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♥ additional tags/warnings: no crash, ex-wife!nat, mom!nat, divorce, mentions of abortion, slow burn, tattoo artist!nat, mentions of parental abuse
♥ word count: 13.2k
♥ summary: you and nat got divorced 2 years ago after repeating the same mistakes from the past, and you've been holding out... relatively well. the only problem is your son, luke, and his tireless insistence on celebrating his birthday on a camping trip with both of his moms. (based on a request based on a jackie fic)
part 2 (soon)
Pick up Luke. Drive home, have him take a shower. Chicken for dinner. Fuck, I didn't defrost the chicken. Scratch that, pasta for dinner. No, Luke hates pasta. Takeout, then. The healthy place with the good veggie options. Get the drycleaning. Put in the order for those boots online. Finish charting after Luke’s asleep.
You sighed, finally pulling into the parking lot, lightheaded after a long day at work and an even longer forty-five-minute drive.
Fucking pileup. How was it conceivable for eight cars to crash into each other and bring a light pole down with them? And why did it have to put a hold on your whole day?
Sure, it was just as gratifying as it was exhausting to be called into the ER as a helping hand — and it was even better when all twenty-three victims ended up living to see another day —, but did the fire department really have to keep the busiest intersection in the neighborhood blocked for that long? Well — you didn't really know that much about electric circuits, and you surely weren't educated on the potential harm caused by a fallen light pole, but for fuck's sake. The accident happened this morning. Did it really take a whole business day to free up the avenue?
You leaned back against the seat, closing your eyes once you were parked, taking a nice, deep breath. Relax. You're here. He's not alone, Nat's got him. Nat's good. He's okay.
One of the downsides of being summoned into the ER, all the kids you saw there. Little boys and girls about Luke's age, breathing out of tubes, fighting to survive. It was stressful enough to be a hospitalist — trickier cases, complex diseases, patients you got to know and inevitably got attached to —, but those rare ER days always took the cake. You had one rule since med school, one you’d promised to take to your grave: no children. Absolutely no getting involved when it came to kids. But in the ER, you couldn't really afford the luxury to choose.
That's out there, you reminded yourself. That kid's gonna be fine, he's got his own mom to take care of him now. Go take care of yours.
You opened your eyes, checking the rearview mirror for a second to make sure everything was in place, and Jesus Christ.
“Have I looked like this all day?”
You reached for the worn hair tie that kept that poor excuse for a ponytail together, pulling it off, figuring you'd have a better chance with a quick shake and a good old smoothing out than with whatever that was. God. What a mess. And no one thought to give you a hint. You ran your fingers through your hair, doing your best to make it look at least presentable, frustrated when it only half-worked.
It doesn't matter, you told yourself, trying hard to believe it. Nat had seen you worse. She'd seen you up till 4 AM, high on too much caffeine while you studied for the boards. She'd seen you bawling first thing after getting home on the night you lost your first real patient. She'd seen you passed out on the kitchen floor, holding Luke's bottle in one hand and his faithful blanket in the other, completely unaware of the milk that overflowed from the pan onto the stove.
Plus, what were you doing caring about what you looked like in front of Nat, anyway? It wasn't your place anymore. The divorce had been mutual, which meant you'd both been to blame, which meant you shouldn't be freaking out about how your fucking hair looked right now. Nat wasn't the one you were here to see. You were here for Luke, your son, who you were pretty sure couldn't care less if you showed up with a mohawk as long as you brought along a new pack of Pokémon cards. That's why you’d left the hospital without even changing out of your scrubs. That's why you hadn't bothered to check the mirror before getting in the car. To get to Luke faster, to be his mom, to be there for the kid who needed you.
So, very much aware that there was nothing you could do to help your case anymore, you stepped out of the car and walked up to the big concrete building you'd been in a thousand times before.
Scatorccio Tattoo, the door on the second floor read, room 207, right across the hall from the elevator.
You didn't have to knock, you knew it'd be open. Nat only locked up once the day was done, which, when she wasn't supposed to have Luke, meant everyone would be there until about 7 or 8 — whenever the last client left with new ink on their skin and a smile on their face. Said and done, you walked through the black door with the blue neon sign on it, taking in everything, the smell of antiseptic and sandalwood just as you remembered, even though the space looked infinitely bigger now. You knew Nat had upsized, she'd made an offhand comment about contractors and the endless bureaucracy of taking down a wall a few months back, but you had to hand it to her — the studio looked fantastic. Two new stations aside from the couple already set, padded chairs in the lobby, a new reception desk that came with a new receptionist — a pink-haired girl with a nose ring who offered you a polite smile as she said something over the phone. The AC didn't make the obnoxious rattling sound it used to back when Nat first rented the room, and the only thing you could hear aside from the casual chattering of artists and clients and the distant humming of tattoo guns was the music, low and ambient, some Elliott Smith track you'd heard about a million times before in Nat's car.
Nat's station was still where it used to be — far left, past the water cooler, by the big window that offered the great view of the downtown lights at night. The same place you'd come running to after class, tired out of your mind, excited about the prospect of pepperoni pizza and the sound of her laugh. You're gonna make it big, you used to tell her, staring at the skyline as you lay next to her on the floorboards — back before diapers and binkies and passing out cold on the kitchen floor. Someday, this place is gonna be crawling with people begging you to get those hands on them.
Prophecy fulfilled: for what you'd heard and seen, Nat's studio had become one of the biggest in town. Always getting the best reviews. Always filled with people. So much so that, well, you saw it — the two new stations, two new artists to lend a helping hand to her and Van, the one she'd hired long before the big changes.
“Heeey, there she is,” Van smiled as she saw you, wide and friendly, leaning an elbow on the receptionist's desk with that ease she always seemed to carry around. “Our friendly neighborhood Dr. House.”
You couldn't help but grin, tired but honest, though maybe not as big as it would've been a couple of years ago.
“Van,” you took a step closer, hand in one pocket. “How've you been?”
“If you're asking as my doctor, I'm doing alright,” she leaned forward, placing a hand beside her lips as if she was about to tell a secret. “But if you're asking as my friend, hungover out of my mind. But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”
You chuckled.
“That's the spirit,” you nodded, amused by the fact that, even with all the years, Van never seemed to lose her essence. “Have you seen my kid anywhere around here?”
“Nat's station,” she pointed at the hall you knew well, the same one that led to the water cooler, far left of the room. “Talking everybody's ears off. Being a menace. Making every client fall in love with him. You know, the usual.”
You smiled, chest warming at her words. That sounded right. Luke had always been a force of nature, a hurricane with dark brown hair and eyes as blue as his mom's, melting every heart that ever crossed his path with a quick sense of humor and a crooked smile. You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding, the same kind that always got stuck between your throat and your lungs on ER days. He was here, he was okay, he was with Nat. That was all that mattered.
“Right, thanks. I should go get him,” you made a motion to leave, lingering long enough just to properly wrap up the conversation. “It was nice seeing you, Van. And congrats, by the way, the place looks amazing.”
“Thanks, yeah. Good to see you too,” she nodded, that shit-eating grin softening into something earnest, quieter. “Hey, stop by more often. I'll give you half off if you ever decide to let me ink you up.”
You let out a little laugh.
“I'll think about it.”
“You go ahead and do that.”
And so you walked toward Natalie's station, determined, deliberately doing what you were there to do.
Luke sat on Nat's chair, bouncing his legs, tongue poking out as he drew something on her tablet — a dragon, a tiger, you weren't sure from this angle. He was focused, determined, that same wrinkle between his eyes that used to pop on Natalie's forehead whenever she worked on a client. He occasionally stopped, assessed his work, mouthed the words to the song that played in the background like a seven-year-old had any business knowing the lyrics to Elliott Smith's discography.
Nat sat on the table, right next to the tablet, leaned on her hand as she watched her son with a proud smile on her lips. It was that face she made the first time Luke kicked a soccer ball, the same from when he sighed and rolled his eyes and told you he didn't want to wear a button up to your brother's wedding at the ripe age of four. The that kid's just like me look. Like she knew he was a carbon copy, except male and a bit shorter, but still scary similar in all the ways that mattered.
“Good trace, bud,” she muttered, free hand running through his hair affectionately. “You've already got your own style. That's not for everybody, you know.”
Luke nodded, unfazed, brow still furrowed — like all the praise in the world wouldn't pull his focus from the task at hand.
“I like to do the mouth like this,” he said, sharp, as serious as a lifelong painter explaining his work. “Makes it look like he's breathing fire.”
You let out a chuckle, soft, just loud enough for them to realize you were there. Your presence, as it turned out, was in fact enough to make Luke raise his head from his very important masterpiece.
“Mom!” He smiled widely. “You're back from the hospital!”
“I am,” you walked up to him, muscles finally relaxing after the day you'd had, cupping his cheek in one hand just to make sure he was real. “Hey, baby. Sorry I couldn't pick you up from school.”
“That's okay! Mama said you saved a lot of people from dying today!”
Nat let out a snort, shooting her eyes up in your direction, shaking her head slightly with amusement.
“I didn't say it like that,” she clarified, raspy, melting visibly in the way she always did whenever Luke said something unhinged. “I said you were saving lives. The whole death thing was implied.”
“He's a smart kid. Good at reading between the lines,” you smiled, tame, the only kind you'd offered Nat since the divorce two years ago. Friendly. Safe. In regards to anything Luke-related. “And a talented one too. Let me take a look at that drawing, sweetheart.”
“It's not a drawing,” he corrected, turning the tablet around — and there it was, a dragon. Wobbly. Just as accurate as a seven-year-old could do from memory. Still, Nat was right, it did have personality. “It's a stencil. For a tattoo.”
You chuckled, Natalie's proud grin not going unnoticed.
“Ooh, a stencil? Is that right?”
He nodded eagerly.
“Mama said she's gonna let me print it so I can put it on my arm. Pretend it's real like the ones she has.”
“What can I say,” Nat smirked, as enamored about it as she was smug. “Kid wants to be just like his mama.”
You shook your head, letting out a content yet tired breath. The exhaustion of the day was starting to catch up to you faster than you'd anticipated now that you saw Luke was alive and well, sitting on his mom's chair right in front of your eyes. This was what you'd been waiting for all day — coming to see him, touching his rosy cheek, listening to his baby voice after a long day of taking care of injuries on other people's kids. And now you needed rest, even if you weren't going to get it anytime soon. You needed to get your boy in the car, drive him home, hear all about his day at school over a balanced meal that would probably be too expensive, but not enough to make cooking worth it tonight. You needed his presence. His youthful innocence brightening up the house while you had him for the week. To trip on his scattered toys and hear his loud cartoons and let the liveliness make you forget all the despair and fear you’d been surrounded by all day.
“Well, that sounds like fun, Mr. Tattoo Artist. Go print out your stencil so we can go home, yeah?”
“But mom,” he whined, pouting, shoulders dropping. “I'm not finished yet.”
“That's enough, buddy. You can wrap it up next week when you're with mama again.”
“Please,” Luke brought his hands together, because apparently it was a life or death situation. “I wanted to bring it for show and tell tomorrow.”
You sighed. The pleading look on his face was something you’d already learned not to fall for — even though it still had an unsurprisingly high success rate —, but right now all you saw when you looked at it was that other little boy, the one who almost didn't make it, the one whose mom held onto so tightly as she cried I will do anything you want. Come back to me and you'll have everything you ask for, honey, whatever it is.
Fuck it. You'd been stuck in the ER all day, you'd been trapped in your car for forty-five minutes on the way here. You could spare your son a few more minutes doing what he liked.
“You can grab a seat,” Nat smiled, gesturing at the tattoo chair, looking at you like she could somehow still read your mind after all this time. “There's no rush.”
You nodded, making your way to the chair, knowing it was all for a greater good.
“Thanks.”
Nat got up, slow, walking closer to where you stood while Luke went back to his stencil — now muttering some Nirvana track he apparently knew by heart.
“He's almost done,” she said, holding onto the edge of the chair as you sat on the other end, feet dangling off. “Finishing touches and all. Turns out he's kind of a perfectionist.”
You let out a weak snort.
“Sure. I'll… let him do his thing a little longer,” you looked at Luke, smiling softly, still half-high on the relief to see him happy and healthy after a hard day. “Thanks, by the way. For picking him up today. I would've had my brother do it, but—”
“No. No way,” she shook her head. “He's my kid too, only fair that I go. Plus, it's good to see him outside of my days. Helps me miss him a little less.”
You offered Nat a small smile.
“I know what you mean. Uh, thanks anyway. Sorry it was such short notice.”
“Don't apologize. I saw the pileup thing on the news. Oof.”
“Yeah,” you chuckled absently, looking down, “oof.”
Natalie licked her lips, turning her head away from you, staring at Luke's focused expression for a second. And then she looked at you again.
“You want an espresso?”
You narrowed your eyes, a confused smirk taking over your lips.
“Espresso?”
She let out a breathy laugh.
“We have this fancy machine now. With all the buttons and shit,” she shrugged, so casual, so Natalie it made your heart flutter amidst all the exhaustion. “Makes hot chocolates too. Luke's already had, like, three so far.”
You laughed too, for once not concerned about the amount of sugar your kid had ingested — not today.
“Thanks. But I'm trying to go easy on the caffeine.”
“That's… new,” she chuckled, and you couldn't blame her. You used to drink coffee like it was water — a habit you'd been cutting back on since the divorce. As it turned out, heartbreak and palpitations from five cups a day weren't the best combo if you wanted to get an okay night's sleep. “Alright, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Sure,” you nodded. The jingling of the bell above the front door called your attention, indicating someone had just arrived or left. Your eyes fell on the new tattoo gun by the chair. “Uh, congratulations, by the way. The studio looks… It looks really good, Nat. Fancy espresso machine and everything.”
Natalie smiled, looking away, doing that thing with her face she used to do when you complimented her.
“Yeah. It’s, uh, really taken off.”
“I can see that.”
She paused for a moment.
“And how are you—”
“There, I’m finished!” Luke interrupted whatever Natalie was going to say, turning the tablet around with a proud grin on his face, showing his masterpiece to both of his moms. “Ta-da!”
Nat’s eyes sparkled.
“Whoa, bud,” she said, widening her eyes for flare, stepping closer to him so she could have a better look. “That’s gonna make a sick tat.”
Luke smiled big, taking the praise better than his mama ever did, used to being seen, to being celebrated. It was a point Nat made from birth, showering him with compliments whenever he reached even the smallest accomplishments — there you go, buddy, good burp. Strong as a lion. Great job sleeping through the night. Hey, look at that latch, that's how it's done. You're the best baby in the world.
“Can we print it now?! Please, please, please?”
“Of course, give it here,” Nat grabbed the tablet, tapping the screen a few times until the thermal printer began to buzz.
Luke squealed, getting up from the chair like the excitement was simply too much to bear, bouncing on his heels with the utmost glee. When the stencil finally came out ready, blueish-purple lines on white paper, Nat picked it up and cut around the art with her scissors.
“There you go,” she held the piece of paper by the edges, extra careful not to wrinkle it. “If you wanna wear it to show and tell, ask mommy to help you put it on before school, okay?” When he nodded eagerly, Nat looked up at you with a chuckle on her lips. “It comes off with soap and water.”
“I know,” and you did, you'd been through this before, you'd been her lab rat a billion times when she wanted to test out new styles and designs. “He's gonna be the coolest kid in Ms. Lee's class.”
“Emma's gonna freak when she sees it!” Luke jumped up and down, launching himself into Nat without warning, arms wrapping around her waist like she'd just given him the entire world. “Thank you, mama! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm gonna go show aunt Van!”
And he was off into the hallway, disappearing on the way to Van's station like he knew it by heart after all the time he’d spent in the studio. Natalie stood there a few seconds, red cheeks and ears, smiling to herself as if she didn’t know what to do with all the love in her chest. Then, because she was Nat, she shrugged it off. Let out a snort. Looked at you like her heart hadn't just visibly melted right in front of your eyes.
“It's been Emma this, Emma that all the time,” she offered, casual, an attempt to recompose herself. “Joined at the hip just like I was with Van at that age.”
You let out a laugh, deciding to let Nat off the hook for always masking her emotions. It wasn't your place to meddle anymore.
“I don't think that's possible,” you tilted your head. Van and Nat had been inseparable all through the years you'd known them — and from the stories you'd heard, they’d been that way practically out the womb. “But yeah. Emma's been a popular name lately. I think that's a good friendship for him to have.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“She has two moms,” you commented, leaving off the part you'd heard through the grapevine about their divorce, about their time apart, about their reconciliation less than a year ago. It all just hit a little too close to home. “One’s a nurse at the hospital, actually. Sweet woman. It's good for him to be around other families like—”
Like ours, you almost said before cutting yourself off mid-sentence. You didn't live in the same house anymore. You didn't wake up next to Nat, you didn't force her to sit down and eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich in the morning so she wouldn't leave on an empty stomach. You didn't tuck Luke in together at night, a kiss on the forehead each, a five-step monster check just to be sure — you behind the curtains, Nat under the bed.
You weren't a family, not anymore.
So you cleared your throat, swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed there.
“—like that. Uh, two moms.”
Nat looked down, bringing a hand to the nape of her neck like she’d also made the conscious choice to let you off the hook this time.
“Yeah. That’s good.”
Luke’s laugh echoed from the lobby like a light at the end of the tunnel, saving you from the familiar awkward moment you could feel coming before the silence had a chance to stretch.
“Well, it's getting dark soon,” you said, looking at Nat. “I should take him home.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” she nodded, bringing her hand down to the waistband of her skirt, playing absently with a belt loop as she drifted her eyes toward the hall. “Let me walk you.”
You both found Luke in the reception area, sitting on Van's knee on one of the new padded chairs, eyes shooting up with excitement as he saw his moms come in his direction.
“Mom! Mama!” He squealed. “Aunt Van said she can give me a dragon tattoo when I'm old enough! A real one! Isn't that cool?”
You laughed.
“We'll talk about it,” you looked at Van, who just smirked like she'd been caught red-handed making promises she shouldn't. “Come on, Lukey. It's time to go. Say goodbye to mama and aunt Van.”
He nodded obediently, wrapping an arm around Van's neck, sinking his head into her shoulder for just a second.
“Bye, aunt Van. Don't forget the Pokémon cards next time so we can trade!”
“Got it. Charizard, I’ll bring it over next week.”
He smiled, hopping off Van's lap with the stencil tucked in his hand like a trophy, making his way to Nat with familiarity. The goodbye. The thing he'd been getting better and better at over the past two years. She crouched down to get on his level, not quite as resilient even though she nearly did enough to hide it well, wrapping those tattooed arms around him with eyes closed so tightly they gave her away.
“Bye, little man. Be good to your mom. And don't forget to take pictures of the stencil before you go to school tomorrow.”
“Okay, mama,” he pressed a kiss to Nat's cheek, caring and gentle, ever the cuddlebug when it came to his moms. “I love you.”
“Love you more.”
“No take backs.”
“No take backs.”
You stood back, watching them silently, not getting in the way of the moment. Their little ritual. The hug, the love you more, the no take backs. Nat's way of letting him know he could do anything in the world and she would still love him no matter what, she would still be his mama at the end of every day.
She let out a breath, giving him one final squeeze before letting go.
“Alright, off you go.”
He ran in your direction, stepping into his role, grabbing your hand like he already knew his way around your and Nat's arrangement at this point. You smiled at him. Looked at Van again, then at Nat.
“Bye, you guys,” you said, standing at the door. “And thanks again, Nat. You saved my butt today.”
She chuckled, always amused to hear you censor your curses around Luke.
“Of course, Y/N, anytime. Hit me up if you need to, yeah?”
You nodded, small, genuine. You knew she meant it — even with the distance, even with the divorce, even with the mutual decision that had been undeniably stronger on her end, she meant it. She knew your routine, knew your work, knew shit happened sometimes. She'd always made it clear she'd be there to pull her weight with Luke for those moments.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Will do.”
In the car, with the takeout bag already safely tucked behind the seatbelt on the passenger seat and finally on your way home, Luke filled you in on the details of his day.
“And after PE we went back to class and Ms. Lee let us sing happy birthday to Jake!” He said, the stencil still in his hand, looking out of the back window. “His mom brought everyone cake but Parker had to have a different kind because she’s allergic to frosting. But that sucks. The frosting was the best part!”
You chuckled, grateful to hear his incessant blabbering, gladly letting the kid fill your ears with the hottest gossip of his second grade class.
“That sounds nice, buddy,” you offered, eyes on the road. “You know, speaking of birthdays… Somebody’s going to be turning eight very soon.”
“Meee!” He giggled. “Just a month left!”
You nodded, a smile taking over your lips as you let yourself take a peek at his eager expression through the rear view mirror for just a moment.
“That’s right,” you overplayed it, emphasizing every word with a few more teeth for the sake of his excitement. “You know how you wanna celebrate yet? Should we do a soccer tournament like last year?”
Luke shook his head.
“Nah. I wanna do something different this year.”
“Different?” You asked, amused. “Got anything on your mind?”
He nodded proudly, as if he'd been waiting for you to ask.
“I wanna go camping.”
You took a turn right, swerving into your street, the house you’d been living in for a little over two years now already noticeable in the distance. It took you a second to register Luke’s words, and, once you did, you pouted in confusion.
“Camping?” You asked. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Callie said she went with her dad last week. They roasted marshmallows by the fire and stayed in a trailer and everything. Like in the movies!”
You narrowed your eyes, slowing the car down, pulling into the driveway like you always did — only this time, once you came to a full stop and unbuckled the seatbelt, you turned around to look at your son.
You’d been completely blindsided. Your survival abilities in the woods were basically limited to knowing how to work a bottle of bug spray. The things you most cherished in life, after the kid in the backseat, were as simple as a hot meal and a comfy bed. And plumbing. Piped water that fell from a shower head at the mere twist of a knob.
“Camping, Luke?” You double checked, making sure all the hard work of the day hadn’t somehow caused you to start hearing things. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, mom. Camping. It’s gonna be fun!”
“No soccer tournament?” You pushed a bit, realizing he was serious, not having a clue how you were going to make that happen. “Maybe a party with a bouncy house?”
But Luke shook his head with determination, as if his mind had already been made for a long time now.
“Camping.”
You sighed. The smile on his face didn’t fade, and you watched him for a second. Once again, you saw it in your head — that other boy from earlier today, the tube down his throat, the desperate mom with her hands on his face like maybe he’d wake up if she held him long enough. And Luke was there, alive, healthy, full of hope, proudly clutching onto his stencil like the caring little boy he was.
He was a good kid. He deserved to have everything he wanted.
“We can arrange that, then.”
“Yes!” He bounced eagerly in the backseat, movements a bit restrained by the seatbelt. “It’s gonna be so fun!”
You let out a chuckle, not exactly excited, but figuring you’d give it a shot when he was the one asking for it. You could take him to a campground, somewhere safe, rent an RV so you wouldn’t have to figure out how to work a tent. Somewhere you’d have access to food you didn’t have to roast in a fire. Somewhere you wouldn’t have to pee behind a bush in the middle of nowhere.
You could do it.
“I have to remind mama to bring a coat! Callie says it gets really chilly at night.”
Your eyes narrowed at his statement.
