Untitled @mossypants4theworld - Tumblr Blog

Apr 24

IMGONNAGETYOUBACK: SOPHIA LAFORTEZA SMAU

synopsis: when sophia laforteza drops her debut single “drivers license”, the media and fans begin to point fingers at yn and a rivalry grows between the two singers.

pairing: sophia laforteza x fem!reader

taglist: CLOSED

status: ongoing

profiles: part 1 | part 2

chapters:

DEBUT SINGLE

SKIN

FLOP ERA

SO OBSESSED

FREE PIZZA

LIE LIE LIE

4 MONTHS LATER

VMAS NIGHT

GRAMMY NOMINATIONS

GRAMMY NIGHT #1 (PART ONE)

GRAMMY NIGHT #1 (PART TWO)

LEAVE ME ALONE

AN ANNOUNCEMENT

THE MET

ALBUM PARTY

TWO MONTHS LATER

AFTERPARTY

TOUR

NOMINATIONS

LA SHOW

SO CLOSE TO WHAT?

GRAMMY NIGHT #2 (PART ONE)

GRAMMY NIGHT #2 (PART TWO)

MEETING

STUDIO

PARTY

COACHELLA

TORI YOUNG

ANOTHER 4 MONTHS LATER

NEW SONG

OVER IT NOW, RIGHT?

LOST CAUSE

VIP TENT

GRAMMY NIGHT #3

WHAT IS THIS FEELING?

HARD LAUNCH

2 MONTHS ON ACCIDENT

GLASTONBURY

WILL YOU BE MY JUNO?

LUNCH

FLOWERS

I DO

NYLON

mossypants4theworld

Mar 7

rubber-feathers

Alysa Liu, the shot shooter

First request! testing the waters with this one hehe hope you enjoy!

Use of yn sorry! i didn't know how else to word it

For @eternalcitadeltotem 's request

The meeting had already gone on too long.

That was the first thing you were aware of—the dull ache behind your eyes that only happened when you’d been sitting in the same chair for hours while people dissected something you had created months ago in a quiet room with a piano and a notebook.

The conference room smelled faintly like coffee and printer ink. There were half-finished drinks on the table, laptops open, papers scattered across the polished wood like everyone had forgotten where they’d started the conversation.

Your producer, Marco, was mid-sentence, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head in the way he always did when he was explaining something technical.

“I’m just saying the arrangement could breathe a little more in the second verse,” he said thoughtfully. “We could pull the drums back and let the vocal carry—”

You nodded slowly, following the thought. “That’s what I was thinking too. The song works best when it feels… simple. Like it’s not trying to prove anything.”

Your label rep was scribbling notes. Someone else was typing something into their laptop. Across the table, your manager, Elise, was half listening and half scrolling through something on her phone.

“Well,” Elise cut in suddenly, “speaking of things not trying to prove anything—did you see the program?”

You frowned slightly, still mentally inside the arrangement Marco was describing.

“What program?” you asked absently.

Elise didn’t answer right away. Instead she leaned forward, placing her phone on the table and sliding it toward you.

“You know,” she said lightly, like she was dropping something small into the conversation. “The Grand Prix of Figure Skating.”

Marco paused mid-thought.

“Figure skating?” he asked.

Elise nodded, still watching you. “Alysa Liu,” she said.

The name floated past your attention like background noise.

“Yeah, that’s nice,” you said vaguely, turning back to Marco. “So if we strip the instrumentation down—”

“She skated to your song.”

That made you pause. Not dramatically. Not like the room stopped spinning. Just enough that your attention flickered for a second before drifting back to Marco again.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool.”

You meant it, too. It wasn’t unusual for athletes to use music from popular artists. You’d heard your songs in commercials before, in movie trailers, even once at a baseball game where the sound system distorted the entire chorus beyond recognition. You expected this to be the same thing.

A nice coincidence. Background noise.

Marco was already continuing his point about arrangement choices. “But if the piano carries the emotional shift there—”

Elise sighed quietly. You didn’t notice. Not until her phone slid another inch across the table and stopped directly in front of you. The screen was already playing.

You glanced down without thinking.

Just a quick look.

Just long enough to see a flash of ice, a sweep of movement, a camera angle shifting across the rink. Then the broadcast zoomed in.

And the world sort of… paused.

