallows her hands, and short little dolphin shorts that cling to her thighs. She looks like she just got out of gym class and then lost a fight with a bottle of body glitter.

She exhales hard.

“This is so fucking stupid,” she mutters, tugging her hoodie lower like it’ll somehow hide the fact that her legs are out.

Still, her feet move. She has to see her. If she doesn't go out there, she’s gonna spiral all week.

Tam swings open the back door and steps outside.

The cold hits her instantly — but not as hard as the sight of her.

Tori’s there, of course. Leaning against the brick wall like she owns it, one boot crossed over the other, cigarette hanging lazy from her lips. The glow from the cherry lights her face in flashes of red, smoke curling up into her dark hair like something out of a music video.

She looks over the second Tam steps out — and Tamara freezes.

For a second, neither of them say anything.

Then, Tori reaches into her pocket, pulls something out—

Tam expects another cigarette.

But instead?

She holds out a tiny bottle of vodka. One of those little travel-sized shooters, cold and unopened.

Tamara just stares at it, lips parting, confused.

Tori doesn’t smile. Doesn’t explain. Just says, casually:

“This is your choice of drink, ja?”

Tam’s stomach flips.

She takes the bottle, fingers brushing against Tori’s for half a second, and holy shit is her hand warm.

She looks down at it like it’s a damn artifact. The kind of stupid cheap vodka she always keeps in her bag. Tori must’ve seen her drinking it. Remembered. Noticed.

Tam’s voice comes out small.

“You— you really were paying attention, huh.”

Tori takes a drag from her cigarette, eyes never leaving hers.

“Of course I was.”

Tam takes a small sip of the vodka, just enough to calm the screaming in her bloodstream. The burn is familiar. Comforting. She lets it settle in her chest, her eyes flicking over to Tori.

Tori’s still leaning against the wall, smoking in that disgustingly attractive way — one hand in her jacket pocket, head tilted back slightly, jawline sharp as hell. Her eyes are half-lidded, barely glancing at Tam, like she’s not the sole reason Tamara’s insides are doing cartwheels.

Tam shifts on her feet.

“...So,” she starts, voice a little shaky. “What’s your deal?”

Tori lifts an eyebrow. “My deal?”

“You always show up alone. Never talk. Never tip anyone but me. And you— you just watch.” Tam gestures vaguely with the little bottle. “Like, intensely. What’s that about?”

Tori exhales smoke from the side of her mouth, eyes on the sky for a moment before finally glancing back at her.

“You’re the only one worth watching.”

Tam chokes slightly. “Oh—okay.”

She turns away for a second, eyes wide, gripping the vodka bottle like it might physically hold her together.

Tori doesn’t elaborate. Just flicks her ash, calm as hell, like she didn’t just drop a live grenade into the conversation.

Tam clears her throat.

“…Where are you from, anyway? I mean, obviously Norway, duh, but like… are you living here now? Or just haunting my ass on Fridays specifically?”

Tori huffs a little laugh through her nose. “Haunting you.”

Tam gives her a look.

Tori smirks, finally humoring her.

“Moved here last year. Military transfer. Now I just… work and exist.” She shrugs. “Clubs help with the noise.”

Tam blinks. “Wait, military? You’re like— a soldier soldier?”

Tori glances at her, expression unreadable.

“Was. Not anymore.”

Beat.

“I like your dancing, you move like you try to seduce.”

Tam literally short-circuits for a second.

She turns her face away and mumbles, “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you,” but like in that way that’s basically "I'm gonna kiss you if you keep talking like that."

She takes another nervous sip, then asks, quieter:

“...Why me, though?”

Tori stares at her for a long moment. Really stares.

“I like how you move,” she says simply.

Then, after a pause—

“And I like how you act when you think no one is watching.”

Tamara almost drops the vodka bottle.

Tam takes another shaky sip of vodka, more to distract herself than anything else. She can feel Tori watching her now, but it’s not the same hungry club-stare from the crowd. This one’s... gentler. Focused. Like she’s looking through her hoodie and straight into her dumb little soul.

Then, in that low voice — calm, accented, dangerous in the softest way — Tori asks:

“Do you have a ride home?”

Tam blinks. “…What?”

