I’ve had this acc for a few years now and have posted some fics before but I decided I needed a rebrand! So I changed the blog name, aesthetic, pfp, everything. I did keep my old fics up for anyone wanting to read them and because I do still like them. I also decided I am no longer taking request (at least for now) as I am very much the type of writer that only works on stories when I’m in the mood or have the muse and that changes constantly from writing for a whole week to not writing for a whole year. I don’t want to make anyone wait that long for their requests to get done. I still want to keep this blog for writing and have fun when I want to so I’m gonna treat this a bit like just posting stories on Ao3 or Wattpad! I’ll updated my master list as I go instead of having a bunch of different list of characters/people I write for already!
If you like my stories pls leave a comment or like! It really makes me happy and brings back my mood to write!
Summary: Little acts of kindness can lead to so much more.
Word Count: 3.5k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
You arrive at Smosh HQ early on the first day of June, earlier than usual because you couldn't sleep. The break room is quiet when you push through the door, bathed in that particular quality of morning light that makes everything feel suspended in amber. You're reaching for the coffee maker when you see her.
Angela.
She's standing at the center table, completely absorbed in her work, and your heart does that stupid thing it always does, that skip-stumble-catch that you've never quite gotten used to. She hasn't noticed you yet. Her dark hair falls forward as she leans over the table, carefully arranging rainbow-colored construction paper in a perfect fan. There's a mason jar beside her, catching the light, and markers scattered everywhere in a chaos that somehow looks intentional when she's the one creating it.
You should say something. Announce yourself. But you're frozen in the doorway, watching her bite her lower lip in concentration as she writes something on a small hand-painted sign. Even from here, you can see the careful lettering.
“Pride Month Kindness Jar.”
Of course. Of course, Angela would do something like this: create a space for vulnerability and connection, and make everyone feel seen. It's so perfectly her that your chest aches with it.
She steps back to admire her work, and the smile that crosses her face is so genuine, so unguarded, that you have to look away. You busy yourself with the coffee maker, the familiar ritual giving your hands something to do while your heart continues its rebellion.
“Oh!” Her voice makes you jump, coffee grounds scattering across the counter. “I didn't know anyone else was here.”
You turn, and she's looking at you with those eyes that always seem to see more than you want them to.
“Sorry,” you manage. “Didn't mean to startle you. I was just... coffee.”
“Right. Yeah.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and you notice the rainbow bracelet on her wrist, the one she's worn every June since you started working here. “I'm just setting up this thing. It's probably cheesy, but I thought...”
“It's not cheesy,” you say too quickly. “It's really nice. The jar, I mean. The whole thing.”
Her smile widens, and you feel it like sunlight. “You think so? I was worried people might think it's too much.”
You could never be too much, you think, but what you say is, “No, it's perfect. Very you.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the break room like music. “I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not.”
“It is,” you say, meeting her eyes for just a moment before the intensity of it forces you to look away. “Definitely a compliment.”
By mid-morning, the break room has become a revolving door of discovery. You've positioned yourself in the writers' room with a clear sightline to the jar, your laptop open to a script you're supposed to be working on but can't focus on because you keep watching Angela watch everyone else.
Courtney and Amanda find it first, and you see Angela's face light up from across the hall. Courtney presses a hand to her chest in that dramatic way she has, but you can tell it's genuine. Amanda picks up the explanation note, reading carefully, and when she looks up at Angela with that soft smile, you feel a spike of something that might be jealousy but is probably just longing.
They both grab paper immediately, hunching over the table like they're writing state secrets. Angela hovers nearby, trying to look casual but failing completely. You can see the hope in her posture, the way she's holding her breath.
When Courtney drops her note in the jar, Angela's whole face transforms. It's like watching someone receive a gift they didn't know they needed. You want to be the one who puts that expression on her face. You want it so badly it hurts.
Shayne discovers it next, and you watch him go through the same journey you did, skepticism melting into something softer. He pockets a piece of paper, and you wonder what he'll write. If he'll be braver than you've been.
Ian and Anthony approach the jar together, and there's something beautiful about watching them contribute side by side. They drop their notes in at the same time, and Angela, who's been pretending to organize the coffee station, turns away quickly. But not before you see her wipe at her eyes.
By mid-afternoon, the discovery is in full swing. Trevor pokes his head in and immediately gravitates toward the jar, reading Angela's explanation with genuine interest. Arasha follows shortly after, and you watch as she and Angela exchange a hug before Arasha settles in to write. Chanse contributes with quiet enthusiasm, adding his voice to the chorus of care surrounding Angela's initiative.
You should write something. You've been sitting here for two hours, and you should write something.
But what do you say? How do you put into words the way she makes you feel without revealing everything? How do you tell her that her laugh is your favorite sound in the office, that you've memorized the way she gestures when she's excited about an idea, that sometimes you write bits specifically hoping she'll be cast in them just so you can watch her bring them to life?
You can't. So you don't. Not yet.
By lunch, the jar has started to fill, and you still haven't written anything. You've picked up the rainbow paper three times and put it down four times. The words won't come, or they come too easily. Too honest, too revealing.
Damien writes his note slowly, deliberately, and you recognize the look on his face. He's being vulnerable, letting himself feel something real. When he drops it in the jar, he looks lighter.
Spencer contributes with his usual quiet efficiency, and Tommy adds one with a grin that suggests his note is probably funny. Olivia takes her time selecting the perfect color paper, purple, always purple, and writes something that makes her smile to herself. When she drops it in, she catches your eye through the doorway and raises an eyebrow.
“You writing one?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Later.”
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push.
You finally force yourself to approach the jar when the break room is empty. The rainbow paper feels significant in your hands, weighted with possibility. You pick up a pen, green, Angela's favorite color, though you pretend you don't know that, and stare at the blank space.
Angela, you write, then stop. Too direct. You crumple it up and start again.
To whoever needs to hear this: you're doing great. Your presence makes this place better. Happy Pride! 🌈
It's safe. Generic. It could be for anyone. You fold it quickly before you can second-guess yourself and drop it in the jar, where it disappears among the others.
It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. But it's all you can manage right now.
You're not planning to stay late, but somehow you find yourself still at the office after everyone else has left. You tell yourself you're finishing up work, but really, you're waiting. For what, you're not sure.
The break room light is still on.
You approach quietly, and there she is. Angela, alone at the table, the jar emptied in front of her. Notes are spread across the surface in a rainbow array, and she's reading through them one by one. Her hands are trembling slightly.
You should leave. This feels private, sacred. But you can't make yourself move.
She picks up a note, and you can't see which one, then presses it to her chest. Her eyes are wet, reflecting the overhead lights, and when she smiles, it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. It's unguarded and genuine and full of so much joy that you feel like an intruder for witnessing it.
You must make a sound, a breath, a shift of weight, because she looks up suddenly. For a moment, you're both frozen, caught in the amber light of the break room, and you can't read her expression.
“Hey,” she says softly. “I didn't know you were still here.”
“I was just...” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Working late.”
She nods, and you notice she's not trying to hide the tears on her face.
“I'm reading through the notes. There are so many. I didn't expect...” Her voice catches. “People really showed up for this.”
“Of course they did.” You step into the room, drawn forward by something you can't name. “You created something special.”
“We created something special,” she corrects, gesturing to the notes. “This is everyone. All of us together.”
You want to tell her that it's her, that she's the one who makes people feel safe enough to be vulnerable, that her genuine care for everyone is what makes this work. But the words stick in your throat.
Instead, you ask, “Are they good? The notes?”
“They're perfect.” She picks one up and holds it out to you. “Look at this one.”
You take it, careful not to let your fingers brush hers, and read.
Angela, thank you for this. Thank you for always finding ways to bring us together. You make this place feel like family. Happy Pride. 🏳️🌈
“That's beautiful,” you say, and your voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Right?” She's smiling again, that radiant smile that makes your chest tight. “I'm just... I'm so grateful. For all of this. For everyone.”
You hand the note back, and this time your fingers do brush. The contact is brief, electric, and you pull away too quickly. She notices, of course she notices, but doesn't comment.
“I should let you finish,” you say, already backing toward the door.
“You don't have to go,” she says, and there's something in her voice that makes you stop. “I mean, if you want to stay. I could use the company.”
You should leave. You should definitely leave. But you find yourself sitting down across from her, and she smiles like you've given her a gift.
You sit together in comfortable silence while she reads, and you try not to stare at the way the light catches in her hair, the way her expressions shift with each note. You try not to think about how much you want this. Not just this moment, but all the moments. Every moment.
By the middle of the third week, the jar is overflowing. Notes spill out the top in a cascade of rainbow paper, and Angela seems to glow with it. She's more radiant than you've ever seen her, more at peace, and it's unbearable how much you want to be the reason for that light.
You've written more notes since that first one. Carefully worded messages that could be for anyone but are always, always for her. You write about how someone's creativity inspires you. Her. How someone's laugh makes bad days better. Her. How someone's genuine care for others is revolutionary. Her, her, her.
You never sign them. You can't.
The tension is building in you like a storm. Every time she smiles at you in the hallway, every time she laughs at one of your jokes in a video, every time she touches your arm in passing, it all adds up, accumulates, until you feel like you might burst with it.
You're writing another note, something about how someone's authenticity gives others permission to be themselves, when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Caught you.”
You spin around, and Angela is standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights. She's smiling, but there's something knowing in her expression that makes your heart race.
“I was just...” You gesture helplessly at the paper in your hands.
“Writing a note?” She steps into the room, and suddenly the space feels smaller. “You've been doing that a lot lately.”
“Have I?” You try to sound casual, but your voice betrays you.
“Mm-hmm.” She sits down across from you, and you're transported back to that night when you read notes together. “I've noticed you coming in here. Writing. Looking very serious about it.”
“It's serious business,” you say, attempting humor. “Kindness is important.”
“It is.” She's watching you with those eyes that see too much. “Can I ask what you're writing?”
Your hands tighten on the paper. “Just... general appreciation. For the team.”
“General appreciation,” she repeats, and there's something in her tone that suggests she doesn't quite believe you.
You should fold the note and drop it in the jar. You should make an excuse and leave. Instead, you hear yourself asking, “Do you ever try to figure out who wrote which notes?”
Her expression shifts, becomes more vulnerable. “Sometimes. There are a few I think I know. But mostly...” She shrugs. “I like the mystery of it. The idea that people feel safe enough to be honest when they're anonymous.”
“What if someone wanted you to know?” The question escapes before you can stop it. “That they wrote something, I mean.”
She's quiet for a moment, and the silence stretches between you like a held breath.
“Then I'd want them to tell me,” she says finally. “I'd want them to know they don't have to hide.”
You look down at the note in your hands, at the words you've written about authenticity and permission and being yourself. The irony isn't lost on you.
“Angela...” you start, but she's already standing.
“You should finish your note,” she says gently. “I'll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
She leaves, and you sit alone with your unfinished note and the weight of everything you haven't said.
Angela's message about the final gathering comes the next morning, and your stomach drops when you read it. A group reading. Notes shared aloud. The possibility of exposure feels terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
The break room is packed when you arrive. Someone, Damien probably, has brought snacks, and there's a nervous energy in the air that you recognize because you're feeling it too. Courtney, Shayne, and Amanda are clustered by the coffee maker. Ian and Anthony stand together near the window. Spencer and Tommy have claimed the couch. Olivia, Chanse, Trevor, and Arasha are scattered throughout, all wearing that particular expression of people about to have their hearts opened in public.
The jar sits in the center of the table, impossibly full, and Angela stands at the head, looking both excited and shy.
You position yourself toward the back, where you can watch without being too visible.
“Hi, everyone,” Angela says, and the room quiets. “Thanks for coming. And thanks for making this jar into something really special.”
“Thank you for starting it,” Ian says, and there's a murmur of agreement.
You watch Angela's face transform with gratitude, and your heart aches.
Courtney volunteers to go first, pulling out a note about how Smosh has created a space where queer people can thrive. The room goes quiet, reverent, and you see several people wiping their eyes.
Shayne reads one next, something funny about Tommy and coffee, and the mood lightens. More notes follow: Anthony reading about ensemble work, Damien about representation, Spencer about the crew deserving appreciation.
Amanda pulls out a note, and her breath catches. “This one's really sweet,” she says, and reads.
Amanda, your authenticity is inspiring. You make it okay for the rest of us to be real too. Thank you for being you.
You wrote that one. You remember writing it, remember thinking about how Amanda's openness had helped you feel less alone in your own struggles. But watching her tear up as she reads it, watching Courtney squeeze her hand, it feels bigger than you intended. More significant.
Ian reads one about him and Anthony, about reconciliation and growth, and you see the way they look at each other. The love there is so evident it makes you ache.
More notes. More vulnerability. Olivia reads one about mental health. Ollie reads one about the balance of silly and sincere. Tommy reads one that makes everyone laugh.
And then Angela reaches into the jar.
You know, somehow, before she even unfolds it. You know it's one of yours. Not the generic first one, but one of the later ones. One of the honest ones.
Her hands shake as she reads it silently, and you watch her face change. Her eyes widen, then soften, and when she looks up, she's crying.
“What does it say?” Courtney asks gently.
Angela's voice wavers as she reads.
Angela, you have a gift for seeing people, really seeing them, and making them feel valued. This jar is just one example of how you build community everywhere you go. Thank you for your heart. Thank you for your joy. Thank you for being exactly who you are. Happy Pride, from all of us.
The room erupts in agreement, in affirmation, and Angela is immediately surrounded by hugs. But even in the middle of the group embrace, her eyes find yours across the room.
She knows. Somehow, she knows.
Everyone lingers after the official reading ends, eating snacks and sharing stories. The jar sits in the center of the table like a beacon, and someone suggests making it permanent. The idea is met with immediate enthusiasm.
You slip out while everyone is distracted, needing air, needing space to process the way Angela looked at you. You make it to the hallway before you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
You turn, and she's there. Of course she's there.
“Hey,” you echo.
“You left,” she says, and it's not quite an accusation.
“Needed some air.”
She nods, stepping closer. “That note. The one I read. Did you write it?”
Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure she can hear it.
“Angela...”
“Because if you did,” she continues, her voice soft but steady, “I want you to know that I see you too. I've been seeing you. The way you watch me when you think I'm not looking. The way you light up when I laugh at your jokes. The way you've been writing all these notes, notes that I'm pretty sure are all for me, even when they don't say my name.”
You can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at her.
“I didn't want to assume,” she says, and now she's close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. But if I'm right, if you've been feeling even a fraction of what I've been feeling, then I need you to know that you don't have to hide it in anonymous notes.”
“What have you been feeling?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.
She smiles, and it's nervous and hopeful and beautiful.
“Like maybe this Pride Month kindness jar was the universe's way of making me pay attention to something I've been trying not to notice. Someone I've been trying not to notice, because mixing work and feelings is complicated and scary and...”
You kiss her.
It's not planned. It's not smooth. You just lean forward and press your lips to hers, cutting off her rambling with the answer to every question she hasn't asked.
She makes a small sound of surprise, and then she's kissing you back, her hands coming up to cup your face, and it's everything. It's three weeks of tension and months of longing and years of wondering if you'd ever be brave enough to do this.
When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard.
“I wrote them,” you admit. “All the ones about creativity and laughter and authenticity and seeing people. They were all for you. They've always been for you.”
“I know,” she says, and she's smiling so wide it must hurt. “I was hoping, but I didn't want to assume. I didn't want to ruin...”
“You couldn't ruin anything,” you say, and you mean it. “You make everything better just by being in it.”
She kisses you this time, softer this time, and you think about the jar sitting in the break room. About all those notes, all that vulnerability, all that love expressed in rainbow paper and careful handwriting.
You think about how Angela created a space for people to be seen, and how in doing so, she saw you.
“Happy Pride,” she whispers against your lips.
“Happy Pride,” you whisper back.
And somewhere in the break room, the kindness jar sits full of love and hope and possibility, a testament to what happens when you create space for people to be honest, to be vulnerable, to be themselves.
The jar stays, long after June ends. A permanent fixture, a constant invitation.
But the best thing that came from it isn't in the jar at all.
It's here, in this hallway, in Angela's smile, in the way she's looking at you like you're something precious.
Sorry hanahaki chick again because I just thought of a Sevika hanahaki AU but except it’s a modern AU and it’s waitress and bartender, Sevika’s a shameless flirt with every woman she meets and reader is secretly in love and inevitably gets hanahaki and Sevika catches her blah blah blah, tearful fluff in the back room
one day there was you
bartender! sevika x waitress! reader
synopsis: You were never meant to fall in love with her, but you couldn’t help yourself
warnings: angst, angst with happy ending, fluff, modern au
word count: 1.6k
“Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病);
A disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's will have the inability to ever love that person again.”
...
You hadn't planned on finding love at your waitress job. You had just hoped to raise some money and finally move out of the horrid place that you've called home all your life.
However, it was hard not to admire the bartender; Sevika.
Stoic, yet so oddly charming at once.
She had a tongue that carried flattering words on it, and unfortunately you'd fallen victim to her sweetened words. While you'd originally promised yourself you wouldn't, you started lingering a little longer after your shifts ended.
Helping her wipe down the counters, restocking the shelves, pretending to still be busy even when everything was done. You told yourself it was harmless—just conversation, just a bit of company. But deep down, you knew better.
You’d known of her habit of sweet-talking the passing women within the bar. You knew she never meant anything by her sultry words, or, you hoped that she never meant them.
Sevika had a way of looking at you that made your stomach twist. Not soft, exactly — but focused. Like she could see right through the careful walls you’d spent years building. And worse, she never pushed. Never flirted too overtly. Just offered a smirk here and there, and asked you questions no one else ever cared to.
It made you reckless.
One night, after the place had cleared out and the last of the bar stools had been flipped onto tables, you found yourself sitting at the bar instead of clocking out. You nursed a half-empty glass of something stronger than you were used to, and she poured herself one to match.
“You always stay this late?” She asked, her voice a low hum beneath the music still playing faintly through the speakers.
“Only when the company’s good,” you said, surprising even yourself.
That earned you a rare grin — half amused, half approving.
“You’re braver than you look,” she said.
You raised a brow. “Why? Because I said something nice?”
“No,” she said, leaning in just enough that your breath caught. “Because you’re still here, knowing exactly what I could do to someone who gets too close.”
It wasn’t a threat. Not really. But it wasn’t not a warning, either.
You should’ve gotten up then. Laughed it off. Pretended you had a train to catch or a bed to crawl into. But instead, you met her gaze head-on and said; “then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not scared of you.”
And that’s when it really started.
The lingering taste of blood.
The pink petals coaxed in shades of crimson.
And the green stems that grew from within your lungs.
You’d hoped it’d go away, but it never did. Each petal, each cough, it all felt like a second being taken off your life.
And all those sweet exchanges between her and bar patrons never made it better. Each interaction between her and those women pinched at your heart.
You had to cover for Mel tonight, meaning it was another night where you had to keep the petals in your throat from escaping. Nobody knew of your condition, and you preferred it that way.
Nobody needed to know.
Throughout the night you found yourself avoiding Sevika; whether it was on purpose or subconsciously is unknown to anyone, including yourself.
You thought you’d be able to compose yourself, but the moment you saw a woman’s hand intertwine with Sevika’s you felt a harsh pinch in your lungs.
You excuse yourself from your table, your voice breaking as you hold back the petals in your throat.
That’s when you stumble into the break room, one hand clutched to your chest. You’re trembling — whether from the cold tile beneath your shoes or the panic wrapping around your ribs, you can’t tell.
The moment the door shuts behind you, you double over the sink and gag.
A shudder runs down your spine. A single, soft petal lands in the basin — delicate, almost pretty, if it weren’t smeared with red.
Then another.
And another.
You try to stifle the noise with your fist, the fabric of your sleeve soaking fast. The smell of metal floods your senses, thick and choking. A few petals stick to your lips as you struggle to breathe around them, gasping between coughs that wrack your body like convulsions.
There’s a mirror above the sink, and in it, you glimpse yourself; wide-eyed, pale, your mouth stained red, like a child playing with lipstick.
