Late night carpooling turns into something neither of you can joke your way out of. Between shared glances, tangled hands, and a couch that feels too small, the tension finally gives in.
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𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒔 𝑪𝒖𝒕
The parking lot was half-empty, the kind of quiet that comes after everyone’s finally gone home and the day stops buzzing in your ears. Angela drove like she talked. quick, loose, a running commentary stitched together from observations and jokes that landed without trying too hard.
“You carried that bit today,” she said, eyes on the road. “I’m not saying you saved the video, so if it tanks, I’m blaming you personally.”
“Wow. Supportive.”
“I support you by keeping expectations realistic.”
She flashed a sideways grin, then reached to turn the music down when a song she didn’t like came on. The inside of the car felt warm, familiar. A space you’d slipped into enough times that it didn’t feel like borrowed air anymore.
“You hungry?” she asked. “I’m debating a drive-thru but also debating self-respect.”
“Those are mutually exclusive?”
“Completely.”
You laughed. Her smile lingered a second longer than the joke needed. Then she glanced away, drumming her fingers lightly against the wheel, energy shifting.
It wasn’t loud tonight. Not chaotic. Just tuned in.
“You were good today,” she said, softer now. “Like, not even joking. I kept looking over to see what you’d do next.”
“Same to you, I’m always doing that with you.”
She gave a tiny shrug. “That’s why I love the improv, we get to play off each other, not to the camera. You’re intentional. It’s cool to watch.”
The compliment landed heavier than her usual teasing. The car slowed at a red light, and she finally looked over properly. Not quick. Not passing. But clear.
Her hand bumped your knee when she shifted. Neither of you moved away.
The light turned green. Someone honked. She jolted forward with a quiet “my bad,” but her smile stuck, small and private.
When she pulled up outside your place, the engine idled, headlights washing the curb in pale gold. You reached for the door, then paused when she didn’t say the usual “text me when you’re inside.”
Instead, she leaned back in her seat, studying you like she was deciding whether to make a joke or something more real.
“Can I try something?” she asked.
You nodded.
Her hand slid off the steering wheel and hovered over the centre console for a second before settling, palm up. Casual, but not really.
You placed your hand in hers.
She exhaled through her nose, a tiny laugh escaping. “Okay. Cool. Just checking.”
“Checking what?”
“If I made that up in my head or not.”
Her thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow, absent, like she wasn’t thinking about it even though she definitely was. The joking energy faded, replaced by something steadier.
“You make it kind of hard to be normal around you,” she said.
“You’re never normal.”
“Exactly. This is me trying.”
You shifted closer, drawn in by the warmth of her hand, the way her voice dropped when she wasn’t performing for anyone else.
Her eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. A beat passed. Then another.
“You good?” she murmured.
Instead of answering, you leaned in.
The kiss started tentative, like both of you were half-expecting to laugh and break the tension. But when you didn’t pull away, when her hand tightened around yours and her other came up to your jaw, it deepened, slow and grounding.
She smiled into it for a second, because of course she did, then settled, focus sharpening.
When you finally pulled back, the air between you felt charged.
Angela rested her forehead against yours, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah… okay. Wow.”
You huffed a soft laugh.
Her grin returned, softer now, less performative. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while. Just didn’t want to make things weird.”
“You didn’t.”
“Give me time,” she said lightly, then squeezed your hand. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
She pulled back, searching your face, checking. When you didn’t move away, didn’t let go, something in her shoulders relaxed.
“So,” she said, tone easing back into that natural, smooth humour, “I could drive off and be normal about this… or I could invite you to hang a little longer and pretend this was always the plan.”
You smiled. “Which one are you hoping for?”
“Second one,” she admitted, no hesitation.
You hesitated with your hand on the door handle, then glanced back at her.
“…Do you want to come in?” you asked. “I have snacks and movies we can watch.”
Angela blinked, like she hadn’t expected the offer to land so fast. Then her mouth tipped into a grin. “Snacks and bad movies? That sounds perfect.”
You opened the door, and the cool night air rushed in as she cut the engine and followed you up the path.
Inside, your place felt softer than the world outside. Lamps instead of overhead lights, a blanket tossed over the couch, the faint smell of something sweet lingering from earlier. Angela paused just past the doorway, taking it in like she was scanning a set.
“Okay,” she said, toeing off her shoes. “This is so cute. It’s so you.”
“Thanks, Ange.”
“Some people live in chaos, and you weren’t even expecting me to be here.”
You laughed, heading toward the kitchen. “Popcorn or chips?”
“Both. I need options.”
She wandered after you, leaning against the counter while you grabbed snacks, close enough that you could feel her presence even when she wasn’t touching you. The space felt smaller with her in it. Warmer.
“You pick the movie,” she said. “But if it’s emotionally devastating, I’m leaving.”
“Noted.”
You settled on the couch, a careful distance between you at first. Movie playing, bowl of snacks balanced between you, the low hum of dialogue filling the quiet.
It didn’t take long before the distance started shrinking.
Angela shifted, tucking one leg under herself. Her knee brushed yours. Stayed there.
A few minutes later, she leaned back, arm stretching along the back of the couch, not quite around you, but close enough that if you leaned in a little, it would be.
You felt the tension build in small, quiet increments. Every shared glance when a joke landed. Every accidental touch when reaching for popcorn. The awareness of her beside you, warm, real, close.
“Are you actually watching this?” she murmured at one point.
“Barely.”
“Same.”
Silence again, thicker now. Charged.
You shifted, pulling the blanket over your lap. Then, after a second’s hesitation, you nudged it toward her, too. “Cold?”
She didn’t comment on the invitation, just slid closer, letting the blanket drape over both of you.
Your shoulders touched. Then stayed.
Angela’s voice dropped, softer than it had been all night. “You’re very easy to sit next to. Just so you know.”
Your heart thudded. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Dangerously easy.”
You turned slightly, close enough to see the way her expression had softened again, that smooth steadiness replacing her usual playful edge.
Her hand rested on the cushion between you, fingers tapping lightly, like she was deciding whether to close the distance.
“You can, you know,” you said quietly.
“Can what?”
You glanced at her arm along the back of the couch, then back to her face.
Understanding flickered instantly. A small smile tugged at her mouth, less teasing this time.
“Right,” she said. “Cool.”
Her arm slid around your shoulders, tentative for half a second before settling. You leaned into her automatically, head brushing her shoulder, her hand warm against your upper arm.
The movie kept playing, forgotten.
Angela exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding that breath all night.
Her arm settled more securely around your shoulders, hand warm against your upper arm, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes that felt anything but absent. The movie kept playing in front of you, voices and music blurring into background noise.
You leaned further into her without thinking, your head resting more fully against her shoulder, your body angling toward hers under the blanket.
She didn’t joke. Didn’t move away. Her fingers tightened slightly where they held you, like the closeness had clicked into place for her too.
“Yeah,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This is nice.”
Nice felt like an understatement. The air felt thicker, charged, every shift of fabric and breath suddenly noticeable.
Your hand rested on the couch beside you at first, close to her leg. You could feel the heat from her through the blanket, the subtle tension in her posture, like she was hyper-aware of every point where you touched.
You hesitated.
Then you let your hand slide a little further, fingertips brushing her thigh.
Angela went still.
Not pulling away. Not startled. Just aware. Her breath hitched, quiet but unmistakable, and the arm around your shoulders tightened instinctively, grounding.
You kept your hand there, palm resting lightly now, testing, giving her space to stop you if she wanted.
She didn’t.
Instead, her fingers flexed against your arm, and she shifted just slightly toward you, a small movement that pressed your bodies closer under the blanket.
The reaction shot straight through you.
Her voice, when it came, was softer than you’d ever heard it. “You’re really not helping me stay normal tonight.”
You swallowed. “You don’t have to.”
A beat. Then another.
Your thumb traced a slow, tentative line along her thigh, feeling the way her muscles tensed under your touch. She sucked in a breath, the sound low, almost surprised, and her head tipped forward until her temple rested lightly against yours.
The playful edge was gone now. Not replaced by awkwardness, but by something warmer. Focused.
Her hand slid from your arm to your side, fingers curling lightly at your waist, like she needed somewhere to hold on.
“Okay,” she murmured, voice rougher now. “Yeah. That’s– doing something.”
You turned your head toward her, close enough that your noses nearly brushed.
“Good or bad?”
Her lips curved, small and breathless. “Very good. Bad if you wanted me to concentrate on literally anything else.”
The tension between you sharpened, no longer quiet background static. It hummed. Every point of contact felt amplified. Your hand still resting on her thigh, her fingers at your waist, your bodies angled into each other beneath the blanket.
You leaned in first.
The kiss landed deeper, less tentative than the one in the car, her mouth warm and immediate against yours. She responded instantly, hand tightening at your side as she pulled you closer, like the last bit of restraint had finally slipped.
A soft sound left her when your thumb pressed a little more firmly into her thigh, and she shifted beneath your touch, knee nudging between yours, closing the space.
The movie played on, completely forgotten.
Angela pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours again, both of you a little unsteady now.
Angela’s need to breathe quickly faded before she kissed you again.
Her hand slid from your waist to your back, pulling you closer as your fingers tightened against her thigh. The kiss deepened, slower but more certain, the kind that made the rest of the room fall away.
You shifted instinctively toward her, and she responded just as fast, turning slightly so she could face you fully. The blanket tangled around your legs, the bowl of snacks long forgotten somewhere near the armrest.
Her knee nudged between yours. Her hand moved up your side, warm and steady, like she was mapping the space, grounding herself in the reality of you.
You let yourself lean back a little, breath catching when she followed without hesitation.
Angela paused just long enough to search your face, eyes flicking between yours, checking. Then she moved again, one hand braced beside you on the couch as she gently guided you down onto the cushions.
It wasn’t rushed. Not overpowering. Just a smooth shift, natural, like gravity had decided this was where you both were meant to land.
Now you were lying back against the couch, Angela half over you, one leg hooked beside yours, her weight careful, supported by one arm while the other stayed at your waist.
Her hair fell forward, brushing your cheek. She smiled, a little breathless, a little stunned by herself.
“Hi,” she murmured, like she’d just realised the position you were in.
You laughed softly, hands finding her sides. “Hi.”
Then she kissed you again.
The angle changed everything. Closer. Deeper. Her body warm against yours, the press of her thigh, the subtle shift of her breathing every time you touched her.
Your hands slid up her back, and she shivered slightly at the contact, a quiet reaction she didn’t try to hide. Her fingers tightened at your waist in response, pulling you up into her just a little.
The tension between you wasn’t sharp anymore. It was heavy, warm, and building rapidly.
Angela broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours, noses brushing.
“You’re… really distracting,” she murmured.
“You’re the one on top of me.”
“Yeah,” she said, a soft grin in her voice. “I noticed.”
She didn’t move away.
Instead, she dipped back down, kissing you slower this time, savouring it, her hand sliding from your waist to your hip, thumb brushing lightly there. Every small movement sent a ripple through both of you, your reactions syncing without effort.
You felt her shift slightly above you, settling more comfortably, and the closeness made your pulse jump. She exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound warm, unguarded.
For a second, neither of you kissed. You just stayed there, breathing the same air, bodies lined up, the tension thick and unmistakable.
Angela’s gaze softened, something earnest threading through it.
“Still good?” she asked quietly.
You nodded, fingers curling gently at her side.
“Very.”
Her smile returned, smaller now, but deeper. Then she leaned in again, kissing you like she meant it.
Your hands tightened at her sides, and you pulled her closer, closing the last bit of space between you. Angela reacted instantly, a soft sound catching in her throat as her body settled fully against yours, warmth pressing through every point of contact.
The shift changed the rhythm between you. Slower breathing turned uneven. Every small movement felt amplified, charged.
A quiet exhale left her, warm against your mouth.
“Okay,” she murmured, voice rougher now, a little unsteady. “This is not how I thought the night would go...”
But she didn’t pull away.
If anything, she stayed right there, pressed close, her hand gripping lightly at your side as though grounding herself. The tension between you swelled, thick and electric, every breath shared, every shift sending heat up your spine.
You tilted your head, kissing along her jaw, slower now, feeling the way she reacted, the way her breathing hitched, the way her fingers flexed where they held you.
Her response wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Soft sounds, half-breaths, the kind she didn’t seem to realise she was making.
She shifted again, settling more comfortably over you, and the closeness drew another quiet reaction from both of you. The room felt smaller, the air warmer, the movie long forgotten behind you.
Angela pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes darker now, focused, but still so unmistakably her.
“You’re dangerous,” she said softly, a faint smile threading through the tension. “I’m trying to keep it together, and you’re making that extremely difficult.”
Your thumb brushed along her side, gentle, reassuring.
“I don’t want you to try keeping it together,” you said.
“Mmm,” she breathed against your lips, her hips making a deliberate circle that pressed her core directly against yours. “Oh, you want to get closer, huh?”
“Try me,” you whispered, a thrill shooting through you.
“Okay.” Her voice was a low hum. She leaned into the kiss, her body swaying above you, the friction building with every subtle movement. A soft moan escaped her, swallowed by your mouth. Her hand slid from your side, tracing a path down your hip, then resting pointedly on the button of your jeans.
You didn’t hesitate. Your own hand found the zipper of her jeans, the unzipping breaking the quiet. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “Impatient, huh?”
“You started it,” you returned, your fingers slipping under the waistband, past the soft cotton of her underwear. Her entire body went rigid for a second, then melted into you.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, her hips rocking again, pressing her clit directly against your exploring fingers. “Fuck. Yes. Right there.”
You stroked her gently, testing the waters, and she bucked into your touch, a low, guttural moan vibrating through her chest. “You like that, baby?” you murmured against her neck.
“Mmm. So much. Oh, fuck.” Her breath hitched, ragged and fast. “You’re gonna make me cum already–”
“Is that a problem?”
“No–but I just–.” Suddenly, she stopped, pulling back just enough to break contact, her eyes wide, glistening with an almost frantic energy. “Wait. Hold on.”
You looked up, confused, your hand still buried in her warmth.
“Wait,” she said, her voice rough, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Not yet. Not like this.” She shifted, her weight easing off you as she sat up, quickly undoing your belt. “I wanna make you lose your mind first.”
Before you could fully process her words, she was pulling down your jeans, then your underwear, in a swift motion. The cool air hit your skin, then the warmth of her hand, guiding your legs apart. You gasped, utterly captivated as she knelt before you on the couch, her gaze focused on your wetness.
“You’re so wet already,” she hummed, her breath warm against your inner thigh. Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flickered up to meet yours. “You’re so, so beautiful.”
You gasped, a sudden flush spreading through you, your hips instinctively arching. “Angela…”
“Don’t think, just feel me.” Her fingers, cool and light, traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers up your spine. “You’re trembling already. I haven’t even started yet.” She leaned in, her warm breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin.
Her tongue flicked out, a soft, teasing lick against your delicate folds, not quite on your clit, but close enough to send a jolt through your entire body. You whimpered, your fingers clenching the couch cushion. “Oh, god.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. “You’re so sweet.” She began a slow, deliberate circling, her tongue a velvet ribbon tracing around your aching clit, the gentle pressure building, a delicious torment.
You couldn’t help but writhe, your hips lifting, desperate for direct contact. “Angela, please…”
She chuckled, a soft sound. “Please what, baby? Tell me what you want. Tell me what I should do.” Her breath was hot against you, a rhythmic huff as she worked.
Your fingers tangled in her short hair, trying to pull her in as close as possible, “Please–I need you, please–”
Then, finally, she centred, her tongue pressing down, firm and steady, against your clit. A gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the couch. “Ah! Oh, fuck–”
“Mmm,” she murmured, her breath hot, her tongue a relentless, perfect rhythm. “You’re soaking for me, aren’t you? Just dripping.” She worked you with exquisite precision, every movement designed to push you further to the edge, then pull you back, only to push you over again.
You could feel the blood rushing, a frantic thrumming between your legs, your entire body clenching in anticipation. Your toes curled, your muscles tensed, a low moan escaping your lips with every stroke. “Oh, yes, Angela, I can’t– I can’t take this.”
“Yes, you can,” she countered, her voice firm, a hint of dominance beneath the sensuality. “You can take all of it.” She picked up the pace, her tongue a blurring sensation, the pressure building, building, a tight knot forming deep inside you.
“I’m so close. Oh, God, Angela, I’m gonna–” You arched into her, your hips lifting, desperate to meet her mouth, your vision blurring. A choked cry escaped your lips as the wave hit, washing over you in a rush of pure pleasure. “Oh, fuck–” You bucked against her, your body shuddering, your hands still tangled in her hair, holding her in place as wave after wave crashed through you.
She didn’t stop until your body had finished its tremors, until you were breathless. She finally pulled back, her lips glistening, a smear of your essence on her chin. She looked up at you, a satisfied smile on her lips.
“Mmm. You’re so good,” she purred, her voice husky, a soft laugh bubbling up from deep in her chest. “Absolutely delicious. So, so good.” She leaned forward, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your inner thigh, her gaze never leaving yours. “Worth every single drop.”
She pushed herself up from her knees, her eyes never breaking contact with yours as she climbed back up to you, straddling your hips. Her weight settled on you, warm and familiar.
She leaned down, her hair falling around your face like a soft curtain, and kissed you. Not the hungry, desperate kisses from before, but a soft brush of her lips against yours.
Your hands, still tingling from your climax, instinctively found their way to her hips, then slid down, tracing the curve of her ass, until your fingers brushed against the denim of her jeans, still unzipped.
You hesitated for a moment, then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you dipped your fingers into the opening until your fingertips brushed against the slick warmth of her wetness.
Angela’s breath hitched, a sharp, sudden intake of air. Her soft kisses stopped, replaced by a low, guttural moan that vibrated against your mouth. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes wide and dark
“You wanna play, huh?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
You just nodded, your fingers finding her soft, swollen folds, gently teasing, circling the sensitive bud. “Ride me, Ange,” you murmured, your voice rough with need. “Ride my fingers. Show me how much you want it.”
A shudder ran through her entire body. “Oh, wow,” she breathed, her hips already beginning to twitch, an involuntary response to your touch. Her hands braced on your chest, her knuckles white. “You really know how to get to me, don’t you?”
“Show me,” you urged, your fingers pressing a little firmer, a gentle but insistent rhythm starting to build.
She closed her eyes, a low groan escaping her lips. “Okay. Okay, you asked for it.” Slowly at first, she began to move, a soft, deliberate grind, her clit pressing directly against your fingers.
Her movements grew bolder, a slow, sensual rock against your hand, her hips rotating, seeking out the perfect pressure, the exact spot that sent shivers through her. “That’s it,” she whimpered, her head tilting back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. “Yes– right there. Harder”
You obliged, curling your fingers slightly, letting her feel the full pressure of your touch. She gasped, a sharp, needy sound as her hips began to pick up speed, a frantic, almost desperate rhythm. “You’re so good at this,” she panted, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “I’m gonna lose it, I swear.”
Her body was starting to tremble, a layer of sweat breaking out on her forehead. The soft moans turned into louder, more guttural sounds as she slammed her hips down, grinding against your fingers with an almost violent intensity. “Fuck–yes–, I need this. I need you.”
Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted in a silent scream. She was no longer moving with any semblance of control but driven by instinct. She continued to thump against your fingers, her entire body shaking with the effort.
“God, yes–harder!” she cried out, her voice cracking, her hips a blur of motion. She arched her back, her muscles coiling and releasing, her clit swollen and throbbing under your touch. “I’m so close– Oh, fuck, I’m gonna… I’m gonna–”
Her breath hitched, continuing to buck, her body convulsing above you, a series of sharp, violent thrusts that had her crying out. Her hips pressed down, grinding against your fingers with an almost painful intensity, as she rode the wave, her climax shattering around her, leaving her panting.
She collapsed against you, her head falling onto your shoulder, her body still trembling, damp with sweat. “Oh, my god,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You… How do you do that so well?”
Angela stayed draped over you, both of you breathing hard, her heartbeat still racing where her chest pressed against yours. The room felt hushed, the kind of quiet that comes after a storm finally rolls past.
You smoothed a hand up her back, slow and grounding, letting your touch say what words couldn’t quite reach yet.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured.
She let out a shaky laugh into your shoulder, half-buried against you. “Good. Because I think my soul left my body for a second.”
You huffed softly, fingers still tracing gentle patterns along her spine. Her body gradually softened, the tension melting out of her muscles as her breathing evened.
For a minute, neither of you moved. Just warmth. Skin, breath, the blanket tangled around your legs, the movie still flickering quietly in the background like it belonged somewhere else.
Then Angela shifted slightly, propping herself up just enough to look at you. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
“Hey,” she said, voice rough but fond. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “You?”
“Very much. Just… recalibrating.”
She leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, nothing urgent this time. Just closeness.
Your hands slid to her waist, then lower, gentle, giving her space, checking in with every movement. When you began easing her jeans down the rest of the way, she lifted her hips automatically to help, no hesitation, no tension. The moment felt unhurried, practical in that quiet, intimate way that comes after everything else.
Once they were off, you tugged the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around her hips, around your legs, sealing the warmth in.
Angela exhaled, sinking down beside you instead of over you this time, turning onto her side so she could face you properly. One arm slipped around your middle, pulling you in until you were chest to chest, knees brushing under the blanket.
“This is my favourite part,” she murmured.
You smiled, brushing a stray piece of hair from her forehead. “Cuddling?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
You laughed quietly. “Your secret’s safe.”
She hummed, satisfied, then tucked her head under your chin, fitting there like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your side, grounding both of you.
The energy between you had shifted completely. No more urgency. Just warmth, softness, the quiet glow that lingers after everything settles.
After a moment, she spoke again, voice softer.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Really good.”
She nodded against you. “Same. Just wanted to check.”
You squeezed her gently, and she squeezed back, a silent exchange that said more than either of you could put into words.
The movie kept playing, unnoticed. Outside, the night pressed against the windows. Inside, you stayed tangled together under the blanket, her breathing steady against your chest, her hand still resting warm at your side, both of you drifting in that calm, glowing quiet that felt like the safest place in the world.
hi smoshblr i’ve been lurking in the shadows and drafting fics but iiii am bored an want to just open x reader requests so send them my way!
i primarily write for angela but if you have a concept for somebody else that speaks to me i’ll see what i can cook up 😛
also i am a lesbian. i can and do write for men in other fandoms but for smosh i fear i’ll be deeply picky. there are enough spencer fic writers in the world, dont worry ♥️
[i will also take requests for grace chasity and lex foster from npmd and blqck friday ^_^]
⋆.˚˖࿔ pairing | ot6 x 7thmember!reader ༉‧₊˚.
synopsis | when your members find out you don't think its possible for you to come during sex (thanks to your lackluster ex), they set out on a mission to prove to you that not only is it possible, but there's many different ways to do so.
details | nsfw (MINORS DNI), pure smut, piwon as varying degrees of dominant (from softdom!jongseob to meandom!theo), reader is quite inexperienced, dry humping, oral (f. rec), thigh fucking, fingering, voyeurism, exhibitionism, squirting, mutual masturbation, voice kink, edging, overstimulation, punishment (not for reader), light dom/sub dynamics, power dynamics, f/m/m, f/m/m/m, time constraints, light humiliation, rough sex, creampie, throat-fucking, choking, orgasm denial, fluff (more probably)
⟡ length | 21k ⟡
𓆩⟡𓆪 note || well this was quite overwhelming to write and it is quite the ride ¬‿¬ the "plot" of this is barely a plot but the smut is smutting || also, can’t believe it’s been one month of this blog already!! thank you sm for 450 followers you all are so appreciated <3 now enjoy the pure filth as a gift (apologies in advance for any typos that might have still made it through, i physically cannot proofread this any more)
READ PART 2 HERE
“Wait, he’s never made you cum before?”
Your chopsticks freeze halfway up to your mouth that’s hung open awkwardly as you process the words that have just come out of Intak’s mouth. You look up from your bowl of noodles to see six pairs of eyes staring at you in varying levels of shock.
There’s a pause, and when no one moves to take this conversation in any other direction, you put down your chopsticks and close your mouth, clearing your throat as an embarrassed heat flushes high on your cheeks.
“Well, no,” you admit awkwardly. “I mean— yes. I have. By myself, I mean, just not by my ex or anyone else.”
You’re not sure how the conversation had diverged to you. One minute you were all talking over one of those reality dating shows Keeho had put on for everyone to watch over dinner (a strange choice, but whatever), then somehow the topic had shifted to first times and whether they were successful at bringing their partners to completion (this discussion was mainly between Theo, Keeho, and Intak), then someone was mentioning your name and asking you something you don’t remember, and you’d just made a throwaway comment about how, “He never did it for me anyway so this discussion is pointless to me,” to get them off your back (you were more focused on scarfing down your noodles), and now here you are.
“Wait,” Intak speaks again, blinking like his brain just couldn’t compute this piece of information. “So the guy that you were in a relationship with for two years,” he starts, then pauses to look at you, as if trying to make sure you were understanding the gravity of the situation, then continues, “has never made you come? Not once?”
You shake your head, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. It’s a little embarrassing, sure, but isn’t it normal for most women to not finish during sex?
“Not ever?” Keeho asks this time, his brows pulled up behind his fringe. “What about anyone you’ve ever been with. Ever.”
You drop your chopsticks into your bowl with a clatter. “No,” you say firmly. “Why is that so surprising?”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” Theo states easily, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed.
You shrug. “I don’t see what the big deal is. Isn’t it normal to just fake it and move on?”
Intak makes a noise like he’s been severely offended. “No!” He cries. “I always make sure she comes. Always.”
You scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. The quiet ones, Jiung, Soul, and Jongseob, are still watching you like hawks, and you can tell from their eyes that they’re in accordance with the other three.
“There’s no way,” you say. You’ve been through the motions of sex before. It’s wildly uncomfortable, too slippery, and too rushed. “You’re telling me you can all make your girls’ finish?”
There’s a chorus of agreements from all of them, some more enthusiastic than others.
You blink, taken aback at the unity. “…Every time?”
Another round of assent and you’re left with the thought that maybe something’s just wrong with you.
“Maybe I just don’t like sex then,” you conclude, your brows pinching as you think back to the handful of times you’ve given yourself up to your ex partner and only come out of it regretful.
“That could be true.”
All eyes turn to Jiung, who’s sitting on the single chair leaned back casually, looking straight at you with a clinical eye that leaves you feeling a little too exposed. You squirm in your seat on the carpeted floor, grateful for the refuge in the slight coverage the coffee table provides you.
“But,” Jiung continues. “We’ve met the guy you were with. He didn’t exactly ooze generosity.”
“That’s true.” Jongseob’s voice pulls your eyes to where he’s sitting right across the table from you, hands braced on the floor behind him as he leans back. His eyes are calculating in their own way as they weigh on you. “If your experience was with him then I wouldn’t be too surprised.”
You fidget with your hands in your lap as your eyes flit over your members. “Well,” you start, then stop, mulling over your words for a moment. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me then.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” You almost flinch at Soul’s voice, sharper than you’re used to from him. He’s on the floor to your right, peering at you with wide, wondering eyes. “You said you’ve just never orgasmed with him, right? You can finish when it’s just yourself?”
You fluster at his blunt words but nod. “Yeah.”
“So it’s not like you can’t come or anything like that,” Keeho chimes in from the couch behind Jongseob. “Your ex just didn’t know how to treat you right.”
You pout, feeling a little affronted. “Hey, he wasn’t a bad person.”
“Bad in bed though,” Theo adds with a snicker.
You roll your eyes at him, picking up your chopsticks to have something to do with your hands. “I just can’t imagine coming from sex. It’s so… uncomfortable. Invasive.”
“Oh honey,” Keeho says, tone sympathetic. “He really didn’t know how to treat you right then. It doesn’t have to be invasive either. There’s so many more ways to come than just penetration.”
You stare at him, your brows climbing up your forehead. “There… is?” You knew of a couple methods but the way he says it makes you feel like you were missing out on a lot more than you thought.
Intak makes a noise like he’s just been punched by the words. “You don’t know?” He asks, like he’s truly horrified by your lack of knowledge. Then he looks at Theo beside him and rattles him by the arm. “Hyung, she doesn’t know!”
Theo shoves him off with a hand on his forehead. “Relax.” Then he turns back to you and his next words throw your brain into the void. “We could show you.”
There’s a palpable silence as those words hang in the air, leaving behind something heavy lingering in its wake.
“Taeyang,” Jiung scolds, turning to Theo with sharp eyes. “You can’t just spring something like that on her.”
“No, wait,” you find yourself saying. As daunting as whatever Theo has in mind seems, you can’t help but be curious. “I’m interested. Hypothetically.”
You can see everyone exchange looks, a weave of silent conversations that you ignore in favour of just looking at Theo, who holds your gaze back with a knowing smirk on his lips. He doesn’t say more though; he waits for you to steer the conversation.
“What—“ You start then stop again, clearing your throat when everyone’s eyes fall back to you. “Hypothetically, what would something like that entail?”
Theo leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his smirk pulling wider. “Hypothetically,” he starts, a little teasing, and you falter under his stare. “We would each show you a different way to make you come. Prove to you all the ways that you can finish during sex and that you were missing out on with your ex.”
You blink at him as the words process. The thought of them showing you makes something crawl under your skin, something you’re not able to name. Your eyes flit over all them, all of them who are watching you carefully. “There’s six of you though.”
Theo raises a brow. “Yes?”
“You’re saying there’s six different ways?” You ask, trying to wrack your brain for all the other ways your ex has tried besides penetration and outer stimulation (which was more just poking around than anything). You’re not very adventurous on yourself either, so you come up empty. “Hypothetically,” you tack on as an afterthought.
“Well, hypothetically, we could keep that a secret until we get to show you.” Theo’s smirk is inching towards something more dangerous, something that makes your heart stutter. “Hypothetically,” he continues, tilting his head at you, “would you like us to show you?”
And suddenly, this doesn’t feel very hypothetical anymore. You can see it in the way they’re all just waiting for you to either take them up on this ‘hypothetical’ or put them out of their misery and brush off the conversation.
You think about it. Really think about it. You can’t deny the way all this talk has your body prickling with curiosity and heated anticipation at the thought of them showing you, whatever that might be.
You glance between them, your close friends of the past six years, the people you’ve practically grown up with, the ones you not only work with but call your own. Intak is leaned forward in morbid curiosity and hanging onto your every word, Jongseob is feigning nonchalance but you can see the faint blush on his cheeks, Keeho watches you with a heat that he doesn’t even bother to hide, Soul is more curious and earnest than anything, Jiung— though calm on the outside— looks like he’s ready to devour you with just his eyes, and Theo is an enigma you’re too scared to even try to decode. You can tell they’re all waiting for the word, whichever it may be. But you don’t feel scared by their anticipation despite the daunting way their gazes settle on you. You’re surprised to feel something pulling at your gut, something wanting and present.
But above all, you trust them with everything. You can trust them with something like this.
So with a shaky breath, you nod. “Yes.”
It’s like the scene in front of you pauses on a reel. No one breathes.
“Just hypothetically?” Theo asks you slowly.
“No,” you answer without hesitation. “Not just hypothetically.”
There’s a few sharp exhales like breaths that have been held in for too long, someone mutters a low curse from somewhere on your right, and the air shifts again into something heated with anticipation.
“Only if everyone is okay with it,” you add, because you don’t want to pull anyone into anything they don’t want just for your sake.
“Are you kidding me?” Intak scoffs, a boyish grin pulling on his face. “I may or may not have thought about this already before.”
Jiung reaches over Theo to smack Intak over his lack of decorum.
“It’s fine,” you say, a small, awkward smile pulling on your lips. You’re taken aback by Intak’s sudden confession, but it doesn’t deter you. It makes you even more curious to see just what he’s wanted with you. “I’m, uh, looking forward to what you guys have to show me. But I’m still not sure I believe that you guys can make me… you know.”