“Wait,” you said, confused. “You want mama to take you?”
Thank God, you thought, figuring Nat might have a better shot at the whole nature thing. If Luke wanted her to take him camping, maybe you could do something else when he got back — the bouncy house, the pizza, the guys in the superhero costumes. No bugspray. Something in your powerhouse.
“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, eyes on yours, that undying smile still on his lips, “both of you!”
Both of you.
You and Natalie. His moms. The ones who'd barely been in the same room for more than a few hours at best over the past two years. The ones who'd only talk when it meant working out a schedule or discussing whatever had been said at the latest parent-teacher conference, not looking directly at each other's faces. The ones who sat a very confused five-year-old Luke down and told him he'd have two different houses from then on.
You nearly choked, chest tightening at the thought of breaking that little boy's heart again.
“Well, baby…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I'm not— I'm not sure both mamas can take you…”
Luke's face fell immediately, his smile giving space to a pout, his eyes looking bigger than usual.
“But we always spend my birthday together,” he argued. “Even after you moved.”
You let out an exhale, watching his expression — taking in the frown, the quivering lip, all the tells that showed that wasn't just an occasional tantrum after a long day.
He was right. You did always spend his birthday together. That was the rule. You'd alternate Thanksgiving and Christmas, you'd do separate halves on Mother's day, but Luke's birthday was the one date you and Nat had both agreed to spend completely together, start to finish. There had been two since the divorce so far, and it’d actually been working out well — Nat would knock on your door before Luke woke up, you'd make his favorite breakfast while she worked on setting up the sign and the balloons, he'd come downstairs and you'd all eat together as a family. You'd both give him presents. Set up his party. Avoid being alone together longer than necessary in the most obvious attempts to act like everything was normal. Nat would laugh at something a parent said and it wouldn't reach her eyes, you'd step inside to get more napkins you knew wouldn't be used. Luke would smile all day long. Run around full of life, full of joy, grab your hand for a moment in passing. Nat would help you clean up after everyone left and Luke was fast asleep in his room, purposely turning up the music so the silence wasn't too weird, which never really worked. She'd mutter something safe — he had a lot of fun, the cake was really good, did you see Riley's dad's weird mustache? You'd chuckle lightly. She'd nod. You'd say goodbye with words and awkward smiles.
And then she would leave.
It was a good arrangement. Something Luke looked forward to. Something you could manage if you set your mind to it, if you distanced yourself, if all the other moms were around to distract you from those dark locks and those blue eyes.
But camping? A whole weekend cramped up in an RV, nowhere to hide, bumping into Nat every five minutes?
That might be a little more than you could handle.
“I know,” you tried again. “But it's just one day, Lukey. Camping is… it's complicated, we both have work and—”
“Mom, please!” He whined, chin beginning to tremble in that heartbreaking way it did right before he started crying. “It's— it's gonna be fun! I'm gonna be so good! I'm— I'm gonna eat my veggies and I'll clean my room and I'll do homework without complaining and—”
Luke rambled on, slurred and rushed, talking over himself like he depended on your mercy to save his life.
He popped up into your head again. The kid from the ER, tattooed on your brain at this point. Too weak to even breathe on his own, a near miss, so close you must have thought about leaving the room to call your son over a thousand times.
“Okay,” you gave in with a sigh before the first tear could drop from your son's eye. If that other little boy could basically rise from the dead upon his mother's desperate plea, you could give Luke this. You could suck up whatever unresolved feelings you still had for Nat and swallow them. Your kid deserved it, he deserved everything you could give him and more, and this you could do. For him. “Okay. If mama's on board. If you do everything you said. I'll call her tomorrow and ask, alright?”
Luke unbuckled himself clumsily, too eager for his hands to work right, launching himself in your direction like the clingy little boy he'd always been. You couldn't help but melt. Your arms found their way around him, back hurting from how you had to twist it — but it didn't matter. Nothing else did. Not when he held onto you so tightly, squealing into your shoulder, pressing wet kisses to your cheek as a token of his gratitude.
You were doing this for him. For Luke. For your son.
And that's how, a few weeks later, you found yourself in your driveway, loading a suitcase into the trunk of Natalie Scatorccio's car.
Of course Nat said yes. She didn't even think about it when you told her how eager he was.
“If the kid's asking…” You could practically hear the shrug through the phone, the pressed lips and tight chin as clear as day in your mind. “We've gotta do it, right?”
Pushover. A complete sucker for him, just like you were.
It didn't surprise you.
Nat wasn't one to profess love through big gestures. She wasn't the kind of parent who bragged obnoxiously about her kid to the other moms at soccer practice or bought him a monthly paycheck's worth of toys in one trip to the store. Her love was about showing up. Being there for the big things and the small ones with the same level of excitement. Cheering at the very front whether Luke scored a goal in a crowded game or did a cartwheel in the living room. Letting him know through words and gestures that she was there for him — no matter what, no matter where, no matter when. No take backs. Every single day till the rest of her life.
Nat never had a problem loving, she was as loyal as a guard dog, her love was gentle and honest and so whole you'd occasionally just burst into tears when you thought about it over those first few years. Happy tears. Tears that seeped through cracking walls, that came from finally being free from a lifetime of walking on eggshells, from feeling so seen and so known and so cared for you couldn't help but overflow. A love that was so selfless, so genuine, so safe you'd never understand how she couldn't simply accept it back.
That had always been the problem with Nat. She was good at loving. Not so much at letting herself be loved.
You'd met her in your senior year of college, wide-eyed, thinking you knew everything until Tai's girlfriend brought along a platinum-haired friend with a cute smile to a party and you realized you still had a lot to learn.
Nat had silver rings on all ten fingers, tattoos on her arms and legs, a joint behind her ear that didn’t stay in place for too long before finding its way between pale fingertips. Her eyes were blue, grayish when you first saw her outside under the moonlight, darker after a while, in the kitchen, as she poured herself another drink and talked to Van about something you pretended not to listen to. The smile never left her lips — sure, steady, the kind that said I know exactly who I am even though she was clearly an outsider. It didn’t seem to bother her, she welcomed it. Laughed whenever some college kid said something ridiculous like she and Van were in on a secret you and Tai weren’t aware of. She was never rude, never once entitled, just so incredibly herself it undid you a little.
She undid you a lot.
Pulling you in without trying to, taking up space without an apology, existing in that way you’d never seen anybody do before. Introducing herself to you with a crooked smile and a rasp in her voice and those fucking eyes as if she had any right to look like that, to talk like that, to be like that.
“I’m Nat,” she’d said, leaning in for you to hear her over the music, close enough that you could smell her perfume — something earthy and mature and just a little sweet. “Nice to meet you.”
Nat caught you alone a few hours into the party, drinking warm beer as you stared across the makeshift dance floor with a heavy heart. She’d chuckled, friendly, making an offhand comment about having lost Van at some point during the night, a joke on how she’d probably disappeared into one of the bedrooms with Tai. That tracks, you remembered saying, a little too bitter after a few drinks — inhibitions low enough that you didn’t bother hiding your disdain for the happy couple that danced a few feet away from where you stood anymore. Your ex. Her new boyfriend. Picture perfect, happy, not two weeks after she’d left you because she needed to find herself. Apparently all she needed was to search in the arms of a brain dead frat guy with frosted tips and beer breath.
“Alright, I wasn't gonna meddle or anything, but…” Natalie crossed her arms, eyes finding the spot where yours had been set like she had no intention of leaving. “That an ex or something?”
You narrowed your eyes, letting them fall on her face.
“How did you know?”
She chuckled.
“Maybe I'm psychic. Or maybe I just have enough experience with shitty exes to know one when I see it,” that permanent smirk stayed tattooed on her lips as she analyzed the dancing couple across the room. “Though I wouldn't have pegged you as the frosted-tips type.”
You took a sip of your beer, snorting halfway through it, looking at Nat in amused disbelief.
“So you're not psychic," you said. “Try again, I'll give you one more chance.”
She raised a brow, rising to the challenge like she'd been waiting for you to push her. She looked at the couple again, eyes drifting from the guy to the girl, the smirk widening on her lips.
“Her?”
You nodded lightly, tightening your jaw, staring at the side of your ex's face while that guy shamelessly went to town on her neck.
“Yeah,” you muttered, face contorting in disgust. “Her.”
She let out a snort.
“Guess I got two out of three right, then,” Nat shrugged, amused. “Pretty good for a psychic.”
“A psychic would have gotten it right the first time,” you offered back, half-teasing, half-stuck in a puddle of self pity as you kept looking at that man's hands on your ex's waist. “But I'll give you an A for effort.”
Nat laughed, raspy and low, shoulder touching yours briefly as she shifted on her feet.
“Fair,” she took a sip of her drink. “Though maybe I did get it right the first time, but I didn't say it because I didn't want to assume anything.”
You pursed your lips, intrigued, drifting your eyes to Nat's face only to realize hers were already glued to you.
“You did assume, though,” you countered. “That I'd go for someone like that. Like him.”
She chuckled.
“I'm sorry about that,” she licked her lips, a habit you'd later come to realize surfaced whenever she was nervous or excited or curious about something. “You know what they say. Expect the worst while hoping for the best or whatever.”
It was your turn to laugh, tipsy, unsure of the meaning behind her words.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Your smile made hers grow, automatic, breathtaking.
“Maybe I'm just curious about your preferences.”
That brought chills to your spine, making your heart race in your chest as you suddenly realized just how close she stood. Her eyes were even darker now, hair catching the LED lights as they switched colors, a mix of unshakable confidence and drunken ease radiating through her pores. Everything seemed to revolve around her, like the party was just an excuse around the real main attraction — that smile on her face, those ring-clad fingers running through her hair. She was beautiful, even more so from up close, especially with her gaze set on you like you were the only person in the room, quiet and intense like a forest right before a thunderstorm — as if she knew all she could do in that moment was sit back and brace for impact, like the damage was already done.
For some reason, you just knew she was going to be trouble.
“My preferences?”
She nodded, grinning like she noticed the shift in your attention.
“Yeah. What you like. What you don't like. What I need to say to get you alone.”
You chuckled at that, eyes widening slightly at her forwardness. She didn't back down, didn't apologize, didn't pull away — instead, she leaned closer, watching you meticulously as if she had you exactly where she wanted.
“A little bold to say that to a girl who's been complaining about her ex to you,” you teased, testing her, pushing just enough to see how hard she'd pull.
“Like I said, I'm no stranger to shitty exes,” she shrugged, unfazed. “Though I have to say, you're better off. Always smart to cut stupid people off your life.”
You chuckled.
“What makes you think she’s stupid?”
Natalie smiled victoriously, nodding her head.
“Well, she’s over there while you're right here,” she licked her lips again, the smell of her perfume now mixed with the joint she'd smoked earlier, intoxicating. “Which has to be the dumbest thing I've ever seen.”
You laughed.
“You know, that's a good start.”
“A good start?” Nat raised a brow, tilting her chin down, watching your face.
“Yeah,” it was you who leaned closer this time, drawn to her like a magnet, inexplicable and powerful and already forgetting about the girl who danced with the guy across the room like whatever came before Nat suddenly didn't matter anymore. “If you’re serious about wanting to get me alone.”
Needless to say she didn't even have to try from then on.
You finished the night in Nat's bed, clothes scattered across the floor in a tiny two-bedroom downtown, her name on your lips and her hair in your fists and red marks all over your skin you'd be tracing with your fingertips long after she was gone. She wasn't like anyone you'd met before. Her hands mapped out your body, exploring with the eagerness of a treasure-hunter yet the accuracy of someone who'd been there before, like she was somehow remembering your nuances instead of getting to know you. That's how it always felt with Nat — not new, never new. Familiar. Exciting, sure, but not in the way you'd feel around someone you'd just met — it was like running into an old friend you hadn't seen in forever. Like coming across a lover from a different lifetime, like reclaiming what was once yours, overwhelming and exhilarating and intense, addictive, so much so that it took you no time at all to reach out again after that first time.
And just like that, Nat was a part of your life, growing around every aspect of it like tree branches you couldn't help but feed. The passion was electric, the draw was strong, the impact so hard you could practically split your life in two — the one before Nat and the one after her. Lonely nights in your dorm turned into laughter and takeout and lovemaking in her apartment when Van wasn't around. Meaningless flings turned into something real, something stronger, the only sure thing you'd ever known. Deep breaths and unshed tears turned into soft fingers on your hair, a shoulder to lie your head on and sweet lips on your cheek as Nat whispered you don't have to hold it all in — and, for once, you believed it.
The first crack in the glass came around two and a half years after you’d met, a stupid fight that turned into raised voices and slamming doors and you standing confused in the living room as Nat stormed off in the middle of the night. You weren't sure what happened. You'd been going through the motions, tired, dedicating every last hour of your day to med school as she struggled to get her new studio up and running — a rough patch, you thought, something you'd eventually work through, after all, every couple had their adversities. But things escalated. You complained about something unimportant, something that wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't been so exhausted, a forgotten dish on the sink or an unpaid bill she was supposed to take care of, you didn't even remember. But Nat was tired too. So she deflected. Sighed a bit too bitterly, rolled her eyes, turned her back to you while you talked just like you'd seen your father do a million times to your mother, and it all just hit a bit too close to home. You were projecting, it was a stretch, but you weren't thinking straight. And then one thing led to another until Nat walked out with tears rolling down her face, claiming it was best to end things before it was too late, making clarity hit you as soon as she stepped out into the hallway.
You'd seen it before, you'd noticed it in the small things — the way she never seemed to know how to take a compliment, the way she'd shrink into herself after telling a childhood story. Nat had a hard time letting herself be loved. She didn't know how to. She'd been taught to brace for failure, to expect to be walked out on, to let go before she got hurt, and that was what she was doing.
Tensions were still high, you were both stretched thin, she wasn't thinking clearly — so you let her go, at least for the meanwhile, knowing the risk of losing her forever was too high if you didn't give her the space she needed. Nat was impulsive, you'd come to know, and sometimes it was best to just offer her some time to clear her head before trying to reason. You deemed it best to wait, for the sake of your relationship, for the sake of making things better down the road.
What you hoped would be a few days turned into four months apart.
You came home to Nat sitting by your door, exhausted after a late night study session, letting out a breath you'd been holding in for months once you finally caught her eyes — blue, almost green in the hallway light, full of love and guilt and regret as they fell on you.
“I'm sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed, stepping to her feet as soon as she saw you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“I know,” you answered, because you did. “Come on, let's get inside. We’ll talk about it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Nat poured her heart out to you, stumbling over words as if she'd just spent however long she'd been waiting at your door going over what she would say, but never quite finding the right way to do it. She talked fast, like she needed to hold her breath if she wanted to get it all out, and you listened patiently, taking her hand as the tears started rolling down her cheeks, telling her to take her time, that you'd be there for as long as she needed. She told you all about her childhood — the trailer park, the abusive father, the negligent mother. The harsh words she had to hear since she was a little girl, the ones that made her believe she would never amount to anything, that she wasn't worthy of love. You knew she didn't talk to her mother much, and you knew her father had died when she was a teenager, but that was it. You didn't know how he'd walked in on her with a friend, how he'd accused her of things you wouldn't dare repeat — your heart breaking in your chest as she choked on the words whore and slut like she'd carried that cross around her whole life. You didn’t know how he’d become aggressive, how her mother somehow got caught in the middle of it, how Nat didn't even think before grabbing the shotgun her father didn't bother to keep hidden. How he'd taken it from her hands, how he’d threatened to shoot, how he'd tripped over the steps and fallen and, boom, suddenly he was gone right before her eyes.
Your heart ached with revolt, with anger, with disbelief over how anybody could ever do something like that to Natalie. You held her — it was all you could do, keeping her close and stroking her hair and trying to offer the same reassurance she always used to offer you before everything went down.
“I’m right here, I'm not going anywhere,” you repeated again and again, trying to make her believe it. “I'm not going anywhere, Nat, I'm always going to be here.”
After that night, no words were needed. You'd both decided to try again, to pick up where you'd left off, to not keep any more secrets.
Until about a month later, when Nat called you, asking you if you'd be home for dinner because she had something she needed to say. You caught the distress in her tone, the way she'd called instead of texting like she always did, the careful way she'd phrased it. Are you— are you coming home for dinner? I'd— uh, I'd really like you to be. If you can. I, um, I need to talk to you about something. Please, just— let me know, okay? If you can. I really just— fuck, I just really need to talk to you.
You jumped to every conclusion in the book — something had happened with the studio, a client had done something to her, maybe her mother had resurfaced and somehow hurt her all over again, you couldn't know for sure. All you knew was that, whatever it was, it was serious.
Nothing in the world could have prepared you for what came next.
“Pregnant?” You asked, confused, narrowing your eyes as you tried to make sense of the words that came out of a terrified Natalie's lips. “...How?”
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face, clutching onto the positive test in her hand like she couldn't believe it was real.
“While we were broken up,” she sobbed, avoiding your eyes, breathless. “I— it was stupid, it was a one time thing, Travis just— he showed up, I was drunk, I was stupid, I shouldn't have…”
Travis.
You'd seen the guy once before — at a party, right before you and Nat became official, staring daggers as she wrapped her arms around your neck while angrily sipping his beer in the corner of the room. The shitty ex Nat had offhandedly mentioned the night the two of you met. The guy who kept showing up when she was vulnerable, when she was heartbroken, when she wasn't thinking clearly enough not to make any stupid decisions.
You couldn't deny it, the thought of Nat in his bed made your blood boil in your veins, your hands closing into fists at your sides just for a moment before you loosened up. Natalie cried copiously, desperate, gasping for air like her whole life had just ended right before her eyes. Like she'd done the stupidest thing in the world and she was about to lose everything that mattered. Like you already had one foot out of the door, and she'd been the one responsible for ruining everything.
So you held back the jealousy, it didn't matter now. She was within her right. You were broken up, she could do what she wanted, it wasn't like you had a say.
Nat was here now, and she needed you. And you’d never deny her.
“Nat,” you let out a breath, placing a hand on her shoulder, the other one finding her chin. “Hey. Look at me. That's okay, we'll figure it out.”
And so Nat sank into your arms, apologizing profusely into your shoulder, breaking down while you held her tightly and assured her everything was going to be fine. That you'd find a way. That you'd stand beside her no matter what.
After Nat calmed down, her initial plan was to terminate. To set an appointment at a clinic and pretend like the whole thing never happened. You said you'd support her through it, you'd be there to hold her hand, you’d do whatever was in your power to make her comfortable — it was her choice after all, and you'd never do anything to undermine that. You'd keep your promise and stick by her for whatever she needed, for whatever she chose.
But days passed and she never made the call. You gave her space for about a week or so before asking, voice careful, hand on her hair as she lay her head on your lap in the living room couch.
“Nat,” you said, soft, gentle. “Are you still sure you want the abortion?”
She sighed, as if she'd been waiting for you to ask.
“I…” She shook her head. “I just— I’ve never really… I never thought about it, you know? I just… I’ve always been irregular, I've— I didn't even think I could, and…” She cleared her throat. “I don't know, Y/N. Maybe if Travis wasn't such a deadbeat it’d all be different.”
Your hand stilled in her hair.
“Is that what this is about? Travis?”
Nat bit her bottom lip, swallowing audibly.
“He obviously wouldn't want any part in it,” she said hesitantly, not meeting your eyes. “And I just— I don't want to put a kid in the world for that. To be unwanted. And it's not like I could do it alone anyway.”
“Nat,” you looked at her, sure, careful. “Hypothetically, if a deadbeat dad is the only reason why you're thinking about terminating, if— if it's something you would've otherwise wanted… you know you wouldn't be alone, right?”
She blinked. Looked up at you. Licked her lips.
“I’d never ask something like that of you.”
“You're not. I'm just saying. It's your choice, I'll be here for whatever you decide.”
Nat looked at you for a few seconds, face unreadable.
“Even if I wanted to keep it? Hypothetically?”
You nodded.
“Hypothetically, yes.”
She stayed quiet for a moment before sitting up abruptly, lips pressed together in a straight line, watching you like a million thoughts went through her head as she looked at your face.
“I…” She let out an exhale. “I can't explain why, but I just… I've been having some thoughts and I just… I think I might wanna keep it. I— I could do things differently and— I know it doesn’t make sense, but—”
“It doesn’t have to make sense,” you grabbed her hand. “As long as it’s what you want.”
“I'm… not sure. I don't know what to do.”
“You've still got a few weeks to figure it out,” you offered, calm. “I just want you to know you won't be alone. Whatever you choose.”
Nat let out an incredulous chuckle, staring at your face as if she struggled believing you were real in that moment.
“You'd seriously raise Travis Martinez's kid? Are you— are you even thinking about what you're telling me right now?”
You nodded.
“It wouldn't be Travis’ kid. It'd be mine. Yours and mine,” you squeezed her hand. “If that's what you decide to do.”
“So if I wanted to terminate…?”
“You know you'd have my full support.”
She shuddered.
“And if I wanted to keep it…?”
“I'd be all in,” you took her other hand, looking at her face, knowing Nat needed the reassurance. “You wouldn't do it alone, Nat. I'd be here.”
She smiled, small, tame.
“You'd be all in? Even if it meant taking care of— of a baby?”
You nodded again, certain, knowing you'd do anything she asked, you'd be there for whatever she needed. You loved Nat. The only thing you were sure of was that you wanted her in your life forever, whatever it took.
“I'd be all in. It'd be my baby. Our baby.”
Natalie's smile grew, and she unexpectedly grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss.
“Your baby, huh?”
And that's how the agreement came to be — you were just as much of Luke's mom as Nat was, regardless of who'd birthed him, regardless of whose DNA he shared. You were the one who took care of Natalie all through her pregnancy, who held her hand during appointments, who drove late at night to get her scones from that 24-hour bakery two towns over when she woke up with cravings. You were the one who proposed about three months into the pregnancy, getting down on one knee not only because you loved her and wanted to be with her forever, but because getting married meant the adoption process would be infinitely easier and you'd do anything to get the parenting rights to your baby boy as fast as you could. You were the one who nearly had your fingers crushed while Nat gave birth, clutching your hand tightly in the delivery room, holding onto you like she needed to feel you there in order to go through with it.
You cut the cord, you held him first, you strapped him to the car seat so the three of you could drive home together for the first time. You painted the nursery, you put together that complicated crib Tai and Van got you and Nat as a gift. You bawled your eyes out the first time you saw him, so small, covered in blood and other fluids, knowing in that moment you’d never experienced a love as strong as this one. You were his mom. He was your son. Nothing would ever change that.
Sure, you felt scared sometimes — all the time, actually, but you never once regretted standing by Nat in her decision to keep him. Every parent felt scared. Every parent worried about being present enough, about teaching right from wrong, about working hard enough to put food on the table while still managing to spend quality time with their children. And you never thought you'd go through something like that — at least not unexpectedly, and definitely not until way further down the line. But how you saw it, Luke was always meant to be yours. The breakup, Travis, the four months apart while you lay awake wondering what Nat had been doing — it was all a necessary evil in order to make him get to you, in order to put that cute, smart, funny little boy in your life.
The three of you had about four good years before the beginning of the end.