Except there’s nothing innocent about what’s happening.
Nothing harmless nor innocent about loving Sevika.
The wave finally passes, and you lean heavily on the sink, blinking back the tears that sting your eyes. They’re not from the pain — not the physical kind at least.
You thought you could handle it. You thought you were smart enough, strong enough, to let your feelings sit quietly and shrivel up on their own. But now the flowers are growing, and the roots have already dug too deep.
Before you can possible spiral more, you hear the keypad to the break room. You barely have any time, before a familiar broad figure moves through the door frame and into the break room.
Sevika.
"Fuck—" you hide your face, hoping that Sevika hadn't seen the pathetic tears that fell onto your cheeks. But, of course she noticed, she always notices. It's something you both admire — love — and hate about her.
".. Are you okay?" She asks, pulling the lit cigar out from between her teeth to supposedly observe you.
“Yeah—“ you say, but your own coughs cut you off. As you look down into your palm, you see bloodied pink petals — so beautiful, yet so deadly.
“Shit,” Sevika says, patting her cigar into the nearest ash tray before hurrying towards you with her brows furrowed. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing—“
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?”
You roll your eyes, gently wiping away the blood that lingers on your lips. “It’s just some stupid cold, it’s not a big deal.”
“.. You’re coughing up bloody flowers, that is not normal,” Sevika says, crossing her arms. Sevika stares at you — hard. Her jaw is tight, but her eyes her eyes look like they’re calculating a dozen things at once. Worry, confusion, and something deeper behind the furrow of her brow.
You try to push off the sink, steady yourself, but your knees feel weak — not from the episode, not really. It’s from the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s trying to piece something together that she doesn’t want to believe.
“What is this?” she asks again, her voice lower now. Rougher. But quieter too — like she doesn’t want to scare you off.
You hesitate.
You should lie.
You should tell her it’s a rare infection, some strange allergy, a one-time thing. But the truth is sitting between your teeth, bitter and metallic. You’re too tired to swallow it down again.
You mutter, not meeting her eyes. “It’s a .. disease?”
Sevika doesn’t say anything at first. You hear the creak of leather as she shifts closer, and then her voice, “what kind of disease makes you cough up fucking flowers?”
Your laugh is soft, humourless, “the kind that kills you.”
That makes her go still.
You finally look at her.
The silence in the room is loud. Almost unbearable.
Sevika’s eyes are fixed on yours, and in them, you see the exact moment realization hits her. And something else, too — guilt, maybe. Or something adjacent to it. Her hand flexes at her side, like she doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?” she mutters, but there’s no anger in it. Just disbelief.
You shrug, tired, “ I didn’t think it’d matter.”
That’s when Sevika moves. She closes the space between you in a few quick, yet hesitant, strides, and before you can even think of shrinking away, her hand reaches up — gentle — and tilts your chin up to look at her.
And then she kisses you.
It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic or clumsy. It’s careful, and grounding, and impossibly real. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you steady as her lips press against yours with a kind of certainty that pulls the air from your lungs in the best way possible.
The taste of blood and petals is still on your tongue, but all you can feel is her — warm, solid, here. Her kiss is steady, like she’s making sure you understand exactly what she means.
When she finally pulls back, her breath brushes against your cheek, and her forehead rests against yours.
“You should’ve told me,” she whispers.
You swallow hard, your throat raw, but not from the flowers this time. You start to answer — but then, a strange feeling wells up in your chest. Not pain. Relief.
Your hand flies to your mouth again, but when you cough this time — it's different. One last petal falls into your palm. It's small, delicate, and for the first time there's no blood.
And for the first time, both your lungs and the air around you feel clear.
“.. I still have blood on my mouth y’know,” you roll your eyes.
Hiii! I wanna make an angst to fluff/comfort request with Sevika x fem!reader.. where like they had an argument about something and where reader thought Sevika was gonna hit her so she flinched away with a bit of tears in her eyes? Like a “when you flinch during an argument scenario”.. I hope this was okay!
BREAKING POINT
Sevika x f!reader
Synopsis: You and Sevika had gotten into an arguement after Sevika was seen as weak due to public affection, but it escalated to the point where it brought unwanted trauma and made you flinch.
Request: Anon 🤍
The dim glow of the single overhead light flickered in the room, casting long, uneven shadows along the cracked concrete walls. The tension between you and Sevika was heavier than the smoke-filled air of The Last Drop. It hung there, thick and unyielding, an invisible wall that neither of you had the words to break down.
Her metal arm clicked softly as she flexed her fingers, her flesh hand pressed firmly against her hip. She was pacing, her eyes darting toward the ground as she wrestled with her thoughts. Every stomp of her boot echoed through the room, each step sharper than the last.
“Do you know how this looks?” Sevika’s voice was rough, strained with frustration she was barely keeping in check. “How it looks when you cling to me like that in front of him?”
Her words hit like a whip crack, and you flinched inwardly. But you kept your chin high, refusing to back down. “I’m not ‘clinging,’ Sevika. I’m just—”
“Just what, huh?” she snapped, spinning to face you, her eyes sharp as broken glass. “Acting like we’re untouchable? Like Silco won’t notice? Well, guess what? He did. He asked me if this—” she gestured harshly between the two of you, her movements sharp and forceful, “—is gonna be a problem. If you are gonna be a problem for me.”
Her words struck deeper than any blade ever could. Your breath hitched in your throat, and the burn of unshed tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.
“You’re acting like I’m some kind of liability,” you muttered, your voice quieter now but laced with pain. “I’m just showing you I love you, Sevika. Since when is that a problem?”
Sevika’s eyes shut tight, her jaw working as she inhaled deeply through her nose. “Since people like Silco see it as weakness.” Her voice was lower now but no less cutting. “You think I want him thinking I’ve gone soft?”
“That’s not fair,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not asking you to be soft. I’m just asking you to let me love you without feeling like I’m doing something wrong.”
Her eyes snapped open, and something wild burned behind them—anger, frustration, but maybe guilt too. Her hand shot up, metal fingers running down her face before she threw both hands up, exasperated.
Her voice rose with her movement. “Why do you always have to make everything so damn hard?!”
The motion was fast, sharp, and your heart betrayed you before your mind could catch up.
You flinched.
Not just a small, subtle recoil. It was sudden, visceral—like every muscle in your body lit up with the command to move, now, before it’s too late. You stumbled a step back, arms half-raised as if to shield yourself. Your breathing hitched, sharp and shallow, as the memories you’d buried clawed their way to the surface.
And just like that, the room went deathly silent.
You felt it before you saw it—Sevika’s entire demeanor shifting from volcanic rage to stunned stillness. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides, her metal hand twitching, fingers curling inward as if she’d suddenly realized they could hurt.
“Fuck,” she muttered, barely audible. Her eyes were locked on you, wide with something like shock. Horror.
Her gaze darted between your trembling hands and the tears slowly spilling down your cheeks. Her brow furrowed deeply, her lips parting like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She took a small, hesitant step toward you, and you flinched again.
“Fuck.” Her voice was louder now, pained and raw. “I’m not, I wasn’t gonna—”
She shook her head hard, like she could physically will the idea out of existence. Her breathing had gone shallow too, her eyes darting around the room like she was looking for a way to undo what had just happened.
“Babe,” she rasped, her voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before. “I would never.”
You believed her. You knew she would never. But that didn’t stop the past from dragging you back into the fog of fear. The panic didn’t care who it was or what you knew. All it cared about was survival.
“I know,” you choked out, voice tight and unsteady as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “I know you wouldn’t. I know.”
But you were still shaking.
And Sevika saw it.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, dragging her metal hand through her hair and down the back of her neck, her whole body stiff with regret. She took a slow step toward you, but she moved like she was approaching a wounded animal—slow, cautious, careful. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice was quiet now, rough with emotion.
Her words cracked something open in you. Your knees went weak, and you sank down to sit on the edge of the old couch, burying your face in your hands. Your breath came in shallow bursts, like you couldn’t fill your lungs no matter how hard you tried.
“Hey, hey, no,” Sevika was in front of you before you realized it, crouching low on one knee, her flesh hand hovering just in front of your arm. She didn’t touch you—not yet—but she stayed there, close enough that you could feel her warmth.
“Can I,” Her voice was soft and unsure in a way you’d never heard before. “Can I touch you?”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded. Slowly, carefully, she reached out, her flesh hand resting on your knee, fingers curling gently around it. Her palm was warm, grounding, and that was all it took to break you.
You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as the tears fell harder. Sevika moved then, pulling you forward into her chest, her arms wrapping around you with all the strength she always tried to hide. She pulled you in like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.
Her hand cradled the back of your head, her lips pressed softly against your temple. Her chest rose and fell against you in slow, steady beats, and she held you like you were something fragile but precious.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice thick with guilt. “I never want you to feel like that again. Not with me. Not ever with me.”
You sobbed harder, hands clutching the fabric of her vest, pulling her closer like she was your only tether to the world.
“I know, I know,” you hiccuped, your voice broken but sure. “It’s not you. It’s just— it’s old stuff, Sevika.”
Her breath hitched at that. She knew what you meant. She knew that old pain never truly disappeared, that it could creep in when you least expected it. Her arms tightened around you, her cheek pressed to the top of your head, grounding you with her steady presence.
Her lips brushed against your temple, then your forehead, a soft, lingering press of warmth. “I’m here,” she murmured, her voice low and steady. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore. All that existed was the feel of her arms around you, the warmth of her body, the low rumble of her voice murmuring reassurances that you barely heard but deeply felt.
Eventually, the shaking subsided, your breaths becoming deeper, steadier. You stayed in her arms, letting her hold you as if you were both trying to prove something to each other.
After a long, quiet moment, she pulled back just enough to look at you, her flesh hand wiping the tears from your cheeks. Her thumb traced your cheekbone with the softest touch, like she thought you might break.
“You’re not a liability,” she said firmly, her eyes locked with yours, filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “You hear me? Not to me. Not to Silco. Not to anyone.”
You nodded, your heart too full to speak.
Her forehead pressed against yours, her eyes closing as she sighed deeply. “Next time Silco says something, I’ll handle it,” she said softly. “I’ll handle it. Not take it out on your or us.”
“Okay,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edge of her jaw.
Sevika tilted her head slightly, brushing her lips against yours. It was so soft, so tender, you almost felt like crying all over again.
“I love you,” she murmured against your lips.
“Love you too,” you whispered back, letting her hold you until the world, past and present, didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
A/N: I’m sorry this is so short, but I hope that it met the request anyway. I was just trying to get this one done, since I have a lot of other requests that I plan on sending out today.
SYNOPSIS: You are a flat broke "photographer"... And maybe also an ex-nepo baby living out of your car. Lara doesn't know that.
CONTENT: idol!Lara Raj x broke!Fem Reader
TAGS: Hurt/Comfort, Lying, Angst w/happy ending, Fluff CW: minor religious themes
WC: 3.2k
A/N: first request i've done! i hope its enjoyable to read!!
read the request here
Right place, right time. That’s how it had all started.
The only thing you had left to your name was a stupid camera that was worth more than your car. Which was ironic because you were currently living inside your car.
Photography was your true passion, so you’d figured maybe one day you’d be able to do it professionally. But as all your meaningful jewelry got pawned off one piece at a time, you had no choice but to sell the top-of-the-line camera your mother had bought you years ago.
You’d mentioned wanting one maybe a single time over dinner and just like that, it was in your hands the next morning. Back then, money came to you faster than breathing.
Your parents had founded one of the most lucrative real estate companies in the country years before you were born. There had never been a moment in your life where you worried about the price of something.
Until you came out. Your parents were conservative Christians who believed homosexuality was a sin. You’d spent years pretending not to hear the comments they made about queer people, convincing yourself things would somehow be different when it came to you.
They weren’t. Your mother cried. Your father simply looked at you across the dining table and told you he wouldn’t allow you to “infect” your younger siblings with your lifestyle. They’d told you to grow out of it or get out. You didn’t want to abandon who you were… so you left with as many of your belongings that could fit in a duffel bag.
Within a week, your cards were frozen, your apartment lease terminated, and your university tuition cut off completely. They’d just quietly removed you from the family as if you were suddenly something to be ashamed of.
At first, you thought they’d eventually change their minds. Months later, you were still sleeping in your car.
The jewelry went first. Then the designer bags. Then the watches. Piece by piece, your old life disappeared into pawn shop counters just so you could afford gas, food, and whatever your scholarships didn’t cover.
Now all you had left was the camera. The last thing that still felt like you.
You sat in the driver’s seat of your beat-up Honda Civic, staring at it in your lap. Parked outside a pawn shop. Trying to convince yourself you could let it go. But you couldn’t, well at least not immediately.
The intense growl in your stomach convinced you to put on your best set of clothing and go downtown, just to pretend you could actually live your dream one last time before it all faded away.
Expensive cars lined the streets and sharply dressed people flooded the sidewalks. It seemed as if there was an event going on in the hotel nearby. You snapped a few pictures and began to walk away from the venue, camera hanging around your neck.
“Oh my god! Finally,” a woman with distress written on her face grabbed your arm before you could react. You just blinked.
“We’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.”
“...What?”
“Come on, no time to waste. Katseye’s waiting.”
Your mouth opened. “Oh no- I think you have the wrong pers-” You tried to say as you were getting dragged inside the venue.
Then you saw them… Katseye. Lara Raj. They were all stunning, but something about Lara drew you in. You’d seen plenty of photos online but seeing her in real life- it made your brain short-circuit. You couldn’t help but want more. She looked effortlessly beautiful, even from across the room.
When you froze in the middle of the room, the organizer sighed dramatically. “Look, I seriously don’t have time for this right now. Meet the girls inside their dressing room please.”
You really should’ve corrected her, you fully meant to. Instead, you heard yourself say: “Right. Sorry, I got stuck in traffic.”
The woman shoved a badge in your hands before frantically running off to deal with another issue. In the blink of an eye, your whole life turned on its head again.
The first thirty minutes were spent being terrified someone would realize you weren’t supposed to be there. But surprisingly, no one questioned you.
You knew how to blend into spaces like these. After all, you’d been raised in them your entire life. You knew when to smile and when to stay quiet. At some point, it didn’t feel like you were pretending anymore, you’d almost forgotten you’d had your old life pulled out from under you.
People saw expensive equipment and assumed you were competent. So you didn’t let them assume otherwise.
You took photos.
You caught candid moments backstage- staff members laughing together, makeup artists fixing smudged eyeliner, members teasing each other between takes. After everything, photography still made your chest feel warm.
Well- Until a certain someone else started making your chest feel warm instead.
“You’re staring.”
You nearly dropped your camera, which would’ve been really bad. Lara Raj stood beside you holding a bottle of water, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Uh- no I wasn’t.”
“Right.” She smiled knowingly. “Sure you weren’t.”
Up close, she was even prettier somehow. It felt somewhat unfair.
“Okay, sooo maybe I was,” you admitted. “But what’s wrong with that?”
Lara raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Flirting already? Usually people wait at least a few sentences before flirting with me.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Something in Lara’s expression softened instantly at the sound. Then she handed you the water bottle.
“You look exhausted.”
Your stomach dropped for a second before she continued casually, “Event photography does that though.”
You relaxed slightly, taking the bottle. “Thanks.”
Lara glanced toward your camera screen. “Your photos are really good, by the way.”
The compliment caught you off guard.
“Most photographers just go for the prettiest shots,” she continued. “Yours actually feel real.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Before you could respond, Lara smiled teasingly again.
“Although I still think you were staring because you have a crush on me.”
You looked at her for a moment before laughing softly.
“I think you already know the answer.”
It wasn’t a question anymore, you were down bad.
A month later, Lara had somehow become the center of your life. It terrified you.
You got too good at hiding your life. Used the university gym to shower, studied between shifts editing photos. Ate whatever was the cheapest. Every time Lara tried spending money on you, a blossom of guilt took over.
Because the more Lara Raj liked you, the more the lie grew. Well- it wasn’t entirely a lie.
You really did know photography. You really had grown up wealthy. You just conveniently left out the fact that your current address was a parking lot near campus. And that you’d learned to edit photos in two days and made up a photography portfolio in one night…
“You’re weirdly mysterious,” Lara said one night over late-night cup noodles at her house.
You nearly choked.
“You never talk about your hella rich family. Or where you live. I don’t even know your parent’s name and we’ve been dating for a month.” She pointed her chopsticks at you accusingly.
Your stomach tightened instantly. Think. Think.
You forced a shrug. “I’m sorry… It’s just- a little difficult to talk about. My parents aren’t exactly the most supportive of me.”
Immediately, Lara’s expression softened. “Oh.”
Guilt twisted painfully in your chest. It wasn’t technically a lie.
Lara set her chopsticks down. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’m here for you if you do.”
You looked down at your noodles quietly. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Lara frowned slightly. “Your parents are stupid if they don’t support you. Like hello? Successful photographer daughter who’s also dealing with university at the same time.”
Successful photographer. If she only knew you’d learned how to edit photos from YouTube videos at three in the morning while sitting in your car parked outside campus.
You laughed softly instead. “You make me sound cooler than I actually am.”
“You are cool,” Lara said immediately like it was obvious. “You literally balance work and school while somehow still making time for me.”
Because I’d drop anything for you.
Lara nudged your shoulder gently. “Seriously though, I mean it. Family’s supposed to support you, not make you feel bad for existing.”
Your throat tightened. For a moment, you wondered what would happen if you told her everything.
That your parents had disowned you for being queer. That your “photography career” started because someone mistook you for a professional.
That after leaving her house tonight, you’d be sneaking back to your beat up car and driving back to a parking lot to sleep.
But then Lara smiled at you again- soft and trusting.
And the fear won. You’d tell her one day, just… not now. Maybe when you actually had enough money to buy a nice condo for yourself.
So instead, you just leaned your head lightly against hers and whispered,
“Yeah. I know.”
The next morning, you woke up sweating in the backseat of your car. Your neck throbbed painfully from the awkward angle you’d slept in, and sometime during the night the temperature had raised high enough to the point you had a throbbing headache.
For a second, you just stared at the ceiling of your car in silence until you noticed your phone was vibrating non-stop.
You reached for it slowly, still half-asleep. What popped up on your screen made your blood run cold. Dozens of missed calls and hundreds of notifications. Mostly from your college classmates.
please tell me this isn’t real
holy shit are you okay??
open your socials RIGHT NOW
Hands shaking, you opened Twitter. You immediately wished you hadn’t.
LARA RAJ’S ALLEGED GIRLFRIEND EXPOSED FOR LIVING OUT OF HER CAR
Underneath the headline was a blurry zoomed-in photo of you asleep in the driver’s seat.
Your lie. Visible for millions of strangers to dissect. Everytime a new post popped up it physically hurt, but you kept scrolling anyway. There was so much hate… People had started calling you a gold-digger.
Then came the next post.
DAUGHTER OF BILLIONAIRE REAL ESTATE OWNERS ALLEGEDLY DISOWNED AFTER COMING OUT
Old family photos surfaced underneath it. Pictures from charity galas. You in expensive dresses and a fixed smile It was a version of you that didn’t exist anymore. And then screenshots. Articles from your parents’ church organization.
Quotes about protecting children from immoral influence. One screenshot in particular made your chest cave in.
“We refuse to allow sinful lifestyles to influence our younger children.”
You remembered that sentence.
Your father had said it to your face while your mother cried silently beside him.You’d spent months trying to forget it.
Your breathing turned uneven.
The comments had somehow turned even worse.
“did lara know about this??” “Y/N is actually pathetic.” “wait so she’s literally homeless?” “imagine fumbling generational wealth for being gay 😂 ”
Your vision blurred suddenly. You didn’t realize you were crying until tears hit your phone screen.
Then another notification popped up. Your heart stopped. It was Lara.
You stared at her contact photo while panic clawed violently up your throat. Suddenly the exposure didn’t matter anymore. At least not compared to this.
Not compared to the horrifying realization that Lara was finally going to see you for the way you were.
Your phone rang again and again and again until you finally picked up.
“…Hi.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end.