Tori doesn’t repeat it. Just takes another drag from her cigarette, flicking the ash to the side like this is nothing to her.

Like she isn’t  making Tamara’s knees do the wobbly thing.

Tam hesitates. “I mean- I usually just walk or uber home. I live somewhat close.”

Tori’s eyes narrow slightly.

“At night? Alone?”

Her tone isn’t judgey. But it is pointed.

Tam shrugs. “I mean— yeah? It’s not far.”

Another beat.

Then Tori’s eyes trail down to her bare legs, slow and shameless. Tamara almost shivers from the intensity of it.

And then, completely serious, she says:

“Your thighs look nice. But not good weather for shorts, ja?”

Tamara’s brain just blue-screens.

“…Excuse me???”

Tori blinks innocently, like she didn’t just say the most unhinged sentence known to man.

“What?” she says, almost amused. “They do. But it’s cold. You’ll catch something.”

Tam’s whole face is on fire. She pulls her hoodie tighter around herself like that’ll do anything for her legs, which are fully out and not helping her case.

“Why are you like this,” she mutters, covering her thighs with one hand like an idiot.

Tori leans a little closer, and Tam can smell her cologne now — spicy, a little smoky, probably something expensive and masculine as hell.

“Do you want a ride?”

Tam freezes. “I— I mean, you don’t have to— I’m not like—”

Tori raises a brow. Just one.

“Didn’t ask if I had to. Asked if you want one.”

And THAT? that fucking tone?

Tamara feels like she’s about to melt into the pavement.

She stammers something that might be a “yes” but mostly sounds like keyboard smashing personified.

Tori doesn’t even flinch.

“Good,” she says, like it was never in question.

Then she stubs out her cigarette with her boot and heads toward the parking lot like this is normal.

Tamara stands there for a second, vodka bottle clutched to her chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, thighs out, brain screaming.

She mutters to herself:

“…I’m gonna die. I’m literally gonna die.”

And then she follows her.

The car ride is... weirdly quiet. But not bad quiet. Just that kinda silence that’s loaded. Like every song on the radio would be too much. Too romantic. Too horny. Too something.

So it’s just the hum of the engine. Tam clutching her little vodka bottle like a safety blanket in her lap. And Tori? Just driving. Calm. Confident. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers twitching now and then like she’s thinking.

She doesn’t say much, but she keeps glancing over when she thinks Tamara won’t notice.

(Newsflash: Tam notices. Every time. And dies inside a little more.)

Eventually, they pull up to Tam’s place — a little apartment with a flickering porch light and a potted plant that’s like 40% alive. Tori rolls the car into park and reaches over to unbuckle her seatbelt—

But then she pauses.

And gets out first.

Tam’s confused for a sec, until Tori walks around to her side — all calm and casual — and opens the passenger door for her like they’re on a date or something.

Tamara stares up at her, momentarily stunned. Her hoodie’s swallowed her whole, her shorts are barely shorts, and this hot ex-soldier who tips in hundreds is opening her door like she’s a damn princess.

“…Seriously?” Tam mutters.

Tori just gives a single shrug. “Manners.”

Tam steps out, awkwardly cradling her vodka like it’s her child, and fiddles with her keys.

There’s a second — a pause — where Tori’s standing close. Not touching. Just there. And Tam’s heart is doing jumping jacks again.

She unlocks her door.

And then, instead of just going inside, she turns a little. Doesn’t look at her directly. Kinda kicks at the ground.

And says, as casually as possible:

“So uh… aren’t you gonna ask if I’ve got someone keeping me warm at night?”

She thinks she sounds smooth. Flirty. Like it’s a joke.

But then she looks up—

And sees Tori’s face shift.

Slightly. Just enough.

The joking vibe? Gone. Instantly replaced by something quieter. Heavier.

Tori’s voice is low, steady:

“Do you?”

Tam’s breath catches.

Her lips twitch, like she’s gonna play it off, but the way Tori’s looking at her? She can’t. It’s not just flirty anymore. It’s serious. Protective. Possessive.

Tam swallows.

“...No.”

Tori nods slowly. Doesn’t smile. Just holds her gaze.

Then, so soft Tamara barely hears it:

“Good.”