The camera caught Alysa mid-glide, the music swelling behind her. Your music. But it sounded different here.

Larger.

The arena acoustics gave the piano a deep, echoing quality you’d never heard before, the opening chords stretching across the rink like they belonged there all along.

Alysa’s face filled the frame.

You had seen her before, maybe from some YouTube short in passing. But you had never actually watched her skate. Not like this.

The camera pulled back as she pushed off across the ice, and suddenly the room around you faded into something distant and unimportant.

Your song was about simple things. About choosing joy deliberately, even when the world insisted on turning everything into pressure or expectation. You’d written it late one night after realizing how easy it was to forget that happiness wasn’t supposed to feel like a performance.

You wrote it sitting at your piano in sweatpants with the window open and the city quiet outside.

Now it was filling an arena in Nagoya, Japan.

And Alysa Liu was skating to it like she understood every single word.

Her movement wasn’t dramatic in the way some skating programs were. There wasn’t the heavy theatricality that sometimes turned routines into stories you could barely follow.

Instead there was a lightness to her skating that felt… unforced.

Like she wasn’t trying to convince anyone of anything.

Every edge looked easy, every transition flowing into the next movement without hesitation. When she landed her first jump, she didn’t even pause to check herself. She just continued across the ice, the rhythm of the program carrying her forward.

And she was smiling.

Not the polite smile athletes sometimes gave when they knew the cameras were watching.

A real one.

The kind that crept into the corners of her eyes and stayed there.

You felt something strange in your chest watching it.

Like the meaning of the song had slipped out of your hands and turned into something bigger than what you’d originally written.

On the ice, Alysa spun through the center of the rink, the piano building behind her.

The crowd was quiet in that way audiences get when they realize they’re watching something special.

You barely registered the people in the conference room around you leaning forward to watch your reaction.

You were too busy watching the way Alysa’s movements matched the music.

There was a moment near the end where she slowed, gliding across the ice with her arms open slightly like she was letting the sound of the final verse carry her.

Then the last jump. Clean. Effortless.

When the music ended, Alysa stood there for a second, breathing hard, her face flushed with the kind of joy that looked almost disbelieving.

The arena exploded into applause.

You watched as she laughed softly, covering her mouth for a second like she was trying to process what had just happened.

Then she lowered her hands and soaked it in.

Not in a dramatic way. Just standing there, smiling at the crowd like she had finally found her way back to something she loved. The video ended. The phone screen went dark.

And suddenly you were back in the conference room again.

Marco was staring at you. Elise was trying not to grin. Someone at the far end of the table was openly smirking. You cleared your throat.

“Wow,” you said casually, leaning back in your chair like nothing unusual had just happened. “That was… nice.”

No one said anything.

You adjusted your jacket sleeve and looked toward Elise.

“Well,” you added, forcing a small shrug, “that’s really sweet. We should probably send her some flowers or something. Like a congratulations.”

Marco burst out laughing. Elise covered her mouth, trying and failing to hide her amusement.

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Oh nothing,” Elise said. “You just looked like you forgot how to breathe for a second.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You shook your head dismissively and stood up, gathering your notebook.

“Well anyway,” you said briskly, “good for her. That was a beautiful program.”

You headed toward the door before anyone could continue the conversation.

Behind you, Elise’s voice followed.

“Try not to watch it twenty more times tonight.”

You waved a hand over your shoulder.

“As if.”

—

Later that evening, your apartment was quiet. You sat on the couch with your laptop open, the glow of the screen lighting the room softly. You told yourself you were just curious. Just one more watch. You pressed play.

The music began again.

And as Alysa stepped onto the ice, smiling like the whole world had suddenly become lighter, you felt that same strange, quiet pull in your chest.

The way she moved. The ease in her skating.

The freedom in the way she carried herself across the rink, like the pressure that had once pushed her away from the sport had finally disappeared.

When she finished the program, laughing softly as the crowd roared around her, you realized something uncomfortable.

You were completely, hopelessly captivated.

And you hadn’t even met her yet.

---

By the time the Olympic Village in Milan fills with athletes, journalists, and camera crews, Alysa Liu has already gotten used to the noise.

It’s different from the quiet focus of training, where the rink is cold and nearly empty and every sound echoes against the boards. The Olympics are the opposite of that. Everything is louder. Brighter. More crowded. Every hallway seems to have a microphone waiting somewhere, and every conversation is just one step away from turning into a headline.