“Oh my god, where are you?” Lara sounded terrified.
You laughed weakly, staring at the headlines still covering your screen. “That’s your first question?”
“Are you okay?” She was still concerned for you after all the discourse…
“No.”
Silence rang out for what felt like an eternity.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your grip tightened painfully around your phone.
“Because I knew this would happen.”
“What?”
“You’d look at me differently.”
“I don’t!”
“You do.” Your voice cracked. “You just found out your girlfriend sleeps in her car and lied about being a photographer.”
“You are a photographer.”
“I learned editing from YouTube videos two days before meeting you!”
Lara went silent. You laughed bitterly, wiping at your face angrily. You were angry at the world.
“I’m literally some disowned rich kid pretending to still have her life together because she couldn’t handle losing one more thing.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
“You were scared.”
“No, Lara.” Your breathing started shaking. “I was ashamed.”
Lara spoke again, voice trembling. “You slept in your car after leaving my house?”
You shut your eyes hard.
“…Yeah.”
“Oh my god.” There it was… The pity you’d been trying so hard to avoid.
Humiliation burned through your chest instantly.
“You don’t have to sound so horrified.”
“I’m horrified because you were suffering alone!”
“You weren’t supposed to find out like this!”
“How was I supposed to find out?” Lara cried. “Would you have ever told me?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. That answer hurt her more than anything else.
“You really thought I’d stop loving you because you’re poor?”
“My own “loving” parents disowned me so easily, so...”
Dead silence. The second the words left your mouth, regret hit you instantly.
Lara’s breathing caught softly on the other end.
And when she finally spoke again, she sounded heartbroken.
“…Baby.”
That one word nearly shattered you completely. You pressed your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the burning in your chest.
“You don’t get it,” you whispered hoarsely. “They looked at me like I was disgusting.”
Lara stayed quiet. “My dad couldn’t even say I was his daughter anymore.” Your voice cracked harder with every word. “He told me I was going to corrupt my siblings just by existing.”
“And my mom just sat there.” You laughed weakly through tears. “She cried, but she still let him throw me out.”
You swallowed painfully.
“I had everything, Lara. And then overnight I had nothing.” Your breathing turned shaky again. “Do you know what it feels like to realize every single person in your life only loved you conditionally?”
“Stop saying that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s not.”
“You didn’t know me back then,” you snapped. “You didn’t see how fast people disappeared once the money did.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I just wanted one thing in my life that didn’t feel ruined.”
Your voice broke completely on the last word.
“And then you happened.”
Lara made this soft, heartbroken sound that almost hurt worse than yelling would’ve.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
“You should’ve let me help you.”
“I didn’t want your help!” you cried suddenly. “I wanted you to love me before you knew how bad things got.”
The silence was suffocating now.
Lara spoke quietly. “I do love you.”
“But I’m still hurt.”
You shut your eyes hard as tears slipped down your face silently.
“I know.”
“I need you to understand that.” Lara’s voice trembled. “You don’t get to decide how much truth I can handle for me.”
You gripped the phone tighter.
“I know.”
“You kept me clueless on purpose.”
Because letting people in meant they could leave.
You couldn’t say that out loud anymore.
Lara exhaled shakily. “I just… I need a little time, okay?”
Time. It was over.
You laughed weakly, “Yeah. Okay.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this means I’m leaving you.”
You stared blankly out the windshield.
“Isn’t it?”
Lara went quiet again. The silence hurt more than anything else
The next few days were miserable. People were recognizing you on campus now and not in a good way. Lara hadn’t talked to you since the call.
No more goodnight baby :) texts at two in the morning, no more rants about idol life, no more making out after midnight…
Meanwhile, the internet got worse. People dug up more information daily. Old church photos, family interviews, articles about your parents’ company.
Some people pitied you.
Others mocked you.
By the fourth night, you were parked outside campus trying to force yourself to eat gas station crackers when someone knocked on your window.
You flinched violently.
Lara stood outside your car in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, eyes tired and slightly red. She’d found you. You unlocked the door without thinking. Lara climbed into the passenger seat quietly.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then her eyes landed on the crackers in your lap.
She started crying.
“Lara-”
“You said you were eating fine,” she whispered.
“I-I didn’t want you worrying.”
“That’s not your decision to make! I will worry about you whether you like it or not.”
The sudden sharpness in her voice made you flinch again. Lara noticed instantly.
“Babe...” She covered her mouth. “I’m not mad at you.”
You laughed weakly. “You probably should be.”
“I am mad at you,” she admitted tearfully. “I’m mad that you went through all this alone.”
Lara let out this broken little laugh before suddenly turning toward you.
“You idiot.”
You laughed harder, tears burning in your eyes. The second Lara heard you laugh again, she started crying harder too. Somehow it made both of you laugh at the same time.
Then Lara leaned forward and wrapped her arms around you awkwardly across the center console.
You melted instantly. “I’m sorry,” you whispered into her shoulder.
“I know.”
“I really did love you from the start.”
“I know that too.”
You buried your face into her neck shakily. For the first time in months- Actually years, you didn’t feel alone anymore.
Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look at you.
Your swollen eyes. Tear-stained cheeks. Exhaustion carved into every part of your face.
“You know what your problem is?” Lara murmured quietly.
“There’s definitely more than one.”
“You keep waiting for people to stop loving you.”
Lara brushed her thumb gently beneath your eye, wiping away another tear before it could fall.
“And I think,” she whispered, voice shaking slightly, “you genuinely don’t know what to do when someone doesn’t.”
You stared at her silently… She was right.
But Lara was still here. Still holding your face after everything.
“You’re staring again,” Lara whispered softly.
“Can you blame me?”
Lara smiled. “Can I kiss you now or are we still emotionally devastated?”
You laughed hard enough your chest hurt. Before you could answer properly, Lara leaned forward anyway.
Your hand slid shakily into her hoodie sleeve, holding onto her. Lara kissed you deeper almost immediately.
The cramped car didn’t feel so small anymore. You melted into her completely, forehead pressing against hers when she finally pulled away.
“I love you,” she whispered breathlessly.
The words hit you so hard your eyes burned all over again. Even now.
You laughed shakily through the tears threatening to fall again.
“I love you too.”
Lara groaned dramatically.
“Oh my god, don’t cry after I kiss you. That’s offensive.”
You laughed helplessly as she pulled you back against her chest.
Notes: The wait has finally come to an end! Here is part 2!! I copied it from Ellipsus so if the format is wonky it's because of that. If you see a typo, no you didn't 😀Also, this isn't proof-read, so be aware of that.
Tags: Red String of Fate, Supernatural elements, kinda soulmate AU. Angst(? (Or my attempt at it). Jealousy. Happy Ending. Useless gays being useless gays.
Word Count: 8.0k
Part 1 Here!
The world stopped being darkness, and came back slowly, but fragmented, like pieces of broken glass someone had tried to put together in an attempt to make them whole again.
(Y/N) stirred. Her body felt heavy, like it didn’t fully belong to her. Her chest rose slowly, uneven at first, before settling into something steadier. The pain from earlier was gone… or at least, it had dulled into a distant echo.
She frowned slightly. Something felt… different. It didn't feel wrong, just... open.
Her eyes fluttered, then they opened slowly. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. It was plain, white, and a little too clean: it was a medical room.
Right, she had collapsed…
Her fingers twitched faintly against the blanket covering her. The memory of what happened came back in flashes. The studio. The sudden pull. The pain in her chest. Someone's hands catching her before she hit the ground.
Her breathing stilled for a moment. Then she turned her head slightly.
Sophia was there.
She was slumped forward in the chair beside the bed, one arm resting near (Y/N)’s side, her head tilted slightly as she slept. Her hair had fallen messily around her face, and her breathing was slow and steady.
She hadn’t left...?
For a long moment, (Y/N) just… looked at her.
There was no immediate irritation, or instinctive rejection. There was just… a quiet feeling.
Something in her chest shifted, and this time, it was soft, not painful or sharp. It was just a pull, something that guided her towards Sophia. Her gaze traced the small details without meaning to. The way Sophia’s fingers were loosely curled near the edge of the mattress. The faint crease between her brows, even in sleep, like she had been worrying.
About her.
(Y/N)’s throat tightened suddenly, like something broke inside of her. It wasn’t violent like before. It also didn’t hurt. It just… gave way. Her breath hitched, vision blurring. She blinked, confused at first, then she felt something warm sliding down the side of her face.
A...tear?
(Y/N)’s brows furrowed immediately, like her body had done something wrong. Her hand lifted weakly, brushing against her cheek, and when she touched it, she immediately recoiled, as if she had touched burning coal.
She stared at her fingers. Another breath came in, shaky this time.
Then another tear followed. And then another, followed by a tsunami of them.
Her chest tightened, not in pain, but in something far more overwhelming. It rose too fast, too uneven, like she couldn’t quite control it anymore. “What…?” Her voice came out barely above a whisper as more tears fell.
Her breathing started to break apart, small, uneven inhales that didn’t quite reach her lungs properly. Her fingers curled weakly into the blanket.
This wasn’t normal.
She didn’t cry.
She had never...
A soft sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Her hand flew to her mouth immediately, like she could shove it back in. But it didn’t stop, as the tears kept coming.
Years of quiet detachment, of empty reactions, of emotions that had never fully formed... they crashed down all at once.
Her shoulders trembled, and her chest rose sharply as something deep inside her finally surfaced, raw and unfiltered. She didn’t even understand what she was feeling, since there was no clear sadness, no single reason. Just… everything was so overwhelming right now. A broken, quiet sob slipped through her fingers.
That’s what woke Sophia.
She shifted slightly, brows pulling together before her eyes slowly opened. It took her a second to register where she was or what she was doing there, but then she saw (Y/N), and her back straightened instantly. “Hey-” Her voice softened immediately.
(Y/N) froze like she had been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
Their eyes met.
Sophia’s expression changed in an instant. The leftover sleep vanished, replaced by something much sharper: concern. “…You’re crying.”
(Y/N)’s breath hitched again. She shook her head weakly, even as more tears slipped down her face. “I’m not-” Her voice broke, stopping her from continuing.
Sophia didn’t move right away, as if she was afraid that if she did, (Y/N) would break down even worse. “…Hey,” she said again, softer this time. “It’s okay.”
(Y/N)’s fingers clenched tighter into the blanket.
No, this wasn't okay. Nothing about this felt okay. Her chest felt too full, too open, like something had been forced apart inside her and now she couldn’t close it again. “I don’t-” she tried again, but her voice trembled. “I don’t know what this is...!”
Sophia’s heart tightened at the sound of that.
She leaned forward slightly, careful and slow. “I’m here,” she said quietly.
It was those simple words that made something inside (Y/N) react immediately.
The pull returned, stronger this time. Her breath caught, but this time it wasn’t painful. It was… different. Warm and soft, and the most terrifying part? She knew that this was how it was supposed to feel from the beginning.
Her eyes flickered toward Sophia’s hand, still resting near the edge of the bed. She was close. Too close for comfort.
Her chest tightened again, but not in the way she had learned to hate, this time it felt like the pull inside her chest was the gravity holding her down. Her fingers loosened their grip on the blanket.
She didn’t think, and she didn’t analyze, she didn’t stop herself. She just moved.
She moved slowly, like she wasn’t entirely in control of it, (Y/N) pushed herself up slightly, her body still weak but responding to that pull without resistance.
Sophia’s eyes widened just a little. “Hey- be careful,”
But (Y/N) didn’t stop, in fact, she leaned closer. And closer. Close enough to feel Sophia's breath.
Speaking of her, Sophia went completely still.
Their faces were inches apart now...
(Y/N)’s tears had slowed, but her eyes were still glassy, unfocused in a way that made her look vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. But then, her gaze dropped briefly to Sophia’s lips. Her breath caught, releasing a slight gasp that made Sophia blush.
The pull tightened as her chest rose sharply.
What is this…?
She didn’t understand it, and she didn’t have a word for it. And she also didn’t have the instinct to stop it.
So she leaned in, and then...
Footsteps and voices, right outside the door.
(Y/N) froze, reality rushing back all at once. Her eyes widened slightly, like she had just woken up from something she didn’t want to wake up from. She pulled back abruptly, too fast for her already weakened body's liking.
Sophia blinked, still frozen in place for a second longer before she quickly sat back in her chair, her own heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears.
Neither of them spoke. The air between them felt… different now. It was charged with an unspoken feeling.
Then the door handle turned.
(Y/N) looked away immediately, wiping at her face quickly, like she could erase what had just happened, but she still felt open, still felt vulnerable, and still felt the pulling of her heart towards the girl across from her.
Speaking of which, Sophia couldn’t stop thinking about how close they had just been.
Or why part of her hadn’t wanted to move away.
The door opened, as voices spilled into the room quickly.
“Is she awake?”
(Y/N) flinched at the sudden noise, her body going rigid as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. The warmth that had lingered in her chest seconds ago twisted sharply, shrinking inward, tightening again, but not the same as before. Not empty, but rather, hidden.
Sophia stepped back immediately, too fast and careless.
Her chair scraped lightly against the floor as she put distance between them, like the last few seconds hadn’t just happened. Like she hadn’t been close enough to feel (Y/N)’s breath.
Like she hadn’t almost...
She swallowed the thought before it could finish forming.
The medical staff moved in quickly. One of them stepped beside the bed, checking the monitor, another gently guiding Sophia further aside.
“Let us take a look.”
Sophia nodded quickly, stepping back without protest. “Yeah, yeah, of course.” But her eyes didn’t leave (Y/N), not even for a second.
(Y/N) turned her head away almost immediately, her gaze fixing on the opposite wall. Her fingers curled tightly into the thin hospital blanket, knuckles paling. Her face felt hot. Too hot for her liking.
“Can you hear me?” one of the staff members asked gently, leaning slightly into her line of sight.
(Y/N) forced her expression to flatten. “Yes.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Medical room.”
“Good. Do you remember what happened?”
A pause. (Y/N)’s fingers tightened into the blanket again. “…I felt dizzy” she said finally. “Then I collapsed.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.
The staff member nodded, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Any chest pain now?”
(Y/N) hesitated. For a split second, her eyes flickered slightly to where Sophia stood. Their gazes almost met. She looked away first. “…No,” she said.
Sophia’s brows pulled together faintly. That wasn’t true. She had seen it, almost felt it when she touched her. That reaction hadn’t been dizziness. It was-
Her thoughts cut off again.
The staff continued their checks, routine questions, measuring vitals, shining a small light briefly into her eyes.
“Your heart rate’s stabilizing,” one of them murmured.
“Probably overexertion,” another added. “You’ve been training pretty intensely, right?”
(Y/N) nodded once.
That explanation settled into the room far too easily.
“Stress can do that,” the doctor one continued. “Especially under pressure. Lack of sleep, dehydration…”
Their voices blurred slightly as they spoke. (Y/N) stared straight ahead. Stress? Overexertion? Dehydration? Those words should have made sense. Except they didn’t. Because none of those things explained-
Her throat tightened suddenly, but she swallowed it down. “…I’m fine,” she said quietly.
The staff exchanged brief glances.
“We’ll keep you here for a bit longer just to be safe,” one of them said. “But if everything stays stable, you should be able to return later today. Just take it easy.”
(Y/N) nodded again. “Okay.” Simple, normal... like nothing had happened.
Behind them, the door creaked open again, slower this time. A few familiar voices slipped in.
“Can we come in?”
“Is she okay?”
Karlee, Emily and Megan. Their faces filled with concern, curiosity and anxiety. They hovered near the doorway at first, waiting for permission before stepping inside.
“Just for a minute,” one of the staff allowed.
They rushed in immediately.
“Oh my god, you scared us!” Emily said, already halfway to the bed.
“Are you okay?” Megan added quickly.
Karlee held up the water bottle like an offering. “Here, drink this.”
(Y/N) blinked once, the sudden attention washing over her in a way that felt… unfamiliar. Not overwhelming. Not irritating. Just… there.
Her fingers loosened around the blanket as she reached out and took the bottle. “…Thanks,” she said quietly. She didn’t realize it at first, but there was a slight lift at the corner of her lips. Small, barely even there.
Karlee froze.
Megan blinked.
Emily's head tilted slightly.
There was a pause. A long and strange one.
“...Wait,” Emily said slowly.
(Y/N) looked up, confused. “…What?”
Karlee leaned in a little, squinting at her face like she was trying to confirm something. “Did you just…?”
Megan's eyes widened. “You’re smiling.”
(Y/N)’s expression changed to one of confusion. “…No, I’m not.”
“You literally are,” Emily said, pointing at her like she’d just caught her doing something illegal.
“I’m not-”
“Yes, you are!” Emily cut in, half laughing now, half confused. “I’ve never seen you smile before.”
“That’s not-” (Y/N) stopped. Because she didn’t have a response. Her fingers tightened slightly around the water bottle. Her chest felt… warm. Not tight or painful, just warm. That wasn’t normal.
Karlee leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, hold on. This is weird.”
Emily nodded immediately. “Yeah, no, something’s off.”
(Y/N)’s brows pulled together slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” Megan said simply. “You’re talking.”
“…I always talk.”
“Not like this,” Emily shot back.
Karlee tilted her head, studying her more carefully now. “Are you feeling okay?”
That word made something shift faintly inside her chest. Different.
(Y/N) frowned slightly. “I’m not.”
Emily reached forward suddenly, pressing the back of her hand lightly against (Y/N)’s forehead.
(Y/N) blinked in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Checking if you have a fever,” Emily said seriously.
“I don’t...”
“You’re smiling,” Emily repeated, like that alone was proof of something being medically wrong.
Megan nodded. “Yeah, that’s not normal.”
Karlee crossed her arms. “You might be delirious.”
“I’m not delirious.”
“Then explain the smile.”
(Y/N) opened her mouth, then closed it, because she couldn’t explain it. Her chest tightened slightly, but not in pain. Her fingers loosened their grip on the bottle.
“You just passed out and now you’re smiling for no reason,” Karlee pointed out. “That’s suspicious.”
(Y/N)’s brows furrowed deeper.
For a brief second, her gaze flickered, just slightly, past them and towards Sophia. Their eyes met, and there it was again. That pull, soft and warm. Her breath caught. Without realizing it, the small smile returned, softer this time, but unintentional.
Sophia went completely still.
Behind her, Emily made a noise like she’d just witnessed something shocking. “...Oh my god, she did it again!”
(Y/N)’s eyes snapped away immediately. The warmth in her chest flickered, unstable now. Her fingers tightened into the blanket again.
Karlee exchanged a look with the others. “Yeah… you’re not fine,” she said quietly.
The room fell into a brief, uneasy silence.
Because now, it wasn’t just concern, it was confusion. Something had changed in (Y/N) and everyone could see it, even if none of them understood why.
The staff cleared their throat. “Alright, let’s give her some space.”
Reluctantly, the girls began to leave.
“Text us if you need anything,” Megan said.
“Yeah, don’t just disappear again,” Emily added.
Karlee lingered for a second longer, then nodded. “Please, rest.”
The door closed behind them. That's when the same uncomfortable silence returned.
(Y/N) stared down at the bottle in her hands. For a moment, there was nothing. But then, the same awareness, slow and persistent, came rushing back in, like a bullet going through her chest.
She knew where Sophia was without looking: left side of the room, near the wall. She was a few steps away, but not close enough. Her fingers twitched.
“…You smiled.” She heard Sophia's voice say.
(Y/N) went still. She didn’t look up. “…No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.” There was a pause. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she added quickly.
“I didn’t say it did.” Sophia said.
Her chest pulled again. Annoying... She thought. (Y/N) finally looked up. Sophia was closer now, not by much, but enough that the tension in her chest eased slightly. She noticed that immediately, and hated it. “I’m fine,” (Y/N) said.
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Sophia said.
“Then don’t ask.”
Sophia frowned slightly. “Earlier, when you-”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharp and immediate. (Y/N)’s grip on the bottle tightened again.
Sophia shifted slightly, taking a step back. Her arm rubbing her shoulder, as if she had been defeated by something.
(Y/N) reacted instantly. “…Stay,” she said suddenly, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Silence followed, one that made her feel flustered.