Jongseob smiles at you, leaning forward to lean his elbows on the coffee table. “Let us worry about that, okay?” His voice is lower, a little huskier, and it already has you a little flustered.
“Cute,” you hear Soul mumble under his breath from your right and you glance at him to see he’s staring at the flush on your cheeks.
You clear your throat, sitting up straight to regain some semblance of control over your body. “How do we do this?”
“We’ll make a list of what we’re going to do to you,” Keeho starts, making sure to let the words linger for a little just to see you squirm. “And then we’ll pick what we’re each best at so you can get the best of the best.” He glances around the room to gauge opinions. “Sounds good?”
Everyone agrees with more enthusiasm than you’re prepared for and you feel your heart start to thunder in your chest. Not from fear, but from excitement. If what they say is true, and they can get you to come without fail, you’re in for a night that could make up for all the mediocre sex in your life and open your eyes to things you might not even be aware of.
“That’s that then,” Jiung says as he pulls himself up to his feet and walks over to your direction. Your heart jolts as he leans down to pick up your bowl of abandoned noodles, and you feel a little ridiculous that you’re already so affected. Jiung’s eyes flicker over your face that’s a few inches from his, and the corner of his lips tick up for a split second. “Why don’t you wait for us in your room? We’ll figure everything else out.” His deep voice is hushed in a cadence that you can almost feel brush over your skin and leave goose flesh in its wake.
“Sure,” you say, cheeks heating when your voice cracks halfway.
You scamper up to your feet to evade his amused chuckle and rush towards the stairs leading up to your bedroom.
Theo’s hand comes out to catch your arm before you can move past them, pulling you back. He’s standing now, looking down at you with a serious pinch of his brows. “Hey.” His voice is quieter, only for you to hear. “You’re really okay with this? It might be a lot for you to handle.”
You feel whatever nerves thrumming under your skin ease away at his concern. “I’m sure,” you say with a smile, squeezing his hand over your arm. “I trust you. I trust all of you.”
That eases the tension out of his shoulders and his frown melts into a smile. “Good,” he says, then his eyes flash into something darker and his smile appears sharper than it was a second. “Now go get yourself ready.” He leans in and breathes the next words practically on your lips. “And I promise you, you’re not leaving that room until you’ve come six times. And if the others fail, I’ll step in and make it up for them.”
You swallow, feeling the words sink to the base of your gut and fill it with fire. If just a few words can already push you towards ruin so quickly, you’re not sure what’ll happen when they actually get their hands on you.
𓆩⟡𓆪
You’re not sure how long you’ve been waiting with your heart in your throat and your limbs feeling like livewire. You sit at the head of your bed, back pressed to the headboard and knees pulled up to your chest.
You’re starting to wonder with each passing second just what you’ve signed up for. The nervous excitement is still there, of course, at the prospect of possibly being properly pleasured by someone else’s hand other than yours for a change but you have no idea what to expect. Your experience with sex didn’t measure up even a fraction to what you’d built up in your head and you just can’t imagine how your boys are possibly going to mend that disappointment.
But they seemed eager to show you otherwise, all of them. And you trust they’ll do well on their word even despite your lingering doubts.
So you take grounding breaths as you wait, sat comfy in a pair of sweats and a simple tee, until the handle to your door twists.
The door opens a fraction and Intak’s wide eyes peer in. “Can I come in?”
Your shoulders ease when you see that it’s just him and you wave him in with your hand. “Just you?” You ask, hoping only you can hear the waver in your voice.
“Just me,” he confirms, shutting the door behind him and making his way over to stand by the foot of the bed. “We decided on it just being a one on one thing. We didn’t want to overwhelm you with too much.”
You don’t even realize that was something you were worried about until you feel your chest loosen at the knowledge. “Oh,” you say with a grateful smile. “That’s good, actually. Thanks.”
He smiles back, soft and sweet. “Of course. This is supposed to be all about you. We wanna make sure you’re feeling good and not stressed out.” He tilts his head at you, a habit of his that you’ve always been endeared by. “How are you feeling?”
You bite down on your lip as you try to figure out how to put your feelings into words. “Fidgety? Nervous but… excited? I don’t really know what to expect, so I don’t know what to feel,” you admit sheepishly, then sit up straight with a sudden realization. “Wait, should I have changed into something prettier or…?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, don’t worry about any of that. Keeping our clothes on will be just fine for this first… session, if that’s what we’re calling it.”
Your stomach flips when you realize that things are about to start and that Intak is here to be the first one to go. “Ah,” you say in realization, then frown. “Wait, clothes on?”
His sweet smile makes way to a smug smirk as he knees onto your bed and climbs on, settling to sit on his feet in front of you. “Yes,” he says, and you’re starting to realize how real everything is becoming with him sitting right in front of you. “Unless you wanted to see me with them off,” he adds with a cocky little grin.
You scoff at his flirty antics, something you’re all too familiar with. And the familiarity of it eases you down, surely something he’d meant for as he places a comforting hand on your ankle, rubbing slow circles there with his thumb.
“I didn’t make the rules,” you point out, feeling your body slowly settle under the small, soothing touch. “I don’t think I have any power here to decide.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he purrs, then wraps the span of his hand around your ankle. “You have all the power here. We’re just here as vessels for your pleasure.”
Your brows raise as you bite down on your lip to smother your laugh. “That sounds awfully serious coming from you, Takki.”
But there’s no joke in the way Intak stares at you. Without warning, he yanks you forward by your ankle, pulling you flat on your back as he climbs over you, ignoring your yelp of surprise. He settles between your legs without delay and braces his hands on the bed on either side of your chest. He hovers over you, peering down at you with an intensity to his eyes you’ve seen him with only when it comes to figuring out complicated choreography.
“It is serious,” he tells you, low and smooth, and before you can respond his lips are on yours.
The kiss is slow and steady, more careful than you’d expect from Intak. But you find yourself melting into it with a soft sigh, your arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him down.
He settles down on his elbows as he presses deeper into the kiss, his body lowering down against yours. And that’s when you can feel it, the solid outline of his growing erection pressing against your thigh.
The weight of it against you shoots heat right to your core and makes you falter into the kiss. Curious, you push your leg up to press against the bulge and it gets a grunt out of his lips against yours.
He lifts up from the kiss, his pupils blown wide as he looks down at you with furrowed brows. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve thought about this before. Been wanting to do this for a long time now,” he says, his voice rough with desire.
He shifts his hips to line his erection right over you then presses firmly down, making you gasp at the pressure against your already throbbing core.
“You have?” You ask breathily when his words process. You roll your hips up to search for more of the pressure and Intak indulges you, rolling his hips down in a delicious grind that has your body bowing up the bed.
His hands move down to grab you by the hips and push them down against the bed, much to your dismay when it detaches you from the heat of him.
“Oh yeah,” he breathes, looking just as ruined by the sight of you as you’re starting to feel by him.
He keeps one hand holding you down as the other slides under your shirt, warm as it slides up to your chest. His eyes flash when he finds you bare under the shirt and wastes no time to grasp the soft mound, making a stuttered breath fall from your lips as his finger pushes down on your sensitive nipple.
“And now I finally have my chance,” he mutters, dark eyes drinking up every twitch in your expression as his finger rolls over the stiffening peak, sending little sparks of pleasure from your chest down your spine. “I might not get to fuck you but I’ll take anything I can get.”
Before you can ask him just what it is he’s set out to do to you, he kisses you again. This time it’s fast, heated, impatient; everything you actually were expecting from him.
He wastes no time before he’s prodding into your mouth with his tongue. You accept him with a soft moan, a sound that has him pulling your nipple between his fingers and has another yelp rip from your throat that he drinks up with his persistent lips.
You didn’t realize just how quickly you could get turned on from just some kissing and a few careful touches. But you can feel the arousal pool in your gut and in your underwear.
To say you were surprised was an understatement, but that wasn’t on the forefront of your mind. All you were thinking was that you needed to feel more.
As if he was reading your mind, Intak grinds down his clothed cock, fully hardened now, right into your needy heat.
You whine at the pleasure that rolls steadily through you, the sound drowned out by Intak’s soft breaths as he devours you whole with his tongue.
This already feels so much better than any night with your ex and you’re feeling a little high from it all. Your hips buck up in frantic little rolls that Intak meets with hard grinds of his own, sending steady shocks of pleasure through your lower body.
His other hand slides up your shirt to join his other hand in kneading your breasts, the pressure spreading pleasure through your entire body as he continues to grind against you.
You can feel yourself getting heady already under Intak’s hands and you happily welcome it. You didn’t think it could be so easy to get you so strung up without even having to take off your clothes, but here you are.
You can feel the coil in your gut wind tighter with each press of Intak’s throbbing erection against your aching core, can feel the slick gathering in your folds. It has you whining into the frantic kiss and has your hands clawing into his biceps.
He pulls from the kiss with a wet smack, a string of saliva connecting his lips to yours as his mouth falls open to let heavy breaths pass through. He presses his forehead down to yours, his eyes fluttering as he tries to keep his focus intact while his hips keep rocking into yours.
“F-Feels good,” you whisper up to him, gasping at a particular harsh press.
“Yeah?” He pants, using his hands to shove your shirt up above your chest.
You hiss at the cool air that brushes over your sensitive nipples. Intak groans at the sight of you, his hips stuttering for a moment before they pick back up at a more frantic pace. He wastes no time to latch his mouth onto your nipple, his hand working the other one as he starts to swirl his tongue around the stiff bud.
You moan at the wet warmth of his tongue on the sensitive flesh, arching your chest further into his mouth. You didn’t think your chest was this sensitive, but it has your hips bucking eagerly up against his, every single sensation over your body climbing down and pinpointing down to your clit.
“Intak,” you gasp, whining sharply when he pops off your nipple and switches to the other one, flicking his tongue rapidly over it.
You can tell by the way that his hips are starting to lose rhythm that he’s nearing his edge. And, surprisingly, you are too.
“Intak,” you try to warn him but he’s not listening, too far gone as he continues to mouth at your chest, eyes fluttering closed as he continues to chase his pleasure between your hips.
You bury your hand in his hair, pushing him further into you as you drive your hips sharply up against the hard ridge of his cock, and it takes just a few more hard presses of his erection squarely against your cunt for you to teeter on the edge.
Intak notices, and at the same time that he pinches your nipple with his hand, he bites gently down on the one in his mouth and tugs.
The sharp pleasure that bursts from your chest in tandem with a hard grind of his cock against your core has you tipping over the edge. You tense all over as your mouth falls open into a high whine, before your body jolts and trembles through your first orgasm.
Intak follows you right down, whimpering into your chest as his hips stutter through his own orgasm, giving a few more sharp grinds before his body goes slack, weight dropping fully onto you.
His head rolls on its side on your chest, your nipple popping out of his mouth as he heaves for breath. You lay there, twitching and reeling from your high.
A few moments of silence pass as you stare up at the ceiling, trying to even out your breaths and process the fact that Intak has just made you cum for the first time that wasn’t by your own hand.
Reluctantly, Intak lifts himself up and looks down at you with a crooked smile. “Well? Didn’t I say I never leave my girls unsatisfied?”
You let out a breathy laugh as you meet his twinkling eyes. “Uh huh.” Just with a little bit of grinding, he managed to hold true to his words. You’re both impressed with him, disappointed with your ex for not even holding a candle, and disappointed with yourself for doubting him. “That was… better than I thought.”
He hums, leaning down to peck your lips before he pulls himself up and off of you despite the whine you let out when his warmth is ripped away from you.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly as he adjusts himself in his sweats. He’s wearing a dark pair so it’s difficult but you can still see the darker shade of the wet patch over his crotch. It has a pathetic shock of heat pulse through your core at the thought that that was there because of you. “I can’t stay for long. The others are waiting.”
“Right,” you say as you fix your shirt, pulling it down over your chest. You’d nearly forgotten there was a line of boys out there in the living room waiting for their turn to make you eat your words. “…I don’t stand a chance, do I?”
He chuckles at that, turning to walk through the door. “Not at all,” he says, turning his head and throwing you a wink over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left laying there wondering who’s next— what’s next. It almost frightens you how quickly you find that tightness in your gut livening up again as you go through all the possibilities in your head.
You’re not left wondering for long before Jongseob steps through the door, looking pretty normal for the most part. But you see the light shake in his hand as he holds up the large bottle of water he brought in with him.
“Jiung’s orders,” he says as he walks over to your side and uncaps the bottle. He doesn’t hold your gaze for long before his eyes flit to the bottle he’s holding out for you.
You feel a warm wave of familiar fondness for your maknae as you take the bottle of him, feeling a little relieved that it’s him instead of someone like Jiung or Theo. You’re not quite ready for whatever that might be just yet. Or Keeho for that matter.
You pull yourself up to sit, wincing from the sensitivity between your hips that still lingers. “Thanks.” You take the bottle from him and drink, grateful for the wash of cold as it soothes your heated insides.
He’s a little awkward on his feet as he shifts on them, waiting for you to put the bottle aside on the nightstand before he speaks up. “You doing okay?”
You huff a little laugh as you lean against the headboard, looking up at him. “Uh huh. Just didn’t think I’d be proven so wrong, so quickly.”
He raises a brow at you as a teasing smile pulls at his lips. “Oh, so is our little experiment done then? We’ve proven you wrong already?”
“Nope,” you say, finding a surprising sense of confidence in his presence. “You guys promised me six ways. I better get six ways.”
His smile widens into a grin and you get a glimpse of his cute little snaggle tooth. His nerves seem to ease away as he falls into the rhythm of your familiar back and forth. “One orgasm in and you’re already calling the shots?” He taunts, climbing onto the bed and bracing himself with his knees on either side of your thighs. He hovers over you, taking your chin to lift your gaze up to him. “Bold. I like that on you.”
You blush at his sudden change in demeanour but you can’t lie; it’s spurring your spent body back to life quicker than you’d expected.
“What about you, Seobie?” You ask, placing your hands on his thighs before sliding them up to his hips over the smooth fabric of his track pants. “Where’s all this confidence coming from?”
His thumb brushes against your lower lip as a small smirk plays on his lips. He’s the picture perfect image of cool and collected, just like he is on stage. It’s a hell of a sight up close to you under the dim of your lamp instead of flashy lights. It feels more personal, like he crafted this confidence just for you.
“I guess you bring it out in me,” he admits, pressing his thumb against the plush of your lip.
You let your tongue flick out and kitten-lick against the tip of his finger, letting it linger there for a bit. His eyes darken and he takes a careful breath in before letting it out in a sigh that sounds a bit strained.
“If only I got to take my time with you,” he mutters under his breath, and the words leave you wondering.
“Is there a time limit?” You ask him when his hand falls to the side of your neck.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his thumb up the hollow at the side of your neck. “15 minutes.”
You stare at him for a moment. “…That’s it? That doesn’t feel like enough.”
He grins in response. “Well Intak did it in time. You don’t think the rest of us can?”
“Well, no— I don’t know,” you huff, a little flustered. “What happens if we don’t finish in time?”
“Then you don’t get to come and I get a bruised ego,” he says then drops both his hands to your waist. He slips his hands under your shirt then slides them up your already tingling skin, pulling the shirt up as they go. “We can’t have that, can we?”
Electricity and heat zip down your spine in tandem when his hands don’t stop and your shirt lifts up over your chest, exposing your skin to the cool air. You lift your arms up to make it easier for him to pull the shirt completely off of you.
You sit there, half-bare under Jongseob’s prying eyes as he tosses the shirt aside somewhere on the floor. You can see him tenting against his pants as he shuffles off of you, his hands reaching for the waist of your sweats.
“May I?” He asks politely but it’s undercut by the way his eyes remain locked on your exposed breasts.
You don’t feel shy under his gaze though. You almost feel revered by his appreciative stare. You lift your hips in silent assent and he takes the cue to slip the sweats off of your legs and tosses them to join your shirt.
He’s quick to pry apart your legs and settle on his knees between them, his eyes finding a new target to lock onto; the wet patch on your thin cotton panties.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, reaching to grab himself over his pants and squeeze as an attempt to quell his arousal.
You flush under his attention now, feeling a little too exposed. Your legs twitch to close but he keeps them apart with a hand on your knee.
He brings the hand down, and with a feather light touch, he runs his thumb against the thin fabric, sliding a line of pressure up your centre that has your walls fluttering. You hiss when his thumb finds your clit and presses down, still a little sensitive from your first climax.
“You’re so wet,” he muses before moving his thumb down and pressing against where your entrance would be. He groans at the wet sound from the pooled mix of your release that Intak left behind and the arousal that’s starting to leak under Jongseob’s ministrations.
“Jongseob,” you whine, pressing your hips up in search of more than just light touches.
He clicks his tongue, looking up at you with a lazy smirk. “Impatient. You’re already eager for more? What, Intak wasn’t enough for you?”
You shudder at the way his words chastise you just the right amount to have you needy for his approval. But you don’t want to give in that easily. “Maybe,” you say, rolling your hips up again to press against his hand. He doesn’t pull away. “But isn’t it your whole job to give me what I want?”
He retaliates with a harsh press of his thumb against your clit with a scary precision given that he can’t even see it. It has you yelping and jerking away from his hand. “You’re lucky I’m not Taeyang,” he says, and the warning hits you in the gut. “Or that mouth on you wouldn’t get off so easily.”
You don’t get a chance to interrogate him before he’s hastily shoving aside the fabric of your panties and exposing your heated folds to the cool air. Jongseob squeezes himself again with a low grunt when he sees the slick mess there.
“You’re drenched,” he huffs, under trance by the sight of you for a moment before he snaps out of it and swiftly pulls off his shirt, leaving your mind blanking momentarily.
You rarely see him shirtless, but when you do, it’s a treat to see. Especially now.
Then he’s shoving down his pants and boxers down to his thighs and grasping himself, stroking tightly as he watches your gushing folds, and your mind goes blank again.
He’s pretty; thin but long and curved and flushed at the tip, milky pearls of arousal leaking at the head with each drag of his fist.
You’re snapped back to focus when he grabs your thighs and pulls you down on your back, lowering himself between your hips.
“Wait,” you say quickly, and Jongseob pauses immediately to look up at you, just letting himself hover while he waits.
“Yeah?” He asks, brows furrowing in concern.
You swallow, a little embarrassed and underprepared. “Are you… going to put it in?”
The concern washes away and he chuckles fondly. “No. That’s not for nowt,” he says before he lowers his body down to brace on his elbows on either side of you. Then you feel the heft of his cock press down on your folds, a pressure that has you both sighing. “Just this,” he says, lowering his eyes on yours.
You feel him throbbing against your clit, hot and solid against your sensitive folds. It feels nice, but you’re still left confused. “Just this?” You ask, the doubt clear on your face. You don’t see how you could possibly come from that.
But the smirk that grows on Jongseob’s lips tells you otherwise. “Just this.”
Then he shifts his hips so he slides down your folds, and when the head of his cock catches against your clit and sends a wave of pleasure through your core, you think, oh, that’s how.
His smirk stretches to a lazy grin when he sees the realization in your eyes and he drags himself back up, the friction giving you another shock of pleasure. “You like that?” He asks, then takes a sharp breath in through his teeth when he drags back down.
You nod, your hands clutching onto the wiry muscles of his bicep.
His movements are slow and methodical; each drag meant to place pressure against you just right and string you up slow and steady, a stark contrast to the frantic chase with Intak.
“Did that asshole ever take his time with you?” He asks you through grit teeth and it takes a second for you to process that he’s talking about your ex.
“N-No,” you answer through a gasp when his tip prods sharply into your clit on a thrust up. “H-He wasn’t really… ah, patient.”
He clicks his tongue. “No wonder he couldn’t make you come,” he mutters bitterly before he shoves himself off of you.
You’re about to protest but then he’s sliding your panties down your hips, cursing at the way strings of slick connect to it as he pulls them off your legs. He doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of you fully exposed as he gathers both of your legs and throws them over one of his shoulders. Before you can question him, he’s sliding himself in between your thighs, right on top of your folds, and using the slick mess there to start fucking your thighs in a steady rhythm, his tip pushing deliciously against your clit with each thrust.
You moan, deep breaths falling through your lips at the stimulation. The sight of him poking through your thighs and the hood of your cunt with each thrust leaves you feeling heady. “Fuck, Seobie,” you whimper. You watch the way he leaks from his slit, dripping down onto your pelvis and pooling there.
His hips falter when he hears the name fall from your lips, then braces himself with his arms around your legs, then starts to fuck against your cunt with a fast pace that has you both panting.
You can feel the coil in your gut wind tight again with each drag of his hard length over your throbbing clit. The sight of his face, flushed and blissed out with hooded eyes fixed on your face, has your head swimming. You’ve never seen him look that intense before, even when it comes to work, and it makes you falter realizing just how different this side of him is from what you’re used to.
It’s a thrilling revelation that has you quickly approaching your second climax.
“Seob,” you say through a hitched breath.
“Yeah?” He asks, getting a dark little grin on his face as he tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut at the heaven between your thighs. “Gonna come for me already?”
“Yes,” you gasp, your hands fisting into the sheets as your body bucks up with each impact of his rough thrusts.
“Gonna make you cum,” he says through grunts, though you’re not sure if he’s talking to you anymore. “Gonna make you cum— unlike that bastard. Couldn’t even— fuck— couldn’t even touch you right. Probably couldn’t even find your clit— the fucker.”
He’s muttering the words to himself as his thrusts grow faster and more disjointed. But it’s doing nothing less to bring you over the edge.
His dark eyes fix on you again with something akin to bitterness among the desire. “Come for me then,” he says, then adjusts so the head of his cock angles to drive right into your clit with each sharp, pointed thrust, sending burning pulses of pleasure with each push. “Come for me like you never came for him.”
Your second orgasm hits you before you know it and you come with a yell of his name and your body arching off the bed. Jongseob follows after with a few more frantic thrusts, spilling ropes of hot release over your stomach.
He doesn’t stop— he keeps going, drawing you both down from your highs before rocking to a slow stop just before he can drive you into overstimulation. He keeps your legs hugged to his chest as he recovers, breathing heavily as his eyes take in the sight of you painted with his release.
You’re not sure if it’s your post orgasmic haze dreaming it up but you think you see a hint of possession with the way he eyes you. You don’t get to dwell on it before he presses a kiss to the side of your calf and slowly releases you.
It’s when he’s cleaning off your stomach with his shirt after having fixed himself up that you realize you haven’t gotten to kiss him.
“Jongseob,” you say, still splayed out on your back and stealing back your breaths.
He pauses and looks at you with his brows raised. “Hm?”
“Kiss me.”
The sudden request has him blinking to process and then blushing abashed, like he hadn’t just come on your stomach. “Oh. You want to?”
“No,” you say flatly. “That’s why I asked.”
He smiles sheepishly before he leans down and presses his lips to yours in a sweet, short kiss. You hum in content when he pulls back, smiling up at him. “Thank you,” you say, then tap his chin playfully. “Better than anything he’s ever done for me, combined.”
That has him blushing even brighter and he looks away with a shy little laugh. He finishes wiping you down then pulls the blanket that’s been shoved to the edge over you, giving you some cover before he goes.
“Do I really have to worry about Taeyang?” You ask him before he closes the door behind him.
Jongseob looks back at you and gives you a grin that does nothing to ease your worries. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, then shuts the door behind him.
You groan to yourself, dropping your head back on the pillow. You should’ve gone into this by making them tell you all of their plans in detail so you wouldn’t have to be kept on your toes. But you can’t deny that it does make this more exciting.
Because even though you’ve already come twice, you have to squeeze your legs shut to soothe the way your core starts to spur back to life at just the possibility of the kind of danger that Theo might bring with him.
It’s Soul’s soft voice that pulls your eyes from the ceiling and towards him as he steps into the room a few minutes later.
“Hi,” he says as he makes his way over. He looks— normal. Nothing off the ordinary; no nerves, no eagerness, just plain intrigue as he peers at you laid out under the blanket. He wastes no time to jump onto the bed and sit on his knees by your legs.
“Hi,” you reply fondly, watching his hand as it lands on your covered knee and just holding there as a simple form of physical connection. A common occurrence with him, and it's no different even in this situation. Everything about Soul, everything that he does, always has you feeling endeared towards him.
“Are you tired yet?” He asks, round eyes flickering over the shape of you under the covers.
“Yes,” you answer, but then think otherwise as you take stock of yourself. “No. Eh, I don’t know.”
That gets a little giggle out of him, his thumb digging gently into the notch in your knee. “I hope not. There’s still a lot more planned for you.”
You let out a slow breath at the reminder. “Yeah,” you pause, then look over at him. Soul has always been an honest one, so you take your shot. “Are you going to tell me what you’re going to do?”
He gives you a simple nod, then says, “I’m going to eat you out.”
Your face burns at the bluntness but you can’t say you didn’t expect it. Though it seems like there was no rule to keep things hidden from you; Intak and Jongseob probably just wanted to see you squirm.
Your eyes fall to his pretty pink lips and you’re already envisioning them on you. Even knowing what’s about to happen, you’re still just as on edge as you were with the others.
His hand shifts to grab the edge of the blanket that lay by your side, not yet pulling. “Is that okay?” He asks you, polite as ever.
You’d never imagined Soul, the innocent looking boy you've smothered with your affections for years now, to be here before you, asking you if you’re okay with him making you come on his tongue. It’s disorienting enough to leave you craving it.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” you say, hoping you don’t sound as eager as you feel.
But Soul has an eerie way of reading people. He catches on, you can see it in the twinkle of his eye, and with an excited grin, he pulls the blanket off you.
You have to resist the urge to cover yourself by digging your hands into the sheets. Soul’s eyes practically sparkle as he looks over you, a little like he’s caught in a trance.
“Pretty,” he mumbles quietly, like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.
You squirm when all he does is stare for a few more moments. You nudge your knee against his leg to pull him out of his daze and he spurs back to life, shuffling to kneel between your legs, his hands crooking under your knees to push them up and hold them apart.
You squirm some more when his eyes lock onto the wet mess between your legs and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Shota,” you whine, nudging your foot against his arm. “Don’t just stare.”
He giggles but doesn’t move his eyes. “Sorry,” he says as he climbs down onto his chest, pulling your knees over his shoulders. His lips hover just over your core, breaths brushing over you and sending prickling sensations through you as he speaks. “You’re just so pretty. I can’t help it.”
You swallow back the moan that bubbles in your throat at his words. “Wait,” you say before he can do anything else.
He looks up at you now, brows raised. “Hm?”
“Can you take your shirt off?” You’re feeling a little too exposed with him fully clothed and you very much not. But also, the sight of Soul shirtless is a treat. It would be a shame to let those muscles he takes such good care of go to waste in a moment like this.
He’s smiling despite the blush that climbs high on his pale cheeks. He pulls himself up, yanks his shirt off in one go, before quickly settling back into position.
You mourn the sight of his abs being so quickly hidden away but then his arms are coming around your legs to hold you down, one hand settling palm-down on your lower stomach, and you can’t complain anymore when you’ve got his muscled arms in your view in all their veiny glory.
He laughs softly at your appreciative eyes. “Better?” He asks with a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You sigh at the warmth it spreads up your leg. “Very.”
The smile remains on his lips as he trails his way down your thigh with warm kisses. You feel teeth graze lightly against your skin with each press that his tongue flicks out to soothe over, effective in the way it has you squirming where you lay as he inches closer to your waiting heat.
But just before he can reach it, he switches over to the other leg and you’re left sighing in frustration, your hips bucking up without your permission.
You feel his amused giggles against your thigh as he gives it the same attention as the other.
But as you watch him, so intent in the way he winds you up slowly just like Intak and Jongseob have done, you’re left to wonder just how much you’ve been missing out on. Being tended to so carefully, it makes you feel a little floaty.
Before you realize it your hand lifts from where you’d dug them in the sheets by your side and reaches to slide into his soft blond hair.
His eyes flutter at the touch and he abandons your skin in favour of leaning into the touch for a moment but you can’t complain, not when he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. It has a warmth bloom inside your chest, snug and soothing.
But then the warmth shoots right down to your gut when he turns and attaches his lips to your clit without warning.
You hiss at the sudden pressure, your fingers digging into his scalp. You glare weakly into the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks up at you.
“Still sensitive,” he says against your clit, making you twitch.
“No shit,” you huff, breaking into a moan when his tongue flits out and starts to press firm circles around the bud. Your body tenses as your mouth falls open with harsh breaths, your hand tightening in his hair.
Soul takes in every shift in your expression with his eyes as he drags his tongue down before letting it circle around your entrance.
He groans at the taste of you on his tongue, the vibrations sending you whimpering. He abandons his careful ministrations in favour of flattening his tongue against you and drinking up every bit of the mess that’s been left behind from your previous encounters.
Your hips push up to grind against his face but his hand on your stomach keeps you easily pinned down as he has his way with you.
Breathy moans from your lips spill out from the rapid flicks of his tongue against you and the way his little grunts spread little embers of sensation right through your core.
You only just notice the way his own hips are grinding into the mattress and the knowledge that he’s that turned on from just pleasuring you has your head reeling.
The blunt tip of his tongue pushes against your entrance, but it doesn’t stop this time; it pushes in with ease and leaves you gasping.
“Sh-Shota!” Your hand pushes down on his head of its own volition, trying to push him as deep in as he can go.
You feel it deeper than you expect it, the wet muscle prodding and sliding against your pulsing walls. When he groans, you feel it inside you.
His arms can’t restrain the way you’re squirming anymore with how hard your body’s starting to tremble. Every sensation feels like it’s dialed above ten with sensitivity. You don’t feel uncomfortable to have something breaching inside of you like all those times before with your ex; it actually makes you feel relieved and not like you’re being invaded. And you feel like you’ll lose your mind if it doesn’t stay in, doesn’t move.
So when you start to roll your hips up to fuck up against his tongue, Soul lets you, and pushes his tongue in tandem with your movements.
And when the tip of his nose rubs right against your clit with every movement, your control is gone.
You’re not sure what sounds are leaving your mouth but you don’t care, you just keep chasing the pleasure, keep fucking yourself up on his tongue, practically riding his face.
You start to fear you’re suffocating him and when you try to pull back, Soul buries himself right back into you. He’s whining against you, his eyes lidded and glossed over as he drowns himself in your cunt, and the rocking bed reminds you that he’s just as into this as you are.
It’s the combination of that, the pussy-drunk look on his face, and the way his tongue caresses your walls with each thrust that has your thighs clamping down on his head as you ride out your third orgasm right on his face.
Soul’s body shudders with a loud moan into you as you come around his tongue and he drinks you right up, not letting a single drop go to waste. He licks you through the high before he detaches from you with a soft kiss to your clit that does nothing to ease the tremors still rocking through you.
He lifts his head and you nearly moan at the sight of him; cheeks flushed, lower face drenched with you and eyes glazed over, looking practically drunk off of you and ready to devour you whole again.
“Jesus, Shota,” you mutter, having to raise your eyes to the ceiling to keep yourself from losing your mind again at just the sight of him like that between your thighs.
He responds by climbing up your body and kissing you eagerly.
You tense, taken aback by the sudden taste of yourself but you’re quickly coaxed into the kiss by his eager lips and tongue. You melt into the kiss, snaking your arms around his shoulders and pulling him down on you. He follows, pressing every inch of himself against you.
You’re stopped short when you feel the half hard length of him pressing on your thigh along with a noticeable dampness on his shorts against your bare skin.
You pull back from the kiss, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Did you… come from that?”
He doesn’t even look the least bit embarrassed as he nods and dives right back for your lips.
You’re powerless to stop him; too boneless to do anything but you can’t say you want him to stop. He dives eagerly into your mouth again and you meet him with a languid pace of your own, not that he minds.
