Just a reminder for pride that I do write wlw smosh fics (on top of my Damien and Spencer stuff) and my requests are open!! I’ve seen a couple ppl posting about wanting more Amanda and Angela fics and I am more than happy to write them, I have a few in the works rn but I always appreciate inspo 🥰
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.
Exes (kinda) to lovers, one-sided enemies to lovers, hopeful ending
Part 1
TW: mentions of vomiting, description of physical injury (glass in hand), feelings realization, reader is bitter (for good reason), blood, mention of possible cheating and bad relationship dynamics (when talking about previous events), lots of crying, second chances
And I can go anywhere I want
Anywhere I want, just not home
And you can aim for my heart, go for blood
But you would still miss me in your bones
My tears ricochet - taylor swift
You sat in the car, the Smosh building staring back at you. You wanted to puke. One video, then you could go back to ignoring him forever. You remembered how he had cried that day at his apartment. Good, he had to deal with the consequences of his fucking actions. Be the bigger person. This is for the good of your career. Smosh could make a game go from niche to mainstream in an instant, and that was exactly what you needed. You took a deep breath, opened the car door, and stepped onto the asphalt.
When you walked inside, you were greeted with faces that seemed way too cheerful for 8 AM on a Wednesday. A tall woman waved you over with a tired smile and pulled you into a hug. When she let go, she said, “I’m Amanda, I’m doing the video with you and Spence today. He’s told us all about you.”
You played off your awkwardness with a faint laugh. “Only bad things I hope.”
“Exactly the opposite.”
You rolled your eyes. “He always had a flair for the dramatic, I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much.”
She led you to the set, where everyone was getting set up. You decided you liked her, she was funny but grounded. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as you’d thought. You waved to Alex as you passed by him. He seemed nice too. No reason to be mean, they weren’t the ones who had crushed your soul in an instant ten years ago. And the more rapport you could build between your company and theirs, the better. Easy.
Alex slid a cold brew towards you quickly once you were settled. “Drink it fast, usually we aren’t even allowed to have drinks on set, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”
“Thanks!”
“And hey, Spencer told me what happened.” You froze in horror. You should’ve known he would tell someone, it wasn’t exactly a secret. “Don’t be afraid to put him in his place today if he acts weird. He means well, but he can be…”
“Over the top? Sappy? Generally a freak?” Amanda supplied. “I don’t know what happened but it’s definitely his fault.”
“Just let us know if you need a breather.”
You sighed. “Thanks guys. I think I just need to get used to him again.”
Amanda squeezed your shoulder. “Alex and I will be here to support you the whole time. It’s not my place to pry, but we can debrief later if you want me to kick his ass.”
“No worries.”
She watched as your shoulders tensed as Spencer entered the room and squeezed it again, prompting you to relax. You gave her a soft smile.
“Hey guys, you ready?”
“Yes! Y/N was telling me all about her game and it sounds so awesome! I’m really excited.”
“I just hope none of the code I’ve been working on for the past three years bugs.”
Spencer smiled nervously at you, avoiding your eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine.” He did the intro, then started to play, laughing as you helped him navigate the Labyrinth, Amanda catching the little things that he missed in the chaos. Neither of them caught onto the fact that they were supposed to be following the gold thread that trailed on the floor, stumbling into the various traps that you had set up. Spencer died more than once, and you simply shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve been listening better.”
“Oh my god, you say that every time and you know I never do.”
“You would think since your prefrontal cortex developed in the past decade you would.”
“Ugh. You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry.” His voice dripped in sarcasm, using a phrase that you and your friends would tease each other with in school.
You laughed loudly, flipping him off, and then caught yourself, drawing back into your shell, Amanda taking the place of your boisterousness. You had gotten too close again, too close to what you used to be. This was more than just the two of you playing GTA in your dorm room, and it could never be that again. He had made sure of it. You could tell he noticed, but that wasn’t your problem anymore.