Most athletes look a little overwhelmed by it.

Alysa doesn’t.

She’s leaning against a wall in the media corridor with her arms loosely crossed, still in her team jacket, her hair pulled back in the casual way she prefers when she’s not on the ice. Around her, reporters move in small groups between interview stations, carrying equipment and whispering last-minute questions to each other.

She looks relaxed enough that it almost feels like she’s just waiting for a friend instead of being in the middle of the largest sporting event on the planet.

Her teammate Amber nudges her with an elbow.

“You’re way too chill,” Amber says under her breath.

Alysa shrugs. “It’s just talking.”

“You say that now,” Amber replies, glancing toward the camera setup ahead of them. “Wait until they start asking weird stuff.”

Alysa tilts her head slightly, watching another athlete finish an interview nearby. “Weird stuff is the fun part.”

Amber snorts. “Of course you’d say that.”

The truth is that Alysa doesn’t mind interviews. At least not the lighter ones. The ones where the reporters are trying to show personality instead of dissecting every technical detail of her programs.

After stepping away from skating for two years and coming back on her own terms, she’s learned something important about the sport: the less seriously she takes the outside pressure, the better she performs.

And right now, despite the cameras and the Olympic banners hanging everywhere, she feels strangely calm.

Her name gets called from across the corridor.

“Alysa!” A production assistant waves her over.

She pushes herself off the wall and walks toward the interview setup with an easy stride, offering a quick nod to Amber as she passes.

“Watch,” she says quietly. “Weird stuff.”

The interviewer waiting for her is a cheerful woman in a bright blue jacket, holding a small tablet where a list of questions is clearly visible. “Alright, Alysa,” the interviewer says with a smile as the camera operator gives a thumbs-up. “We’re doing a quick rapid-fire round. Just for fun.”

Alysa nods. “Okay.”

The red light on the camera flicks on.

“First question,” the interviewer says. “Pasta or pizza?”

Alysa barely pauses. “Pizza.”

“Video games or movies?”

Alysa grins. “Movies.”

More questions follow in the same rhythm. Favorite song. Favorite post-competition meal. Favorite place she’s traveled. None of them take more than a second to answer.

Then the interviewer glances down at the tablet again and smiles slightly, like she already knows this one will get a reaction. “Alright,” she says. “Celebrity crush?”

Alysa doesn’t hesitate. “Y/N,” she says immediately. “One hundred percent.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

Alysa nods, completely unbothered. “Yeah.”

“Like… the singer?” the interviewer asks, slightly surprised. “The one whose song you’re skating to this season?”

Alysa laughs lightly. “Yeah, yeah. That one.”

The interviewer leans forward a little, clearly entertained now. “You’re serious?”

“Of course,” Alysa replies easily. “She’s incredible. I think she’s really talented. And the song’s amazing.”

“Well,” The interviewer says, clearly leaning into the moment now, “what would you say to her if she’s watching this?”

Alysa tilts her head, thinking for a second.

The truth is she hadn’t expected that question.

But she’s never been someone who hesitates when something funny pops into her head. Never one to shy away from the perfect opportunity to shoot her shot, take chances.

So she shrugs slightly and looks straight at the camera.

“Hey,” she says casually, like she’s talking to a friend instead of a global audience. “Thanks for the flowers.” Alysa grins, continuing without missing a beat. “You should come watch me skate to your song.”

Someone behind the camera makes an exaggerated “ooooh” sound. The interviewer laughs hard.

“Well,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s one way to shoot your shot.”

Alysa laughs too, waving a hand dismissively like it’s not a big deal. “Just saying.”

The camera light turns off. The interviewer lowers the tablet. “That was great,” she says.

Alysa shrugs again, the smile still lingering. “Glad I could help.”

She steps away from the interview area and walks back toward the corridor where Amber is waiting.

Amber is already grinning.

“Oh my god,” she says immediately. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You literally just invited your celebrity crush to the Olympics.”

Alysa rolls her eyes. “I didn’t invite her anywhere.”

“I just watched you do it.”

“It was a joke.”

Amber folds her arms, unconvinced. “Sure it was.”

Alysa leans back against the wall again, unconcerned. “Relax,” she says. “She’s not watching Olympic interviews.”