There were some challenges — the boards, Nat's studio, spending most of your savings on a bigger house so Luke would grow up in a place with enough space for him to run around —, but nothing you couldn't manage. Until right after his fourth birthday. You were pushing thirty, right in the thick of residency, stretching yourself thin between eighty-hour weeks and a four-year-old and stepping up when Nat went to the studio because she needed to work too. Whatever little time you had to yourself was spent either studying or sleeping or taking care of the house, you were always tired, always running on empty no matter how hard you tried to be everywhere at once. There was always an edge you couldn't hold, a loose end you couldn't quite pull — with Nat getting the worst of it nearly every single time.
You were too busy to spend time alone with her, too tired to have sex, too stressed to think about things that weren't work or house or Luke-related. Little by little, you started to see her less. You started to talk about your obligations instead of everything. You did the one thing you promised you'd never do — you shrank, disappearing before Nat's eyes, not being the anchor you knew she needed. You didn't rise to the occasion, figuring you'd use whatever energy you had left to be the mom Luke deserved, forgetting your wife also needed someone on her corner.
Nat held out well at first. She gave you space, knowing you needed it. She worked extra hard to let you do your thing, to let you chase your dream, the one you were so close to finally getting. One more year, baby, you used to tell her, figuring it’d all go back to normal once you were done with your residency, but she was already starting to slip. You just hadn't caught it yet.
She was the one who brought up the word divorce for the first time, right before Luke turned five, after what was supposed to be an anniversary celebration turned into a screaming match when you didn't make it home by the time you promised you would. You'd stayed behind. Gone into the on-call room at the end of your shift just to wake the other resident so she'd pick up where you'd left off. So exhausted you somehow wound up passed out in one of the beds, phone dead, missing the first night in months you'd spend with your wife alone — Luke away in Van's house, table set with dinner Nat had left the studio early to make. The house spotless because she knew how much you appreciated coming home to everything clean. New lingerie underneath her clothes, a blue pair bought just for you, matching her eyes because you always told her how good she looked in that color.
You showed up at 2 AM, apologizing before you even finished closing the door, but the damage was done. Nat sat in the living room with a new dress on and a disappointed look on her face. You could tell she was trying to stay calm, to stay patient, but it didn't last. Soon, a complaint about your being late turned into you're never around anymore and you think I'm not here because I don't want to? and it's like you're not even fucking trying at this point. You were still tired, still not thinking straight, repeating the mistakes you'd once promised yourself you'd never make again. Speaking before even filtering what you were going to say. I just want some fucking support, you'd said, knowing how unfair it was when Nat had been such a good sport. And she didn't back down. She raised her voice in a way she never had, not even that first time, talking so fast you could barely make sense of any of the words spat out of her mouth.
You slept on the couch that night.
The divorce talk came the next morning, when you and Nat stood awkwardly in the kitchen, silent over the coffee you'd woken up extra early to make as a peace offering.
“I'm sorry I yelled,” she finally said after a long silence, quiet, low. “I shouldn't— I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have gotten so mad.”
“I fucked up, Nat. I should be the one apologizing.”
“No, Y/N, I just…” She took a deep breath. “There's no excuse. I shouldn't yell like that, I didn't even recognize myself, I was acting just like—” Natalie paused. She didn't have to say it, but you saw it in the way she lowered her head, in the way her eyes darkened. Like my father. “It's not right.”
“We're both tired. We're both under pressure,” you shook your head, still foolishly seeing a light at the end of the tunnel that you didn't know had begun to fade. “I know you didn't mean it.”
She swallowed.
“I did mean it,” she muttered, visibly embarrassed, staring at the table. “When I said it. I wanted to hurt you just like you hurt me. It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't… feel like this.”
You grabbed her hand and she let you, which you naively took as a good sign.
“You're human, Nat. You’re allowed to feel things. It's okay.”
Nat stayed quiet for a long moment, her coffee still untouched, the bags under her eyes deep after what you could only assume had been a sleepless night.
“This can't happen again,” she finally said. “Especially with Luke around, I can't— I can't let him see me like that.”
You nodded.
“It won't, baby. We'd never let it. Just…” You took a deep breath, thumb running gently over the back of her hand. “Don't be so hard on yourself.”
You should have known better. Nat was quick to forgive you, to forgive Van, to forgive everyone she loved. But she was never good at sparing herself the same grace.
“I don't ever want him to see something like that. To see me speak to you like that,” she swallowed again. Paused for a moment. Her hand stiffened under yours. “Even if we have to— I don’t know, spend some time apart or something.”
You hardened immediately. That was not the direction you expected the conversation to take.
“Time apart?” You asked, incredulous, suddenly feeling like the ground had been pulled from underneath you. “You mean like…?”
“I'm not talking about a divorce,” the word landed like a punch in your ears. “Not yet. Just… if it doesn't get better.”
“Not yet?” You repeated, blindsided, the talk escalating to places you'd never even thought of just a minute earlier. “You mean there's a chance?”
Nat sighed, licking her lips, nervously chewing on the bottom one.
“I can't let him see me like that, Y/N. I can’t.”
You let out a nervous laugh, humorless, head growing dizzy with panic.
“What about me, Nat? Don't you— I mean—” You let out an exhale, choking on your words, desperate.
“I love you,” she murmured, more resigned than you wished she would have sounded. “That's why I'm saying this.”
Things never went back to normal after that.
You felt Nat slip away exponentially, careful, quiet. Like she'd started policing herself after that horrible fucking night. Like she believed she deserved to get punished — if not by your hands, by her own.
You tried for a while — you really did, doing whatever you could to get home earlier, holding her longer, making an effort to be present even on the nights when you just wanted to lie down and forget about the day you'd had. Initiating sex even though it didn't last as long as it used to, even though it didn't make you feel as connected to your wife as you once had. Telling her you loved her every chance you got, even when she didn't sound like she meant it when she said it back.
The problem was you knew she did. She just wasn't letting herself feel it, not when she thought she'd ruin it all if she simply stopped being careful.
You signed the divorce papers a few months before Luke turned six. You couldn't do it anymore, not when Nat was always miles away, fading right before your eyes. It was unsustainable. With your son getting older, smarter every day that went by, you worried he'd start to notice. And Nat was the one who took the initiative anyway, so there wasn't much you could've done to help it.
“I just…” You'd said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, eyes hollow, set on the floor. “I want Luke. I mean, I— I want him to have us both. To share. I know I didn't birth him, but—”
“Y/N, you're his mom. Of course we’ll share. I'd never take him away from you.”
And now here Nat was, keeping her promise, smiling politely as you stepped into the passenger seat of her car. She'd made a point out of planning the whole trip, knowing how busy you were, telling you I've got it, leave it to me, I know a good place. As long as I don't have to sleep in a tent, you'd joked, so the fact that she was being so amazing about it wouldn't hurt as much.
“MOM!” Luke launched himself at your back, not intimidated by the headrest between his chest and the back of your head. “I missed you!”
Your heart broke a little like it did every time he said something like that.
“I missed you too, buddy,” you said, arms moving back to hold him back in the way you could. “You excited for this weekend?”
“SO EXCITED!” He squealed, bouncing back onto his seat. “I'm gonna sleep in a tent! We're gonna play explorer and I'll make a fire as big as a house and I'm gonna take pictures of all the bugs we find so I can show Emma—”
He rambled on, excited, stumbling over words like he was too hyper to finish his sentences. You simply chuckled, letting him get it all out, knowing the gentle rocking of the car would have him passed out in just a few minutes.
Said and done, he was out cold before Nat even swerved into the highway. She let out a chuckle, soft, looking at him through the rear view mirror for just a second before focusing back on the road.
“Every single time,” she muttered fondly.
You let the silence stretch for a second, staring out your window so you wouldn't have to think about how close Nat sat, how beautiful she looked while driving, how sweet she'd been to offer to pick you up at your house.
“So,” you talked, knowing you'd go crazy if you were alone with your thoughts for too long, “what's that Luke said about sleeping in a tent…?”
She chuckled.
“He saw me packing it this morning. Kept talking about how cool it's gonna be.”
“I thought we'd settled on no tents.”
Nat laughed, easy, calm, making you wonder how she managed to handle everything so well.
“Don't worry. You're gonna like it.”
“Nat,” you said, daring to look at her, serious. “Don’t tell me you didn't rent an RV.”
That fucking smile didn't leave her lips.
“Let's just say I took some creative liberties,” she teased. “It's Luke's birthday after all. He gets what he wants, right?”
“You didn't.”
She let out a snort, clearly amused.
“Just… hang on. You'll see it when we get there.”
“Natalie.”
“I’m serious,” she insisted again. “Don’t knock it yet. Not until you see it.”
“There better be an RV waiting when we get there.”
“…You’ll see, Y/N.”
You shook your head, resigned, not knowing what to expect when she acted this secretive. Of course, the prospect of sleeping in a tent was not appealing, but the cold or the hard floors or the lack of a real roof weren’t what fazed you. It was the fact that you hadn’t brought one. You didn’t think you had to. If what Luke said was right, if you were all going to sleep in a tent, you’d have to share. The idea of being in a cramped up RV with Nat for two days was already more than you thought you could handle, but if you had to share a fucking tent — no walls, not a drop of privacy, nowhere to hide — you actually might not survive the weekend at all.
“Hey,” she broke the silence again after a few minutes, “you mind turning on some music?”
You held back a relieved sigh, because yes, some music would actually be perfect to fill the loud silence that had settled itself in the car at this point — the one that always came when you spent too long with Nat.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Just— here,” Nat stuck her hand in her back pocket, pulling out her phone and handing it to you. “Passcode is Luke’s birthday. Pick whatever you wanna listen to.”
You would've known the passcode even if she hadn't told you, but you didn't mention it. It was the same from when you were still together, the same she'd used for nearly eight years now, the same you'd type every time she handed you the phone and let you take care of the music while she drove.
You also didn't say anything about the photo on her home screen — Luke, around four or five, blue gloves on as he sat on Nat's chair at the studio and pretended to give her a tattoo with a washable marker. You'd taken it. It was one of the rare occasions during that hellish year when the three of you had been together and you'd both been fully present — an innocent trip to the park that had ended in Nat having to swing by work on the way home, and one thing led to another. Luke kept wandering around, the shop still pretty much limited to a small reception area and two stations for Nat and Van, and he was in awe. Kept asking to do what mama did, to sit on mama's chair, for mama to let him give her a tattoo. Nat said yes, because that's what she did. And you took the picture when neither of them was looking.
You remembered foolishly thinking we're gonna make it through this when you went to bed that night, but it was all just a distant memory now. A picture on a phone. You weren't even sure Nat remembered the context behind it.
You scrolled through her music app, trying to find a safe playlist — no love or breakup songs, no songs you used to listen to on the floor of her shop back when the whole place consisted basically of a chair and a prayer, no songs you'd both sing along to in the car with the windows down in another lifetime. You ended up settling for an old 2000s collection with lyrics marketable enough for you to be able to breathe through.
When you were about to place Nat's phone on the center console, it buzzed with a notification. Your eyes drifted involuntarily to the top of the screen — a name, a woman's name, someone named Lucy who apparently really wanted to know how she was doing.
You swallowed it, locking the screen, not mentioning what you'd seen. For all you knew, it could be anybody — a friend whose name had somehow never come up, a client, a fucking real estate agent who still had her number saved or some other doctor following up on a consult or whatever, whoever, it didn't necessarily mean it was romantic. And even if it was, you'd agreed to the divorce. You'd been apart for two years. Nat was young, she was gorgeous, she had needs. She had a right to try and be happy. It wasn't your place to meddle anymore.
You cleared your throat, staring out the window. It was probably nothing anyway.
Thankfully, the drive to whatever place Nat was taking you and Luke wasn't much longer than an hour, and eventually she pulled by a dark wooden gate that led to a large dirt road surrounded by neatly trimmed grass. You couldn't see much further ahead, but it looked nice — well-kept, the sight of trees in the distance, the faint sound of running water coming from somewhere down behind the central pathway.
“We're here,” Nat said, a little smile on her face, eyes drifting to Luke still asleep in the rear view mirror again. “He's gonna lose his shit when he wakes up.”
You looked around, unable to get much of a sense of the place while Nat stepped out of the car to handle the gate.
“What is this place?” You asked, curious, still concerned about the rooming situation.
Nat simply chuckled as she hopped back in.
“Be patient. You'll see.”
Luke shifted slightly in his sleep, and Natalie tapped her fingers on the wheel eagerly, periodically glancing at him with that little dimple popping on her cheek like she might be more excited than the kid about the weekend ahead.
For his sake, of course. Always for his sake. She was nothing but a mother looking forward to giving her son a birthday to remember, it had nothing to do with you, it was all for Luke.
You took a deep breath, pretending not to notice the way she licked her lips or how the morning light snuck through the car window and caught her dark hair.
synopsis . . . after a bitter and chaotic divorce, daniela and you can’t stand being in the same room — but for the sake of your little girl, you would do anything, including agree to couple’s therapy. it starts with weekly sessions of torture that relives the past and turns into the discovery that hate isn’t always the opposite of love.
contains . . . smut (wait for it!!!); p in v, oral (both receiving), angst, flashbacks (pls understand reader’s lore pls pls pls pls pls), mentions of family trauma(?). thats it.
word account . . . 6k words. i would have made this into two chapters instead of one but i decided to post the smut at once you’re welcome
masterlist. previous. next.
birthing a child was, in fact, a little like what you had seen on television. you had screamed and cried and yelled about how you hated daniela for doing this to you while she tried to calm you down and hold your hand. it was way more like the movies than you would’ve liked. but against your personal beliefs, you survived.
and daniela too. without having her fingers broken by your squeezing hand, good for her.
but for you, it took a lot more effort than you thought you were possibly capable of making. four days passed in the hospital and the doctors still weren’t completely sure you were ready to leave yet.
and you weren’t sure either, because you spent those days weak in a hospital bed, sleeping through half the day. you would wake up, play with your newborn, talk a little with daniela about what the doctors had said, eat that terrible hospital food and then fall asleep again. but between those naps, you saw family members too. they had come to see your baby, your mother stayed because she had come to see her baby. your mom and dani stayed awake together while you slept and that resulted in a conversation you remember to this day, even if you honestly couldn’t remember whether you had been in that hospital bed for a month or for a week.
you woke up and saw daniela on the couch next to your hospital bed, a black hoodie on her body, a loose bun in her hair. she had her eyes on the tv while some soccer game played. you watched her for a minute before speaking.
“hey.” your voice was hoarser than you thought it would be.
she immediately looked at you, a soft smile on her lips as she stood up and walked to your bed.
“hey, pretty.”
her hand touched your face to brush a strand of hair away from your forehead. daniela had the sweetest eyes for days now and even scared of everything ahead of you, they brought you some type of comfort and safety.
“where’s my mom?” you asked her as she sat by your side.
“she went to grab a coffee, she’ll be back in a minute.”
time was a different concept for you now that your sleep schedule had been completely changed, but you could still sense a minute.
“where’s my baby?” you pouted at her, her eyebrows raising as she pretended to be offended.
“i’m right here…”
you chuckled under your breath, adjusting yourself on the bed as she chuckled too.
“my other one, you idiot.”
she only rolled her eyes playfully. “she’s at the nursery, i’m gonna get her for you.” daniela leaned down to kiss your forehead and stood up to leave the hospital room. only then did you both notice your mom by the door, two hot coffees in her hands. daniela blushed a little, like she usually did because she was always shy around your parents, even after all this time. she smiled at your mom and left.
your mom still had her younger features as she got closer to your bed. she had that ease in her body that could only mean your father wasn’t around. he had probably gone home to change, or was helping daniela’s father with the move to the new apartment you guys had been given by your parents.
“she’s a good girl; daniela.” your mother started, and there was something in her voice…
“she is.” you heard her sigh. “what?”
“nothing. i think she’ll be a good mom, like you.” your mom sat by your side, adjusting the blanket over your body.
there was a minute of silence. your mother was very affectionate, just not very good at clear and direct communication.
“you’ll be a good mother too, but it’s important to remember what matters the most, you know?” she continued, taking a sip of her coffee as if she was just chatting about nothing important, but she had that look in her eyes.
“what matters the most?” you repeated.
“yes… i mean… sometimes things get hard, you know, it won’t always be like this. but kids need two parents.”
“mom…” you started.
“i’m just saying that kids need stability, that is more important than… being happy all the time.” she looked down at the coffee cup for a second before looking up at you again. “i’ve made my choice, maybe someday you’ll have to make yours as well.” she drank her coffee.
a second later daniela came through the door with your baby in her arms. you got so enchanted by elena that you forgot about what your mom had said, or what she had tried to say. you rocked the baby in your arms and let elena suckle on your milk with heart eyes.
you really, really forgot about what your mom had said. there were too many new things happening at once, there was a baby in your arms learning how to drink milk from you, you were sixteen, daniela was kissing your temple and offering you something to drink every five minutes, there was a tiny apartment waiting for you both. it was terrifying and exciting, building a life together and alone all at once.
back then, loving daniela still felt simple. the problems were the adjustments of being a mother, or working with your dad at a part-time job, or learning how to cook for your wife.
but the years passed and that changed. during the divorce, those words came back to you constantly. quietly. stubbornly.
kids need stability.
during every screaming match whispered after elena had gone to sleep. during every time you looked into daniela’s eyes and saw anger instead of the sweetness they once held. during every night you stared at the ceiling with your wife asleep by your side, wondering if leaving would be selfish and childish, if staying would make you a better mother, a better person, someone who wouldn’t make your daughter have two houses simply because you couldn’t make peace with the very same person you made her with.
but you grew up, you moved out, you were no longer a little girl who didn’t understand why daddy was sleeping in the guest room, and yet your mom stayed with him. perhaps she had no energy left to leave.
you decided to protect your own energy instead of protecting your daughter, and you still felt guilty about it every single time you remembered, so strongly that you felt your throat tighten and your vision blur.
perhaps you really were weak for leaving.
but not as weak as you had been last night.
fuck, last night was definitely not your best moment.
not something you were proud of, definitely.
the hot water felt like fucking holy water on your body. like it could wash your sins from last night, wash your mistake, wash your memories. it couldn’t, but it felt good. you washed your hair, you scrubbed your body, you brushed your teeth.
you still felt her touch on your skin as clearly as the night before. you could hear faint noises outside, she hadn’t left, she was still there for some reason. you brushed your teeth once more, practicing in your head what you would say when you left the peaceful, comfortable bubble of your bathroom, that right now felt like the whole world, protecting you from what you didn’t want to face.
but time passed anyway and you had to leave.
the towel around your body felt like a shield as you walked into the kitchen, daniela only wearing a t-shirt and her boxers, her messy hair in a loose bun as she made coffee.
it was her t-shirt. the one she gave you. so it was yours. she had to look through your closet to get it.
you sighed.
“what are you doing?” your voice sounded a little ruder than intended. you were tense.
“coffee.” she answered casually, then looked over her shoulder at you. the t-shirt was really old, from when she still played and got a lot of jerseys from her coach. “you need some, right?”
you only nodded, not trusting yourself enough to speak. watching her like this brought back way too many memories, some that you would rather bury and forget. so many mornings like this when you were still pregnant, you would come up behind her to hug her and let your head rest on her shoulder, she would kiss your forehead and say good morning with her raspy voice. now you couldn’t bring yourself to be less than ten feet away from her.
“actually, we should talk about last night, you know.” she fully turned to face you, looking at your wet hair. she loved seeing you with your hair wet, and a small smile appeared on her lips. “well, what happened can cause a lot of… questions.” her voice was strangely neutral.
“yes.” you finally found your voice. “yeah, we should talk, make everything clear.”
she gestured with her head for you to get closer and sat down in the kitchen chair. you hated how comfortable she made herself, but that was once her home, her kitchen, her clothes. just as you were once her wife.
“so…” you started, crossing your arms against your chest, fingers pressing against your skin underneath the towel. “last night shouldn’t have happened. we have a kid, we can’t just have a slip whenever you feel like it—”
“a slip? like we’re drug addicts or something?” she asked, so casually that it made you roll your eyes and keep talking.
“you know what i meant.” you shook your head. “it was irresponsible.”
she stared at you for a second too long. her honey eyes seemed like they could see your fucking soul and you hated it with your whole heart. then she huffed out a laugh through her nose.
your face heated up. “what?”
“you should rehearse it again. want me to give you five more minutes?”
you opened your mouth and closed it again. you hated how easily she could read you after all this time, how easy it was for her to remind you that you had spent seven years of your life married to her.
“i didn’t do it.” your voice got sharper.
“you sure?”
you sighed. “we can’t do this again. end of conversation. i have to get changed for work, so—”
“that’s how a conversation works for you, isn’t it?” her tone was cutting, but her voice wasn’t impatient, actually the opposite, it was just… observing. “you talk and i listen, then it’s the end of the conversation.”
silence filled the kitchen for a moment. you felt almost ashamed.
“i’m listening,” you said instead of arguing.
daniela looked down at her coffee for a second, fingers tapping against the mug before stopping completely.
“i was talking to megan yesterday,” she said eventually, slowly.
“of course you were talking to megan,” you mumbled. of course megan had something to do with this. daniela ignored your tone with a loud sigh.
“she told me that if you got jealous over me…” a small smile crossed her lips, softer now, a little embarrassed. “and if i got that happy about it… then maybe there’s still something between us. then i came here to talk to you about it… and… well, what happened happened…” her voice got smaller and she looked down at her mug. of course there was.
it was so thick you could cut it with a knife. you remembered how you felt the day before, like daniela was still yours in some sense of the word, and that wouldn’t come from nowhere. neither would your dreams about her, neither would your fascination every time elena acted like her, neither would your need to look especially pretty every single therapy session. you knew it. but you couldn’t. before you could say something, she kept talking.
“i’m not saying we’re madly in love.” her voice was so vulnerable that your heart ached a little. “but maybe…” she hesitated for the first time since the conversation started. “if there’s something… then maybe…” her voice became so small it was almost a whisper. “maybe we could…”
“stop,” you said. daniela’s mouth closed immediately. “seriously?”
she stayed quiet. she was almost shy.
“do you remember the months before the divorce?” your voice got tighter with every word. “because i do. we couldn’t stay in the same room without fighting. elena was noticing it. it was…” you tried to find a word to describe it without being too harsh, but you couldn’t. you chose silence instead.
“maybe it wouldn’t be like that this time.” her voice was so small that you had to close your eyes for a moment.
she was so sincere… so honest. you wanted to believe her because she was daniela, the same daniela you had wanted ever since you were a stupid kid, the same daniela who had you arguing with her over a wet towel on the bed, the same daniela who had kissed another woman in a dark alley after a fight on a random friday.
she had the same honey eyes, the same soft look, the same gentle hands. you wished you were the same too, the same sixteen-year-old girl who would’ve done anything daniela asked because you were too in love with her to deny her anything.
but you still looked at elena sometimes and wondered how much she remembered of you and daniela’s fights. you still wondered if she heard it when you guys whispered cruelties to each other instead of yelling so she wouldn’t hear through the walls. you still wondered if she would grow up like you and develop that same intense fear of ending up like her mother.
you knew, deep in your heart, that if you had stopped loving daniela, then both of you would’ve become indifferent instead of hateful. then the divorce would’ve been cold and clean instead of chaotic and loud. but loving daniela hadn’t fixed your relationship for months during that last year, so why would anything change now?