After shooting, you found yourself tucked in the back corner of the office, watching people scramble by while curled up on the couch. You were halfway reading emails, lost in your little bubble, so you startled when someone perched on the armrest next to you.
“Boo.”
“Geez, Spencer, you know you can’t do shit like that.”
“Still jumpy?”
“Not used to ghosts coming back to haunt me in person.” You glared at him, and his mischievous look faltered.
“I’m so sorry Y/N, I wish I could’ve been better, less scared.”
“I would’ve followed you, you know. Anywhere.”
“That was what I was scared of. I didn’t want to fail you.”
You scoffed. “And here we are.” Angry tears started to fall down your face.
“I know, I-”
“You don’t know Spencer, and that’s exactly the problem.” You stood up. “I’m going to meet with Ian then go home. I have things to do.”
“Be safe.”
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do.” You spat out, walking away. Amanda watched as you walked away from him, practically folded in on yourself, and Spencer’s heartbroken expression. He got up, dragging his feet over to her.
“What did you do?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
—-----------
You were curled up on the couch, poking at your Chinese takeout. It was slowly growing cold, but you weren’t hungry. You thought about the look on Spencer’s face when you had left. He had seemed genuinely sorry. But you couldn’t let him in again. He had destroyed the whole life you had fucking built together in two days. It couldn’t be that easy for him to waltz right back in your heart, could it?
And yet, ten years hadn’t been enough to let him go. The words were bitter on your tongue as you spoke them aloud. “I’m still in love with him, aren’t I?” The thought made you dry heave. How could you still love someone who had torn you apart so easily? You felt like you were suffocating on your own air. You reached for the water on your coffee table, but the condensation made it slip out of your hands. It shattered on the floor, the noise echoing in your ears.
Okay, okay, just clean up the glass. Find something to focus on. You knelt down on the hardwood, water soaking into your sweatpants. In your panic to find something, anything, to mop it up, you slipped, catching yourself on your hand. You heard the crunch before the pain registered. A sob wracked your body as you looked at your glass-filled palm. Of course, because when could you ever do anything right? Tears fell onto your hand, the salt burning the wounds. You steeled yourself and marched to your bathroom, avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror. You knew you looked terrible, you didn’t need to see it reflected back at you. Pulling out the tweezers out of your makeup bag, you started shakily pulling out the pieces. Teardrops fell from your eyes, obscuring your vision. You tried to take a deep breath, but your body refused to cooperate. How the hell were you supposed to do this if you couldn’t fucking see? Or if you couldn’t fucking breathe? Who could you even call? Ella was out of town, Amanda had a baby for god’s sake, and there was no way you would let a coworker see you like this. Your brain had an intrusive, irrepressible thought. Spencer.
No. Absolutely not.
He took care of you for a week when you had food poisoning. He let you sleep in his bed while drunk. He had a first aid kit for his car, his apartment, and in his backpack. And he said he’d do anything for you. Wasn’t that enough?
No way.
What if you needed to go to the ER?
You could drive yourself.
Could you? You looked at yourself in the mirror for the first time that night. A trapped animal stared back at you. Your once gray hoodie sleeve was now a mottled red and the damp patches were clinging uncomfortably to your arm. Your dominant hand was still filled with glass, which sent twinges of pain up through your fingertips.
Fuck. You needed him, didn't you.
You swallowed your pride and dialed his number, hoping he’d pick up for the first time in years.
You flinched back a little when his voice abruptly came through the phone. “Is this another drunk dial?”
Your voice came out small. “No, it’s me.” Your heart jumped into your throat. “I just needed help with something but uh-, it’s not urgent so, I’ll see if someone else can.”
“If you called of your own free will, something is wrong.” His tone shifted into something you hadn’t heard in a long time.
“You have a first aid kit, right?”
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“A little. Perhaps.”
“How much is a little?”
“I have glass in my entire hand and there’s a lot of blood.”