Sophia blinked. “…What?”
(Y/N) froze, like a deer caught in headlights. Her mind had caught up too late. “I didn’t-”
Sophia didn’t move. “…You want me to stay?” she asked quietly.
(Y/N)’s jaw clenched. “No.” A second passed. Then it was followed by: “You’re just… in the way!” The excuse was laughable, even to herself.
Sophia didn't call her out, she just tilted her head to the side, and proceeded to step closer. One torturous step at a time, she got closer to (Y/N). The distance between them closed slowly.
Something about the way (Y/N) had said 'stay' lingered in the air, quiet but heavy, like it had meant more than she was willing to admit. So Sophia moved carefully, watching her, giving her time to pull back if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
(Y/N)'s shoulders tensed, then dropped too quickly, like her body couldn’t decide what it was supposed to do. Her fingers tightened around the bottle, then loosened again, her gaze flickering everywhere but where it should. Not at Sophia. Anywhere but at Sophia.
"…You’re doing it again,” Sophia said softly.
(Y/N)’s brows pulled together, but she still didn’t look at her. “…Doing what?”
Sophia stopped just beside the bed. “You won’t look at me.”
“I am,” (Y/N) muttered immediately. Her eyes darted up for half a second, just enough to meet Sophia’s, and then dropped again like she’d been burned by the mere sight of her.
Sophia noticed everything.
The way her fingers kept twitching. The way her breathing wouldn’t settle. The way she kept trying, and failing, to act normal, to go back to her usual aloof and cold nature.
“…Can I?” Sophia asked quietly.
(Y/N) frowned. “…Can you what?”
Sophia hesitated, then slowly reached out. Her hand hovered for a moment before gently wrapping around (Y/N)’s wrist. (Y/N)’s breath caught sharply, her entire body stilled. She didn't relax, she didn't lean in, as she was completely frozen in place. Her eyes widened slightly as she stared down at where Sophia was touching her, like she couldn’t process it. Her grip on the bottle slackened completely.
(Y/N) swallowed, as her throat felt dry. “…I-” she muttered, but there was no force behind it. (Y/N)’s fingers twitched. (Y/N)’s gaze drifted again, slower this time. From Sophia’s hand, up to her arm, to her face... then immediately away again, her cheeks feeling warm. Her brows furrowed slightly, like she was irritated at her own reaction.
This was stupid. Why was she reacting like this?
“…You’re too close,” she said under her breath.
Sophia tilted her head.
(Y/N) finally looked at her properly this time, and immediately regretted it. Sophia was right there. Her expression softer than usual, but her eyes… focused. Watching her carefully, like she was trying to understand something.
(Y/N)’s breath hitched again. Her stomach twisted as she caught a glimpse of Sophia's lips. She looked away so fast it almost hurt. The silence stretched again, heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Sophia’s eyes drifted, even if it was just for a second, to (Y/N)’s lips then back up. “…(Y/N)…?” she said softly.
No response. (Y/N) was staring at her now, with an intense lack of confidence, but she didn't look away either. Sophia hesitated. Just for a second. Then, she made a decision.
Slowly she inched closer. Close enough that there was almost no space left between them.
(Y/N)’s eyes widened slightly, her body going completely still. “…Sophia-” she started, but her voice faltered immediately.
Sophia’s free hand lifted, hesitating for only a moment before gently brushing against (Y/N)’s cheek, warm and soft. (Y/N) froze, her breath caught sharply. She didn’t move, didn't lean in, or pull away; she just... stayed. Sophia watched her carefully, waiting for her to stop Sophia from what she was about to do.
She didn’t. And that was enough.
Sophia leaned in, their noses brushed. Sophia hesitated for half a heartbeat, then closed the distance, and their lips met, softly and tentatively, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to do this.
(Y/N) didn’t react. Her entire body felt locked in place, like her brain had short-circuited. That was enough for Sophia.
Sophia’s hesitation broke. Her hand at (Y/N)’s cheek shifted slightly, steadying her as she leaned in again, firmer this time, more certain.
Sophia felt it. She felt her chest pulling her towards (Y/N) further, as if she desired to become one with her. That was the moment something shifted. Her hand slid slightly, more secure now, holding her there as the kiss deepened just a fraction more...
...Before they heard the doorknob rattle.
Sophia reacted first and pulled back. Not abruptly, but fast enough to break the connection, her hand slipping from where it held (Y/N), like she had suddenly remembered where they were. Her breath hitched slightly as distance rushed in all at once.
(Y/N) didn’t move, and stayed exactly where she was.
Lips parted slightly, eyes unfocused, her body still leaning forward just enough to show she hadn’t been the one to end it. The warmth that had flooded her chest lingered, but now it felt incomplete.
"Miss, visiting hours are over." A nurse said, urging Sophia out of the room.
The moment shattered completely.
Sophia stepped back, putting just enough distance between them to look normal, but not enough to steady her own heartbeat. (Y/N) didn't move still, completely stunned.
Sophia grabbed her backpack and her phone, rushing out the door before the nurse could get suspicious about them. She looked back at (Y/N) before she left, closing the door carefully behind her.
The room felt different after she left…
The door had closed minutes ago, voices fading down the hallway until there was nothing left but the faint echo of her own breathing.
(Y/N) didn’t move at first. She stayed exactly where she had been, sitting upright in the bed, eyes fixed somewhere ahead but not really seeing anything.
Then, slowly her hand lifted. It hovered for a second, like she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing… before her fingers brushed lightly against her lips. She froze, her breath hitched. The warmth was still there, faint and unmistakable.
Her fingers pressed slightly, as if testing it, like she expected it to disappear if she didn’t hold onto it.
It didn’t.
Her pulse quickened. Her brows furrowed faintly, confusion flickering across her face… but it didn’t last long. Because beneath it, something else was forming. Her fingers traced the spot again, slower this time.
A small smile appeared, but it felt wrong and unfamiliar on her face, like something had clicked into place inside her. Her fingers pressed harder against her lips, her pulse jumping, faster now.
Now, there was only that feeling, looping, replaying... her eyes flickered, unfocused for a moment. Then sharpened. Her smile widened just a fraction. “I…” she started, then stopped, the words dying in her throat.
But the feeling didn’t.
Her smile returned. “…I want…” she whispered, but didn’t finish it. She didn’t have the words for it yet, but the thought was already there.
…And for the first time in her life, (Y/N) didn’t try to push it away.
The training room felt too loud.
Not in the way it usually did, with music blasting and people moving in sync. No, this was different. The noise pressed in, unfocused, like it didn’t belong anywhere. Voices overlapped, laughter bounced off the walls, shoes squeaked against the floor.
(Y/N) stood near the mirrored wall, arms loosely crossed, her reflection staring back at her like it was someone else entirely.
She wasn’t paying attention, when she should have been. The instructor had already called counts twice. Karlee had nudged her once. Emily had said something she didn’t catch when they both went to get water. None of it stuck.
Because...
Her eyes shifted, neither consciously nor intentionally, just… drawn cross the room.
Sophia stood near the far side, her back half-turned, talking to someone.
(Y/N)’s gaze settled.
Yoonchae.
They were close. Closer than necessary.
Yoonchae said something, speaking in a quiet tone so only they could hear, and Sophia laughed. Her laugh was loud and boisterous; it was real.
Something in (Y/N)’s chest tightened, her fingers curled slightly against her arms.
Yoonchae leaned in a little, nudging Sophia’s shoulder lightly. “You’re so annoying,” she said, smiling.
Sophia bumped her back. “You started it.” Another laugh.
(Y/N)’s jaw tightened. Her focus narrowed, the rest of the room blurring at the edges. The mirror didn’t matter. The music didn’t matter. The people didn’t matter. She was so focused on them she forgot to even breathe.
Her chest pulled again, but it wasn’t soft this time. It wasn’t warm, and it felt wrong, too sharp at the edges, pressing inward like something was folding in on itself.
Why...?
Her brows furrowed slightly. Why was she standing so close to her?
Her grip tightened. The faint crinkle of fabric under her fingers went unnoticed.
Sophia smiled again.
(Y/N)’s breath slowed, uneven.
She doesn’t smile like that… the thought came uninvited, but it sat there, heavy, as her gaze sharpened, proceeded by a: …not with me.
A voice called from somewhere. “Positions!”
No response.
“(Y/N)?” Karlee’s voice this time, sharper.
(Y/N) didn’t move. Her eyes were still locked across the room.
Yoonchae said something else, quieter this time. Sophia leaned in to hear her, their shoulders brushing again. Too close...
The dance instructor called them all once again, and (Y/N) bitterly took her place in the Antifragile formation. She felt herself become poisoned by the feeling in her chest, and it didn't help that whenever she took a peek at the other side of the room, Sophia and Yoonchae were still talking.
The music started, loud and chaotic.
"Five, six, seven, eight!"
(Y/N) moved how she knew how to: based on pure instinct. Her body followed the choreography, steps hitting when they where supposed to, turns landing barely on time. But it felt off, disconnected, like she was watching herself from somewhere outside her own body.
Her eyes kept drifting, even if she didn't mean them to, and even if she wasn't trying to, but they did. Again and again, across the room.
Sophia laughed, the sound counting through everything else.
(Y/N)'s steps faltered.
"(Y/N), focus." The instructor snapped.
She corrected her position immediately. "Sorry" She muttered, but her voice sounded distant, even to herself.
Her chest tightened again, sharper now, uncomfortable. Her fingers curled slightly as she moved into the next sequence, as if she wanted nothing more than to grab the air itself; her muscles were stiff, too controlled and too rigid for her to execute the moves properly.
Why is she still there…?
Her gaze flickered back to Yoonchae again, who was now leaning against Sophia. Like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing. On her part, Sophia didn't move away, she smiled. (Y/N)'s breath hitched.
"Stop."
The music cut, the sudden silence ringing in her ears.
The instructor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Again. From the top. And (Y/N),” his eyes landed on her, “if you’re going to be here, then be here.”
A few of the girls shifted awkwardly.
(Y/N) nodded once. “Yes.” But her hands had already curled into fists.
Her chest felt wrong, like something was tightening around her heart, constricting it, making everything else feel like a sensory nightmare.
“Positions.”
Everyone reset.
(Y/N) stepped back into place, her reflection staring at her from the mirror. It looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same.
“Five, six,”
Her eyes moved again, straight to Sophia. She didn’t even fight it this time.
And, then... Yoonchae leaned in again. Sophia tilted her head, listening, her lips curving into something softer this time. Something that made (Y/N)’s chest snap.
The pull twisted violently, her breath cutting off. Her foot missed the step entirely. The next movement came too late, taking her balance with it.
Her ankle twisted slightly as she landed wrong, her body pitching forward before she could stop it, but before she could land flat on the ground, she felt hands around her, warm and familiar, catching her before she hit the floor. Everything stopped.
(Y/N)’s fingers instinctively grabbed onto the fabric beneath them, tightening as her balance steadied against... Sophia. Of course. At this point the world had an unfunny way of mocking her.
“Careful,” Sophia said softly, her voice right there, too close to her ear.
(Y/N)’s breath hitched. Her fingers didn’t let go.
“…I’m fine,” she muttered, but she didn’t move away.
Sophia didn’t either.
For a second or two, neither of them did anything. The room had gone quiet again, enough that people were watching.
“Take five,” the instructor called, clearly done. “Reset.”
The others used this opportunity to go outside and buy snacks, Emily calling out to Yoonchae to accompany them, leaving Sophia and (Y/N) alone in the coldness of the dance studio.
(Y/N) was still holding onto her, her grip loosened slowly. then, as if it was inevitable, Sophia noticed something.
“…You’re shaking,” she said quietly.
(Y/N)’s brows furrowed immediately. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I said I’m not.” But her fingers twitched again, betraying her.
Sophia hesitated for a moment, then gently adjusted her hold, steadying her more properly this time instead of letting go.
“…Why were you staring?” Sophia asked, softer now.
Sophia tilted her head slightly, studying her. “You only mess up when you look at me.”
That made something in her chest twist violently.
“…Then I just won’t look,” (Y/N) said flatly.
She moved to step back, but Sophia’s hand caught her wrist. (Y/N) stopped immediately, her breath stuttered.
“…Don’t,” Sophia said quietly.
(Y/N)’s fingers curled slightly. “…Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Act like nothing’s happening.”
“Nothing is happening.”
Sophia’s grip tightened just a fraction.
(Y/N) felt it. Her pulse jumped.
“Then why do you look like that?” Sophia pressed.
“…Like what?”
“Like you’re about to-” she stopped herself, her brows pulling together slightly. “I don’t know.”
(Y/N)’s jaw clenched, because she didn’t know either. Her chest felt too open again.
“…You’re annoying,” she muttered under her breath.
Sophia blinked. “…What?”
“You keep-” (Y/N) stopped, her voice catching unexpectedly. Her brows furrowed deeper, frustration flashing across her face. “You keep doing things.”
Sophia frowned. “Doing what?”
(Y/N) didn’t answer, because she couldn’t. Her gaze dropped, then lifted again...
...to Sophia’s lips.
Her fingers tightened slightly against Sophia’s wrist now instead. Sophia noticed immediately.
“…(Y/N),” she said softly.
(Y/N) didn’t respond, it was like she was frozen in time. Sophia stepped closer. (Y/N)’s breath stuttered again, her body didn't retreat nor did it resist. It just stayed frozen.
Sophia’s free hand lifted slowly, hesitating only for a second before brushing lightly against the side of (Y/N)’s face, fingers grazing her cheek. (Y/N)’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t stop her.
Her lips parted just a little.
Sophia noticed that too. Her own breath softened.
“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.
(Y/N)'s throat tightened. The word sat there, heavily pressing against her heart. She didn't know how to move past this.
Stop. That's what she should say. She knew she should have opened her mouth to say it, but she just… couldn't. Here, with all these people just outside the practice room… (Y/N) was practically frozen in place.
Her breath came uneven, shallow, her gaze flickering once to Sophia’s lips before snapping back up, like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
“I…” she started, but nothing came out.
Sophia didn't move, instead, she watched (Y/N). She remembered how aloof she used to be, and how she always had a permanent scowl on her face, deterring people from getting close to her. But, now?
The young woman felt the back of her neck become hot, her face feverishly so, emanating a heat that was impossible to mask. Her gaze broke away from Sophia, darting towards the floor, as if she was searching for an immediate exit from the situation. Her eyes narrowed slightly, blinking rapidly against the sting of self-consciousness that attacked her.
This was almost laughable. The (Y/N) who was so high and mighty, the (Y/N) who everyone saw as a cool girl… was now this?
Sophia laughed slightly, a genuine smile forming on her face. (Y/N) didn't take that well.
"What are you laughing about?" She said, her face becoming even more heated.
Sophia smiled at that, and said: "You're cute." She leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to (Y/N)'s cheek.
What followed was Sophia pressing her forehead against (Y/N)'s tenderly, looking at her in the eyes, waiting. She waited for (Y/N) to push her away, to protest, to do something. But that never came. (Y/N)'s body had gone completely still, acting like if she moved, everything would shatter around them.
"Sophia…" Was everything that came out. It wasn't a protest, nor was it a warning, but rather, a plea.
Sophia responded by leaning in, meeting (Y/N)'s lips, soft and tentative, like the first time hadn't been enough to confirm it was real.
(Y/N) was still frozen in place, but this time, she gathered up the courage to move her fingers, which tightened around Sophia's wrist, pulling her closer. It was a small gesture, but it gave Sophia permission to continue. That changed everything. Her breath caught against the kiss, hesitation breaking completely as she leaned in just a little more, her hand at (Y/N)’s cheek steadying her.
The warmth came back, stronger and overwhelming.
(Y/N)’s chest tightened, but it didn’t hurt. It spread instead, fast and unfamiliar, filling everything, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, and even harder to pull away.
So she didn’t.
Her lips parted slightly without meaning to, and a soft, unsteady gasp slipped between them. Sophia stilled from a fraction of a second. Careful and slow, like she was testing something fragile, she introduced her tongue inside (Y/N)'s mouth.
(Y/N)'s grip let go of her wrist, only to take Sophia's hand, as if she were grounding herself, as if gravity itself was about to disappear and take her with it. She didn't let go, as her mind had gone completely blank, no thoughts dared to pass.
And just for this time, she leaned in, just barely.
The kiss deepened, not in a forceful or rushed way, but certainty now. No hesitation left, just a quiet growing intensity that made the world around them feel empty, and the air surrounding them feel too thin. (Y/N)’s breath broke again, her chest rising sharply as that feeling surged, stronger than before, almost too much.
"Okay, break's over!" The dance instructor's voice cut through the room.
Sophia pulled back immediately, fast and confident, she went towards the others, asking them what they had brought back from their snack run.
(Y/N) didn’t move. Her body stayed exactly where it was, leaning forward slightly, lips parted, eyes unfocused like she hadn’t fully come back yet. Reality rushed in all at once; voices, her fellow trainees, eyes, people.
Her chest felt full with that weird sentiment again, but it was mixed with something else now. She had noticed how quickly Sophia had stepped back from her, as if nothing had happened. Again, like she hadn't just…
(Y/N)'s chest hurt as it tightened sharply. It wasn't warm or soft, this time it hurt. It hurt like nothing she had ever experienced before, and weirdly enough, she wanted more of it.
Sophia entered her room, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click, followed by a silence that felt too loud. She stood there for a second, her hand resting on the handle, chest rising unevenly like she had just run a marathon.
"What the hell was that…?" She muttered under her breath.
Her hand dropped form the handle slowly, dejected. She looked around her room, which felt smaller than usual, the air heavier, giving it all a claustrophobic feel. Everything felt out of hand and messy, and she couldn't fix it.
Sophia exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face before letting it rest at the back of her neck, fingers pressing in like she could ground herself there. None of it helped, since, when she closed her eyes, it came back: the image of (Y/N), her gripping her hand, the way she hadn't said stop, they way she had actually pulled her closer…
Her hand dropped immediately.
"Nope," she said quickly, shaking her head as if she could get all her thoughts out that way. "No, we're not doing that." She began pacing across the room, combing her fingers through her hair again and again, not knowing what to do to calm her nerves. "That doesn't mean anything." She murmured.
Except it obviously did.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Feeling ashamed of herself, she released a groan.
The sound of the door opening made her head snap up.
Lara stepped in like she owned the place, closing the door behind her without a word.
Sophia blinked once. “…Do you how to knock?”
“I do,” Lara said casually, already walking further into the room. “Didn’t feel necessary.”
Sophia straightened slightly, immediately defensive. “What do you want?”
Lara shrugged, leaning back lightly against the wall. “Came to check if you were okay.”
"I'm fine." Sophia said, sitting down on her bed, the sound of the mattress dipping under her weight the only sound in the room.
"Mhmm…" Lara hummed, crossing her arms.
"I know you don't believe me, but I won't argue with you." Sophia said.
"I believe that you think you're fine." Lara answered back, earning herself another groan from Sophia.
"You're annoying." Sophia complained.
"I've been told so." Lara said. Sophia could hear the smile on her face.
There was a pause, then, Sophia let herself drop onto the bed, staring at the bottom of the bed above. Her fingers fidgeted slightly with the sleeve of her hoodie, tugging at the fabric without realizing it. Lara noticed.
Of course she did.
“…So,” Lara said after a moment, tone still light, “you gonna tell me what happened, or are we pretending you always act so angsty?”
"I'm not angsty." Sophia retaliated. "I just need some air."
"In your room?" Lara asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sophia exhaled through her nose. "You're not funny…" There was a pause there, which Sophia used to think over what she was going to say next, or if she was even going to speak to Lara. She slowly shifted her weight on the bed. "…She's acting weird."
Lara didn't react much to that. "You mean (Y/N)?"
Sophia shot a look at Lara that asked 'who else could it be?' then proceeded to run a hand through her hair, sitting up on the bed. "She's been… acting different since earlier."
"Different how?"
Sophia hesitated, because if she said it out loud, it meant she had to acknowledge it. "She looks at me…" She said after some deliberation.