You can feel your mind start to float away again as his hands eagerly wander over your body, grabbing and kneading every curve of your flesh as they pass, paying special attention to your chest.
He’s hardening quickly against your thigh as he eagerly bucks his hips against you, seemingly lost in his mind just seeking out any bits of pleasure.
You reach down for his erection, to help him out like he’s helped you, until he’s yanked up off you.
You mourn the loss with a panicked noise, trying to reach to drag him back to you. But your hands drop right back down when your eyes clear and you see Keeho holding Soul back with an arm around his throat.
Soul’s hands fly up to Keeho’s forearm as he blinks out of his own haze and comes into realization of what’s happening. His face flushes when he sees Keeho, who looks annoyed but no less amused. “Hyung,” he croaks, a little nervous.
Keeho raises a brow at him, a scolding look. “You’re way past your time, Shota,” he states before snapping those piercing, heated eyes to you.
Your heart jolts when you see the way his pupils are blown open in a heavy desire that pushes your breaths back down your throat.
“And you’re stealing mine,” Keeho adds, all amusement gone as his voice deepens into a threat.
Keeho releases Soul and Soul quickly scampers off the bed, grabs his shirt, and practically runs out of the room without another word.
But your eyes are stuck under the heavy weight of Keeho’s and you feel your body thrumming with a fresh wave of nerves.
His lips quirk up into a small smirk but there’s no mirth there. “Having fun?” He asks as he climbs onto the bed, on his knees so he hovers over your trembling body. When you don’t respond, he clicks his tongue. “I asked you a question, pretty girl.” The implication of what might happen if you don’t answer settles dauntingly in your head.
“Yes,” you quickly answer, and he smiles as he moves to lift your legs before settling to sit between them. You tense at the thought of picking right back up without a chance to recover from Soul. “W-Wait, I need some time.”
“Too bad,” he says easily as he reaches over to grab one of your pillows. “That’s something I don’t have right now.”
Without your control, your body shuffles away from him, like it’s trying to protect itself from the danger behind Keeho’s words. But his hand clamps down on your thigh and he pulls you easily back towards him.
“Where you going, pretty?” He asks you with a sly grin that has you squirming. “Don’t worry. You won’t be complaining in a few minutes.” He pats the underside of your ass. “Up.”
Your brows furrow. “What?”
He sighs before he hooks his arm under your waist and lifts you easily, shoving the pillow he grabbed under your hips before dropping you back down.
The way he’s able to handle you so easily has your stomach flipping and your eyes locking onto the way the material of his shirt stretches around his bicep as it flexes when he moves.
He notices your leering and grins, using his hands to push your legs apart. This new angle, hips propped up on the pillow for better access, has you feeling even more exposed. Your legs try to close on their own but Keeho quickly pushes them apart, clicking his tongue. “Keep ‘em apart for me,” he says, leaving you no room to disobey, so you don’t.
His eyes lock onto your cunt, and if possible, his gaze darkens. “Cute,” he says, glancing up at you. “Just like the rest of you.”
You avert his gaze, flustered, and he chuckles fondly. You’re not sure where all your confidence has gone. You suppose it’s different with Keeho, your leader, as opposed to your younger members.
“Cute,” he repeats before pressing his palms to the inside of your thighs, heavy and warm. “Have you taken anything inside yet?”
You swallow, feeling a little embarrassed to have to say the words aloud but you’ve been laid bare and exposed to your friends in so many ways already so it really shouldn’t feel so awkward anymore. Yet still.
“Shota’s tongue,” you answer in a thin voice, and he hums in acknowledgement.
“Did it feel good?”
You take in a shaky breath, your walls clamping around nothing like they’re remembering the feel of Soul’s tongue stretching them.
Keeho notices the way you flutter and chuckles. “That’s a yes then.” His palms start to slide down a path on the insides of your thighs slowly. “Has it ever felt good like that before? Having anything inside?”
You can’t bring yourself to say it, so you shake your head no.
The look in his eyes softens as his palms rest just outside of your heat. “Everyone treating you well so far?” He asks you, rough voice dulled into something gentler.
Your lips are helpless to the small smile that tugs on them; even now, Keeho upholds his leader role. He’s always been the one to look out for you and it puts you at ease to know that it’s no different now.
“Very,” you answer honestly. “Better than I could’ve imagined.”
“Good,” he says, mirroring your smile and leaning down to press a soft kiss to your knee. “This whole thing’s been about showing you how you should be treated. Sounds like we’re on the right track.”
You hum when his hands gently knead the flesh of your inner thighs. “Yeah. Guess I was wrong to think— fuck!”
Your thoughts as yanked right out of your head when Keeho pushes a thick finger inside of you all the way to the hilt in one smooth slide.
You look up at him with wide eyes. “Keeho!”
The grin on his lips is careless and predatory as he watches the way his finger sinks into you so easily. “Sorry baby, but I don’t have that much time left thanks to Shota.” He keeps his finger still as his other hand comes down and presses the thumb lightly against your clit, making you jolt. “Good thing you’re so sensitive.”
That’s all he says before he starts to pump his finger into you while his thumb circles your clit in quick, tight circles.
The touch to your clit feels more painful than pleasurable from the sensitivity, and it has you trying to buck away as high, frantic whines leave your lips, but Keeho is quick to hold you down with his forearm.
“Shh baby,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to the inside of your trembling knee as he continues to abuse your cunt with his quick pace. “It’ll feel better soon.”
And he’s right, because even though it burns, the pain slowly embers away into a pleasure that has you bucking up to his finger rather than away.
Keeho, who’s watching your expressions with a laser focus, grins when your features smooth down with pleasure. “That’s it, good girl,” he whispers and the words go right to your head and fill it with a hazy fog. “So good for holding out. Think you can take another one for me?”
Your breaths come out with little whines as you nod, eyes starting to go bleary.
“Say it for me,” he urges gently. “Need to hear you, pretty.”
You blink rapidly as you try to push the word through the fog in your head and out of your mouth. “Y-Yes,” you breathe, voice weak. “Can— ngh— take another.”
You feel his finger inside of you slow then feel the blunt tip of another start to press in with the next thrust. Just the two fingers feel almost overwhelming, a rougher feel than Soul’s tongue, but your walls, relaxed from three orgasms, take him in without protest.
Keeho’s thumb on your clit falters when he sees how easily you take him in. “That’s a good girl,” he coos, then pushes both fingers as far as they’ll go.
You whimper, feeling them so deep inside you, deeper than anything you’ve felt. And you’re left wanting more.
“More,” you plead, your hips rolling up to feel them press deeper despite already pushed all the way in.
You think you see Keeho’s eyes flash with hunger but your mind is far too gone right now to pay close attention.
“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath. “I’m gonna need you to myself sometime.”
Then he’s fucking his fingers into you relentlessly, his thumb spurring back to life over your clit to match the reckless pace.
You’re thrashing and moaning unabashedly, though you don’t have much control over any of your reactions anymore. Your hips buck up pathetically to meet his pace but he’s far too fast for you to keep up with. He has you feeling like liquid fire as he takes you apart with just his fingers and you can tell there’s no way you’ll last even the next three minutes, far too sensitive to every stimulation.
Then he does something you don’t quite understand. He stops, curls his fingers inside you, then resumes in a way that has the tips of his fingers abusing a spot inside of you that has you feeling the fire all over your body, has you arching off the bed as you scream out his name.
“That’s it,” he whispers, doubling down and pumping his fingers even faster.
But now there’s a new feeling in your gut, something you’re not familiar with at all and something strangely like you might be releasing things you very much don’t want to.
Your hands claw at Keeho’s arm that holds you down, trying to push him off but he’s like iron. “K-Keeho!” You cry through a trembling voice, trying to warn him with wide eyes.
But he doesn’t stop, keeps his heated gaze on your panicked face. “Don’t fight it,” he tells you. His fingers are relentless against that spot inside of you and has you barreling to something much faster than you’re prepared for. “Just give into it. I got you, baby. Come for me.”
That’s when it happens. Liquid, a lot of it, spraying out of you as your body jerks violently through your orgasm.
This one pierces through you harder than the others, electric fire that has your vision white and mind blank for how long, you can’t tell, but you just know that you’re gone.
It takes you a while to piece yourself whole, barely though. When your vision slowly strings itself back together, it’s to the sight of Keeho staring down at you, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and soaked from his chin to his shirt to his forearm with his fingers still buried in you.
You’re struck with the terrifying thought of what you might have just done and you feel yourself grow cold with mortification.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, feeling tears prickle at your eyes as you try to scramble away from him. “I’m sorry, shit, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what just—“
But before you can get far, Keeho grabs your hips and pulls you right back to him, leaning over to crush his lips to yours in a hard, searing kiss.
You yelp in pain at the hard clash of teeth and you barely get to process the kiss at all before he pulls back enough to mumble into your lips. “You just squirted,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it himself.
You blink up at him as he stares you down like he wants to ruin you all over again. You had no idea that you could even do that, or that it could be brought out of you so quickly.
Keeho grins at your shock before sealing his lips back over yours, swallowing your little whine of surprise. “I’m keeping you,” he mutters into the kiss as he digs his teeth into your lip. “Jiung can go fuck off, I’m gonna make you squirt for me again.”
You don’t get to protest that you can’t until another voice behind Keeho intercepts.
“Can I now?”
It’s Jiung’s voice, deep and irritated, as you hear it close in.
Your eyes fly open to see Jiung stood over you two by the bed, his hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t look happy. He looks impatient, brows furrowed and jaw clenched.
Keeho still doesn’t pull away from you; his fingers dig deeper into your hips and he kisses you more insistently like he’s trying to take as much as he can before you’re taken away from him.
“Keeho,” Jiung says in a tone that promises threat. It’s a tone that does dangerous things to your brain.
Keeho pulls back from your lips reluctantly, gaze locked onto you as he tells Jiung, “She squirted,” like it’s pertinent information.
It must be, because you see Jiung’s hard expression falter with shock before settling down into something more intense.
“Okay,” he responds slowly. “Now move.”
Keeho rolls his eyes but slowly pulls himself up to his knees, reluctant to let you go. You can see him straining against his sweats and realize with a start that he hasn’t come.
“You haven’t…” You start but break off when both of their eyes fall on you.
Keeho shakes his head with a lazy grin. “Don’t worry about me.” He pauses then turns to Jiung. “Actually, can I stay and watch?”
Jiung doesn’t hear him, he’s too busy taking in the mess that is you. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze drag down your skin like a tangible force.
“Hm?” He asks, distracted. When he processes the words, he pulls his eyes off of you but it looks like it takes him great effort to.
Keeho rolls his eyes and adjusts himself with his hand, wincing a little. “Mind if I stay?”
Jiung watches him quietly, considering, before he looks back at you. “That’s up to her.”
You freeze under both of their gazes. As much as the thought intimidates you, you can’t help but feel thrilled by it. Besides, you would feel a little guilty sending Keeho off without any relief even if he can handle it on his own. Everyone else has finished with you, so it would only be fair.
“Fine by me,” you concede, and Keeho lights up.
Jiung interjects before Keeho can celebrate too early. “You can’t interfere,” he says sternly, then points to the reading chair in the corner of the room. “Go sit there.”
“So bossy,” Keeho muses but he’s still grinning as he clambers off the bed and makes his way to his assigned spot. “Just pretend I’m not even here.”
A hard task, considering the fact that you can still see him at the edge of your vision and he has a perfect view of the scene. But the concept of a third party still has your head spinning in a new direction.
Your attention is dragged back to Jiung who climbs onto the bed and sits himself at the end with crossed legs. You pull yourself to sit up on shaky limbs, still recovering from your intense climax, folding your legs over your chest for some semblance of cover.
You’re grateful that Jiung doesn’t look like he’s ready to pounce anytime soon, eager for the chance to recover for whatever he might have in store for you.
That makes you wonder what it is that Jiung chose for his turn. You’re well aware of his dislike for physical contact so you’re not sure how to picture him in this setting.
Though the way his dark eyes settle on you, ready to tear you apart with just his gaze alone, has you questioning everything you know about him.
“You haven’t been drinking your water,” he says plainly, and even just that simple observation, the thought of him being upset with you in any capacity, keeps you on your toes.
It’s his voice, you think, that drives you crazy; a deep timbre that invades every corner of your head and settles at the base of your chest. Like it crawls everywhere around you and holds you down under its submission without your say.
You snap out of your trance when he narrows his eyes impatiently at you, flushing. “Oh.” You look over at the bottle that remains nearly full.
Looking at it makes you realize just how parched you are so you snatch it and swig down nearly half the litre. You think you might hear Jiung mutter something along the lines of, “Told you idiots to make sure she stays hydrated,” to the side of the room.
You place the water back down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You feel better despite the physical weight of your body trying to lull you down but your mind is still wide awake and on high alert.
You turn your attention back and see that Jiung is still watching you intently, now leaning back casually on his palms. The silence has you itching to break it and ask him about the question that’s lingering in your head but you’re a little intimidated by his gaze.
“Spit it out.”
You nearly jump from his sudden voice cutting through the silence. “Huh?”
“I can see you’re thinking something,” he says, tilting his head slightly. His face is impassive; you’ve never really been able to tell what he’s thinking during quiet moments. But he has no problems reading you. “What is it?”
You bite down on your lip as you wrap your arms defensively around yourself. “You don’t like touch,” you start.
He raises a brow before nodding slowly. “That’s true.”
“So…” You continue, struggling to hold eye contact. “How does this work then?”
You’re not sure what to make of the slow smile that climbs up his lips. It’s not one of his bright, sunny ones. It’s a quieter, more calculating slant of his lips that has you wishing you’d just kept shut.
“Simple,” he answers. “I’m not going to touch you.”
Now you’re confused, but more than that, you’re disappointed. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining his voice deepening by the second. “I’m going to talk you through touching yourself.”
When he sees the blank look in your eyes, his smile widens, almost fond but more so like he enjoys watching you flounder about.
“I’m going to tell you what to do,” he continues, “and you’re going to do as I say. Okay?”
You’re starting to realize where this is heading and the thought floods you with embarrassment. “You’re just going to… watch?” You ask, then glance over at Keeho who’s watching the scene unfold with rampant attention as he traces his thumb lazily over his clothed erection.
“Sure,” Jiung answers, pulling your eyes back to him. “If that’s what you want.”
You’re reminded of what Intak had told you; that you’re the one who holds the power here. You haven’t exactly tested how much of that is true but now you’re starting to think it’s a viable option for you whenever you’d like it.
It’s that knowledge that has you straightening with a newfound courage. “Okay.”
His brows raise at you, that tiny smile still on his lips. “Yeah?” He asks, and it’s a little bit infuriating that he’s still looking at you like you’re a cute, clueless little thing.
“Yes,” you say firmly, meeting his eyes. “Now are you going to get on with it? Isn’t your little time limit ticking away?”
His jaw ticks at your sudden pushing. “I have some leeway, considering some people—“ He throws a sharp eye over to Keeho, “—don’t have manners.”
“Hey,” Keeho cuts in, indignantly. “Shota was eating my time.”
But he goes ignored as Jiung focuses back on you. “Fix your pillows and lean back. Get comfortable.”
A part of you wants to defy just to see what he does but you find yourself falling prey to the cadence of his voice yet again. You’ve always been a sucker for it. More often than not, you’ve completely zoned out to just listen to the sound of voice rather than what he’s trying to explain to you in the studio, leaving you in an awkward situation when he catches on. You think maybe this is his way of getting back at you with it somehow.
Once you’ve stacked all your pillows behind you, you lean back and settle down, your knees still pulled up to your chest. You don’t find yourself withering under his gaze anymore, not when you know just the sight of you is having an effect on him too by the way he’s starting to tent in his grey sweats.
“Good,” he comments offhandedly, his eyes moving down to your legs, or rather, trying to see past them. “Open your legs.”
When you hesitate, he shoots a sharp look up at your face that has your legs immediately pushing apart to reveal all of yourself to him, your knees bent at your sides.
You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and hear the faint shake of his breath when his eyes catch onto your core, still glistening. It’s starting to pool with a new wave of arousal that’s brought on by just the sound of Jiung’s voice.
His eyes move away with effort and rake up your body, stopping at your chest. “Anyone touched them yet?”
You’re still a little blindsided by how casually he— all of them, really— talk about all of this but you figure it’s about time to just get used to it. “Intak and Soul.”
He hums. “Expected. Play with them.”
It takes a second for you to process the command but when you do, it’s like your hands glide up your body on their own. You’ve never thought to stimulate your chest before on your solitary nights, but now that you know it’s a valid option thanks to Intak, that you’re sensitive there, you’re not opposed to it. You’re just not prepared for your first time touching yourself there to be in front of Jiung.
You take the soft mounds in your hands and squeeze gently. You’re surprised to find it a pleasant sensation under your own touch but it might also just be from the two sets of eyes watching your every move.
“Play with your nipples,” Jiung tells you, shifting slightly in his seat. His eyes are locked onto your hands. “Use your thumbs— yeah, just like that.”
You sigh softly as your thumbs circle around the already stiff peaks, feeling the soft burn of the stimulation spread throughout your chest. You take one between your fingers and tug gently, drawing a soft whine out of yourself. You nearly miss the way Jiung’s cock jumps against the confines of his revealing sweats.
You try and fail not to let that go to your head as you drag your eyes up to his face, the one so threaded with focus on you it’s nearly maddening.
“Jiung,” you say, voice breathy already.
He doesn’t move his eyes. “Hm?”
“Take off your hoodie,” you tell him, and that gets his attention. “Wanna see your tattoos.”
You preen internally at the light blush that rises on his cheeks. Like you expected he would have to, he obeys. He tugs the collar of his purple hoodie up and pulls it off himself in one smooth go, tossing it to the corner of the bed.
Your hands falter on yourself as your eyes rake over the ink on his pale skin; vines and leaves adorning the sides of his ribs, butterflies tracing over his abs and trailing tantalizingly down beneath the boxers peaking out of his sweats, and the crescent moon placed centre in his chest.
“Pretty,” you find yourself saying and learn then that Jiung blushes down his chest.
“Take one hand off,” he says hurriedly, like he’s trying to take the situation back under his hand. But you can see the way that his chest has started rising a little more with each breath.
You obey regardless, dropping your right hand in your lap.
His eyes move back down to your core. “Spread it open,” he says. “Wanna see everything. But don’t touch your clit.”
You lick your lips nervously, feeling your cheeks burn, but you move your right hand down and slide two fingers between your folds making sure to avoid your aching clit. The heat of your own skin is a nice reprieve until you scissor the fingers open, spreading yourself apart and exposing to the cool air.
You can hear his breath hitch as his jaw clenches at the sight. “You’re gushing,” he mutters to himself, an observation you’re well aware of but has you squirming when you hear it aloud. “Take some of it. Circle your clit. Lightly.”
You expected him to make you tease yourself more but with the choppy breaths he’s taking and the short sentences, you sense he’s starting to lose patience. Or lose time. Either way, you don’t deny yourself the pleasure.
You collect some of the arousal with both of your fingers then drag them up to your clit. You keep your touch light as you circle slowly, sighing deeply at the touch.
You hear a soft grunt to your left and glance over to Keeho. You’d nearly forgotten about him, but the sight of him has your fingers faltering. He has his hand down his sweats, stroking himself slowly. His head is thrown back against the back of the chair, hair messy over his forehead, cheeks flushed, plush lips bitten red and parted as he pants sharply. His eyes are hooded slits as they watch your hand work yourself, fisting his own cock to match the slow pace of your fingers.
Your gaze is pulled back to Jiung when he snaps, “Eyes on me.” His own eyes are impossibly dark and his jaw is set tightly. “Don’t look at him.”
You give him a small nod, whining softly as you focus back on moving your fingers steadily over your aching clit. It’s hard to not notice the way Jiung is straining against his pants.
“Jiung,” you say through a breath, lifting your eyes back to his face. “Touch yourself.”
Your command takes him aback. You can see the conflict in his eyes to put himself in a vulnerable position to not only you, but with Keeho in the room too.
Sensing his hesitation, Keeho pipes up. “C’mon, Jiung,” he says, voice light despite the strain. His breaths are audible through his words. “You gotta do what she says.”
So you really do have the power here.
You raise your brow challengingly at Jiung and he finally relents, letting his arousal win, though not without sending you a hard look first.
He leans back on one hand before letting the other slip down into his sweats. He grasps himself in a hard squeeze that has him tilting his head back and letting out a low groan. You want to trace the way that his throat shifts around another groan with your tongue.
He rolls his head to the side to focus his gaze back on you. He doesn’t do much with his hand, just lets it rest there and squeeze himself every few seconds.
“How many fingers did Keeho use on you?” He asks. His voice sounds heavier with arousal.
“Two.”
“Put one in. All the way, and don’t stall.”
You can see the impatience worn clearly on his face in furrowed brows and hardened edges. Without delay, you divert your hand and push your middle finger into yourself in one smooth slide. Even as it presses all the way in you find yourself mourning Keeho’s longer, thicker ones.
“Good girl,” Jiung praises and it goes straight to your cunt, making it pulse around your finger. “In and out, slowly— yeah, just like that.” He looks in a near trance at the way your walls suck your finger in with each languid thrust, leaking steadily around it.
You see his hand start to move now as he starts to stroke himself slowly to match the pace of your finger.
You find yourself cursing those grey sweats for blocking your vision.
“Stop,” you tell him, and he pauses his hand with a confused albeit annoyed look on his face. “I wanna see you.”
His jaw ticks but he doesn’t hesitate this time. He lifts himself a little, pushing his sweats and boxers down just enough to reveal himself before taking his cock back in his hand and squeezing. “Better?” He asks you sardonically.
Yes, you want to say but your voice is stuck in your throat. Because the sight of him, long and hard and a pretty shade of pink as it strains with arousal, has you nearly moaning.
You push your finger into you a little quicker without thinking and Jiung takes that as his answer. “Slow down,” he snaps, and when you do, adds, “Put another one in.”
You push your ring finger in to join, moaning softly at the stretch but it still feels nothing like Keeho’s. When Jiung gives you the go, you pick up the pace again, a little faster by his order.
You try to prod around to reach for that spot that Keeho had practically torn you apart with but you can’t. Jiung notices the frustration on your face and laughs softly. “We’ll get there. Use your other hand on your clit. We need to get another finger in first.”
You bite down on your lip to hold in your whimper. Your other hand, which was just sitting limply against your chest at this point, falls quickly to press tight circles against your clit.
Everything you’re doing to yourself feels better than you’ve ever managed to make yourself feel in the past. Maybe it’s because of the soft grunts and moans and the slick sounds of skin against skin coming from the corner of your room where you’re forbidden to look at; maybe it’s because of the way that Jiung sits pretty in front of you, fisting his own cock to the sight of you getting yourself off; maybe it’s because of the way that he mutters soft praises to you every few moments and urges you to go faster, slower, deeper, shallower; maybe it’s not the commands at all but just his voice— but all of it brings you closer and closer to another daunting climax.
“Put another one in,” Jiung tells you, his breaths coming harder around his words. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin as he works himself in tandem to your pace. “Need to get you properly stretched out.”
The implication of those words falls past you as you start to press your index finger in with the others, the stretch making your body tense and your other hand falter.
It burns a little but it burns good. The amount of slick still spilling out of you makes the way in easier, and soon you’re steadily pumping three fingers in while your other hand works your clit again, short moans tumbling out of your lips.
Jiung’s breaths are even more laboured as his fist speeds up over himself, his eyes starting to glass over. He’s fighting against them as they keep trying to flutter shut. He’s starting to sound a little ruined too as he speaks. “Hook your fingers up,” he says, then continues at your confused look. “The spot that you were looking for. Hook your fingers. Up.”
You follow his instructions and crook your fingers, but you still can’t seem to reach it. How Keeho had managed to find it with such scary precision, you desperately want to know.
“I-I can’t,” you whine, hating the desperate sound of your voice but you can feel yourself close, so close, but you need that final edge to push you over. The stimulation to your clit isn’t enough anymore, not after everything you’ve felt tonight.
Jiung starts to look a little panicked as his eyes flick over to your nightstand, and you realize he’s probably running out of time.
“Okay,” he says, his hand pausing over himself when he sees your eyes well with frustration. You see the way his cock twitches as it’s neglected but he ignores it in favour of focusing on you. “I can’t touch you, but just listen to my voice—“
“That won’t be necessary.”
Your head snaps to the left. The sight of Theo standing against the doorway with his arms crossed has a sinking feeling intruding the arousal in your gut. Everything stops, like the moment is waiting with baited breath for Theo to take it under his command.
You’d nearly forgotten that Theo was still to come. And when you realize the only thing that could possibly be left for his turn, your body freezes over.
“Taeyang,” Jiung says after recovering from his surprise. “I still have a few minutes left.”
Theo pushes himself up straight, shutting the door behind him with his foot as he makes his way in. He doesn’t acknowledge Keeho, who’s also stopped still and staring with wide eyes, as he makes his way over to the bed. There’s a small smile on his lips, lazy, like he’s only mildly interested in everything that’s happening.
“I gave you plenty of extra time,” he tells Jiung while keeping his disinterested eyes on you. “And you still failed.”
You bristle under his stare but he’s quickly moving on to focus on Jiung, who’s looking more nervous now than irritated.
“I told you I should’ve gone earlier,” Jiung mutters through grit teeth as Theo circles around the bed to hover over Jiung’s back.
“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Theo asks coolly. He leans over Jiung’s shoulder and looks down where Jiung is still holding himself in a tight grip. “Did she tell you to touch yourself?”
Jiung doesn’t answer verbally, only nods.
“Hm…” Theo lowers his head to rest his chin on Jiung’s shoulder, making him flinch at the sudden contact. “Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you should’ve focused more on her and less on yourself.”
Jiung works his jaw in frustration but stays still. “You said we should listen to her.”
“Should,” Theo repeats with a grin. “The ‘when necessary’ was implied.”
“Taeyang, I swear—“
Theo doesn’t let him finish. “You’re done with her,” he says, easy and stern, as he lifts himself off of Jiung, leaving the other boy wide eyed and incredulous.
“Are you serious?” He snaps, looking up at him with a glare.
“Very. You know the rules,” Theo answers as he makes his way back around to stand at the side of the bed, between you and Jiung. “Get behind her.”
Jiung’s brows furrow, matching your own confusion. “What?”
Theo simply smiles at Jiung as he reads him his fate. “You’re gonna get behind her so I can fuck her on you. And don't even think about coming.”
You feel your insides churn as the words settle, your hands, after unsheathing from yourself while their attention was off of you, curling into the sheets. Everything Theo is saying is so… casual. But he’s talking about fucking you on top of Jiung. That’s far from casual and far from anything you’re prepared for.
But the look on Jiung’s face tells you he’s having it worse. He pales, throat tight as he asks, “Why?”
“Punishment,” Theo says, like it’s obvious. “We set out on a mission here to show her everything she was missing out on. And you failed. So, punishment.” He leans down, invading Jiung’s space and leveling his condescending gaze inches away from his. “Are we clear?”
You can see Jiung’s face twitch as he restrains himself from lashing out. But then he nods, an act of quick submission that takes you by surprise. You start to wonder just what kind of hold your oldest member has over not just you, but the rest of the group.
Then Theo’s eyes are on you where you’re curled up, trying to shield yourself away from whatever was unravelling in front of you.
“Is that okay with you?” He asks you, voice momentarily shedding that commanding edge.
Honestly, you don’t care what happens anymore as long as you get to come again. Even if the thought of Theo being the one to fuck you to it is daunting, with his domineering aura and seemingly sadistic tendencies. But the part of you that’s still loose in the head from everything that’s happened tonight finds you wanting to give yourself over and let him take care of you, let him show you what you’re missing out on, by his words. Even if it was at the expense of Jiung’s sanity. You’ll pay him back later.
“Fine by me.”
A heavy silence fills the room as the confirmation of what’s about to happen settles in the thick air.
Until Keeho breaks it with a pouty whine of, “Wait what about me?”
He’s still sitting on the chair, splayed out with his legs spread, elbows on the armrests while one hand squeezed around the base of himself. He’d shoved his pants down so you can actually see just how painfully hard he still is, almost purpling at the tip. Your mouth nearly waters at the thought of running your tongue along the thick vein that you can see protruding along his underside from where you’re sitting.
Theo catches your eye with a questioning brow raise. It’s up to you, he says silently with them.
“He can use my mouth,” you blurt without thinking, taking yourself by surprise.
Theo’s eyes flash in shock but his lips quirk up in a proud little smile. “Only when I say you can,” he tells Keeho, before gesturing him over.
Keeho nearly stumbles as he makes his way over to settle at the edge of the bed before shedding himself out of his clothes. You don’t get long to appreciate the valleys of his tan skin, taut over smooth planes of muscles before you’re distracted by Theo.
Theo, who’s taking off his shirt and has everything else fade away from your focus when you catch a glimpse of the inked crown on the side of his rib cage.
When Theo notices the room in still motion, he rolls his eyes. “What?” He asks, raising a taunting brow at Jiung. “Do I have to order you to do everything now?”
Jiung’s lips twitch down in a scowl. “No,” he says smoothly despite the sharpness in his eyes. He goes to pull his sweats back up but Theo grabs his ankle and yanks him forward, sending Jiung sprawling on his back with a panicked grunt.
“Off,” Theo says sharply down at him, leaving no room for protest as his hand squeezes tightly around his ankle.
Jiung stares up at Theo with wide eyes, red heat climbing up his neck. You don’t miss the way his cock jumps, and neither does Theo.
But Theo shows him mercy and lets go of him, letting him scramble out of his layers and shuffle to the head of the bed where you are.
Your limbs lock up when Theo turns his full attention to you. He reaches forward and wraps his muscled arms around you to pull you forward as Jiung settles behind you. You relish in the warmth of Theo’s skin before he’s placing you so that your back is laying against Jiung’s front while he’s laid back the pile of pillows you made earlier.
You gasp softly when you fully settle against him, feeling Jiung’s erection prodding at your lower back, stiff and hot against you. You hear Jiung hiss softly softly at the contact behind your head.
His skin is warm and a little damp against your back but the feeling of him behind you, his presence just there, is almost grounding. His hands come up to hold your waist but Theo is quick to interject.
“Don’t touch her,” he says sharply and Jiung immediately fists his hands into the sheets.
You hear a chuckle to your right followed by Keeho’s teasing, albeit a little strained, voice. “I’ve never seen him so obedient.”
Theo glances over to share a playful grin. “You just don’t know how to handle him yet.”
“Even after all these years," Keeho muses dramatically. “Might have to take a lesson or two from you, Taeyang.”
“Can you two shut the fuck up?” Jiung snaps in an uncharacteristic show of short temper.
You haven’t heard him like that in a couple years, but hearing his deep voice right by your ear now, rough and sharp as he speaks, is doing things to your body you don’t want to address.
And of course, Theo catches the way your eyes flutter and you inhale sharply, and you nearly wither away under the devilish grin that curls on his lips. “I knew it,” he says.
You turn your face away from him. “Know what?”
He grabs your chin to turn your gaze back at him. “Don’t try to hide,” he warns. “It’s a good thing I’m feeling selfish right now or I’d let him help me ruin you.”
The thought of both Theo and Jiung working you over the edge together has your walls fluttering. And of course, Theo notices that too.
“Dirty girl,” he taunts as he climbs onto the bed, sitting on his knees in front of you.
From this close you can see the outline of him, large and heavy, through his loose pants and he’s not even fully hard yet. Your body thrums with nerves at the thought of having to take that size inside of you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks you, smug when he sees the way you eye him. “Don’t think you can take it?”
You grit your teeth, meeting his taunting gaze with a sharp one of your own. “Isn’t time ticking, Yangie?”