Tamara’s standing in the doorway, keys half-dangling from the lock, her vodka bottle still clutched like a relic from another life. The streetlight flickers behind Tori, making her silhouette look even bigger and taller.

She said “Good.” And Tam’s brain is scrambled.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but Tori’s already moving.

She steps forward — slow. Confident. And then—

She leans down.

Leans in close.

And Tamara?

She freezes.

Because Tori’s standing above her now, one hand on the doorframe, looking down at her like she’s a meal and a question and a fucking prayer all at once. Her face is right there — sharp jaw, cigarette smoke still clinging to her clothes, lips parted just slightly like she’s tasting the air between them.

Then, in that low, velvety voice —

With that damn accent making everything sound like a sin—

“Would you like someone to keep you company?”

A beat.

“Because I don’t mind doing that. If you want.”

Tamara short-circuits.

Her knees buckle. Her hoodie might as well be combusting. Her whole body’s just screaming internally while she stares up at Tori like some panicked little rabbit caught in a trap.

“I—” she stammers, voice high and thin, “I mean—like—if you want—yeah—only if—”

Tori tilts her head slightly, amused. “Is that a yes, Tamara?”

And the way she says her name?

Soft. Knowing. Like she’s already imagined it a hundred times.

Tam nods.

Fast. Embarrassed. Down bad.

“…Yeah,” she whispers.

“Yeah, I want you to stay.”

Tori’s mouth curves into a slow grin at Tamara’s flustered little "yeah." Not a smug one—no, it’s something darker, something hungrier. A little flash of teeth catches the porch light, and fuck, she has canines that could do damage. Tamara swears she almost says "oh my god" out loud.

Tori nods once.

“Then lead the way.”

Tamara turns around so fast she nearly drops her keys, scrambling to unlock the door with hands that are definitely not shaking. She pushes it open and steps in, flicking on the single overhead light—and immediately makes a face.

“Ugh, fuck, it’s freezing—sorry,” she mumbles, rubbing her arms as she kicks off her Vans. “I turned the heat off before I left 'cause I’m broke and forgot to—”

She cuts off with a tiny squeak.

Because suddenly, she’s not alone in her doorway.

Tori is behind her.

Pressed against her.

Gently. Slowly. Carefully.

But solidly.

Her chest flush to Tam’s back, the weight of her tall, warm frame anchoring Tamara like a damn security blanket made of muscle.

Tam stiffens for half a second—

Then melts.

Tori’s arms wrap around her with infuriating calm. One slides up across Tamara’s chest, right over the curve of her tits under the hoodie (which is honestly criminal behavior), and the other snakes low around her waist, pulling her in snug.

Her hands are so warm. Calloused, steady. They settle like they belong there.

And Tamara?

She fucking shivers.

Not from the cold anymore.

“Better?” Tori murmurs, voice low right against Tamara’s ear, the words sliding down her spine like honey and heat.

Tam nods slowly, her whole body buzzing.

“…Mhm,” she mumbles, barely holding it together. “Y–Yeah. Yeah, that’s better.”

Tori doesn’t say anything. Just holds her.

Soft. Steady. Solid.

And Tamara closes her eyes, still standing in the doorway in her shorts and hoodie, completely swallowed by the arms of a tall ex-soldier with a cigarette habit.

This is so embarrassing.

She’s never felt warmer.

Tamara stands frozen in her own living room, hoodie bunched around her shoulders, vodka still clutched in one trembling hand, and Tori’s entire body pressed to her back like a furnace.

The embrace is firm. Grounding. Kinda addicting, actually. Tamara can feel Tori’s breath against her neck. Smell the smoke and cologne lingering on her jacket. Her thighs are cold, sure — but the rest of her?

The rest of her is on fire.

She leans back a little, just enough to relax into the heat, lips parting slightly as her body instinctively softens against Tori’s hold.

And that’s when she notices it.

Tori’s hands are moving.

Not a lot. Not dramatically. Just… slowly.

The one around her waist starts to shift lower. Sliding down — a slow drag over the curve of her belly, then the dip of her hips, fingertips grazing just above her waistband. Not quite groping, but definitely not not touching.