Lara blinked once. "Okay?"
"No, like-" Sophia frowned, frustrated. "Not in a normal way. It's like she doesn't even realize she's looking at me."
Lara hummed softly in acknowledgement. "And that bothers you?"
"No…" Sophia said immediately, almost too fast, making Lara's brow lift again. "It's just weird." She continued. "And she only does it with me…"
The corner of Lara's lips twitched slightly. "Really?"
Sophia noticed. "What…?" She narrowed her eyes at her friend.
"Nothing," Lara said, as if she had been caught stealing. "Go on."
Sophia stared at her for a second longer before looking away again. “…She keeps messing up when I’m around. And then she gets mad about it. At me.”
“That does sound like a very (Y/N) thing to do.”
“…And she told me to stay.” That slipped out quieter.
Lara didn’t miss it. "And you stayed?"
"…Yeah." Sophia sighed.
Another pause. Then Lara spoke: "So what's the problem?"
Sophia blinked. “…What do you mean, what’s the problem?”
“You’re acting like something’s wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” Sophia said, letting out a small, incredulous laugh. “She’s not like that.”
“People can change.”
“Not overnight!” Sophia argued back.
Lara shrugged. “Sometimes they do.”
Sophia shook her head. “No, this is different.”
“How?”
Sophia opened her mouth, then stopped, because the answer was right there. Her chest tightened again. “…She kissed me,” she said finally.
The words settled into the room.
Lara was quiet for a second. "Okay?" She said simply.
"…That's all you have to say?" Sophia blinked once.
"What were you expecting? Do you want me to panic for you? Because I feel like you're already doing a good job at that." Lara let out a small smile, then asked: "Did something else happen?"
Sophia hesitated again, her fingers curling slightly on her sleeve. “…She didn’t stop me,” she said, softer now. “I told her to tell me to stop.”
“And?” Lara asked, failing to see the problem.
“She didn’t.”
Lara nodded once. “And that’s… bad?”
“I don’t know!” Sophia snapped, frustration breaking through. “She doesn’t do that. She doesn’t feel things like that. She barely even-” she cut herself off, exhaling sharply. “And now she’s looking at me like that and I don’t know what that means.”
Lara watched her quietly.
Then, she said something that made Sophia stop in her tracks: “…What do you want it to mean?”
Sophia looked down, slightly ashamed, slightly embarrassed. "I don't know…" she admitted.
Lara nodded slightly, like that answer made more sense than everything else. “That’s fine,” she said.
Sophia frowned faintly. “…That’s not helpful.”
Lara replied easily. “You’re not asking the right question yet.”
“…Then what is it?”
Lara tilted her head slightly. Her voice softened, just slightly. “Are you trying to figure her out… or yourself?”
Sophia didn’t respond to that. She didn’t need to.
Lara hummed quietly, pushing herself off the wall. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
Sophia glanced up.
“You just have to stop pretending nothing happened,” Lara added.
Her gaze lingered for a second, then she turned, heading for the door. She paused just before opening it. “…For what it’s worth,” Lara said without looking back, “I don't think she's confused about you, I think she's confused about your intentions.” Lara exited to room, the door clicking shut softly, and just like that, Sophia was alone again.
The silence returned, heavier, and far more uncomfortable than before. Because her thoughts were louder and messier, and no matter how she tried to push them down, one thing didn't go away: the way (Y/N) had held her hand like she didn’t want her to leave.
Sophia exhaled slowly, sitting down on the edge of her bed, her hands resting loosely in her lap.
“…I’m in trouble,” she muttered under her breath.
The door room was quiet. (Y/N) sat on the edge of her bed, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely intertwined. She hadn’t changed out of her training clothes. Her hair was still slightly damp at the ends.
She had be dissociating for a while.
The sudden knocking on the door was what pulled her out of her reverie.
Sophia stepped in, pausing just inside the doorway like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to come in. For a second, neither of them spoke.
“…Hey,” Sophia said.
(Y/N) nodded once. “…Hey.”
Silence followed, long and heavy.
Sophia shifted her weight slightly. “I can...uh, come back later if you’re-”
“Don’t.” The word came out quick and automatic.
Both of them froze.
(Y/N)’s brows furrowed immediately, like she hadn’t meant to say it like that. “Just... don’t,” she repeated, quieter this time.
Sophia didn’t move. “…Okay.”
Another wave of silence, but this one felt different. (Y/N)’s fingers tightened slightly against each other. Then loosened. Then tightened again. “…This is annoying,” she muttered under her breath.
Sophia blinked. “…What is?”
(Y/N) exhaled sharply, like the answer was obvious and frustrating all at once. “You.”
Sophia almost smiled. “Yeah, I figured.”
“That’s not-” (Y/N) stopped, jaw tightening. “…That’s not what I mean.”
Sophia didn’t interrupt this time. (Y/N)’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her fingers curled slightly against her palms. “…Something’s wrong,” she said finally.
Sophia’s expression softened. “With you?”
“…No,” (Y/N) said immediately. Then, after a pause: “…Yes.”
That made Sophia’s chest tighten just a little.
(Y/N) frowned deeper, like she was trying to force the words out and they just wouldn’t cooperate. “…I don’t know what this is,” she admitted. Her hand lifted slightly, pressing lightly against her chest. “It keeps… doing that,” she said, quieter now. “Every time you’re there.”
Sophia didn’t speak. She didn’t move.
“…And I don’t like it,” (Y/N) added quickly. A second went past. “…But I don’t want it to stop.”
That last sentence hung in the air, heavy, but also real.
Sophia’s breath softened. “…Okay.”
(Y/N)’s brows pulled together. “…Okay?”
Sophia nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
“That’s it?” (Y/N) frowned.
Sophia let out a quiet breath. “I mean… I don’t understand it either.”
That caught her attention. (Y/N) looked up.
“For me,” Sophia continued, softer now, “it’s not confusing in the same way… but it’s still a lot.” She hesitated, then added: “But I meant it." She looked at (Y/N), “The kiss,” Sophia added simply.
(Y/N)’s breath hitched slightly. “…Oh.” She felt herself become a mess, but still, she managed to form a coherent sentence amidst her dissolving thoughts. “…Stay.” She said it quietly and clearly, since this time, it wasn't hidden behind signals or confusing actions.
Sophia didn’t hesitate.
“…Okay,” she said. She stepped closer slowly, as if she was worried (Y/N) would disappear into thin air if she did it any other way. She got close enough that the space between them felt intentional.
(Y/N) didn’t look away this time. Her fingers moved first.
Reaching out, hesitating for only a second before wrapping lightly around Sophia’s wrist. Her grip tightened just slightly.
Not to hold her in place... but to keep her there.
Sophia’s breath softened. “…You’re doing that thing again,” she murmured.
(Y/N)’s brows furrowed faintly, expecting an answer.
Sophia smiled, just a little. “Looking at me like that.”
“…Shut up,” (Y/N) muttered, but she didn’t look away. Not this time.
Sophia’s hand shifted, gently turning in her grasp, their fingers brushing, then fitting.
(Y/N)’s breath caught. The feeling came back, making everything feel overwhelming. But this time? She didn’t fight it. Her grip steadied. Her shoulders relaxed. And slowly… she leaned in.
Not because she didn’t understand it. But because she didn’t need to.
Sophia met her halfway. Their lips touched, soft and certain. There was no hesitation this time. There wasn't an interruption. No one pulled away. And when they parted, just slightly, (Y/N) didn’t move back, her forehead rested lightly against Sophia’s.
Her breath was uneven, but somehow calmer. “…This is still annoying,” she muttered.
Sophia laughed softly. “Yeah?”
“…Yeah.” There was a pause. Then, quieter: “…Don’t go anywhere.”
Sophia’s hand tightened gently around hers. “I won’t.”
Summary: You would compromise and compete in the couples competition, Pride edition, if that's what it meant to keep the love of your life.
Word Count: 9.6k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
The smell of garlic and butter fills your apartment while you stir pasta sauce on the stove.
Angela sits on the counter beside you, one foot swinging against the cabinets, her phone in one hand and a half-eaten piece of garlic bread in the other. She has been home for maybe twenty minutes, but she still carries the energy of the Smosh office with her. Loud, bright, restless, alive. The kind of person who walks into a room and makes it feel like something is about to happen.
You are the opposite.
You like quiet rooms. Predictable rooms. Rooms where no one expects you to be interesting on command.
This kitchen is one of those rooms.
The evening light cuts through the window in soft gold. The sauce bubbles. Angela hums under her breath. You know where everything is, the good spoon, the chipped blue mug, the pasta bowl Angela insists is lucky even though it is just a bowl. Nothing here asks you to perform.
Here, you can breathe.
At Smosh, it is different.
You and Angela both work there. You’ve been at the company for about four years, long enough that the building should feel familiar. For Angela, it does. She moves through Smosh like she belongs everywhere. Cast, crew, production, editors, people passing through for one shoot, people who have been around for years, Angela somehow knows them all.
People know her laugh before they see her.
You are mostly known by your closed edit bay door.
You are not unfriendly. You say good morning. You answer questions. You smile when someone makes a hallway joke. But you keep your headphones on, eat lunch at strange times, and plan your day around the quietest path through the building.
You know the production schedule better than most people realize. You know which rooms are booked, which shoots will run long, who is filming where, and when the kitchen will be empty. Your job is to make everyone else look good. You cut the awkward pauses, find the reaction shots, tighten jokes, smooth pacing, and turn hours of chaos into something people think was effortless.
You are good at shaping the content.
You are not good at being in it.
Some of that is your choice.
Some of it, if you are honest, is that people stopped trying to get you in it a long time ago.
Not cruelly. No one pushed you out. No one was mean. They just learned your patterns. Short answers. Polite smiles. Quick exits. Eventually, people stopped asking you to lunch. They stopped inviting you into conversations unless they needed something. Everyone stayed kind, but kind from a distance.
Angela has friends at Smosh.
You have coworkers.
Chanse is the closest thing to an exception. He has been friends with Angela for about as long as you and Angela have been together, so he knows more than most people. He knows you are not new. He knows you are not casual. He knows Angela goes home to you, complains to you, celebrates with you, curls into you when the day has been too much.
But even Chanse mostly knows you through Angela.
He knows about you.
He does not really know you.
Amanda knows too, but more gently. More surface-level. She knows you and Angela are together. She knows you live together. She knows enough to be happy for Angela without prying.
Almost no one else knows.
To most of Smosh, Angela is just Angela.
And you are just the quiet editor in the bay.
At home, though, you are not quiet. Not really. At home, you argue passionately about takeout fries. You dance badly while washing dishes. You steal Angela’s sweatshirts and pretend you do not know where they went. You make the same pasta every Tuesday because the ritual keeps the week from tipping sideways. You laugh so hard at Angela’s stories that she repeats the same ones even when you both know the punchline.
At home, Angela gets the version of you most people never look long enough to find.
“Courtney posted something,” Angela says.
The tone of her voice makes you glance over.
“Yeah?”
“Smosh is doing Pride Month content. The couple's competition is officially happening.”
You nod because you already know. Of course you know. You saw the schedule when it went into the production calendar. You saw the working title, the shoot date, the call time, the rough challenge list. You know Shayne and Courtney are doing it. You know Chanse and Amanda are likely hosting. You know the edit deadline, the estimated runtime, and which bay the footage will probably end up in.
You know everything except the part Angela says next.
“We could do it too.”
The wooden spoon stills in your hand.
Angela watches you carefully, her phone forgotten beside her on the counter.
Your mind moves faster than the rest of you. It gives you the whole thing at once. The set. The lights. The cameras. You beside Angela where people can see. Not just coworkers, which would already be enough to make your skin tighten, but viewers. Strangers. Comment sections. Paused frames. People deciding whether you are awkward, boring, cold, uncomfortable, wrong for her.
People deciding whether your love looks convincing.
You turn back to the sauce because it gives you somewhere to look.
“Ang,” you say carefully, “I don't really do on-camera stuff.”
“You’ve been in videos before.”
“For ten seconds. In the background. Once because Tommy dragged me into a bit.”
“And you were funny.”
“I was terrified.”
“You were both.”
Despite yourself, you huff out a laugh.
Angela hops down from the counter and comes to stand beside you. She doesn't touch you yet. After seven years, she knows better than to put her hands on you when your body is already bracing.
“Color?” she asks.
The question pulls you back into the room.
The color system started years ago after a panic attack neither of you knew how to handle. Green meant fine. Yellow meant anxious but present. Orange meant close to the edge. Red meant stop, no questions, no pushing, get somewhere quiet.
You look down at your hands.
“Yellow,” you admit.
Angela nods. “Okay. Yellow.”
No judgment. No sigh. No disappointment.
Just yellow.
“I’m not asking because I want to throw you into something awful,” she says. “I’m asking because we have been together for seven years, and almost nobody at work knows I have this whole life with you.”
“Some people know.”
“Chanse knows. Amanda knows a little. That’s basically it.”
Your throat tightens because she’s right.
Shayne doesn't know. Courtney doesn’t know. Spencer doesn’t know. Arasha doesn’t know. Most of the people who smile at you in the hall have no idea that Angela goes home with you, that the person they see lighting up the office falls asleep on your shoulder during bad movies, that she leaves half-full water glasses on every flat surface in your apartment like evidence of a very committed haunting.
Angela’s voice softens. “I know you aren’t ashamed of me.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.” Her eyes flicker over your face. “But sometimes it still feels like I’m leaving the biggest part of my life at the door every morning.”
The words land quietly.
That makes them worse.
You set the spoon down.
“I’m not scared because I don’t know what would happen,” you say. “I know the format. I know the schedule. I know production would be kind. That is not the problem.”
Angela nods once. “The internet?”
You swallow hard. “The internet.”
There it is.
The comments.
The clips.
The still frames.
The strangers who talk like they know people because they’ve seen them for twenty minutes at a time.
You’ve edited enough videos to understand how fans can love something and still turn it into a microscope. You’ve seen people build theories out of facial expressions. You’ve seen them call discomfort chemistry and chemistry discomfort. You’ve seen Reddit threads and TikToks and quote tweets turn tiny moments into evidence.
Angela is used to being perceived.
You’ve built your life around avoiding it.
“I do not know how to have strangers form opinions about my face,” you say. “Or my voice. Or the way I sit next to you. Or whether I seem affectionate enough. Or whether I seem like someone you should love.”
Angela flinches at that last part.
“Hey,” she says softly. “There is no version of this where the internet gets a vote.”
“But they will act like they do.”
“Yeah,” she admits. “They might.”
You expected her to comfort you by denying it. Somehow, the honesty hurts less.
Angela steps closer, slow enough that you can move away if you need to. “Can I touch you?”
You nod.
Her hand settles between your shoulder blades.
“I don’t need us to be Shayne and Courtney,” she says. “I don’t need us to be cute in a polished way. I just want one little piece of my life to be wholly in public. Not all of it. Not everything. Just enough that I don’t feel like I have to edit you out of myself.”
You close your eyes.
You’re the editor.
And somehow, without meaning to, you have made Angela cut around you for years.
“I need to think,” you whisper.
“Okay.”
“I’m not saying no.”
Angela’s breath catches.
You look at her then, really look at her. Tired from work, hopeful despite herself, trying so hard not to ask too much. The love of your life standing barefoot in your kitchen, asking to be loved out loud just once.
You’re terrified.
But you love her more than you love being invisible.
“I am saying yellow,” you tell her.
Angela smiles, small and watery. “Okay. We can start with yellow.”
Dinner tastes like nothing.
You eat because Angela made you promise years ago that panic doesn’t get to cancel meals. She talks about her shoot. You tell her about an edit note. The conversation moves, but both of you can feel the video sitting there between the plates.
After dishes, you end up on the couch. Not on opposite ends. Angela sits close enough that her knee touches yours, but she lets you decide whether to lean in.
You do.
She exhales like she’s been waiting.
“I don’t want to fight,” she says.
“Me either.”
“I also don’t want you to say yes because you feel guilty.”
You stare at your hands. “I do feel guilty.”
“I know.”
“I hate that.”
“I know that too.”
The gentle answer makes your eyes burn.
Angela turns toward you, tucking one leg beneath herself. “Talk to me.”
You laugh weakly. “That is such a dangerous sentence.”
“I am feeling brave.”
“You are always brave.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I am loud. That’s different.”
You look at her.
Angela’s expression is open in a way it rarely is outside your apartment. At Smosh, even when she is vulnerable, there is timing to it. A rhythm. A little bit of performance in the bones because performance is part of her job. Here, she is just Angela. Your Angela. Soft shirt, tired eyes, nervous hands.
“I’ve been scared too,” she says. “Not of people knowing I love you. Never that. But scared that asking for more would make you feel like I didn’t understand you.”
“You do understand me.”
“I do,” she says. “And sometimes understanding you means I know exactly why you hide. But loving you means I still miss you when you are hiding from everyone else.”
That undoes you a little.
You take a breath. It shakes going in.
“I didn’t realize how lonely it was for you,” you say.
“I didn’t want you to.”
“Why?”
“Because you already carry so much fear.” Angela looks down. “I didn’t want to become another thing you had to survive.”
Your chest twists hard.
“Angela.”
She looks up, and there are tears in her eyes now.
“I’m not asking because I need everyone to know our business,” she says. “I am asking because sometimes I want to say your name when people ask about my weekend. I want to say we tried a new restaurant or you made me watch a terrible reality show or we fought with the laundry machine again. I want to stop translating my life into something smaller.”
You reach for her hand.
She lets you.
The panic is still there, waiting at the edge of your ribs, but underneath it is something deeper. Seven years of Angela. Seven years of her choosing you in every quiet way. She has loved you through panic attacks, job stress, family drama, bad days, worse nights, and every locked door inside you. She has never asked you to become easy. She has only ever asked you to stay.
And now she is asking to be allowed to stand beside you where people can see.
“I want to do it for you,” you say.
Angela’s face crumples. “I don’t want you to suffer for me.”
“That is not what I mean.” You squeeze her hand. “I mean I want to try because you are the love of my life. Because you have made my world bigger without ever making me feel stupid for being scared of it. Because you deserve to be loved in more than one room.”
Angela makes a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I’m still terrified,” you add quickly.
“There you are.”
You laugh, even though your eyes are wet. “Very terrified. Orange-adjacent terrified.”
“Orange-adjacent,” she repeats, smiling through tears.
“If we do this, I need rules. I don’t edit the episode. I am not the thumbnail. If I say red, we stop. If the internet gets weird, we don’t read everything. And I reserve the right to hide in the bedroom for twelve hours afterward.”
Angela nods through every word. “Yes.”
“You didn’t even pretend to negotiate.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
You laugh again, and this time it feels more real.
Angela lifts your hand to her mouth and kisses your knuckles. “Thank you for considering it.”
“I’m doing more than considering it.”
Her eyes widen.
You swallow hard. “I will try.”
For a second, Angela just stares at you.
Then she launches herself into your arms with enough force to knock you sideways against the couch cushions.
“You are crushing me,” you say, muffled into her shoulder.
“Good.”
“Romantic.”
“Extremely.”
You hold her tighter anyway.
You are not suddenly brave. You are not suddenly ready. But Angela is warm in your arms, crying and laughing because you are trying.
For now, trying is enough.
Telling production is not as bad as you expect.
That almost makes it worse.
You already know the meeting is happening. You know the Pride schedule is being finalized. You know the couple’s competition is on the agenda. Still, walking into the conference room beside Angela makes every light feel too bright.
Chanse and Amanda are there with coffees. Shayne and Courtney sit across the table, relaxed and unaware. A few producers have laptops open. Angela takes your hand under the table, her thumb tapping once against your skin.
“Color?” She whispers.
You tap her hand twice.
Yellow.
When the couple’s competition comes up, Angela clears her throat.
“Actually,” she says, “we wanted to see if there was room for us to do it too.”
The room pauses.
Not badly. Just long enough for the words to land.
Amanda’s face lights up first. “Wait, really?”
Chanse grins. “Oh my god. Finally.” Then he turns to you quickly. “Not finally in a pushy way. Finally in a supportive, I am very happy for my friend and her extremely mysterious partner way.”