He takes your chin in his hand, shoving his thumb into your mouth and holding your tongue down. You whine at the sudden intrusion, trying to clamp your mouth down but he’s firm in the way he tugs down and holds you open. “I think that should be the least of your concerns right now.”
Jiung pipes up in your defence behind you. “Are you saying you’re not biding the time limit?” He’s tense behind you, his voice still tight the way he speaks to Theo.
Theo’s eyes lift to Jiung’s over your head. “If it weren’t for me, none of this would be happening,” he says, and there’s no response from Jiung. Theo looks back down to you, pushing his thumb deeper into your mouth, threatening to nearly gag you. “I think I should get a little leeway for that, shouldn’t I?”
You just glare back at him in response. You’re not sure what it is about him, but he brings out the defiant nature in you. Maybe you just want to see how far you can push.
Theo smiles down at you before pulling his thumb out. “Cute.” Then he’s shoving two of his fingers back in your mouth, deep enough to actually have you gag this time before pulling out halfway and just letting them sit over your tongue.
You blink through the tears that have risen and see that all amusement is gone from Theo’s eyes, leaving cold indifference.
“Do you plan on mouthing off again?” He asks you, in an eerily gentle voice.
You think you might die if things get strung out too long; you’re still aching from not getting to finish from your time with Jiung.
So you shake your head no and Theo pulls his fingers from your mouth. “Good girl,” he says, then moves his hand down to push those fingers into your cunt.
You gasp sharply, pushing yourself back on Jiung at the sudden invasion, your legs trying to lock shut but Theo keeps them apart. You can feel Jiung’s cock kick against your back but you’re more focused on Theo’s fingers stretching you, shorter than Keeho’s but thicker.
Theo hums, watching your walls squeeze around him as he scissors his fingers open like it’s something clinical, completely ignoring the way you’re whining and writhing at the burn.
“It’ll fit,” he decides before pulling his fingers out.
You let out a shaky breath of relief, your head dropping back on Jiung’s shoulder.
Jiung’s body is taut with restraint behind you, his breaths coming out harshly against your left ear. He’s like stone against your lower back, hot and pulsing. You shift back a little, pushing yourself against his erection and you hear his breath hitch with a quiet whine only you can hear.
“Don’t,” you hear him whisper under his heavy breath.
It all goes unnoticed by Theo who’s busy working himself out of the rest of his clothes. And you forget all about Jiung when you’re met with the sight of Theo who’s thick enough at only half mast to have your legs clamping shut in fear.
“You’re not going to fit,” you say quickly, panicked as you try to shove yourself further into Jiung.
“Fuck, stop,” Jiung grunts behind you as he grabs your waist and holds you down to keep you from brushing against him.
Theo doesn’t chastise him but he does point you with a sharp look as he takes a hold of himself, stroking slowly. “You can take it,” he says, using his free hand to pry your knees apart again. “You’ve been preparing the whole night for it. It’ll fit.”
“Still,” you whine, feeling your head rush as you watch him thicken in his grasp.
You’re still squirming yourself out of Theo’s grip despite him getting increasingly annoyed.
“Jiung, hold her legs open.”
You hear Jiung scoff over your ear. “I thought you didn’t want me to touch her.”
One sharp look from Theo has Jiung reaching around you to grab you under your knees and pull your legs apart, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to Theo.
You turn your face into Jiung’s neck to hide, still trembling in his hold. You can’t help but feel a little humiliated being pried open like this in front of them, tears starting to prickle at your eyes.
The press of soft, plush lips against your jaw has you peeking out to see Theo an inch from your face and looking down at you with a softer edge to his still heated gaze. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assures you. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Your eyes flutter closed as you try to take ahold of your uneven breaths. This is your Theo, the one who gives you the sweater off his back when you’re cold, the one who gives you his seat when everything else is taken, the one who’s always the first to make you laugh when you’re down. You take a deep breath and open your eyes, blinking away the tears.
“Yeah,” you breathe, peering up into his eyes, easing down at the soft smile that grows on his lips. “I trust you.”
He lets his eyes linger in yours, searching for any more signs of distress. When he doesn’t find any, he leans forward to press his lips to yours.
The kiss is gentle, grounding, caring— everything your Theo is.
But the soft spell is broken when you feel the blunt head of his cock against your clit.
He swallows the moan right from your lips before he lifts from the kiss, meeting your wide eyes with his that have lost the softness in them.
“You’re gonna take it for me, ‘kay?” That stony edge to his voice is back and you find yourself falling under its weight.
You nod quickly and Theo kisses you again, hard and searching as he drags the head of his cock down to your entrances and pushes.
You pull back from the kiss, tossing your head back over Jiung’s shoulder as you let out a broken cry. The stretch of him is nearly unbearable and all encompassing. And it’s only just the tip that breaches into you.
Theo’s forehead drops to your shoulder with a strained grunt, his own body going taut. “Fuck,” he hisses, overwhelmed by how tight your walls are around him.
Your eyes blur with tears as you blink up at the ceiling, breaths stuttering past your lips.
“Just breathe,” you hear Jiung’s soothing voice whisper in your ear, his lips brushing against it as he speaks. “Breathe. You got it.”
You follow his voice, follow his instructions as he guides you through taking Theo to the hilt. You open up slowly, swallowing deep breaths to let your body relax and open up for him. The sweet words from Jiung’s lips— that's it, you’re doing so good for us, so good, just keep breathing, such a good girl— guide you through the paces until Theo buries himself fully inside of you with a deep, shuddering sigh.
“Atta girl,” Theo whispers in your other ear, pressing a quick kiss to it. His voice is rough, strained, and somehow still condescending. “Told you you could take it.”
You whine softly in response because your ability to speak, or think even, is muddled out by the full feeling of him practically tearing you open from the inside. But despite it all, it’s a stretch that has you pulsing around him, like your walls are trying to keep him buried inside of you and keep you full.
Theo grunts at the way your body just sucks him in. His hands brace tightly against your hips before, without a warning, he starts to pull out.
The feeling is just as intense, has you crying out and has tears slipping down your face. But he’s not so patient this time. He pulls out in an agonizing drag until just the tip remains before he slowly pushes back in in that same, torturous drag.
It continues like that, until your cries of pain fade into short, rapid moans as the stretch burns away into pleasure.
Your eyes are blurry and your mind is half there, but you can still make out Theo’s strained words clearly. “Taking me so well,” he says through a grunt as he snaps his hips into you at a pace that’s steadily increasing. “Fit so nice and— ah, fuck— like you were made to take me.” He drops his forehead to yours, a thin sheen of sweat gleaming over his skin as his blown eyes bear down on yours. “Weren’t you?”
Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth so you whine in response, eyes fluttering.
“Yeah you were,” he breathes then pushes into you with a sharp thrust that has you moaning sharply, your hands scrambling to grab onto his arms. “Just made for my cock.”
His hips start to speed up, making sure to drive all the way into you with each thrust. Your body bucks up with each snap, sending you rocking steadily on top of Jiung’s cock.
Jiung is barely holding on behind you; his hands shake as they try desperately to keep you open for Theo, his breaths laboured as they fall rapidly from his lips, his cock throbbing under each rock of your body. It takes great effort to hold back from coming, but he’s already far too close to the edge to where he knows it won’t be possible to hold back for long.
He peers over your trembling body to look up at Theo, his eyes prickling with tears from how painful it’s becoming to hold back.
“Taeyang,” he whispers, and the way Theo’s eyes snap from yours to his, fiery charcoal burning into his own, has him nearly toppling over the edge. He hopes the pleading look on his face is enough to get his question across. But the devil doesn’t make fair deals and Jiung’s got one holding his fate.
“No,” Theo tells him before he turns back to you and starts driving his hips even faster, tossing Jiung right into his own personal little hell as he lays there, neglected and forced to just take.
Theo feels nearly manic at the sigh of both you and Jiung under him, crying for him. But the sight is just too pretty and your walls are so warm as they swallow him in with each rough thrust, that he feels too high off of the power to let it go just yet.
Your eyes are unfocused on him, mind truly well and fucked out after the hours of constant stimulation. There’s a steady stream of moans and whines and babbles of please, please, please’s from your lips that he’s sure you’re not even aware of that spills into the thick air between you.
It goes straight to his cock, pulsing inside of you. But he holds back; he’s not close to done with you yet.
“You’re so noisy,” you hear Theo scold you lightly.
You can’t process much except for the heavy pressure pounding between your hips at a steady pace and the strokes of fire that spreads from it.
But you hear the command clearly as he glances over at Keeho to your right. “Do something about it, won’t you?”
Before you know it, there's a blunt pressure prodding between your lips. As if on instinct you turn your head and let your jaw fall open to accept Keeho into your mouth, throbbing and salty on your tongue as he starts to shallowly fuck into your mouth.
His face is strained as he looks down at you, eyes wide and glazed over in pure lust. He fists a hand into your hair and holds you in place as he starts to pick up the pace, though it’s already stuttering.
“M’not gonna last long, pretty,” he pants, hissing with each thrust in. “Fuck, you’re so warm.”
You moan around him at a harsh thrust from Theo, a sound that has Keeho’s cock twitching in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he snaps, his hand gripping tightly into your hair and sending sharp prickles of pain through your scalp. “Fuck it.”
Then he’s driving his cock deeper into your mouth at a rapid pace, nearly hitting the back of your throat with each thrust and leaving you gagging each time. But he doesn’t stop, just drives into you, pushing your head into him as he fucks into your warm, pliant mouth. “Take it, take it, take it.”
He comes with a loud, strained moan, pushing your head into his pelvis as he pushes all the way in and spills down your throat, cock twitching as it pulses around him.
It’s the way that your head goes floaty when his cock cuts off your air and you’re forced to swallow his cum, and the way that Theo circles his thumb around your throbbing clit, that does you in.
Your body thrashes in Jiung’s hold as your orgasm rips through you. You moan loudly around Keeho’s cock still buried in you as you come over Theo’s cock, tears streaming down your face and your nails digging roughly into Theo’s arms.
You feel Theo’s pace falter as you tremble through your climax, coughing when Keeho finally pulls out of your mouth.
You’re pretty sure you’re dead where you lay atop Jiung, still rattling from the orgasm as you come down from it.
But Theo doesn’t even give you the chance to recover from it before he resumes fucking you into the mattress, Jiung too by proxy, at the same rough pace.
Oversensitive and overwhelmed, you start clawing at Theo’s arms again, your body thrashing without your control. “T-Tae—!” Your voice breaks off before you can finish. You’re not sure when you’d started sobbing.
“Five,” Theo grits through his teeth, eyes still swollen black with desire and lust-drunk mania. He’s panting from the effort of fucking into you at the same, maddening pace. “Promised you six. You’re gonna come for me again.” His breaths are short, and his hips are starting to stutter, but he doesn’t slow down.
You try to protest and tell him that you can’t, but then he’s wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing down on the sides with his fingers and you get that floaty feeling in your head again, like you’re lifting out of your body. Your body’s starting to feel numb but you also feel everything all at once and you’re not even sure where you’re last orgasm ends, if it even did, and the next one starts, but you’re coming again, body quivering, eyes rolling back, jaw falling open in a silent cry.
The sight tips Theo right over the edge with you as he fucks into you hard, one, twice, three times before he shoved himself all the way in and paints you deep within your walls with hot ropes of his release. He plasters himself down on you as his body gives out but his hips are still grinding into you, rocking his cum deep into you.
You’re not sure when you had passed out— or, did you pass out?— but when you blink your eyes slowly open you’re met with Keeho and Theo’s concerned faces peering down at you.
As soon as your eyes open, their faces wash over in instant relief.
“Thank god, she’s fine,” Keeho says, dropping his head low and sighing in relief.
Theo turns to Keeho and whacks him on the back of his head. “I told you I didn’t fuck her dead, you idiot.”
Keeho yelps and lifts his head with a glare. “Well, what else was I supposed to think, she went out!”
Theo just glares back at him in silence.
Okay, so you did pass out. But you don’t feel quite awake just yet either, at least not physically. Your bones feel like ten tonne bricks, there’s a sticky soreness thrumming between your hips, and every movement takes a Herculean effort as you try to shift.
The pair of arms wrapped around you, trapping your arms under them, prevents you from moving. You try to shift again but the arms clamp down even tighter and a tiny panicked gasp hits you behind your ear. Jiung.
That’s when you feel it— the thick dampness splattered along your back and Jiung’s softened cock pushed against the small of your back.
“Hey.” Your focus snaps back onto Keeho as he brushes your hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”
You blink up at him. Besides the heavy limbs, the sore throat, the somewhat bearable ache between your legs, and your syrupy mind, you feel fine— good, even.
“Yeah,” you say, taking all of you by surprise at how croaky your throat is.
Theo turns back to glare at Keeho. “You went too hard on her.”
Keeho whips his head to him, flabbergasted. “You’re one to talk!”
“Guys,” you groan, trying your best to blink yourself out of the fog that’s making your brain feel like soup. “Quiet, please.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Keeho amends quickly. “C’mere, let’s get you in a bath.”
He reaches forward to pick you up but Jiung’s arms clamp down on you again and yanks you right back down, refusing to let you out of his arms.
Theo and Keeho both turn to Jiung, identical expressions of shock worn on their faces at the uncharacteristic show of clinginess.
“Ji?” Theo asks, reaching past you to touch Jiung but you feel Jiung’s face bury into your shoulders.
Your mind snaps almost fully awake when you feel his lashes flutter against the skin on your neck, damp with tears.
“I didn’t mean to,” you hear him mumble into your shoulder in a tiny voice.
You know what it means, but you let Theo and Keeho figure it out on their own. Theo gets to the answer quicker, a fond but teasing smile pulling on lips.
“You just couldn’t hold yourself back, could you?” He teases, reaching over to affectionately scratch at Jiung’s head but Jiung buries his head further into you and away from the touch.
“I tried,” you hear him whisper. “‘M sorry.”
You feel a wave of fondness wash over you at how small he sounds. He’s never this clingy, never this whiney, and it makes you want to bury him in your arms despite the fact that you can still feel his cum drying against your back.
Keeho seems to feel the same sentiment as he surges forward and somehow wraps his arms around both you and Jiung.
“He’s so cute,” Keeho coos and that seems to snap Jiung out of it a little, his usual grumpy tone back into his voice as he tells Keeho to fuck off.
You can’t help but giggle at their antics, a sound that has everyone stop short and stare down at you.
Your laugh fades out at the attention. “What?”
Theo’s smile is soft as he pulls the blanket off of the floor and throws it on top of you. “Nothing,” he says, tucking the blanket around the three of you.
“I didn’t think cuddling was offered,” you mumble, but being sandwiched between Keeho and Jiung is something you really can’t complain about.
“You get the full package,” Keeho says, running his hand through your hair, fingers gently scratching down your scalp.
You hum under the touch, eyes fluttering closed. It makes you almost want to purr. “I don’t remember paying for a full package.”
“You’re not paying us at all,” Keeho states.
“Should I?”
He whacks you atop the head with the hand that was carding through your hair and you nearly whine at the loss of his fingers digging into your scalp. “We’re not cheap whores,” he scolds you lightly.
“No, but you sure act like ‘em,” you say then snicker at the affronted look on his face.
“You seemed into it though,” Theo points out as he climbs back into bed, damp towel in his hand and sweatpants back on. You didn’t know when he’d left.
Your cheeks heat at the accusation. “Kinda hard not to be,” you mutter, turning your face into the pillow.
You inhale sharply when you feel the hot towel press against your back.
“Sorry,” you hear Jiung mumble before he makes quick work of wiping down your back then between your legs, making sure to be careful but even the slightest touch has you twitching and whining.
You feel better wiped clean, comfortable enough to where you start to doze off. But a sharp poke to the forehead has you blinking your eyes open and glaring at Theo, who’s hovering over you with an arm braced between you and Keeho.
“What?” You snap.
He raises a brow at you. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did we prove you wrong or what?”
You groan as you try to roll away but he drops himself on your chest, effectively trapping you. “Do I really have to say it?”
You feel Keeho’s lips brush against the apple of your cheek, can practically hear the smile in his voice. “It would be nice.”
You sigh deeply. You figure it’s the least you can do, considering the fact that they’d just turned your world upside down. And probably ruined sex with anyone else for the rest of your life.
“Fine,” you huff, trying to come off as gravely inconvenienced but the grin on Theo’s lips has your own smile growing. “Yes, you proved me wrong. Six times over.”
Theo chuckles, breath brushing over your lips as he rests his chin on your chest. “You’re welcome,” he says cheekily and has your eyes rolling fondly.
“So…” Keeho trails off, pulling your eyes to him. He’s trying to smother down his up-to-no-good smile, but failing miserably. “Who was your favourite?” He asks, because of course he would.
You scrunch your nose, pretending to think. “Definitely not Theo,” you settle on, glaring lightly down at Theo’s still smug face. “He’s an asshole.”
Theo pouts dramatically, not even bothering to be actually offended. “Is that any way to treat the guy who just gave you six orgasms?”
“What is wrong with you?”
Jiung, who’s still tucked into your side, bristles at that. “Why are you taking credit for all of it?” Jiung grumbles into your shoulder, refusing to detach from you.
“Again, none of this would have happened without me,” Theo answers like it’s just the simple truth.
You roll your eyes, exasperated. “Okay, then next time we’ll just leave you out of it completely.”
You don’t even get the chance to process your own words before the door to your bedroom is slamming open and Intak, Soul, and Jongseob come crashing down to the floor in a pile of messy limbs, cursing and clawing at each other as they try to untangle themselves.
Intak elbows the other two away and lifts himself up above them, looking up at you with the eyes and eager grin of someone who’s just been told they were nominated for a Grammy. “Next time?”
Jongseob and Soul stop clawing at Intak to look up at you, waiting for your answer with bated breath.
You blink at them, then turn to Theo, who’s looking at you with the same curiosity. Jiung and Keeho’s eyes burn into the sides of your face.
You don’t even have to think twice as you’re dropping your head back on the pillow and smiling up at the ceiling, a deep satisfaction settling in your chest much like the dull, aching one between your legs.
Fluff, typical feelings slight angst, getting together
Angela’s poorly made excuse for skipping lunch forces you to take matters into your own hands.
TW: Not eating (not due to eating disorder but just from general busy-ness), secret admirer but it's actually secret chef, reader doesn't know how to handle feelings
You’d noticed lately that Angela had been skipping lunch. She would have an apple or a granola bar or not much else unless it was Friday catering. When you asked her about it, she said she just “didn’t have a lunchbox” and she was “too busy to go out and get one” and “the apple was just fine, it only had one brown spot on it”. Your maternal instincts kicked in immediately. This would not fly, not on your watch.
Obviously the reasonable thing to do would be to buy her a lunchbox and that would be that, but having known her for three years, you knew that she would forget to bring it after the first week. So you updated your meal prep list and got to work.
The meals were nothing fancy, ranging from ham sandwiches to salads to leftovers from your dinner the night before. But looking at the containers and the brown paper bags that littered your kitchen island made your heart feel extra full regardless. You sat and wrote “Angela” on five of the brown paper bags and smiled giddily. You really hoped she liked it. You knew she liked your cooking and devoured anything you offered her, but it was a whole other ballpark to be making things just for her.
You loved making things just for her. You loved her smile and her laugh and the way she sang copyrighted songs too loudly for the editors to smoothly cut out during videos.
You loved her.
You’d loved her for years.
And everyone knew but her.
You frowned at the smiley face sticker you had just added to the outside of the bag for added joy. Was this too obvious? Would she find out? Did you want her to find out?
Your heart screamed yes. Your brain told it to shut the fuck up. Your hand found a pen and started to write a note to put in her lunch like an elementary schooler’s mom.
You wrote “Have a great day!” Simple. Easy. Nondescript. No one would know it was you. You packed it up and stuck it in the fridge. Tomorrow, you would make sure she ate.
—------
Chanse opened the communal fridge at lunchtime and his jaw dropped. “Bitch you remembered to bring lunch today? Good for you! You’re improving!”
“What? No. I just have this.” Angela pulled a smushed granola bar out of her pocket. “I barely remembered to bring it.”
Chanse pulled the bag out of the fridge and shoved it in her face. “Then what’s this?”
Angela studied it with a furrowed brow before opening it. An orange, a chicken caesar salad and a chocolate chip cookie stared back. They all looked normal. “Do you think someone is planning on poisoning me?”
“We have too many cameras for them to do that here, literally they’re making Tiktoks with us in the background as we speak.”
“And you’re sure you had nothing to do with this? It’s not a prank?”
“I never said that.” He took the granola bar out of Angela’s hand and bit into it, grimacing. “Wow, this is bad.”
“So do you think it’s a prank?”
“Beats me. If it is, I’ll laugh but unfortunately, I won’t be able to take credit for this one.”
Angela skeptically took the lunch to one of the tables and started to eat it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started to eat. Maybe that’s why she’d been having headaches lately.
“How is it?”
She took a moment to swallow before answering. “It’s really good actually. Whoever did this even put the dressing on the side so the croutons wouldn’t get soggy. And look! They wrote me a little note. That’s so cute!”
Chanse studied the yellow Post-It note. The handwriting was familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. The way they crossed their T was distinct, and only a few people he knew curled their Y like that. The G in Angela had the same curl. Where had he seen it before?
Meanwhile, you were watching the two of them out of your peripheral while at your desk. Did she like it? Would she be in a better mood later? Oh no, what if she was allergic to something? You’d have to ask Amanda later just in case, she would know.
Tommy appeared, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Staring at your girl again?”
You spluttered, protesting. “She’s not my girl- shut up please before someone hears you.”
“Everyone knows, you’re the exact opposite of subtle. Which is why I know that that mysterious lunch she’s eating was absolutely made by you.”
“You can’t tell her.”
“Dude, it’s just lunch, what’s there to worry about? She’d probably be thrilled to know it’s from you.”
“Would she?”
“You’ve been friends for a long time, of course she would.”
“But what if she thinks I’m weird?”
“And a mysterious lunch isn’t weird?” He raised an eyebrow.
“She’ll ask why I’m doing it, and that means I have to tell her how much I care about her, and I don’t know if I can do that without bursting into tears or kissing her.”
“She’d probably prefer the latter.”
“No she wouldn’t! I’ve told you a million times she doesn’t see me that way.”
“You’re delusional.”
“No you.” You pouted, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.
Tommy gave you the look. The one that told you he thought you were being stupid but knew he couldn’t do anything about it. “So what, you’re just going to keep secretly making her lunch until the day you die?”
“Yes.”
He let out a dramatic sigh, flopping against the side of your desk and nearly knocking over your coffee. “Hopeless, hopeless queer-identifying ladies, whatever will we do with the two of you.”
“You could start by not getting your jacket in my drink.” He pulled his arm away, and sure enough, there was a wet spot on it.
“A necessary casualty.” You caught Angela’s eye over his shoulder and she waved energetically at you, a bright smile lighting up her face. You waved back, but not before turning the color of an overripe tomato. You zoned out, thinking about her dimples, only to be shaken back to reality by Tommy jingling his keys in front of your face. “As I said, totally hopeless.”
—------
As much as you hated to admit it, Tommy was right. You weren’t subtle in the slightest, which meant it was only a matter of time before you got caught.
And Chanse was the one who caught you, which meant this was about to be a whole mess. He caught you literally red handed, placing a Coke next to the brown paper bag that had become your signature over the past few weeks.
“I knew it. I knew it!”
“Be quiet! She’ll hear you!”
“Oh she needs to hear this. She’ll absolutely adore this.”
“How much money do you want? $10? $20?”
“You’re willing to pay me off?” Chanse circled you like a shark. “Not gonna happen, this is priceless.”
“Chanse. This isn’t funny.”
“What’s not funny?” Both of your eyes snapped to Angela, holding a tray of coffees for the three of you. “If it’s me I’d like to have some caffeine first please.”
“She’s been mak-” You lunged forward, trying to cover Chanse’s mouth. You grappled with him for a moment before he slipped out of your grasp, leaving you panting against the kitchen island. “She’s the lunch culprit! I figured it out!” He announced loudly.
“Goddamnit Chanse.” You muttered as you watched her jaw go slack. You couldn’t read her face as she pulled the bag back out of the fridge, eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s been you this whole time?”
You looked down at the dirty toes of your sneakers, ears burning and stomach in knots. “Yeah, it has.”
“Why?” When you peeked up at her, she looked genuinely confused, like she couldn’t imagine someone would ever want to do this for her.
“Because I noticed you not eating, and how it makes you grumpy at the end of long shoot days and how it makes you quieter during the days we aren’t shooting and how you always seem happier after having a full meal. And your light is so beautiful and bright and I feel sad seeing you sad.”
“Oh.”
Your fidgeting hands stilled. That wasn’t the reaction you’d been hoping for. You knew she wouldn’t return your feelings but you had at least thought that maybe she’d laugh it off or something. Something lighter.
“Yeah.” You hesitated, waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t. “I’ve gotta get to work but I hope you like it.” You walked away before she could respond, feeling worse than you had before you had decided to put your heart and soul into food weeks ago.
The next day, you found a lunch box with a small embroidered A on it in the fridge. You went home from the office sick and left the crumpled paper bag with your confession inside in the trash.
—--------
People called Angela oblivious, but she noticed more than people gave her credit for. Well, at least about you. She hadn’t known what to do with the lunch now that she knew you made it. You worked the longest nights out of anyone without taking any credit, and she felt so guilty for making you make something for her every single day on top of it. I mean, they were delicious, but not if it came at your expense.
She went to Target and bought a lunchbox the very same day, resolving to pack her own so that way you could get a break. It was better that way, she thought, easier for the both of you.
At least, that’s what she’d thought before she was poking at the saddest lettuce she’d ever seen in her life, dreading eating it.
“I knew this would happen.” Chanse stood over her, hands behind his back.
“I don’t know how she does it, this is just-”
“Pitiful.” Chanse cut her off. “Absolutely. And that is why I rescued this for you.” He pulled the brown paper bag out from behind him and set it on the table. “She looked pretty distraught when she saw you brought your own and tossed this, but I knew yours would be sad. No offense.”
Angela frowned. “She was upset? I thought she’d be happy for me to take something off her plate.”
Chanse put his face in his hands. “Just eat your lunch, I have to go shoot a Games video.” It came out muffled and weary, the kind of weary that came from two people refusing to see the obvious for so long it hurt.
Angela didn’t even notice him leave, focused on the strawberries you’d left for her. They were cut into hearts. She felt warmth swell in her chest. So cute. When she reached into the bag next, instead of pulling out food, she pulled out a small piece of paper, folded into a careful square. She was glad you’d left a note again, she thought they were adorable. Every single one had been carefully stowed away in her desk drawer.
She unfolded the paper, prepared to see a simple message, one that would brighten her day no matter how small. But instead, she came face to face with what could only be described as a full on letter.
She pushed the strawberries to the side and began to read.
“Dear Ange,
I really don’t know how to say this. So I guess I’ll start at the beginning. In the beginning, there was nothing, and then there was something. Probably metal or something. I’m no scientist, and I’m not good with my feelings either, so it sure is a good thing I decided to become an editor. When they hired me here, I was scared. So scared. I mean are you kidding me this is Smosh, like actual Smosh. Like 2004 Ian and Anthony from Smosh. And they hired me. Wild. Anyway, the point is that I nearly crumbled from the pressure and the workload and everything. And even when I was a newbie and a mess, you were kind and funny and put me at ease. You were a good friend. And I know that’s what we are now, good friends.
Chanse and Tommy told me to write this. They ganged up on me and told me it couldn’t go wrong. I’m pretty doubtful of that, but they held me at metaphorical gay gunpoint and said “write down your feelings or we’ll ruin your life” and “we’ll support you you weirdo”. But that’s beside the point. I’m just rambling now because I’m scared.
I’m scared to ruin us, because I love you. I made you lunches because I love you and it killed me inside to watch you be miserable. I’m writing this because I love you so much. I love you more than the sun loves the moon and the same amount that Shayne and Court love each other because they’re the blueprint and I can’t imagine two people loving each other more.
Even if you don’t feel the same, I still thought you should know. Hopefully the lunches were good at the very least. I tried to learn how to make your favorites.”
It was signed with a heart and a smudge that looked suspiciously like a tear stain. Angela couldn’t tell if it was from you or from her. Looking inside the bag again, the rest of the lunch was indeed her favorite, containers stacked in a meticulous way that came from the utmost care. Her heart caught in her throat. It really had been you this whole time. Not just the lunches, but in every quiet way that mattered more than screaming it to the world, and she had barely even grasped how much she loved you too. Fuck.
She grabbed her phone and called you without a second thought. When you picked up, it sounded like you had been crying.
“Hey Ange.”
“Hey. I got your note.”
You sniffled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I love you too, you silly goose. And you got my favorite lunch right.”
You let out a relieved sigh, voice still shaky from crying. “Thank god, I took forever interrogating Amanda for that. What do you want for lunch tomorrow?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I want to take you on a date instead. Wherever you want.”
She heard your breath hitch. “Really?”
“Really.”
A/N: She can finish a fic and post it???? Crazy. Lowkey embarrassed at how long it's taking me to write rn guys but I'm trying I promise. I have like constant brain fog and I'm tired 24/7 tho. Anyway have the first belated pride month fic that I started during June but couldn't finish during June.
surely i have seen torrents and seen ripples, here and now lies somewhere in between
pairing: angela giarratana x reader
summary: angela and reader spend a quiet morning in
warnings: fluff, fluff, and more fluff
word count: 1.2k words
a/n: i am so sorry for missing pride month. i had so much going on - i went to a 5sos concert and had three birthdays - but this is my late post for angela. i intended for the reader to be a fem!reader, but i think i made it to where it can be any. if you notice any pronouns or descriptors that make it undoubtedly feminine please let me know and i will fix the pairing. thank you !
you wake up to the feeling of multiple limbs wrapped around you. the sun pouring in through the curtain-less window being enough to nearly blind you, causing your eyes to squint after blinking a few times. you breathe deep through your nose without moving a muscle to allow for you to take in the morning that has yet to start. because you know that the second it does it's not going to stop until your head hits the pillow and the moon is the one to bleed light over everything in the room. the air you had inhaled goes back into the space around you as a soft smile grows on your lips. you finally turn your head to the right and find the face you've been itching to see, hair waterfalls over their eyes in that way she hates but you can't get enough of.
"morning, ange." two words that you produced at barely above a whisper, but based on the way she whines while lightly stretching then adjusts herself so that she's as close to you as possible, since she can't get under your skin, more than enough to wake angela up. you chuckle at that. "come on, we have a lot to get done today."
once again you feel her arms and legs tighten around you in a silent attempt to keep you stuck to her and therefore stuck in bed. and you can't blame her. you don't want to get up, either; if you could, you would put every clock in the world on hold just so the two of you could stay next to each other all day without the worries of life and responsibilities looming in the background. but, unfortunately, like you told angela, you have a lot to do, and just as unfortunately you've yet to gain the ability to manipulate every clock on earth. so today will have to be faced like any other.
"if you let me up i can go get a pot of coffee started."
and that seems to be the key.
only a few silent seconds follow before angela loosens her grip on you and lets her once-constricting limbs lay spread out on the mattress. you look over before making any effort to get up, immediately noting the minor look of defeat that paints her face. you try not to make it obvious that the sight causes you to chuckle. so, instead, you lean over and plant your lips on her cheek. she seems to appreciate the way you let the kiss linger.
sooner than either of you would like you pull back but remain less than an inch from her skin; you couldn't bare to go any farther.
"you know i would stay right here, all day long if i could. but, much to our dismay, we're adults, and adults have bills to pay and deadlines to meet."
