It's here guys!! I have such big plan for these losers and I'm so excited to explore this little world I'm building. Please leave any comments, concerns, or threats on my life below <3
You go to a film premiere as your roommate's plus-one and leave as Angela Giarratana’s alleged girlfriend. After fixing a mysterious stranger’s dress, posing for one very convincing red carpet photo, and accidentally going viral, you discover the woman you fake-dated is the writer of the film. and now the internet thinks you’re in love. One DM later, the question becomes: clear the rumor… or make it real?
The Uber pulled up to the curb outside the vintage theater on Sunset Boulevard, and you felt your stomach do a nervous flip. Through the tinted window, you could see the red carpet, well, more of a burgundy runner, really, stretched across the sidewalk, flanked by modest step-and-repeat banners bearing the film's title in elegant serif font: The Intersection.
"Okay, we're here!" Maya practically bounced in her seat beside you, her excitement palpable as she checked her reflection one more time in her phone camera. Your roommate had been talking about this premiere for weeks, ever since she'd somehow weaseled her way from production assistant to Assistant Producer on this indie film. You still weren't entirely sure how she'd managed it. Maya had a way of being in the right place at the right time, of making herself indispensable on set, of turning coffee runs into networking opportunities.
"Are you sure I should be here?" you asked for probably the tenth time that evening, smoothing down the front of your outfit. You'd agonized over what to wear, finally settling on something that felt premiere-appropriate without trying too hard. "I mean, I didn't work on the film. I'm just... here."
"You're here as my plus-one, which is completely normal and expected," Maya said firmly, grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. "Besides, you helped me problem solve countless times. You're practically part of the crew."
"Helping you paint fake logos on soda cans at three am doesn't make me crew."
"It absolutely does. Now come on, I want to get some photos before it gets too crowded."
You climbed out of the car, and immediately the atmosphere hit you, that particular blend of excitement and anxiety that seemed to hover around any entertainment industry event. The air smelled like expensive perfume, hair product, and the faint exhaust from idling cars. A handful of photographers were already positioned along the carpet, their cameras ready, though this wasn't the kind of premiere that would draw paparazzi. This was indie film territory, the kind of project that survived on passion, modest budgets, and the hope of festival recognition.
As you followed Maya toward the check-in table, you took in the scene. There were clusters of people you didn't recognize. Some dressed to the nines, others in that studied casual way that somehow cost more than formal wear. You caught snippets of conversation: someone talking about their podcast, another person discussing their "brand partnership," a group debating the merits of various film festivals.
"Micro-influencers," Maya whispered to you, noticing your observation. "The publicist invited a bunch of them. Good for social media buzz."
You nodded, feeling slightly more at ease. At least you weren't the only person here who wasn't directly involved with the film. Near the entrance, you spotted some of the actors, faces you vaguely recognized from Maya's Instagram posts and the production photos she'd shown you. They weren't household names, but they had that look: attractive in an accessible way, talented enough to carry an indie film, hungry enough to show up and work the room at their own premiere.
Maya checked you both in, and a young woman with a clipboard and a headset handed you each a small card with your seat assignments. "Theater opens in about thirty minutes," she said with a practiced smile. "Feel free to enjoy the reception area, and there's a photo op on the carpet if you'd like."
"We definitely would," Maya said, already pulling you toward the step-and-repeat.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of awkward posing (Maya was a natural; you felt like a deer in headlights), small talk with people whose names you immediately forgot, and accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server that you nursed more out of nervousness than any desire to drink. Maya introduced you to a few people from the production: the cinematographer, one of the producers, a couple of crew members who'd apparently spent sixteen-hour days making this film a reality.
You were actually starting to relax, to feel like maybe you did belong here after all, when Maya's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her expression shifted from pleased to concerned in an instant.
"Oh no," she muttered.
"What's wrong?"
"There's an issue with the sound system in the theater. The levels are all wrong, and—" She looked up at you, genuinely apologetic. "I'm so sorry, I have to go deal with this. It's literally my job."
"No, of course, go!" you said, even as your stomach sank slightly at the prospect of being left alone. "I'll be fine."
"Are you sure? I can—"
"Maya, go. Fix the sound. I'll just... mingle or something."
She gave you a quick hug, already moving toward the theater entrance. "You're the best! I'll find you as soon as it's fixed!"
And then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd and the urgency of her responsibilities, leaving you standing alone with your half-empty champagne glass and a sudden acute awareness of how few people you actually knew here.
You drifted toward the edge of the reception area, trying to look purposeful rather than abandoned. You checked your phone, nothing interesting, just a few texts from friends asking how the premiere was going. You were composing a response when you heard a commotion near the entrance.
"I swear it was fine in the car!" a woman's voice said, frustrated but trying to keep it light. "I don't understand how this happened."
"Maybe if we just—no, that's making it worse," a man's voice responded.
Curiosity got the better of you, and you glanced over. A small group had formed near the entrance, and at the center of it was a woman in a stunning black dress that caught the light beautifully, or would have, if there wasn't clearly something wrong with it. Even from a distance, you could see that the strap on one side was hanging oddly, and there seemed to be some kind of issue with the back closure.
The woman herself was striking: dark hair styled in loose waves, expressive features, an energy about her that drew the eye even in distress. Next to her, a tall man with an impeccable sense of style was attempting to fix whatever had gone wrong with the dress, his face a mask of concentration.
"Chanse, I love you, but you're making it worse," the woman said, and despite the situation, there was affection in her voice.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" Chanse said, stepping back with his hands up. "Fashion is my passion, but apparently dress repair is not in my skill set."
You found yourself moving closer, drawn by a combination of empathy and professional interest. You'd been working in costuming for three years now, mostly theater productions and the occasional low-budget film, and you'd dealt with more wardrobe malfunctions than you could count. The panic in the woman's eyes was familiar, the kind of distress that came from knowing you were supposed to be somewhere, looking a certain way, and having your clothing betray you at the worst possible moment.
"The premiere's about to start," the woman was saying, her voice tight with stress. "I can't go in there like this, I look ridiculous."
"You don't look ridiculous," Chanse assured her, but his tone suggested he was grasping at straws. "Maybe we could find a safety pin? Or—"
"Excuse me," you heard yourself say, stepping into their circle before you could second-guess the impulse. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing. I work in costuming—would you like me to take a look at it?"
The woman turned to you, and up close she was even more striking. Her eyes were a warm brown, currently wide with a mixture of hope and desperation. "Oh my god, really? You wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all," you said, already assessing the damage. The strap had come partially detached from the bodice, and it looked like one of the hooks in the back had broken, causing the whole thing to sit wrong. "Do you have a few minutes? I think I can fix this."
"Yes, absolutely, please," she said, relief flooding her features. "I'm Angela, by the way. And this is Chanse."
"Nice to meet you both," you said, introducing yourself as you moved behind her to get a better look at the back of the dress. "Okay, so the good news is this is totally fixable."
You'd learned early in your costuming career to keep an emergency kit in your bag, nothing elaborate, just the basics: safety pins, a small sewing kit, fashion tape, a few other essentials. You'd thrown the bag in your purse tonight without really thinking about it, a habit more than anything else.
"Okay," you said, pulling out your kit. "This is going to take maybe five minutes. The strap is an easy fix. I can reinforce the attachment point with a few stitches and some fashion tape. The back closure is trickier, but I think if I replace the broken hook with a safety pin and then secure it properly, it'll hold for the night."
"You're an angel," Angela said fervently. "Seriously, I don't know what I would have done."
"Probably gone in there with one strap and owned it," you said with a smile, threading a needle. "But this will be more comfortable. Okay, hold still."
You worked quickly and efficiently, your hands steady despite the awareness that you were essentially performing emergency surgery on a stranger's dress in the middle of a film premiere. Angela stood perfectly still, and Chanse provided a running commentary that was probably meant to be helpful but was mostly just entertaining.
"You're really good at this," Angela said after a moment, watching you work in the reflection of a nearby window.
"Lots of practice," you said, securing the strap with a few careful stitches. "You'd be amazed how often this kind of thing happens. Actors, dancers, anyone who has to move around in formal wear, something's always coming loose or breaking at the worst possible moment."
"Do you work in film?" Chanse asked.
"Mostly theater. Some small film projects here and there. I'm actually here with my roommate, she's one of the Assistant Producers," you said, moving to the back closure.
"Okay, this is going to feel a little tight for a second while I get the pin in place, but then it should be fine."
"I trust you," Angela said, and you felt an unexpected flutter in your chest at the simple statement.
A couple more minutes of careful work, and you stepped back, surveying your handiwork. "Okay, try moving around a little. See how it feels."
Angela shifted, raised her arms slightly, turned from side to side. The dress moved with her perfectly, no gaping, no slipping, no visible signs of the repair. "Oh my god, it's perfect," she said, turning to look at you with genuine gratitude. "Thank you so much. Seriously, you saved my life."
"Just your dress," you said with a smile, packing up your kit. "But you're very welcome."
"Can I pay you or—"
"No, don't be ridiculous," you said quickly. "I'm happy I could help."
Before Angela could respond, a photographer approached, camera in hand. "Excuse me, ladies? Mind if I grab a quick shot? You both look stunning."
You started to step aside, this was Angela's moment, not yours, but she caught your hand, keeping you in place. "Actually, would you mind? After what you just did for me, the least I can do is share a photo op."
"Oh, I don't—" you began, but Angela was already positioning you both, and the photographer was raising his camera, and it seemed easier to just go with it than to make a fuss.
"Perfect, beautiful," the photographer said, snapping several shots. "And can I get a name for the caption?"
"Angela Giarratana," Angela said, then glanced at you.
You gave your name, feeling surreal about the whole situation.
"Great, and you two are a beautiful couple." the photographer said casually, already reviewing the shots on his camera screen.
You opened your mouth to correct him, to explain that you'd literally just met, but Angela caught your eye and there was a mischievous glint there that made you pause.
As soon as he was out of earshot, you turned to Angela, eyebrows raised.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Is that okay? It's just easier sometimes to lean into what people assume rather than explain the whole story. And honestly, after you saved my dress, you deserve some good premiere photos."
"I mean, I'm not going to complain about being your fake girlfriend for a photo op," you said, surprised by your own boldness. Maybe it was the champagne, or the surreal nature of the evening, or something about Angela herself that made you feel braver than usual.
Angela's smile widened. "Fake girlfriend. I like it. Very rom-com of us."
"Extremely rom-com," Chanse agreed, having watched the whole exchange with obvious amusement. "I feel like I should be the sassy best friend who gives you both relationship advice."
"You are the sassy best friend," Angela told him. "That's literally your role in my life."
"I know, I'm just saying it's very on-brand for this moment."
You were about to respond when you spotted Maya emerging from the theater, looking harried but relieved. She caught your eye and waved, making her way through the crowd toward you.