The other one? Still across her chest. But it inches up, knuckles grazing the underside of her tits through the fabric of her hoodie, just enough to make Tam tense.

Her breath catches.

And she’s not sure if she wants to speak or moan.

Tori’s voice rumbles against her back, low and casual, like she’s asking what they’re having for dinner:

“Still cold?” 

Tamara swallows hard. “Y–You’re doing that on purpose.”

Tori hums. Innocent.

“What?”

Tam tries to turn her head to glare at her — but she can’t get a full angle, not with Tori’s arms pinning her like that. It’s infuriating. It’s hot. It’s so many things.

“I–I didn’t invite you in for a feel-up, y’know,” she says, trying to sound confident and coming off very much like a blushing, stammering fool.

Tori chuckles, voice soft and low like it’s vibrating inside her.

“You invited me in to keep you warm,” she says simply.

Her hand brushes lower, just a little—

“I’m doing my job, no?”

Tamara melts.

Like actually, physically, emotionally melts.

Her body sags back into Tori, thighs trembling slightly, breath hitching when those warm, slow hands start moving over her like they know her already.

She tries—really tries—to stay upright. Maybe even to speak.

But it’s hard to say anything when she’s being cradled by a tall, hot, ex-military chick in the middle of her drafty little apartment like a whole heating unit with hands. Her chest rises and falls under Tori’s arm, hoodie bunching just slightly as fingers graze over sensitive spots.

And god, the way Tori’s mouth is close enough to kiss the back of her neck?

It’s over.

Tamara's whole brain is just white noise and static and Tori.

She makes a soft, broken little sound in her throat — nothing coherent, more like a whimper wrapped in a gasp — and Tori must hear it, because she goes completely still.

And then?

She pulls her hands back.

Just enough. Not all the way — she’s still holding her, still pressed close — but enough to stop the roaming. Enough to let Tam breathe.

Tori leans in again, slower this time. Her voice is low, quiet. Gentle.

“Do you want this?”

Tam blinks.

Her brain takes a second to reboot. “W-What?”

Tori speaks again, soft but steady — that same cool voice, but careful now.

“You’re not just some dancer I threw money at to get here. I didn’t come here to fuck you because I tipped you enough.”

She swallows.

“I came because I wanted you. Not the show. Not the clothes.”

Her hands settle — one resting lightly on Tam’s stomach again, the other still across her chest, but no pressure now. Just a soft hold. Just presence.

“I can stop. Or leave. Just say it.”

Tamara stands there, heart pounding, face burning, hoodie clinging to her flushed skin. Her breath’s shaky. Her thighs are still cold. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

But she knows one thing:

She doesn’t want her to go.

She doesn’t want her to stop.

“…No,” she says, so quiet it’s almost a breath.

Then stronger, still trembling—

“Don’t stop.”

The second Tamara whispers that little broken “don’t stop,” something shifts.

She can feel it.

Tori’s whole body goes still for a beat — like a wolf scenting blood — and then?

She moves.

Slow. Deliberate. But with that calm that makes Tamara’s knees go weak.

Without a word, Tori tugs at the hem of Tam’s hoodie. Not rough. Just enough to test it. To see if Tam will flinch or pull away.

Tamara doesn’t.

So Tori keeps going.

She pulls the oversized hoodie up—slowly, like unwrapping a present—until the bunched fabric sits just under Tam’s arms, exposing everything.

Her soft stomach. The band of her shorts. And her tits. God. Her tits.

Bare, flushed, nipples pierced and perky from the cold and all the attention.

Tori just stares for a second.

Like this is what she’s been fantasizing about since the first Friday she saw her.

Like this is the prize she’s been earning every week, bill by bill.

Then, finally, she murmurs—

“I knew you had them done…”

A low hum, right next to Tam’s ear.

“Faen, they’re even prettier up close.”

Tamara whines. Actually whines. Her head drops slightly, hoodie sleeves still covering her hands like she’s shy even though her tits are out.

Then?

Tori brings her hands up.

And holy shit.

She cups them, warm palms sliding under from behind, thumbs gently pressing into the weight of them, making Tam gasp and arch a little into her. It’s not rough — it’s teasing. Careful. Like she’s savoring it.

Then Tori does it.

She flicks one of the piercings.