"i know," she all but sighs. "it just sucks that we haven't invented a way to make passive income based on beauty, because being with you i'd be set for life."
you feel yourself blush at the cheesy yet absurdly romantic compliment. in response, you move closer again but this time allow your and her lips to connect. again it lingers.
when it does ultimately break, neither of you able to recall exactly how long it lasted, you find angela smiling - in the most endearing way possible - like an idiot up at you. you don't try to hide your laugh this time.
"loser," you get out between your own smile while finally peeling yourself off the blankets and standing.
"your idiot," angela corrects.
you make a face towards her, scrunches eyebrows and lips playfully wrinkled. then turn towards the kitchen to start o. the coffee you promised her. but mostly promised yourself. yoy take a deep breath while stood at the pot, new pod already inserted because the idea of grinding beans and pulling shots of espresso by hand is enough to make you want to crawl back into bed by itself. forget actually doing it.
the smell finally rises high enough for you to catch, and you suspect that this is going to be the best feeling of the morning. that is until you feel a pair of arms wrap around your torso and connect at the front, their head finding a perfect spot on your upper back almost to the point of being able to rest in the space between your shoulder and neck. you lean your own head back slightly to find them and smile when you do. just like in bed they adjust to get closer to you. and despite the fact that it seems physically impossible to do so you're pretty sure they succeed.
"comfortable?"
you get your answer by way of a deep breath that involuntarily results in a quick squeak from her vocal chords. you don't think you know enough words to describe how that makes you feel. but if, for some reason, you were asked to, the best thing you manage to land on is 'calm'. and even though you've already told angela about how busy the both of you are going to be today, told yourself, you don't feel the need to rush. you feel perfectly content in the idea of making two cups of coffee then sitting on the couch for as long you need to finish said cups.
and almost like it can read your thoughts the coffee maker loudly spits out of the last couple of ounces into angela's mug thst you remove from under the spout before replacing it with yours, effortlessly throwing the old pod away with one hand while, at the same time, inserting a new one with the other. both of them go back to angela's without thinking about it.
"do we have to go out today," she whines in that voice that she does when she's trying extra hard to get what she wants. normally, it works on you, but today there's just too much to do for you to give in. so instead you loosen her grip on you to allow for you to turn around and face her. "hi," she greets with that same face from earlier.
"hi," you echo. "and to answer your question, yes, we do. but it shouldn't take us too long and then we can get lunch at that new palestinian place you've been wanting to try. how does that sound?"
angela seems to think on it for a moment before breathing in through her nose, eyes still fixed on you. "okay. but only because you offered to pay."
you feel your mouth fall open with a hint of a smile. "i didn't-… y'know what, fine. because i love you so much, i will pay. but you're getting my coffee on the way to work tomorrow."
angela nods with the side of her face pressed into your chest. and before long your pod is empty. angela detaches herself from you to carry her mug while you follow behind with your own. you both situate yourselves on the couch, side-bu-side and multiple limbs touching.
it's prefect.
she's perfect.
you lean over and plant a kiss on angela's temple.
⋆.˚˖࿔ pairing — fratboy!jongseob x reader [ 9.4k ]
synopsis — jongseob takes on theo’s bet to last the semester in a relationship with you, the campus untouchable. a difficult target, a newsletter club, a race against time, and an unexpected bond leave him with an impossibly difficult decision.
details — sfw, college au, frat!piwon, mature themes (alcohol, mentions of sex), bet trope, haters to lovers, angst, hurt, theo/keeho/intak are douchebags, kissing, very implicit sex, soulseob are besties, jiung is paternal
requested by anon!
𓆩⟡𓆪 note || angst soup, anyone?
Knowing what he knows now, Jongseob should have gone to bed earlier that night like he’d originally planned.
⸝⸝
“Jongseob has no game, we can’t make him do it.”
Jongseob looked up from his phone at the mention of his name. “Make me do what?”
His friends were scattered in the living room of the Lambda Chi Alpha house in various states of intoxication, the empty bottles of beer and cups littered on the floor as evidence. Soul was playing on his DS, Jiung was trying to keep the area clean while Intak kept adding to the mess with more solo cups and crumbs, Theo was laid flat on the ground face-down, and Keeho was on the couch looking straight at Jongseob with a smile that was equally unnerving and punchable.
“Theo and I were just talking about that girl from our class,” Keeho explained.
Jiung tied up the plastic bag full of garbage and put it aside before he made his way to join the deformed circle. “The one from calc?”
“No, the hot but annoying one from econ,” Intak said.
Theo made a groaning sound to input his disdain.
It was hard not to know the girl they were talking about. The one who was insanely smart but also insanely insufferable and apparently the source of great despair for both Theo and Keeho, who had to put up with her every Monday mornings and makes it everyone’s problems on Monday nights when they’re all gathered at the house for takeout. So yes, Jongseob was very familiar with the girl with overbearing tendencies and a know-it-all attitude that was not only a problem for Keeho and Theo, but for him too from how often he had to hear about it. He’d started subconsciously resenting her just from the stories.
“Okay,” Jongseob said, putting his phone down. “What does my lack of game have anything to do with her?”
“We had a theory,” Theo said as he pushed himself up to his knees, brushing his hair out of his face with his hands. “Maybe the reason she’s so wound up is because no one’s unwinding her.”
Jiung scrunched his nose in disgust, succinctly mirroring Jongseob's internal emotion at the thought. “Why do you have to say it like that?”
“It’s a valid theory,” Intak defended. “People with no sexual outlet are usually more cranky.”
“But the problem is she’s so cranky that no one wants to sleep with her,” Keeho added, and Jongseob had the unsettling feeling he knew where this was going. “Hence my plan.”
Jongseob narrowed his eyes at Keeho. “Don’t tell me you were planning on pimping me off to your self-proclaimed nemesis to make your life easier.”
Keeho rolled his eyes with a laugh. “No, we’ve established you have no game. That’s exactly why I wasn’t going to offer you.”
Jongseob scowled at him, offended. “I totally have game.”
Keeho’s smile turned into a wolfish grin. “Oh yeah? You wanna take the bullet for us then?”
“No, I’m not sleeping with her for this. I’m not a pig. You do it.”
“No, she hates me and Theo.”
“I’ll do it,” Intak offered with a sleazy grin. “I like ‘em feisty anyways.”
Theo scoffed as he leaned back against the arm of the couch. “She would never go for the campus slut. Jiung might work though.”
Jiung immediately stood up at the mention of his name. “Absolutely not. I want no part of this,” he said as he turned and abandoned them for the kitchen.
Soul, who’d been quietly gaming away, pipes up from where he was curled up on the bean bag. “Isn’t this a little… mean? Talking about her like this?”
Keeho waved his hand dismissively at Soul. “She’s meaner. Way meaner.” He then turned to Jongseob. “You might just be our last shot then.”
“I already said no.”
“You don’t have to sleep with her,” he amended. “But for the love of god, please just get in there and loosen her up or something.”
“Are we even sure she’s capable of love?” Theo wondered aloud, looking up melodramatically at the ceiling.
Intak tried to butt in again. “I could make her fall in love with me in a month.”
“I bet two hundred that she murders you before that happens,” Theo retorted drily, ignoring Intak’s offended cry as he looked at Jongseob again with narrowed, calculating eyes. “I bet a hundred you wouldn’t even last a month just dating her. She’s a nightmare.”
Keeho fixed him with the same stare, sizing him up. “I’d give him two. Seobie’s stronger than he looks.”
Now this felt a little ridiculous. He’d heard about her from other people too; sure, the girl seemed pretty difficult, but maybe she was just stuck in a perpetual bad day. She probably had a good side to her like everyone else did; maybe she just didn’t feel like showing it. She wasn’t obligated to. And the competitor in him was stirring at the first sniff of a challenge.
“There’s no way she’s that bad,” Jongseob said, crossing his arms.
“Have you been listening to any of the stories I’ve been telling you guys for the past four months?”
“Not really.”
Keeho shoved his finger in Jongseob’s face. “Rude.”
Jongseob swatted his hand away and looked at Theo. “Four hundred if I can last by the end of next semester. I’m not sleeping with her though.” Four hundred can get him that bass guitar he’s been wanting forever and Theo was rich enough so he might as well have taken the chance.
Theo grinned at him, conniving and cocksure. “Bet.”
Keeho whistled, an impressed look on his face as he leaned back on his arms. “You’re brave.”
Jongseob shrugged and turned his attention back to his phone. “I just really doubt she’s that bad.”
𓆩⟡𓆪
He remembers eating those words after meeting you for the first time.
⸝⸝
Jongseob had signed up for the newsletter club when the semester started, which he learned from Theo was composed of a handful of people and, more importantly, led by you. He had high hopes going in; he needed more extracurriculars on his resume and it was the perfect way to connect with you. A win-win situation. And the rules for the bet that were outlined to him were that he had to start dating you within the first month and the relationship had to last until the last day of class for the year.
But after just that first day with you, he could tell why you got the bad rap that you did.
You were curt with your introductions and sent everyone right to work with homework of all things, on the basis that you needed to evaluate whether they were good enough to stay on the club despite the fact that everyone already had to go through the application and interview process.
He could excuse it as you just being extra thorough, but when he’d gone to you for clarification on the topic (and to just get a chance to talk with you), you’d waved him away with a quick, “If you’re so good, you’ll figure it out.”
You refused to talk to the new joiners any further, stating you had more important things to do than babysit. You were cold, distant, snippy, full of yourself, and wore your brows perpetually furrowed in concentration or anger or whatever the emotion was that you always carried on your face. Everything that everyone claimed you were.
He’s not sure why he didn’t listen to them. It would’ve saved him all the trouble.
But he was in it now, and he wanted that bass bad. So what if he had to go through a little psychological torture.
When Theo had welcomed him home with a “How was the first day?” and a knowing smirk, Jongseob had just flipped him off before locking himself away in his room to get cracking on your assignment.
He didn’t expect it to be as difficult and as long as it was, and it had to be handwritten for whatever reason. It was hard enough that by the next week, only two of the six new joiners had come back.
And when he tried to turn his assignment in, you handed it right back to him without so much as a glance.
“The fact that you’re still here means you have what it takes,” you said, turning back to your laptop and waving him away.
Jongseob stared at you, his jaw slacked. “I worked on this for days,” he starts slowly. “I gave up so many hours of sleep for this and you’re not even gonna read it?”
You looked up at him, your fingers still typing away on your laptop. “That’s how this industry works,” you said. Your hands paused over the keyboard for a moment. “Hours of tireless work can end up scrapped. It might not see the light of day and just collect dust in a corner. If you can’t deal with that, then this place isn’t for you.”
His jaw ticked. The sleeplessness had weakened his inhibitions and there was nothing stopping the ire seeping through his tight words. “This is just a club,” he stated, teeth clenched.
Everyone in the club room froze as soon as the words left his lips.
Your face turned to stone, the cold dialed to an eleven, and Jongseob immediately regretted his words. “Is that so?” You asked, your voice level despite the anger coming alive in your eyes. You leaned forward, folding your arms on the table, and Jongseob suddenly felt small despite the fact that he was looking down on you from where he stood in front of your desk. “If this is just a club to you, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
Maybe I shouldn’t, he nearly said. But that wouldn’t work. He had to be here for this to work even though this made him want to turn around and never look back again.
He should’ve ran back then.
He swallowed his words and shook his head, forcing his eyes to the ground in submission. “No. I’m sorry, it’s not just a club,” he said, though he didn’t believe the words.
He needed to do what it took to be on your good side even if you already looked like you hated his guts after exchanging just a few words, and so the seeds of doubt were already planted in his mind.
Your eyes narrowed at him, like you didn’t quite believe him. “Get to work,” you ordered, and Jongseob had to physically bite down on his tongue to hold himself back.
In the name of his future bass, he obeyed and got to work.
𓆩⟡𓆪
Jongseob had nearly quit a few weeks later. The work you’d been dumping on him is so much more than what you’d been giving the other new guy. It didn’t take much to figure out that you actually did hate him. All it took was that one comment that he was really regretting let slip past his tongue, although he didn’t see what the fuss about it was.
He’d tried to smooth things over and tried to talk to you but you were unreceptive to all of his attempts. All you talked about is work and articles and interviews and there was just no opportunity for him to steer the conversation towards anything productive for his quest. You would just consistently shut him down and tell him to get to work.
He’s said this much to Soul, who was sitting on his bed and listening politely while Jongseob paced his room.
“You should ask her about what she’s interested in,” Soul suggested after Jongseob’s rant. “Everyone likes talking about what they’re passionate about.”
Jongseob threw his hands up in frustration. “I’ve tried! She doesn’t talk about anything but the damn club.”
“That’s because she’s passionate about the club,” Soul pointed out as he pulled his knees to his chest. “Ask about why she likes writing. People like it when people are interested in them.”
Jongseob stopped pacing and turned to stare at his best friend. “Oh. That’s… kind of obvious.”
“Maybe I should’ve taken the bet,” Soul joked with a giggle. “I’m better with people than you.”
Jongseob bristled at that, feeling strangely possessive. “No, this is my task. I need that bass.” It’s his challenge and he’d be damned to let anyone take it from him. You’re the puzzle he’d set out to solve, the enigma that tickled his brain, an itch he needed to scratch. He wanted to figure you out.
“If you say so.”
𓆩⟡𓆪
Soul might be some sort of genius, Jongseob had decided after the next meeting. Or he was just right about being better at people.
When Jongseob had sat with you in the office, alone with you for once since he needed to put in a little overtime to get one of his articles done, he’d taken his chance, and he came out of it alive to his surprise.
He’d eased into it, started off with asking how you got to joining the club and some follow ups after that, all of which only got him curt responses and a jibe at him to focus on his work.
But he’d ignored you and barrelled on, too dialled in now to back down. Then he’d asked you the question that got him through your first wall, one of many others to come.
“Why do you like writing?"
He could still picture it in his head as he lay in bed that night; the way that your hands had faltered and your face had softened in a way he’d never seen before.
You’d looked up at him from your screen, a little shocked but thoughtful as you crafted your answer in the silence that followed. He could still remember the cadence of your voice, soft like the setting sunlight that washed into the room.
“It’s making something out of nothing that leaves an impression on people,” you had answered and he could swear he saw your eyes practically sparkle. “You can make them feel anything. Angry, happy, sad, mournful. Isn’t that powerful?”
Your smile hadn’t been on your lips. It had been in your eyes.
He swore it felt like his limbs had ceded all his power to the way you’d gazed at him for the next few seconds. He couldn’t read the emotion in your eyes but when you looked back at your laptop, that perpetual furrow in your brows was nowhere to be seen.
𓆩⟡𓆪
He broke through another one of your walls when he walked into the office after a late class to pick up something he’d forgotten to take with him the day before, only to be stopped short when he saw you crying quietly at your desk.
He froze at the door, his grip on his phone nearly slipping. You were sitting in your chair facing away from the door with your face buried in your palms and your body trembling with quiet sobs. Your sniffles echoed through the quiet room, restrained like you didn’t want to allow yourself to cry even when you were alone.
He didn’t realize he was moving until he was standing right behind you and brushing your shoulder with his hand. You jumped with a gasp, your head whipping around at him.
He still remembers the way your eyes were wide and rimmed red, glassy under the single lamp lit at your desk. There were tear stains on your flushed cheeks and your lips were trembling with contained sobs.
The thought slapped him without announcement: you look pretty. But this looked wrong. Like weakness wasn’t meant to be worn in your eyes.
“Jongseob,” your voice brought him out of his internal panic, soft and vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to from you. You quickly turned away, frantically wiping at your eyes.
“S-Sorry!” He stumbled as he took a step back. “I just came to pick up something.”
“Well, take it and go then. It’s late, you shouldn’t be here.” Your voice is back to the steel that he’s used to from you, the change from mere seconds ago so seamless that he started to question if you were even crying in the first place. You didn’t meet his eyes. You stared down your desk with your hair curtaining your face, like a defense to physically shut him out too.
But he didn’t budge. “Are you okay?”
He expected you to yell at him again. To tell him it was none of his business, or to actually shove him away. But you remained quiet.
Until your shoulders started to tremble again and your breaths started to sound stuttered. Then, in a voice so quiet, so weak that it made you seem so small, you told him, “No.”
He didn’t think twice before he sat himself down on the floor beside your chair. But he stayed silent. He let you cry and kept you company until you finally opened up to him for the first time.
“It’s not just a club to me,” you said through quiet sniffles. His words came echoing back to him and he couldn’t hold back his cringe. He looked up at you and saw you still staring at your desk with a distant gaze. He kept quiet and gave you the space to continue. It took a few more moments for you to. “I’ve wanted to be a writer for my entire life. My dad thinks it’s a waste of time. That my career is a waste of time. That my choices are misguided.
“I was just on the phone with him. I mean, I’ve heard everything he said a million times already but—“ You broke off, your eyes watering with a fresh wave of tears. “But it still hurts to know I’m somehow worth less to him than my siblings because I don’t want to follow in his path.”
He understood it then. Kind of. Why you ran the club like the military. You had something to prove to not only your family but to yourself.
Jongseob pulled himself up to his feet and slid the box of tissues on your desk closer to you. “He’s wrong,” he stated. Your eyes lifted back on him, searching, and he felt his throat close in. He still pushed the words out. “Your passion doesn’t make you anything less than your family just because it’s different. It’s what makes you you.”
There was a small uptick of your lips and it made him feel like he should do a backflip. Your smile, something he’s never seen on you, is pretty too, even if it’s a tiny thing.
“I know that,” you said, and he blushed in fear that he just sounded corny. “But thank you.”
That felt like all the validation he needed that he was doing something right. That he really was beginning to work you open, bit by bit, and piece you together, bit by bit.
You didn’t stick around after that. You gathered your things quietly and left after wishing him a rare goodnight, leaving him standing in the room feeling a little off-kilter.
This side of you, vulnerable and small, was so different from what he was used to. Different from anything anyone has ever seen, he was pretty sure.
And he couldn’t help but feel like he’d already won.
𓆩⟡𓆪
The next few meetings were different. You were different. You were still as icy and stern as before, but when it came to him, you were different. Less sharp around the edges. You’d started looking to him for opinions, something that took everyone else by surprise. And you’d started asking him to take on tasks instead of just dropping them on him, though he still knew he can’t say no. He appreciated the change in tone regardless. And he didn’t let this development go to waste.
He’d started frequently offering to stay behind with you to finish final drafts when things got heavier for you. He told himself it was to further his little bet but he moreso just wanted to figure out how much more he could unravel you.
It became a routine after the first few times. A routine with coffee and sometimes takeout if you stayed back long enough. And conversations became more casual and less business.
“Lambda Chi Alpha,” you repeated over the lip of your coffee, narrowing your eyes at him. You took a slow sip, leaving him squirming a little under your calculating gaze. “You’re friends with Keeho and Theo?”
“Unfortunately,” he answered lightly, stirring the cup in his hand. “I’d say more roommates. I kind of just have to put up with them.”
You raised a brow at him. “So you’re not like them is what you’re saying?”
“Depends on what you define as ‘like them’.”
“Loud, arrogant, full-of-themself, disrespectful if you don’t immediately bend to their whims?”
He took a deep breath at your apt deduction. “Yup,” he said through a sharp exhale. “I’m saying that I’m precisely not like them.”
Then you laughed softly, a sound that echoes in his mind to this day.
“I can tell,” you said with a smile that he became more familiar with, more fond of.
It had made his heart stutter a bit. Nerves, he told himself, because he needed to act soon. He could hear Theo’s voice in his head reminding him that the end of the month is near and there wasn’t a date in sight.
It was the perfect moment to make that step. The articles had been submitted, there were no near deadlines looming over you, midterms were still some time away, and the atmosphere of the late afternoon was cozy.
He took a breath. It was now or never. “Hey—“
“Can I ask—“ You paused when you realized you'd just talked over him. “Sorry, go ahead.”
He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s alright,” he said with a smile, leaning forward on his chair. He had moved to the desk next to you, so the distance between you both was only a few feet. “I can wait for you,” he adds, a little flirtatious, and it had you flushing at the cheeks.
This had been another one of his developments; you flustered easily. Something he’d been using to his advantage more recently. And you didn’t seem to mind, almost played into them in fact.
You cleared your throat, sitting up straight. “Alright,” you started, fidgeting with your cup. “I’ve never done this before but… I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime.” You were staring at your cup as you said it with a nervous candour, another thing he wasn’t used to seeing you with. “Like on a date.”
Jongseob could actually do a back flip right then with the energy that shot through him. When you finally looked up and met his grin with one of your own, he got that familiar feeling again— like he’d just won.
𓆩⟡𓆪
One date turned to two, then to three, then to five. The fifth one was the one where he found himself in front of your dorm room, dropping you off safely to wrap up your arcade date from where he learned you were just as competitive as he was and even more scary if there were prizes to be won.
You were easy to be with, he found. So easy when you weren’t hiding away behind walls. You were insightful, witty, smart, funny in an unexpected way, and you were into the same games as he was, funnily enough.
You clicked. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of things together. And he watched you change for the better. Watched you smile more now that you finally had someone’s shoulder to lean on, less burdened on your own.
He learned more about your upbringing, about your family, about why your ambition was both your armour and your weapon.
Every little thing he found out about you helped the puzzle of you become clearer and clearer by the day. More than ever, he didn’t want to stop figuring you out.
“You didn’t have to come all the way up,” you told him as you fumbled with your keys to unlock the door.
He leaned against the wall beside your door, watching the smile you were struggling to smother on your lips. “Just being a gentleman.”
Truthfully, he didn’t really want the date to end just yet so he’d offered to walk you up rather than leave you off at the entrance of your building like he’d done the other times.
It got a laugh out of you as you finally unlocked the door. But you didn’t go inside just yet, you hovered by him instead. “Jongseob,” you said, looking up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
His breath caught in his throat and he was pretty sure his heart had just combusted in his chest. “Inside?” He asked, just to make sure he hadn’t heard you wrong.
You smiled, a shy, pretty thing. “Yeah. If you want to.”
He swallowed back the tangle of nerves and excitement that climbs up his throat. “Yeah,” he said without much thought. Because he wanted to.
When you kissed him for the first time, the farthest thing on his mind was the bet. All he thought of was the plush of your lips against his and the sweetness of your scent muddling his brain of everything but you.
And when you brought him to your bed, he forgot about the bet all together, all his thoughts on the heat of your skin beneath his palms and the sweet sounds of your voice around his name.
It was when he was laying on his back trying to piece himself together after and you had told him you’d never been with anyone else that the guilt had sunk its claws into his ribs. And it didn’t let go for the following months to come.
𓆩⟡𓆪
“Dude!” Keeho yelled, running up from behind, slamming his hands down on Jongseob’s shoulder and stopping him on his way to the club office. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing but well-fucking-done.”
Theo appeared beside Jongseob and slapped a hand to his back that had him nearly knocking into Keeho. “Turns out the bitch does have a heart,” Theo mused, and Jongseob almost recoiled with the acid that burned at the back of his throat after hearing that.
“Don’t call her that,” he snapped.
Theo’s brows raised as he pulled his hand back to himself. “Woah. Didn’t realize it was that serious.”
“It’s not,” Jongseob said quickly, pushing Keeho’s hands off of him. “But she’s really not all that you make her out to be. She’s just got a lot of shit to deal with, alright?”
“And that gives her the right to treat everyone around her like shit?” Keeho asked, crossing his arms.
That rubbed the wrong nerve and Jongseob couldn’t hold himself back. “Oh, and you’re so much better?” Even after the words left his mouth, he still didn’t regret it.
Keeho’s expression soured and he took a step forward. “What the hell does that mean?”
Jongseob was taller but he was also much skinnier so he should feel threatened, but he couldn’t find himself caring enough to. “I just mean you haven’t exactly given her the easiest of times either.”
Theo got in between them before anything could start. He fixed Jongseob with a reprimanding look. “Watch it,” he said, nearly scowling. “Are you saying you actually like her?”
Honestly, it wasn’t something he could answer. He didn’t know if the feelings he had towards you were real or if this whole bet thing had illusioned them up for the success of his own greed. But all he knew was that he came to respect you as a person, whether it was romantic or not.
“Does it matter?” Is what Jongseob settled for as an answer. “The bet’s still on.”
𓆩⟡𓆪
Being with you was the easiest thing Jongseob had ever done. It was also the thing that burrowed a stone deep in his ribs, one that ached and throbbed with guilt every time he was with you.
The late days at the office were all that he looked forward to three times a week besides your dates. The ones where you spent half the time deep diving into obscure topics just to argue with each other about it, all in the name of friendly competition. It was the most fun that he found himself having in his otherwise mundane life. It was the thing that he thought back on most of his day as he completed his chores.
Soul had caught Jongseob smiling to himself in the laundry room as he hummed a tune of an album you’d shown him and folded his laundry.
“Have you told her about the bet yet?”
Jongseob nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden voice. He whipped around to glare at Soul. “Jesus, Shota! A warning, please!”
Soul seemed unbothered. “Have you told her about the bet yet?”
The stone in his ribs started to feel heavy and jagged. “No, why would I?” He asked. He felt the sharp sting in his chest, the same feeling he got whenever the topic was brought up.
Soul yanked his Pikachu head-band off his head and chucked it at Jongseob’s.
Jongseob barely dodged it before he turned to glare again at Soul. “Okay, what the fuck.”
“You’re an idiot,” is all Soul said as he picked up his handband from the floor and stomped away.
Jongseob stared at Soul’s retreating figure, befuddled.
“What he means to say is that this is a bad idea.”
Jongseob jumped again and whipped around to see Jiung enter the laundry room through the other door with his bin of clothing.
“I need to put a bell on you people,” Jongseob grumbled to himself as he returned to folding his laundry, added with an aggressive flare this time. “Also, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jiung leaned against the washing machine with his arms crossed and a frown on his face, one almost like he was scolding. “I think you do. You like this girl.”
Jongseob’s movements faltered for a short moment before he started gathering his clothes in his basket, figuring he would just fold them up in his room. “I don’t.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes!” He snapped, then flinched back, taken aback by his own volume.
“…Right.”
Jongseob didn’t even have to look at Jiung to know that he’d lost the conversation, so he tucked tail and left.
𓆩⟡𓆪
The panic built up inside of him for the next month. It had been over two months that you’ve been dating and a month since you’d become exclusive. There were only three weeks left until he won the bet. But he didn’t feel any close to winning, because he had come to the terrible realization that he was in love with you. But it wasn’t a reality he could accept knowing what he knew; how this whole thing had started. He didn’t even care about winning the bet anymore. He just wanted to know how he could keep you.
He could come clean. But that would mean losing you. He could hide it all. But that would mean he’d lose himself.
Soul and Jiung’s disappointed faces flashed behind his eyes as he dropped his head to his desk. He sat there, stewing in the despair of his own curation, until he felt a hand in his hair, gentle and grounding.
He looked up to be met with your concerned face peering down at him. “You okay?”
He leaned into your touch, sighing at the way your nails scratch against his scalp. “M’okay,” he mumbled, feeling all his panic drain away with just a simple touch from you. “Just stressed about finals, that’s all.”
“Aw,” you cooed softly, dragging your nails down to the back of his head, a motion that had him shuddering. “Wanna come to my place and study?”
He opened his eyes and gave you a cheeky smile. “Study?” He asked, swivelling his chair to face you. He placed his hands on your hips and pulled you in to stand between his legs. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”
You rolled your eyes as your hands fell to his shoulders, but you were smiling. “You’re the one who started that. You were the distracting one, not me.”
He laughed, leaning forward to press a kiss to your stomach, the closest part of you he could reach with his lips. It always went like this; he would agonize over his predicament whenever he was left to his thoughts but would forget all about it the second you were nearby.
“I heard about the party your frat’s hosting the weekend after next,” you said, playing with the string of his hoodie. “How come you haven’t invited me yet?”
The truth was he didn’t want you interacting with any of his friends. It would make his situation too real. It felt comfortably hypothetical currently.
“I didn’t think it was your scene,” he answered instead, rubbing circles on your hips with his thumbs, firm against your shirt.
“It’s not,” you agreed. “But you’re going to be there. And it’s the last party before the year ends so… I dunno.” You were being shy again, averting your eyes and chewing on your lip, and he was overwhelmed with fondness. “I kind of wanna be there with you.”
He couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. “You wanna be there for me?” He teased, yanking you right back in when you groan and try to pull away. “In that case, I want you there.” He could never deny you, it felt physically impossible to.
You visibly relaxed at that, your shoulders slumping. “Oh, good,” you said with a small smile. “For a second I was worried you were, like, embarrassed by me or something.”
His smile fell immediately. “Embarrassed?” He asked in disbelief. “Why would I be embarrassed by you?”
You shrugged, averting your eyes again as you tie and untie the strings of his hoodie. “You’ve never introduced me to your friends. And I’m not an airhead, I know what people think of me.”
He tensed at your admission, that festering guilt rooting deeper and slithering down to his gut. He distracted himself by pulling you in closer, bringing you down to straddle his lap.
“They just don’t know you like I do,” he stated, snaking his arms around your waist. Then he smiled, light and playful, juxtaposed to how he was feeling on the inside. “But I kind of like being the only one to have this side of you.”
He celebrated internally when that brought the smile back onto your lips. “Corny,” you said through your tinkling laugh. “Possessive. An idiot is what you are.”
“The luckiest one,” he said, and then he kisses you to numb the way his insides twist at the lie. He was the unluckiest lucky person to exist.
Luck had brought him to you but luck becomes the thing that takes you away just the same.
𓆩⟡𓆪
Bringing you to that party was the most foolish thing he could have done, he realizes now.
⸝⸝
Introducing you to Jiung was the right way to start at least, he’d thought as he watched the two of you chat in the kitchen, away from the crowd. When Soul got thrown into the mix, you were immediately endeared by him, giggling at his strange antics. It was the first time he’s seen you so at ease around others, so open to expressing around them. You had told him earlier that it was his presence with you that helped you stay at ease.
A hand to his shoulder snapped his eyes away from the scene and to Intak.
“Dude,” Intak said, already slurring. “Your girl looks hot. Better treat her real nice with the money you’re get—“
Jongseob didn’t let him finish before he got his hand slammed over his big mouth and pushed him out of the kitchen.
“Are you insane?!” Jongseob whisper-yelled at Intak’s frightened eyes. He pulls his hand back from Intak’s. “Don’t talk about that when she’s around, you idiot—“
“Don’t talk about what?”
Jongseob whipped around so fast he nearly threw himself off balance and knocked himself into Intak.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, moving to you and wrapping his arm around your waist. His heart was pounding in his chest and he was quickly beginning to realize what a mistake it was to bring you here. “Let’s go out for some fresh air, okay?”
“Okay,” you agreed easily, then looked at Intak who smiled charmingly at you and even gave you a little bow. You didn’t seem all that impressed though. “Hwang Intak, right?”
Intak’s eyes lit up instantly. “You know me?”
“Unfortunately.”
Jongseob coughed to smother his laugh when Intak’s face fell just as quick. “Come on, don’t start a fight with my roommates,” he said playfully to you as he started to pull you away.
You moved along with him as he started steering you towards the top floor for the balcony. “I could take him.”
“Sure you can,” he said fondly as he weaved through the crowds in the halls.
He felt lucky that it was so crowded. Maybe enough so that you wouldn’t run into the two devils that had been sitting comfortably on his shoulder the past few months.
But it’s already been established that he was the unluckiest lucky guy.
Because as soon as he rounded the corner to the stairs, Keeho and Theo were on their way down, attached at the hip like they always were.
“Look who it is!” Keeho said with a wide grin as he stopped a few steps above you.
Theo had a subtle smirk on his lips, one that Jongseob knew meant trouble. He felt suddenly like they’ve just been thrown into the wolves’ den.
“We were just going to go to the balcony,” Jongseob said tightly. “For some air.”