"I should go find my roommate," you said to Angela. "But it was really nice meeting you. I hope you enjoy the premiere."
"Wait," Angela said, pulling out her phone. "Can I get your Instagram? I want to tag you in any photos that come out, and also just... I'd like to stay in touch. You know, in case I have any future wardrobe emergencies."
You felt that flutter again, but you pulled out your own phone and opened Instagram, showing her your handle. She followed you immediately, and you followed her back, noting that she had a substantial following. More than you'd expected, though you still weren't entirely sure who she was beyond someone attending the same premiere as you.
"Perfect," Angela said, smiling at you in a way that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. "Thank you again. Seriously. You're a lifesaver."
"Anytime," you said, and meant it.
Maya reached you just as Angela and Chanse were heading toward the theater entrance. "You okay? Didn't get bored without me?"
"Someone had a wardrobe malfunction, I helped fix it. Kept myself busy," you said with a smile.
Maya stared at you. "You're up to something but I don't have time to figure it out. Come on, we need to get to our seats. The premiere's about to start."
The theater was beautiful in that vintage way, red velvet seats, ornate molding on the walls, a sense of old Hollywood glamour that had somehow survived into the modern era. Your seats were decent, not front row but close enough to see everything clearly. The room buzzed with conversation as people filed in, finding their places, greeting friends and colleagues.
You were still thinking about Angela, the warmth of her hand in yours, the way she'd smiled at you, the curve of her shoulder under your stitches, when the lights began to dim. The crowd settled, and a woman you recognized as the film's director walked onto the stage, microphone in hand.
"Good evening, everyone," she said, her voice warm and slightly nervous. "Thank you all so much for being here tonight. Making this film has been an incredible journey, and I'm so excited to finally share it with you. But before we begin, I want to introduce someone very special, the person whose vision and words made this entire project possible. Please welcome the writer of The Intersection, Angela Giarratana."
Your stomach dropped as Angela walked onto the stage, waving to the applauding crowd. The writer. She was the writer of the film. The film your roommate had worked on for months. The film you were here to celebrate.
Next to you, Maya grabbed your arm so hard it almost hurt. "Oh my god," she hissed in your ear. "You helped Angela Giarratana. THE Angela Giarratana. The writer. Did you know? Please tell me you knew."
"I had no idea," you whispered back, unable to take your eyes off the stage.
Angela was saying something about the inspiration for the film, about the incredible cast and crew, about how surreal it was to see something she'd written come to life on screen. She was articulate and funny, making the audience laugh with self-deprecating comments about the writing process, and you found yourself hanging on every word.
And then, just before she left the stage, she scanned the crowd, and for just a moment, her eyes found yours. She smiled, a small, private smile that felt like it was just for you, and then she was gone, taking her seat somewhere in the front section as the opening credits began to roll.
You barely processed the first ten minutes of the film. Your mind was reeling, trying to reconcile the woman who'd let you fix her dress, who'd held your hand for a photo, with the accomplished writer whose work was now playing out on the screen in front of you.
Gradually, though, the film pulled you in. It was good, really good. A character-driven story about connection and missed opportunities, about the way lives intersect and diverge, about the choices we make and the ones we don't. You could see why Maya had been so excited to work on it, why everyone involved seemed so passionate about the project.
When the credits rolled and the lights came up, the applause was genuine and enthusiastic. The director and several of the actors came back on stage for a brief Q&A, and Angela joined them, answering questions about her writing process and her hopes for the film with the same warmth and humor she'd shown earlier.
The reception after the screening was more crowded than before, everyone buzzing with opinions about the film, congratulating the cast and crew, networking and socializing in that particular way that entertainment industry events demanded. You stuck close to Maya as she made her rounds, accepting congratulations on the film's success, introducing you to more people whose names you struggled to remember.
You were talking to the cinematographer about the use of natural light in several key scenes when you felt a hand on your arm. You turned, and there was Angela, still in her perfectly-repaired emerald dress, smiling at you like you were old friends.
"Hey," she said. "I was hoping I'd run into you again."
"Hi," you said, very aware that the cinematographer had politely excused himself, leaving you alone with Angela. "The film was amazing, by the way. Really beautiful work."
"Thank you," Angela said, and you could see the genuine pleasure in her expression. "That means a lot. And thank you again for earlier. I was seriously panicking, and you just... swooped in and saved the day. I don't think I properly expressed how grateful I am."
"It was really no big deal," you said, though the way she was looking at you made it feel like maybe it was a bigger deal than you'd thought.
"It was to me," Angela said softly. Then, with a slightly mischievous smile, "So, fake girlfriend, are you enjoying your first premiere?"
"My first premiere where I pretended to be someone's girlfriend, you mean?" you said, matching her playful tone. "It's been pretty memorable."
"Good memorable or weird memorable?"
"Definitely good," you said, and meant it.
Angela's smile widened. "I'm glad. Listen, I know we just met and this whole thing is kind of bizarre, but I really would like to stay in touch. Not just for wardrobe emergencies, but... I don't know. I like you. You're easy to talk to, and you didn't treat me like I was some big deal even though—"
"I had no idea who you were," you admitted. "I'm sorry, I probably should have—"
"No, that's perfect," Angela interrupted. "That's exactly what I mean. You just saw someone who needed help and you helped. No ulterior motives, no trying to network or get something out of it. Just... kindness. That's rare in this industry sometimes."
You felt your cheeks warm. "Well, I'm glad I could help. And I'd like to stay in touch too."
"Yeah?" Angela's expression brightened. "Okay, good. Because I'm going to follow through on that. Fair warning: I'm a very enthusiastic texter. Lots of voice memos, lots of random thoughts at weird hours."
"I can handle that," you said, laughing.
Someone called Angela's name from across the room, one of the producers, gesturing for her to come over. She glanced back, then returned her attention to you.
"I have to go do the schmoozing thing," she said with an apologetic grimace. "But I'll text you, okay? Or DM you. Or both. Probably both."
"I'll look forward to it," you said.
Angela squeezed your hand, that same easy intimacy from earlier, and then she was gone, pulled into another conversation, another round of congratulations and industry talk. You got stuck watching how she lit up when someone hugged her, or laughed at something she said.
Maya appeared at your elbow almost immediately. "Okay, you have to tell me everything. How did you end up talking to Angela Giarratana? Why was she holding your hand? What is happening?"
You explained the whole story, the wardrobe malfunction, the repair, the photo op, the fake girlfriend bit, and watched Maya's expression cycle through disbelief, amusement, and something that looked almost like pride.
"Only you," she said when you finished. "Only you could accidentally become fake girlfriends with the writer of the film at her own premiere."
"It wasn't intentional," you protested.
"The best things never are," Maya said sagely. "Come on, let's get out of here. I'm exhausted, and I want to hear more about this on the ride home."
The Uber ride back to your apartment was filled with Maya's questions and your attempts to downplay the whole situation, though you couldn't quite suppress the smile that kept creeping onto your face when you thought about Angela's hand in yours, her smile, the way she'd said she wanted to stay in touch.
By the time you got home, it was nearly midnight. You changed out of your premiere outfit, washed your face, and collapsed onto your bed, finally pulling out your phone to scroll through the notifications you'd been ignoring all evening.
Instagram was the first app you opened, and you immediately noticed that you had several new followers and a handful of likes on your recent posts. Curious, you checked your notifications more carefully and saw that Angela had mentioned you in something.
You clicked on her profile picture, and your breath caught.
It was a picture of her Chanse outside the theater, perfectly blurry and adorable. The pride Chanse has for his friend shining through the screen. But what made you stop scrolling, what made you actually stare at your phone screen like an idiot, was her jawline. The angle of the photo caught it perfectly: sharp and elegant, the kind of bone structure that made your mouth go dry.
You found yourself zooming in slightly, tracing the clean line of it with your eyes, the way it curved from her ear down to her chin. God, how had you not noticed that earlier? You'd been standing right next to her. But here, in the soft outdoor lighting, with her head tilted just so, it was impossible to look at anything else. You stared at the photo for an embarrassingly long moment before you even remembered that you were mentioned:
"Thank you @y/ninthreads for saving my dress and my career tonight"
She'd tagged you. In a story post. To her hundreds of thousands of followers.
"Oh my god," you said aloud, staring at your phone.
You were about to respond when your phone buzzed with a notification. Then another. Then several more in rapid succession. You watched, slightly dazed, as your follower count began to climb, as notifications poured in. New followers, likes on your posts, comments from people you'd never met.
You fell asleep with your phone still in your hand, notifications still trickling in, and a strange sense that something had shifted in your life, though you couldn't quite articulate what or how.
The next morning, you woke to the sound of your phone buzzing insistently on your nightstand. You reached for it groggily, squinting at the screen, and nearly dropped it when you saw the notification count.
Instagram: 127 notifications
Twitter: 43 notifications
Text messages: 6
"What the hell?" you muttered, sitting up and rubbing your eyes.
You opened Instagram first, and your jaw dropped. Your follower count had jumped by over two thousand overnight. Your recent posts were flooded with comments from people you didn't know, and your DMs had dozens of unread messages.
Confused and increasingly alarmed, you started scrolling through the comments on your most recent post, a photo of a sunset you'd taken a few days ago.
"omg you're angela's girlfriend??"
"you guys are so cute together!!"
"the premiere photos are EVERYTHING"
"i can't believe angela hard launched like that"
"you two are my new favorite couple"
Hard launched? Couple? What were they talking about? How did the bit get outside last night?
With growing dread, you opened Twitter and searched Angela's name. The first result was a tweet with over fifteen thousand likes, posted by what appeared to be a fan account:
"ANGELA GIARRATANA HAS A GIRLFRIEND AND THEY HARD LAUNCHED AT THE PREMIERE LAST NIGHT I'M NOT OKAY 😭💚"
"
Attached to the tweet were the photos from last night: you and Angela on the red carpet, her hand in yours, both of you smiling at the camera. You looked good together, you had to admit. You looked like a couple. A real couple.
"Oh no," you said, scrolling further.
There were dozens of tweets, hundreds of comments, entire threads dedicated to analyzing the photos, speculating about your relationship, celebrating Angela's apparent decision to go public with her girlfriend. Some people had already found your Instagram and were posting screenshots of your profile, your photos, trying to piece together who you were and how you and Angela had met.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Maya: "uh have you seen twitter?"
Before you could respond, another notification popped up, a DM on Instagram. From Angela.
Your heart pounding, you opened it.
"Dude im so sorry, i didn't think they'd make the same assumption the photographer did. I just wanted to thank you publicly and now my entire fanbase thinks we're dating and apparently we 'hard launched' last night??? I'm really sorry if this is weird or uncomfortable. We can clear it up if you want, I can post a clarification or something."