“no.” your voice came out firmer this time. “i have to get ready for work, you have to take elena to school, remember?”
her jaw tightened a little at that. “i’m trying to talk to you. you can clock in five minutes late.”
“i don’t want to talk about that anymore. last night was a mistake,” you spat out quickly.
“four mistakes.” she said it quietly, but it still cut you off. “four times. i fucked you four times last night.”
you took a deep breath, trying to keep calm.
“you haven’t changed,” you said, your voice cold and soft. like you expected, you saw a hint of offense in her eyes. “i have to go to work,” you said simply. “bye, daniela.”
you turned around and started walking upstairs. you didn’t look back at her, you didn’t dare see her disappointed, hurting face. you hated yourself for it and deep down you knew she hated you too.
you expected her to yell something that would make you mad and send you marching downstairs to keep fighting, a crude comment, a smart remark, anything.
but she said nothing.
you both moved on with your day. you went to work, daniela went back home, took elena to school, and watched her with her comically big backpack running off to find her little friends. she went back home, got ready for work, and focused on the tasks she had to get done. she was an adult and couldn’t go crying back home because you had broken her tender heart, but she couldn’t get her mind off you.
because how could you? how could you change so fast from night to day? last night, you were putty in her hands, crying her name so beautifully. this morning, you broke her heart. daniela wanted to hate you, she really did, but she couldn’t.
because she knew, deep down in her heart, you were thinking about her too, during work, staring at the wall and remembering her lips on yours.
her lips on yours…
daniela’s lips weren’t desperate. no, they were, in a way, but they were also tender. they reminded you of the first time she kissed you in jacob’s basement when you were sixteen years old. if you tried hard enough, you could still taste the cheap beer on her tongue. it hadn’t been your first kiss, you had kissed your friends before. practice for real kisses, they said. but daniela had been the first one who made your heart pound like a hammer in your chest and your hands tremble a little.
“that was really good,” she had said, her cheeks blushing as she looked into your eyes.
daniela’s cheeks no longer blushed when she kissed you, but somehow it tasted just as sweet and soft as she pressed her lips against yours. and when she pulled back, her forehead still resting against yours, eyes closed, still waiting for your reaction, the moment was so delicate, so fragile. she acted like she was scared that a single wrong word would break the perfect bubble you were in for a second, for a minute.
perhaps she was right, so you didn’t give her much time to speak.
“upstairs…” you murmured.
daniela didn’t need to be told twice.
she grabbed the back of your legs, lifting you off the floor. you had forgotten how strong she was. she wasn’t very tall, nor particularly muscular, but she was hella stronger than she looked, and carrying you upstairs while you kissed her neck seemed like little effort to her. she threw you onto the bed, then climbed on top of you. her weight kept you grounded in the moment, giving you no room to think about anything except her lips on yours, her tongue in your mouth. but it was too slow, perhaps, because you grew needier a minute later.
both of you were completely consumed by desire, but yes, it was a very conscious decision. you could see it on her face. she gave you a moment to back off, to become your usual annoying self and talk about how wrong this was, how you couldn’t do it.
it never came.
instead, you grew impatient. with a heavy sigh, you switched your positions, pinning her shoulders to the mattress. daniela looked surprised for a few seconds, watching as you unzipped her pants. your fingers were quick, and when you pulled the fabric down, you set free her hard cock. you missed it, fuck, you really did.
she was throbbing as you wrapped your hand around it, practically begging for your attention. the pink tip leaked with pre-cum, and while you watched the vein along the side pulse, you felt her hand settle in your hair. you remembered how patiently she had guided you to wrap your lips around it. at first, you barely knew how to do it. it felt weird and strange to have your mouth so full like that. over time, you learned to enjoy it far too much: the way it stretched your lips, the bitter taste of it, the weight of it on your tongue.
it was just like always when you finally leaned down to take it into your mouth again, except it seemed far more sensitive than you remembered. daniela immediately let her head fall back and let out a loud hiss as you ran your tongue along her length. she hadn’t felt this in a while, you could tell.
that made you so happy that, a few moments later, you engulfed the whole member in your mouth. it tasted the same, so daniela.
“god… baby…” she moaned.
you hadn’t heard her call you baby in a long while. a few weeks before the divorce, she had stopped completely. it felt weird, almost like a foreign word in her mouth.
at the same time, it felt so natural.
her fingers tightened at the back of your head as she started guiding you, first downward, encouraging you to take as much as you could into your mouth. she reached over, grabbed a pillow, and tucked it behind her head so she could comfortably watch your mouth taking her cock.
“so good,” she said when you choked just slightly. the light pressure around her tip felt good, way too good, in a way that made it dangerously hard to keep control and not start thrusting into your mouth. so she let her hand fall away and allowed you to set the pace.
daniela knew you wouldn’t disappoint.
you didn’t.
you started bobbing your head, slowly at first, enjoying her taste as if sucking her off was for your pleasure alone. drool slipped from the corners of your lips, coating her length and making it slide so easily into your mouth. you stroked the base while sucking at the tip…
daniela almost rolled her pretty eyes back into her head.
it took her a few more minutes to realize she was going to come way too fucking fast like this. she had had nothing but her right hand for months, and having the perfect view of your mouth on her was making almost every rational thought disappear. you realized it too when you felt her pulse inside your mouth, so you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lower lip to her tip as you sat back on your heels.
daniela quickly reached out, more like lunged at you. her hands fumbled to pull your shirt over your head, and as soon as she did, letting the fabric fall to the floor, she noticed you weren’t wearing a bra. she could have teased you, said something about you being naughty or anything like that, but you hadn’t seen daniela this eager in a long time. she immediately wrapped her lips around one of your nipples and brought her hand up to toy with your other breast like a desperate baby.
you gasped, caught between surprise and pleasure, as she left a small bite there. not hard, just enough to sting. she was so needy. her hands seemed magnetically drawn to your body. you buried your fingers in her curls as she suckled at the hardened nipple. her grip on your waist with her free hand was so tight it bordered on painful, and yet you let her have her fun. it was a pleasant feeling, one that left you uncomfortably wet, far too eager to have her inside you as well.
so you had to push her head back, lowering yourself to kiss her sweet lips again.
“i want you,” she mumbled against your lips.
god, she was really desperate. you could almost feel her body trembling with need.
“i know,” you chuckled low in your throat. it was so good to see her like this, looking at you as if you were the only woman in the world, touching you as if your skin had been made for her, kissing you like you were the air she needed to breathe. “i want you too, dani… i want you inside me.”
“yeah?” she whispered.
you nodded and brought your hands down to pull off your pants.
daniela helped you as you stood up from the bed to take them off, and that was the only moment she let go of your skin for even a second, only to have her hands on you again the very next moment. now dressed only in your panties, you caught her looking at your body, and you could have sworn her mouth watered at the sight. she kissed every bit of skin she could reach as you moved closer: your forearm, your side, your shoulder. she would have kissed your entire body if you had given her half a chance.
but you didn’t, because you wanted her lips on yours. you were just as eager as she was, just as desperate. your body couldn’t stay away from her touch for long either. you craved this every bit as much as she did, and you hated admitting to yourself that she had simply been braver than you, brave enough to reach out first.
“you’re so beautiful,” daniela breathed.
kissing down your neck, she let her hands explore you as if she hadn’t touched you a thousand times before. from your back to your waist, from your ass to your thighs, wherever she could reach, she touched you as if you were made of glass. your skin burned beneath her hands as you straddled her lap.
you were ready to pull your panties aside and have her inside you again right away, but daniela had other plans. she switched your positions once more, your back hitting the mattress as she kissed her way down your body.
that was her chance.
soft, wet kisses left a trail from your neck to your breasts, then lower to your belly, each one making your skin shiver. for a second, it tickled, right on the sensitive part of your stomach, and you couldn’t help letting out a quiet laugh. daniela looked up at you, her eyes shining softly. she smiled and kissed the same spot again, just to hear your laugh one more time.
you still shared the same intimacy you once had. she still knew your body well enough to pleasure it in every possible way, to make you scream or make you laugh. in that moment, you knew you would hardly ever share something this precious with someone else again. the smile slowly faded from your lips, and you could already feel yourself slipping into sadness, but daniela was faster than your own self-sabotaging thoughts.
she quickly pulled off your panties, sliding them down your thighs before spreading your legs for her. you only realized how wet you had become when the cool air hit your center. you were practically dripping, your lips glistening with arousal. daniela’s tongue didn’t take long to find you.
she closed her lips around your clit and flicked her tongue over it. immediately, your legs tightened around her head, and you could feel her smile against you. she had always loved it when you did that. it showed her how much she was pleasing you, and as confident as she was, she still craved your approval in so many ways.
she let her tongue explore you just as her hands had before, except now it was more precise, finding all the places you had always loved. it felt like a kiss, a very wet one. her tongue moved lower as soon as your hands found her curls in a gentle caress.
“you’re so good, dani,” you cried out as she teased you.
your arousal mixed with her saliva, coating her skin, but she didn’t seem to care. if anything, she only grew hungrier. whether it was because of your moans or your praise, daniela seemed to be having the time of her life while she focused entirely on you. every movement drew another reaction from your body, making your legs tense and your body squirm a little more.
she had always been good at this. not because of experience—at the beginning, she hadn’t had much of that. she hadn’t had many girls or a lot of experience before you. she simply carried a genuine need to please you, to make you feel good. she took pride in your pleasure, and at the same time, found complete satisfaction in giving it to you. that was something no technique or experience could truly teach someone. her skill came entirely from her desire to be good for you.
that was why your praise went straight to her head. and to her cock.
good for her, you noticed how her hips unconsciously rocked against the bed, seeking the soft friction of the sheets, chasing even the slightest bit of relief.
you gently pushed her hair back, just enough for her to pull away. that was when you felt her hot breath against your sensitive skin.
“i want you inside…” you whispered.
daniela’s chin was covered with your honey. she smiled when you said that and nodded, but made no move to clean her face. instead, she sat up between your legs. you could see her rigid cock only centimeters away from your pussy.
she took off her shirt, tossing it onto the floor with the rest of your clothes. now both of you were completely naked. daniela hated wearing bras unless she was on the field. for a second, you admired her small, perky breasts before looking back up at her face. she was staring right at you, her expression unreadable for a moment.
“you’re as beautiful as ever,” she murmured. “just as tasty as ever, y/n.”
it didn’t sound like dirty talk, or the kind of thing people said during sex just to make their partner feel good and set the mood. it sounded honest. painfully honest.
“you’re still mine?” she whispered.
then she leaned forward, placing a hand on either side of your head. her cock brushed against your pussy, and you bit your lip.
but she barely seemed to notice your reactions, the way your hips rolled upward on instinct, the way your eyes kept drifting down to her hard cock, almost lined up with your entrance.
“look at me.” her voice was almost pleading. “say it to me.”
you looked into her honey-colored eyes, at her beautiful face, at the long curls falling over her shoulders, almost creating a curtain around the two of you.
you placed your hands on her soft cheeks.
you had forgotten how much you loved kissing her face.
you almost wished you could do it now, but perhaps that would be too much.
perhaps that would be more intimate than sex.
perhaps that would be more intimate than laughing with her when she kissed your stomach and made you laugh while you were completely naked.
“i’m yours, daniela,” you said.
you told yourself it was a lie. in the back of your mind, you were no longer her wife. but as she finally pushed inside you, the first inches forcing your body to accommodate her, making your mouth fall open in a silent moan and your eyes close so you could fully feel how good it was to have her again after such a long, long time, you realized that perhaps you weren’t lying.
you could no longer be hers, but judging by the way your body accepted her, by the way it reacted and responded to her and only her—not even to yourself, only to daniela—then maybe it was the truth.
maybe it was the truest thing you had said in a long while, whispered in the dark for daniela’s ears alone.
“you’re mine,” she said back, breathless.
as she finally bottomed inside you, she didn’t move for a moment. she just stayed there, holding you close, her eyes locked on your face.
“say it again.”
“dani…” you breathed.
“say it again for me. say it now.”
her command sounded so desperate that it felt more like a plea.
you opened your eyes again.
that expression on her face…
she was trying to be dominant, but you could see right through her. that was something you had always been far too good at. she could act as confident and commanding as she wanted, but she had been yours first.
“you’re mine. say it to me.”
daniela nodded immediately as your hands wrapped around her shoulders.
“i’m yours, all yours,” she said, her voice so sweet.
so sweet that it stood in sharp contrast to the intensity between you. you started to moan uncontrollably. at first, you tried to bite your lip and keep quiet, but you couldn’t. eventually, you gave up and simply tried not to get too loud.
daniela loved every sound that escaped you, the smile on her face gave her away, so did the way she held you closer.
she let her body fall on top of yours, completely trapping you beneath her weight.
she started kissing your neck. by now, she was moving on pure instinct, just fucking into you as deeply as she could. your legs trembled slightly with every thrust. she lowered one hand to wrap your thigh around her waist, and you followed her lead.
“nice and deep, that’s how my girl likes it, yeah?” she panted against your neck.
you nodded immediately, your nails dragging down her back, leaving a reddish trail she would love to see in the morning.
her grip on your thigh was definitely painful by now, but you couldn’t focus on it when she started moving faster. gradually, her thrusts became almost punishing, as if she were personally punishing you. well, god knew she had enough reasons to do it. but if that was her intention, it wasn’t working, because even through the painfully delicious stretch, she found that sweet spot inside you that made your eyes nearly roll back and the sweetest moans spill from your lips.
she almost groaned when she felt you squeezing around her, your walls tightening in a way that made it almost difficult for her to move, gripping her like a vice. the foreplay had left both of you too close to the edge. that, or perhaps the fact that you were so desperate for each other that there was barely room for anything else in your minds.
“dani…”
when you said her name so sweetly, as if she were the only thing that mattered, daniela became completely desperate. she lost whatever technique or skill she had left. her movements became pure desire. she buried her face in the crook of your neck again, breathing in your scent. she lost herself in it.
her hips snapped faster, harder.
you cried out.
you could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure in your lower belly growing tighter as you rolled your hips up to meet her. she barely pulled away from you now, chasing the climax that seemed to draw closer with every passing second. your sweaty skin pressed together, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, her breath and muffled moans against your neck, the relentless rhythm that kept drawing reactions from you.
“come for me. come for me now,” she commanded between harsh breaths.
you finally came, your whole body tensing as your eyes rolled back and your back arched off the bed. high-pitched moans spilled from your lips as the pleasure washed over you. daniela did her best to keep moving with you through it, only pulling away at the last second.
she didn’t had to lower her hand to stroke herself or even just hump your belly, she waited the very last second, you felt the warm jet hit your belly, four of them, so thick that part of you wished she had shot them right into you.
she kept her face buried in your neck for a minute, maybe two, listening to the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. eventually, a soft chuckle escaped you.
she finally looked up.
her face was sweaty, her eyes slightly unfocused, her lips swollen. a hint of a confused smile appeared on her face when she heard you laughing.
“what?”
“that was a huge fucking mistake,” you said honestly.
a second of silence passed before you sighed deeply.
“but since we’re here, let’s make the most of it.”
you switched your positions once again, straddling her lap, she looked up at you, surprised and slightly amazed as you settled comfortably against her, bringing her semi hard cock to your entrance once again. for a moment, neither of you spoke.
the next morning, you regretted this deeply.
but for one night, you allowed yourself to believe the lie, or maybe you allowed yourself to tell the truth.
even in the dark, even whispered between dirty and reckless words, there would always be a part of you that belonged to her.
SYNOPSIS: You didn’t believe in fate. Then Manon left, and somehow the universe kept dragging the two of you back toward each other anyway.
CONTENT: idol!Manon Bannerman x singer!Fem Reader
TAGS: Angst, Hurt/a lil Comfort, Yearning, a tad bit of fluff, Melancholy
WC: 4.6k
A/N: this might be one of my favourite things that i've wrote 😭
Manon knew she was going to lose you the second she signed the contract.
Everyone around her called it a dream. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hybe. Training in LA. The possibility of debuting. Every conversation after that became full of excitement, congratulations, and plans for the future. But every future she imagined had one problem.
You. Not because she didn’t love you. God, that was the problem. She loved you too much.
The company never outright told her she couldn’t date, but they didn’t have to. She saw the way the trainers talked about image, sacrifice, devotion. She watched girls cry in practice rooms because they weren’t improving fast enough. Watched people disappear overnight after evaluations. Everything about the industry screamed the same thing…
There was no room for distractions.
And Manon was terrified that one day, you would become one.
At first, she told herself she could balance both. Long calls. Late night texts. Waiting for each other across time zones. You were patient enough for it, loyal enough for it. Every time she spiraled, you soothed her like it was instinct. Honestly it almost made it worse… You trusted her completely.
Meanwhile, she was falling apart in LA.
Training consumed everything. Her body hurt constantly, bruises marred her body. Some nights she’d stare at the ceiling of the dorms so exhausted she couldn’t even cry properly. Other girls practiced while injured, smiling through humiliation because nobody could afford weakness.
Every time your name lit up her phone, relief hit her so hard it hurt.
You became the only thing that felt safe anymore. Which was exactly why she started pulling away.
You noticed it immediately, of course you did. Shorter texts. Missed calls. The way she hesitated before saying “I love you,” not because she meant it less, but because she meant it too much. Because hearing your voice made her want to throw everything away and go home.
But you never got angry, you just waited. She could tell the waiting was ruining you.
Manon heard it in the exhaustion behind your reassurances. Saw it in the photos your friends posted where your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. Every sacrifice she made for her career was becoming your sacrifice too, and you kept acting like it was nothing.
You would’ve followed her forever if she asked.
The final straw came after a monthly evaluation. One of the trainees had gotten screamed at for “lacking focus.” Another was quietly sent home the next day. Manon remembered standing in the practice room afterward, sweat cooling against her skin while her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Three missed calls.
A text underneath.
I know you’re busy. Just wanted to hear your voice for a second. I miss you.
Manon stared at the message until her vision blurred.
All of a sudden all she could think was that loving her was turning you into someone who waited around for scraps of attention. Someone who kept shrinking themselves to fit into the empty spaces she left behind.
She couldn’t do that to you. So she made the choice for both of you. Cowardly, maybe. Cruel, definitely. But easier than admitting the truth.
She was scared that if she kept loving you while chasing this dream, eventually she would fail at one of them. She already knew which loss would destroy her more.
The day she called you, her hands shook so badly she almost dropped her phone three separate times.
She sat alone on the floor of the dorm hallway because she couldn’t breathe properly inside her room. Trainees passed occasionally, but nobody paid attention. Everyone here was always crying about something.
Manon called you on a random Tuesday, right in the middle of your music theory class.
The lecture hall was dim and stuffy, the professor talking about harmonic function while students typed notes into their laptops. None of it registered. Your phone lit up in your lap- her name on full display, almost like it hadn’t been missing from your screen all week.
It felt wrong immediately.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, the sound loud enough to turn some heads. The hallway outside was colder and smelled faintly of dust. Fingers fumbled against the screen as you answered, your heart beating out of your chest.
“Hey… Y/N?”
Relief hit you first. “Oh my god, Manon. You’re okay…”
You knew somewhere, deep down in your soul what was coming next. Manon hadn’t called you in days. When she did text, it was brief. But still- you didn’t want to admit to yourself that it was even possible that she would-
“Break up-” Her voice faltered. “We need to break up.”
“What?” Your vision blurred, hallway lights smearing together. Heat pooled behind your eyes, threatening to spill.
“I need to focus on my career- I just-“ your girlfriend well- ex paused, trying to cover up the burn in her throat. “You don’t deserve to be stuck with me like this.”
“Manon, I told you I can wait,” you said, the sentence tumbling out before you could even think. “I’ll wait however long this takes, just please-“
Manon cut you off. “I’m doing this for our own good. Please understand.”
There was a moment of silence. Static filled the line. Your brain spiraled, grasping for solutions that no longer existed- every version of yourself that could make her stay.
You waited for her to say your name again, say it was all a prank, anything. But instead, the call ended with a click.
Ten years of friendship and romance gone in one second.
Your phone slipped from your hand, your body decided it didn’t want to hold it anymore for you. It hit the hardwood floor, spinning slowly, the screen still glowing with a picture of you and her, it was almost mocking you.
You stared at it until your eyes burned.
All the memories of your youth came flooding back at once. You’d promised yourself you’d never do this again. Never fall for a friend, it’d only ever lead to more heartbreak in the end.
The first time you kissed her, you were sixteen.
“I bet you won’t climb to the roof of that building with me.” Manon had pointed to a 12-story high apartment.
“You bet wrong, let’s go.”
“Are we being deadass?” Manon asked, half-laughing.
“Why not? Let’s go!” you emphasized, gesturing to the building.
You’d climbed to the roof breathless. Laughing, daring each other to look down. Lucerne stretched thin beneath you, the city lights constellations of their own. The night air was clean and crisp, the concrete on the roof was still warm from the day. You lay on it side by side, shoulders nearly touching.
Manon’s laugh came easier then.
“Your back is going to kill you tomorrow,” she said, eyes fixed on the stars above.
“Yours won’t be any better, miss weak immune system,” you chuckled.
“Hey! What does that have to do with anything?” She turned your head to look at you, mock-offended.
A comfortable silence fell over the two of you. The stars felt brighter up there, the city lights couldn’t quite reach them.
Somewhere along the way, your gaze drifts to Manon. She was beautiful in the quiet, framed by the rooftop shadows. You’d been feeling this for a while, but now you were certain…
You were falling for your best friend.
“Y/N… You’re staring,” the older girl said like it was the simplest thing ever. Heat rose to your cheeks.
“What can I say? You’re a better view than the stars.”
It was a joke. It really was, you always flirted with her like this. But this time… it felt just a little different.
“Oh,” she teased, smiling. “So you’re obsessed with me?”
“Well, I won’t be denying that.” You said a little too easily.
Below, the city pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. The rooftop felt like a secret you could keep forever.
You didn’t know yet that your body would return to this moment over and over again, searching for answers.
Your fingers brushed hers by accident. She’d gone still.
You turned your head back to her and found she’d already been looking at you.
Her fingers made their way to your cheek. Her mouth pressed softly against yours, hesitant. You answered by wrapping your arm around her back and kissing her with certainty.
The world got quieter, the passing cars went silent. There was only warmth and the way her hand fit against your skin.
“Please never leave me.” It slipped out of your mouth.
“Of course,” Manon murmurs, forehead against yours. “Y/N, I'd never leave you for anything.”
If only you could tell yourself the heartbreak she’d put you through in five years.
The air in Lucerne was different without Manon.
Something was just- off. It felt like something essential had been removed and everyone was pretending not to notice. You’d told yourself that the breakup made sense. Of course she’d leave. Of course you’d been stupid enough to think your love could outrun her ambition, that wanting her hard enough might be enough to keep her with you.
The ache never went away, it settled in, became routine- something you learned to carry instead of fix. Breathing around it got easier with time. Some days, you could even laugh again. The air might’ve been different, but adaptation came naturally. Even if memories with her resurfaced everywhere you went, you’d be okay.
But on a particularly hard night, you impulsively wrote a song.