“For some air,” Theo repeated, before turning to you.
You looked like this is the last place you’d want to be. But you mustered up a pleasant smile, like you’re trying to keep the peace for Jongseob’s sake.
“Nice to see you guys,” you said, albeit stiffly. Everyone knew it was bullshit but Jongseob still appreciated the gesture.
Theo scoffed. “It still throws me off how you’re so pleasant all of a sudden.”
Jongseob squeezed your hand as a silent plea to back down, scared that these two might just be the spark you need to revert back to your icy ways.
But you didn’t bite the bait; you kept your control as you tilted your head at Theo and furrowed your brows in constructed confusion.
“Oh? I thought that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Your voice sounded steady though the implication of your words are loud. “I mean, that’s what I always hear from you two. That I’ve got a stick up my ass and whatnot. I thought I was doing everyone a favour by diverting to my pleasant ways but it looks like you two can’t be satisfied, can you?” You clicked your tongue in mock disappointment. “I guess you always need something to be miserable about.”
Keeho’s grin was faint now but it was still there with a barely restrained scowl. “I see you’ve still got a bite. But I wouldn’t be so arrogant about this if I were you.”
Theo took the last couple steps down to level with you and Jongseob. “You don’t know it yet but,” he paused to lean forward, his smirk pulling up to a deceptively warm smile. “You should really be thanking us for your new look for that.”
Jongseob’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way your face contorted with real confusion, and the way you were about to ask about it but Jongseob was quick to push past Theo and Keeho to climb the stairs.
“Come on, just ignore them,” he told you as he pulled you along.
The fresh air did little to soothe the heat prickling at his skin. But your arms snaking around from behind him while you press yourself against his back, did.
“Are you okay?” Came from your gentle voice, breath brushing against his ear as you pressed your chin to his shoulder.
He took a deep breath to ease down his rattling heart. “Better now,” he said as he turned in your arms and wrapped his arms around your neck.
You smiled up at him as he brushed back the hair bristling over your forehead with the wind. “I like your friends. Shota and Jiung, I mean,” you added quickly with a scrunch of your nose. “Not the others.”
He snorted, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. The moon is full and the stars are bright. He should have felt welcomed by them, they should have made this moment feel nicer. But he just felt mocked by them. Like they were saying that a moment this peaceful, with the girl he wanted in his arms, could never be his. It wasn’t really his, even if he was living it right now. It would never be his until he bares his truth to them.
“Jongseob,” you whispered, and he tilted his head back down.
That unreadable look in your eyes, the one that’s been more frequent the past few weeks, was back.
And suddenly he felt too raw, too exposed by the light of the moon and the stars.
“Yes?” He asked, feeling his heart slowly climb its way back up his throat.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He felt every fiber of his being go rigid. He couldn’t swallow his heart back down this time. “What do you mean?” His voice sounded distant from himself, like it was coming out of someone else.
You started to pull away but he kept his arms tight enough that you couldn’t put too much distance. Distance that he fears might be permanent if he lets it manifest.
The pinch between your brows was back as you chose your words. “You’ve been a little… distant these past few weeks. Hidden, more like. I don’t really know how to explain it.”
His breaths were starting to become harder to regulate. Of course you’d noticed something was up. You were one of the smartest people he knew. How could he think he could hide anything from you?
“Is it something I said?” You asked when he didn’t respond, your eyes wide and searching as they flickered between his. “Or something I did?”
“No,” he said quickly, his hands sliding down to catch your arms. “No, no you didn’t do anything.”
“Then what is it?”
This was his chance to come clean. He wanted to, he desperately wanted to. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out, fear trapping the words in his throat. The fear of losing you was greater than his need to come clean.
You were starting to look increasingly defeated as you waited, as you pleaded him with your eyes.
“Please,” you breathed after another moment of silence. “Please don’t tell me I fell in love with the wrong person.”
The world felt like it tilted on his axis as that word that slipped from your lips trapped itself in his brain and rattled around. His breaths ceased and his hands lost their grip on your arms.
“Love?” He whispered, the word tumbling out of his lips without his permission.
You dropped your gaze to his chest and it was like he could almost see the way your walls started to climb back into place. “I love you, Jongseob,” you said, clear as the night sky above. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you want. And I’m sorry if it’s too soon. But I needed to say it. I’ve wanted to say it for a couple weeks now.” You stepped out of his space and he was too weak to stop you this time, his strength zapped out of his body along with every other feeling.
“I love you,” you repeated it, like a final blow to his heart.
He was numb as he turned around and walked back inside. He could hear you calling his name behind him but he didn’t stop. He pushed his way through the crowd, frantic as he searched the rooms.
When he saw Theo, he zeroed right in on him. He grabbed him by the arm, ignoring his protests as he yanked him out to the front porch.
“Jongseob, what the hell is up with you?!” Theo cried as he was shoved up against the wall, Jongseob’s fists curled tight into his shirt collars.
“The bet,” Jongseob seethed. He felt almost manic, wouldn’t be surprised if he looked like it too if Theo’s vaguely terrified expression was anything to go by. “I want out. Fuck you and your stupid money, I want none of it.”
He was angry. And he was taking it out on Theo. But that didn’t make sense because he was angry at himself more than anything but there was too much going on in his brain for things to make any sense.
Theo tried to shove him back but Jongseob pushed him back hard into the bricks, overbearing from the adrenaline. “Listen to me!” He yelled. Theo’s eyes widened as they flicker between him and over his shoulder. Jongseob could hear the commotion of people gathering behind him but he didn’t care whose eyes were there. “You don’t speak a fucking word about the bet, you hear me?” He whispered the words right into Theo’s face, seeped in uncontained rage. “None of it. If she finds out at all, hears any fucking peep of it, you’re the one I’m coming for first. You get me?” He pushed Theo’s harder against the wall, making him wince in pain. His fists were knuckle white in Theo’s shirt and shaking from the force. He was shaking everywhere. “Say one word and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Theo could only stare at him, fear unbridled in his eyes.
“Jongseob.”
The name didn’t come from Theo’s lips. It came from a voice that has him going cold all over.
His hand dropped like deadweight at his sides and he turned like someone else was pulling the strings attached to his body.
The look on your face was like the one he saw on you when he first met you. Cold. Distant. Walled.
“Was I a bet, Jongseob?” You asked him. Your voice was stable. It was calculated. Reserved. Just like before.
All he could do was stare and watch the flashes of the moments he had with you flicker behind his eyelids.
“Tell me,” you started again, voice rising with each second that passed by. “Was I a bet? Was I a fucking bet?”
His throat felt dry as he spoke. “Yes.”
That pit of guilt in his ribs lifted as the admission left his lips. In its place sat grief, because he knew that this was the end of it.
But that still didn’t stop him from trying.
He tried to say your name, to reach for you but you were already gone. His feet felt weighted to the ground as he watched your figure push through the crowd of people he didn’t realize had formed around the scene.
He felt a hand shove at his back, pulling him out of whatever trance he was in. His head whipped back to see Theo reaching out to shove him again. “Go after her,” he urged, shoving him again. “Go!”
That snapped Jongseob into action. He turned and sprinted after you, shoving past the wall of people and yelling your name.
He could see your figure in the distance. You didn’t turn his way, you just kept walking. Eventually he caught you by the arm and pulled you back to him.
“Wait—“
“I don’t want to hear it!” You yelled immediately, throwing his arm off of you. There were tears streaming down your face, tracking eyeliner down your cheeks. Your face was twisted in agony and it hit him like a spear to the chest the realization that it was because of him.
“Just— please!” He caught both of your arms this time. He was still shaking and his eyes were blurry and his head was spinning but the one thing he knew was that he couldn’t let you go. “Let me explain!”
“We’re done,” you seethed, pulling yourself back but the grip he had on your arms was iron. “Let me go.”
“I love you!” He yelled, and you finally stopped struggling. He pulled you towards him, holding you firmly in his space. “I love you, I really do, you have to believe that.” He knew tears were streaming down his face and this was far from the ideal state that he wanted to be telling you that in. But he was done hiding. “I love you.”
You were watching every word fall from his lips, your expression falling neutral even despite the tears still welling your eyes. “You love me?” You asked, quiet enough that your voice is nearly drowned out by the rustling trees above you. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me.”
A sob wracked through his body, his fingers digging desperately into your skin. But you didn’t flinch or pull away, content to watch him drown in his miseries. “I was scared,” he whispered through a wet breath. “I was so scared. I knew I would lose you. But I swear, it just started off as a bet, but-but then I got to know you and I got to see you— the real you— and it’s something I never could have imagined. I fell for you. So hard.”
He was sobbing through his words and he wasn’t even sure if you could understand him but he couldn’t contain any of it. He let it all out, desperate that you’d see him through all of it.
“I love you,” he said, trembling from head to toe, breaths tumbling out in stutters, chest heaving with sobs. It was ugly, but it was honest. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”
You were quiet for a long moment, just watching, picture-still like a pretty statue.
“Please,” he tried again, stepping closer and pressing his forehead down to yours.
“Jongseob,” you said, and your voice was so gentle that it lit a flicker of hope in his chest, fragile and dangerous.
Your hand reached up to brush the tears on his cheek. The touch felt like a reprieve; he melted into it, turned into it, and sought out the warmth of your palm against his nose and lips, cold from the chilly air. Your hand slid down, slow as your thumb carved out the slope of his nose then the bow of his lips. He breathed in your scent, sweet and familiar, and it fed the flicker in his chest.
“I can’t stay,” you said, and just like that, that flicked of hope snuffed out into nothing. “Not when I don’t know what was real and what wasn’t.”
Another sob wracked through his body as your hand fell away. “It was real,” he said, trying to catch your hand again but you pulled it away before he could. You stepped back until all that was left was your arm still clutched in his hand like a lifeline. “It was all real. I swear it on my life, it was real.”
Your face crumbled as you took his wrist in your free hand. “Not to me,” you said, and all the strength in his body left again. You pushed his hand off of you and he let it fall without a fight. “Not anymore.”
He was helpless to watch you fade away into the night. He wasn’t sure when he'd fallen to his knees but the ground was cold beneath him. It seeped up his leg and traversed through all his limbs, keeping him trapped there as it wrapped like a cage around his heart, squeezing down until he couldn't feel anymore.
𓆩⟡𓆪
It’s been four months exactly now since that fateful night in the LCA living room. Now he sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the first article he wrote for you and you’d refused to read, trembling in his hands.
It’s been a week now that you’ve walked out of his life. Ten days since the last time he got to sit with you in that office. Seven days since he’s last kissed you. Seven days since he last heard his name from your lips.
You’ve become a ghost. His texts lay unanswered. His phone calls all lead to a wall. And when he thinks he catches a glimpse of you around campus, you’re gone in the blink of an eye like an apparition made to keep his heart in throes.
He knows where to find you three times a week. But the thought of stepping anywhere near that room sends his stomach into twists.
The fact that he’s pretty sure he flunked his last few finals wasn’t even enough to take his mind off you. Nothing seems to matter now that he’s lost what could’ve been something great, something real.
And all he has to show for it now is this article and the memory of you.
“Burn it.”
His head lifts to see Jiung at the doorway, Soul hovering behind him. The looks on their faces just make him feel worse, caged.
Jongseob’s hands curl tighter into the papers. “Why?” His voice is hollow, just like the rest of him.
Jiung crosses the room in a few strides, picks up the trash bin by Jongseob’s desk and fishes out a lighter from his pockets. He places the bin on the floor in front of where Jongseob sits and drops the lighter on his lap.
Jongseob stares down at it blankly.
“You need to forget about her,” Jiung says gently, taking a seat beside him. “She’s not coming back.”
The words sting, no matter how true. But burning it would make everything feel too real and too final.
Soul sits on his other side, pressing close and dropping his head on his shoulder. The warmth is welcome after days of cold isolation. “It will be good for you,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want to.”
Jiung sighs and runs a palm down his back, a motion meant to soothe but just felt overwhelming. “If you don’t, you’ll just keep hurting.”
“Well maybe I deserve it,” Jongseob says, defeated. He can’t imagine how he thought he would come out of this victorious. “Why did I do something so stupid?”
“It wasn’t all your fault,” Jiung reasons. “Keeho and Theo pushed you.”
“But it was still my choice,” he snaps, then flinches back. “Sorry.”
Soul places a hand around Jongseob’s wrist and squeezes. “All you can do is move on now.”
Move on. Easier said than done.
“I don’t know how.”
Jiung takes the lighter abandoned on Jongseob’s lap and places it in his hand. “Start with this.”
His fingers wrap weakly around the lighter; it feels like a weight in his palm. This is starting to feel almost like a funeral, he thinks morosely. Like a last send off.
But he knows Jiung and Soul are right. Holding onto this would mean holding onto you. And you had long let go of him.
He flicks on the lighter and brings it to the corners of the pages, watching as the flames lick up the ivory and graphite. He lets it spread up and up, dropping it into the bin when he feels the heat first touch his fingertips.
Jongseob sits there, recalling the story of you and him as he watches the last remnant of you wither away to ashes.
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𓆩⟡𓆪 check out my masterlist for my other works + works in progress
Warning/s: swearing, kissing, fluff, established relationship
Summary: angela decides you’re going to make your own pride outfits.
HAPPY PRIDE, LOVELIES!!! <333
divider credits: @uzmacchiato
the bottle of glitter exploded like a tiny, iridescent bomb when angela dropped it. “shit!” she exclaimed, staring at the mess coating her forearm like some kind of craft-induced rash. then, without missing a beat, “well, now you have to wear this.”
you blinked at her from across the kitchen table, where you’d been carefully threading rainbow beads onto a string like a normal person. “that's not how consequences work.”
“it’s exactly how consequences work,” angela said, already shaking glitter off her arm and onto the half-finished rainbow jacket between you. little flecks caught the afternoon light, turning the disaster into something almost magical. “you see this? fate. the universe telling us we need more sparkle.”
you groaned, picking a purple sequin out of your hair. “the universe is a dick.”
she grinned, that particular grin that meant trouble—the one where her nose scrunched and her eyes got all bright like she’d just thought of the best worst idea. “yeah, but it’s our dick.” you gave her a disgusted look, but before you could protest, she’d snatched up the hot glue gun again, waving it like a conductor’s baton. “okay, new plan, we are leaning hard into the mess. trust me.”
"oh my god, are you licking crafting supplies now?"
“relax, it’s pva glue, not arsenic” she mumbled around the sticker sheet, then spat it onto the table triumphantly. she plucked a glitter-coated star from the sheet and pressed it directly onto your cheekbone before you could dodge. her thumb lingered, smearing glue slightly. “see? perfect. you’re basically a pride parade snow globe now.”
you reached up to touch the sticker, her fingers intercepted yours, lacing together instead. “nope, let it dry. c’mon, it’s fun!” she squeezed your hand, her own fingers sticky with glue and glitter, the kind of gross that somehow felt endearing when it was her. “remember our deal? first pride together means we go big or go home covered in questionable craft choices.”
you sighed, but it was the kind of sigh that meant i adore you and also you’re ridiculous. “fine. but if i end up with a hot glue mustache again, i’m divorcing you .”
“that was one time,” angela gasped, clutching her chest like you’d just stabbed her. “one time!” she flicked a stray sequin at your nose. “also, you can’d divorce me. we’re not married.”
“semantics,” you muttered, but she was already hip-checking you out of the way to rummage through the disaster zone of your dining table. fabric scraps, half-used sticker sheets, and approximately three thousand loose sequins slid onto the floor in her wake. she emerged triumphant with a roll of neon pink duct tape, holding it up like excalibur. “ah-ha! the pièce de résistance.”
you eyed the tape warily. “angela. no.”
“angela, yes.” she ripped off a strip with her teeth because of course she did, and before you could bolt, she’d slapped it across your chest diagonally like some kind of deranged sash. “there. now you’re officially miss pride 2026.”
you looked down at the duct tape monstrosity now adhered to your favorite tank top. it was crooked. of course it was crooked. “angela,” you said slowly, peeling at the edge with your fingernail. “this is never coming off.”
“that’s the point,” she said, already tearing off another strip to slap haphazardly across her own hoodie. she missed entirely, sticking it to her forearm instead. “fuck. well, now i’m accessorizing.” she flexed her arm, admiring the way the tape caught the light. “see? edgy. avant-garde. fashion”
you snorted, reaching for the scissors to at least trim the fraying edges of your new ‘sash’. “you’re a menace.”
“your menace,” she corrected, leaning in to press a glue-sticky kiss to your temple. she left behind a glittery lip print, you were sure of it. you could feel the sparkles. “and don’t think i didn’t notice you didn’t actually take the tape off.”
the thing about angela was this: she had a way of turning disasters into something you couldn’t help but love. like how the neon duct tape sash was already peeling at the edges, but when you caught your reflection in the microwave door, you didn’t hate it. not with the way she kept glancing over at you, grinning like she’d just won the lottery every time she saw the crooked pink stripe across your chest.
“okay, but hear me out,” she said, grabbing a handful of loose sequins from the table and letting them rain down onto the half-finished jacket between you. “what if we also—“
“no.” you caught her wrist before she could dump another fistful of glitter. “we’re already banned from two michaels locations, angela. i’m not getting us blacklisted from—“
she pouted, which ultimately halted you from finishing your sentence, but her fingers twisted to lace through yours anyway, sticky with glue and probably permanent marker at this point. “you’re no fun.”
“i’m plenty fun,” you muttered, tugging her closer by the captured wrist until she stumbled into your lap. the chair creaked ominously, another casualty of angela’s chaos, probably, but held firm as she laughed, her nose smushing against yours. “i just have standars.”
“oh, standards,” she repeated, mock gasping like you’d said something scandalous. her free hand came up to poke at the duct tape sash, which was already peeling at one corner. “that’s why you’re still wearing this, right? because of your high standards?”
you could’ve bitten back. should’ve, maybe. but the thing about angela was that her grin was contagious, the kind of infectious joy that made your chest ache in the best way. so instead, you leaned forward and caught her bottom lip between your teeth, gentle but just enough to make her squeak. “shut up,” you mumbled against her mouth, and she immediately melted into the kiss like putty, all warm and pliant and still somehow sticky with glue.
when you pulled back, her lips were pinker than the duct tape, her eyes slightly glazed. “wow,” she breathed, dazed. “your standards are really high.”
“yeah, and you,” you said, poking her nose, “are really easy to distract.” she stuck her tongue out at you, but her cheeks were still flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like she wanted to pull you back in. you could feel the warmth of her thighs against yours, the way she kept shifting like she couldn't decide whether to stay or go rifling through the craft supplies again.
then the doorbell rang.
angela froze. you both did. her eyes went comically wide. “no,” she whispered. “no, no, no—" she scrambled off your lap so fast the chair nearly toppled over, knocking a pile of sequins onto the floor in a shimmering avalanche. “they’re early.”
“who’s early?” you asked, but she was already sprinting toward the door, skidding on a rogue bead and catching herself on the doorframe with a yelp. you followed, stepping carefully over the minefield of crafting casualties, only to find angela yanking open the door to reveal—
—tommy, arms laden with more craft supplies than any one apartment should legally contain. tommy held up a bag of rainbow pipe cleaners like a peace offering. “i come bearing… more glitter?”
“oh, fuck yes!” angela breathed, grabbing the bag with the reverence of someone receiving sacred texts. she spun back to you, eyes alight with pure, unfiltered mischief. “baby. baby. we can make crowns.”
you groaned, already seeing your peaceful evening of minimal crafting casualties evaporate. “angela, we don’t need—“
“we absolutely need,” she interrupted, dragging tommy inside by the sleeve, balancing a precariously stacked tower of felt sheets and a gallon-sized ziplock full of… you squinted, were those googly eyes…?
you opened your mouth to protest, something about the structural integrity of your dining table, the fact that you still had glitter in places glitter should never be, but tommy’s already dumping the felt onto the disaster zone with a grin. “i brought the good stuff,” he announced, pulling out a pair of fabric scissors shaped like a flamingo. “also, courtney found these in the clearance bin.”
“oh. my. god.” angela gasped, snatching the scissors with the same reverence she’d given the pipe cleaners. she turned to you, eyes sparkling brighter than the glitter currently embedded in your left sock.
“dork,” you chuckled. you can’t even resist anymore.
a/n: i can’t possibly let this month end without giving you guys something <333 i am so sorryyy for disappearing for months, it’s our finals and it has been a super hectic time for me. i promise i will get back to yall’s request as soon as this semester ends. thank you sooo much for your patience and support.
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.
Summary: You learn you don't need to defend your identity to anyone but yourself.
Word Count: 3.6k
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 notification sound chimed on your phone right as you were trying not to check.
You were sitting at your desk in the Smosh office, one knee tucked under you, a half-finished iced coffee sweating beside your keyboard. Across the room, you could hear Angela laughing at something Chanse had said, the kind of bright, sudden laugh that always made people turn their heads. Somewhere further down the hall, Tommy’s voice drifted from a conference room, steady and calm as he talked through a bit with one of the producers.
It was normal. Loud, familiar, chaotic, safe.
Then your phone lit up.
The video was live.
Queer Voices at Smosh: Our Stories.
Your face was right there in the thumbnail beside Courtney, Angela, Chanse, and Tommy. Courtney had one arm slung over your shoulders; Angela was grinning wide enough to make the whole image feel warm; Chanse looked relaxed, as he always did on camera; and Tommy stood beside you with an easy smile that made the whole thing feel grounded.
You stared at the thumbnail for a little too long, your stomach turning with nerves and pride all at once.
You’d been nervous about filming it. Not because you weren’t proud. You were. You’d fought hard to get to a place where you could say that without flinching. But sharing something that personal online always felt like handing strangers a soft part of yourself and hoping they understood it was still attached to you.
Courtney had understood that from the beginning. They’d checked in before filming, during filming, and after filming with the quiet care of someone who knew that being visible could still feel scary.
Angela had made you laugh so hard right before cameras rolled that some of the pressure in your chest had finally loosened.
Chanse had listened with open attention, the kind that made you feel like you didn’t have to rush or make your story smaller.
Tommy had been gentle in a way people sometimes missed if they only expected him to be funny. He’d sat beside you after filming, shoulder brushing yours, and said, “I’m glad you said it the way you did. Somebody’s going to need to hear that.”
That had stayed with you.
The comments started coming in almost immediately.
This is so beautiful. Thank you all for sharing.
As a queer Smosh fan, this means everything.
Courtney talking about identity made me cry.
Angela and Chanse were so thoughtful in this.
Tommy saying chosen family can be quiet and steady too actually got me.
Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was from relief.
You refreshed the page, watching the numbers climb. A warm, dizzy feeling spread through your chest. Maybe this was why you’d done it. Maybe it was worth the nerves, the shaking hands, and the weird vulnerable hangover that came after saying something true on camera.
Your phone buzzed again.
Damien.
“So proud of you. I’m still stuck in this voice session, but I’m watching the second I get home. I love you.”
You smiled down at the message, your thumb hovering over the screen before you typed back.
“Love you too. Please drink water before you destroy your voice.”
His response came almost instantly.
“Too late. The wizard voice has taken ownership of my throat.”
You laughed softly, tucking your phone against your chest for a second like you could hug the message itself.
That was Damien. Sweet even when he was busy. Ridiculous even when he was tired. Somehow always exactly what you needed.
By the time you left the office, the video had already surpassed 100,000 views. Courtney bumped their shoulder into yours and told you that you did great. Angela yelled, “You’re famous and gay now,” from across the room, which made you laugh so hard you almost walked into a wall. Chanse gave you a soft smile and said he was glad you’d been part of it. Tommy stopped by your desk before he left, resting a hand briefly on the back of your chair.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good,” he said. “It was a good thing. I mean that.”
You smiled. “Thank you.”
He nodded once, then let you have the moment without making it bigger than it needed to be.
You went home glowing.
For a while, that was all you felt.
The glow.
The pride.
The little voice in your chest saying, You did it. You said it. You didn’t hide.
You ate dinner on the couch, answered a few texts from friends, and let the video play in the background once. You cringed at the sound of your own voice, then laughed when Damien texted you again from the studio.
“Update. The wizard is sad now. Still proud of you.”
You sent him a heart and told him sad wizards needed water too.
By midnight, the apartment was quiet.
Damien was still out, caught in the strange hours of acting work that meant a session sometimes wrapped early and sometimes stretched forever. You’d told him not to rush. You meant it. He worked hard, and you loved that he cared about his work, even when it meant coming home late with tired eyes and a backpack full of snacks he'd forgotten he'd bought.
You should have gone to bed.
Instead, you picked up your phone.
Just one more look, you told yourself.
The top comments were still kind. Some were funny. Some were heartfelt. One person wrote that the video had helped them feel brave enough to talk to their best friend. Another said seeing different kinds of queer people at Smosh made them feel less alone.
Then you scrolled too far.
Wait, isn’t she dating Damien?
Your thumb paused.
The comment had too many likes.
You stared at it, waiting for your body to catch up with what your brain had already read.
How is she queer if she’s with a straight guy?
Your stomach tightened.
You should have stopped there. You knew you should have. You’d been online long enough to know that nothing good lived at the bottom of a comment section after midnight. But your thumb moved anyway, slow and almost separate from you.
Not trying to be mean, but this feels like taking space from actual queer people.
She’s literally in a straight relationship.
I like her, but this gives straight passing privilege trying to be oppressed.
Dating Damien and calling herself queer is kind of wild.
Queer when it’s convenient, I guess.
The room seemed to shrink around you.
You locked your phone and set it face down on the blanket, but the words had already gotten in. They sat heavy behind your ribs, pressing into places you thought had healed.
Actual queer people.
You hated how fast it worked. One minute, you’d been proud. The next, you were seventeen again in the dark, trying to understand why certain words fit and why you were so scared to let them. You were back in college, whispering labels to yourself like they were secrets you weren’t allowed to keep. You were back in every moment where you’d wondered if you were enough of anything to belong anywhere.
The worst part was that you understood part of what they meant. You knew that moving through the world with Damien looked easy from the outside. You knew people saw the two of you holding hands and made assumptions. You knew there were things visibly queer couples had to carry that you didn’t carry in the same way.
But privilege wasn’t the same thing as erasure.
You knew that.
You knew it, but knowing didn’t stop the comments from hurting.
You picked up your phone again.
It was like touching a bruise just to see if it still ached.
She’s basically straight now.
I don’t get why she was in this video.
Courtney, Angela, Chanse, Tommy, sure. But her?
Your eyes burned.
You read that one three times.
There it was. The line drawn around everyone else and outside of you.
You’d spent the whole day feeling like you belonged beside them. Like your story could sit at the same table without taking anything away. Like queer joy was big enough to hold all of you.
Now, alone in the dark, you weren’t sure.
By the time you heard Damien’s key in the lock, you’d been crying long enough that your head hurt.
The front door opened carefully. He always tried to be quiet when he came home late, even though he usually knocked into something within the first minute.
Tonight, it was the umbrella stand.
There was a soft clatter, then a whispered, “I’ve been betrayed by furniture.”
You would have laughed on any other night.
His footsteps moved down the hall. “Hey, I’m home. Sorry it ran so late. The director wanted another pass where the wizard sounded less damp and more spiritually tired.”
He appeared in the bedroom doorway, still wearing his hoodie, his hair a little messy from his headphones. His smile faded the second he saw you.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You wiped at your face too quickly. “Hi.”
Damien didn’t move right away. His eyes flicked over you, taking in the phone clutched in your hand, the tissues on the bed, and the way you were trying and failing to look normal.
Then he crossed the room and sat beside you.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” you said, because apparently your first instinct was still to lie badly to the person who knew you best.
Damien gave you a look.
You swallowed. “The video.”
His expression shifted. Not surprised exactly. Just sad, like he’d hoped the internet would be kinder and hated that it hadn’t been.
“Comments?”
You nodded.
He didn’t reach for your phone right away. Instead, he reached for you. His hand slid carefully over your knee, warm and steady through the blanket.
“Can I see?”
You handed it to him because you didn’t think you could explain without falling apart.
He read silently. His jaw tightened. His thumb stilled against the edge of your phone.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Then he locked the phone and set it on the nightstand, far out of reach. He turned back to you, his whole body angling toward yours, one knee pressed into the mattress beside your hip.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “First of all, I hate that you read those alone.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t think they’d get to me this much.”
“Of course they got to you.” His voice softened. “They were cruel about something that matters to you.”
You looked down at your hands. “They said I’m not really queer because I’m with you.”
Damien’s expression cracked a little.
“And I know that’s not how it works,” you rushed on, wiping at your cheek. “I know identity doesn’t just disappear because of one relationship. But they kept saying I was basically straight now, and that I shouldn’t have been in the video. And then I started thinking maybe they were right.”
“They’re not.”
The words came out firm, but not harsh.
You looked at him.
“They’re not,” he repeated. “You didn’t take anything from anyone. You shared your story because it’s yours.”
“But what if it wasn’t enough?”
“Enough for who?”
You didn’t have an answer.
“For strangers who don’t know you?” he asked gently. “For people who think queerness begins and ends with what your relationship looks like from the outside?”
You looked back down.
Damien shifted closer. He reached for both of your hands this time, folding them between his palms like he could warm the doubt out of them. His thumbs moved over your knuckles in slow, even strokes.
“You knew who you were before me,” he said.
The sentence landed quietly, but it landed.
He squeezed your hands. “You had that whole journey before we were together. The questioning, the late-night spirals, the trying on labels, the letting go of labels, the fear, the relief, all of it. I didn’t create that, and I don’t have the power to erase it.”
Your lip trembled.
“Loving me doesn’t undo you.”
That broke something open in your chest.
You covered your face with both hands, and Damien moved immediately, pulling you into him. You went willingly, folding into the familiar warmth of his hoodie, the smell of studio air, laundry detergent, and him. His arms wrapped around you completely, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head.
For a while, he didn’t say anything.
He just held you.
He held you while you cried into his shoulder. He held you while your fingers twisted in the fabric of his hoodie. He held you through the ugly little gasps you tried to swallow because you didn’t want to sound as hurt as you were.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured.
You tried.
His chest rose slow and steady beneath your cheek. You matched it as best you could. In. Out. Again. His hand moved up and down your back in a soothing rhythm, never rushing you, never making you feel like you had to be finished hurting just because he was there.
“I hate that it made me doubt myself,” you mumbled against his shoulder.
“I know,” he said, his lips brushing your hair. “But being hurt doesn’t mean they’re right.”
You closed your eyes.
“I do have privilege,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes you do. We do. People make assumptions about us that can make certain things safer. That’s real.”
You nodded against him.
“But privilege in one part of your life doesn’t cancel your identity,” he continued. “It means there’s nuance. It means you can be honest about what’s easier for you while still being honest about who you are.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His hands slid from your back to your face, gentle as he brushed the dampness from your cheeks with his thumbs.
“I don’t want people to think I’m using queerness when it’s convenient.”
“Do you think that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t let people who don’t know your heart write the meaning of your life for you.”
You let out a small, surprised laugh through your tears. “That sounded really good.”
“I know. I’m very wise after midnight.”
“You walked into the umbrella stand.”
“That was my wisdom leaving my body.”
For the first time in hours, your smile didn’t feel forced.
Damien smiled back, soft and relieved, then leaned in and kissed your forehead. He didn’t move away after. He stayed close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his hands still cupping your face like you were something precious.
“You belong in that video,” he said. “You belonged at that table. Courtney knew it. Angela knew it. Chanse knew it. Tommy knew it. Everyone in that room knew it. I know it.”
Your eyes stung again, but differently this time.
“And honestly,” Damien added, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “Courtney being married to Shayne doesn’t make them any less queer. Nobody serious gets to look at Courtney, look at their life, their openness, their identity, and decide that marrying a straight cis man erases who they are.”
You went still.