You stared at the message, reading it twice, then a third time. Your mind was racing, trying to process everything: the photos, the speculation, the fact that thousands of people now thought you were dating Angela Giarratana, a writer, actress and comedian with a substantial following and, apparently, very enthusiastic fans.
The rational thing to do would be to clear it up immediately. To post a clarification, to explain that you'd just met, that the photographer had made an assumption and you'd both played along as a joke. That would be the sensible, reasonable thing to do.
But as you looked at the photos again, at the way Angela was smiling at you, at how natural and right it looked, at the way your hand fit in hers, you found yourself typing a response before you could overthink it:
"Should we clear it up, or start dating?"
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately panicked. What had you just done? You'd basically just asked out a woman you'd met less than twelve hours ago, a woman who was successful and talented and way out of your league, a woman who probably got hit on constantly and definitely didn't need some random costume designer sliding into her DMs with a half-serious, half-joking proposition.
Your phone buzzed almost immediately.
Angela's response was a single emoji: 👀
Then, a few seconds later: "Are you serious right now?"
Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it. You typed back: "I mean... the photos do look pretty convincing. And you did say you wanted to stay in touch. This would be one way to do that."
Three dots appeared, indicating she was typing. They disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared. You were about to die from the suspense when her message finally came through:
"Okay so here's the thing. I think you're really cool and I was definitely planning to slide into your dms anyway but i was going to be smooth about it, maybe wait a day or two, not have it happen because my fans accidentally manifested us into a relationship. But since we're here and apparently already dating according to the internet... would you want to get coffee? Like, an actual date? and we can figure out the rest from there?"
You read the message three times, a smile spreading across your face that you couldn't have suppressed if you tried.
"I would really like that," you typed back. "When are you free?"
"How about today? I know it's short notice but i'm weirdly free."
"Today works," you replied, your smile widening. "Should I meet you somewhere, or...?"
"i'll send you the address. it's this little place in silver lake, very low-key, they have the best lattes. say 2pm?"
"Perfect. See you then."
"it's a date. a real one this time, not a fake premiere date"
You set your phone down, your heart still racing, and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. In less than twenty-four hours, you'd gone to a film premiere, fixed a stranger's dress, accidentally become fake girlfriends with said stranger for a photo op, discovered she was the writer of the film, gotten tagged in her Instagram story, woken up to thousands of people thinking you were dating, and then turned the fake relationship into a real date.
Maya was going to lose her mind.
As if summoned by your thoughts, your roommate appeared in your doorway, phone in hand, eyes wide. "Okay, so I've been down a Twitter rabbit hole for the last hour, and I have questions. So many questions. Starting with: are you actually dating Angela Giarratana now, or is the internet just being the internet?"
You grinned at her, feeling giddy and reckless and more alive than you had in months. "I have a date with her this afternoon. Does that answer your question?"
Maya's shriek of excitement could probably be heard three apartments over.
"Tell me everything," she demanded, launching herself onto your bed. "And I mean everything. How did this happen? When did this happen? Oh my god, I leave you alone for one premiere and you accidentally start dating the writer of the film I worked on. This is insane. You're insane. I love this for you."
As you filled Maya in on the morning's developments, showing her the DM conversation with Angela, you couldn't help but think about how strange and wonderful life could be sometimes. How a simple act of kindness, fixing a stranger's dress, could lead to this: a date with someone who made you smile, who made you brave, who made you want to take chances.
You had no idea where this would go. Maybe the date would be awkward, maybe the chemistry you'd felt last night wouldn't translate to a real conversation over coffee, maybe the whole thing would fizzle out as quickly as it had sparked to life.
But maybe it would be the start of something real. Something that began with a broken dress strap and a fake relationship and turned into something neither of you had expected but both of you wanted.
Your phone buzzed again. Another text from Angela: "Actually, I know we said afternoon, but I'm too excited to wait. Coffee in an hour?"
You looked at Maya, who was already shoving you toward your closet.
"Go," she said, grinning. "And text me updates. I want to know everything."
As you stood in front of your wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear for a date that had gone from hypothetical to very real in the span of a single morning, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You looked nervous, yes, but also hopeful. Alive.
I saw your post about your witch fics, and I wanted to say how much I admire them!! I think self-insert fanfics have been getting better lately at understanding how physical representations don’t always fit the reader, but I think there’s another conversation to be had about culture and morals/religion. Our culture and our practices and traditions shape who we are and how we interact with the world! And while I do think having fics be more inclusive is a good thing, I think it is equally important to have fics that embrace and explore specific experiences!! Anyway, just wanted to say I love your fics. <3
Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. Conversations like these are what I dreamed of sparking with this series.
Sorry for how long I’m about to ramble, I got a lot to say.
Self insert fics have been so white, skinny, Christian centered for a long long time while it feels like the rest of the world evolved around it. Characters consistently comb their blonde hair back into a messy bun and make comments about hourglass figures, while those of us who don’t look like that immediately feel dejected.
That same thing happens when I read a story and they get married in a church, or a character makes a decision that is 100% against my morals as a witch. I wanted to create a one-shot series where other witches who have experienced that same dejection, somewhere to feel seen.
I’ve written so many ambiguous fics where literally anyone could insert themselves and I wanted to do something for people like me. People who were rose quartz around their neck and burn incense after a bad day. People who smile and nod when conversations about religion come up. People who can’t seem to escape Christianity on every corner (literally, if you threw a rock it would hit 10 churches on my road).
This series is for them, not for me. Let me clear and crisp. It’s a little self indulgent, I’ve made that clear from the first chapter. But it’s also for the (not surprisingly) large portion of Emily stans that happen to be witches, or spiritual. I wanted people to be able to see their way of thinking and seeing the world represented in a way it usually isn’t.
Witches are often written in the supernatural or magical sense. Levitating cars, or blasting enemies with magic beams. Real, living breathing witches don’t have magical powers I fear. I wanted to showcase the craftsmanship side of it, the intentions, the threefold rule and so much more.
This next chapter is going to be chalk full of information about readers practice, deities, etc, because I’m lowkey trying to educate yall too
Let me crisp about something else. Fanfiction writers owe you nothing but good tags and trigger warnings. If your writing an x reader fic and mention hair color, tag it. If they’re gonna go to church, tag it. If they’re of a certain body type, tag it. Writers can imagine their stories however they want, but don’t cherry pick your tags.
I think there’s so much more room for cultural representation in fanfic for not just witchcraft, but every other small religion, ethic group and community. It’s up to us, the members of those groups, to step up and be the representation we want to read.
Just start writing, let it flow, think about how your experiences shape you and just write.
Next chapter out before Christmas <3
Love, MB
Okay I’m going to write the next chapter and classified connections
Merry Christmas and happy holidays! The timeline doesn’t fit reality but let’s call it Christmas ✨ magic ✨
4 Christmas experiences with Angela
~ The First Christmas ~
Angela and you take Christmas seriously, so it was no surprise when you both showed up to the office holiday party in ugly sweaters. Immediately recognizing you were the only two. “Y/n, your sweater is awful!” Angela said as she giggled at the bows and garland hot glued to your sweater. You took in the many photos of Spork in a santa hat attached to hers, “Of course your sweater is about your dog!” The two of you clinked glasses and she made eye contact with you as she sipped her wine. The warmth in her eyes made your cheeks turn hot pink. “Are you gonna sing karaoke?” You asked as you found a stool to sit on. “Yeah! I was thinking of doing I’ll be home for Christmas. It’s one of my favorites.” You lit up as your family came to mind, “Me too! My family’s out of state and I will always be home for Christmas eve.” She asked you about your family, your parents, siblings. Paying full attention to you despite the bustle around you and multiple people trying to pull her away for photos, “Ang! Come here for a second.” Chanse beckoned for her, “One minute, I wanna hear about Y/n’s niece.” Your stomach did backflips, solidifying the feeling you were ignoring, you really liked Angela.
After the party Angela approached you, “Do you need a ride home? You’ve had quite a bit of cider.” She took your keys from your hand, “Yes actually, thank you.” She helped you put on your jacket and took your hand, leading you to her car. While she drove soft Christmas music played from the radio. You looked out the window at the lights on the businesses and houses. Angela kept glancing over at you, admiring your beauty as you stared in awe. A smile appeared on her lips and she let it stay there.
“This is me.” You turned to a halt outside your door facing her. She had this absolutely radiant smile on her face. She handed you your keys and held your waist as you unlocked the door. The move had you swooning. You opened the door and sadly her hands dropped. She leaned against the doorframe, “I’ll see you next year?” That joke is so over done but somehow it made you laugh, you nodded and then smiled at her, “Goodnight Angela.” But you didn’t close the door, you two just stared at each other for a good 20 seconds, “Y/n, I really want to kiss you.” You sighed, “Then do it.”
~ Christmas Apart ~
Due to your family being out of state, you and Angela would be spending Christmas apart. Angela was obviously a little bummed about it, but she knows how important being with your family is. So she drove you to the airport, gave you a very special Christmas kiss. “Okay,” she said pulling away from you, “I have something for you.” She pulled out a little white box from her pocket, a red bow tied on it. “Angela, you didn’t have to.” You smiled, cheeks now matching the bow. “Yeah but I wanted to. Open it!” You took it from her and pulled the bow off. You looked at her before opening the box. She was bouncing on her toes, excitement bursting from her. You giggled and pulled off the lid, “Holy-“
It was a simple silver band ring with a small emerald, “Angela-“ “No! Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have. Listen, I know it’s only been a year.” She paused and took a breath, “But I feel so happy with you and safe. I can be Angela, weird and loud and anxious. You love the parts of me I even hate.” She took the ring from the box and slipped it on your finger, “This is a promise to try for the rest of my life to make you happy.” She placed a kiss on your knuckle.
Tears poured down your eyes in the middle of LAX. “You are so precious.” You grabbed her shirt, yanking her into a kiss. You poured every ounce of love from your soul into the kiss. Her hands gripped your hoodie, keeping you from pulling away.
Eventually she let go and leaned her forehead on yours, “I’ll see you in the next year Y/n.”
The ring has lived on your hand since that moment.
~ Christmas Gift~
Excitement fluttered through the living room as you and your family gathered to open presents. You were passing out gifts using a cheesy Santa voice wearing a Santa hat when you heard, “That’s a pretty good Santa.” Your head whipped around to see Angela in matching Christmas PJ’s to yours. Your jaw fell open and you flew across the living room to her, wrapping your arms around her neck. She immediately caught you as your legs wrapped around her waist. She laughed and your family watched with huge smiles. You buried your face into her neck and she whispered, “Merry Christmas pretty girl.” She put your down but then put her arms around your waist. You just stared at her in awe, “How? What?” She giggled at your confusion before answering, “I planned it all with your mom. She snuck me in about 10 minutes so I could change and find the perfect time to surprise you.” You smiled impossibly big and kissed her quickly. “Merry Christmas honey.” She blushed at the pet name and looked down, you still gave her huge butterflies.