It wasn’t intentional. You just wanted to write out your feelings- some way to get Manon out of your head before the thoughts swallowed you whole. The words spilled out faster than you could censor them, every line unmistakably about her.
You leaned back in your chair, pulse racing, staring at the ceiling. This was insane, you knew it was. You were painfully self-aware, and you were definitely not okay. Turning the worst moment of your life into a song felt reckless, almost embarrassing.
Still, the idea of hearing it out loud lingered. You spent the next few hours putting together a rough demo, working faster than you ever had before. No perfectionism, just a minute-long recording, voice a little shaky, the production simple. When you hit the post button on TikTok, it wasn’t with any expectations. You went to sleep thinking nothing of it.
By the time you woke up, the demo had already begun to spread.
Notifications stacked so fast you had to silence your phone. Comments flooded in, people saying how relatable it was, how they could feel your emotion. They asked for a full version, asking if you were okay. With nothing better to do, you finished the song. You released it.
A week later, your inbox was unrecognizable, filled with names you didn’t know. Messages you reread twice to make sure they were real. When Geffen reached out asking if you had more material, your hands shook so badly you almost dropped your phone.
And somewhere in a rehearsal room in LA, Manon heard your music.
She noticed your name first. Her stomach dropped so suddenly that she had to drop to the floor. For a split second she wondered if it was someone else, another Y/N, another voice- but then the song began.
It was you.
Not the version of you she’d convinced herself was fine. Or the smiling, patient girl she’d left behind with broken-promises. This was raw, unfiltered. Your voice trembled in a way she recognized too well- how it did only when you were in the darkest time of your life. Every lyric felt like it had been pulled straight from unfinished conversations.
Her chest tightened, breath stuttering as the weight hit her all at once. She’d told herself leaving you was mercy. She’d told herself you’d do better without her. She’d told herself you were strong enough to be okay. The song proved her wrong.
It wasn’t angry, and that almost made it worse. It was full of love that had nowhere to go, love she’d abandoned, love she’d asked you to wait with, knowing she might never come back the same.
“Manon! Break is over,” Missy called.
Manon didn’t answer.
Her eyes burned, vision blurring as she stared down at her phone. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, not when everyone in the room probably heard what she’d done to you, not when she was already sure everyone hated her.
For the first time since she left, Manon understood something terrifyingly clearly.
You hadn’t stopped loving her, and she had never really let you go.
Music had always been yours long before it became anyone else’s.
Music to you was staying up at two in the morning because a lyric suddenly appeared in your head and refusing to sleep until you wrote it down. It was recording terrible voice memos while walking to class. It was scribbling unfinished verses into notebook margins instead of paying attention to lectures.
Manon loved every part of it, even before anyone else cared
“You know this is insane, right?” you muttered one night, cross-legged on your dorm room floor with your laptop balanced precariously on your knee.
The room was dim except for cheap fairy lights hanging unevenly above your bed. An unfinished demo looped through your speakers for what had to be the hundredth time.
Manon lay sprawled across your mattress behind you, half-asleep but stubbornly refusing to go to bed until you finished.
“Nope,” she said immediately. “Play it again.”
You groaned dramatically. “Manon, you’ve heard this same thirty-second chorus for like three hours.”
“And it slaps every single time.”
“It literally does not. That is most definitely glaze.”
“It literally does,” she argued. “You just hate your own talent.”
“Uhuhh, glaze! Glaze from my girlfriend!”
You turned around enough to glare at her, but she only grinned wider, chin tucked into your pillow.
Back then, making music had felt safe because it belonged only to the two of you. Tiny projects uploaded anonymously online. Songs with barely any listens and let’s be honest, all the listens were probably from Manon.
Manon treated every single one like it mattered.
She’d sit through dozens of takes without complaint, even when your frustration made you impossible to be around. She learned enough production terminology just so she could pretend to understand what you were rambling about.
“You hear that layering?” you’d ask excitedly.
“No idea what that means,” she’d reply honestly, “but yes, baby, it sounds sexy.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair.
When you started talking about maybe putting together a real EP someday, something more cohesive and vulnerable and terrifying, Manon looked at you like the idea was obvious.
“You should.”
The certainty in her voice startled you. “You haven’t even heard the concept yet.”
“I don’t need to.” She sat up then, reaching for your wrist gently. “You’re the most talented person I know.”
You scoffed immediately. “Soo why are we lying today?”
“I’m serious.” Her thumb brushed across your skin absentmindedly. “You feel things bigger than other people do. And it sucks sometimes because you overthink everything and cry at the ‘Happier’ music video,”
“I do not cry at music videos.”
“You cried at the dog.”
“The dog was old, Manon.”
She laughed softly before growing serious again.
“When you make music, people feel that.” Her eyes stayed locked on yours. “You make people feel less alone.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the memory now. Because the first person who ever believed you could actually do something with music was Manon.
Long before TikTok, long before strangers memorized your lyrics.
It was Manon sitting on your dorm floor at nineteen, listening to rough demos through blown-out speakers like they were already masterpieces.
That’s probably why losing her hurt so badly. Every dream you had somehow still had her fingerprints on it.
A few years later, Manon bursted into your dorm without knocking, breathless, eyes too bright.
“I know this sounds crazy, but I got scouted to be a trainee for Hybe.”
You stared at her for a second, waiting for the second part of the joke. “What- how? Is this a prank? And how can you say that so calmly?”
She laughed in response, “Yeah they kinda just dmed me on Insta and were like, ‘Hi Manon, we want to send you personal trainers and then get you to LA’. And I might’ve maybe said yes.”
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “Manon you’re going to be famous.” Then, it clicked. “Wait- Hybe? That’s K-pop, you literally know nothing about K-pop.”
“Hey,” she protested, but she was smiling so wide it didn’t even sound like she was trying to fight you. “I know… things. Like- BTS!”
“You know nothing. You’re going to get eaten alive.”
“I’ll survive,” she said, softer now. “You can tell me everything you know.”
She turned toward the window, shoulders tightening. You followed her gaze, but there was nothing there.
Pride flooded you anyway. “I’m so proud of you.”
Manon swallowed. “Yeah.”
You stepped closer. “This is good- This is everything you’ve wanted.”
She nodded again, but her gaze dipped to your mouth. “Yeah.”
You kissed her, hoping it would smooth out whatever doubt she was having. Her lips moved with yours, but it was different. Careful, it felt like she was already holding herself back.
When you pulled away, her hands were still on your waist, but they didn’t tighten the way they always did.
You smiled like you didn’t feel the space opening between you.
“You’re scared.” You said, voice soft.
Manon’s breath hitched. “No.”
“You are.”
She looked away. “It’s complicated.”
You wanted to ask her what it meant, to sit her down and pull every fear out of her, name it, fix it. You wanted to tell her that distance didn’t scare you, that contracts and time zones couldn’t destroy what you had..
But she leaned forward again like she needed the conversation to stop, and you let her.
Because you loved her. And without realizing it yet, you were already learning how to wait.
The night before Manon leaves for LA, you find yourself in her bed. You were curled into her, trying to memorize the shape of her before the world took her away.
Manon lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Your fingers traced her ribs slowly.
“Babe, talk to me,” you whispered.
Manon’s words caught in her throat. “I can’t.”
“You can,” you insisted. “You can tell me anything.”
She turned her head, and for a second she looked like she might cry.
“It’s going to be like a year,” she said, voice quiet. “Before I can tell you anything about this.”
Your stomach dropped. Though you weren’t surprised, K-pop companies usually had very strict contracts.
“I understand that, but I can tell something else is bothering you, what is it?”
“I just- don’t want to burden you. I know this’ll be hard on our relationship,” Manon squeezed your fingers. “And I understand if you’d want to break it off.”
The words hit you like a brick.
You sat up slightly, staring down at her. “Manon.”
Her eyes teared up, she blinked. “I’m not asking you to wait or put your life on pause for me.”
You swallowed, hard. “I choose you, I don’t care how long you’ll be gone for.”
Manon’s breath caught.
“I swear, you will never be a burden to me. I’ll wait however long this takes,”
Manon’s lips parted, you knew she wanted to argue and you wouldn’t let her.
You leaned down, forehead to hers. “Please, don’t shut me out.”
You could feel her tears now, her arms wrapped around you with desperate force.
“I love you,” she whispered into your hair.
And you whispered it back, a promise that could override time. You stayed her girlfriend, loved her too much to leave.
By the time you moved to LA, your life had momentum.
Interviews where you laughed at jokes that weren’t even funny, smiling for cameras until your cheeks ached. You learned how to pretend you were fine so convincingly you almost believed it. Even though you knew you were staying in the same area as Manon again.
You started to make it big as a soloist. People started recognizing you on the street. And then the people in Geffen started talking about Katseye.
Manon had made it in and- wait… Wasn’t her training purely with Hybe? But this was a collab with Geffen. Then you realized this was probably one of those things she just couldn't tell you.
You were under the same agency- but that was fine. It’s not like you saw Olivia Rodrigo at all and she’s under Geffen.
So you decided everything was still fine. Until you saw the clips of how Katseye’s choreography captured the audience- how the crowd screamed. How Manon moved like she was born to do this. How she was smiling almost like she’d smiled at you.
Your chest tightened so fast you couldn’t catch your breath. All the “getting over Manon” you had done was gone in an instant. You shut off your phone hoping it would silence the ache. It didn’t.
Before you knew what you were doing, you were in your car on the way to the nearest club.
You were just a face in the crowd of many, praying no one would recognize you. The noise swallowed you whole, you drank too fast and that was fine because at least you weren’t crying over Manon again.
Someone slid into the bar stool beside you, seemingly not knowing who you were and you needed that.
“What brings you here tonight?”
“Someone I need to forget,” you said absentmindedly, completely honest.
“Oh? Well perhaps I can help with that.” You hummed in response.
“I’m Sam by the way, and you are?”
“Y/N, how about you? Why are you here?”
“Same as you actually. How about I get you a drink?”
You should’ve left. You knew you should’ve left. But the attention was a much needed distraction. She wasn’t your friend, just some stranger, there’d be less heartbreak. Right?
She laughed at your jokes, you let her touch your wrist when she talked. And when she asked if you wanted to go somewhere quieter, you agreed a little too fast.
Manon found out about your new girlfriend the same way she found out everything about your life now. Through the internet.
She’d been scrolling on Twitter during a styling session when a headline caught her eye…
She shouldn’t have clicked it, she knew that. Unfortunately, her fingers moved faster than her brain could process.
The photos loaded slowly, one after another.
You, laughing.
You, tucked against someone’s side.
You, smiling in a way she hadn’t seen in years.
The girl beside you was beautiful. Dark hair, easy grin, her hand resting naturally against your waist like Manon’s had before.
“Manu?”
Sophia was talking to her, but she couldn’t bring herself to respond. All she could think was:
Oh.
You really were moving on.
A strange nausea twisted in her chest, sharp and humiliating. She’d broken up with you. She’d wanted you to heal. To find happiness outside of her.
So why did it feel like she was being ripped apart anyway?
Sophia touched her shoulder gently. “You okay?”
Manon blinked hard, locking her phone screen immediately.
“Yeah,” she lied automatically.
But the rest of the day felt wrong.
Every rehearsal mirror became unbearable because she kept imagining your hands on somebody else instead of hers. Every love lyric in practice tracks suddenly sounded cruel.
She realized she had no right to be upset. She was the one who left. That night, alone in her apartment, Manon made the mistake of looking deeper.
Your fans loved Sam.
There were edits of you together already. Slow-motion videos with romantic music layered over them. Comment sections full of people talking about how happy you looked lately.
Manon clicked through a rabbit hole of posts and clips. One sat with her in particular.
You were leaving an interview laughing while Sam walked beside you. The paparazzi yelled questions over each other until one voice cut through clearly:
“Y/N! Is she your girlfriend?”
You froze for a second before glancing toward Sam.
Then you smiled.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly.
Manon shut the phone off immediately.
For the first time since the breakup, the consequences of her choices finally felt real. You were becoming a life she no longer belonged to. She couldn’t just go back to Lucerne and kiss you anymore… You were gone.
The club lights blurred together in streaks of blue and gold, music vibrating through your ribs hard enough to drown out your thoughts. Sam’s hand rested on your waist as she guided you through the crowd, warm and familiar.
“Baby, you look amazing,” she murmured against your ear.
You laughed softly, though it sounded distant even to yourself. “You’ve said that like five times tonight.”
“Because it’s true.”
She pulled you toward a quieter hallway near the bathrooms, away from the suffocating heat of the dance floor. For a second, you let yourself lean into it. Into her.
Into the idea that maybe this could work if you just tried hard enough.
Then your eyes lifted.
And the world stopped.
Manon stood at the other end of the hallway, frozen mid-step.
The noise of the club disappeared instantly, drowned out by the sudden rushing in your ears. She looked different than she had in Lucerne- more polished, dressed in dark clothes that fit her too well. But her eyes were exactly the same.
And they were already locked onto yours.
Sam felt your body tense immediately.
Her hand loosened around your wrist. “...Oh.”
You couldn’t breathe.
Manon looked like she couldn’t either.
For one horrible second, all three of you just stood there suspended in silence, the years between you collapsing all at once.
Sam followed your stare back to Manon before looking at you again.
Understanding settled across her face slowly, painfully.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.
Your throat tightened. You hated yourself for how quickly tears burned behind your eyes.
Sam let out a small laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Wow.” She looked down briefly, shaking her head. “I really never stood a chance.”
“Sam-”
“No, it’s okay.” Her voice stayed soft, which somehow made it hurt worse. “I think part of me already knew.”
You opened your mouth, but no explanation felt big enough. Not for this.
Not for ten years of loving someone.
Sam looked back toward Manon, who still hadn’t moved.
“She’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room,” she said quietly. “To be honest, you are too.”
Your chest cracked open at the words.
“I did try,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.
“I know.” Sam smiled sadly. “That’s why I’m not angry.”
The music swelled again around you, distant and muffled. Then Sam stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss against your cheek.
“Go talk to her.”
Your breath caught. “Sam…”
“You deserve closure, Y/N.”
Sam gave your hand one last squeeze before disappearing back into the crowd.
Leaving you standing there and Manon standing twenty feet away, staring at you… She still loved you enough to ruin herself over it.
A/N: oml help i've spent my whole day fixing up old fanfic drafts and making new ones when i have SEVEN finals to study for 💔
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"yeah she hates me," you told aeri and ning as you set your phone down.
you were parked outside the apartment still, hands gripping the steering wheel even though the car wasn’t moving yet. ning sat beside you in the passenger seat while aeri was stretched forward from the backseat, leaning between both seats.
"you need to stop saying that," ning sighed.
"maybe i should just put them on the porch and run away," you muttered.
"if you wanna be a pussy then go ahead," aeri said immediately.
you turned around to pout at her, "don't be mean to me."
"we just think you should at least try and talk to her," ning said gently.
"you're right,” you let out a long breath, staring out the windshield for a second before nodding and moving your hand toward the gear shift. "this could be our last time talking."
"i really don't think so, but whatever you need to tell yourself," aeri said.
"i am like actively shaking right now. i don't know if i can drive," you admitted, holding your hands up slightly so they could see. "one of y'all gon have to take the wheel halfway through."
"should we get out?" ning leaned back slightly to whisper to aeri.
"y/n, you need to lock the fuck in," aeri said, grabbing your shoulders. "i will buy you an entire case of whatever alcohol you want if you can drive us there and back safely."
"ok i am not that much of an alcoholic."
"debatable," aeri replied.
"but i am locking in because i understand how important our safety is," you said seriously.
"that's good," ning nodded approvingly.
you pointed at aeri before finally putting your seatbelt on properly. "that promise still stands though."
"however much and whatever you want," aeri confirmed.
"okay let's go," you sighed, finally putting the car in drive and pulling out.
the ride over was mostly ning and aeri trying to talk you down from your spiral. ning kept reassuring you lara probably just needed time, while aeri switched between roasting you and hyping you up because apparently that was her version of emotional support.
"we should've taken shots before this," you muttered as you pulled up outside lara's place.
"so then you really wouldn't have been able to drive, alcoholic," aeri said from the backseat.
"that would've been fine too," you sighed dramatically.
"bro just text her so we can go do whatever you want afterwards to feel better," aeri said.
you groaned but pulled your phone out anyway, texting lara that you were outside. after a second, you grabbed her keys from the cupholder and stepped out of the car.
as you walked up the driveway, you kept glancing back toward the car, but the top was up, and your windows were tinted enough that you couldn't even properly see ning and aeri staring at you supportively from inside.
"hi y/n," lara said as she stepped outside.
"hey," you said quietly, walking a little closer. "how have you been?"
"i've been well," lara nodded.
"that's good."
"how about you?" she asked. "i heard you and manon were lost at the party."
you immediately groaned. "bro, i was literally in the bathroom with like ten people and manon was in the middle of the dance floor. neither one of us was lost, megan just wasn't looking."
that made lara laugh a little under her breath. "was the rest of the party fun?"
"all i really remember is being in the bathtub."
"do i wanna know?" she asked, eyebrows lifting.
"sometimes youngseo gets drunk and decides the bathtub is the best place on earth and drags everybody in there with her," you explained.
"that's actually insane."
"it really is."
"but... i hope your night wasn't too bad?" you asked more awkwardly this time.
"i kinda just got home and laid in bed thinking about everything,” lara shrugged lightly.
"that's fair," you nodded slowly.
you looked down at the keys in your hand, turning them over once before finally speaking again.
"listen lara, i just wanted to say i'm really sorry for everything. i know i basically destroyed your trust by not telling you."
lara stayed quiet, listening.
"in high school i didn't even fully know for sure," you continued. "and then i got to college and everything just kinda... changed. there were way more options and experiences and people and i ended up sleeping with a lot of people and figuring myself out." you laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. "and i know you're probably one of the least judgmental people ever, but i don't know... i just didn't want you looking at me differently. it felt like this whole separate life i was living."
"right... so that was a lot,” lara blinked a couple of times.
"sorry," you winced. "i just wanted to say everything sober this time when i could actually think through what i meant."
"i appreciate that," she said softly.
"yeah." you nodded quickly. "i just wanted to get it all out there... in case this is like our last time really talking."
"what?" lara frowned immediately.
"just know i'll always have love for you and you're genuinely the best friend i've ever had."
"we literally live next door back home," lara said slowly. "we're gonna see each other again."
"i mean..." you looked away.
"no, we're literally gonna see each other during the holidays," she said, sounding more confused now.
"maybe," you muttered, "but tell your family i'll miss them; i liked hanging out with everybody."
"why are you talking like you're dying?" lara stared at you for a second.
"i'm not dying," you laughed a little.
"y/n."
"i'm just saying if this is the end of the friendship, then—"
"okay first of all, stop being dramatic," lara cut in. "and second, what do you mean 'if'? why are you acting like this?"
you looked down at the ground instead of answering right away. "i don't know. it just feels like i ruined everything."
"that does not sound like what you're actually trying to say."
"what?" you blinked at her.
lara's expression shifted slightly, concern slipping in underneath the annoyance. "you keep talking like this is goodbye forever."
"it's not forever," you said quickly. "i'm just saying stuff changes."
"y/n," lara said more firmly this time. "are you okay?"
"yeah?" you answered way too fast.
"don't do that." she narrowed her eyes slightly.
"do what?"
"that thing where you joke around instead of answering seriously."
you let out an awkward laugh. "i'm literally fine."
"i'm serious," lara said quietly, still watching you carefully.
"lara, i said i'm okay."
she didn't respond immediately, and the silence made your stomach twist a little.
"but i'll leave you alone now," you said after a second, already starting to step back.
"are you sure? megan or manon might still be here if you wanna see them," she said, gesturing back toward the house.
"it's fine. aeri and ning are waiting for me in the car," you said.
"...okay," lara nodded slowly, though she still looked unsure. "just text me when you get home at least."
"i will." you held her keys out toward her again, and she finally took them from your hand.
"thank you for bringing them back," she said softly.
"yeah. of course,” you gave her a small smile. “bye lara.”
"bye y/n."
you turned around quickly after that, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets as you walked back down the driveway.
the second you reached the car, you yanked the driver's side door open and slid into the seat.
"let's go get drunk."
"oh that's not—" ning blinked at you from the passenger seat.
"okay first of all, how'd it go?" aeri asked immediately, leaning forward from the backseat.
"yeah we're never talking again," you said as you started the car.
ning turned toward you so fast she almost hit the window. "she said that?"
"i mean... no," you admitted. "she was trying to be nice but i was getting vibes."
"are we sure?" aeri asked slowly.
"she said we'd see each other during the holidays," you muttered, staring straight ahead through the windshield.
"...and that's bad?" ning asked carefully.
"that's basically a nice way of saying she never wants to see me at school again."
"y/n," aeri deadpanned, "that is literally not what that means."
"you weren't there."
"exactly," ning said immediately. "which means we're hearing this from the most dramatic person possible."
"wow," you gasped softly, offended.
"did she yell at you?" ning asked.
"no."
"did she say she hated you?"
"no."
"did she say she didn't wanna be friends anymore?"
you hesitated. "...no."
"then why are you acting like you just got medically pronounced dead?" aeri leaned farther between the seats.
"because she looked at me with sadness in her eyes," you said quietly.
"oh my god," aeri groaned, dropping her head back dramatically.
"i'm serious!" you defended. "and then she started asking if i was okay in like... a concerned way."
"okay what exactly were you saying to her?" ning narrowed her eyes slightly.
"...i told her to tell her family i'd miss them."
"why would you say that?" ning covered her face with both hands.
"because i was nervous!" you exclaimed.
"you absolutely terrified that girl,” aeri stared at you in disbelief.
"i also said i'd always love her as a friend!"
"stop talking!" aeri pointed at you aggressively. "actually never speak again."
you groaned and let your head fall back against the seat.
"at least i don't think she's mad anymore; probably just more worried,” ning reached over and patted your shoulder sympathetically.
"...that might actually be worse."
"it is worse," aeri nodded immediately.
you sat there in silence for a second, hands still resting on the steering wheel, while you replayed the entire conversation in your head. the longer you thought about it, the worse it somehow got. then you suddenly realized you were still parked directly outside lara's house, crashing out in front of her driveway.
"okay actually i have a new plan."
"i'm scared already," ning muttered.
"i need food,” you said as you finally put the car in drive.
Summary: You find your first love again after throwing countless parties in hopes of finding her again. She’s still as beautiful as you remember however, she is no longer yours
Pairings: Manon Bannerman x Fem!reader
Warnings: Angst, Romance(?), NO happy ending
A/N: I love this book/movie so much, thanks for the request!!
——————————————————————————
The first time you saw Manon was on a summer night that smelled like saltwater and champagne.
You had been seventeen, awkward in the way rich girls often were—too much money, too much loneliness, nowhere to place either of them. Your parents had rented a mansion on the coast for the season, all white marble and glittering windows overlooking the bay. Every evening there were people everywhere: politicians, models, musicians, strangers with expensive watches and fake laughs.
And then there was her.
Manon stood barefoot near the edge of the dock while everyone else danced behind her. Silver jewelry glimmered against her skin. She looked like she belonged to the ocean more than the party itself.