He watched you carefully. “So why would the rules be different for you?”
You swallowed hard.
“They’re not,” he said gently. “They’re not different for you. If Courtney’s marriage doesn’t erase them, then our relationship doesn’t erase you.”
A fresh tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it away before it reached your jaw.
You hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear that from him. Not as a vague idea. Not as something pretty enough to post online. As something real. As someone you knew. Someone you loved. Someone who stood in a similarly complicated space and still fully belonged to themself.
Courtney and Shayne were not treated like a contradiction by the people who actually loved them. At work, everyone knew them as themselves, separately and together. Shayne was Shayne, funny and steady and kind in a way that sometimes snuck up on people. Courtney was Courtney, creative and bright and open about who they were. Their marriage didn’t flatten them into something simpler. It didn’t rewrite Courtney’s past, erase their identity, or make their place in queer conversations disappear.
It was just love.
Real love. Chosen love. The kind that made room for every part of a person instead of asking them to cut pieces away.
You had watched them together enough times to know that. Shayne didn’t make Courtney smaller. He didn’t make them explain themself. He didn’t act like their queerness was something separate from the person he married. He loved Courtney fully, not despite their identity, not around it, but with it.
Damien’s hands slipped down to your waist, holding you gently.
“Shayne loves Courtney as Courtney,” he said, like he could follow exactly where your thoughts had gone. “Not some edited version that makes more sense to strangers.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“And I love you as you,” he continued. “Not a version of you that has to be easier for people online to categorize. Not a version of you that hides parts of herself so our relationship looks less complicated to them. I love the woman in that video. I love the woman who was brave enough to sit with Courtney, Angela, Chanse, and Tommy and talk about something real. I love every part of her.”
Your face crumpled.
Damien pulled you back into his chest before you could even ask. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other around your waist, tucking you close until your body was pressed fully against his. His cheek rested against the top of your head.
“I didn’t think about it like that,” you admitted.
“I figured,” he said. “Sometimes it’s easier to defend someone else than it is to defend yourself.”
You laughed weakly. “That’s rude and accurate.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain expired granola bars in your backpack.”
“Also true.”
You leaned into him again, your head resting against his chest. His arm came around your shoulders, holding you there like it was the easiest thing in the world.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The comments were still there. You knew they’d still sting tomorrow. Maybe they’d sting for longer than that. Maybe you’d need to hear Damien say the same thing again in the morning, and maybe you’d need Courtney’s steady reassurance, Angela’s loud defense, Chanse’s calm certainty, and Tommy’s quiet kindness too.
But the panic had loosened.
Your identity was not a costume you put on for a video.
It was not a performance.
It was not a door that closed because you fell in love with Damien.
It was yours.
It had always been yours.
“Can I tell you something selfish?” Damien asked after a while.
You tilted your head up. “Always.”
“I’m really grateful you love me,” he said. “But I never want being with me to make you feel smaller.”
Your heart twisted.
“It doesn’t,” you said quickly.
“Tonight it did a little.”
You couldn’t argue with that.
He brushed his fingers through your hair, slow and careful, untangling a strand near your temple before tucking it behind your ear. “So I’m going to say this as many times as you need. You don’t have to shrink your queerness to make our relationship easier for strangers to understand. You don’t have to make yourself simpler for people who aren’t even trying to see you.”
Your eyes filled again. “That’s unfairly sweet.”
“I love you,” he said, like that explained everything. “Of course I’m going to be unfairly sweet.”
You laughed, and this time it came out clean.
Damien grinned like he’d won something.
“There she is,” he said softly.
You reached for his hand again. “Thank you.”
“Always.”
You sat together in the quiet bedroom, the phone still face down on the nightstand. It looked less powerful now. Smaller. Just a rectangle full of strangers who didn’t know the first thing about you.
Your world was bigger than that.
It was Courtney’s arm around your shoulders after filming. It was Angela making you laugh when you wanted to cry. It was Chanse listening without making you feel studied. It was Tommy sitting beside you, steady and sincere, reminding you that someone would need your story. It was Courtney and Shayne proving, without making a speech out of it, that a relationship with a straight cis man didn’t make someone less queer. It was Damien coming home tired and still giving every ounce of himself to remind you who you were.
It was all the people who had watched and felt less alone.
It was you, saying the truth out loud.
“I think I want to watch something stupid,” you said.
Damien nodded seriously. “Excellent. Emotionally important. Stupid media saves lives.”
“Nothing with sad wizards.”
“I can’t believe you’d limit art like this.”
“And nothing with spiritually tired wizards either.”
He sighed. “You’re taking away all my best options.”
You smiled as he reached for the remote, still keeping one arm around you. He leaned back against the pillows and pulled you with him until you were settled against his side, your cheek on his chest and one of his hands resting warm against your hip. His other hand found yours under the blanket, fingers threading together.
He pulled up a video you’d both seen a hundred times, something loud and harmless and comforting. Every few minutes, his thumb moved over yours. Every so often, he kissed the top of your head, your temple, the back of your hand.
Small reminders.
I’m here.
I love you.
You’re not alone in this.
The doubts weren’t gone completely.
But they were quieter.
And when Damien pressed one last kiss to your hair and whispered, “You’re enough,” you believed him.
Summary: When the event actually makes it out of the group chat!
Word Count: 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! This is my first time trying to write a fic this way, so hopefully the text messages are actually giving text messages.
Masterlist
Your phone buzzed at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, which could only mean one of three things.
One, someone had found a cursed TikTok and needed witnesses.
Two, Angela had sent something in all caps with no context.
Three, Courtney had an idea.
You rolled over in your Los Feliz apartment, grabbed your phone from the nightstand, and immediately knew it was option three.
Courtney: LA Pride is in like 3 weeks and we need to go together as a group 🌈
Courtney: not walking in it, just watching, vibing, signs, glitter, sunscreen, snacks, emotional revelations, the whole Hollywood Boulevard situation ✨🧴🥨
Spencer: love that sunscreen made the list before water 💀
Amanda: I support sunscreen being a main character 🧴👏
Courtney: Amanda gets it 🙌
You stared at the screen, smiling before you could stop yourself.
Angela was typing.
That was dangerous information for your nervous system.
You'd had a crush on Angela for months, which was inconvenient because Angela was already one of your closest friends and also had the personal energy of a firework that had learned improv. She made everything louder, funnier, and somehow more sincere without trying. She also kept touching your arm when she laughed, which was rude on a biological level.
Angela: omg yes yes yes I'm so down 🌈💃
Your heart did the stupid flutter thing.
Embarrassing.
You were an adult. You had paid bills. You had survived LA traffic, parallel parking in Koreatown, and one deeply cursed Smosh shoot where the air conditioning broke halfway through a bit. You should not have been emotionally compromised by a text that included three yeses.
And yet.
You: I'm in! my apartment works for getting ready if everyone promises not to destroy it 🫶
Tommy: Define destroy 😇
You: Tommy. 😐
Tommy: Fine. I promise to only emotionally destroy it 💅
Amanda: I've never been to a big Pride event before, is there anything I should know? 🥺
Arasha: Same. I'm excited, but also I feel like I need a survival guide 😅
Spencer: Bring water, comfortable shoes, backup phone battery, and the emotional willingness to see at least seven people wearing mesh in ways you didn't know mesh could be worn 🔋👟🕸️
Angela: Spencer's Pride tips are weirdly useful 😂
Tommy: Also LA Pride can be overwhelming, but in a good way. You're just surrounded by people being completely themselves. It's loud, it's hot, someone will probably be dressed as gay Jesus, and somehow it's healing 🏳️🌈😭
Courtney: Exactly. And allies are welcome. You're not taking up space, you're standing with us ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜
Arasha: Okay, that actually helps 🥹
Chanse: Angela and I went last year and saw a drag queen on stilts near Hollywood and Highland. I still think about her 🫡
Angela: She changed us ✨
Your stomach twisted for half a second. Angela and Chanse had gone to Pride together last year. Of course they had. They were friends. People could go places with friends. You were also Angela's friend. This was normal. You were normal.
You were absolutely not normal.
Courtney: I'm making a Pinterest board 📌🌈
Shayne: God help us 🙏
Courtney: God is busy, Shayne. It's Pride 🏳️🌈
Angela: I'll bring face paint!! 🎨✨
Tommy: I have glitter ✨
Everyone: NO 🚫
Tommy: Cowards 💅
The chat kept going for another hour, because apparently Pride planning was legally required to happen after bedtime. There were outfit ideas, snack assignments, and a heated argument about whether taking the Metro to Hollywood was “practical” or “a group side quest with fluorescent lighting.”
At 1:23 AM, Courtney finally sent:
Courtney: okay goodnight gays and theys and allies. hydrate emotionally and physically 💧💕
Tommy: Put that on a shirt 👕
Angela: love you all, this is gonna be so fun 🫶🌈
You: best gay agenda I've ever been added to 🏳️🌈😂
Spencer: How many gay agendas are you on? 🤨
You: no comment 😌
You plugged in your phone and stared at the ceiling.
Three weeks.
You had three weeks to figure out how to act normal around Angela at Pride.
This was either going to be amazing or deeply humiliating.
Probably both.
Two days before Pride, everyone gathered at Courtney and Shayne's place after a long day at the Smosh studio in Burbank. The group arrived in waves, still carrying the leftover energy of a filming day: half-tired, half-delirious, and fully capable of turning a simple craft night into a workplace incident.
The living room looked like a craft store had lost a fight.
There was poster board on every surface, markers under the couch, stickers on someone's sock, and a suspicious amount of glitter that Tommy claimed was “already here” despite arriving with a tote bag that audibly sparkled.
“I said no glitter,” Courtney said, pointing at him with a glue stick.
“I heard you,” Tommy replied. “And I chose joy.”
“That's not what joy means.”
“It is during Pride.”
Chanse sat on the floor surrounded by markers. “I already have glitter on my knee. I don't know how. Tommy hasn't even opened the container.”
“I'm powerful,” Tommy said.
“You're a biohazard.”
Smosh people were used to chaos. That was kind of the job. You could spend the morning watching someone improvise a character with the energy of a haunted mascot, then eat lunch beside them like nothing unusual had happened. Still, even by your standards, this was a lot.
You ended up on the couch next to Angela, poster boards balanced on your laps. She was sketching something with a level of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal. Her tongue poked out slightly, which was unfair.
“What are you making?” you asked.
She angled the board away dramatically. “Don't look. It's not ready.”
“It's a Pride sign, not a government document.”
“It has layers.”
“Emotionally or visually?”
“Yes.”
She finally turned it toward you. It said Visibility Matters in big bubble letters, with a cartoon megaphone in the corner. It was bright, loud, and very Angela.
“That's perfect for you,” you said. “It's giving motivational chaos.”
Her smile widened. “That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Across the room, Tommy stood on a chair even though no one had asked him to.
“I'd like to reveal my sign.”
“Why are you elevated?” Shayne asked.
“For impact.”
Tommy lifted his poster. It read: BEING GAY IS A CHOICE in huge letters. Underneath, in smaller text, it said: I choose to be this hot and annoying every day.
Damien stared at it. “I hate that I love it.”
Amanda nodded solemnly. “It's legally airtight.”
Courtney held up their sign next: Non-binary, Queer, and Tired But Here.
Shayne pointed at it. “That one is too accurate.”
“It's called representation.”
Arasha was still staring at a blank board. “I don't know what to write. Everything sounds either too serious or like a bumper sticker.”
“That is the Pride sign struggle,” Chanse said. “You either sound like Harvey Milk or a Subaru commercial.”
Amanda leaned over gently. “What do you want your sign to say?”
Arasha thought about it. “I guess I want people to know I'm here because I care. And because you're all my people.”
“Then write that,” Courtney said.
Arasha ended up with: I'm Here For My Friends, Also The Outfits Are Incredible.
“Honest,” Spencer said.
“Powerful,” Tommy added.
“Commercially viable,” Shayne said.
You were still staring at your blank board when Angela leaned closer.
“What about you?” she asked. “What's yours gonna say?”
“I was thinking something meaningful, but everything I write sounds like it belongs on a throw pillow in a Target Pride aisle.”
Angela laughed. “Okay, what's Pride mean to you? Like actually.”
You looked around the room. Courtney had marker on their cheek. Tommy was arguing that glitter was a neutral. Amanda was carefully peeling stickers apart for Arasha. Shayne was cleaning up as people actively made more mess. Angela was sitting next to you, close enough that your shoulders touched every time either of you shifted.
“Chosen family,” you said finally. “And chaos. But, like, warm chaos.”
Angela nodded. “Then write that.”
Your sign ended up reading: Chosen Family, Maximum Chaos.
Angela pointed at it. “That's us.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Beautifully.”
The two of you looked at each other for a second too long.
Then Tommy sneezed glitter.
The moment shattered.
“I'm fine,” Tommy said, coughing sparkles into his hand. “This is how I become more powerful.”
By the end of the night, everyone's signs were finished, Courtney and Shayne's floor had been destroyed beyond the reach of modern science, and Angela had a streak of blue paint on her wrist.
As everyone cleaned up, she leaned close enough that you could smell her shampoo under the marker fumes.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “I'm really glad we're doing this together.”
“Me too.”
“No, I mean, like, specifically together. You and me.”
Your brain immediately dropped all available files.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, suddenly a little shy. “It means a lot.”
Before you could respond, Courtney yelled from the kitchen, “Who put googly eyes on the hummus?”
Angela closed her eyes. “I hate that I know it was Tommy.”
“It was Tommy,” Tommy called.
The moment passed, but it left something behind. Something warm. Something possible.
Your apartment at 9 AM on Pride morning became a disaster so fast it should've required permits from the city of Los Angeles.
Courtney arrived first with two tote bags, three outfit options, and the energy of someone who had already had coffee and also maybe absorbed electricity from a wall socket.
“Bathroom,” they announced, walking past you.
“Good morning to you too.”
“No time. I'm becoming art.”
Shayne arrived ten minutes later wearing a shirt that said I'm With Them with arrows pointing in several directions.
“That's perfect,” you said.
“Thanks. It covers all possible outcomes.”
Tommy arrived in rainbow shorts, a crop top that said GAY, and platform boots that made him look six inches taller and at least ten percent more dangerous.
“I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm ready to be perceived.”
Spencer glanced at the boots. “Are those safe?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
Amanda brought water bottles. Arasha brought snacks. Damien brought a speaker. Chanse brought backup sunglasses because, in his words, “Pride is not the time to be squinting in photos like a confused mole.”
Then Angela arrived.
She walked in with a tote bag over one shoulder, still in normal clothes, hair messy, face bare, and somehow your entire apartment got brighter.
“Bathroom?” she asked.
“Courtney's in the main one becoming art, but you can use my room.”
“Bless you.”
She disappeared down the hall, and you tried not to think about Angela changing in your bedroom.
That lasted four seconds.
You thought about it.
You thought about it a lot.
When she came back out, your brain fully gave up.
High-waisted shorts. Rainbow crop top. Hair in loose waves. Tiny rainbow stickers near her eyes. She looked fun and bright and so much like herself that you forgot how words worked.
“How do I look?” she asked, spinning.
“Good,” you said.
That was all you had.
Angela raised an eyebrow. “Just good?”
“Great. Amazing. Very Pride. Very, um, visually successful.”
Spencer, walking by with a granola bar, muttered, “Visually successful is crazy.”
Angela laughed, delighted. “I'll take it.”
You still weren't dressed, because apparently your job was to host everyone and also panic internally.
Angela pointed at you. “Come on. Outfit time.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes.”
In your bedroom, she examined your outfit options with the seriousness of a judge on a fashion competition show.
“Denim shorts, white tank, rainbow button-up,” she said, holding them up. “Very you. Casual but clearly trying.”
“Thank you?”
“You're welcome. Put it on.”
You changed in the bathroom because you still had survival instincts. When you came back out, Angela smiled in a way that made your stomach flip.
“See?” she said. “Perfect.”
“You're just saying that because you styled me.”
“I have excellent taste.”
“You do.”
She paused, then looked at you like she was trying to decide if you meant more than the outfit.
You did.
She picked up the face paint before either of you could say something dangerous.
“Can I do your face?”
“Sure.”
Angela stepped close and gently tilted your chin up. “Rainbow on your cheekbones. Subtle but visible.”
“That's also my personality.”
“Your personality is not subtle.”
“That's hurtful.”
“It's said with affection.”
Her fingers were light against your face. You kept your eyes closed because looking at her from that close felt illegal.
“You seem nervous,” she said.
“Big day.”
“Yeah.” Her voice softened. “I'm really glad you're here.”
“You said that the other night.”
“I meant it the other night too.”
You opened your eyes. She was right there, face inches from yours, her hand still under your chin. For one very quiet second, the apartment noise faded.
Then Courtney banged on the door.
“You two decent? We need photos and Tommy is climbing furniture.”
Angela stepped back so fast she almost dropped the face paint. “All done. You look great.”
“You too.”
She grinned. “Visually successful?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
The photo shoot took twenty minutes and somehow involved five different phones, a debate about lighting, and Tommy yelling, “Make it gayer!” every time anyone stood normally.
Before you left, Courtney climbed onto your coffee table.
“Please don't break that,” you said.
“I am about to make a toast.”
“That coffee table is from Facebook Marketplace.”
“It's served its purpose.”
Courtney raised a water bottle. “To Pride. To sunscreen. To chosen family. To being hot and emotionally available.”
“Emotionally available feels ambitious,” Spencer said.
“To trying,” Courtney amended.
Everyone cheered.
You caught Angela's eye. She smiled, soft and warm and like she knew something you didn't.
You were in so much trouble.
Hollywood Boulevard was electric.
Rainbow flags hung from streetlights. Music blasted from every direction. The Walk of Fame was packed shoulder to shoulder with people in full drag, leather, sequins, crop tops, group costumes, and at least one person dressed as a gay traffic cone. The air smelled like sunscreen, food trucks, hot pavement, and someone's aggressively coconut body spray.
Arasha stopped walking the second you reached the crowd near Highland.
“Oh my god,” she said.
Chanse grinned. “Yeah. That's usually the first reaction.”
“That's a lot of people.”
“True.”
“And a lot of mesh.”
“Also true.”
Spencer handed her a water bottle. “Welcome to LA Pride.”
You found a spot along the parade route that had just enough shade to feel like a miracle. Shayne immediately claimed responsibility for “crowd logistics,” which mostly meant making sure no one wandered into traffic. Amanda stood near Arasha, who was slowly relaxing every time another float passed. Tommy posed with his sign like he was about to be interviewed by a very niche news outlet.
Courtney had barely lifted their sign before someone across the barricade yelled, “Wait, is that Courtney from Smosh?”
You all froze for half a second.
Then three more people turned.
“Oh my god, Smosh!” someone shouted.
Angela's eyes went wide. “And so it begins.”
It made sense. Smosh was not some tiny channel only six people and a guy named Brad knew about. It was Smosh. A massive YouTube comedy brand with years of sketches, games, Pit videos, cast chaos, and fan favorite bits living rent free in people's brains. You couldn't put this many recognizable cast members together on Hollywood Boulevard during Pride and expect no one to notice.
Within minutes, your little viewing spot became half Pride hangout, half accidental meet-and-greet. People came over carefully, mostly kind and excited, asking for photos, saying they loved the videos, complimenting Courtney's sign, Tommy's boots, Angela's makeup, and Shayne's extremely practical sunscreen dad energy.
“I'm famous for sun safety,” Shayne said, deadpan, after the fourth person asked for a picture with him.
“You've earned this,” Spencer said.
Tommy leaned toward a fan taking a selfie and said, “Please get the boots in frame. They're carrying the community today.”
Angela laughed so hard she had to turn away.
You tried to stay useful, offering to take pictures for people and making sure nobody stepped on anyone's bag. That was easier than thinking about the fact that Angela kept drifting back to you between photos, her shoulder brushing yours every time the crowd shifted.
A group of teenagers approached next, nervous and excited.
“Sorry, we don't want to bother you,” one of them said. “We just love Smosh, and it's really cool seeing you all here.”
Courtney's whole expression softened. “You're not bothering us. Happy Pride.”
The teenager smiled like that sentence had fixed something small but important.
For all the jokes, all the chaos, all the group chat stupidity, that was the part that hit you. They weren't just a group of friends watching a parade. They were recognizable faces at Pride, and people noticed. People cared. Seeing Courtney with their sign, Tommy in his crop top, Angela laughing under a rainbow flag, all of it meant something to someone.
Angela seemed to feel it too.
She leaned closer to you, voice quieter beneath the music. “This is kind of wild.”
“Being recognized?”
“Yeah. But also... good? Like, scary good.”
“You're doing great.”
She looked at you. “You think?”
“I know.”
Her smile softened, and for one second, the parade, the crowd, and the phones all blurred around her.
Then Tommy yelled, “WHO WANTS A PHOTO WITH A GAY MENACE?” and the moment was aggressively murdered.
“Never mind,” Angela said. “He's doing great.”
A float rolled past blasting music loud enough to rattle your ribs. Courtney cheered. Chanse danced in place. Damien filmed Tommy trying to dance in platform boots without injuring himself. Amanda and Arasha waved their signs, both laughing now.
Angela stood beside you, her sign tucked against her hip. Your hands brushed.
You both ignored it.
They brushed again.
Still ignored.
On the third time, Angela caught your fingers and squeezed.
It was brief. It could've been nothing. It was absolutely not nothing.
You looked at her.
She was already looking at you, smile smaller now, a little nervous under the joy.
Someone nearby yelled, “Angela, we love you!”
Angela turned bright red and waved with her free hand.
Courtney noticed your joined hands from three feet away and almost dropped their sign.
They recovered, pointed at you with both hands, and mouthed, “FINALLY.”
You pretended not to see.
Angela definitely saw.
She squeezed your hand once more before letting go to take another photo with a fan. But after that, she kept coming back to your side.
By the time the parade ended and the crowd started moving toward Pride Village, everyone was sweaty, hungry, and vibrating with overstimulation.
“That was amazing,” Arasha said. “I can't believe I was nervous.”
“My feet hurt,” Spencer said. “And we mostly stood still.”
Tommy adjusted his sunglasses. “I have given everything to the community.”
“You posed for photos and yelled at a float,” Damien said.
“In platforms.”
“Fair.”
Chanse pulled out his phone. “Group photo before we all become less photogenic.”
You crowded together near the edge of the route. Angela's arm slid around your waist. Yours went around her shoulders before you could overthink it.
The photo captured everyone laughing.
It also captured Courtney in the corner giving the camera a thumbs-up directly behind you and Angela.
Subtlety was dead.
Pride Village was massive.
There were booths, performers, food trucks, music stages, rainbow everything, and at least one person dressed as a giant pride-themed hot dog. No one in your group had an explanation for that, but everyone respected it.
Eventually, the group split naturally. Courtney and Shayne wandered toward a stage. Tommy dragged Damien and Chanse toward a booth selling fans with rude phrases on them. Amanda and Arasha went to find lemonade. Spencer vanished after muttering something about “good candid photo lighting,” which was a terrifying thing to hear from Spencer.
That left you and Angela.
Alone.
With feelings.
Dangerous.
You wandered through booths, bought matching pride pins, and spent ten minutes arguing over whether a sticker that said Emotional Support Bisexual applied to either of you spiritually.
“It applies to the group chat,” Angela said.
“The group chat needs professional help.”
“The group chat is beyond saving.”
You ended up on a bench in a quieter corner near a food truck line and a surprisingly chill patch of shade. The noise softened around you, still there but less overwhelming. Angela leaned back, looking tired and happy.
“This is nice,” she said. “I love the chaos, but sometimes my brain is like, what if we simply sat down and stopped perceiving sound?”
“Relatable.”
She turned the pride pin between her fingers. “Can I tell you something?”
Your heart immediately began acting like it had been chased by a bear.
“Of course.”
“I was nervous about today.”
“Because of the crowd?”
“Kind of.” She glanced at you, then looked away. “But mostly because of you.”
You froze. “Me?”
“Yeah.” She laughed once, awkward and very unlike her usual loud confidence. “I wanted you to have fun. I wanted to be near you. I wanted to look cute, but not like I was trying too hard, which obviously means I tried incredibly hard.”
“You did look cute.”
Her eyes snapped to yours. “Yeah?”
“Very visually successful.”
She groaned. “I hate that that's our phrase now.”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You encouraged it.”
“Fine.” She smiled, but it faded into something softer. “I like you.”
Your entire brain went silent.
It was honestly kind of peaceful.
Angela kept talking because apparently your face had stopped doing anything useful.
“Like, more than friends. I know we're friends, and that's important to me, and I don't want to mess that up, but lately when I'm with you, I get all weird. Good weird. Bad at texting weird. I overthink what emoji to use, which is how I know it's serious.”
“You're not imagining it,” you blurted.
She blinked. “I'm not?”
“No. I've had a crush on you for months.”
“Months?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Unfortunately?”
“Not unfortunately because it's you. Unfortunately because I've been acting like a Victorian person with a secret illness every time you touch my arm.”
Angela threw her head back and laughed.
That made you brave.
“I didn't think you felt the same,” you said.
“Are you kidding?” She looked at you like you were ridiculous. “I've been trying to figure out how to tell you for weeks. I almost told you during sign making, but then Tommy put googly eyes on hummus.”
“That was a powerful interruption.”
“It really was.”
You sat there, hands almost touching on the bench.
“So,” Angela said, voice softer now. “I like you. A lot.”
“I like you too. A lot.”
She reached for your hand. “Okay. Cool. Great. Normal.”
“Very normal.”
“We are handling this so well.”
“Extremely.”
You were both grinning like idiots.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now we enjoy the rest of Pride together. And then maybe we go on an actual date?”
Angela's smile widened. “I would really like that.”
You found the group later near the main stage.
Courtney took one look at your joined hands and screamed.
Not loudly.
Loudly wasn't enough.
This was a full-body, public, Pride-fueled shriek.
“FINALLY!”
Tommy turned around so fast his sunglasses nearly flew off. “Did it happen?”
Chanse gasped. “I knew it. Pay up.”
You stopped walking. “I'm sorry, pay up?”
Damien sighed and pulled out his phone. “I owe Chanse ten dollars.”
Amanda winced. “We bet with love.”
Arasha nodded. “Respectfully.”
Spencer lifted his camera. “Can you hold hands again? For documentation.”
“No,” you and Angela said at the same time.
Courtney clasped their hands together. “This is my Pride miracle.”
“Your Pride miracle is two awkward people finally communicating?” Shayne asked.
“Yes. And sunscreen.”
By 10 PM, you were crammed into a queer bar in West Hollywood hosting a Pride afterparty.
Getting there from Hollywood had taken longer than anyone wanted because Los Angeles liked to humble people who made plans, but your group had survived the rideshare situation, three wrong turns, and Tommy declaring himself “spiritually carsick.”
You claimed a corner table that was definitely too small, but nobody wanted to move because the vibes were good and the table was near a fan. Everyone had drinks, fries, and the sweaty satisfaction of people who had survived sun, crowds, fan photos, and emotional vulnerability.
Tommy was still wearing his platform boots.
“I don't understand how you're standing,” Amanda said.
“Spite,” Tommy replied.
Courtney raised their drink. “Okay, debrief. Best part of today. Go.”
Shayne pointed at them. “You almost falling over when you saw these two holding hands.”
Courtney pointed back. “That was not almost falling. That was reacting with my whole body.”
“That's what falling is.”
Tommy leaned back. “My best part was when a stranger yelled, ‘slay, crop top,’ and I knew they meant me.”
“They absolutely meant you,” Chanse said.
Arasha smiled. “Mine was realizing I wasn't as out of place as I thought I'd be.”
Amanda bumped her shoulder. “You were great.”
“Also the giant hot dog,” Spencer said.
“Thank you,” Damien said. “I felt like no one was acknowledging the hot dog enough.”
Courtney looked at Angela. “What about you?”
Angela squeezed your hand under the table. “Mine was the bench.”
Everyone made noises.
“Gross,” Tommy said happily.
“You asked,” Angela said.
“What happened on the bench?” Arasha asked.
“Nope,” you said. “Private bench business.”
Chanse gasped. “Bench business!”
“Don't make it a thing.”
“Too late,” Damien said.
Courtney grinned. “For me, it was all of this. LA Pride, the chaos, the family, Tommy becoming 30 percent glitter, and getting recognized by someone who said our videos helped them feel less alone. It was nice to just exist with everyone.”
That was about as sentimental as the night got before Tommy tried to convince everyone to do karaoke and chose “I'm Coming Out” with absolutely no preparation.
He missed half the lyrics.
It didn't matter.
Everyone sang anyway.
Angela dragged you onto the dance floor later, arms looping around your neck. You were both tired, sticky with sweat and sunscreen, and very bad at pretending you weren't completely happy.
“Best Pride ever,” she said.
“Best Pride ever,” you agreed.
She kissed your cheek.
Your heart didn't survive.
You woke up with sore feet, glitter on your pillow, and approximately one million group chat notifications.
Gay Agenda (Literally)
Courtney: GOOD MORNING GAYS AND THEYS AND ALLIES 🌞🏳️🌈
Tommy: dead but hotter now 💀✨
Chanse: my feet hurt, worth it 👟😭
Damien: I have glitter in my ear. Tommy, this is legally your fault ✨⚖️
Tommy: My influence is everywhere 💅✨
Amanda: That was genuinely one of the best days of my life 🥹
Arasha: Same. I can't believe I was nervous 🫶
Spencer: I took 847 photos 📸
Shayne: That is too many photos 😭
Spencer: Incorrect 📸
You: best day ever 🌈
Angela: agreed 💕🥰
The chat went silent for six seconds.
Then exploded.
Courtney: HEART EMOJI DETECTED 🚨💕
Chanse: BENCH BUSINESS CONFIRMED 🪑👀
Tommy: FINALLY 🎉
Amanda: I'm so happy for you both 🥹💕
Damien: I want everyone to know I paid my bet promptly 💸
You: you're all ridiculous 😂
Angela: yeah but they're our ridiculous 🫶
Courtney: wait that was cute. I'm allowing it 😭💕
Shayne: Thank you for your approval, courtney, ruler of relationships 👑
Courtney: you're welcome 😌
Your phone buzzed privately.
Angela: hey 😊
You: hey 😊
Angela: coffee later? like a date? unless you're too tired from bench business ☕🪑
You: I regret that phrase existing 😭
Angela: answer the question 👀
You: yes. coffee. date. 2? ☕💕
Angela: perfect 🥰
Angela: I'm really glad yesterday happened 🌈
You smiled at your ceiling.
You: me too. for a lot of reasons 🫶
Angela: same 💕🥰
You let the phone rest against your chest for a moment.
Yesterday had been chaotic and loud and sweaty and occasionally embarrassing. It had been Courtney yelling about hydration, Tommy weaponizing glitter, Arasha realizing she belonged more than she thought, and Spencer somehow getting a perfect candid of everyone except himself.
It had been Angela's hand in yours while the parade thundered past on Hollywood Boulevard.
It had been the bench.
Unfortunately, it had been the bench.
The group chat buzzed again.
Courtney: okay I'm making a post-Pride playlist, send songs 🎶🌈
Tommy: “I'm Coming Out” 🕺
Chanse: “Born This Way” 🏳️🌈
Angela: “Girls Like Girls” 💕
You: subtle 😭
Angela: never claimed to be 😌
You: “True Colors” 🌈
Amanda: “Same Love” ❤️
Spencer: “Dancing Queen” but specifically because Tommy yelled it at a pigeon yesterday 🐦
Tommy: That pigeon had energy 🐦✨
Courtney: this is going to be the gayest playlist ever 🌈🎧
Damien: As it should be 🫡
You laughed, finally dragging yourself out of bed.