Just a soft tap with her thumb.

Tamara yelps.

“Sensitive?” Tori asks, clearly already knowing the answer — her voice smug and low and way too calm for the absolute perversion she’s committing.

Tam whimpers out something incoherent, and that’s all the permission Tori needs.

She rolls the piercing between her fingers. Slowly. Expertly. Thumb brushing over the bead, tugging gently, making the metal tug against sensitive skin. Her other hand slides down again, gripping Tamara by the waist like she owns her now.

Tam’s breath is a mess. Her thighs are clenching. Her whole body’s buzzing.

And Tori?

She’s still behind her, voice right at her ear, dark and silky:

“You gonna let me keep playing with them?”

A pause.

“Or do I need to take you to bed first?”

Tamara ignores the question, practically melting in Tori’s arms, hoodie bunched under her arms, tits out and twitching from every tug and tease on those poor overworked piercings. Her legs feel like jelly, her brain is soup, and her whole body’s just begging for more.

And Tori?

She knows.

She feels it — the way Tam leans back into her, soft and needy. She doesn’t even wait for words this time.

She slides her arms under Tam’s thighs and — with zero effort, like it’s nothing — lifts her.

Tam gasps, hands grabbing at Tori’s shoulders instinctively as her feet leave the floor.

“What—? wait—!” she squeaks, but it’s already too late. Tori effortlessly carries her the few feet to the kitchen and places her on the cold countertop, legs dangling, tits still out, hoodie still a mess.

Tori steps between her legs, palms flat on Tamara’s thighs.

“Better height,” she says simply, like she didn’t just manhandle her like a ragdoll.

Tam’s brain is gone. Vaporized. She’s clinging to Tori’s jacket, mouth half-open, eyes glassy as hell.

Tori leans in, finally closing that last inch of space—

And kisses her.

It starts soft. Careful. Testing.

But the second Tam kisses back? It ignites.

Tori deepens the kiss, tongue sliding into Tam’s mouth with a low, desperate sound—

And then she stops.

Just for a second.

Because her tongue brushes against something.

Metal.

She pulls back, just barely, breathing heavy, lips flushed.

She blinks at Tamara.

“…You have a tongue piercing?”

Tam’s blinking up at her, dazed, cheeks hot. She nods, a little sheepish—her tongue poking out slightly, the piercing catching the kitchen light.

Tori stares.

And then?

She grins.

Wide. Feral. Like she just won the lottery.

“You’ve been hiding that from me?” she breathes, voice husky, hands tightening on Tam’s thighs.

A slow, hungry look.

“You’re gonna be so much trouble, aren’t you?”

Tamara barely has time to react to Tori’s feral little grin before she’s pulled back into a kiss — rougher this time. Needier.

Like finding that tongue piercing flipped a switch in Tori’s brain and now she’s playing for keeps.

Tamara moans into it, the ball of her tongue stud brushing against Tori’s tongue with every messy stroke, and the way Tori groans from it? Tam could probably cum off that sound alone.

But then?

Then she feels it.

Tori’s hands?

Back on her boobs.

Tam gasps into her mouth — but that just earns her another kiss, even deeper now, like Tori’s trying to swallow her whimpers.

Those hands aren’t gentle anymore, either.

Tori cups her tits again, thumbs immediately flicking over her nipple piercings like she missed them, like she’s obsessed and needs a fix. Her fingers play with the metal, tugging, rolling them between calloused fingertips, sending sharp little shocks straight to Tam’s core.

Tamara whimpers into the kiss, back arching on the countertop, legs tightening around Tori’s waist like she’s trying to anchor herself to something before she fucking floats away.

Tori pulls back slightly, breathless, eyes half-lidded and focused right on Tamara’s flushed chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ responsive…” she mutters, voice raspy with heat. Her thumbs brush both piercings at once and Tamara jolts, biting her lip with a choked little sound.

Tori smirks.

“Sensitive and pierced… Christ. You’re making this really hard to behave.”

And she’s still rolling them — fingers toying with those poor overstimmed nips, metal cool against her hot skin, lips hovering so close to Tam’s mouth like she’s waiting for permission to go even further.

Tamara’s eyes flutter, chest heaving, her hoodie bunched up under her armpits and she doesn’t even care.