You remembered standing beside her with two untouched drinks in your hand.
“You hate this too?” you’d asked.
She glanced at you, amused. “I don’t hate it. I just think everyone here is pretending.”
“And you’re not?”
She smiled, slow and dangerous.
“No,” she said. “I’m just visiting.”
For the rest of that summer, she became the center of your world.
You drove along the coastline at midnight with music loud enough to drown your thoughts. She climbed through your bedroom window instead of using the front door. You laid on the roof together counting stars while she talked about wanting more from life than parties and cameras and people who only loved versions of her.
And you loved her.
Not in the careless summer way people wrote songs about.
You loved her completely.
Then August ended.
And she disappeared.
No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing.
At first you thought she’d text.
Then you thought maybe she’d call.
Eventually, you stopped checking your phone every five minutes and started checking every hour instead.
Months passed.
Then years.
But you never stopped thinking about her.
By twenty-three, you owned the biggest house on the north side of the bay.
People whispered about you constantly.
The mysterious heiress.
The girl who threw parties every weekend.
The girl no one actually knew.
Your mansion became legendary. Endless lights reflected against the water. Music thundered until sunrise. Celebrities stumbled through the gates beside socialites and influencers and people who simply wanted to say they’d been invited.
No one understood why you hosted them.
But every Friday night, before guests arrived, you stood alone on the balcony overlooking the driveway hoping to see a familiar figure step out of a black car.
Most nights she never came.
Still, you kept throwing the parties.
Because hope was easier than accepting she was gone forever.
Three summers later, she finally appeared.
You almost missed her.
The ballroom was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, gold chandeliers glowing overhead while laughter echoed through the mansion. Someone was pulling you into another pointless conversation when you glanced toward the staircase,
Forgetting how to breathe.
Manon stood there in a dark silk dress.
Older now. Sharper somehow. But still devastating.
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then she smiled.
And suddenly you were seventeen again.
You barely remembered crossing the room. One second she was across the ballroom, the next she was standing inches away smelling like expensive perfume and summer rain.
“Hi,” she said softly.
You stared at her like she might disappear if you blinked. “You came.”
“I heard about the parties.”
“You heard about them?”
“Everyone has.”
There were a thousand things you wanted to say.
Why did you leave?
Did you ever think about me?
Was any of it real?
But all that came out was: “You look beautiful.”
Her expression faltered just slightly. “So do you.”
You left the party together without telling anyone.
The house behind you glowed like a second moon while the two of you walked barefoot along the shoreline, heels dangling from your hands.
It felt impossibly easy.
Like no time had passed at all.
You talked for hours.
About everything.
Nothing.
She laughed at your jokes the same way she used to, head tilted back without restraint. You told her about the places you’d traveled. She admitted she still hated loud parties. At some point your fingers brushed together, then stayed intertwined.
And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe maybe this story hadn’t ended after all.
Back at the mansion, the music downstairs had faded quieter. Most guests were drunk or asleep somewhere they shouldn’t be.
You brought her to your bedroom.
Not because you expected anything.
Just because it was the only place that had ever felt entirely yours.
Moonlight spilled across the floor through enormous windows. The ocean shimmered outside.
Manon wandered slowly around the room, stopping beside the shelf where an old polaroid sat framed near your bed.
The two of you at seventeen.
She picked it up carefully.
“You kept this?”
“I kept everything.”
Silence settled between you.
Heavy. Fragile.
Then she turned toward you with an expression that made your stomach twist.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like this can still happen for us.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You tried to laugh it off. “Why wouldn’t it?”
Manon looked down at the photograph in her hands.
And then quietly said, “Because I’m engaged.”
Everything inside you stopped.
The ocean outside still crashed against the shore. Somewhere downstairs people were still laughing. But it all sounded impossibly far away.
You stared at her.
“No,” you said automatically.
Her eyes filled with something awful. Regret maybe.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“So don’t.” Your voice cracked. “Don’t tell me.”
“He proposed last winter.”
You shook your head like refusing reality could change it. “Then why are you here?”
Manon swallowed hard.
“Because I wanted to see you one last time.”
One last time.
The phrase carved straight through your chest.
You laughed then, but it sounded broken. “That’s cruel.”
“I know.”
“Did you love me at all?”
She crossed the room so quickly you barely saw it happen. Her hands cupped your face, trembling.
“I never stopped.”
That somehow made it worse.
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Then stay.”
For one terrible second, you thought she might.
You saw it in her expression, the hesitation, the longing, the grief.
But eventually she stepped back.
And you already knew.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
The driveway outside glittered with headlights by the time she left.
You stood on the balcony watching her car disappear into the darkness beyond the gates.
Just like the first time.
Except now there was no hope left to hold onto.
No fantasy waiting at the end of the dock.
No belief that maybe next summer she’d come back to you.
The parties stopped after that.
The mansion went quiet.
And every night, long after everyone else had forgotten her, you still found yourself staring across the water,
bratty!manon be like… 💭💭 (18+ smut at the end. face sitting. 69. scissoring)
bratty!manon who wants everything her way. it’s either that or the highway!
bratty!manon who likes to be in control. she doesn’t like following orders and she loves to boss you around.
bratty!manon who sits in your lap and plays with your hair when she’s in a sour mood, ranting about her shitty day and not having things her way.
bratty!manon who thinks its the end of the world when you don’t answer her phone calls. she knows you’re busy, but it doesn’t matter because you should never be too busy for her.
manon: why aren’t u responding to my calls.
manon: this is urgent and ur fucking ignoring me.
manon: you have 5 secs to pick up the fucking phone.
manon: what’s more important than me.
bratty!manon who gets extra moody and bitchy when she’s jealous. she never likes to admit her jealousy so, giving you hella attitude and the silent treatment is all she knows when she jealous.
bratty!manon who loves to be spoiled and pampered but also likes to make sure you’re spoiled and pampered as well. when she wants her nails and feet done, you’re paying, of course but you’re also gonna get the same while you’re there.
“let’s go get our feet done. you’re paying. come on.”
bratty!manon who loves to sit on your face when you’re talking too much. she’s not trying to hear all of that. she knows what can actually shut you up.
bratty!manon who’s favorite position is 69. she loves to be on top, grinding her pussy onto your face as she devours you.
bratty!manon who loves to scissor it out after, she loves the feeling of both of your sensitive and puffy clits bumping against each other, and both of your saliva and cum mixing together.
SMUT blurb
a/n: back to my roots with this one! love the concept of manager maddy
"trust me, this is going to be big."
then the she taps the record button.
you're already on your back, completely naked on maddy's sheets. you're a little shy, all things considered, but you trusted your manager knew what would be best for your career. you just didn't think it would be her fucking you on camera.
her free hand pushes your thighs apart, the other focusing the phone camera between your legs.
"hmm, already wet for me?"
her fingertips press against your pretty pink thong right over your clit. you hiss in response. your head lulls to one side and your cheek presses into the pillow. maddy watches all of it, her fingers feeling your wetness soak through the fabric.
"look at that. already so needy."
"maddy..." you whisper, refusing to look up at her, which would mean looking into the camera lens. she smiles at your shyness.
"what? i thought you wanted to be famous?" her fingers press even harder and your thighs shake a little. "this is how it's done."
finally she pushes the lace aside and swipes her fingers through your slick, ensuring the phone captures all of it. when she pulls back, a string of your slickness connects her finger to your pussy. she laughs under her breath and you can't help but feel small beneath her.
"what makes you wetter—being famous or fucked by your manager?"
she doesn't give you any warning before she sinks her fingers inside you. your back instantly arches off the bed and a surprised moan escapes your lips.
"bit of both, huh?"
"maddy," you repeat, but it comes out as a whine now. your voice only grows in volume as she curls her fingers. "fuckkk—maddy!"
"right there, yeah?"
she leans over you to get an angle of your face twisted up in pleasure. as she does, her hard nipples press against the thin fabric of her tank top and you find yourself wondering if this is really just all for the video.
but that thought is short-lived as she removes her fingers with a wet squelch before rapidly pushing them back in. your thighs attempt to close around her hand but she nudges one of them back out with her elbow.
"no, no, no, let them see. let them all see how much you're enjoying this."
her fingers find a rhythm that has your hips bucking and consistent whines pushing past your lips. she hears every variation of "please" and "don't stop" and her name as your fingers claw at the sheets. she smiles devilishly realizing you don't need any practice. you're a natural.
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pairing(s): daniela avanzini x latina!reader, manon bannerman x latina!reader, katseye x latina!reader
summary: a lil fanfic where hxg shoves u out of katseye for being “too hard to market” beside daniela ripping apart the growing love triangle between you, manon and daniela only leading to more drama…
warning(s): angst, unresolved yearning, kpop industry toxicity, love triangle, manon & daniela both being painfully in love with reader, doesn’t strictly follow irl events of actual katseye events so sorry if it doesn’t follow irl and unedited work !
a/n: it’s been awhile since i wrote a fanfic and i’ve had katseye fever so i hope you like it and it might be a little rushed but i just had to write!!
after the sis era, things started changing quietly.
not all at once.
at first it was just little things, your lines getting shortened during recordings, your center moments disappearing in choreography revisions, stylists pushing different aesthetics onto you while daniela avanzini’s became more polished, more intentional. executives started hovering around her more, pulling her aside after rehearsals, speaking to her in lowered whispers while you sat across the room pretending not to notice.
you did notice.
so did the girls.
especially manon bannerman.
she noticed the way your smile became tighter during interviews, the way you started asking “is this okay?” before every little thing like you were scared to take up too much space. she noticed how often you stayed behind in practice rooms afterward, dancing until your knees hurt like if you just worked harder they’d stop pulling away from you.
and she noticed daniela noticing too.
that was the problem with the three of you.
too much love sitting in places it shouldn’t.
because before everything got ugly, before executives and contracts and “marketability” conversations poisoned it all, the three of you had been inseparable.
hotel rooms filled with late night laughter, daniela curled against your side while manon laid across both of you dramatically complaining about rehearsal bruises.
“you guys are actually obsessed with me,” you laughed once while manon stole fries off your plate.
“well somebody has to be,” daniela teased softly, and the look she gave you after remained too long to be harmless.
shared headphones during flights, your fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes onto daniela’s arm while manon rested her head in your lap half asleep. the girls used to tease you constantly.
“y/n come get your wives” megan would say anytime daniela and manon fought over who got to sit beside you. lara whining whenever the three of you disappeared together after schedules because she already knew she’d lose you for hours.
and you loved them both differently. that was the intense part.
manon got the softer version of you, lazy smiles meant only for her, kisses pressed onto her cheek before performances, your body naturally finding hers in crowded rooms.
daniela got the quieter things. the lingering stares. the tension. the almosts.
because despite everything, execs constantly pinned you and daniela against each other like there was only room for one latina girl to thrive in the spotlight. every compliment toward you somehow became an insult toward her, every opportunity she got made you wonder what had quietly been taken from you to make room for it.
it poisoned things slowly.
not enough to make you stop loving daniela, never enough for that, but enough to make being around her complicated in ways neither of you knew how to fix.
because with daniela, there was always this invisible scoreboard dangling in between you both.
who got more lines, who got center, whose fancam performed better, whose face executives lit up more around.
you hated it.
daniela hated it more.
manon was different.
manon wasn’t competition.
she was just manon, warm and loud and easy to love, someone who never looked at you like there was something to win from you. being with her felt safe in a way nothing else did anymore.
so you gravitated toward her naturally.
everyone noticed.
especially daniela.
during interviews, your knee would knock against manon’s beneath the table while both of you tried not to laugh at inside jokes. backstage, manon would reach for your hand without thinking, tugging you behind her through crowded hallways while you followed smiling softly.
there was one night after rehearsals where all seven girls were piled into one hotel room eating takeout on the floor. manon had practically climbed into your lap at some point, stealing pieces of food straight from your chopsticks while you laughed tiredly.
“you know i can get my own food, right?” she mumbled around a mouthful acting like you were the one feeding her. you laughed
“then why aren’t you?” you teased, brushing rice from the corner of her mouth with your thumb.
daniela watched the interaction from across the room so quietly nobody noticed.
except sophia.
she glanced between the three of you slowly before muttering, “this is getting insane.”
lara nearly choked laughing “you’re telling me now?” she whispered back because everybody saw it.
the way manon fit against you like she belonged there. the way you softened around her. the way daniela watched both of you, like she wanted in and out of it at the same time.
that was the worst part for daniela.
she loved how kind you were with manon.
she envied it too.
because no matter how close the two of you got, there was always tension sitting beneath it. even your softer moments together carried the weight of comparison and jealousy executives had shoved between you both.
but manon got you naturally.
daniela had to fight for every inch.
fight for space beside you on flights because manon always got there first, fight for your attention during group dinners because, somehow, your eyes always eventually wandered back toward manon.
and still, you never stopped reaching for her too.
that was what kept daniela hooked.
the lingering glances across rehearsal mirrors, your hand brushing hers when nobody was paying attention, the way you instinctively searched for her reactions first after performances.
sometimes daniela thought maybe you loved her differently because you were scared to love her fully.
other times she thought maybe you simply loved manon more.
then came the late nights where conversations turned too personal too fast, where daniela’s hand brushed your thigh and neither of you moved away, where the air seemed thick enough to choke on because both of you knew crossing that line would ruin everything.
“you keep looking at me like that,” you whispered one night in the dark hotel room, laid beside one another while rain tapped softly against the windows. daniela’s fingers halted where they rested on your thigh, the slow absentminded caress far too intimate to mean nothing.
daniela swallowed hard, her eyes dragging up to meet yours. “like what?” her voice came out quieter than she meant it to, almost breathless.
you shifted closer beneath the blankets, close enough for her to feel your warmth. “like you want something.”
her breath caught when your hand slid over hers, guiding it slightly higher against your skin. daniela looked wrecked by it instantly, pupils blown wide, lips parted just enough to make your stomach twist.
“maybe i do,” she whispered.
the room went still after that.
the kind of stillness where every tiny movement suddenly mattered, where daniela’s thumb pressing unconsciously into your thigh made your heartbeat stutter. you smiled softly before leaning in, slow enough to give her time to pull away.
she didn’t.
if anything, she bent closer too, eyes flicking down to your lips like she couldn’t help herself anymore.
but before they could meet, the hotel room door suddenly swung open.
“oh my god, you have to see this!” manon rushed in breathlessly, throwing herself dramatically across the bed between you both with her phone in hand.
you burst into soft laughter immediately, the tension snapping apart so fast it almost hurt.
“manon,” daniela groaned, dragging a hand over her face while you giggled beside her.
“what?” manon blinked innocently before narrowing her eyes between the two of you. “wait. were you guys having a moment without me?”
“you’re so dramatic,” you laughed. “and you love me for it,” she shot back instantly, already curling against your side.
you smiled at her so natural and easily.
daniela tried not to let the jealousy swallow her whole.
maybe that was why it hurt worse when things started falling apart because just when she had you in her hands, you were getting snatched away.
hxg changed their energy toward the two of you.
of course they did.
at first it was subtle conversations about “branding” and “marketability,” executives speaking in circles while all seven girls sat there exhausted after rehearsals, too tired to fully process the passive aggressive comments hidden beneath fake smiles.
they started pairing daniela and manon together more publicly too.
little things at first.
having them sit together during interviews, asking them questions as a duo, posting clips of them laughing together online with captions about “unexpected besties.” executives would light up whenever the fans reacted positively to it.
everyone saw it, you saw it and you didn't say anything, while you kept your distance but you were still kind to her and somehow that made her chest ache even worse.
she didn’t want manon. she wanted you.
meanwhile manon hated all of it immediately.
“they’re literally doing this on purpose,” she muttered one night after an interview, ripping an in-ear monitor out harsher than necessary while staff rushed around backstage.
you sat quietly beside her, exhausted, while daniela lingered a few feet away, pretending not to listen.
“it’s not anyone's fault,” you whispered, grabbing her hand in yours. manon laughed bitterly. “that’s not helping.”
because it wasn’t. everyone knew the way executives smiled wider whenever daniela and manon played into things publicly, the way cameras zoomed in whenever they touched, the way they kept trying to turn your dynamics into something cleaner, easier to market.
except none of it felt real anymore.
especially not to daniela because every time she sat beside manon during interviews, all she could think about was how badly she wished it was you instead.
and manon knew, that became another problem too.
there was tension between them now, sharp and ugly beneath the surface. not because they hated each other, but because they both loved you and neither of them knew what to do while watching you slowly disappear from the center of everything.
sometimes manon looked at daniela like this was her fault.
sometimes daniela thought maybe it was.
then one night they finally said it plainly.
“it’s difficult marketing two latina girls in one group.” the room went dead silent.
you actually laughed at first, not because it was funny, but because hearing it out loud after months of feeling it almost sounded unreal.
“so what?” you asked quietly. “there’s only room for one of us?” nobody answered immediately. instead one of the executives sighed like you were being difficult. “we’ve just decided to… center daniela more. i mean, daniela and manon are the perfect pair.”
they laughed lightly after saying it, like it was obvious.
daniela remembered the exact way your face changed after that.
how your shoulders straightened instantly like if being hurt in front of them was the one thing you refused to allow yourself to do.
and beside you, manon’s expression darkened immediately. “you can’t be for real,” she said flatly, always ready to jump to defend you.
“manon,” another executive warned quickly. “no,” she snapped. “you can’t seriously think this is okay.”
you reached for her wrist beneath the table instantly, a silent plea for her not to make things worse.
daniela watched it happen in real time. the instinctive way you reached for manon and the way manon immediately softened for you. jealousy twisted ugly inside her chest because even now, even while daniela was technically the one being chosen, it still felt like she was losing.
the executives kept talking anyway. about cohesion, audience perception and balancing dynamics.
as if they were discussing concepts instead of people.
as if they weren’t slowly pushing you out of your own dream while forcing daniela to sit there and benefit from it.
and the worst part was daniela sat frozen because she knew exactly what they meant without them needing to say it directly.
one latina girl was easier to sell, easier to brand and easier to center.
she told herself she should be grateful, they had chosen her but at what cost?
after that, everything shifted faster. room assignments changed first.
you stopped rooming with manon and daniela entirely instead they paired you with sophia some nights, megan on others, acting like shuffling sleeping arrangements around would somehow fix the tension they created.
“wait, seriously?” lara had laughed awkwardly the first time management announced it. “why are we switching rooms again?”
“it works better for dynamics,” one of the managers answered quickly.
everyone knew that was bullshit.
manon took it the hardest in ways she tried not to show. she would get quiet whenever your name came up in a meeting, and if daniela said something too soft about “following what management wants,” manon would go cold immediately.
“you keep saying that like it makes it better,” she muttered once, arms crossed tight over her chest after a rehearsal where you had been moved out of the center again.
daniela blinked at her. “what do you want me to do?”
manon’s eyes flashed. “i want you to stop acting like it’s normal.”
the room went still because it wasn’t just about you anymore, not fully. it was about manon watching the situation eat at you and not knowing whether to comfort you or blame daniela for surviving it better on paper.
and that made everything worse.
because manon loved you loudly, and she hated seeing you shrink.
but she also hated that daniela kept getting pulled closer to the spotlight while you were pushed away, like the company had decided to split the two of them into categories and force everyone else to pick a side.
they were angry but they wouldn't let themselves get angry in front of you about it so sometimes manon and daniela ended up snapping at each other over nothing.
a look.
a comment that landed too sharp.
“you don’t get to tell me how to feel about this,” manon snapped one afternoon when daniela tried to calm her down after a meeting about line distribution.
“i’m not,” daniela shot back, exhausted. “i’m trying to keep us from falling apart.”
“us?” manon repeated, looking almost offended. “what us? because from where i’m standing, it looks like they keep deciding who gets to matter and you’re just letting them do it.”
daniela went quiet after that because there was truth in it, and both of them could feel it.
you were being pushed out and daniela was being elevated just enough to make it hurt. manon was being used to make it all look smoother and none of it felt right.
once the talks about who was leading what songs and who was getting what looks for the new era started everything settled harder into place. you stopped reaching for daniela naturally after that, the lingering touches disappeared first.
then eventually daniela stopped catching you looking at her the way you used to.
but somehow what hurt most was that you stopped reaching for manon too.
during interviews you sat straighter now, careful not to lean into either of them too much. backstage, your hands stayed folded in your lap instead of instinctively grabbing theirs.
you looked lonelier, quieter like you were trying to make yourself easier to remove.
like this wasn't your dream anymore and truthfully it wasn't, you had never felt more like just a product in your life. you were just a face were hybexgeffen to sell stuff.
you stood away and somehow that distance hurt worse than any argument could have because nobody had technically forbidden you from loving each other.
they just made it impossible to do safely.
and manon hated that almost as much as daniela did.
because even while she was mad, even while jealousy and fear kept tangling together in her chest, she still kept watching you like she was the only one who could tell how much it was costing you.
like she was the only one who still wanted to pull you back before the whole thing swallowed you.
then what came next was unexpected.
the girls found out together. all six of them sat in the conference room still dressed from rehearsal, water bottles and hoodies scattered across the table while managers stood awkwardly near the wall avoiding eye contact.
you weren’t there.
at first nobody questioned it too much.
“is y/n still in vocal?” sophia asked casually, glancing toward the empty chair beside manon.
missy cleared her throat. “she’s currently in another meeting.” something about the wording made daniela’s stomach tighten instantly.
the room slowly quieted then came the speech. carefully rehearsed corporate words about restructuring, future opportunities, group direction. every sentence sounded faker than the last.
manon’s expression changed into something upset almost immediately. lara looked confused. megan kept glancing toward the door like she expected you to walk in any second.
then finally… “we’ve decided to continue katseye as six members.” silence.
the unsettling kind like the words were really sinking in. the kind that rang in your ears.
daniela actually thought she misheard them at first.
“what?” yoonchae whispered.
“no,” daniela said immediately after, shaking her head before anyone else could even react. “no, you can’t do that.”
“this decision wasn’t made lightly,”
“are you serious right now?” manon cut in sharply.
nobody answered her.
daniela felt sick all at once because suddenly every weird conversation, every changed formation, every forced pairing clicked together in the ugliest way possible.
they had released you to focus on her because to them one latina girl was only able to be in the spotlight.
across the room sophia covered her mouth with both hands, eyes already glassy while lara stared down at the table in disbelief.
“does she know?” megan asked quietly. the silence stretched too long. manon stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor.
“you told her alone?” she snapped.
“manon,” missy warned carefully.
“are you joking?” she said louder this time.
daniela’s chest tightened painfully at the thought. you were somewhere else in this building hearing all of this without any of them there, without her there.
the girls pushed out into the hallway before management could stop them and then they saw you.
standing alone outside another conference room at the far end of the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.
your eyes were glossy already.
completely alone.
daniela’s heart cracked at the sight.
for one horrible second relief still hit her chest because there you were, right there, not gone yet, still close enough to touch. you lifted your head to look at her, the hurt written all over you was something she'd never forget.
and daniela thought
please. please come here. please choose me.
her body had already started moving toward you before she even realized it.
but then manon walked up behind her and your bottom lip quivered "manon." soft. wrecked.
and that was it.
you broke.
a sob escaped you before you could stop it and suddenly you were rushing straight past daniela and into manon’s arms hard enough that she nearly stumbled backwards.