Pride wasn't just a day or a month, but it also didn't have to be a giant speech every time. Sometimes it was a group chat that wouldn't shut up. Sometimes it was your friends screaming when you held someone's hand. Sometimes it was glitter in the carpet, sunscreen in your bag, sore feet, and coffee plans with the girl you'd been quietly losing your mind over for months.
Sometimes it was chosen family.
Sometimes it was bench business.
Your phone buzzed one more time.
Angela: can't wait for our date 💕
You: me too 😊
Angela: also next Pride, we're getting matching shirts 👕🌈
You: that's a lot of commitment for someone I haven't even had coffee with yet 😂
Angela: I confessed feelings on a public bench. I'm clearly all in 🪑💕
You grinned.
You: okay. matching shirts next Pride 🌈
Angela: visually successful matching shirts ✨
You laughed so hard you had to sit back down on the bed.
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: Pride at Smosh is about more than just Rainbow and Glitter.
Word Count: 4.2k
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 Smosh office had never looked more ready for Pride Month. Rainbow streamers hung from the ceiling in bright loops, flags covered the walls, and a disco ball spun lazily above the open workspace, scattering little patches of light across desks, cameras, and half-empty coffee cups. Someone had set out rainbow popcorn, cupcakes with too much frosting, and a bowl of candy that Tommy had already declared "emotionally necessary."
It was the first Friday of June, and the whole room buzzed with the kind of joy that made even the most ordinary office corner feel like a dance floor.
"This is incredible!" Tommy shouted over the music, spinning with both arms stretched out like he was personally responsible for the disco ball.
"Careful," Angela called. "If you hit a wall, we are not making Pride Month about your concussion."
Tommy pointed at her mid-spin. "Now that is homophobic."
You laughed from your spot near the snack table, watching the chaos unfold with a warmth that settled deep in your chest. Damien had spent over a week building the playlist, which meant every song somehow felt both dramatic and perfectly timed. Shayne had pulled Courtney into an exaggerated dance move that was either a dip or a workplace safety violation. Ian, well, Ian was moving around the room with a soft smile, making sure everyone had food, water, and a reason to feel welcome.
Smosh had been a workplace once. At some point, without anyone announcing it, it had become something closer to home.
You loved that about it. You loved the way this group celebrated loudly and cared quietly. You loved that Pride here was not treated like a marketing idea or a theme party that disappeared when the lights went off. It felt real because the people were real. Messy, funny, sincere, exhausted, glitter-covered, and trying their best.
Still, every once in a while, the celebration tugged at something tender in you.
It was not sadness exactly. It was more like an old bruise you forgot about until something brushed against it. You had come out young, younger than many around you. You had known yourself early, even when you didn’t yet have all the words for it. But your dad died when you were young, before you ever got the chance to tell him. That loss had left a quiet space inside you, one you rarely talked about.
Maybe that was why you had become so good at listening. Maybe it was why people trusted you with the things they were still learning how to say. You liked being that person. You were proud to be that person.
You were also starting to wonder if being everyone's safe place had made it harder to imagine being someone's first choice.
"You good?" Angela asked, appearing beside you and reaching for a handful of rainbow popcorn.
"Yeah," you said, smiling because you meant it. Mostly. "Just taking it all in."
Angela looked around the room, her expression softening. "It is kind of a lot. In a good way."
"The best kind of a lot."
Across the room, Spencer glanced over from where he was helping Amanda rescue a strand of lights from a filing cabinet. He caught your eye, smiled, and lifted one hand in a small wave. It was nothing big. Just Spencer being Spencer. But the smile stayed with you longer than you expected.
The party lasted until nearly midnight. By then, the music had softened, the cupcakes had been reduced to crumbs, and the glitter had begun its lifelong mission to never leave the carpet. People drifted out in pairs and small groups, still laughing as they gathered their bags.
You stayed behind to help clean up. Damien packed the speaker system. Ian collected cups. Courtney stood on a chair, carefully deciding which decorations could stay up for the rest of the month.
"The flags stay," Courtney announced.
"The flags absolutely stay," Ian said.
Courtney smiled, but it came with a quieter edge than the one they had worn all night. After a moment, they climbed down and glanced toward the hallway.
"I think I'm going to get some air. Rooftop?"
You met their eyes. "Want company?"
Her smile warmed. "Always."
The Los Angeles night was gentle, the kind of warm that made the city feel softer from above. Streetlights stretched below you like a second sky, and the distant sound of traffic hummed under the quiet.
Courtney leaned against the rooftop railing, twisting the cap off a water bottle. You stood beside them, giving them the space to find whatever words had followed them up here.
"That was a good party," you said.
"It was," Courtney said. "Like, genuinely. Ridiculously good. Tommy almost took out a chair, Shayne suddenly thinks he can dance now, and I got to keep the flags up. Huge night."
You grinned. "Historic, honestly."
Courtney laughed, then let the sound fade. For a few seconds, they watched the city instead of speaking.
"I love Pride," she said finally. "I really do. I love the colors, the noise, and the way everyone gets to be so openly themselves. But every June, I still feel this little weight under all of it."
You turned toward her fully.
"I think about all the years before I came out," Courtney continued. "The ones where I watched Pride from the sidelines and pretended it was not for me yet. I was happy for other people, but I also felt like I was looking through a window at something I wanted to be part of."
"And now?" you asked gently.
"Now I am part of it," they said, smiling a little. "I know that. I feel that. I have all of you. I have Shayne, who loves me exactly as I am. I have a life I didn’t always think I would get."
Their voice wavered, and you waited.
"But sometimes the scared kid version of me still shows up," Courtney admitted. "Not all the time. Just enough to remind me that getting here took something."
You reached over and took their hand. "I think Pride can be both. The joy and the memory. The party and the reason we needed the party in the first place."
Courtney looked at you, eyes shining. "That was annoyingly beautiful."
"Thank you. I try to be emotionally useful and mildly irritating."
She laughed, wiping under one eye. "You're very good at both."
The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, hands linked between you. The city glittered below, and for once the quiet did not feel like something to fill. It felt like something you could rest inside.
After a while, you heard yourself say, "Can I tell you something?"
Courtney turned immediately. "Of course."
You took a breath. The words weren’t new, but saying them out loud still made your chest tighten.
"I came out really young. I knew who I was, even if I didn’t always know how to explain it. But then my dad died before I could tell him." You looked out at the lights, letting them blur a little. "I think that changed the way I learned to love people. I became good at listening. Good at making space. Good at being the person people could come to."
"You are good at that," Courtney said softly, reassuringly.
"I like being that," you said. "I love being trusted. I love being part of this group. But sometimes I worry that I have gotten so used to being the supportive one that no one thinks to see me any other way."
Courtney's thumb brushed over the back of your hand.
"Sometimes I wonder if I will always be the friend people lean on," you admitted. "The person who helps everyone else feel brave. And I know that’s not a small thing. I know it matters. But I still want to be chosen. Not by a whole room. By one person. In a way that feels like home."
Courtney pulled you into a hug before you could say anything else. You let yourself be held, and the simple act of it made your throat ache.
"You are not just support," they whispered. "You are funny and stubborn and thoughtful and wildly bad at accepting compliments. You deserve every kind of love, including the kind that makes you nervous."
You laughed into their shoulder. "That sounds horrible."
"Terrifying," Courtney agreed. "But probably worth it."
You stayed on the rooftop longer than you meant to, talking about first crushes, awkward coming out moments, chosen family, and all the different ways people learn how to be brave. When you finally went back downstairs, you didn’t feel fixed. You didn’t need to.
You just felt a little less alone with the thought.
Week two was louder, brighter, and somehow involved more glitter than the first week, which should have been physically impossible.
The office had been transformed into a makeshift club for drag performances and dancing. Spencer had been appointed MC, mostly because he had made one sarcastic comment about having stage presence and everyone had decided to hold him to it.
"Welcome, icons, legends, and people who were promised snacks," Spencer announced into the microphone. "Tonight, we honor Pride, performance, and the fact that HR has not stopped us yet."
The room erupted.
Shayne's lip sync to a Britney Spears medley nearly ended the night from sheer secondhand joy. He committed with his entire body, including choreography that was clearly learned from the internet and perfected through confidence alone. Courtney cheered louder than anyone, one hand pressed to their chest like they were watching him win an Olympic medal.
You laughed until your sides hurt. It was impossible not to. Shayne was ridiculous, Courtney was glowing, Tommy was screaming every lyric like a sports commentator, and Amanda had somehow become the unofficial judge despite no one asking her.
The ache in you still appeared now and then, but it didn’t swallow the room. You let yourself enjoy things. You let yourself clap too loud. You let yourself be silly when Angela dragged you into a dance circle, and Chance shouted encouragement like you were training for a championship.
At one point, Spencer passed behind you and leaned close enough to be heard over the music.
"For the record," he said, "your footwork is bold."
"That sounds like an insult with a sugar coating."
"It is a compliment with some concerns."
You laughed, and Spencer grinned like he had accomplished exactly what he meant to.
Later, after the music faded and the last of the glitter settled into the floor forever, you found Shayne in the break room with a cup of water and a smear of silver sparkle still stuck to his cheek.
"Do you want coffee, water, or Tylenol?" you asked.
"Yes," Shayne said.
You made him coffee first and sat across from him. The break room was quiet after the office chaos, the kind of quiet that made conversations feel easier.
"Tonight was fun," Shayne said, wrapping his hands around the mug.
"You say that like you didn’t almost reinvent dance as a concept."
"I gave the people what they did not ask for."
You smiled. "Very brave."
Shayne chuckled, then grew thoughtful. "I have been thinking a lot this month. About what it means to show up for someone. Not just in the easy, loud, fun moments, but in the quieter ones too."
You knew he was talking about Courtney before he said their name.
"Courtney is so open now," he continued. "But I know there were years when that was not easy for her. Sometimes I worry that I will miss something. That I will think being supportive means cheering at the party, when sometimes it means noticing when they need to leave the party."
There was such love in his voice that it softened something in you instead of sharpening it.
"The fact that you are thinking about that matters," you said. "You do show up for them, Shayne. Not perfectly, because nobody does anything perfectly, but honestly. That counts for a lot."
He nodded, quiet for a moment. "Thanks. And not just for this. For always making room for these conversations."
There it was again. Always. The word could have felt heavy, but tonight it felt a little different. Maybe because of Courtney. Maybe because of the rooftop. Maybe because Spencer had just walked past the break room doorway, noticed the empty snack wrapper beside your elbow, and silently tossed you a granola bar with a look that said he knew you had forgotten to eat dinner.
You caught it against your chest, surprised.
Shayne blinked. "Did Spencer just snack-assist you?"
You looked down at the granola bar. "Apparently."
"Interesting."
"Do not make that face."
"I am not making a face. This is my neutral face."
"Your neutral face is suspicious."
Shayne smiled into his coffee, and for once, you did not rush to explain the warmth rising in your cheeks.
By week three, Pride Month had become more reflective. The event was called Stories and Solidarity Night, which sounded very formal until Tommy opened by saying, "Welcome to feelings, but with snacks."
There was an open mic, a row of chairs, and a table covered in tea, cookies, and tissues that everyone joked about but eventually used.
Tommy talked about finding community online before he found it in person. Spencer shared a short, thoughtful piece about allyship and learning when to speak and when to shut up, which earned him both applause and a very loud "growth!" from Angela. Amanda told a story about chosen family that made half the room tear up and the other half pretend they weren't.
When Courtney took the mic, they looked nervous for half a second. Then their eyes found you in the crowd, and they smiled.
They talked about the rooftop. Not every detail, not the pieces that belonged only to you, but enough. They talked about joy and memory. About the younger version of them who had watched Pride from a distance. About the comfort of realizing they were not on the outside anymore.
"Sometimes," Courtney said, her voice steady, "Pride is loud music and ridiculous dancing. Sometimes it is someone sitting next to you in the quiet and reminding you that you made it here. I am really grateful for both."
The room applauded. You clapped hard, proud of them in that full, uncomplicated way that felt easy.
Afterward, a smaller group ended up at your apartment. It happened the way these things always did, with someone saying they were not ready to go home yet and someone else saying you had the best balcony. Soon Ian, Angela, Spencer, Chance, and Amanda were scattered around your balcony with sodas, takeout, and the leftover cookies from the event.
The night air was cool enough to make everyone lean closer together.
"I've been thinking," Ian said.
Angela immediately pointed at him. "Dangerous start."
"Fair," Ian said, laughing. "But I have. About what Pride means after the decorations come down."
"Community," Amanda said.
"Accountability," Chance added.
"Snacks," Tommy called from inside, even though he was not technically part of the balcony conversation.
"All important," Ian said. "But I think it is also consistency. Showing people they are safe with you in June, and then proving it again in July. And August. And every ordinary day after that."
You leaned against the railing, touched by the simplicity of it. "I like that. Pride as a promise you keep making."
Spencer looked over at you. "That is a good line."
"Do not sound so surprised."
"I am constantly surprised by you," he said, then seemed to realize how sincere that sounded and cleared his throat. "In a respectful and completely normal way."
Angela's eyes darted between you, bright with interest.
"No," you said before she could speak.
"I didn’t say anything."
"Your eyebrows did."
The conversation kept flowing, lighter than you expected for a night built around serious stories. You talked about first Pride memories, bad fashion choices, the comfort of labels, the freedom to change them, and the fact that nobody could agree on how many rainbow cupcakes were too many.
When people started leaving, Angela hugged you at the door.
"Thanks for hosting," she said. "And for being you."
This time, instead of brushing off the compliment, you let it land.
"Thanks for coming," you said.
Spencer was the last to leave. He lingered by the door, holding his jacket in both hands.
"Tonight was good," he said.
"It was."
"You seemed happy."
The comment caught you off guard, not because it was strange, but because he had noticed.
"I was," you said. "I am."
His smile was small, but real. "Good. You deserve that."
Then he left before you could decide how to respond, leaving you in the quiet apartment with a sink full of cups and a smile you could not quite talk yourself out of.
The final week of Pride brought a different kind of celebration.
Instead of another party in the office, Ian had found a small garden venue tucked away from the noise of the city. String lights crisscrossed overhead, flowers lined the edges of the patio, and the air smelled like jasmine, citrus, and summer. Comfortable chairs were arranged in little clusters, close enough for conversation but spread out enough that no one had to worry about talking over one another.
It was smaller than the other nights. Just the people you were closest to. Courtney and Shayne shared a loveseat near the flowers, their hands loosely intertwined. Damien helped Ian test the speaker, which played soft music instead of dance tracks. Amanda and Chance were debating whether the tiny sandwiches counted as dinner. Tommy had already decided they did.
Spencer stood near one of the light posts, fixing a strand that had slipped out of place. When he saw you arrive, his face brightened.
"Hey," he said, stepping down from the low chair he had definitely not been using as a ladder.
"That looked very safe."
"I lived, which makes it fine."
You shook your head, smiling. "Not how safety works."
"That's why I am not in charge of safety."
The evening unfolded gently. Courtney hugged you for a long time and whispered, "Thank you for this month," like you had personally built June with your own hands. Shayne made you laugh by insisting his Britney performance had changed the culture. Damien sat beside you for a while and talked about how much it meant to have a space where nobody had to shrink themselves.
Angela raised her glass at you from across the garden in a silent toast.
You felt loved. Not perfectly, not in a way that erased every fear, but truly.
For the first time all month, that felt like something you could trust.
As the sky darkened, Ian suggested everyone share one thing they were taking from Pride Month into the rest of the year. The answers were funny and sincere by turns.
"More glitter," Tommy said.
"Less glitter," Damien said immediately.
"Bravery," Courtney said, leaning into Shayne's side.
"Patience," Amanda added.
"Better boundaries," Angela said, then looked directly at you with a pointed smile.
You groaned. "Why did that feel targeted?"
"Because it was delivered with love."
When it was your turn, you looked around at the faces watching you. A month ago, you might have said something polished. Something about community or visibility or the importance of showing up for one another. All of that was true, but tonight you wanted to be honest in a different way.
"I think I am taking possibility," you said. "The reminder that people can surprise you. That joy can exist even when you are still figuring things out. And that maybe letting yourself be cared for is not the same as being weak."
The garden went quiet in the softest way.
Courtney smiled at you like they understood exactly what it had taken to say that.
A little later, when the group split into smaller conversations, Spencer appeared beside you with two drinks.
"I brought you one before you could forget you are a person with basic needs," he said.
You accepted it. "That is a very specific accusation."
"It is based on evidence."
You took a sip and tried not to smile too much. "Thank you."
Spencer's expression shifted, still warm but suddenly nervous. He glanced toward the quieter corner of the garden.
"Can we talk for a minute?"
Your heart gave one quick, startled kick. "Yeah. Of course."
You followed him away from the group, past the flowers and under a stretch of string lights that made everything look softer. Spencer put his drink down on a small table and ran a hand through his hair.
"I have been trying to figure out how to say this all month," he began.
You went still.
"And I know that is a dramatic sentence," he added quickly. "So, for the record, nobody is dying, and I did not break anything important."
A laugh slipped out of you, easing some of the nerves between you. "Good to know."
He smiled, then took a breath. "I like you."
The words were simple. Almost too simple for how loudly they landed.
"Oh," you said, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left.
"Yeah," Spencer said. "Oh."
You stared at him, and he rushed on.
"I like you in a way that has become increasingly inconvenient to keep pretending is just friendly admiration. I like the way you listen to people, but not because I think that is your job. I like how you notice everything. I like that you make jokes when things get too serious, but you never use humor to make people feel small. I like that you care loudly, even when you think you are being subtle."
Your chest tightened, but not with the old ache. This was something warmer. Scarier too, but in a way that felt alive.
"Spencer," you said softly.
"I know you are used to being the person people lean on," he continued. "And I know that can make it hard to believe someone might look at you and not just see support. But I don’t see you like that. I see you. And I would really like the chance to choose you, if that is something you might want too."
For a moment, all you could hear was the faint music from the patio and the distant laughter of your friends.
You thought about the rooftop with Courtney. The break room with Shayne. The balcony. The compliments you had tried to dodge and the care you had almost missed because you weren’t used to looking for it.
You thought about your dad and the words you never got to say. You thought about the younger version of yourself who learned early that love could vanish without warning, so maybe it was safer to give it than to need it.
Then you looked at Spencer, standing there with hope and fear written all over his face, and realized you no longer wanted to hide behind being useful.
"I'm scared," you admitted.
Spencer nodded. "That makes sense."
"I am good at caring about people. I’m not as good at letting people care about me."
"Then we can start there," he said. "Small steps. No grand performance. No pressure to become someone different. Just... you letting me show up, and me doing my best not to be weird about it."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," he corrected. "Me doing my best to be a normal amount of weird about it."
You laughed, and the sound came out brighter than you expected.
Across the garden, Courtney caught your eye. She was very clearly pretending not to watch. Shayne, standing beside them, gave you the least subtle thumbs-up you had ever seen.
"They are terrible," you said.
Spencer glanced over his shoulder and winced. "Unbelievably terrible."
"Our friends are not subtle."
"No, but they are consistent."
You looked back at him. The fear was still there, but it had changed shape. It no longer felt like a wall. It felt like a doorway.
"I would like that," you said. "The small steps. The possibility. You."
Spencer's smile unfolded slowly, like he was trying not to believe it too fast. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He held out his hand, giving you every chance to decide. You slipped your fingers into his. It was simple. Warm. Enough to make your eyes sting.
The party carried on around you, all string lights and low music and your friends laughing too loudly at something Tommy had said. Nothing about your life changed all at once. You were still the person who listened. Still the friend people trusted. Still part of the bright, ridiculous, beautiful village you had helped build.
But maybe that had never meant you had to stand outside of love.
Maybe chosen family was not a consolation prize. Maybe it was the foundation. Maybe being loved by a whole room didn’t mean you couldn’t also be chosen by one person inside it.
Spencer squeezed your hand once, gentle and sure.
For the first time all month, the feeling in your chest didn’t feel like loneliness dressed up as gratitude. It felt open. Nervous. Joyful.
Warnings: swearing, violence, mentions of murder and death, slight religious themes and demons, nightmares, manipulation (well this is npmd so…)
Summary: after sacrificing her chastity to the lords in black, grace realizes they now want the next thing she cherishes most—her best friend.
based on this request. thank you so much for requesting! i hope you enjoy this <333
grace chasity stopped believing in god somewhere around age sixteen
she’d never said it out loud. never even let herself think it too clearly, because thinking it made it real, and if it was real then what was she? what was any of it, the youth group, the purity ring, the ankle-length skirts? what was the point of being grace chasity, good christian girl, if the whole foundation was just—
nothing.
so she didn’t think it. she just kept going. kept praying, kept preaching, kept telling sarah mulligan her crop top was a sin against god and kept handing out abstinence pamphlets at school dances. kept being grace chasity because grace chasity was the only thing she knew how to be.
the thing about performing faith long enough is that sometimes it starts to feel real. or real enough, anyway. real enough to get through sundays. real enough to sleep at night.
and then max jägerman died and came back and tried to kill everyone, and grace stood in that house and she prayed.
she prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life.
nothing happened.
but then she opened the black book. and she called out to whatever was listening. and five gods answered.
five gods who showed up. who spoke to her directly. who looked her in the eye and made her a deal she could actually verify, with terms she could actually track, with power she could actually feel humming through her hands when she touched the book.
five gods who were, undeniably, real.
grace gave them her chastity without hesitating.
and she felt righteous. more righteous than she’d ever felt kneeling in a church pew. more righteous than any prayer she’d ever said to a god who never answered. because this meant something. this was a real sacrifice for a real cause with real results.
max died. the world was saved. grace walked away with the black book in her hands and wiggly’s eye open in the back of her mind, and she thought,oh. oh, this is what faith is supposed to feel like.
so she kept going. kept killling. kept feeding the lords the souls of dirty dudes and sinners and people who were making the world worse just by existing in it. and every time she pressed her hand to the black book and felt that power surge through her, she thought, this is righteous. this is good. this is what i was always supposed to be doing.
the christian god never gave her anything real.
the lords in black gave her everything.
you’ve known grace your whole life, which means you’ve watched every version of her come and go. the seven year old with the communion lace friendship bracelets. the twelve year old who told half the school they were going to hell. the seventeen year old with the abstinence ring and the conviction of someone who’d never once doubted herself.
you’ve never fully bought into any of it. grace knows that. she’s always known that. and she’s always let it slide with you, specifically, in a way she never lets anything slide with anyone else.
everyone else gets the pamphlets. you get a sigh and a “you’re lucky i like you.”
you were there for the max thing. for the black book aand the aftermath. you stood in that house and watched grace become something else entirely, and when it was over you looked at her and said, “okay. what now?”
she’d stared at you like you’d grown a second head.
“what now?” she’d repeated.
“yeah. what do we do now?”
and grace, who always has a plan, who always has an answer, who has never in her life been at a loss for words—just looked at you. and for a second you saw it. the relief. the desperate, overwhelming relief of someone who’d been holding everything alone and suddenly didn’t have to.
“i don’t know.” she’d said.
“okay,” you’d said. “we’ll figure it out.”
that was two months ago. richie’s gone. ruth’s gone. steph and pete are walking around like ghosts. and grace is—
grace is different now. you’ve been trying to put your finger on it for weeks. she’s more focused. more certain. that manic energy she’s always had, the one that used to go into bible study and youth group planning, has been redirected into something sharper.
she’s in her room right now, sitting at her desk, and she’s not doing homework. she’s got the black book open in front of her, and she’s reading it with the same focused intensity she used to reserve for scripture. her lips move slightly. her finger traces lines of text that seem to shift when you look at them directly.
you’re on her floor, back against the bed, watching her without trying to make it obvious.
“you’re staring.” grace says without looking up.
“i’m observing.”
“that’s just staring with more syllables.” she turns a page. the book makes a sound like a sigh. “what do you want?”
“nothing. just thinking.”
“about what?”
“about how you used to read the bible like that.”
grace’s finger stops moving. just for a second. “i still read the bible.”
“do you?”
she closes the black book. carefully. the way she used to close her bible after evening devotions. “the lords aren’t inconsistent with scripture. if you actually read revelations—”
“grace.”
“what?”
“you don’t have to justify it to me.”
she turns to look at you. and there’s something in her expression you can’t quite name, something between relief and guilt and something else entirely. “i’m not justifying anything. i’m explaining.”
“okay.”
“there’s a difference.”
“okay.”
she holds your gaze for a moment longer, then turns back to her desk. picks up a pen. starts writing something in her notebook.
“you should go home soon,” she says. “it’s getting late.”
“i’m fine.”
“i know you’re fine. i’m saying you should go home anyway.” her pen moves across the page. “text me when you get there.”
“grace, you live a block away.”
“text me anyway.”
you look at her, at the set of her shoulders, the careful way she’s holding herself, the black book sitting closed at the corner of her desk and you feel that thing again. that low hum of unease. that sense that grace is managing something she isn’t telling you about.
“is everything okay?” you ask.
“everything’s fine.” too quick.
“grace—”
“everything is fine.” she turns to look at you, and she smiles. warm. familiar. very grace. “go home. text me. i’ll see you tomorrow.”
the dream starts without warning.
you’re in a church that isn’t a church. the pews stretch too high. the ceiling curves wrong. the stained glass shows things you can’t look at directly, shapes that slide away every time you try to focus.
at the altar, where the cross should be, there are five figures.
they’re standing in a circle. looking down at something.
looking down at you.
you’re on the altar. flat on your back. you can’t do anything except stare up at five figures who are discussing you like you’re already gone.
“i want the heart.” the smallest one says. pink pigtails. a lollipop dripping red. his voice is sugar-sweet and deeply, fundamentally wrong. “hearts are the yummiest. so much feeling packed into one little muscle.” he licks the lollipop slowly, eyes fixed on your chest. “i’ve been thinking about it for so long.”
“the eyes!” another voice says, from everywhere and nowhere at once. “i want to see what she sees as it all goes dark. that moment. that’s the best part.”
“her fear…” another one giggles, spinning something in his hands. a watch, ticking backwards. “every single drop of it. wind her up, watch her break. tick tock tick tock—”
“her voice.” said another, cold and flat. like a room with no windows and no doors. “one scream. just one. then silence. permanent silence.”
the fifth one doesn’t speak. tall, dressed in green, smiling with too many teeth. he’s already decided. you can feel it. and that, somehow, is the worst part of all.
the smallest one crouches down beside you. his face is level with yours now. his eyes are vast and black and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with his stomach.
“grace promised us something…” he whispers. his breath smells like sugar and rot and copper. “the thing she loves most.” he tilts his head. studies you the way you’d study something you’ve been waiting a very long time to consume. a slow, deliberate lick of the lollipop, eyes never leaving yours. “she keeps saying not yet. not yet. not yet.” he giggles, soft and horrible. “but she’ll come around. she always comes around. that’s the thing about grace.” he leans closer. close enough that you can see your own reflection in his eyes, small and terrified and very, very small. “she always does what her gods ask in the end.”
he reaches out with one sticky pink finger—
you wake up gasping in your dark room. your heart trying to break out of your chest.
you don’t text grace about the dream.
you’re not sure why. you just know that when you wake up at 3am with nibbly’s breath still warm on your face and the smell of sugar and copper clinging to the inside of your nose, something stops you from reaching for your phone. you lie there instead. stare at the ceiling. try to figure out what exactly is sitting wrong in your stomach.
she’ll come around, nibbly had said. she always does what her gods ask in the end.
you think about grace. about the black book open on her desk. you lie there until the sun comes up.
grace shows up at your door before school with a packed breakfast in her hands. you open it and she looks at your face and says, “you look terrible.”
“good morning.”
“i’m serious! you didn’t sleep.” she holds up the coffee. “let me in. i’ll make toast.”
you step aside. she moves past you into the kitchen like she’s done a thousand times, finds the bread and the toaster without having to look for either of them, and you sit at the table and watch her and try to figure out what it is you’re feeling. she sets the plate in front of you. sits across from you. and she just looks at you. warm and completely present, the way grace has always been with you specifically, in a way she isn’t with anyone else.
“eat.” she says.
you eat. and whatever was sitting wrong in your stomach starts to loosen, because this is grace. your grace. and she’s right here.
she walks you to school. sits with you at lunch. shows up at your locker between classes just to hand you a snack and say “you forgot to eat breakfast properly, the toast doesn’t count” before disappearing back into the crowd. small things. grace things. by the time you get home that afternoon the dream feels distant.
you almost forget about it entirely.
almost.
because grace keeps showing up. not in a way you could point to and say something’s wrong, just… more. more present. more attentive. she notices every little thing. she walks you all the way to your front door instead of just to the end of the street, and when you turn to say goodnight she lingers for just a moment, like she’s making sure of something, before she goes. she comes over on a thursday evening and she sits on your floor with her back against the couch and every so often you catch her looking at you in that long quiet way, the way she reads the black book, like she’s memorizing something.
“what?” you ask, catching her at it.
“nothing.” she looks back down at her notes. “just thinking.”
“about what?”
a pause. “about how you’re the only person who’s never looked at me like i’m too much.”
you don’t know what to say to that. so you just say, “you’re not too much.”
grace doesn’t respond. just turns a page. and you let it go because that’s what you do with grace, you let things go, you’ve been letting things go for eighteen years because pushing grace when she doesn’t want to be pushed is like pushing a wall.
it’s a friday night when she comes over with food and a movie she’s already picked and that particular serene energy that means grace has made peace with something. you watch the movie. she makes commentary about the moral failings of the characters. you argue back. it’s so normal that for two full hours you stop noticing anything at all, and you just sit there on your floor with grace exactly where she’s always been, and you think, this is fine. everything is fine.
then the movie ends and she helps you clean up and instead of leaving she just stays, sitting on your floor with her back against the couch in no particular hurry, and the lamp is low and the house is quiet and grace is looking at the middle distance with that expression she gets when she’s working something out.
“i’ve been thinking about sacrifices.” she says.
you look at her.
“in the bible, the most meaningful ones are always the ones that cost the most. that’s the whole point. it’s not a sacrifice if it doesn’t hurt.” a pause. “abraham understood that. that’s why god stopped him. because he was willing to go through with it.”
“grace—”
“i’m just thinking out loud.” she glances at you and offered a warm smile. completely grace. “don’t worry.”
and the thing is, you almost don’t. because that’s what grace does, she says strange things and then smiles at you like that and the warmth of it is so genuine and so familiar that it smooths everything over. you’ve been letting grace smooth things over your whole life. you’re very good at it by now.
she stands. picks up her bag, careful the way she’s always careful with it lately. “you should sleep.” she says. “you still look tired.”
“grace.”
she looks at you.
“are you okay?”
the smile she gives you is the warmest you’ve ever seen on her. the smile of someone who has made peace with something and is living quietly on the other side of it.
“i’m the best i’ve ever been!” she says.
and she means it. you can tell she means it completely. so you let her go. you listen to her footsteps on the path, the gate clicking shut, and the sudden quietness that follows. and you sit there in your living room in the low light and you feel, despite everything, despite the dream and the strange things grace says and the way she looks at you sometimes, you feel okay. you feel safe. because grace said she’s the best she’s ever been, and grace doesn’t lie to you.
you go to bed.
you sleep soundlessly.
and grace walks home through the hatchetfield night with the black book under her arm and her gods humming steady and certain in the back of her skull, and she doesn’t look back.
she never looks back.
she has always known, in the part of herself that performs faith until it becomes real, that there is only one way this ends.
her gods are hungry. and the thing about hunger—deep, endless hunger, is that anticipation makes everything taste better.
and grace chasity has never, not once in her entire life, failed to give them what they want.
you’re going to taste so, so sweet.
divider credits: @uzmacchiato
a/n: i’m not quite sure if i liked the outcome of this, a little scared about it too. but i enjoyed writing it nonetheless! :)