“Tori,” she breathes, voice cracking. “If you keep doing that I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

Tori chuckles, low and wicked.

“That’s kinda the goal, babe.”

Tamara’s gasping, hoodie still shoved up, tits on full display, those poor lil pierced nips all swollen and twitchy from how Tori’s been abusing them with her perfect hands. She tries to say something — a warning, a protest, a “keep going, I’m dying” — but it just comes out as a desperate little moan.

And Tori?

She just smirks.

Leans in.

And kisses her neck.

Soft, at first. Right under her ear — warm lips brushing her skin, sending goosebumps crawling all the way down Tam’s spine. Then lower, mouth open now, a hot drag of tongue over sensitive skin as she trails toward her collarbone.

Tamara shudders.

And then?

Then Tori mouths at one of the piercings.

Tamara gasps like she’s been electrocuted.

Tori’s lips wrap gently around her nipple, tongue flicking the metal stud, and she hums softly like she’s tasting her — like this is the best thing she’s had in weeks.

She sucks. Lightly. Cruelly.

Her tongue rolls the piercing against the roof of her mouth and Tamara lets out the most humiliating little whine — her hands flying up to clutch at Tori’s jacket, hips instinctively bucking forward, grinding just a little against Tori’s stomach.

Tori grins against her chest, teeth gently grazing the metal now.

“Goddd,” she mumbles, moving to the other tit like she’s in a buffet line.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute when I do this.”

Tamara is wrecked.

Like. Breathless. Red in the face. Clutching onto Tori like she’s the only thing keeping her alive. She’s squirming on the counter, legs spread open around Tori’s waist, thighs trembling every time she feels breath or tongue or even the slightest tug on those piercings.

Tori finally pulls back, lips shiny, eyes dark and soaked in hunger.

“What else do you have pierced, hmm?”

She leans close again, nose brushing Tam’s cheek.

“Or do I get to find out?”

Tori finally pulls back from Tamara’s flushed, heaving chest — lips shiny, face smug, eyes fucking dark now. She licks her lips once, slow, and Tamara swears her soul just leaves her body.

Tori tilts her head, tongue against her canine, then without a word?

She scoops Tamara back up into her arms.

Like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t been toying with her for the past ten minutes. Like Tam weighs less than air and she’s already got plans for every square inch of her.

Tamara yelps, legs wrapping instinctively around her waist again, hands clinging to her jacket. “Wha— hey! I can walk!”

Tori grins.

“You’re shaking too much, babe.”

And then she kisses her again—hard, deep, filthy—right there in the hallway as she carries her toward the bedroom like a soldier escorting a precious war relic.

Tamara whimpers into it, breath gone, thighs clenching.

When they get to the bedroom, Tori nudges the door open with her boot and walks straight over to the bed, finally laying Tamara down on her rumpled sheets.

Tam’s hoodie is still bunched up under her arms, her shorts crooked, legs sprawled. She looks wrecked.

Tori just stands there for a second, taking her in.

Then, with a low, hungry growl, she gets down between Tam’s legs, hands sliding up those soft thighs—slow, slow, teasing—until she’s hooking her fingers into the waistband of Tamara’s little shorts.

She pauses.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Any other surprises you forgot to mention, sweetheart?”

Tam bites her lip, flushed to hell, eyes wide and glossy.

“…Maybe.”

Tori smirks.

And then?

She pulls them down.

And freezes.

Just for a second.

Because there it is.

Shiny. Pretty. Perfect.

A piercing. Down there. Nestled right where she wants her mouth to be.

Tori just stares.

Then she lets out the softest little chuckle, voice like gravel dipped in sin.

“…You really are trying to kill me.”

Tori just stares for a second longer, like she’s trying to figure out if she’s hallucinating this shit. Her hands are still curled under Tamara’s thighs, thumbs brushing softly along warm skin, but her eyes? Laser-focused on that piercing.

And then?

She laughs.

Low. Breathless. Fucking feral.

“Jeg kommer aldri til å få dette bildet ut av hodet mitt.”

Tamara makes a tiny noise — some broken thing between a whimper and a gasp — but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Her hoodie’s still pushed up, chest heaving, hands fisting the sheets beneath her as her cunt literally throbs under Tori’s gaze.