Amber laughs. “You have no idea how the internet works.”

Alysa shrugs. “Even if she did see it, it’s not that serious.” But if she’s being honest, the thought does flicker through her mind for a second.

Because when the flowers arrived back in December after the Grand Prix short program, she had been completely caught off guard.

They were waiting in her hotel room after practice, sitting on the desk with a small handwritten card.

Congratulations on the win. Your program was beautiful. – Y/N

She’d stared at the card for a solid minute before laughing quietly to herself.

Then she immediately took a picture and sent it to her friends.

Look who wants me.

Her group chat exploded. “Oh my god she wants you soooo bad,” one of them replied instantly.

Alysa leaned into the joke. “Obviously.”

In reality, she had kept the card. Tucked carefully into the side pocket of her training bag where it wouldn’t get bent. She tells herself it’s just because it’s a cool story. Nothing more.

Back in the Olympic Village corridor, Amber is still shaking her head, mumbling about regretting the interview, to which Alysa just shrugs.

And honestly, she doesn’t think much about it after that.

Practice is in an hour. Her coach is already texting her about jump layouts. The schedule for the next few days is packed.

The interview disappears into the background noise of Olympic media coverage.

At least for her.

—

Later that evening, somewhere else in the world, you’re sitting in a dim studio lounge with your laptop open on the coffee table in front of you.

Your manager is standing by the window scrolling through her phone.

You’re halfway through a conversation about tour logistics when she suddenly stops talking mid-sentence.

“…wait.”

You glance up. “What?”

She looks at the screen again. “Oh my god.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What happened?”

She turns the phone toward you. “You need to see this.”

You sigh slightly. “If this is another TikTok of some AI dog dancing—”

“Just watch it.”

You lean forward reluctantly. The video begins playing.

And about ten seconds later, when Alysa Liu looks directly into the camera and casually says your name like it’s the most obvious answer in the world—

You stop breathing for a moment.

Your manager slowly lowers the phone and watches your face.

“Well,” she says. “That seems promising.”

And somewhere in Milan, Alysa Liu has absolutely no idea what she just started.

---

By the end of the first day after the interview airs, you already know something has gotten out of hand.

Not catastrophically out of hand, not the kind of scandal that sends publicists scrambling to issue statements or deletes social media posts within the hour. It’s subtler than that. It’s the sort of thing that spreads through the internet in a way that’s half teasing and half conspiratorial, like a rumor people want to believe in because it’s fun.

The first sign is your phone.

Your notifications start climbing before you even realize why. At first it’s just a handful of tags on social media, then a dozen, then hundreds. Clips of Alysa’s interview start appearing everywhere—short snippets of her leaning casually toward the camera and saying your name with complete certainty.

Celebrity crush? Y/N, one hundred percent.

You scroll past the first few posts with a faintly amused expression. The internet has always loved connecting dots that may or may not exist. It’s practically a sport.

But then the tags keep coming. Edits of Alysa’s program set to your song. Side-by-side clips of the Grand Prix performance and the interview.

By the second day, people are writing things like:

“she needs to go to Milan.”

“Imagine if she shows up at the Olympics.”

“This would be the greatest crossover event in history.”

You close the app and tell yourself it will burn out quickly. Internet attention spans are famously short. But the real problem isn’t the internet. It’s the real world.

Two nights later, you’re leaving a quiet dinner in Los Angeles with a couple of friends when the restaurant door opens and a cluster of photographers immediately shifts toward you like birds changing direction mid-flight.

That part isn’t new. Paparazzi have been orbiting your life long enough that you’ve learned to treat them like background noise.

What’s new is the question shouted across the sidewalk as you step toward the waiting car.

“Are you going to Milan!?”

You pause half a second before continuing.

Another voice chimes in. “Are you going to see Alysa Liu at the Olympics?”

You don’t answer. You slide into the car with a polite, neutral smile that doesn’t confirm anything. The door shuts. The car pulls away.

Your friend beside you raises an eyebrow. “That was… specific.”

You stare out the window for a moment. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Apparently I’m part of Olympic coverage now.”

The next day, it happens again in a completely different setting.

You’re at a small cafe when a young girl and her father approach you. She was a big fan and was just wanting to take a quick photo. Most of the conversation was normal. Music questions. Tour questions. A few shy compliments about your songs.