“You have glass in your- geez, why didn’t you call sooner?” You heard him starting his car. “What if you need stitches?”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“I’m on my way. Send me your address. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or would do. Don’t be stupid. Don’t go anywhere.”
His panic made you giggle a little. “I won’t, promise.” He showed up at your door five minutes later, panting, first aid kit in hand. He flung the door open, coming face to face with you waiting.
“Hi.” You took in his flushed appearance.
“Hi.” He grabbed your wrist and guided you to the couch, plopping you down.
“Be careful of the glass. And the water too.” He looked down at the wet patch a few feet away, shards of glass shimmering mockingly in the lamp light.
He sat down next to you, avoiding the spill with ease. He opened his first aid kit and started gently pulling out the fractured pieces. “What happened?”
“I slipped while cleaning it up.”
“No, before that.” You winced as he wiggled out a bigger piece. He rubbed a calming thumb on the inside of your wrist. “Something happened, I can sense it.”
“Panic attack.”
“Oh honey-“ he caught himself. “Sorry, habit.”
You let it settle in your chest. “It’s okay. I- I get it. I’m sorry for being so mad earlier.”
His voice was soft.. “You don’t need to apologize, I understand. I wouldn’t forgive me either.”
“I think you’re letting me get away with too much.”
“I would never.” He smiled at you, and you were reminded of how much his gaze made your heart flutter. He finished removing the glass and started analyzing the cuts. “I think you should be okay without going to the doctor, but it’s definitely going to hurt for a few days.” He started to bandage it up, careful to put just enough pressure to stop the bleeding. You couldn’t help but stare at him as you watched his tongue stick out in concentration. You studied the rest of him, looking at the laugh lines that had formed around his eyes and his hair that had grown out into an unruly mop of curls. He was every bit as gorgeous as he had been a decade ago. He looked up at you through his glasses. “What is it?”
“Just- you’re all grown up now, and I didn’t get to see it.” His shoulders started to shake with silent sobs as he tied the final knot in your bandage, looking at the resigned look on your face.
“I-“ his voice cracked. “I regret it every single fucking day. I shouldn’t have cheated on you, I shouldn’t have blown up at you about leaving, god, I thought of you the whole time but my stupid pride stopped me from doing anything about it.”
“You didn’t cheat on me Spence. We weren’t even dating.”
“That’s no excuse, we were roommates, we were practically sewn together at the hip! I was hopelessly in love with you and tried to fuck someone else to get over it!” He lowered his voice when he felt you flinch. “You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you Spence.”
He clutched your hoodie tighter. “That’s the worst part. Knowing I don’t deserve your forgiveness but knowing you probably will anyway.”
“I didn’t say I forgive you yet. But-” You looked down at your hand, running your thumb over where the bandages had been tied with all the care in the world. “I think it would be unfair to myself to try not to reconcile some of this. We have too much history for that.” You felt the door to your heart open a crack.
You heard his breath hitch as he processed what you said. After what felt like hours, he finally spoke, voice coming out meek. “Really?” He let himself fall forward into your chest, openly crying now. “You really mean that?”
You sighed and leaned into him. Even if you wanted to stay away, you’d never be able to.
“I do.”
A/N: Mini-series checkkkkk. Thinking there will be 2/3 more parts but I'm not quite sure yet. Also if you requested something I pinky promise I'm not ignoring it I've just been hyperfixated on Subnautica 2 playthroughs. Genuinely I might have a problem lol.
Okay so hear my out what if its Damien x Y/N (Who usually works behind the camera) but its a charity stream and its karaoke and Y/N breaks into full theater kid songs and I'm thinking maybe Our Lady of the Underground from Hadestown and is like fully into it and everything and even dressed up for it and no one knew they could really sing until they started to sing that song?
Flowers In Her Hair
Damien Haas x f!crew reader, platonic best friend/matchmaker Angela Giarratana x f!reader
A karaoke stream turns into something more.