You look down, face burning.
Shayne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. You two?”
Courtney looks between you and Angela, surprise melting into something bright and gentle. “Oh, that is so sweet.”
It hits you harder than you expect.
They didn’t know.
Most people don’t know.
Your relationship has been the center of your life for seven years, and to almost everyone in this room, it is brand-new information.
Angela squeezes your hand.
A producer starts typing. “We can make that work.”
You force yourself to speak before the room can move too fast.
“I have some boundaries.”
Everyone looks at you, and for one second your body begs you to disappear.
You don’t.
“I don’t want to edit the episode and I would rather not be used in the thumbnail. I know I’ll be in the video, obviously, but I also don’t want a close-up of my face as the main promotional image.” With a deep breath you finish “and if I need a break during filming, I need to be able to take one without it becoming a bit.”
Amanda nods immediately. “Completely fair.”
Chanse’s expression softens. “No making panic into content. Got it.”
Courtney says, “We can help keep the energy gentle.”
Shayne nods. “Whatever makes it safer.”
A producer adds notes. “We’ll assign the edit to someone else, keep the thumbnail focused on the game branding, and we can build in breaks.”
You blink.
That was it.
No argument. No teasing. No one calling you difficult.
Angela looks so proud you nearly slide under the table out of self-preservation.
After the meeting, Chanse catches you near the door.
“Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “I know this is a lot.”
You glance at him, already bracing for a joke, but his face is gentle.
“Angela’s talked about it before,” he adds quickly. “Not in a bad way. Just because she loves you, and because she knows being seen is hard for you.”
You nod, throat tight.
“I mostly know you through her,” Chanse says. “But for what it is worth, the version of you she talks about? The funny, weirdly thoughtful, scary-smart editor who notices everything? I would like to know that person too. At whatever pace doesn’t make you want to flee the country.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“That pace might be glacial.”
“I love a glacier. Very dramatic. Excellent branding.”
You smile, small but real.
“And during filming,” he adds, “if you need attention redirected, I can do that. I was born to become the loudest person in a room for no useful reason.”
“I know.”
“Great. Then we have a plan.”
You look down, overwhelmed by the kindness. “Thanks, Chanse.”
“Anytime.”
It helps more than you expect.
Shayne and Courtney come over three nights before filming.
Angela calls it casual. Pizza, wine, and a chance to talk through the format. You clean the apartment like they are coming to inspect your soul. You wipe counters that are already clean, rearrange the couch pillows twice, and move a stack of books from the coffee table to the bedroom, then back again because without them the room looks suspiciously empty.
Angela watches you alphabetize the coasters.
“You know there is no coaster alphabet, right?”
“There is now.”
“Color?”
You pause.
“Yellow.”
“Do you want help or space?”
You look at the coasters, then at her. “Help.”
Angela takes them gently from your hands and sets them down in a random pile.
You wince.
She kisses your cheek. “Exposure therapy.”
“I hate your methods.”
“But you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She smiles, but her eyes are soft.
When the doorbell rings, your whole body tightens.
Angela opens the door, and Shayne and Courtney come in with pizza, wine, and an ease you envy immediately. They fit together without trying too hard. Shayne carries the boxes. Courtney carries napkins and a tote bag of what they call “just in case comfort items,” which turns out to include sour candy, ginger ale, fidget toys, and one tiny plush frog.
“I didn’t know what your vibe was,” Courtney says, handing it to you. “So I brought options.”
You stare at the frog.
Shayne nods solemnly. “That is Gregory. He’s seen some things.”
You laugh, startled. “Thank you?”
“Strong start,” Angela says, grinning.
Everyone settles in the living room. Shayne and Courtney take the couch, comfortable but not showy. You and Angela sit in the armchair because she gently tugs you there before you can choose the farthest seat in the room. Her thigh presses against yours. Her hand rests open on her knee.
You take it.
Courtney notices and looks away before it can become A Moment.
You are grateful enough that your throat tightens.
“So,” Shayne says, opening a pizza box. “We are here as your emotional support guys.”
Courtney points at him. “And also as people who have been perceived online against our will.”
“That too.”
Angela laughs. You manage a smile.
Courtney looks at you. “Do you want us to walk through the format, or would that make it worse?”
“I already know the format.”
“Right. Editor brain.”
“I know the schedule, the call time, the likely runtime, and which parts are probably going to be cut for pacing.”
Shayne pauses with a slice halfway to his plate. “That is either very comforting or the worst possible curse.”
“The second one,” you say.
Courtney nods. “Because knowing gives you more details to panic with.”
You point at them. “Exactly.”
Angela rubs her thumb along yours.
Shayne leans forward. “Then maybe we don’t focus on the mechanics. Maybe we focus on what you are worried people will see.”
You stiffen.
Angela glances at you. “We don’t have to.”
“No,” you say, even though your heart has started knocking. “It’s okay.”
Courtney’s voice stays gentle. “Is it people seeing you with Angela? Or people seeing you at all?”
You think about lying.
Then you remember you are doing this because Angela is the love of your life, and loving her out loud means telling the truth even when your voice shakes.
“Both,” you say. “But mostly seeing me with her.”
Angela turns toward you.
“Not because I’m ashamed,” you add quickly.
“I know,” she says.
“I know you know. I just…” You press your thumb into the plush frog’s stupid little face. “Angela makes sense on camera. She is funny and expressive and open. People know how to watch her. I don’t know how to be watched. I freeze, and then I look cold, and then people will decide I don’t love her enough.”
Shayne’s expression softens.
Courtney nods slowly. “That is a very real fear.”
“I know we are different,” you say. “I know people will see that. Angela is Angela, and I’m… me.”
Angela’s voice is quiet. “You say that like being you is the disappointing part.”
Your chest pulls tight.
Shayne sets his plate down. “For an outside perspective?”
You look at him warily.
He continues carefully. “You and Angela are very different energy-wise. That’s obvious even just sitting here. But it doesn’t feel like a mismatch. It feels like balance.”
Courtney nods. “Angela fills a room. You notice the room. Those are not opposing things.”
“You have known me for twenty minutes,” you say, defensive because anything else might make you cry.
Courtney smiles. “Yes, and I have eyes.”
Shayne points toward the kitchen. “Also, the apartment says a lot.”
You glance over. “The apartment?”
“Yeah. There is one pair of shoes kicked off like someone entered dramatically, and one pair lined up neatly beside them. There are three water glasses on different surfaces, which I assume is Angela.”
“Rude but accurate,” Angela mutters.
“And there is a blanket folded over the couch but also clearly used,” Shayne continues. “There is a very organized stack of mail and one chaotic bowl of hair ties. It is not one person’s space. It is both of you compromising without making it a whole speech.”
Courtney smiles. “That is what people who care will see.”
You look down at your hands.
“And people who don’t care?” you ask.
Angela answers before they can. “They don’t get to matter more than us.”
The room goes quiet.
For once, silence doesn’t feel like danger.
Courtney reaches for a slice of pizza. “Can I ask how long you two have been together?”
“Seven years,” Angela says, at the same time you say, “A little over seven.”
Shayne grins. “Oh, that was couple behavior.”
You flush.
Angela bumps your shoulder. “We met before Smosh.”
“At a friend’s birthday thing,” you say. “I didn’t want to go.”
Angela snorts. “That is the opening sentence of your memoir.”
“I was there for twenty minutes and already looking for an exit.”
“You were standing in the kitchen judging the snacks.”
“I was assessing.”
“You told someone the salsa had bad energy.”
Shayne looks delighted. “Did it?”
“Yes,” you say.
Angela laughs. “I thought she was the funniest person I had ever met.”
“You thought I was rude.”
“I thought you were rude in a compelling way.”
Courtney grins. “That is romance.”
You find yourself smiling. Actually smiling. The kind that sneaks up before you can guard against it.
“What was the first date?” Courtney asks.
You and Angela look at each other.
“Technically coffee,” Angela says.
“Emotionally a grocery store,” you add.
Shayne sits up. “I need that explained immediately.”
Angela hides her face, already laughing.
“She asked if I wanted to hang out,” you say. “Then admitted she had errands. So we walked around a grocery store for an hour and a half while she bought cereal, toothpaste, and one single lemon.”
“The lemon was important.”
“You didn’t use it.”
“I had intentions.”
“It became a biohazard in your fridge.”
Angela points at you. “You were nervous too. You read the same pasta box for three minutes.”
“I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”
“So you held fusilli?”
“It was available.”
Everyone laughs, and this time you don’t feel like the joke has pulled you apart. It feels like memories being shared, like something private stepping into the light and surviving.
Angela looks at you like she can see the shift.
Like she knows you aren’t just tolerating this part.
You are enjoying it.
Courtney notices too. “You light up when you talk about your history.”
Your smile falters, but only a little.
“I like our history,” you say quietly. “It is the analyzing part I hate.”
“That makes sense,” Courtney says. “The history is yours. Analysis feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
You nod because yes. Exactly.
Angela squeezes your hand. “Our history is ours no matter what people say.”
You look at her, and for a second the room fades.
Seven years. Grocery-store dates. Tuesday pasta. Shared rent. Bad days. Good mornings. Angela’s cold feet tucked under your leg. Your hand finding hers in crowded places. Her learning every locked door inside you and knocking gently anyway.
“I am doing this because I love you,” you say. The words come out softer than you expect, but the room hears them. “Not because I suddenly want to be public. Not because I think I’ll be good at this. Because you are my person, and I don’t want fear to be the only thing making decisions for us.”
Angela’s eyes fill.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Shayne looks down at his plate, suddenly very interested in the pizza crust. Courtney’s expression softens into something almost protective.
Angela lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. She does it like breathing, like it’s muscle memory.
You both realize at the same time that other people saw.
No one teases.
That makes it easier to let your hand stay in hers.
By the time Shayne and Courtney leave, you are exhausted, but not wrecked.
Courtney hugs you gently at the door. “You’re allowed to be scared and still want it.”
Shayne lifts the empty pizza box in salute. “Proud of you in advance.”
“That feels like cheating.”
“It is manifestation. Very different.”
When the door closes, Angela turns to you.
“Color?”
You think about it.
“Yellow,” you say. “But warmer.”
Angela smiles. “Warm yellow?”
“Like a lamp.”
She laughs and pulls you into her arms.
You let yourself be held.
Filming day arrives too quickly.
You barely sleep. Angela stays up with you until almost three, her hand moving in slow circles over your back while your mind rehearses disasters. By morning, your body feels like static with shoes on.
You know the call time. You know the set. You know the challenge order. You know there will be two main cameras, one wide, one roaming, plus crew. You know Chanse and Amanda are hosting. You know Shayne and Courtney are competing too.
Knowing doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The set is bright when you walk in. Pride flags, colorful balloons, glittery game board, ridiculous props, rainbow streamers on the monitor cart. It is cheerful in a way that almost makes you dizzy.
Amanda spots you first.
“There they are,” she says warmly. “Our brave little lovebirds.”
Chanse appears behind her. “I was told not to say lovebirds, but Amanda did it first, so legally I am free.”
“You are not,” Amanda says.
Angela laughs, and you manage to smile.
Courtney comes over with Shayne, both already mic’d.
“How are you feeling?” Courtney asks.
“Like I might pass away, but professionally.”
Shayne nods. “Very Smosh.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, which lowers your shoulders half an inch.
Then the mic pack goes on your waistband.
The panic sharpens.
You know the PA is only doing their job. You know the wire is normal. Still, the second it’s clipped under your shirt, you feel captured. Recordable. Permanent.
Angela steps closer. “Color?”
“Yellow,” you whisper.
She nods. “Okay. Yellow.”
Then Spencer calls for quiet.
Cameras roll.
Chanse turns toward the lens with a grin. “Welcome back to Smosh and welcome to our Pride Month couple’s competition, where we find out who communicates best, who knows each other best, and who is least likely to break up over a craft challenge.”
Amanda smiles. “Today we have Shayne and Courtney, who you know, love, and have probably already seen be very cute on the internet.”
Courtney waves. Shayne does a solemn thumbs-up.
“And,” Chanse continues, turning toward you and Angela, “we also have Angela and her partner, who some of you may not know because she has spent four years hiding in the edit bay like a very talented little cryptid.”
Your eyes widen.
Angela bursts out laughing.
Amanda points at Chanse. “That was affectionate.”
“Deeply affectionate,” Chanse says. “She is one of our editors, which means she is responsible for making many of us seem much funnier than we are.”
“That is true,” Angela says.
“Devastating,” Shayne says. “But fair.”
Amanda looks at her card. “Fun facts before we begin. Angela and her partner have been together for seven years.”
Courtney presses a hand to their chest. “Seven years is so cute.”
Your face heats.
“They met before Smosh at a birthday party,” Chanse says, “where, according to our notes, someone accused salsa of having bad energy.”
“That salsa did have bad energy,” you say.
The crew laughs.
Angela points at you. “I stand by her.”
Amanda continues, “They live together, have a sacred Tuesday pasta tradition, and Spork is in fact the only man of that house.”
You cover your face with one hand.
Angela is laughing too hard to defend herself.
“And,” Chanse adds, “we are all going to be very normal in the comments because our editor has requested emotional stability from the internet.”
The line is funny.
You laugh.
But it lands in your chest anyway.
Angela’s hand finds yours under the table.
Still yellow.
The first challenge is trivia.
You filled out the answers in advance, but when Amanda asks, “What is Angela’s coffee order?” your mind blanks.
The cameras feel enormous.
Angela bumps your shoulder. “You know this.”
You focus on her face.
“Iced oat milk latte with vanilla and an extra shot,” you say, “unless it is before ten, because iced coffee too early is emotionally aggressive.”
Angela bursts out laughing.
“That’s correct,” Amanda says. “And concerning.”
“It’s a real boundary,” Angela says.
Chanse reads the next card. “Angela, what is her favorite comfort meal?”
“Tuesday pasta,” Angela says immediately. “Garlic, butter, red sauce, too much parmesan, and the garlic bread she pretends is for both of us but mostly gets eaten standing at the counter.”
You gasp. “That’s private information.”
“That’s dinner.”
“That’s betrayal.”
Shayne laughs. “This is already my favorite couple dynamic.”
Your stomach flips, but Angela squeezes your hand.
Amanda asks, “What is Angela’s worst habit at home?”
You glance at Angela.
She narrows her eyes. “Careful.”
“You leave water glasses everywhere,” you say. “Every room. Every surface. It is like living with a very dehydrated ghost.”
Angela points at you. “I am a hydrated woman.”
“You are a woman with a trail.”
The crew laughs, and this time you laugh too.
Chanse reads another. “Angela, what is one thing she does when she is anxious?”
Angela’s smile softens.
“She cleans,” she says. “Or reorganizes things that don’t need reorganizing. Coasters. Books. The silverware drawer. Sometimes she narrates what she’s doing like she’s not panicking, just suddenly passionate about spoon placement.”
You look down, embarrassed but warm.
“And if it is bad,” Angela adds, “she gets quiet. Far away quiet.”
Amanda’s voice softens. “Point for Angela.”
Chanse asks, “What is the first thing Angela ever bought you?”
“A mug,” you answer instantly. “Blue. From a thrift store. It had a chip in the handle and a duck painted on it.”
Angela stares. “You remember that?”
“You said it had my energy.”
“It did.”
“It was a duck.”
“A judgmental duck.”
You smile. “I still have it.”
Angela looks like she might melt under the studio lights.
A few more questions move quickly. First trip together. Favorite movie. Who steals blankets. Who apologizes first after a fight.
“You,” Angela says.
“I do?”
“Not always with words. Sometimes you just bring me tea and sit closer than usual.”
Your throat tightens.
“Oh.”
Chanse glances at the card in his hand. “Angela, what is one thing your partner does at work that nobody notices?”
Angela’s expression changes.
“She notices everything,” she says. “She acts like she's not paying attention, but she knows everyone’s schedule, who is stressed, which edits need extra care, when someone had a rough shoot. She doesn’t always join the group, but she's always looking out for the work and the people in it.”
The room goes quiet in a gentle way.
You stare at her.
For years, you thought nobody saw that. You thought they saw the headphones, the closed door, the early exits. You thought Angela was the only one who knew there was more to you than silence.
Angela reaches for your hand under the table.
“She's quieter than me,” she says. “Obviously. Most people are. But quiet doesn’t mean absent.”
Your eyes sting.
Amanda presses a hand to her chest. “That was really sweet.”
Angela laughs softly. “Sorry. Too sincere?”
“No,” you say before you can overthink it. “It was nice.”
Angela looks at you like you have given her something.
Then the director calls for a reset.
Normal. You know it is normal. They adjust angles all the time.
But then someone asks you and Angela to repeat the last answer.
Just the sweet part.
Just for coverage.
Your stomach drops.
Repeat the vulnerability.
Perform the sincerity.
Make the private thing usable.
Angela starts to answer again, but your ears fill with static. The lights seem too sharp. The mic wire scratches under your shirt. You can see the lens pointed at you, waiting for your reaction. You are touched by Angela’s words, overwhelmed by them, but now your face feels like something being harvested.
You pull your hand away.
Angela stops immediately.
“Color?”
You try to say yellow.
Nothing comes out.
Her expression changes.
“Red?”
You nod.
Everything stops.
Angela turns toward the director. “We need a break.”
No one argues.
Chanse steps in, voice bright and controlled. “Great time to hydrate. Amanda, quick legal question, is the prop candy food or decor?”
Amanda picks it up instantly. “Emotionally, decor. Legally, unclear.”
The room shifts around you, but Angela is already guiding you off set. She takes you into a small empty room down the hall, one of those half-storage, half-meeting rooms with a spare chair, a stack of boxes, and a sad little lamp.
The door closes.
The quiet hits.
Your breath breaks.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp.
“No.” Angela’s voice is firm. “Red means stop. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I couldn’t even sit there while you said something nice about me.”
Angela kneels in front of you. You don’t remember sitting down, but she’s looking up at you now, hands hovering near your knees.
“Can I touch you?”
You nod, crying too hard to answer.
She takes your hands. “Look at me.”
You try.
“There you are,” she whispers. “Stay with me.”
“I could feel them waiting for my face,” you say. “Like they needed the right reaction. I know that is how filming works, but it felt like they were trying to capture something that belongs to us.”
Angela’s face crumples.
“Oh, baby.”
“I want people to know I love you,” you say. “I do. I want that for you. But I don’t want every part of that love turned into something people can pause and discuss.”
Angela squeezes your hands. “I know.”
“I’m trying so hard.” Your voice breaks. “But I can already hear them. That I’m awkward. That I don’t look happy enough. That you’re carrying me. That you deserve someone who can smile normally when you say something sweet.”
“Listen to me.” Angela’s voice shakes, but she keeps it steady. “No comment section gets to decide what our love looks like.”
You shake your head.
“They don’t know us,” she continues. “They don’t know seven years. They don’t know the grocery store date or Tuesday pasta or the duck mug. They don’t know you sit in the car outside my auditions because you know I’m nervous even when I pretend I’m not. They don’t know how you love me.”
Your breathing stutters.
“I know,” Angela says. “I know when you wash my favorite hoodie before a hard shoot. I know when you pretend to be asleep but still reach for my hand. I know when you memorize my schedule and act like it’s just because you’re organized. I know you love me. I don’t need the internet to understand it for it to be real.”
Your face crumples.
Angela pulls you into her arms, and you fold into her. She holds you tightly, one hand at the back of your head.
“I want to be easier,” you whisper.
“I don’t want it to be easier.” Her lips press against your hair. “I want you.”
The words go right through you.
For a while, you cry into her shirt while the studio hums on the other side of the wall. Angela doesn’t rush you. She doesn’t ask if you are ready before you have remembered how to breathe.
Eventually, she murmurs, “Color?”
You take stock of yourself.
“Orange,” you say. “Maybe yellow-orange.”
“Okay. We can work with yellow-orange.”
“What if I can’t go back?”
“Then we go home.”
“But the video.”
“Is not the love of my life,” Angela says. “You are.”
You look at her.