She found a spot on the floor next to you and watched your family interact with each other. She had met them before but loved observing you with them. She took the time to really look at you, messy bun, glowing cheeks, eyes glistening with excitement and joy. You felt eyes on you and looked at her, “What?” She grabbed your chin, “You’re just the prettiest ever.” You smiled as happy tears brimmed your eyes. She noticed and her eyes started to water. The moment quickly ended when your dad threw a pillow at you, “Get a room!” Everyone laughed.
“Hey Angela could you give me a hand in the kitchen?” Your mom smiled at her from the doorway. Angela kissed your cheek and stood, “I would love to.” Your mom quickly noticed how much Angela loved to cook the first time they met and now they cook together every time they’re together. Your dad watched as you watched Angela walk with your mom laughing at something she said. “She’s a keeper.” You rolled your eyes, “Dad.” He put a hand up, “No, I’m not going to tell you to do it now or soon, just don’t let her go.” He made a fist, “Fight for it.” You smiled at him knowingly.
~ THE Holiday Party ~
Angela was preoccupied all day, obviously nervous about something. You checked in on her all day, even offering for you two to skip the holiday party. She declined and said she just needed a nap. Which was believable after the night you had the night before. Anyways.
As holiday music blasted and drinks were clinked, Angela fiddled with the box in her pocket. Her nerves clawing at her. She knew you would say yes because marriage was a conversation you two have had in depth many times. She was more nervous about fucking up her words. Plus she only had one hand because of the sling. You were joking around with Courtney and Ian when she pulled away from you, “I’ll be right back.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek and walked into the crowd. A few moments later you heard Amanda on the mic, “Hi guys!” Everyone replied back in their own ways, “So tonight we are going to do something a little different. A few of us prepared a toast for the evening.” People cheered, “To start us out we have the feral guinea pig with one arm and a dream, Angelan Giarratana!” People clapped and cheered as Angela took the stage. Amanda placed the mic back onto the stand and stepped off.
You turned to face your attention on her, a huge smile on your face. She cleared her throat and began, “A couple years ago when I started at Smosh, I remember being so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of talent present.” She used her good arm to gesture to everyone, her eyes finding yours for a moment. That alone gave both of you butterflies. “Ian is really good at dressing badly, Anthony is good at comebacks and Garret makes a mean catfood nugget.” Everyone laughed and Garret faked hurt. “But there’s one person I want to highlight specifically.” She looked at you, “Y/n, come here honey.” You handed a Courtney your glass and joined Angela on stage. People clapped and you could hear Chanse yell, “My favorite lesbians!”
Angela used her good arm to hold your hand, “Y/n is one of the best people to walk this earth. She is kind to the levels of a superhero. She is so fucking funny that over the years we’ve been together I’ve grown a 6 pack. Y/n has so much drive and passion that I am envious. If she wants something, she gets it. She has the biggest heart and it shows when she’s with her niece and family and dogs.” She swallowed hard. Tears welled in your eyes as you put the pieces together. “The night we started dating it was after a Smosh holiday party. I drove her home because she quote on quote had too much cider. I really just wanted to kiss her but don’t tell her that.” You giggled at the memory, knowing you were sober in the moment but let take you home anyways. “Y/n, I have loved every second I have been honored to have with you. It has been an honor to watch your grow and change. I have loved every version of you I have gotten to meet. Especially the theatre girlfriend version that handmakes a hoodie that says ‘Grace Chasity’s girlfriend’ and then wears it to the show.” From across the room you hear the Starkid cast cheer. You immediately knew that she invited them to witness this moment.
“Y/n, I want to continue to be your trainwreck for the rest of time. I wanna love you till we’re food for the worms to eat.” She let go of your hand, pulling a box from her sling which made you chuckle. She dropped to one knee and opened the box revealing a fancier version of your promise ring, “Y/n y/l/n, will you let me continue to love you and marry me?” Tears poured down your face and you nodded, “Of course honey.” She jumped up and you grabbed her waist pulling into a passionate kiss. Your friends, coworkers and others cheered. You pulled away from her and used one finger to take out the ring and another to drop the box. You raised your hand to hers and she slipped the ring on. She grabbed your chin and looked directly into your eyes, her cheeks wet, “I love you.” You sobbed, “I love you so much.”
After receiving many congratulations from loved ones you and Angela snuck outside for a moment of peace. You were standing against the building, Angela leaned into your side. She was holding your left hand fiddling with the ring, a huge smile on her face. You finally spoke, “Why the holiday party? I loved it, it was perfect, you know I just like to know your thoughts.” Angela knew exactly what you meant, you didn’t dislike it, you were just curious. “This is our second family. They have watched us grow as a couple, supported us through the bad and I wanted them to be apart of it. Plus it’s how we started.” You smiled. “I completely agree with you.” She sighed in content, “I invited the Starkid gang because they’re the ones who hyped me up to make my move.” You laughed out loud at the idea of them hyping Angela up between runs of Black Friday.
Everything was perfect; Angela (duh), the ring, your job, your step-dog.
Angela watched as you stared in awe at the christmas lights on the buildings of downtown LA, just like the moment she knew you were the one.
AN: Happy holidays! I hope your holidays are full of smiles and belly laughs. Eat cookies, drink cider, and fuck bitches.
You're moving in with Angela, you should be excited right? Right? Wrong. You're crying in the fucking closet.
The cardboard box in your hands wasn't even that heavy, but somehow it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as you stood in the doorway of Angela's, your, bedroom closet.
Our bedroom. Our closet.
The thought should have filled you with warmth, with excitement, with all those butterflies that had been fluttering in your stomach for weeks leading up to this moment. Instead, it just made your chest tighten.
"Babe, I'm gonna grab the last few boxes from the car!" Angela's voice floated up from downstairs, bright and cheerful, full of that infectious energy that had made you fall in love with her in the first place.
"Okay!" you called back, hoping your voice sounded normal.
You stepped into the closet, a generous walk-in that Angela had already cleared half of for you. She'd been so thoughtful about it, moving all her things to one side, even buying matching hangers in your favorite color. There were little labels on the shelves: "Your sweaters," "Your shoes," "Your accessories." Each one written in her distinctive handwriting, some with little hearts doodled next to them.
It was perfect. She was perfect.
So why did you feel like you couldn't breathe?
You set the box down on the floor, staring at the empty space that was now yours to fill. Your clothes, in Angela's closet. Your life, intertwined with hers. This beautiful, vibrant, incredible woman who lit up every room she walked into, who made everyone laugh, who had somehow chosen you.
What if you couldn't be enough? What if you messed this up?
The thoughts came faster now, tumbling over each other like dominoes. What if your habits annoyed her? What if you weren't tidy enough, or you were too tidy? What if she realized she liked having her own space? What if—
Your hands were shaking.
You knelt down beside the box, intending to start unpacking, to do something productive, to push through this weird spiral you were falling into. But when you opened it and saw your clothes—the sweater Angela always said she loved on you, the t-shirt you'd worn on your first date, all these pieces of your life that were now becoming pieces of your shared life—something inside you just cracked open.
The first sob caught you by surprise. You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to muffle it, trying to hold it together. But then came another, and another, and suddenly you were sitting on the closet floor surrounded by boxes, crying into your knees like the world was ending.
You didn't hear Angela come back upstairs. Didn't hear her calling your name, the concern growing in her voice when you didn't answer. You only realized she was there when you felt her presence in the doorway, when you heard her soft, worried, "Baby?"
You looked up, and the expression on her face, pure concern, no judgment, just love, somehow made you cry harder.
"Hey, hey, hey," Angela was on the floor beside you in an instant, her arms wrapping around you, pulling you against her chest. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
You shook your head against her, unable to form words, feeling ridiculous and overwhelmed and so, so scared.
"Talk to me," she murmured, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back, the other cradling your head. "I'm right here. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
That word, together, made something inside you break open even more.
"I'm scared," you finally managed to choke out, your voice muffled against her shoulder. "I'm so scared, Angela."
"Scared of what, sweetheart?" Her voice was so gentle, so patient. She wasn't rushing you, wasn't making you feel bad for falling apart. She was just there, solid and warm and real.
"Of messing this up." The words came out in a rush now, like a dam breaking. "Of not being good enough, of you realizing you made a mistake, of—of my stuff being in the wrong place or me being too much or not enough or—" You were spiraling, you knew you were spiraling, but you couldn't stop. "You're so amazing, Angela. You're so good at everything, and everyone loves you, and you're so funny and talented and beautiful, and what if I can't—what if I'm not—"
"Stop," Angela said firmly, but not unkindly. She pulled back just enough to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs wiping away your tears. Her brown eyes were intense, focused entirely on you. "Stop, baby. Look at me."
You met her gaze, your breath still hitching with leftover sobs.
"First of all," she said, "you could never mess this up. Do you know why?"
You shook your head slightly, not trusting your voice.
"Because this isn't some performance you have to get right. This is just us, living our lives together. There's no script, no right or wrong way to do it. We're just going to figure it out as we go, and yeah, maybe sometimes you'll leave your socks on the floor and I'll leave my coffee cups everywhere, and we'll have to learn each other's rhythms. But that's not messing up. That's just... life. That's just love."
A fresh tear rolled down your cheek, but this one felt different. Softer, somehow.
"And second," Angela continued, her voice dropping to something even more tender, "you need to stop comparing yourself to some impossible standard. I didn't ask you to move in with me because I think you're perfect. I asked you because I love you exactly as you are. The you who gets anxious sometimes. The you who overthinks things. The you who cries in closets on moving day."
Despite everything, you let out a watery laugh at that.
"There she is," Angela smiled, that beautiful, radiant smile that made your heart skip. "There's my girl."
"I just don't want to disappoint you," you whispered.
"Baby." Angela leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours. "You could never disappoint me. Do you know what I was thinking about when I was downstairs getting those boxes?"
You shook your head slightly, your noses brushing.
"I was thinking about how lucky I am. How I get to come home to you every single day now. How I get to wake up next to you every morning. How your toothbrush gets to live next to mine, and your books get to live on our shelves, and your terrible taste in reality TV gets to take over my watch lists."
"My taste in reality TV is excellent," you protested weakly, and Angela laughed, the sound vibrating through both of you.
"See? That's what I mean. I get to have these ridiculous arguments with you about The Bachelor. I get to learn which side of the closet you prefer, and how you organize your clothes, and all these little details about you that I'm going to love discovering. This isn't scary to me, sweetheart. This is everything I've wanted."
You pulled back slightly to look at her properly. "Really?"
"Really," she confirmed, then seemed to consider something. "Okay, you want to know something? I was nervous too."
"You were?"