TW: None!! Enjoy pookies <3
To say you were nervous was the understatement of the century. How had she convinced you to do this? More importantly, how had she managed to keep it a secret from everyone else? Angela grinned behind you, makeup lights distorting her reflection a little as she pinned flowers into your hair. “He’s gonna love this.”
“Oh my god shut up.”
It was your fault really. She had caught you singing RENT to yourself as you replaced camera batteries and fiddled with lights before a shoot and immediately decided you were going to sing on the annual karaoke stream. You had tried to play it off, claiming it was just your phone, but she had (rightfully) called your bluff.
She had given you an out, of course, she wasn’t cruel. But she had also given you enough confidence to agree to do it, even if it was also going to be in front of the guy you’d had a crush on for years. She knew that too, and had taken her time both hyping you up and endlessly teasing you about it.
“He’s legitimately so Hades coded. I saw you drool a little bit when he rolled up his sleeves the other day. It’s perfect for the two of you.”
You glared at her where her teasing smile flickered behind you in the mirror. “I told you Ange, he doesn’t like me and it’s as simple as that.”
“I call bullshit.”
“I’d put money on it.”
“$20 says he confesses after this.”
“Deal.”
She finished pinning part of your hair up, letting the rest gather in unruly waves down your back. Leaning her head on your shoulder, she declared, “Miss Persephone, you are the most beautiful queen of the night I’ve ever seen.”
“Shhh you’ll spoil the surprise.” You fixed the lace of your boot before standing up. “I’m gonna go hide in the corner now. See you soon! You better be ready.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
You snuck into the far back corner to sit and wait. Cameras were covered today so all you needed to do was sit and watch. You fiddled with your puffed sleeve as people started to file in. Bailey came up to you, smiling gently. “You look beautiful! Did Angela do your makeup?”
You smiled back, crinkling the small flowers that dotted the corners of your eyes. “She did. It’s amazing how she can focus when she really wants to.”
“It really is.” She clocked the nervous look on your face and squeezed your hand. “You’re gonna do a great job up there. She’ll be there the whole time.”
“I know, I just need to breathe I think.”
“Good call, generally people need to do that.”
—------
“Thank you everyone for donating so much! Since we’ve hit one of our goals, we are going to have a special performance coming up!” Trevor yelled as everyone cheered. Angela had slipped away to change into her overalls a few minutes ago, and you had started to tap your feet with anxiety. You saw her creep back through the stage doors as the rowdiness continued, giving you a quick thumbs-up.
She grabbed the microphone from Trevor’s hand, quieting the crowd. “Please welcome, our Lady of the Underground, Persephone!” Everyone started to clap, jaws dropping as you made your way front and center. The sequins on your dress glittered under the set lights as you started to twirl, singing. Angela was a great backup singer, but also succeeded in calming your nerves as she took your hand to dance. You couldn’t help but laugh, sometimes missing the words as she spun you around. When the song ended, the two of you took a huge bow, and Angela almost tripped, making the two of you laugh even louder. People rushed over and started to hug you as the stream ended, and you felt lighter than a cloud, surrounded by those you loved.
Meanwhile, Damien was frozen in place, stuck to the couch, hyperfocused on the ethereal girl spinning around in front of him. She had always been magnetic to him, pulling him away from his work and to her side during long nights at the office. Even on her “worst” days, she was glorious to him, with big hoodies bunched up around her elbows as she fixed something and huge cups of coffee threatening to spill on her desk as she animatedly bickered with Angela. He just liked to see her smile, opting to leave dad jokes on her computer screen instead of kissing her breathless in the middle of the office like he did in his wildest fantasies.
But now, she looked really, truly, free. Her voice was beautiful, yes, but she was so happy and in her element up there, lights shining down on her, that he couldn’t look away. To look away would be a crime against the universe. He hoped that maybe he could see her like that all the time, spinning around in one of his t-shirts in his kitchen, cats dodging her dancing feet. He longed to pull her close, to never let her go. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything else.