She smiles through tears. “That seemed worth clarifying.”
You laugh weakly, and something inside you loosens.
“I think I can go back,” you say. “But I don’t want to redo that answer.”
“Then we won't.”
“And if something else happens?”
“Red stops it.”
You nod.
Angela kisses your forehead. “I’m proud of you.”
“I panicked.”
“You used the system. You let me help. You’re still here.” She squeezes your hands. “That’s not nothing.”
When you return to the set, nobody makes it weird.
Amanda gives you a small thumbs-up. Chanse is mid-argument with Shayne about whether candy can expire emotionally. Courtney smiles at you gently, not with pity, just recognition.
The director says, “We are good to move on. No need to repeat anything.”
Your shoulders drop.
Angela’s hand finds yours again.
“Yellow?” she asks quietly.
You breathe.
“Yellow.”
The rest of filming is still hard.
But not impossible.
The cooking challenge is ridiculous. Blindfolded sandwich-making. Angela guides you while you poke suspiciously at ingredients.
“Bread is in front of you.”
“This feels like lettuce.”
“That’s bread.”
“This is wet.”
“That’s tomato. Please don’t panic at the tomato.”
“I am really opposed to wet bread.”
Chanse wheezes off-camera.
The charades challenge is worse, but Amanda keeps it light. Your card says movie night, and after several seconds of frozen panic, you mime holding popcorn. Angela guesses it immediately.
“You make that exact face when you are deciding whether a movie is worth pausing for snacks,” she says.
Courtney points at you both. “That is couple telepathy.”
The craft challenge ends up easier than expected. Angela draws a couch, a bowl of pasta, and two stick figures under a lopsided disco ball. You add a computer monitor, tiny headphones, and speech bubbles.
Angelas says, Come outside!
Yours says, No thank you!
The crew laughs.
For once, you don’t mind.
Then comes the trust fall.
Of course.
Amanda explains it brightly. “One partner will be blindfolded and fall backward. The other catches them. Simple, symbolic, dramatic.”
“Who approved this?” you mutter.
Chanse raises his hand. “For growth.”
“I’m suing you.”
“Understandable.”
You’re the one falling. Angela stands behind you. The blindfold goes on, and the room disappears.
Not seeing the cameras should help.
It doesn't.
Now you can hear everything. Shoes. Equipment. The soft hum of lights. Your own breathing, shallow and quick.
Angela’s voice comes from behind you.
“I’ve got you.”
“I know,” you say, though your voice shakes.
“No,” she says softly. “Listen to me. You don’t have to fall pretty. You don’t have to look brave. You just have to trust that I’m here.”
Your eyes sting behind the blindfold.
“Yellow.”
“Okay,” Angela says. “We can stay yellow and still do it.”
You breathe in.
Out.
Then you let yourself fall.
For one awful second, there is nothing under you.
Then Angela catches you.
Solid. Warm. Laughing with relief.
The crew cheers. Amanda claps. Chanse yells, “That was cinema!” and someone calls cut.
You pull the blindfold off with shaking hands.
Angela is still holding you.
“See?” she says, smiling so wide it almost hurts to look at. “I had you.”
You are still scared. Still aware of every camera, every person, every future viewer.
But you did it.
You fell, and she caught you.
So you kiss her.
Not because you forgot the cameras.
Because you didn’t.
Because you know they’re there, and you choose her anyway.
When you pull back, Angela’s eyes are bright.
“Was that okay?” you ask quietly.
“That was perfect,” she says.
For one second, you believe her.
The video goes live two weeks later.
You already know there’s discourse before you watch it.
Smosh fans are fast. Someone clips the intro within twenty minutes. Someone posts screenshots of you and Angela holding hands. There is already a Reddit thread with your name in the title, which feels illegal even though it’s not.
The intro makes it worse because it gives people details.
Editor.
Four years at Smosh.
Seven years with Angela.
Birthday party.
Tuesday pasta.
Duck mug.
Quiet partner.
Suddenly, strangers have enough information to build a version of you.
Angela offers to take your phone.
You say no.
Then you refresh comments for thirty minutes and nearly cry into your cereal.
By the time you and Angela sit on the couch with the laptop between you, your whole body feels scraped raw.
“Color?” Angela asks.
“Orange.”
“Do you want to wait?”
“No.” Your voice shakes. “If people are talking about it, I need to know what they’re talking about.”
Angela doesn’t argue. She takes your hand.
“Okay. We watch it together.”
The first few minutes are hard. You look nervous. Your shoulders are tense. Your smile is careful. You cringe when Chanse calls you a talented little cryptid, even though the line gets a laugh and you know he meant it affectionately.
Then the fun facts start, and you can almost feel the internet grabbing each one.
As the video continues, something shifts.
You are anxious, yes. Anyone can see that. But you are also laughing. Teasing Angela. Getting answers right. Letting her touch your hand. You’re not smooth or polished or effortlessly open, but you are there.
Trying.
The red moment is mostly gone. There is a clean cut between trivia and cooking, maybe a slightly abrupt transition if someone is looking for it. You know what happened there, though. You remember the little room. Angela’s hands around yours. Her voice telling you the internet didn’t get to define how you loved her.
The trust fall looks better than it felt. You can see the fear on your face when the blindfold comes off, but you can also see Angela’s arms around you. You can see the kiss. You can see yourself choosing not to run.
Then you open the comments.
Angela winces. “Maybe don’t.”
“I have to.”
Some are kind.
Angela and her partner are adorable.
The seven years thing made me emotional.
I love seeing a quieter couple dynamic.
The duck mug story killed me.
The trust fall kiss? I am unwell.
Some are not.
She seemed uncomfortable.
Angela carried the whole video.
The energy difference is kind of awkward.
Why did it feel like her partner didn’t want to be there?
I don’t know, they seem mismatched.
Then come the arguments.
Can we not psychoanalyze a non-cast employee based on one video?
If they didn’t want people commenting, why go on camera?
Maybe because they love Angela and wanted to support her?
The vibe was off.
The vibe was introvert dating extrovert. Please go outside.
Angela deserves someone who matches her energy.
Angela has been with her for seven years. I think she knows what she wants.
This felt like a private person trying really hard, and that’s actually beautiful.
Or maybe Smosh shouldn’t put behind-the-scenes staff on camera if they are visibly anxious.
The intro literally explained she avoids camera stuff. Why are people acting shocked?
Can fans stop turning queer couples into debate topics for five seconds?
Each defense becomes another mention of you. Each argument turns your relationship into something people can use to make a point.
Someone makes a TikTok using the trust fall clip with soft music.
Someone stitches it and says people are romanticizing obvious discomfort.
Someone posts a screenshot of you looking tense during the intro with the caption: when your extrovert girlfriend drags you into Pride content.
Someone replies: or when you love someone enough to do something terrifying.
It is too much.
The kindness. The criticism. The defending. The speculation. Even people trying to protect you are still talking about you.
Your breathing changes.
Angela closes the laptop before you can ask.
“Orange?” she asks.
You shake your head. “Almost red.”
“Okay.” She moves the laptop to the coffee table. “No more.”
“They are arguing about us.”
“I know.”
“Even the nice ones.”
“I know.”
“I thought the bad comments would be the worst part.” You wipe your face angrily. “But all of it is hard. Even people defending me are still making me into a topic.”
Angela sits with that. She doesn’t rush to fix it.
Then she says, “Do you want to know what I saw?”
You look at her.
“In the video,” she says. “Not the comments.”
After a second, you nod.
“I saw you scared,” Angela says. “I saw you stay. I saw you laugh for real. I saw you trust me. I saw you talk about our life like it mattered. I saw the person I love doing something incredibly hard because they love me back.”
Your chest aches.
“And I saw the comments,” she admits. “Some made me mad. Some made me want to throw your laptop into the ocean. Some were sweet. But none of them changed what I know.”
“What do you know?”
Angela squeezes your hand.
“That I’m loved,” she says. “By you. In the quiet, stubborn, Tuesday-pasta, duck-mug, emotionally-opposed-to-wet-bread way that is completely ours.”
A laugh breaks out of you, watery and helpless.
Your phone buzzes.
Amanda sends hearts and says she is proud of you. Courtney says the trust fall made them tear up. Spencer says he had no idea you were that funny. Arasha writes, Seven years and nobody told me? Is this another prank? Rude but adorable.
Then Chanse texts.
Just watched. You were great. Also, your dry delivery is deeply underutilized. Angela’s been hiding a comedic weapon.
A second message follows.
Also proud of you. I know that was a lot.
You stare at the screen.
“They’re being nice,” you say.
Angela smiles. “Because they like you.”
“They barely know me.”
“Maybe they would like to.”
That thought is terrifying.
It is also not as awful as it used to be.
Monday morning is hard.
You almost call in sick. You make it all the way to your car, then sit gripping the steering wheel while your brain insists everyone will stare.
Some people do.
Most just smile.
Arasha catches you near the front with coffee in hand.
“Hey,” she says. “Great video.”
Your heart leaps into your throat. “Thanks.”
“And for the record, Angela leaving water glasses everywhere makes so much sense.”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
Arasha grins and keeps walking.
That is it.
No interrogation. No spotlight.
At ten, Chanse knocks on your edit bay door.
You freeze, even though some part of you knows Chanse is safe.
“Come in.”
He opens the door just enough to peek in. “I come in peace.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is. I also come with praise.” He smiles. “You were really good.”
“I was anxious.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And funny. And sweet with Angela. Multiple things can be true.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
Chanse leans against the doorframe, careful not to fully enter unless invited. “For what it’s worth, I know I’ve known about you two for a long time, but seeing you together was different. Not just Angela’s mysterious partner I hear stories about. You.”
Your chest tightens, but not in the same terrible way.
“That’s the part I’m scared of,” you admit.
“Being you where people can see?”
You nod.
“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense. But nobody is asking you to become Angela. God help us, one Angela is already a lot.”
You laugh.
“You can still be quiet,” Chanse says. “You can still hide in here when you need to. People knowing you love Angela doesn’t mean they get unlimited access to you.”
You look at him, surprised by how directly he understands.
He shrugs. “I listen sometimes. Don't let that get out. My reputation would never recover.”
He taps the doorframe. “Seriously, though. Proud of you. And if anyone bugs you too much, tell me. I’ll distract them with a bit so long and confusing they forget why they came over.”
“Thanks, Chanse.”
“Anytime.”
More people mention the video throughout the day. Amanda hugs you, but keeps it brief. Shayne high-fives you. Courtney tells you they are proud of you. Spencer says you and Angela were really sweet together, then actually lets you get back to work. Tommy appears later just to say the duck mug deserves a spinoff.
Everyone is kind.
It’s still exhausting.
By lunch, the discourse has grown again. People debating whether fans should speculate on non-cast partners. People praising the video for showing different kinds of queer relationships. People arguing about whether anxiety should have been edited out more. People using words like representation and chemistry and consent and awkwardness like they are talking about a movie instead of your life.
You don’t open the threads at work.
That feels like growth.
By the time you get home, you feel wrung out.
Angela is on the couch, and the second she sees your face, she opens her arms.
You drop into them.
“How was it?” she asks.
“Good,” you say. “And awful. But mostly good.”
“That sounds about right.”
“People were nice.”
“But?”
“But it is different now.” You breathe into her shoulder. “People know things. They talk to me more. Online, they talk about us like they know us. I knew that would happen, but knowing didn’t make it less weird.”
Angela kisses the top of your head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” You pull back enough to look at her. “I’m anxious. Very anxious. But I’m not sorry.”
Her eyes soften.
“I still need privacy,” you say. “I still need quiet. I’m not suddenly going to be in every video or go to every hangout.”
“I know.”
“And I need boundaries with the internet. I can’t read everything. I can’t turn myself into whatever version of me they like best.”
“No,” Angela says. “You shouldn’t have to.”
You take her hand.
“I think I can let people know us a little,” you say. “But I don’t want to hand them all of us.”
Angela smiles. “That sounds fair.”
“And maybe,” you add, voice quieter, “I can stop assuming that everyone who tries to know me is dangerous.”
“That sounds like a good start.”
“A terrifying start.”
“Still a start.”
Three weeks later, you and Angela stand near the edge of the Pride parade route.
The crowd is huge. Music, flags, glitter, laughter, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Your heart races. Your palms sweat. Every instinct tells you to go home.
Angela watches your face. “Color?”
“Yellow,” you say. Then, because honesty has started to feel less like failure, “With orange edges.”
“We can leave.”
You believe her.
That helps.
“I know,” you say. “I want to stay for a little bit.”
“You sure?”
“No.” You take her hand. “But I want to try.”
She smiles. “Okay. We try.”
You don’t stay long. Less than an hour. You find a spot near the back where you can see without feeling trapped. Angela cheers when a float goes by. You laugh when a drag queen points at her and yells, “I love your energy!” because of course Angela would get personally acknowledged in a crowd of thousands.
A few people recognize her.
One recognizes you too.
Your stomach drops when they glance between you and Angela.
“I loved the video,” they say. “You two were really sweet.”
You freeze.
Angela’s hand tightens around yours, grounding but not answering for you.
“Thank you,” you manage.
The person smiles and moves on.
That’s it.
No interrogation. No demand. No ownership.
Your heart still pounds like you ran a mile.
Angela leans close. “Color?”
“Orange,” you whisper. “But not red.”
“Okay.”
You stay ten more minutes.
That feels like a victory.
When it gets too loud, Angela leads you back to the car without making you ask twice.
On the walk back, your hands are still shaking, but your chest feels lighter than you expected.
“I’m proud of you,” Angela says.
“I didn’t do much.”
“You came.”
You look at her. “I came.”
It’s small.
It’s huge.
At the car, Angela leans against the passenger door, still holding your hand.
“I’m not going to become a public person,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m still going to need quiet. Boundaries. Warning before cameras. Possibly a dramatic amount of alone time.”
“Noted.”
“But I don’t want to hide us anymore,” you say. “Not completely. I don’t want fear to be the only thing making decisions.”
Angela’s eyes shine. “That means a lot.”
“You mean a lot.”
She laughs, watery and bright, then pulls you into a hug.
For a long moment, you just hold each other while Pride echoes a few blocks away.
You aren’t suddenly fearless. You aren’t suddenly comfortable being watched, known, discussed, clipped, posted, or misunderstood.
But you are learning that visibility doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.
It can have limits.
It can have boundaries.
It can be one video, one conversation, one hour at Pride, one hand held in public before going home to the quiet.
You aren’t Angela.
You aren’t Shayne and Courtney.
You are you.
Anxious, private, careful, trying.
And Angela loves you there too.
As you drive home together, her hand resting over yours on the center console, you realize that being brave doesn’t feel like confidence.
Most of the time, it feels like panic.
But sometimes, if you are lucky, it also feels like Angela asking your color and staying when the answer is red.
Sometimes it feels like choosing to fall.
Sometimes it feels like being caught.
And sometimes, quietly, imperfectly, it feels like love.
Summary: She looks at girls and finds that she yearns not only to have softness like theirs, but to be on the recieving end of it. Lara spent her entire life knowing she liked girls-
Rather, she spent her entire life knowing she likes one girl: Her sister's best friend.
"Ang yugtong paulit-ulit kong babalik-balikan: Sigaw ay ikaw parin."
"The chapter that I always return to: Always screams of you."
Requested? ✅
Genre: Hurt & Comfort, Slow-burn, Friends to Lovers, Fluff
Warnings: None
Extra Tags: Rhea is a scheming but supportive sister, Mama Raj is a N/NLarz shipper, Lara will eventually be going through it- Tbh she kinda already is but I promise it will pay off! Eventually...
For as long as Lara could remember, you've been right by Rhea's side. Her first memories of her sister included your presence, and in every event where their achievements are being celebrated- You were right there and cheering as loudly as their parents were.
She was seven when she and Rhea had their first real fight, in the backyard of their childhood home: Lara remembers running to you despite the fact that you're Rhea's best friend. She remembers crying, barely being able to speak her words that Rhea wouldn't love her anymore. Lara remembers being able to finally calm down when you knelt down to her level, your hands wrapped around hers as you promised her that the world could end and Rhea would still continue loving her.
She remembers that three days after that fight, she watches you do a backflip that blew her mind. Later that night, she walked into the living room where her parents and Rhea were. Head held high, hands on her hips, and determination on her face- Lara called for everyone's attention to announce that she would marry you when she grows up.
When she was twelve, the youngest Rajagopalan swears her entire family to secrecy. None of them ever forgot anyway.
It's Katseye's first month together since the group was formed. They sit together on the floor of their practice room, playing truth or dare after a flawwless choreography run and like the menace that she's slowly but surely growing into: Yoonchae asks a truth about what her ideal type of person is.
The words are out of her mouth before self-control could even set a foot into the room.
"Someone who knows me like the back of their hand."
Daniela squeals over the romance of the statement, Sophia continuously snaps her fingers in earnest agreement, Manon smiles at her like she understands on a deeper level, and Megan with her lack of filter asks her if this person is already present in her life.
Lara rolls her eyes, faking disinterest as she tells the Chinese woman to wait her turn. She chooses dare when Megan gets her chance, and ends up faceplanting into the floor in her poor attempt of a handstand.
Later that night, Megan apologises over the possibility that her questioning might've made her uncomfortable. Lara assures her it didn't, and just to show that there was no hard feelings:
Megan ends up as the first person within Katseye to find out that though Lara likes both men and women, she has a preference for the latter.
When Megan asks if there's someone she currently likes, Lara answers as honestly as she can without involving your name in the conversation.
"Yeah, I've spent my entire life wanting to be with her. To be honest? I still do."
Any reminder of the fact that she hasn't seen you in years fills her with a fear that debilitates her worse than any other fears.
In the middle of the night, long after her roommate has fallen asleep, Lara finds herself wondering if you've stopped caring altogether- You've always been Rhea's after all, and her two years with Dream Academy only ever put distance between her schedules and her sister's.
Have you left her in a box in the attic of your mind, labelled as nothing more than Rhea's baby sister who used to follow you like a lost duckling?
Could you have forgotten what you meant to her, even though she never had the courage to even so much as hint at it to you at all?
The debut comes around, and Lara steps onto that stage like she owns the entire venue. Completely locked in to ensuring that she hits all her marks at the perfect time, she intends to perform like she was meant for this- Like she still had something to prove despite surviving the final elimination.
Then she finds you seated at the front row with the families of all her group members who could make it, and for a moment she's confused that Rhea's nowhere to be found. You form your fingers into a heart and all her questions disintegrate like disturbed ash when the music starts to play and she feels herself start moving to the beat.
Lara stepped onto the stage intending to perform like she was above everybody's possible criticisms, she ends up performing like she's showing off instead.
When they return backstage, she allows herself to celebrate with the girls. Let's them rant about how they never expected to see that many people and hear that volume of cheers, she bites her tongue and smiles instead- Almost letting slip that none of the audience but one really mattered to her enough to bear weight.
After they've freshened up and have gone off to the room where family has been asked to wait, Lara finds herself lifted from the floor by a hug from the arms of the one she runs to when she and Rhea have a fight.
When she finally gets her first real glimpse of you after two and a half years, her tongue burns with the urge to ask you about everything she wasn't there for.
"How has working with Rhea been?"
"How has life at home been?"
"Have you been doing good for yourself?"
"Do you still do random backflips just to worry my sister into insanity?"
"Do you still remember who I really am?"
"Do you have any idea how much I've missed you?"
Instead, she curbs her curiosity and settles for asking nothing at all.
"I didn't expect you to be here!"
Lara feels her heart sing with joy at the sight of the smile that brightens up your face.
"I wouldn't have missed it for the world."
Your smile brings pain that she hides as easily as breathing when she comes face to face with the fact that she's still yours even after all the time that has passed.
But she's used to it now, and she has never known a life without keeping secret the fact that she is suffocated by constantly wondering what it would like to be'Yours' as well and not just 'Lara'.
You raise an eyebrow at your best friend when she interrupts you before you've finished reading her the email you found in your inbox earlier that day.
"You didn't even hear the rest of it?"
Rhea shrugs at you, continuing to chow down on her salad without even bothering to look your way.