"Of course I was! I was terrified you'd move in and realize I'm actually kind of a slob, or that I sing really badly in the shower, or that Spork's stuff takes up so much fucking room." She grinned. "But then I realized that you already know all that stuff about me, and you still said yes when I asked you to move in. Just like I know that you stress-clean when you're anxious, and you have to read before bed every night, and you cry at literally every Pixar movie—"
"They're emotional," you interjected.
"They are," Angela agreed, her eyes crinkling with affection. "And I love that about you. I love everything about you. Even the parts that you think are too much or not enough. Especially those parts, actually."
You felt your breathing finally starting to even out, the panic that had been clawing at your chest beginning to loosen its grip.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "I didn't mean to have a breakdown in the middle of moving day."
"Don't apologize." Angela's hands moved from your face to take your hands in hers. "This is a big step. It's okay to feel overwhelmed. It's okay to be scared. I just need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"When you start feeling like this, when your brain starts telling you that you're not enough or that you're going to mess everything up, I need you to come find me and tell me. Don't sit in here alone spiraling. Let me remind you of the truth."
"What truth?" you asked, even though part of you already knew.
Angela squeezed your hands, her expression so full of love it made your chest ache in an entirely different way. "That you're the most precious thing I have. That you're my favorite person in the entire world. That I chose you, and I keep choosing you, and I'm going to keep choosing you every single day. Not because you're perfect, but because you're you. And you, exactly as you are, are more than enough. You're everything."
The tears came again, but these were different. These were the kind that felt like release, like relief, like coming home.
"I love you so much," you managed to say, and Angela pulled you back into her arms.
"I love you too, baby. So much." She held you for a long moment, just letting you breathe, letting you settle. Then she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "You know what I think we should do?"
"What?"
"I think we should leave these boxes for later. I think we should go downstairs, order from that Thai place you love, and just sit on the couch together. We can watch something mindless, and eat too much pad thai, and just... be. The boxes aren't going anywhere. We have all the time in the world to unpack."
You pulled back to look at her. "But we were supposed to get everything done today—"
"Says who?" Angela challenged gently. "There's no timeline here, sweetheart. No deadline. We can unpack tomorrow, or this weekend, or next week. What matters right now is that you're okay. That we're okay."
You nodded slowly, feeling the last of the tension start to drain from your shoulders. "Okay. Yeah. That sounds really nice, actually."
"Good." Angela stood up, then reached down to help you to your feet. But instead of leading you out of the closet, she turned you to face the empty space again, wrapping her arms around you from behind and resting her chin on your shoulder. "Look at that. That's your space. In our closet. In our home. Isn't that cool?"
And somehow, with Angela's arms around you and her voice in your ear, it didn't feel scary anymore. It felt like possibility. Like promise. Like home.
"Yeah," you said softly. "It's really cool."
"And you know what's going to make it even cooler?" Angela asked, her tone turning playful.
"What?"
"When you put all your stuff in there and I can steal your hoodies whenever I want. That's really what this is all about, you know. I'm just in it for the hoodie access."
You laughed, a real laugh this time, not a watery one, and elbowed her gently. "I knew you had ulterior motives."
"Guilty as charged." She spun you around to face her, her hands settling on your hips. "But seriously. We're good?"
You took a breath, really checking in with yourself. The anxiety was still there, humming quietly in the background, but it wasn't overwhelming anymore. It wasn't drowning you. And you knew that if it tried to again, Angela would be there to pull you back to the surface.
"We're good," you confirmed.
"Good." Angela leaned in and kissed you, soft and sweet and full of promise. When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Now come on. I'm starving, and I need to show you where I hid all the takeout menus. There's a whole drawer dedicated to them. It's very organized. I'm very proud of it."
"A whole drawer?"
"I told you, I have my priorities straight."
She took your hand and led you out of the closet, out of the bedroom, down the stairs. And with each step, you felt a little lighter, a little more certain. This was real. This was happening. You were moving in with Angela, the love of your life, and it might be messy sometimes, and you might have more moments of doubt, but you'd figure it out together.
In the kitchen, Angela pulled out her phone to order food, but before she could open the app, she set it down and turned to you again.
"Hey," she said, her voice soft.
"Hey," you echoed.
"I meant what I said up there. You're the most precious thing I have. Don't forget that, okay?"
You felt your eyes getting misty again, but you blinked the tears back. "I'll try not to."
"Good." She picked up her phone again, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing."
"What?"
"Welcome home, baby."
And just like that, standing in the kitchen of the apartment you now shared with the woman you loved, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the promise of Thai food and lazy evenings on the couch, you realized something: you were home. Not because of the apartment, or the closet space, or any of the physical things.
You were home because Angela was there.
And that was more than enough.
"Thanks," you said, moving closer to wrap your arms around her waist. "I'm really happy to be here."
"Yeah?" Angela asked, pulling you close.
"Yeah."
She kissed the top of your head, then finally opened the food delivery app. "Okay, so I'm thinking spring rolls, pad thai, drunken noodles, and that mango sticky rice you're obsessed with. Sound good?"
"Sounds perfect."
And it was. All of it was perfect, not because it was flawless, but because it was real, and it was yours, and it was shared with someone who loved you enough to find you crying in a closet and remind you that you were exactly where you belonged.
Later, after the food arrived and you were curled up on the couch together, Angela's fingers running through your hair while some cooking show played on TV, you felt her press another kiss to your temple.
"Love you," she murmured.
"Love you too," you whispered back.
And you meant it. With everything you had, you meant it.
This was home. She was home. And you were finally, finally ready to believe that you deserved to be here.
Are you still planning on writing that Angela chapter fic?
Yes! I have two other chapter fic I’m writing for another fandom that have my time right now. Im also working 40 hour work weeks rn and desperately need sleep where I can find it
This is really dumb, I'm so high. You give Angela breakfast in bed, but it's just a hair tie.
smut, stupid, oral (r receiving)
The early morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. You'd been awake for the better part of an hour, plotting. Angela was still asleep beside you, her dark hair splayed across the pillow in wild tangles, one arm thrown above her head in that completely unselfconscious way she had when she was deeply under. The sheet had slipped down during the night, revealing the curve of her bare shoulder, and you couldn't help but smile at the sight of her.
On the nightstand sat your carefully prepared surprise: one black hair tie. The most ridiculous romantic gesture you'd ever conceived, and you were absolutely committed to it.
You shifted closer, moving slowly so as not to startle her. Your hand found her shoulder, warm and soft beneath your touch.
"Ang," you murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple, then her cheek. "Wake up, baby."
She made a small noise of protest, burrowing deeper into the pillow, but you persisted, trailing kisses along her jaw.
"Angela," you tried again, your voice low and affectionate. "I made you breakfast in bed."
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused for just a moment before awareness crept in. She blinked at you, her brow furrowing. "What?" Her voice was rough with sleep, scratchy and adorable. "You... cooked?"
"Even better," you said, unable to keep the grin off your face. You reached over to the nightstand and picked up the hair tie, presenting it to her with all the ceremony of someone offering a five-star meal. "Breakfast in bed."
She stared at the hair tie in your palm, then up at your face, then back at the hair tie. You could see her brain working through the sleep fog, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
"That's... a hair tie," she said slowly.
"Yep."
"For breakfast."
"Uh-huh."
She was quiet for a moment, still staring at it, and then you saw the exact moment understanding dawned. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly, and then she burst out laughing, that sleepy, husky sound that you loved, her whole face lighting up.
"Oh my god," she said, taking the hair tie from you, still laughing. "Oh my god. You absolute dork. You're breakfast?"
"I'm breakfast," you confirmed, feeling ridiculously pleased with yourself. "You're gonna need that to pull your hair back."
"I cannot believe you," she said, but she was grinning now, shaking her head. "This is the most ridiculous—" She cut herself off, looking at you with that expression that was half exasperation, half adoration. "You're lucky you're cute."
"And delicious, apparently," you added, and she laughed again, swatting your shoulder.
"You're an idiot," she said fondly, already gathering her wild hair back. She slipped the tie around her wrist first, then leaned in to kiss you, soft and sweet and tasting like sleep. "But you're my idiot."
"So you're saying yes to breakfast?" you asked against her lips.
"I'm saying," she murmured, pulling back to work her hair into a messy ponytail, "that this is either the sweetest or the stupidest thing anyone's ever done for me, and I haven't decided which yet."
"Can't it be both?"
"It's definitely both," she said, securing the hair tie with a practiced twist. Her hair was still a disaster, pieces already escaping around her face, but it was back and out of the way. She looked at you with dark, wanting eyes, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Okay. Let's see if breakfast lives up to the presentation."
She pushed you gently onto your back, and you went willingly, your heart already racing with anticipation. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against yours as her hands roamed over your body, mapping familiar territory. When she pulled back, there was that particular smile on her face that meant you were in the best kind of trouble.
"You're ridiculous," she said, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. "Presenting me with a hair tie like it's room service."
"Five-star accommodations," you managed to say, your breath already coming faster as her mouth moved lower, over your chest, your stomach.
"Mmm, we'll see about that," she murmured against your skin, and then her hands were on you, stroking, teasing, and you groaned at the contact.
She settled between your legs, looking up at you with those dark eyes, her hair already starting to slip loose from the ponytail. "Bon appétit," she said with a wicked grin, and then her mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.
The feeling of her tongue, hot and wet and perfect, made you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. She knew exactly what you liked, exactly how to drive you crazy, and she used every bit of that knowledge now. Her tongue swirled and teased, her lips creating the perfect pressure, and you couldn't help the sounds escaping your throat.
"Fuck, Angela," you breathed, one hand reaching down to tangle in her hair. The ponytail already half-undone, strands escaping everywhere, but it had done its job.
She hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your body, and doubled her efforts. Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as you started to squirm, the pleasure building and building until you felt like you might come apart.
"Oh god, I'm—" you warned, and she didn't let up, working you through it as your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your whole body tensing and then releasing, pleasure radiating out from your core.
She pressed soft kisses to your inner thighs as you came down, gentling her touches, and when she finally crawled back up your body, her hair was completely loose again, the tie dangling from one wrist, and she was grinning like she'd just won something.
"So," she said, settling beside you, propping her head up on one hand. "How was breakfast?"
You laughed, still catching your breath, and pulled her in for a kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. "Five stars," you said. "Would recommend."
"Good," she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Because that was genuinely the weirdest and sweetest wake-up call I've ever gotten."
"The hair tie really sold it, huh?"
"The hair tie was inspired," she agreed. "Stupid, but inspired." She kissed you again, soft and lingering. "Though it didn't stay in very long."
"It served its purpose," you said, running your fingers through her now-completely-wild hair. "Noble sacrifice."
She laughed, that warm, affectionate sound that made your chest feel full. "You're so weird."
"You love it."
"I really do," she admitted, settling against your chest, her hair spreading everywhere. You could feel her smiling against your skin. "I love you, you absolute weirdo."
"Love you too," you said, meaning it with everything you had.