When you bend down for the photo, you smile warmly at the camera and just as you were about to stand up, she asks something else.

“Are you going to Milan?” she asks immediately.

You blink.

“For the Olympics,” she clarifies quickly. “I’m going with my dad to watch the figure skaters. If you’re there maybe we’ll see you.”

Her expression is so hopeful that for a second you almost laugh. Not because it’s ridiculous. Because it’s… oddly sweet.

“Well,” you say gently, “that sounds like an amazing trip.”

“But are you going?”

You hesitate just long enough to avoid promising anything. “Maybe,” you say with a small smile. “You never know.”

She nods like that’s the best answer she could have gotten.

When she walks away, Elise—your manager—leans closer. “You are not helping,” she murmurs.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to crush her dreams.”

—

By February 13th, five days after the interview aired, the situation has escalated from amusing to mildly ridiculous.

You’re sitting in the studio lounge again, the same one where you first saw the clip of Alysa’s interview.

Your laptop is open on the coffee table in front of you. A half-written melody loops softly through the speakers, something you’ve been tinkering with for hours without really committing to a direction.

Across the room, Elise stands near the desk flipping through a printed schedule.

You stare at the laptop screen for another moment before leaning back with a sigh. “Can we just book me a flight to Milan so this can be done with?”

Elise slowly lowers the papers. “…what?”

You gesture vaguely in the direction of the world.

“This,” you say. “All of this.”

She stares at you like she’s trying to decide if you’re joking. “You realize,” she says slowly, “that if we do that, you’re just fanning the flames.”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

“This will get bigger,” she continues, pacing slightly now. “There will be rumors, speculation, think pieces. People will assume—”

“I know,” you interrupt calmly.

She stops pacing. “And you’re okay with that?”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Honestly?” you say. “I kind of just want to see the program in person.”

Elise stares. “Are you serious.”

“I mean,” you continue thoughtfully, “I’ve never been to the Olympics before either.”

“That is not the point.”

“And,” you add casually, “it would be good publicity for the tour.”

Elise narrows her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.” She watches you for another moment, her expression slowly shifting from professional concern to something more suspicious. Then she sighs. “You just want to go because you think she’s pretty.”

You gasp, placing a hand dramatically over your chest. “That is an outrageous accusation.”

Elise does not look amused.

You hold the pose for another two seconds before dropping it.

“Okay,” you say. “… maybe she is pretty. So what?!” You tilt your head slightly, offering your most convincing smile. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

She groans loudly, dragging a hand down her face. “That line has ruined more careers than it has helped.”

You grin. “It hasn’t ruined mine.”

Elise stares at the ceiling like she’s asking the universe for patience.

“Please,” you continue, leaning forward slightly now. “I just want to go see it. I got an invite from an Olympian. I can’t just ignore that.”

“She did not personally invite you.”

“She did on camera.”

“That is not the same thing.” You shrug. “Still counts.”

Elise exhales slowly through her nose, clearly weighing the consequences in her head. You watch her carefully. Then she sighs again—louder this time—and tips her head back toward the ceiling. And you know you’ve won. You can’t help the small, satisfied “yay” that escapes under your breath.

Elise immediately points a finger at you without even looking. “Don’t celebrate yet.” But she’s already reaching for her laptop. “I’ll book the flight,” she mutters.

You sit up straighter. “Thank you.”

“I think she skates in… three days,” Elise continues, scrolling through the Olympic schedule. “Which means if you leave tomorrow you’ll get there in time.”

You nod, trying very hard to look normal about this development. “Perfect.”

Elise glances up at you again. “If this turns into a media circus, I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fair.”

She shakes her head and goes back to the booking screen.

You lean back on the couch again, turning toward your laptop.

The unfinished melody still loops softly through the speakers.

You rest your fingers on the keyboard, pretending to focus on the song.

But you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

Because somewhere in Milan, Alysa Liu is preparing to skate to your music again.

And in three days, you’ll be sitting in the crowd watching her do it.

———

The way I need a word limit and i dont know anything about figure skating LOOL so im sorry if it sounds weird idk what a grand prix is 😭 bUT ALSO I ACTUALLT GET TO THEM MEETING IN NEXT PART DONT WORRY

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Tag list :P

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@lyzsaphrodite @mrtwizz @petrolprettyplease @sani-sunny

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