“She feels the same, you know.” Angela’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“She looks at you the same way you look at her.”
He went to protest, but then he caught her eye and watched her face morph into something softer, more reverent, like she was looking at the most precious thing in the world. “Oh.” He breathed it more than he said it.
People started to filter out of the room, including Angela, who pulled her into a hug and then pushed her gently towards the couch. Damien stood up to meet her, brushing her hair out of her eyes softly.
“You were amazing up there.”
“Thanks.” She blushed, but continued to meet his eyes. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Angela told me something funny.”
She giggled, “Doesn’t she always?”
“She said that we look at each other the same way.” She froze, eyes widening. His hand came up to cup her cheek. “Please tell me she’s right.”
She searched his deep brown eyes for any hesitation, any semblance of something that may tell her that this was all a cruel joke played by fate, but she found none. Taking a deep breath, she said, “She’s right.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Please do.”
The kiss felt like coming home, like something in the universe that had been out of balance had shifted back into place softly.
And somewhere across the office, Angela could sense that the universe had put 20 extra dollars in her pocket.
A/N: I love a best friend knows bitches are oblivious trope and helps but also gets what they're due ($20). This was legit so cute, they're in love your honor!!!! Like love love fr.
Do you write smut?? I would love if you could write a reader x courtney fic where reader is the youngest of the cast and has never been with a girl before and Courtney guides them through their first time. Can be a threesome with Shayne too if you want I don’t mind.
Thankyou so much!!!
Hey Anon! I appreciate the ask. I just wrote my first smut chapter for like the first time ever, and I'm not sure how thrilled I am when it comes to my writing style and smut fics. Like don't get me wrong I love reading them when I feel so inclined but writing them is just kinda weird to me still if that makes sense. However, I figured I'd answer your request so that anyone in the community who does write smut can use this prompt! I think it could be a fun fic, I just don't think I'm the right person to write it (though if I get better maybe I'll revisit it.)
Thank you for the request though! I really appreciate it. Anyone can feel free to write from this prompt if they'd like :) - T 💜
HIIIIIII could you do a Damien Haas x streamer!reader where he loves her streams, and she somehow joins Smosh as a streamer, so he has to hide his crush?
Kiss Me and I Might Drop Dead
Damien Haas x f!reader
Damien's favorite streamer is collabing with Smosh for the day, he would be more excited, but the problem is that he has the biggest crush on her, and subtlety has never been his forte. But it'll be fine, right?
TW: Y/N usage, Damien is so awkward and obvious and oblivious but tbh it's cute, they're both awkward and cute, getting together!, orange cat supremacy, bring Betrayal back I beg you, Court and Shayne being omniscient, bestie trevor!
One night I was bored in bed
And stalked you on the internet
It's feminine intuition
'Cuz I always had a vision of us standing like this
Drop Dead - Olivia Rodrigo
Damien was worried out of his mind. His favorite streamer, the girl with the calming voice that he sometimes listened to to go to sleep at night, the one with the orange, weird cat who made Freyja stare at the TV, the one whose smile made his heart ache, was coming here. He was going to meet her for the first time, and he needed to calm down before he made everything weird with his parasocial bullshit. She was a person too, he could be normal and chill about it.
She walked into Smosh as if she had been there her whole life, and his heart stopped. Oh god, it was her. He had been watching her streams for so long that he forgot she could be tangible, and she was even more beautiful in person. He’d thought that his crush was a little thing, something fleeting that could be chalked up to watching her streams late at night, listening to her bubbly laugh come through his speakers, but no, it was bigger than he had thought, and the consequences of his actions were staring him right in the face.
“Trev!” Her voice snapped him out of it.
“Y/N!” Trevor yelled from somewhere behind him, then rushed up and pulled her into a hug. “Welcome to the most chaotic place on Earth!”