She tilted her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and sated and full of mischief. "So what's for lunch?"
"Jesus, give me a minute to recover," you said, but you were grinning.
"Fair," she conceded, snuggling closer. "But I'm definitely stealing the shower first."
"Only if I can join you."
"Deal," she said, and kissed you again, the hair tie still dangling forgotten from her wrist.
The morning light continued to filter through the curtains, casting everything in gold, and you stayed tangled together, savoring the warmth and intimacy and the kind of easy pleasure that made everything else worthwhile.
ur fanfics are so fire you are feeding us so good dude, would love to have a longer fanfic with plot that builds up to some smut or just has an ongoing story line :3
Yes! I want to write a short-ish chapter fic for Angela but I'm stuck between a few ideas.
College Friends turned lovers: close in college (totally JUST platonic), you go the serious dance and musical route, she goes comedy. Guess where this is going chat, you do a show with Starkid and fall in love again and again
You work together on a short film with a mutual friend; you're on the crew, and she's acting. It's clichéd and cute! I fear I'm imagining a quieter, calm without shrinking reader. A calm to Angela's chaos.
You’re both hired as head writers on a comedy special or sketch show. Your styles clash: You're precise, structured, dramatic, Angela is chaotic, improv genius, its-all-in-timing.
She moves in down the hall in your building, then sets off the fire alarm at 3 am reheating doordashed alfredo. In an attempt to make it up to you she offers to make dinner for you two after work, just dinner, nothing else. Something else becomes more slowly.
You're invited to the premiere of a friend's movie, when she wanders off with her stylist for a fashion emergency, a photographer takes you as Angela's girlfriend. You both lean into the bit, thinking nothing of it. It blows up, social media thinks it's true. Should we clear it up, or start dating?
What are your thoughts chat?
Chapter Fic ideas...
College Friends (blurred lines to adult tension, theatre kid vibes)
Short Film, short fic (woman of few words x woman who can't stop talking)
Writing with her, or writing against her? (slight enemies to lovers)
Neighborly care, nothing more, nothing less. (forced proximity if you squint)
The photographer was right (I'd have fun with social media stuff, photoshop, etc
A quiet night at a warm, LA bar takes a turn when Angela Giarratana bumps into you and accidentally sets off the kind of spark you only read about in books.
What starts with spilled drinks and flustered apologies quickly melts into banter, slow walk home, a kiss against your apartment door, and hours spent talking and tangled together leave you wondering how a chance collision could feel like fate.
Angela thinks you’re the most beautiful person she’s ever seen; you think she’s impossibly charming. You both might be right.
The bar was one of those perfectly curated LA spots—not too pretentious, not too dive-y, with Edison bulbs casting warm amber light across exposed brick walls and a playlist that somehow knew exactly when to shift from indie pop to something more sultry. You'd come here with friends, but they'd scattered to various corners: Maya was deep in conversation with someone about cryptocurrency (God help them), and Jordan had disappeared onto the patio for what was definitely going to be a lengthy phone call with their long-distance partner.
Which left you at the bar, perched on a leather stool, nursing a gin and tonic and people-watching in that particular way one does when they're alone in public. Half-observing, half-lost in their own thoughts, wholly aware of how the dim lighting caught the sheen of your top just right. You'd dressed up tonight, really dressed up, in a way that made you feel like yourself for once. The skirt was long and flowing, a deep emerald green that moved like water when you walked, with a slit that climbed high enough on your thigh to be interesting without being obvious.
You were mid-sip, condensation from the glass cool against your fingers, when it happened.
One moment you were alone with your thoughts and the pleasant buzz of conversation around you. The next, there was a collision.
Not hard, but sudden enough to send your drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your glass. A hand shot out to steady your arm, and you turned to find yourself face-to-face with possibly the most beautiful woman you'd ever seen in real life.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" She had dark curly hair that tumbled past her shoulders, expressive eyes that were currently wide with mortification, and a smile that was somehow both apologetic and absolutely radiant. "I was trying to squeeze past and I just—I'm so sorry, did I get any on you?"
You recognized her immediately. Angela Giarratana. You'd seen her in Smosh videos, watched her absolutely destroy people in Try Not to Laugh challenges, admired her comedic timing and the way she could shift from absolutely unhinged to genuinely heartfelt in seconds. And now she was here, in front of you, one hand still gently holding your forearm, close enough that you could smell her perfume. Something warm and slightly spicy that made your head spin more than the gin had.
"No, no, you're good," you managed, and wow, your voice came out steadier than you felt. "No casualties. The drink survived."
"Thank God." Angela's hand lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary before she pulled back, and you could have sworn you saw her gaze flicker down and then back up, taking you in. "I would've had to buy you a replacement, and honestly, I'm already mortified enough without adding 'girl who ruins strangers' outfits' to my reputation."
"Your reputation?" You tilted your head, playing coy, even though your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "Should I know your reputation?"
Something shifted in her expression: a spark of intrigue, maybe, or the recognition that you were playing a game. Her lips curved into a smile that was decidedly less apologetic and decidedly more interested. "I mean, I'd like to think I have a reputation for being charming and delightful, but my friends would probably say it's more 'chaos gremlin who can't walk in a straight line.'"
"The evidence does support the chaos theory," you said, gesturing vaguely at the near-collision that had just occurred.
"Ouch." But she was grinning now, fully grinning, and she shifted closer. Not crowding you, but definitely entering your space in a way that felt intentional. "Okay, I deserved that. Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you your next drink? As an apology for my complete lack of spatial awareness?"
You should have said no. You should have been cool, aloof, made her work for it a little more. Instead, you found yourself saying, "Only if you stay and help me drink it. I got ditched by my friends, and drinking alone makes me look either mysterious or sad, and I can't tell which."
"Mysterious," Angela said immediately. "Definitely mysterious. You've got this whole..." She gestured at you, a wave of her hand that encompassed your entire being. "This whole thing going on. The outfit, the vibe, the way you're sitting there like you're in a movie and the lighting guy specifically positioned that bulb to hit you just right."
Heat crept up your neck. "The lighting guy did do a good job tonight."
"He really did." Angela was definitely looking at you now, not even trying to hide it, and there was something in her gaze that made you feel like you were the only person in the entire bar. She flagged down the bartender with an ease that suggested she was a regular, or at least comfortable in spaces like this. "What are you drinking?"
"Gin and tonic."
"Classic. Sophisticated." She ordered your drink and something for herself. When the bartender moved away, Angela leaned against the bar, angling her body toward yours. "So, mysterious girl who I nearly assaulted with my inability to navigate crowded spaces, do you have a name?"
You told her, and watched the way she repeated it, like she was testing how it felt in her mouth.
"That's pretty," she said, and the sincerity in her voice made your chest tight. "I'm Angela."
"I know," you said, and then immediately wanted to take it back, because now you'd revealed your hand.
But Angela just lit up. "Oh, you know! Okay, so you were just messing with me with the whole 'should I know your reputation' thing."
"Maybe I just wanted to see what you'd say."
"Okay, that's—" Angela laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. "That's actually kind of hot? Like, you saw me being a disaster and decided to just... let me keep going?"
"You were doing so well, I didn't want to interrupt."
Your drinks arrived, and Angela paid before you could even reach for your wallet, sliding your gin and tonic across the bar with a little flourish. "To new friends," she said, raising her glass. "And to me not spilling this one all over you."
"Ambitious," you said, but you clinked your glass against hers.
The first sip was cold and botanical and perfect. The second sip was even better, because you took it while Angela was watching you, and you could see the exact moment she forgot to look away.
"So," you said, setting your glass down and turning to face her more fully. The movement made your skirt shift, the slit falling open just slightly, and you didn't miss the way Angela's eyes tracked the movement before snapping back up to your face. "Do you make a habit of running into girls at bars, or am I special?"
"Oh, you're definitely special." Angela took a sip of her drink, and you watched her throat work as she swallowed. "I usually have much better coordination. You've clearly thrown me off my game."
"I've thrown you off your game? I'm just sitting here."
"Yeah, exactly. Just sitting there. Looking like that." Angela gestured at you again, more emphatically this time. "Do you know what you look like right now? Because I feel like you know. You have to know."
You bit your lip, fighting a smile. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Oh, we're doing this?" Angela set her drink down, shifting so she was fully facing you now, and the intensity of her attention was almost overwhelming. "Okay. You look like if someone googled 'girl I'd absolutely lose my mind over at a bar' and it somehow found an image of you. Like, the skirt? The slit? The way you're just casually sitting there like you didn't put thought into every single element of this outfit?"
"Who says I put thought into it?" You were absolutely putting thought into it. You'd changed three times before leaving your apartment.
"Your shoes match your top. That's not an accident."
Damn. She was observant. "Maybe I'm just naturally coordinated."
"Unlike some of us," Angela said wryly, and you both laughed.
The conversation flowed easier after that, like a door had been opened and you'd both decided to walk through it. Angela was funny, genuinely, effortlessly funny in a way that made you forget you were supposed to be playing it cool. She told you about a disastrous shoot earlier that week where everything that could go wrong did, complete with dramatic reenactments that made the bartender glance over more than once. You told her about your job, your friends, the way Maya had been trying to convince you to invest in some cryptocurrency scheme for the past three weeks.
"Don't do it," Angela said seriously. "I know someone who lost like, so much money on some coin that was literally called 'RocketMoon' or something equally ridiculous."
"RocketMoon?"
"I might be combining two different scam coins, but you get the idea."
You were laughing again, and Angela was watching you with this soft expression that made your stomach flip. The bar had gotten more crowded, people pressing in around you, and at some point Angela had moved closer to let someone pass and then just... stayed there. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that when she leaned in to hear you better over the noise, her hair brushed against your shoulder.
"Can I ask you something?" Angela said, and her voice had dropped lower, more intimate.
"Sure."
"Are you flirting with me, or am I just incredibly gay and reading into everything?"
Your heart kicked into overdrive. This was it. The moment where you could play it safe, laugh it off, keep things ambiguous. Or you could be brave.
"What if I said both?" you said. "What if you're incredibly gay and I'm absolutely flirting with you?"
Angela's eyes went wide, and then she laughed, this breathless, delighted sound. "Okay. Okay, good. Great. Excellent, even. Because I've been trying to figure out how to flirt with you for the past twenty minutes and I kept psyching myself out."
"You've been flirting with me the entire time."
"I have?"
"The compliments? The intense eye contact? The way you keep finding excuses to touch my arm?"
Angela looked down at her hand, which was indeed resting on your forearm, and snatched it back like she'd been burned. "Oh my God. I didn't even realize, I'm sorry, I should ask before I just—"
"Angela." You caught her hand before she could pull away completely, lacing your fingers through hers. "I didn't say I minded."
The look on her face was something you wanted to memorize: Surprise and pleasure and something heated that made your skin feel too tight. Her fingers tightened around yours.