“hey, hey,” manon whispered immediately, holding you so tightly it almost looked painful. “i’ve got you, okay? i’ve got you.”
you clung to her desperately, burying your face into her shoulder while your entire body shook.
daniela stopped moving. because for one horrible second she really thought you’d run to her first.
and maybe that made her selfish.
because you were devastated and somehow her heart still cracked over the fact you reached for manon instinctively so she stood there in the middle of the hallway watching you hold onto manon like she was the only safe thing left in the world.
and maybe she was.
the other girls slowly gathered nearby after, heartbreak written all over their faces. sophia crying openly now while lara rubbed at her own eyes beside her, megan frozen near the wall with yoonchae holding onto her sleeve quietly.
nobody knew what to say because there was nothing to say.
manon rubbed circles into your back, glaring at anyone from management who came too close like she might actually fight them if they touched you right now.
and daniela stayed quiet.
because guilt had rooted her in place.
because some ugly part of her knew she was benefiting from this and she hated herself for it.
after you left, hxg practically erased your name from the building.
the girls weren’t supposed to contact you.
no likes. no comments. no public interactions.
and for a while, nobody did.
not publicly but privately was different because missing you settled into the group like a sickness nobody knew how to cure.
your voice was still buried in old rehearsal videos on daniela’s phone. old selfies still sat hidden in manon’s camera roll, blurry late night pictures of you half asleep against her shoulder in vans and hotel rooms.
neither of them deleted anything.
the fallout after was worse than the actual goodbye.
you stopped mentioning the girls in interviews almost entirely. whenever hosts asked about katseye, your answers became short, careful, polished in that media-trained way that only made fans more suspicious.
“i wish them the best.” or “they’re all talented girls.”
that was it.
no laughter or affection.
and that hurt because the girls knew how much love used to exist there.
daniela looked miserable in interviews after you left even as she became more centered in the group.
it meant nothing. more lines. more solo shoots. more opportunities.
exactly what people online accused her of wanting. she stopped searching her own name eventually because every comment section somehow turned into you.
“she stole y/n’s spot.”
“you can literally tell who hxg chose.”
“daniela got the career, y/n got the talent.”
and still, every night, daniela found herself on your account anyway.
she watched your follower count climb faster and faster after your contract officially ended. watched the grainy studio snippets you’d post at 2am, the selfies where you smiled again for the first time in months.
sometimes she would stare at your pictures so long instagram would start asking if she wanted notifications turned on for your account.
she almost said yes once.
manon missed you louder.
she got colder with management after you left, sharper during rehearsals, harder to control in interviews whenever your name almost came up.
and she stalked your account too.
sometimes at 3am daniela would see manon liking tweets about you from her private account only to unlike them ten minutes later.
sometimes she reposted edits of you before deleting them fast enough that only fans caught screenshots.
the company hated it.
especially because fans never stopped associating the two of you together.
there were entire tiktok compilations dedicated to “manon looking at y/n like she hung the stars.”
and the worst part was they weren’t wrong.
then your redebut got announced and the internet exploded.
a teaser photo first, then another.
then the official lineup reveal of your new girl group.
you stood dead center in the image, prettier than ever, staring directly into the camera with the kind of confidence that only comes after surviving something awful.
daniela’s breath actually caught the first time she saw it because you looked different now.
you looked untouchable.
tiktok lost its mind instantly.
edits comparing your old katseye fancams to your new debut trailers flooded everyone’s feeds.
the worst part?
your new group was incredible.
your debut went viral overnight and suddenly katseye had real competition.
the girls heard your songs everywhere, in makeup rooms, in dance studios, through staff phones backstage.
once, during a fitting, your chorus accidentally started playing from sophia’s phone after tiktok autoplayed one of your performances.
the room went dead quiet instantly.
nobody said anything but daniela looked away too fast and manon left the room completely a few minutes later because hearing your voice unexpectedly still felt like being punched in the chest.
and despite everything, they listened anyway, daniela knew every lyric by heart within a week, your perfect voice that she once harmonized with.
manon watched every performance, the way you moved so effortlessly because these weren't corporate written songs, these were yours. this was your dream and manon felt bitter you were getting to experience it without her.
every fancam and every interview played on their phone after hours they just never admitted it out loud.
your new group became huge fast and suddenly katseye was no longer the shiny new thing hxg thought would dominate forever.
executives panicked immediately and the girls got pushed harder after that.
longer rehearsals, more media training, sharper criticism.
they started comparing numbers openly now, bringing up your streams during meetings without saying your name directly. “your competition is thriving because they are working harder,” one executive snapped once after a rehearsal went badly.
manon nearly walked out.
the tension inside the group rotted fast under the pressure especially between daniela and manon because grief looked different on both of them.
daniela carried hers quietly, swallowing it down until it turned poisonous.
manon carried hers like a lit match.
“you act like she died,” daniela snapped one night after rehearsal, exhaustion making her voice crack harsher than she intended. manon laughed bitterly from across the practice room floor. “maybe because you helped get rid of her.” it was a cruel thing to say and the girl quieted up almost instantly.
lara froze, sophia looked horrified while yoonchae looked between the two girls, even megan stopped stretching.
daniela had no defense against it.
not really because even though she didn't ask for it, she had shoved you out because she never stopped them.
“you think i don’t miss her?” daniela shot back finally, eyes glassy now. “you think this has been easy for me?”
“easy enough that you stayed,” manon didn't mean it, she was angry, angry that they bothed stayed despite the clear mistreatment of the girl they loved but that one landed.
daniela’s face crumpled for half a second before anger covered it back up. “what was i supposed to do?” she huffed throwing her hands up. “leave too?”
manon looked away first because the truth was ugly.
they both loved you, they both missed you and neither of them knew where to put all the blame besides each other.
after that, things with manon got worse fast.
she stopped hiding how angry she was.
at first it was smaller things, snapping during rehearsals when executives criticized the girls too harshly, rolling her eyes during media training, refusing to repeat rehearsed answers in interviews exactly the way management wanted.
then your name started becoming impossible to avoid.
fans spammed comment sections asking about you constantly, posting old clips of you and manon together everywhere. edits of your friendship would go viral overnight, slowed down clips of lingering touches and soft looks with heartbreaking music layered over them.
management hated it, especially because manon never looked unaffected.
during one livestream, a fan comment mentioning you flashed across the screen for less than a second but manon still saw it.
everyone watched her expression soften instantly before she caught herself, that clip hit tiktok within an hour.
“she still misses her.”
“manon looks heartbroken every time y/n gets mentioned.”
“hxg really split soulmates apart.”
the company started monitoring her harder after that, more warnings and more conversations about “professionalism.” but manon stopped caring.
“you can’t control every expression i make,” she snapped during one meeting after an executive complained about her looking “disengaged” in recent interviews.
“we’re asking you to think about the group,” the manager replied tightly. manon laughed bitterly. “funny. you guys didn’t care about the group when you tore it apart.”
the room went still.
daniela sat beside her frozen, heart pounding loudly because everybody knew exactly who manon meant.
the arguments only escalated after that and everyone noticed the tension rise more and more, manon only got more irritated and daniela only felt more alone because everyone knew there was only a matter of time before the corrections turned into actual punishment for manon.
"you need to stop,” daniela whispered shifting uncomfortably in their apartment after another meeting went badly. manon laughed humorlessly without looking up from the glass of water in her hands. “or what?”
“they’re looking for a reason.” that finally made manon look at her and god, she looked exhausted and it mirrored the way you had looked when you were getting pushed out. “maybe i want them to find one,” she said quietly because being in this group knowig their success was at the sacrifice of someone else and sure, you were winning now but it was supposed to be you guys at the top of your game.
daniela’s chest tightened painfully at that because for a second she heard you in her voice, that same defeated emptiness you carried, the same feeling of realizing no matter how hard you fought, someone else had already decided your place for you.
one night after rehearsal the girls were kept nearly four extra hours because management thought their energy felt “off” on stage lately.
everyone was exhausted.
lara was nearly asleep sitting against the mirrors, sophia rubbing at her swollen knees while yoonchae quietly tried not to cry from frustration.
then one executive brought you up again, not directly. they never said your name anymore but everyone knew.
“your competition is outperforming you right now because they want it more.” manon’s head snapped up instantly. “don’t do that.”
missy frowned. “excuse me?”
“don’t compare us to her group like you didn’t create this situation yourselves.”
“manon,” another executive warned.
“no, seriously,” she cut in, standing now. the thought of them using you has an example for them to be better when they were the reason you weren't with them “you push her out, act shocked when she succeeds, then punish us for it? what exactly do you people want?”
daniela felt panic twist in her stomach immediately because she knew that tone in manon’s voice. the one right before she exploded.
“sit down,” missy said sharply. manon laughed in disbelief. “or what?”
“you are representing a company.”
“and you’re representing one that destroys friendships and shows people that they are nothing more than just property.”
the pause was heavy. sophia quietly whispered, getting up grabbing her arm “manon…” trying to calm her down before this got worse.
too late because once manon started, months of anger came pouring out at once.
“you isolated her, you treated her like a problem, then replaced her and expected everybody to just move on like nothing happened,” she snapped. “and now you’re trying to do the same thing to me because i won’t sit here smiling about it.”
daniela looked sick beside her because every word was true.
the staffs's expression hardened completely after that. “i think you need time away from group activities.”
the room froze, manon blinked once. “what?”
“effective immediately.” missy crossed her arms like she had won. showing the girls the power she had. “manon, you’ll be going on hiatus.”
lara gasped quietly. “you can’t be serious,” daniela said instantly but nobody looked surprised except the girls.
manon stared at them for a long moment, breathing unevenly before laughing softly to herself.
not happy.
just exhausted.
“wow,” she whispered.
megan stood up too now, panic fully setting in. “you can’t just pull her from the group.”
“the decision has been made.”
manon looked furious for exactly two seconds before the anger cracked into hurt because suddenly it wasn’t just about you anymore now they were pushing her away too for speaking up
“fine,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “if that’s what you want.”
the room stayed painfully silent while she grabbed her bag.
none of the girls moved at first.
until manon walked toward the door and sophia suddenly ran to hug her tightly, nearly crying again.
lara followed immediately after then yoonchae and megan looked devastated.
daniela hugged her last and that one lingered the longest.
because despite everything, despite the arguments and bitterness and blame, they understood each other in the ugliest way possible.
both of them had loved you and they had grieved the loss of you like you were dead and sure you were somewhere thriving but when everyone makes it sound like you're not around anymore it starts to feel like something worse than death.
grieving someone who was still breathing and living and doing great without you.
then next was lollapalooza. it was supposed to feel exciting.
katseye had spent weeks preparing for it, endless rehearsals for their upcoming era mixed with pressure from management to prove the group was still strong after everything that had happened the past year.
after your departure.
after manon’s hiatus.
after the internet practically turned daniela into a villain, the girls were exhausted before they even landed in argentina. and somehow your name still followed them everywhere.
because by then your new group wasn’t just successful.
you were everywhere. your debut album had exploded months earlier, your newest era teasers flooding social media while fans called your group the future of pop. fancams of you collected millions of views overnight, edits of your stage presence constantly circling online while people praised how much freer you looked now. edit of you with your new members that had once been you and daniela.
even staff talked about you when they thought the girls couldn’t hear especially after your lollapalooza set got announced for the same day as katseye’s.
management immediately shut down any possibility of interaction.
“absolutely no public contact,” they warned firmly backstage that morning. “no photos together, no talking backstage, no posting about her set. understood?”
the room stayed quiet because all of them knew the truth.
they were absolutely going to watch your set anyway. it happened almost accidentally.
katseye had just finished rehearsal on one stage while your group was scheduled nearby less than an hour later. staff got distracted handling equipment issues and suddenly the girls found themselves lingering near the edge of the crowd hidden beneath hoodies and sunglasses while fans screamed around them.
daniela stood furthest back at first like maybe distance would somehow soften this.
then the lights dimmed and you walked onstage.
the crowd erupted instantly.
screams tore through the festival grounds so loudly even the girls beside her looked startled, phones flying into the air everywhere while your intro blasted through the speakers.
and then there you were.
confident and beautiful.
completely perfect beneath the stage lights.
daniela’s chest tightened painfully because seeing your performances online was one thing.
this was different.
you moved across the stage with effortless confidence, sweat catching against glittering skin while the crowd screamed every lyric right back at you. your members looked at you with complete trust, hyping you up between songs, laughing with you naturally like they’d known you forever. she wondered if any of them got to see her in the ways that she had, she wondered which you had clung to.
and then for a horrible second daniela wondered if maybe this was the version of your dream that was always supposed to happen.
without them.
beside her, sophia quietly whispered “wow” after one of your high notes.
and when daniela glanced sideways for half a second, she noticed the empty space beside them where manon should’ve been.
that hurt too because manon would’ve loved this.
your final song ended with the crowd screaming your name so loudly it echoed through the entire field. you stood there breathless and glowing, smiling so genuinely it almost didn’t look real.
daniela couldn’t stop looking at you even when she knew she should. the girls slipped away quickly afterward before staff could notice where they’d gone.
except fate apparently hated them because halfway through one of the backstage corridors, they turned the corner and nearly walked straight into your group.
everyone froze instantly, your members noticed katseye first then you did.
for one horrible second nobody moved the hallway buzzed with distant festival noise and rushing staff but right there it felt terrifyingly quiet.
you looked beautiful up close. sweaty from performing, hair slightly messy, glitter still shining against your skin beneath harsh backstage lighting while your in-ear monitor rested loose around your neck.
daniela forgot how to breathe. management’s warnings echoed loudly in all their heads.
no contact. no talking. no photos.
your members exchanged glances first before one of them smiled softly toward the girls. another gave lara a tiny wave. they were kind like they understood exactly how painful this was.
you just stood there looking at all of them quietly. your eyes lingered on daniela for barely a second longer than everyone else.
that alone nearly destroyed her.
it was an awkward silence until yoonchae suddenly stepped forward slightly before she could lose courage.
“you did great,” she blurted out shyly, she nodded at all the girls before stopping on you. “really great.”
everyone looked at her instantly. your expression softened so quickly it physically hurt to witness like hearing kindness from one of them cracked something open in you before you could stop it.
“thank you,” you said quietly, eyes meeting yoonchae’s warmly. then after a small pause, your lips curved into something softer. “i can’t wait to see yours.”
and god, that almost hurt worse because the thought of you watching their set later settled heavy in all their chests.
because this should’ve been shared. you should’ve been rushing to fix your makeup beside them backstage afterward, laughing breathlessly while sophia replayed videos from the crowd. you should’ve been squeezed into group pictures later that night. you should’ve been standing onstage with them.
instead there was this awful distance between all of you now, built by executives and contracts and silence none of them knew how to break anymore.
one of the managers farther down the hallway suddenly shouted for katseye to keep moving.
reality snapped back immediately, the tension returned all at once.
you looked away, your members gently guiding you forward again while staff rushed around both groups pretending this wasn’t emotionally catastrophic. as you passed them, your shoulder brushed lightly against daniela’s.
probably accidental.
it still sent warmth racing painfully through her entire body and neither of you looked back.
even though all of you wanted to.
after lollapalooza, daniela couldn’t stop thinking about you. she wondered if you did stop and see their show, maybe left before anyone saw you.
so much wondering.
it got bad enough that she started sleeping with your music playing quietly through headphones, staring at the ceiling of hotel rooms while your voice filled the dark like a ghost she couldn’t get rid of.
everybody noticed she was off.
she smiled less during schedules, drifted during rehearsals, spent too much time on her phone between takes. sophia asked if she was okay twice before eventually stopping because daniela always gave the same answer.
“just tired.”
but the truth was uglier than that.
she missed you in this humiliating, aching way that followed her everywhere now.
because seeing you at lollapalooza had ruined whatever distance she’d spent the last year trying to build.
you were real again.
not just edited clips on tiktok.
warm skin brushing hers in a backstage hallway, soft eyes lingering on her for one second too long.
and one night she almost reached out.
she sat curled beneath hotel blankets at two in the morning, your instagram pulled open on her private account. her thumb hovered over the message button while anxiety twisted painfully in her stomach.
what would she even say?
i’m sorry?
i still think about you?
do you miss me too?
before she could decide, a notification popped up. manon made a post on instagram.
daniela clicked the notification instantly.
it was a clip. not just any clip. it was your lollapalooza performance.
specifically the ending.
the moment you stood breathless beneath lights while the crowd screamed your name loud enough to shake the barricades.
manon added no caption.
just a white heart.
daniela stared at it so long the screen dimmed. she knew what would cone next and the comments on the story showed it.
fans lost their minds immediately.
“MANON REPOSTED HER???”
“oh they’re DEFINITELY back in contact.”
“you can’t convince me they weren’t in love.”
“daniela somewhere punching the wall rn.”
edits flooded tiktok within hours. old clips of you and manon tangled together during livestreams, you kissing her cheek before performances, manon staring at you during interviews with love songs attached to each edit.
daniela watched every single one.
even though every video made jealousy crawl sharper beneath her skin because manon got to miss you loudly.
she got to love you without hiding it anymore.
while daniela still sat through interviews pretending your name didn’t make her chest cave in.
then a few days later came the livestream. your group was celebrating something, maybe a teaser release or another chart milestone, everyone crowded together laughing while comments flooded so quickly they barely stayed readable.
daniela shouldn’t have been watching.
she watched anyway.
one of your members read a comment aloud suddenly. “someone said… thoughts on manon?”
the room erupted immediately. your members started laughing while you covered your face for a second. for a moment daniela thought you’d ignore it, she supposed that maybe you had the same rules the girls had.
but there it was.
that smile.
soft, helpless.
“i love manon,” you giggled and all the other girls oo’d and ahh’d before they all laughed too.
just like that the comments went psychotic instantly.
daniela physically felt something twist inside her chest because you said it so naturally like loving manon was the easiest thing in the world.
and maybe it always had been.
that was the worst part manon got your softness without fighting for it while daniela had spent years clawing desperately for pieces of your attention only to lose you anyway.
coachella arrived months later.
and despite everything, despite the success and headlines and screaming crowds, something about it felt hollow from the start.
because this was supposed to be all seven of you.
then six.
and somehow now even five felt wrong without manon there too.
the girls tried pretending otherwise backstage, tried hyping each other up while stylists rushed around them adjusting outfits and touching up makeup.
but there was an emptiness sitting between all of them now.
everybody knew the internet was waiting for them to fail too because you were performing coachella the same weekend and pictures were already posted everywhere of manon being there in the crowd unable to perform because she was being punished.
fans already joked online that your set would overshadow katseye completely.
“watch her outsell her old group live.”
“hxg fumbling her needs to be studied.”
“without manon and y/n, they’re over.”
daniela stopped reading comments after that.
their performance went well. technically.
the crowd screamed and the girls hit every mark perfectly.
but standing beneath coachella lights without you there beside them felt strangely empty and when daniela looked toward the side stage during one of the final songs, she caught herself imagining you standing there in formation like muscle memory still expected it.
afterward the girls celebrated backstage while cameras filmed content for socials.
daniela slipped away quietly, nobody stopped her.
music thundered across festival grounds while she moved through backstage pathways alone, hoodie pulled over her curls while her laminate bounced against her chest.
her heart pounded harder the closer she got to your artist area.
she didn’t even fully know what she wanted, to see you maybe.
to finally say something.
anything.
because she couldn’t keep carrying this around silently anymore while manon got to exist in your orbit openly.
daniela reached your trailer row and slowed.
then stopped completely.
manon stepped out of your dressing room.
comfortable, familiar and beautiful in the most effortless way.
and before the door fully closed behind her, she looked back inside with the softest expression daniela had ever seen.
then blew a kiss.
daniela wanted to believe that it wasn’t you she was doing it to but then she heard your laugh and a sweet “thank you for coming, manon”
your voice so intimate enough to make daniela feel physically sick.
the door shut gently afterward and suddenly everything inside her went numb.
because there it was.
proof.
proof that while daniela spent months mourning you quietly from a distance, manon had somehow found her way back to you.
all the parts daniela missed so badly it hurt to breathe sometimes.
manon noticed her a second later.
her expression shifted instantly.
surprise first.
then something harder to read.
neither of them spoke.
what was there to say? i loved her too? i lost her too?
manon didn’t move toward her and daniela didn’t move toward the trailer because suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you only to realize you belonged to somebody else now.
so instead she stepped back slowly then turned around, walking away before either of them could say a word.
a/n: hi!! i didn’t have anything else to add for now but i really hope you like it. thank you so much for your time and thank you for reading. i hope you like, reblog and comment. i’d really love to hear your thoughts.
synopsis: when tashi duncan sends a dinner invitation, nobody declines. that includes you, her former flame and best friend, and your husband, patrick. a very awkward reunion over dinner ensues when past feelings resurface.
tags: 18+ mdni, features artashi/patashi/artrick (& all of them x reader), brief breast/nipple play, f!receiving oral, foreplay & lots of making out, dom!tashi through most of it, bratty!reader, everybody wants to fuck each other, mostly tashi x reader bc i'm yuripilled
wordcount: 9.2k words
notes: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! was very glad to be able to revisit these evil bisexual idiots. dynamics are a lot harder to write when it's a foursome buttt this is what you get take it or leave it :P & i’d like to apologise for edging you with the last scene but i’m sure i’ll circle back to this eventually so they can all fuck nasty in peace <3 i have drafts for a few more flashbacks that didn’t make the final cut bc this has been in my drafts for months so if you want any of those maybe i’ll clean them up and post them at some point. all of this taking place at dinner and i dont mention food once... alright
VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.
The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.
You wonder distantly if that’s the point.
You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”
Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.
“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.
You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.
You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.
Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?
You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.
It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.
It does, your brain adds helpfully.
Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth.
For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips.
The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.
You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.
Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”
Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table.
“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”
You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”
“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”
You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.
Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid.
The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it.
The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.
“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.
“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”
The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.
Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”
“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”
You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat.
There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily.
She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.
You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”
“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”
He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that.
“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”
Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.
“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”
Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.
By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.
You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.
Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.
APRIL 8TH, 2007
Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.
It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer.
“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.
He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”
“I know.”
Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.
“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”
Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.
“And?” You prompt.
“And she’s not taking it well.”
You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.
“I’ve been over there most nights.”
“I know,” you repeat.
“You know?”
“I’m not stupid, Art.”
He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.
You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s not fair.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”
He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”
There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.
“Yes. Insecure!”
You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”
“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”
“What?”
“You act like it, Art.”
“That’s not true—“
“Yes it is!”
“You’re imagining things.”
You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”
He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”
“Yeah, I did. After I left.”
Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”
“I know.”
“She was scared.”
“I know.”
“She asked for me.”
“And you went,” you finish.
“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.
Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”
“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.
“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.
“It always has been, I think—“
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”
His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”
Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.
“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.
You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up.
“What?”
“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.
“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.
“You’re not competing.”
“I am! I’m always competing with her.”
“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”
“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.
“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”
“You are.”
“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”
“You do.”
“Then prove it for once!”
He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.
“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”
“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.
“I can’t do this.”
“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”
“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“
“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”
Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.
“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.
“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.
You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.
“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”
Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.
His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.
“I know.”
Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now.
Regret? Guilt? Longing?
