#caze random

summary: you and daniela, both members of the same band, spent months pretending to be just bandmates in public while secretly falling harder behind closed doors. between backstage arguments, stolen kisses, and rules you were never supposed to break, you both soon realize that maybe risking the band was worth it for each other.

warnings: fluff, lil slight smut, use of Y/N, Maphinz mentioned, bandmates to lovers, not proofread(I think that's all)

pairings: drummer!daniela x vocalist!female reader

words: 1,052

author's note: first time doing this here pls be nice 😭 I was honestly inspired by all the amazing authors out here because y’all write SO good. and I really want a drummer!dani LMAO

+ special thanks to @avanzinibananin1 for encouraging me to post this 🫶

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The rule was simple. Really. "𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱. 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱."

ᴅᴀɴɪᴇʟᴀ, the group's drummer knew it by heart. She also read the way ʏ/ɴ, their lead vocalist, bit your lip when you missed a cue. Twice.

They were “against” each other at first. Publicly. Professionally.

It started because of the rule. Their manager, ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ, made them sign contracts after the last band imploded from a messy breakup. NO interband relationships. Period. So when Daniela felt her sticks slip every time you laughed into the mic, she did the only logical thing: sabotage.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦," Daniela said after rehearsal, too sharp.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘴,” you shot back, slinging your guitar case over your shoulder.

“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.” Daniela muttered but loud enough for you to hear.

“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳.” you countered with an eye roll.

It became their bit. Bickering during interviews. Eye-rolling in TikToks. Fans shipped them as “enemies-to-lovers” ironically. Management loved the tension.

"𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵," Sophia said one-time.

Behind closed doors, what was really dangerous wasn’t Daniela showing up at Y/N’s apartment at 2 a.m. with ice cream and an apology. It was you kissing Daniela in the doorway, quiet and careful, like the secret had been sitting behind their teeth for far too long.

So they set rules of their own.

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝟏: 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝟐: 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭. 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬.  

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝟑: 𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐰𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐬.

The roar of the crowd was still in their ears after their set, muffled by the concrete and the blood pounding under their skin.

You tugged Daniela by the wrist, past the guitar techs and coiled cables, into the hollow dark under the stage. Your back hit the wall. Daniela followed, caging you in, drumsticks still in her back pocket clacking against the concrete.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨,” you breathed. But your hands were already under Daniela’s sweat-damp tour tee, fingertips counting Daniela’s ribs like you were finding the beat.

Daniela answered with her mouth. No sticks, no count-in. Just your lipstick smeared across her own, Your nails scraping lightly at the base of her spine, making Daniela hiss.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘵, 𝘮𝘪 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳.” Daniela muttered against her jaw, teeth grazing. “𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰.”

“𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘪𝘵,” you gasped, because Daniela’s thigh had just pressed between yours, pinning you there. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘵, 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘪.”

Daniela’s laugh was dark, low. She knew. She did it on purpose. She dropped to her knees on the cold floor, hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the skirt of your stage outfit up slow. Eyes on you the whole time, asking without words.

Your answer was a hand fisting in Daniela's hair, tugging, not gentle.

So Daniela did. Mouth hot and sure, learning the rhythm of your breathing like it was a new song. You had to bite your own forearm to stay quiet, because the crew was ten feet away and the next opener’s soundcheck would start any minute. Your hips stuttered, chasing Daniela's tongue, and Daniela grinned against you, then doubled down, one hand splayed firm on your hip to keep you steady, to keep you from falling apart too fast.

“𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵,” Daniela teased, voice wrecked, when you finally came undone with a choked-off moan and Daniela’s name disguised as a cough.

“𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱,” you panted, yanking her up by the collar to kiss her filthy, tasting yourself, tasting them. Your hands fumbled with Daniela’s belt. “𝘔𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯. 𝘞𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵—” you checked your phone, screen lighting up your flushed face, “—𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘚𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

Daniela let herself be shoved back against the opposite wall, your mouth on her neck, your hands deft and quick from months of secret practice. It was fast and messy and so them: all friction and held-back noise and the threat of getting caught making it hotter. When Daniela came, it was with your palm clamped over her mouth.

They fixed each other’s clothes with shaky hands and giggles, trading one more filthy kiss before turning to leave the dark corner.

For 6 months, they lived between downbeats. Hands brushing when you passed Daniela a setlist. You writing lyrics on Daniela’s forearm in eyeliner during van rides. Fights in the studio that ended with Daniela pinning you against the soundproof wall, whispering, “𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦,” before kissing you stupid.

Until Sophia found out.

She walked in on you straddling Daniela’s lap on the drum throne, Daniela’s hands under your oversized band tee, both of you laughing at something dumb. The room went silent except the hi-hat still ringing.

Sophia didn’t yell. She just pointed at the door.

“𝘔𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘸.”

They thought it was over. Band, contract, everything.

Instead, Sophia slid their contract across the desk. The “𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲” clause was crossed out in red pen.

“𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱,” Sophia said, tired.  “Manon was my bassist. We let it get messy. Public. The music stopped being first.” She looked at them.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘸𝘰? 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘺. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴.”

Your hands found Daniela’s under the table.

“𝘚𝘰?” The latina asked, voice small.

“𝘚𝘰,” Sophia sighed, “𝘜𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴. 𝘙𝘶𝘭𝘦 1: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘛𝘔𝘡. 𝘙𝘶𝘭𝘦 2: 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘶𝘱, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘳. 𝘙𝘶𝘭𝘦 3: 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.” she jabbed a finger toward the studio, where they’d just finished a take.

They walked out holding hands.

Seven months later, during their first arena show, Y/N forgot a line in the second verse. you just grinned, pointed your mic at Daniela, and she didn’t miss a beat. Daniela played the drum fill, then shouted the lyric while spinning a stick. The crowd lost it.

After the encore, under the stage in the dark, you pressed your foreheads together. Sticky, sweaty, safe.  

“𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦?” you whispered.  

Daniela kissed the corner of your lips. “𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦.”

“𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘭,” you said. “𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙚, 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙.”

JONAH DOESNT DESERVE HER AND CANT HANDLE HER

I CANNNNN

FUCK U JONAH

- pinky