"You're really good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"At making me forget how to function." Angela shook her head, laughing at herself. "I'm usually better at this, I swear. I can be smooth. I've been smooth before."
"I don't believe you."
"Rude." But she was smiling, and she hadn't let go of your hand. "Okay, watch this. I'm going to be so smooth right now."
"I'm watching."
Angela opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I... fuck. I had something. I had a whole thing."
You couldn't help it, you laughed, and after a moment, Angela joined in, dropping her forehead to your shoulder in mock defeat. You could feel her laughing against you, could feel the way her breath warmed your skin through the thin fabric of your top.
"This is the opposite of smooth," she said, muffled against your shoulder.
"I think it's pretty smooth, actually."
She lifted her head, and suddenly her face was very close to yours. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's honest. I like honest."
"Okay, honestly?" Angela's gaze dropped to your lips, then back up. "I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen walk into this bar, and I've been coming here for two years. I think your laugh sounds like something I'd want to hear every day. I think I want to know everything about you, and also I really, really want to kiss you, but we're in public and I'm trying to be respectful about it."
Your breath caught. "That's pretty smooth."
"I have my moments." Her thumb traced a circle on the back of your hand. "So what do we do about this?"
"About what?"
"About the fact that I want to keep talking to you but I also can't think straight when you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know exactly what you're doing to me."
You did know. You could see it in the way her pupils had dilated, the way she kept wetting her lips, the way her free hand was fidgeting with the edge of a cocktail napkin like she needed something to do with it. And the thing was, she was doing the exact same thing to you. Your heart was racing, your skin felt electric everywhere she touched you, and you were hyperaware of every inch of space between your bodies.
"Maybe we're even, then," you said softly. "Because you're not exactly making it easy for me to think straight either."
"Good." Angela's smile turned a little wicked. "So we're both disasters. I can work with that."
"Can you?"
"Absolutely. In fact, I think we should lean into it. Embrace the chaos."
"What does that look like?"
Angela pretended to think about it, tilting her head in a way that made her waves cascade over one shoulder. "Well, I could tell you more about how gorgeous you are. Really get into the specifics. Like how the lighting is hitting your collarbones right now and it's actually making me insane."
Heat flooded through you. "You could do that."
"Or," Angela continued, and her voice had gone even lower, "you could tell me what you were thinking about before I crashed into you. Because you had this look on your face, like you were a million miles away."
"I was thinking about how I was glad I wore this outfit."
"Mission accomplished on that front."
"And," you continued, emboldened by the way she was looking at you, "I was thinking about how I was probably going to go home alone tonight and how that was fine, but also a little disappointing."
"And now?"
"Now I'm thinking that maybe I won't be disappointed after all."
Angela's breath hitched audibly. "You're really, you're really good at this. Like, concerningly good. Should I be worried that you're out of my league?"
"You're literally semi famous."
"You're literally making me forget my own name right now, so I think we're even."
You laughed, and Angela's expression softened into something tender. "I really like your laugh," she said. "I know I already said that, but it bears repeating."
"What else bears repeating?"
"Fishing for compliments now?"
"Maybe. Is it working?"
"Absolutely." Angela shifted even closer, and now you were definitely in each other's space, knees touching, her hand still wrapped around yours. "Okay, let's see. You're beautiful, obviously, we've established that. But you're also funny, and you're quick, and you've been keeping up with me this entire time, which is not easy because I talk a lot and I jump around topics and—"
"Angela."
"Yeah?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being charming without realizing it."
She ducked her head, and even in the dim light you could see the flush spreading across her cheeks. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me want to—" She cut herself off, biting her lip.
"Want to what?"
Angela looked up at you through her lashes, and the expression on her face was something between shy and bold, uncertain and determined. "Makes me want to stop being respectful about the whole public kissing thing."
Your stomach flipped. "Who says you have to be respectful?"
"Society. Decorum. The bartender who's definitely been watching us for the past five minutes."
You glanced over. The bartender was, indeed, watching you both with barely concealed amusement. When he caught your eye, he grinned and gave you a subtle thumbs up.
"I think he approves," you said.
"Of course he approves. We're adorable." Angela squeezed your hand. "But maybe we should take this somewhere more private? Not because I'm assuming anything," she added quickly. "Just because I'd like to keep talking to you without having to yell over the music, and also because if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to do something inadvisable."
"What if I want you to do something inadvisable?"
"Then you're going to kill me. Actually kill me. I'm going to combust right here at this bar."
You finished your drink, keeping eye contact with her the entire time, and watched her watch you. "Why don't you walk me home?" you said. "My apartment's only a few blocks from here."
Angela's eyes went wide. "I—yeah. Yes. Absolutely. I can do that. I can definitely walk you home. That's a thing I can do without making a complete fool of myself."
"I don't believe that for a second."
"Okay, fair." She stood up, still holding your hand, and helped you off the barstool with a gentleness that made your chest ache. "But I'm going to try really hard."
You texted your friends to let them know you were leaving. Maya responded with approximately fifteen exclamation points and a string of emojis that were definitely inappropriate. Then you and Angela were heading for the door, fingers still intertwined.
The night air was cool against your skin after the warmth of the bar, and you breathed in deeply, catching the scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby. LA at night was its own kind of magic: the palm trees silhouetted against the purple-orange sky, the distant sound of traffic, the way the city felt both infinite and intimate at the same time.
"Which way?" Angela asked, and you pointed left.
You walked slowly, neither of you in any hurry to end this. Angela told you about growing up in Los Angeles, about how she'd always known she wanted to perform but had never quite imagined it would look like this. You told her about your own journey to LA, the dreams you'd chased and the ones you'd let go of, the way the city had a habit of surprising you just when you thought you had it figured out.
"Like tonight," you said. "I definitely didn't expect to meet you."
"I definitely didn't expect to literally run into the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and somehow not completely blow it."
"Who says you haven't blown it?"
Angela stopped walking, tugging on your hand to make you stop too. "Have I?"
You turned to face her, and in the glow of the streetlight she looked almost ethereal. All soft edges and warm eyes and that smile that made you want to do reckless things. "No," you said softly. "You really, really haven't."
"Good." She stepped closer, and you could feel the electricity between you, the pull that had been building all night. "Because I really don't want this to end."
"It doesn't have to."
"No?"
"No." You reached up, brushing a curl back from her face, and felt her shiver under your touch. "We're almost to my place. You could come up. If you want."
"If I want," Angela repeated, and laughed. "If I want. Like there's any universe where I don't want that."
"Just checking."
"You're going to be the death of me." But she was smiling, and when you started walking again, she stayed close, her shoulder bumping against yours.
Your apartment building appeared too quickly and not quickly enough. You led Angela through the lobby, into the elevator, and watched the numbers climb while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. Angela was quiet now, but her hand was still in yours, and when you glanced over at her, she was already looking at you.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi."
"I'm nervous."
"Me too."
"Really?" Angela looked genuinely surprised. "You've been so confident all night."
"I'm good at faking it." You squeezed her hand. "But yeah. Really nervous. Good nervous, though."
The elevator dinged, and you led her down the hallway to your door. Your hands were shaking slightly as you unlocked it, and you were hyperaware of Angela behind you, close enough that you could feel her presence like a physical thing.
Your apartment was small but cozy, decorated in a way that you hoped said "put-together adult" and not "trying too hard." You'd left a lamp on, and it cast everything in a warm, golden glow.
"This is cute," Angela said, looking around. "Very you."
"You've known me for like two hours. How do you know what's very me?"
"Call it intuition." She was still holding your hand, and she used it to pull you closer. "Or maybe I'm just really good at reading people."
"And what are you reading right now?"
Angela's gaze dropped to your lips. "That you want me to kiss you as badly as I want to kiss you."
Your breath caught. "Pretty accurate reading."
"Yeah?" She reached up with her free hand, cupping your face with a gentleness that made you want to melt. "Can I?"
"Please."
Angela closed the distance between you, and the first touch of her lips against yours was electric. Soft and tentative at first, like she was still asking permission, still making sure this was okay. You answered by pressing closer, by sliding your free hand into her hair, by opening your mouth against hers and feeling her gasp.
The kiss deepened, and suddenly Angela's hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against her, and you were backing up until you hit the door, and she was everywhere.
Her mouth on yours, her body pressed against you, her hands sliding up your sides in a way that made you shiver.
"Is this okay?" she murmured against your lips.
"So okay," you managed, and then you were kissing her again, harder this time, with all the want that had been building since she'd first crashed into you at the bar.
Angela made a sound low in her throat, and her hands tightened on your waist. When she pulled back, you were both breathing hard, and her lips were kiss-swollen and her eyes were dark with want.
"I couldn't wait," she said, a little breathless. "I was going to be cool about it, maybe wait until we were inside for a few minutes, but then you looked at me like that and I just—I couldn't contain myself."
"I'm not complaining."
"Good." She kissed you again, softer this time, almost reverent. "Because I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you."
"You've been wanting to kiss me since you crashed into me?"
"I've been wanting to kiss you since I saw you sitting at that bar looking like every gay fantasy I've ever had come to life."
You laughed, and Angela smiled against your mouth. "I mean it," she said. "You're—God, you're incredible."
"So are you." You traced your fingers along her jawline, feeling her shiver. "Want to come further inside? Maybe somewhere more comfortable than pressed against my door?"
"Is that a trick question? Because obviously yes."
You took her hand again and led her to the couch, and when you sat down, Angela immediately curled into your side like she belonged there. It felt natural, easy, like you'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
"So," Angela said, playing with your fingers. "What now?"
"What do you want?"
"Honestly? I want to keep kissing you. But I also want to talk to you more. Learn everything about you. Figure out how I got this lucky."
Your heart swelled. "We could do both."
"Both is good. Both is great." She lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "I really like you. Like, a concerning amount for someone I just met."
"The feeling's mutual."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You leaned in and kissed her again, slow and sweet, and felt her smile against your mouth.
You did talk, eventually—about everything and nothing, about dreams and fears and the weird things that made you laugh. But mostly you kissed, long and slow and deep, learning the taste of each other, the way your bodies fit together, the sounds you could draw from each other with just a touch.
And when Angela finally left, hours later, with the promise to text you as soon as she got home and plans to see each other again tomorrow, you closed the door and leaned against it, touching your lips and smiling like an idiot.
Your phone buzzed almost immediately.
Angela: I miss you already. Is that weird?
You: Not weird. I miss you too.
Angela: Good. Because I'm already planning our next date in my head and I'm going to absolutely sweep you off your feet.
You: Pretty sure you already did that.
Angela: Then I'll do it again. And again. And again.
You: I'm not going to stop you.
Angela: Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if I wanted to.
You fell asleep with your phone in your hand and a smile on your face, already counting down the hours until you'd see her again.