“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”
Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Don’t.”
Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”
“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.
“It was juvenile,” Art says.
“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects.
You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.
“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.
“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.
“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.
“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”
Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“
“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.
“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”
Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.”
Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.
“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.
“You let up,” she counters.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”
Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”
Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”
You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move.
“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.
“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.
His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”
He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”
“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.
Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”
Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”
Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”
“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.
“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.
Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”
“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”
Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”
Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”
“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.
“It was stupid,” Art adds.
“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.
“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.
You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”
Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.
Art blinks. “Her room?”
“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.
You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”
“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.
“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.
“What?”
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006
By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.
You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour.
“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.
“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.
She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once.
“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.
“You played better,” you shoot back.
“I know.”
The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.
“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.
Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”
“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”
Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”
“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.
“Obviously.”
“And?” You study her face carefully.
“And what?”
“Did you have a good time?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.
“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.
“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”
“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.
“No.”
A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.
“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.
“Oh, it so does.”
“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”
That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to.
“Did you have fun?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?”
“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”
“It will be if you kiss me already.”
She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.
You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:
“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”
The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.
“That wasn’t a denial.”
Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.
“Why do you taste like tobacco?”
“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”
“Ugh. Gross.”
“Jealous,” she taunts again.
“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw.
“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”
“I do.”
She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.
“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“
“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”
Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.
“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”
You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be.
“How bad do you want it?”
You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”
She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”
A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.
Not that you mind.
“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.”
“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.
“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”
She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.
“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”
You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.
“You’re so beautiful.”
She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”
You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”
She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.
You lick your lips.
“Lay back.”
“Huh?” You reply, dazed.
“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.
You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.
“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”
“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation.
And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.
“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her.
It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.
Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”
“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.
“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”
Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.
“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”
Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her.
“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.
She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.
For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.
Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.
Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”
You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.
“What? You guys didn’t know?”
Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”
Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.
Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”
“And stayed,” she adds.
There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.
Art blinks. “You mean—“
“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.
“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.
You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”
Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”
“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”
Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”
“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.
“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.
She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not!”
Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”
“You never said anything,” Art says.
You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”
“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”
“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”
There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.
“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.
“Sure,” Tashi hums.
“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.
“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.
“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.
“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”
“And?” You press, brow raised.
“And nothing.”
Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”
“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.
“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.
Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.
“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“
“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.
Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.
You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.
“You survived.”
“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“
“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.
“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.
“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.
Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”
“Welcome to the table,” you jest.
The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.
Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.
“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.
“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.
“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.
“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.
“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.
“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”
Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”
“To terrible decisions,” you echo.
Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.
“Jesus—what the hell is that?”
“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.
“Of course.”
She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.
“Exactly.”
Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.
“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.
“We are?” You blink up at her.
“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”
“What does that mean?” Patrick says.
She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”
“Like where?” Art replies warily.
Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”
The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.
When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”
“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed.
Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.
“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”
“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.
“Recreate it.”
“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.
“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”
Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”
“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.
“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”
“What? No,” he laughs.
“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”
Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.
Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.
“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.
“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”
She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”
She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.
Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”
“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”
“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.
Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.
When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.
He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.
You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh.
A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”
Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck.
It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.
A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.
“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.
“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”
Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”
“Always,” she replies.
Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.
You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.
“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.
Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“
“Art.”
His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes.
You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.
It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen.
You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”
“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.
“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”
“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”
It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look.
“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”
“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.
“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.
“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.
“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.
It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.
“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”
She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.
“Mmm?”
“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.
“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”
You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”
Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint.
“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.
“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.
“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.
“No. No, I’m just saying…”
“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.
So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you.
Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking.
You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again.
“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”
“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.
“No. No, I mean all of you.”
And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.
“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.
Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”
“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.
She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!
For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.
“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.
“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.
“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.
“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you.
“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.
“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.
“I need water,” Patrick declares.
“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.
You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.
“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”
The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.
warnings: foot fetish. degrading. light smut? toe sucking (r receiving). puppy! megan. lowk dont know what else. if you don't like, don't read.
a/n: i DO NOT have a foot fetish. but i may have discovered something new about myself...
normal nights. making out on the couch, your hands wandering down her body as she made soft, whining noises. she made your heart race with every whimper and moan she let out.
"awe my puppy." you whispered, kissing her cheeks and cupping her boobs in the palms of your hands.
"fuck." megan moaned at the simple touch before kissing on your jaw, down your neck and your collarbone. you hummed softly, watching as she dropped to her knees and kissing your tummy. "i need you now. all of you." she whispered, her hands rubbing your thighs and going to down to your calves. she pressed kisses down your legs, dropping down onto the floor practically praising you. before you knew it, she stopped at your feet looking up at your with puppy eyes.
"what? why'd you stop, puppy?" you ask, tilting your head as you looked down at her.
"i—" she gulped and sat on her legs, still holding onto your legs. "can i—" she looks down at your feet before meeting your eyes again.
your brows quirked up as you grinned. "do you have a foot fetish?"
megan's eyes widen as her face turned red. "no! i mean like—yeah but don't put it like that. i just, i think your feet are pretty and like—"
you smiled and shook your head. "of course you do weirdo." megan whined and made herself smaller as she continued to look up at you. "you wanna suck my toes?"
she nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip. "please."
you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should let her. you never had anyone do that you before, what if it felt weird and you couldn't sleep with her the same? megan noticed the hesitation in your body language and shook her head. "you don't have to let me if you don't want me to." she whispered, sitting back up on her knees. you shake your head and push her down.
"stay." you ordered to which she obeyed, falling back onto her legs. you arch your foot towards her, brushing your toes against the skin of her cheek. she gulped, sitting on all fours. "so cute. such a freak, of course you want to suck my toes."
megan just whined, letting herself be teased in the moment. "i know. i'm a weirdo."
"more than a weirdo megan. you're such a pervert." she just nods, watching you intently. you bring your foot to her lips. "open." you whisper, sliding your toes over her lips. then slowly inserting them inside her mouth.
megan, without hesitation, wrapped her mouth around your toes, letting her tongue run over your skin. she hummed, letting drool drip down the corners of her mouth.
"youre so fucking disgusting. wanting to suck my toes." you mumble, watching in awe as she sucked even harder on your toes. all she did was whine and nod, your words spurring her on even further.
she pulled back to catch her breath. "i love you so much mommy." she panted out, licking up your leg and straddling your lap. she nuzzled her face into your neck and sighed. "i love you."
you hummed and brushed your fingers through her hair. "i love you, puppy. but we're not done yet."
a/n 2: yall fw this or nah bc i was in the car rethinking everything like wtf? i prom i do not have a foot fetishhuhhh no matter what my gf says, she's lying.
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synopsis . . . after a bitter and chaotic divorce, daniela and you can’t stand being in the same room — but for the sake of your little girl, you would do anything, including agree to couple’s therapy. it starts with weekly sessions of torture that relives the past and turns into the discovery that hate isn’t always the opposite of love.
contains . . . highly suggestive, jealous! reader, a little confusing but you will understand it eventually, smut next chapter?? omg who said that...
word account . . . 3.6k words.
masterlist. previous. next.
same doctor’s office, same cold air conditioning that made you regret not grabbing the sweater from your closet before leaving, the same sound of dr. bennett’s pen tapping against the clipboard resting on his lap, his professional gaze over the young divorced couple in front of him, deciphering your grumpy expression and daniela’s confused eyes like a puzzle.
“so… how was the week?” his voice was cautious. sessions ago, he had learned that a simple question could trigger an argument between you and daniela. but not this time… this time, the week had been pleasant.
after the call, things had gone… well.
you exchanged casual, natural texts. daniela asked for pictures of elena, what cereal she should buy, what time she could pick her up over the weekend. you answered with the same basic, shallow politeness — elena was fine, she preferred chocolate cereal, and she could pick her up right before dinner.
nothing else was said about that call. daniela didn’t bring it up, neither did you, but both of you knew something had changed. something small, so tiny it didn’t even have a name, but it existed, and it soothed the animosity between you. maybe it was a hint of the forgiveness you had given her, maybe the fact she had acknowledged a mistake that, during the marriage, she would have never admitted to. but it existed… and it felt good.
it lasted until this morning.
“it was good, normal,” daniela answered, though her voice didn’t sound convinced, not even a little. maybe it would have a few hours ago. “elena’s doing so well with the sleepovers now, she already sleeps through the whole night at my place, she already sees it as her home too.” there was a hint of pride in her words, and a small part of you couldn’t stop the bittersweet feeling growing in your chest.
elena was adapting, she was understanding and processing her mothers’ divorce. that was good.
elena had two homes now, something you never, ever wanted.
dr. bennett gave an almost genuine smile. if you weren’t paying two hundred dollars an hour, you might’ve even believed he was a happy friend hearing about an achievement.
“that’s very good. it’s important to give her time to process things,” he said, then looked at you there, tense, always tense in that room. under that man’s gaze, you shrank into the couch with your arms crossed, almost wanting to disappear. not because you felt self-conscious — you looked good enough in the jeans you picked, you had made sure of that this morning. the tension came from another reason, one that wouldn’t leave your lips so easily. “and you, y/n? want to talk about how your week was? you two seem less… aggressive.”
“we were,” daniela answered before you, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t want to snap back at her. “we had a conversation last week, after the appointment, everything was okay… but you’re different now. what happened?”
suddenly, you wanted to yell at her. the moment those words left daniela’s mouth, your discomfort became something real. more than that, it became almost palpable. you could feel their eyes on you like a physical presence, and had to swallow hard before answering more calmly than you thought possible.
“nothing, everything’s fine… i’m normal.” you answered, as honestly as your lie allowed.
daniela didn’t reply, she looked at the doctor the same way a child looks at their parents after their sibling does something wrong, as if waiting for him to scold you.
“well… i’m sure you don’t mind telling me how the week was, then,” he said calmly, adjusting his glasses over his large nose.
you sighed internally in relief. you could talk about that, the week had been so good. you could ignore the feeling that seemed like an extra weight on your body, shove it to the back of your mind and answer him. you were paying two hundred dollars an hour, after all.
“sure… it was good, like daniela said, things have been working. no more fights since the last session.”
“then why are you acting weird now?” daniela asked. this time, her voice had lost half the patience it carried before, her eyes narrowed just slightly, her head tilted to the side, and dr. bennett’s disapproving look shifted toward her. even then, she didn’t stop. she took a deep breath and, like someone searching for the right words, continued. “look, i don’t wanna be an asshole, okay? i’m not trying to be one… it’s just that things were really good this week, it was nice not fighting with you all the time, so i don’t want it to go back to how it was before.”
“it’s not gonna go back to how it was before,” you said quickly, faster than you intended. you didn’t want it to, not at all.
“i know you, you bottle things up until you get mad at me without me even knowing why.” there was no pride in daniela’s tone, no anger, just… honesty. “so just tell me what happened… it’s better if you say it, right doc?” her honey eyes turned back to the man sitting across from you, searching for approval that came quickly.
“definitely. it’s important that you share what’s bothering you, y/n,” he said.
“it was the meeting with elena’s teacher today, wasn’t it?” daniela asked directly, and you sighed.
it was. it was the meeting with the teacher.
the school was empty, it was a free day for the kids, an entire day just for teachers to talk to parents, keep them informed about their children’s progress or any issues they might be facing. everything smelled like disinfectant or crayons, but elena’s classroom was pleasant to look at, so colorful and cheerful. children’s drawings decorated the walls, the alphabet in large letters covered the green chalkboard, and the chairs were way too small… even so, there you both were, in a debatably comfortable silence, waiting for the teacher. ms. forteza, or something like that.
daniela was wearing jeans tighter than usual, her thighs looked so defined it was hard not to stare.
why did she have to show up looking like that to your daughter’s parent-teacher meeting?
the teacher was young, looked freshly out of college, floral dress, pretty, you noticed. you wondered if daniela noticed too, but when she straightened slightly in the tiny chair, you knew she had, and noticed a lot.
“elena’s moms?” the woman’s voice was sweet, her brown hair and almond-shaped eyes bright as she sat in front of you both, though she seemed to fit into that setting better, more used to the tiny chairs and vibrant colors.
“yes, i’m daniela, this is y/n.” dani smiled, her annoyingly deep dimples making you force a polite smile too.
“it’s a pleasure, you can call me sophia,” she said, but she only looked at daniela. only looked at daniela. “elena is very special, very loved by the other students.”
and then she started. she talked a little about what they were studying now, about your daughter’s performance with the new subjects, about how smart and polite she was, how she talked a little too much with her classmates sometimes. she was a good kid, a pride, the biggest pride of your life, maybe one of the only ones. you absorbed every word like a good mother, taking mental notes and paying attention to what the teacher was saying… but you also couldn’t stop noticing the way she seemed to look at your ex-wife with eyes a little too bright, licking her lips every now and then, almost reaching for daniela’s hand over the table during one of her laughs. it was hard to tolerate.
not that you were jealous.
you hadn’t been jealous of daniela in a very, very long time. a little before the marriage ended, actually. daniela was too attractive and too funny, constantly being jealous of her was an energy you had simply chosen to stop wasting, which wouldn’t be a lie to say helped wear down an already exhausted relationship.
but it bothered you. it bothered you a lot, an unpleasant, sharp feeling that killed your good mood and replaced it with bitterness that lasted the entire day. the entire fucking day. and even now, all you could feel was anger, anger at daniela for entertaining the teacher, who, by the way, was flirting with the single mother of one of her students? everything about it was wrong and you couldn’t say anything, of course you couldn’t — daniela would interpret it as jealousy.
under dr. bennett’s serious gaze and daniela’s hopeful one, you were forced to speak.
the smile on daniela’s face was one you hadn’t seen in a while.
“were you jealous of me?”
“no!” the word left your mouth so quickly that daniela’s smile widened a little.
“how did it make you feel, then?” the doctor asked, eyebrows furrowed as if he truly cared, as if two hundred dollars a week were just bureaucracy and he was a friend you could trust.
“it bothered me, that’s all, it just bothered me.”
“so you were jealous?” daniela teased, the little smirk at the corner of her lips almost made you attack her right there without thinking twice.
“shut up.”
before daniela could interrupt with what would definitely be one of her smart comments specifically crafted to annoy you, dr. bennett interrupted first. there was the beginning of a smile on his face, but his eyes were, as almost always, deeply understanding, like a kindergarten teacher making you comfortable enough to ask the silliest question, and that was how you felt, like a child, unwilling to name your own emotions.
“that’s a common feeling, it’s not unusual that this made you uncomfortable,” he said, and you let out a breath through your nose — of course it was natural, daniela was the only girlfriend you had ever had, the only person who had ever been yours, and for such a long time… not feeling bothered watching her flirt back with another woman would actually be too cold of you.
“and daniela…” his eyes turned to her, he adjusted his glasses over his large nose and tilted his head slightly. “if it were the other way around, would you feel the same?”
the smug, extremely irritating smile on her painted lips seemed to disappear for half a second, just that, as if she pictured the scene in her head… and then it came back, as full of certainty as she usually was.
“well, i don’t know… it wasn’t the other way around, doc.” she shrugged.
the doctor quickly understood she wouldn’t answer.
little by little, your angry expression softened, the session continued with more advice on how to raise your daughter — which offended you a little — and softer questions about how your week had been and how the relationship between you two was progressing.
but from the corner of your eye, you could still see the little smile on daniela’s face. that irritated you, irritated you a lot.
the drive back home was like always, except daniela’s car followed closely behind yours. her practice had been canceled because of the holiday weekend and she had the day off, she said she missed elena a lot and wanted to see her again. that, you believed with all your heart, daniela was crazy about elena and you couldn’t imagine what it was like for her to only see her on weekends, but she hadn’t wanted to fight during the divorce the same way you both fought through half the marriage, so she agreed to shared custody with weekends, and it was working, as much as possible.
elena lit up seeing both of her moms arriving home and barely even said goodbye to the babysitter — alison, the neighbor from high school you paid ten dollars an hour to watch elena a few days a week.
it only took fifteen minutes of daniela and elena playing in the bedroom for your daughter to come back with a pout on her lips and big eyes, the same color as daniela’s, with a look very similar to daniela’s whenever she wanted something.
“can i sleep at mami’s house tonight?” she asked.
elena had school the next day, daniela was responsible with homework, science projects and bedtime schedules, but during your married routine, it was always you who woke up earlier to get elena ready for school, dani liked staying in bed for a few extra minutes — they were almost sacred to her. but that was only a habit, a routine. your ex-wife could be extra responsible for one day and wake up thirty minutes earlier, right?
one or two weeks ago, you would’ve said no, mostly to maintain your view of daniela as irresponsible and stupid, the one who kissed another woman in an alley behind a bar and gave you the silent treatment from time to time. but now, your emotions felt more rationalized, and you didn’t see her as a bad person. you were still angry at her, especially because of what happened earlier, but she wasn’t like the villains from the barbie movies you watched with elena.
she wasn’t good or evil, she was just a normal person who made mistakes, many, countless, almost unforgivable ones… and that still didn’t make her your enemy.
therapy was working, fuck.
you said yes, and dani took elena home with a genuine, huge smile, not like the one from the session earlier today that made you want to strangle her with your bare hands, this one made you smile too.
your house became empty, quiet, only the sound of the tv and the dishwasher running while you nearly fell asleep on the couch watching law & order and thinking about what to order for dinner even though it was already late. a few comfortable, pleasant hours passed like that, until you heard the sound of a car parking in front of your house — daniela’s car.
the doorbell rang and you answered it.
dani was there, same clothes from earlier, same makeup, but she looked… different. her eyes looked different, almost guilty, more hopeful, she had come with clear intentions.
“elena forgot a book she wants me to read to her before bed,” she said.
those were definitely not the intentions.
“a book?”
“yeah.”
“elena forgot a book? what book?”
“one with bears. can i come in?”
“one with bears,” you repeated, still holding the door half open. daniela gave a small shrug, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.
you stared at her for another second before stepping aside.
“she’s asleep already?”
“megan’s with her,” daniela answered casually, walking inside. she seemed taller, for some reason, not in size but in presence. it was just the two of you, no doctor, no teacher, not even elena… it felt a little strange, but you wouldn’t analyze it now. “they’re probably playing mario kart right now.”
you closed the door slowly, still suspicious, and took a breath without daniela noticing.
“you left elena to come get a bedtime story?”
“yes.” daniela looked over her shoulder simply. “what? is it weird?”
you didn’t answer her. there was something about her tonight. lighter, maybe. confident in a way that made you uneasy. daniela usually came into your house tense nowadays, cautious, like she expected a fight at any second, which was honestly very understandable. tonight, she looked almost calm. like she knew something you didn’t.
that alone irritated you. but you wouldn’t be the annoying ex-wife always looking for a fight and interrogating her. not tonight, at least.
“the book’s upstairs,” you said. “i’ll get it.”
“okay.”
you disappeared upstairs for a minute. either daniela was telling the absolute truth or she knew all of elena’s books by heart, because you found it on the last shelf. when you went back downstairs, daniela was still there, standing like she hadn’t moved since you left. you handed her the book.
she didn’t look at it, she only looked at you. only you.
“what?”
“what?” she repeated. her eyes were different. darker.
you took a breath. you didn’t like how differently she was acting, how she could walk into your living room and act like it was normal to look at you like that. still, despite yourself, you liked the way those honey eyes made you feel perceived, way too perceived.
“i thought we could talk a little,” she murmured softly, but determined.
“about what?”
she was quiet for a second. strangely quiet for daniela.
“you know…” she started slowly, glancing down at the book in her hands before looking back at you. “about what happened today, at lena’s school.”
you frowned a little. you didn’t want to talk about that.
“we don’t have to… if you came here just to make fun of me or something—”
“i’d feel the same way.”
silence.
her voice was honest, raw, shameless, it didn’t waver. she took a step forward, set the book down on the kitchen counter, unable to take her eyes off you. then you noticed it, the familiar look. you loved that look, you had seen it a thousand times before.
desire.
not the usual kind, this one was different, stronger. it was when she got needy, when she treated you like the very oxygen she needed. you loved seeing it after an argument because you knew she would forgive you, or after she watched you with elena and suddenly realized she had married the love of her life. the darkness in her eyes, the dilated pupils, not a single trace of doubt, she wanted what she wanted and she wanted it more than ever. you recognized that look. you knew daniela like the back of your hand. and she knew you too.
“if someone was flirting with you like that? if they kept looking at you that way?” she shook her head lightly. “i would’ve lost my mind.”
you swallowed. she was another step closer.
daniela laughed quietly after saying it, like she couldn’t believe herself either.
“actually, no,” she corrected. another step, you could smell her perfume now. “i wouldn’t even act normal about it. i’d be way worse than you were.”
“why are you telling me this?” your voice was harsh, almost rude. it didn’t affect her, she didn’t even flinch.
she took another step, her eyes so locked on yours that you took one back. she smiled a little, she knew she was affecting you, but her smile wasn’t cocky like usual… it was sweet, like she was happy you were reacting that way. it was working.
“because i know i would like hearing you say it,” she said simply. “you know how i used to get when you were jealous of me.”
oh, you knew. daniela actually loved that, she was nothing but a tease. she wouldn’t flirt, nor entertain other people, but she would spend the whole day smiling if someone flirted with her in front of you. not because she craved other people’s attention, not because she wanted you to know other people wanted her, or any of that… the reason was selfish. she just loved seeing you jealous. all possessive, angry-faced, then even more possessive later, riding her hard and making sure she knew you owned her.
“daniela…” you breathed. it was a warning. or maybe a plea, because if she didn’t stop now, neither would you.
“what?” she took another step closer and you raised a hand just enough to keep the distance of your forearm between you. it didn’t work.
another step closer and she was fully inside your personal space.
“you don’t remember it? i can remind you.” now her voice was almost a whisper, and she was close enough for you to hear every word clearly.
“we can’t.” your voice was firm. just like always, it didn’t mean much to her.
“why not?”
“because… because we’re divorced. you hate me and i hate you, remember?” the firmness in your voice faded, sounding weaker the closer she got, not caring about your hand against her stomach, weakly trying to keep a distance that was already gone. you were pressed against the wall now, it felt cold against your back, but daniela’s presence was warm and she was inches away from fully pressing against your body.
“i don’t hate you.”
“i hate you.”
“you don’t.” her resolve couldn’t be shaken, it seemed. just a little closer and she was fully pressed against you.
you knew you could push her away. daniela was slightly stronger than you, but not by much. daniela would never hurt you physically. daniela would never do anything you didn’t want when it came to sex, and that had been clear as day since you were a teenage girl making out in the backseat of her dad’s car. daniela’s body was so warm and so familiar, it lit up something inside you, like your body called for her, like magnetism. daniela’s breath brushed against your cheek, smelling like mint, like her gloss.
daniela. daniela. daniela.
all you could feel.
but you tried to remember reasons not to give in.
“you cheated on me.”
“i did,” she said. “it doesn’t change what you want right now.” you hated that she was fucking right. you swallowed hard and closed your eyes.
“daniela… you’re just not thinking right now. we have so many issues… so many things to deal with between us.”
“yeah, so many mistakes, right? mine, yours, i don’t care, you can put them all on my tab.” she was completely gone, you knew deep down those words came from a place a little lower than her heart… but they sounded so honest. “i just want you right now.”
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