And Tori?

She dips down.

Slow at first — lips brushing against the inside of Tam’s thigh, then kissing down, down, down—

Until her mouth finally reaches her.

And she moans.

Like full-on groans into her cunt the moment her tongue touches the piercing, the vibration dragging a whole body-spasm out of Tamara, who’s now writhing like she’s being electrocuted in the most delicious way possible.

Tori’s tongue slides over the metal stud, warm and firm and teasing, circling it like she’s trying to map it, memorize it, own it.

Then?

She sucks.

Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to tug the piercing slightly — a soft pull, then her tongue flicking against it like a fucking toy.

Tamara screams.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this desperate little choked cry as she arches off the bed, one leg twitching, hands flying up to her mouth like she can physically keep the noises in.

Tori grins against her.

“Sensitive here too, huh?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

She dives in — tongue working over the piercing with expert focus, alternating between slow licks and messy, wet kisses, every move designed to wreck. Her hands grip Tam’s thighs tighter, holding her open, keeping her still as her mouth devours her.

And Tamara?

She’s done.

Her head’s thrown back. Her hoodie’s halfway off. Her thighs are trembling like she’s about to detonate.

And all she can say is—

“F–Fuck, Tori—! I–I’m gonna—”

Tori sucks the piercing again, hard this time, tongue pressing flat against her clit and—

Tamara breaks.

Back arched. Crying out. Whole body tensing, then trembling, then collapsing into overstimmed bliss as she cums harder than she ever has in her entire damn life.

But Tori?

Tori doesn’t move.

She stays there — right between her thighs, arms locked around her waist, holding her in place like she knew this was gonna happen. Like she planned for it.

And as Tamara’s whole body jerks and trembles from the aftershocks, Tori just keeps licking.

Soft now. Slow. Gentle drags of her tongue over the overstimmed nub, mouth open, *savoring* it.

Tam lets out a choked sound, somewhere between a squeak and a sob, body twitching with every lick. “T–Tori—fucking hell, I—I c-can’t—”

Tori finally pulls back just a little. Only enough to speak — breath hot against her soaked cunt, voice low and obscene.

“Yes you can.”

A soft kiss to the piercing.

“You’re doing so fucking good, Tam.”

Another one.

“Just let me take care of you.”

And then?

She goes back in.

Tongue teasing that piercing again, lips closing around her clit with all the care of someone unwrapping a gift. One of her hands slides up to Tamara’s chest, gently rolling one of her nipple piercings again, like she knows just how to make her scream.

Tam shakes. Her thighs are trembling. Her voice is gone. Her hips jerk away on instinct but Tori just holds her down, soothing her with soft kisses and even softer praise.

“Such a good girl…”

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet…”

“Let me make you cum again, sweetheart.”

Tamara’s already crying. Not like sad crying — just overwhelmed, overstimmed, fucked-out crying with little gasps and high-pitched moans every time Tori flicks her tongue just right.

“Tori—Tori I’m—”

Too late.

Another orgasm crashes through her — fast and brutal, thighs clamping again, nails digging into her own hoodie as her back arches one more time.

And still, Tori doesn’t stop.

Not until Tamara’s collapsed fully, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, legs trembling like she’s been through war.

Tori finally pulls back, licking her lips slow, looking like a demon in a hoodie.

She leans over her, brushing the hair from Tam’s sweaty, tear-damp cheek.

“Still cold, Tam?”

Tamara’s a *mess.*

Like, full-on trembling, glassy-eyed, hoodie bunched around her neck, clit twitching every time she breathes kind of mess. Her whole body’s limp—boneless—melting into the mattress like she might actually die if Tori moves away.

But she doesn’t have to worry.

Because Tori?

She’s already moving up her body, kissing gently up her stomach, across her chest (stopping once to flick a still-hard nipple piercing just because she's evil), and then finally—finally—pressing her lips to Tam’s forehead.

Just the softest, most unexpectedly tender thing.

And then she climbs onto the bed beside her, tugging Tamara into her arms without saying a word.

Tamara doesn’t resist.