What starts as a hunt for a recipe ends in Angela finding the edits you have saved of her, in a totally platonic, normal way.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the windows and the occasional hum of traffic from the street below. Angela had been sprawling on your couch for the better part of an hour, her legs draped over the armrest in that effortlessly comfortable way she had of making herself at home anywhere.
"Okay, but seriously," she said, not looking up from her phone, "what was that pasta thing you made last time I was here? The one with the—" she gestured vaguely with one hand, "—the crispy stuff on top?"
You glanced over from where you were folding laundry, a basket of warm clothes between you and the TV playing some reality show neither of you were really watching. "The cacio e pepe with the breadcrumbs?"
"Yes!" Angela sat up suddenly, her dark hair falling above her shoulders. "That one. I've been craving it all week and I cannot for the life of me remember what you did to make it taste like that."
"I think I saved the recipe to TikTok," you said, reaching for your phone on the coffee table. "Here, you can look through my saved videos. It should be in there somewhere."
You unlocked your phone and handed it to her without thinking, turning back to match up a pair of socks. It was such a casual gesture, the kind of thoughtless trust that came from months of friendship, from late-night conversations and inside jokes and the comfortable intimacy of people who'd seen each other at their worst and stuck around anyway.
Angela took the phone with a grateful smile, immediately swiping to your TikTok app. "You're a lifesaver. I was about to try to recreate it from memory and we both know that would've been a disaster."
"Remember the time you tried to make that viral feta pasta?"
"We agreed never to speak of that again," Angela said primly, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "The fire alarm went off once."
"Twice."
"Once and a half, then."
You snorted, shaking out a t-shirt. The comfortable silence settled back over the room, broken only by the sound of Angela scrolling through your saved videos, occasionally pausing to watch a few seconds of something before moving on.
You were halfway through folding a hoodie when you realized exactly what else was in your TikTok saved folder.
Your stomach dropped.
"Oh, wait—" you started, but it was too late.
Angela had gone very still, her thumb frozen mid-scroll. The light from the phone screen illuminated her face, highlighting the slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips had parted in surprise.
"Um," she said slowly. "So."
You abandoned the laundry basket entirely, heat flooding your face. "I can explain."
"Can you?" Angela's voice was carefully neutral, but when she looked up at you, there was something dancing in her dark eyes. Amusement, or something else you couldn't quite name. "Because I'm looking at what appears to be... a lot of edits. Of me."
She turned the phone screen toward you, and you wanted to sink through the floor. There it was: your carefully curated collection of Angela Giarratana fan edits, dozens of them, all saved over the past few months. Edits set to trending songs, edits from Smosh videos, edits that some very talented fan had made highlighting her comedy timing, her expressions, the way she could make you laugh until you couldn't breathe.
"Okay, so," you started, then stopped. What were you supposed to say? That you'd been casually obsessed with your friend for months? That you'd spent more time than you cared to admit watching these videos, marveling at the way someone had captured exactly what made Angela so captivating?
Angela was scrolling now, her eyebrows climbing higher with each swipe. "This is... extensive. There's like a whole folder. You organized them."
"I organize all my saved videos," you said weakly. "I have folders for recipes too. And DIY projects I'll never actually do."
"Uh-huh." Angela clicked on one of the edits, and the sound of some indie song filled the room, overlaid with quick cuts of her from various Smosh videos: laughing, doing bits, that one moment from a Reddit Stories video where she'd delivered a line so perfectly that it had become a meme for weeks. "This one has like a million views."
"It's a good edit," you mumbled.
"It is a good edit," Angela agreed. She watched it all the way through, and you couldn't tell if you were imagining the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. When it ended, she clicked on another one. And then another.
"Angela—"
"No, no, I'm just... taking this in." She looked up at you again, and this time there was definitely amusement in her expression, mixed with something that might have been fondness. "How long have you been saving these?" House Tour by Sabrina Carpenter played from her hands.
You sighed, giving up on any pretense of dignity. "A few months? Maybe longer. I don't know, I didn't exactly keep a log."
"A few months," Angela repeated. She set the phone down on the couch beside her, but her eyes never left your face. "So you've just been, what, casually watching fan edits of me? Your friend who you see like three times a week?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds weird."
"It is a little weird," Angela said, but her tone was gentle, teasing. "I mean, you could just... look at me. In person. I'm right here."
"That's different," you protested, even though you weren't entirely sure how to articulate why. "These are... I don't know. They're like, concentrated moments of you being amazing. Someone took the time to find all the best parts and put them together."
"The best parts," Angela echoed softly.
You pushed on, feeling like you might as well commit to the embarrassment at this point. "Yeah. Like, you're funny all the time, obviously. But these editors, they catch these little moments—the way you commit to a bit, or that thing you do where you pause right before a punchline, or just... I don't know. The way you light up when you're making people laugh."
Angela was quiet for a moment, studying you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The rain had picked up outside, drumming harder against the windows.
"Can you blame me?" you said finally, going for levity even though your heart was hammering. "You're hot and they know it!"
You'd meant it as a joke, a way to deflect from the unexpected vulnerability of the moment. But as soon as the words left your mouth, you realized they were also just... true. Angela was hot. The editors knew it. The comments on those videos knew it. The thousands of people who liked and shared them knew it.
And apparently, you'd known it for months, saving video after video like some kind of digital shrine to your friend's charisma.
Angela's eyebrows had shot up again. "Oh, so I'm hot now?"
"I mean." You gestured helplessly at her. "Yeah? Obviously? Have you met you?"
"I have, actually. We're pretty close." Angela picked up your phone again, scrolling through a few more edits. "I'm trying to decide if I should be flattered or concerned."
"Flattered," you said quickly. "Definitely flattered. It's flattering."
"Is it though?" But she was smiling now, a real smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, it kind of seems like you have a crush on me."
The word hung in the air between you, and you felt your face go hot again. "I—that's not—"
"It's okay if you do," Angela interrupted gently. She set the phone down again and shifted on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. "I'm just trying to figure out why you didn't say anything."
"Because we're friends," you said, like it was obvious. "Because I didn't want to make things weird. Because I figured it was just... I don't know, a thing I'd get over eventually."
"And did you? Get over it?"
You looked at her, really looked at her, sitting on your couch in your apartment, wearing one of your hoodies that she'd stolen weeks ago and never given back, her hair still damp from the rain she'd run through to get here. Angela, who texted you memes at two in the morning and knew your coffee order and had once driven across the city because you'd had a bad day and needed someone to watch terrible movies with.
"No," you admitted quietly. "Not even a little bit."
"Yeah." She stood up from the couch, crossing the small distance between you. "Good. Because I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that I like you for like two months now, and I was starting to think you weren't interested."
Your brain stuttered to a halt. "Wait, what?"
"You're not exactly subtle," Angela said, and now she was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes. "I mean, I didn't know about the saved edits, that's a new development. But the way you look at me sometimes? The way you laugh at all my jokes, even the bad ones? The way you always make sure I'm included in everything?"
"That's just... being a good friend?"
"Maybe," Angela allowed. "Or maybe it's being someone who has a crush on me and is too scared to do anything about it."
She reached out and took your hand, her fingers warm against yours. Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest, a rhythm you couldn't quite follow.
"For the record," Angela continued, "I think the edits are cute. Weird, but cute. And I'm choosing to interpret this as you appreciating my work, which, as an artist, I obviously support."
You laughed, a slightly breathless sound. "That's definitely what it is. Pure professional appreciation."
"Right. Nothing to do with thinking I'm hot."
"Well," you said, finding your footing again, "I mean, that's just objective fact. The hotness. It's not my fault you have a face."
"I do have a face," Angela agreed solemnly. "It's one of my best features."
She was so close now, close enough that you could count the freckles scattered across her nose, close enough that you could see the way her gaze kept dropping to your lips and then back up again.
"So," you said, your voice coming out softer than you'd intended. "What happens now?"
Angela pretended to consider this, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Well, you could keep secretly watching edits of me on TikTok and hoping I don't notice. That seems to have been working out great for you so far."
"Or?"
"Or," Angela said, and her smile turned into something warmer, something that made your stomach flip, "you could kiss me, and then we could watch those edits together. I want to see which ones you saved. I bet I can guess your favorites."
"That seems presumptuous," you managed to say, even though your heart was racing. "What makes you think you know my favorites?"
"Because I know you," Angela said simply. "And because I've maybe watched a few of them myself. You know, to see what all the fuss is about."
"And?"
"And I get it," she said. "The editors are really talented. They totally get my good angles."
You laughed, and then Angela was kissing you, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, and it was somehow both exactly what you'd imagined and completely different. She tasted like the coffee she'd been drinking earlier and something sweet. She kissed like she did everything else, with complete commitment, like she'd decided this was happening and was going to make sure it was done right.
When she pulled back, you were both smiling.
"So," Angela said, picking up your phone from where it had been abandoned on the couch. "Show me these edits. I want to see all of them. And you have to tell me what you like about each one."
"That's going to take a while," you warned. "There are a lot of them."
"I've got time." Angela settled back against you, pulling you down onto the couch beside her. "Plus, we still need to find that pasta recipe. I'm not leaving until I get both."
She pulled up the first edit, and as the music started playing, you felt her lean into you, solid and warm and real in a way that no video could ever capture.
"This one's pretty good," Angela commented as her on-screen self delivered a particularly funny line. "But I think I prefer the live version."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She turned to look at you, her eyes soft. "The live version comes with better company."
You kissed her again, and somewhere in the background, the edit played on, but neither of you were really watching anymore.
The rain continued to fall outside, and the laundry sat forgotten in its basket, and your phone eventually went dark from inactivity.
Later—much later—you would find the pasta recipe together, and Angela would insist on making it right then even though it was nearly midnight, and you would stand in your tiny kitchen watching her work, marveling at the fact that this was real, that she was here, that all those saved videos had somehow led to this moment.
But for now, you just held her close and let yourself be happy, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of your apartment and the sound of rain and the knowledge that sometimes, the best moments weren't the ones captured and edited and set to music.
Sometimes, they were just this: quiet and perfect and entirely your own.
Though you did keep the saved edits folder. Angela made you promise not to delete it.
"They're evidence," she said, grinning. "Of your months-long obsession with me. I'm going to bring them up at every opportunity."
"That seems fair," you agreed.
And she did, but by then, you had plenty of new moments to obsess over, real ones, lived ones, the kind that no edit could ever quite capture.
Though the editors certainly tried, especially after Angela posted a photo of the two of you together with the caption "found out my friend has a whole folder of edits of me saved and instead of being normal about it, I kissed them about it."
The comments section went predictably wild, and your phone buzzed for hours with notifications. But you were too busy kissing your girlfriend to care much about any of it.
Some things, you decided, were better experienced than watched.
Though you still checked the edits sometimes, just to see what new ones had been posted.