"I heard the important bit: Hybe wants you to mix Katseye's track for the upcoming Lollapalooza event."
You hum, reading through the rest of the email as well as the attached files containing the tracklist, offers of temporary accommodations, and the on-site presence requirements while the solo-artist remains invested in her lunch.
A particularly solid crunch draws you out of your focus and you lightly throw your hands in exasperation. You turn your chair to face Rhea, sitting cross legged on one of your studio speakers with her iced matcha placed on your table. Without a coaster.
"You're not supposed to be eating here!"
The Indian woman rolls her eyes at you with a small smirk before she gathers a forkful of food, holding it out for you like it was diplomatic present.
"We have this conversation every time we're here. It never ends differently, want some?"
You wheel the chair over to your friend, taking the bite with no hesitations before heading back over to your laptop to open a draft. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, internally cross referencing your schedules with the responsibilities that will come with this Hybe offer.
A grimace flashes across your face as you come to the realization that everything would be in conflict with each other if you accept the job.
You don't even get to draft the full first sentence of your apology before Rhea's over your shoulder and pulling your chair away from your table.
"No? Why not?"
Your shoulders sag with a sigh as you tell Rhea of the unavoidable scheduling conflicts with the invitation and your work with her. You tell her that with the steady momentum the both of you have, there's just not enough time in the world to accept Hybe's call and continue your current projects together.
"So we make the time, push my single back- Big deal. There's not even a set release date yet."
"We can't just-"
"Yes we can, Lara misses you and I know you miss her loud ass too. So take that offer, and head on over to Hybe."
She takes a sip of her matcha before holding it out to you, a silent offer that has you leaning backwards as if you've been repelled.
"I don't drink grass water."
Rhea rolls her eyes at you before making for the door. Hip checking the back of your chair in fondness as she passes by.
"I'll make you one with strawberries."
"Thanks Rhea, you're the best!"
The door to the mixing room clicks shut, and you start on actually composing a reply draft to Hybe's email with a smile on your face.
It has been quite the long time since you've last seen the little Raj.
Yoonchae walks into the dorm with a clap of her hands and a big smile on her face.
"Good news 여러분 (TR: Everyone)!"
The girls look her way, stopping in their tracks and abandoning their respective tasks to crowd around her in the couch when the youngest gstures for them to huddle around her.
"Hybe found someone to mix our performance for Lollapalooza. The producer accepted just this afternoon."
Cheers errupt from Manon, Megan, and Daniela. But Sophia only crosses her hands across her front before asking a question that Yoonchae prayed would not be asked when she dropped the tidbit of crucial intel.
"How exactly did you get ahold of this information before I did?"
The youngest looks at her leader with a smile that clues her in on the fact that the information probably wasn't given freely, or even knowingly.
"I snooped.."
Lara gasps, clutching her imaginary pearls with mischief in her eyes.
"Yoonchae! You're turning into a cheese monster!"
Sophia taps her shoulder once before offering a gentle correction.
"Chismosa."
"You're turning into a chismosa!"
She doesn't fight back the urge to ruffle Yoonchae's hair when the Korean rolls her eyes at her antics. In true rage-baiter and rageful duo fashion, pushy hands start colliding and Sophia steps in before they can turn the living room into an all out warzone.
"Did you catch the name?"
Yoonchae only shrugs her shoulders, and this time it's Daniela who pipes up a reply.
"Some chisme you are! Gathering intel without getting the name!"
Grant calls for everyone's attention, announcing that they're not actually in the mirror room to practice but to meet the temporary new addition to the music production team.
When Sohey walks into the room with you by his side, Lara immediately bolts up from the floor to throw her entire body against you before you could even look her way.
Even with the doubts that came with distance and time apart, Lara knows deep inside that you'll catch her like you always used to do when you were children.
The startled laugh that leaves your lips sounds like going back to simpler times, and when you wrap your arms around her middle to spin her around- Lara's world narrows down to only the feel of your skin against hers.
The others are crowding around the two of you soon enough.
Sophia fusses like a mother hen as she looks you both over, ensuring that to one got hurt over the surprise hug. Daniela set to work on prying a clingy group member off of the newest producer. Yoonchae is reminding Lara of PR training with wide, alarmed eyes. Megan is bouncing on her feet as she introduces herself before immediately asking why you seem so familiar.
"I was backstage after your debut performance, but I only had time to talk to this one before I had to go to catch my flight. I think we ran into each other when I was leaving the family waiting room, Little Ginger."
Megan's mouth forms into an 'o' while her eyes narrow in the effort of trying to remember, then Manon steps in. Wasting no time in filling in for the distracted girl with her own question.
"You and Lara go way back?"
She nods to the way that Lara has an arm thrown over the back of your neck, thoroughly distracted with shooing Daniela away from her as she refuses to be parted from you.
"Her sister basically pawned me off to your bundle of chaos two days ago, Rhea and I have been best friends since kindergarten. So in summary? This Little Duckling has been part of my life since she was born."
Sophia backs off with relief visible in the sagging of her shoulders after finding that everyone's okay. A more pressing question now on the tip of her tongue as she spots a golden opportunity to acquire blackmail.
"Why is she called Little Duckling?"
Lara whirls around on her heels, pointing a finger at you with a wild expression in her eyes.
"Tell them nothing!"
Unfortunately for her, it's four against one.
"Tell us everything!"
---
You press your back against the door of your accommodation, taking a moment to savor the quiet that now makes your ears ring after spending a full day with Katseye.
Halfway through taking off your shoes, your phone vibrates before letting out a custom ringtone. You pick up without bothering to check the caller ID.
"Hi there lovely, so how was the introduction day?"
"... A lot... But it was nice."
Rhea lets out a laugh at the overwhelmed look on your face, she's about to speak when another familiar voice speaks from outside the camera frame.
"Is that Y/N? Give me, let me see."
The phone ends up in Kavita's hands before she even finishes the sentence. You wave at her, smiling at the influx of well-meaning questions you know she's about to start throwing your way.
"Hi Mama Raj! How was your day?"
She smiles at the camera, telling you that it was fine and satisfying before the barrage begins.
"But that's enough about me, what about you? Is my Rhea paying you well enough to eat?"
An exasperated 'Hey!' floats through the audio before it's hushed quiet by the woman on your screen. You fight back the urge to laugh at the pout that you know is on your best friend's face.
"Rhea said that you're working with the Girls for the next two months, how has it been so far? They better be treating you nicely, especially Lara! How is my baby by the way?"
From behind her mother, you catch Rhea shaking her head as she takes over dinner preparations- Resigned to the fact that her phone is now in her Mother's hands until the woman sees it fit to let you get back to your business with her eldest.
"Rhea takes very good care of me, Mama Raj don't you worry about that."
She nods seriously in that way that a mother does when they're get the answer they want without detecting lies.
"Good, good. If she ever starts slipping up, you tell me. Okay? I'll set her straight."
You make out Rhea in the background, throwing her hands up in exasperation as she turns to the stove. You smile at the family dynamic, nodding at your honorary mother- You reassure her that you'd be snitching to her at the very second that your best friend starts acting out.
"The girls were nice in that explosive way that they always seem to be, and Lara seemed like she missed me so much."
You get a fond laugh for the description.
"They're always all over the room, those girls.. Do tell my baby tomorrow that her mother misses her very much, will you? We rarely get to see that girl these days."
"Mom, you call us both every day."
"It doesn't mean I don't miss you both everyday."
Rhea softens at her mother's words, crossing the kitchen to hug the older woman. A peaceful moment flows between the three of you, and you think that perhaps regaling them with a funny moment from that morning would lessen the feeling of Lara's absence from their household.
"I missed her a lot too, and I'm glad to see it's a mutual feeling. She jumped me the second I entered the practice room, Mama Raj!"
Kavita pulls away from the hug immediately, looking back to the phone screen with an absolutely blinding smile on her face.
"Really?! That seems a bit forward for my liking, but I say it's about time! Did you know that she like-"
The last thing you see before the call ends abruptly is Rhea throwing herself forward in the direction of the phone. You remain seated on the couch, confused for a few moments until the ping of a message chimes from your device.
Rhe-yasss: Soz, saw a cockroach on d wall.
N/N: In all our lives, you've never been brave enough to go kill one.
Rhe-yasss: Growth ain't linear babes. <3
N/N: Whatever, weirdo. Go tell Mama Raj that I love her, I gotta go sleep. Big day tomorrow!
Rhe-yasss: I hope d bed bugs get ur ass.
You turn the phone off with a roll of your eyes. Lara's the loud one, but Rhea's always been the weird one. You walk off to the shower, thinking nothing more of what just happened over at the Raj residence.
Manon's elbow gently digging into her side breaks Lara out of her daydream. There's a smile on the Swiss woman's face that she isn't entirely sure she likes being on the recieving end off.
"You gonna tell us about why you were looking at Y/N like she was the best thing since sliced bread?"
Everyone starts voicing their observations to each other, and Sophia is the first one to point an accusatory finger at her.
"You lept at the woman as soon as she came into the room!"
Daniela follows suit with a smug grin on her face, adding fuel to the Leader's fire.
"I'm pretty sure if Grant and Sohey weren't there, you would've kicked me away when I tried to drag you off of her. Like, full on Gabriela MV vibes."
Yoonchae nods sagely, looking dead serious as she sets her chopsticks down before staring into Lara's eyes.
"Unnie, I thought you lost your mind."
Megan sits silently in her spot, with narrowed eyes and a hand on her chin like she's strying to unravel the secrets of the world- With how Lara has always been secretive about what her exact type is and if there's anyone she currently likes, it's a description that's not too far off.
With her heart beating out of her chest, Lara prays inwardly that Megan has already forgotten details of their conversation on the night they first came out to one another.
Her eyes widen in alarm the moment she sees a lightbulb going off in the Chinese woman's head.
"Y/N's the one you've liked ever since you were a child!"
The dinner table falls to chaos at Megan's declaration. Everyone crowds around her to ask questions about the crush, about if she remembers why it started and when.
Through all of it, Lara sits still as she confidently declares that she will be sharing no information at all. Not even when Manon pulls out the begging doe eyes, Sophia pulls the kicked puppy look, and not even when Daniela resorts to full on begging for crumbs of info.
The air of nonchalance she tries her best to uphold amidst the questioning shatters like dropped glass when Yoonchae slams the palm of her hands on the table as she stands up.
"Operation Get Lara Her Girl is a go, people!"
"There will be no 'Operation' y'all!"
She hurries to pull Yoonchae back into her seat, but the damage has already been done and the rest of the girls are squawking like rabid seagulls around her.
"We have to invite Y/N to watch our practices!"
"Do you think we should lock them in a broom closet?"
"Can we please readjust the choreo distribution so that Lara can dance the sluttier moves?!"
Sophia shouts over the rabble with a clap of her hands, using her leader tone to deliver the announcement which has all the others nodding in determination before executing her command.
"Phase One: Pray For Lara's Nonexistent Rizz- Is a go!"
Lara sits mortified at the sight of her groupmates falling silent before joining hands, excluding her from the prayer circle. She lets her head drop into the palm of her hands with a groan.
A/N: Everyone, this will be the longest fic I've ever written and I'm so glad it's for Lara! Please let me know what you thought of Part 1 through the comments or the asks, I hope you like this as much as I loved writing it!
– Her charm symbolizes her ability to bring light, positivity, guidance and hope to her members and others even in the darkest of times.
– Some of her nicknames are “Mimi”, “Mims”, "Mimsy", "Mim", "Mimble", "Mimsa" and "Mimbela"
– She has a Maine Coon cat named Rouge and a ferrett named Noodle.
– Mia started competitive dance when she was 4yrs old. Her strongest dances styles are latin ballroom, contemporary, lyrical, ballet and hip hop.
– She is a fan of Blackpink and her bias/role model is Lisa. Mia also looks up to Billie Eilish and Reneé Rapp.
– Her favorite color is purple.
– She's part of the lgbtq+ community.
– Mia loves to draw and has an Instagram dedicated to her digital illustrations.
– She, Sophia and Yoonchae are all night owls.
– She cannot live without her headphones, her pets or her stuffed animals.
– If Mia could have any superpower, she would pick shapeshifting, specifically so she could turn into different animals on a whim like a wolf, panther or butterfly.
– In the next five years she envisions KATSEYE, selling out shows, touring, representing, inspiring & encouraging people all over the world and making music that make everyone but especially themselves happy & proud.
Dreams are easy to have, easy to think about, easy to fantasize about. Making them become real, that's the hard part but with the right people beside you, it all might just be worth it.
This is my Dream Academy/Katseye 7th Member fanfiction!! This story is gonna be with my oc Mia! but feel free to imagine it as an x reader if you'd like!
The idea is to write Mia's journey through Dream Academy and then afterwards during Katseye. I have no full structure as of right now just going with the flow as i write! Suggestions, Thoughts and Ideas all welcomed! (No guarantees/promises I'm gonna use any tho!)
- As of writing this Mia dosen't have a chosen S/O but it's between Daniela, Lara, Manon or Adéla.
* My first language is not English!! Sorry for any and all grammar or spelling mistakes!
Warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, anxiety mentions, possibly anxiety & panic attacks, verbal confrontations, mental health talks, harsh & strict practice environment, online haters, homesickness. -more warnings to be added, if needed, as the story continues-
Can i request a Vex'ahlia x fem!reader! Story pls!
After Vex died and was brought back when they went to get the deathwalkers ward reader is extra clingy and cautious with anything hurting Vex. At first Vex finds it cute but then starts getting irritated and suddenly snaps accidentally saying hurtful things to reader which then leads to reader confessing her feelings!! And it ends really fluffy and cute!!
Basically Just lots of angst, fluff and hurt/comfort with a happy ending pls!
Have a good Timezone! <3
Don’t Scare me Like that
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH I LOVE THIS IDEA!!!
I'm...not that good at writing but I’m thankful for the request.
I suck at checking over my works to proofread them. ATP I'm allergic to proofreading 🫠
But here it is, hope you enjoy it!🫶🏻
***
“Vex!”
Y/n holds onto her, nearly sobbing as Pike and Kesh try to revive Vex’ahlia. “Please, wake up, Vex…”
She holds Vex’s head in her lap, running her fingers through the half-elf’s hair, sobbing uncontrollably, before snapping at her dear friend Pike and at Kesh. “DO SOMETHING!”
Pike shakes her head, and Y/n just holds onto Vex’ahlia. “Please..please please wake up…I’m sorry…”
She whimpers, feeling useless. How can she learn so many spells, but not learn any healing spells gods dammit!
Y/n cries out, casting a simple shield spell as a reaction to defend the half-elf from incoming fire.
“Won’t…let you get hurt.” Y/n heaves for air, closing her eyes.
Despite being dexterous, she was nowhere near as good as Vex’ahlia.
She yelps, jumping back and casting a quick shocking grasp as she electrocutes an enemy, forgetting herself as she focuses on Vex’ahlia’s safety.
Neglecting her own.
She fights back, only to see an arrow between the enemy’s eyes.
She looks at Vex’ahlia, smiling softly.
After the enemies are all down, Y/n rushes to Vex. “Vex! You alright?”
“I’m fine, darling. You worry too much,” Vex’ahlia grins, smirking at Y/n, cupping her cheek, promising her that she’s alright, that nothing is wrong.
“Just…be more careful, Vex,” Y/n says softly, furrowing her brows and nodding her head. Vex’ahlia nods, but then frowns when Y/n walks away, clearly getting frustrated.
Ever since Vex’ahlia died, Y/n has been incredibly overprotective. So much so, that she is constantly getting reckless when it comes to her own safety, clearly favouring Vex’s safety.
It didn’t stop. It only became more and more evident with time.
They fight a small group of easy enemies? “Vex’ahlia! Are you alright?”
They fight some people in a bar? “VEX BE CAREFUL.”
They get too far and accidentally provoke a flytrap? “VEX!”
It’s getting…tiring. Everyone in the party knows why, of course, but it only gets worse. Nobody, however, dares to comment on it.
It’s just…felt.
“Vex’ahlia, you alright?” Y/n asks as they cross along a difficult path to the other side of the cliff. Vex huffs. “Yes, darling, I’m alright,” she replies with a fake, cheerful voice.
Now, Y/n is out and about, focusing on keeping camp safe, as the rest just remain silent. Vex has her brows furrowed at the fire that burns in front of her, feeling…frustrated? Irritated? She doesn’t know what anymore.
What she does know is that she hates feeling like a sheltered child of sorts, or anything like that.
Vex’ahlia glares at the floor, huffing, before she lets out a shaky breath.
“Sister…if something, or rather -someone- is bothering you, mayhaps you should speak with them, hm?”
“It’s nothing, I’m sure of it. They’re just…protective.” Vex huffs, but Vax’ildan just chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s not that good to keep it in, sister. Talk to her about it, get the things clear. She just really cares.”
“Doesn’t mean she should protect me like some sort of child,” Vex’ahlia scoffs. Vax only sighs in response, and nods his head.
*****
It was related to the newer dragons, barely reaching the end of the ice dragon from the demon, when Y/n runs over to check on Vex’ahlia.
“VEX! Are you ok?!” Y/n runs over, checking on Vex, touching her arm to fret over her, when Vex’ahlia snaps. “Won’t you cut it OUT!? Are you that insanely anxious that you think I can’t take care of myself? Are you that DAFT!? Leave me alone, for fuck’s sake! You’re like a fucking LEECH! You don’t let me breathe for even a SECOND!” Vex’ahlia screams.
Y/n pulls back, eyes wide in shock, stepping away as if burned, before she looks down at her feet, and with a shaky voice, she glares back at Vex.
“Well I’m sorry some of us are stupidly in love with you, Vex’ahlia!” She screams back, glaring through tears, before she realizes what she said.
Everyone freezes, watching what’s happening in front of them.
Y/n’s bottom lip trembles, her throat closing up, her eyes stinging with tears as she walks off, separating herself from the group temporarily.
Vex is…flabberghasted, to say the least.
A few days later, Y/n remains silent, pulling away from the group, refusing to interact with any of them as they travelled. The air is heavier, and everyone can feel the tension between Vex’ahlia and Y/n.
It hurts…
It especially hurts Vex’ahlia, as she doesn’t know how to act anymore.
One night, as Y/n stays awake as lookout, Vex’ahlia sits next to her. “Is this spot open?”
Y/n says nothing, but Vex sits down anyway.
“I…I didn’t mean any of those things, y’know. I regret saying them all…I am so sorry, and I should’ve said something earlier, darling. I am so sorry.”
When Y/n says nothing, Vex speaks softly. “How long have you been in love with me?”
“For the past five years. I started falling for you the second you saved me,” Y/n mumbles, pulling away, only for Vex to catch her hand. “No…please…just…let me speak, please? Just stay here…let me hold your hand…please, darling.”
Y/n sighs, sitting down again, feeling Vex twitch and scoot closer. “I shouldn’t have yelled like that…I am so sorry…I was just annoyed and tired because you were so overprotective-”
“You had just died in my arms, Vex’ahlia. Forgive me for reacting so violently protective around you,” Y/n grumbles, only for Vex to sigh. “Yes…but I’m a big girl, love. I can handle myself-”
“That’s what you said before you and Percy opened that damned stupid coffin that got you killed. Now Vax’ildan is forced to be the Raven Queen’s champion,” Y/n says angrily, only for Vex’ahlia to sigh.
“I…you’re right. I am sorry…”
Y/n sighs. “Don’t be…I shouldn’t have yelled. Stupid me for falling in love to the point every minor scratch makes me panic for you.”
Vex looks at Y/n, who is focusing on their surroundings, before pulling her in for a hungry, desperate kiss.
Against Y/n’s lips, Vex’ahlia whispers. “I’m sorry, love.”
Y/n looks at Vex’ahlia, her heart racing. She cups Vex’ahlia’s cheeks and pulls her in for a second kiss, before mumbling. “Never scare me like that again. Please…”
“I can’t promise that I won’t do it ever again…but I’ll try…” Vex whispers, as they hug each other closer, kissing again and again, before they snuggle up together.