She just curls into her like second nature—head tucked under Tori’s chin, leg thrown over hers, fingers clinging weakly to her hoodie sleeve. She's still shaking a little, chest hiccuping, eyes glossy but fluttering closed.

Tori shifts her hand and places it over Tamara’s stomach, rubbing slow, soothing circles with her thumb.

“There you go…” she whispers, voice low and warm.

“Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Tam lets out the tiniest noise—like a whimper, but safe now—and Tori pulls her in tighter, wrapping both arms around her like a heated weighted blanket of gay redemption.

“You did so fuckin’ good, so pretty,”

Another forehead kiss. Another tummy rub. A gentle drag of knuckles down her side.

“You still with me?” she murmurs.

Tam nods against her chest.

“…I think so.”

Tori smiles, pressing her nose to Tam’s hair. “Good.”

Tamara doesn’t even argue. She just lets herself go limp in her arms, letting Tori hold her like she’s something precious.

Because honestly?

She’s never felt safer.

The room’s quiet now.

Just the soft hum of the heater, the occasional rustle of blankets, and Tamara’s tired little sighs as she rests against Tori’s chest — hoodie halfway off, face still flushed, one leg thrown over her like she never wants to let go.

Tori’s hand is still rubbing slow, lazy circles on her belly, and every now and then, she presses another kiss to the top of Tam’s head like she can’t help it.

Tamara’s voice is small when she finally speaks.

“…You don’t gotta stay, y’know.”

Tori blinks.

“Hmm?”

Tam shrinks in a little, like she’s already bracing for disappointment. “I mean. You can go. Like—after all that.” She laughs weakly. “You got what you wanted. I get it. I’m not like… expecting you to stay or—whatever.”

Tori pulls back just enough to look at her.

Dead serious. Eyebrows drawn, mouth twitching like she’s two seconds from giving the most heartfelt rant of her life.

“Tam.”

Tamara doesn’t meet her eyes. She just shrugs, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s fine. This was the best night I’ve ever had, honestly. Like. Not even just sexually. Just…” She breathes in. “You were really kind. That meant a lot.”

Tori stares at her for a second.

Then she just says—

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Tamara finally glances up at her, confused.

And Tori’s face is all soft-but-firm determination.

“I meant what I said. I don’t want you just for a night.”

She brushes a strand of hair from Tam’s cheek, gaze warm.

“I want you. Like all of you. Not just the dancer with the cute piercings.”

Tamara blinks.

Tori smirks, still rubbing her tummy.

“And I’m serious about taking care of you.”

Tam’s eyes widen. “..What do you mean?”

Tori shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I want you to quit your job.”

Tam’s jaw actually drops.

“What?!”

Tori leans in, kisses her nose, then says dead serious—

“You hate it. You’re too good for it. And you deserve more than tips and fake smiles.”

Another kiss — this time to her cheek.

“Let me take care of you. Seriously.”

Tamara’s eyes fill with tears again — not because she’s sad, but because what the fuck? She’s never had anyone say shit like this. Not ever.

“…You’re insane,” she mumbles, face hot.

Tori grins.

“Yeah. For you.”

Tamara’s quiet for a moment.

Still curled into Tori’s chest, still feeling the ghost of her mouth on her thighs, her chest, her everything. Her body’s exhausted. Her brain’s mush. Her hoodie smells like Tori now.

She should be pushing back. Should be laughing it off. Should be doing literally anything else but what she does next.

Instead?

She mumbles, all flustered and sleepy:

“…Sure, I guess.”

Tori freezes.

Tam’s cheeks are burning, and she can’t even look her in the eyes, but she says it again anyway—quieter this time.

“If you’re serious… I’ll think about it. Quit. Let you take care of me. Or… whatever.”

And before she can even breathe, Tori’s already kissing her.

Everywhere.

Tiny, overjoyed kisses—her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her lips, her jaw—just this chaotic, affectionate little onslaught of giddy love.

“You’re not gonna regret this,” she whispers between kisses.

“Swear to fuck, Tam. I got you.”

Another kiss.

“Every day.”

Another.

“All mine now.”

Another.

Tamara’s giggling now, blushing, hiding her face in Tori’s hoodie sleeve while Tori practically smothers her with affection.

Maybe moving wasn't that bad.