She rolled her eyes with a smile. “I’ve seen your house, are we sure it tops that?”
“Duh.” He elbowed her. “Let me introduce you to some of the people we’re filming with today, unless you wanna be awkward?” She followed behind him as he walked straight up to Damien. “Damien, this is Y/N, officially, in person.”
“Uh, hi!” He held out his hand for her to shake, hoping his blush wasn’t too noticeable. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’m sure Trevor’s told you this but I really love your streams. Your Blue Prince run was really impressive.”
She smiled bashfully. “Oh, thank you. It’s nice to meet you too. I’m actually a really big fan of your work. I’m sure you saw me play Date Everything, but I’ve been watching your stuff for a while too!”
“She always has a cozy Sunday stream on whenever I come over to bother her.” Trevor butted in.
“Shut up! Oh my god!” She put her face in her hands.
“No, no, it’s okay, that’s really nice to hear actually. That- uh- that someone enjoys them on the other side as much as I enjoy streaming. And I know Trevor’s trying to embarrass you on purpose.”
She let out a deep breath. “Never let a stranger teach you to play Fortnite for charity, you’ll end up with a lifelong barnacle of an annoying best friend.”
“Hey!”
Damien chuckled. “Well, uh, I’m gonna go get ready for filming. We have coffee if you want some. I’m a tea guy but I know it’s early and it’ll be a long day. I can grab some for you if you want? I don’t know how you take it so there’s always the downside of that, but you could come with or I could guess or-”
She cut his rambling off with a smile. “Thank you, but I think I’m too nervous for coffee right now.” She had started to fiddle with her moon necklace. “I’m sure the adrenaline will help. Hopefully Trevor doesn’t kill me before we start filming.”
“I hope not either, I’m really looking forward to getting to know you better.” Stunned by his brief boldness, he yelled “Byeseeyoulaterguys!” Then quickly waved goodbye, walking as fast as he could over to the kitchen, where he proceeded to splash cold water over his face in an attempt to calm himself down.
Shayne took a judgemental sip of his drink. ”Nice one dude.”
Damien nearly jumped out of his skin. “Geez, warn a guy before you ominously hover!”
“I was here when you walked in after the most lovestruck performance of your life.”
He put his head down on the counter. “Was it really that bad?”
“Is the sky blue? You’re so screwed dude.”
“I know, I know, she’s just so pretty and smart and charming, and I thought it wouldn’t be a problem but it absolutely is.”
“You should just tell her.”
“Right before a 12 hour shoot day where we’re forcibly confined together? No way.”
“You never know.” Shayne smiled slyly.
“I do know. That that’s stupid.”
Shayne shrugged and took another sip. “Suit yourself.”
—---------
Shayne was absolutely correct. He was so screwed. By popular demand, they were playing Betrayal again, and he simply could not focus. He was mesmerized by the way her hair was pinned up, the way that the emerald green dress the art department had put her in complimented her eyes, and most of all, the shiny pink lip gloss that she had reapplied right before starting.
“Earth to Damien, ready to go?” Court waved a hand in front of his face.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, ready.”
They smirked the same way their husband had earlier and whispered in his ear. “You are so not subtle.”
“Shut up and let’s play the game.” He hissed back.
They narrowed their eyes. “We are so talking about this later.”
He kicked them lightly under the table, and started the intro, getting everyone’s attention. “Hi everyone! We’re back with Board AF Betrayal, no Legacy this time, but a whole new crew of people, including a very special guest, Y/N!”
She giggled. “That’s Lady Andromeda to you good sir.”
Damien flushed. “My mistake fair lady, I will not make it again. Since you have so graciously started introductions, I am Tristan Bootles, a humble farmer.” He gestured to the rest of the group to introduce their characters.
As the game got going, Damien found himself leaning over Y/N’s shoulder in order to help her with the game, quietly explaining rules to her while the rest of the cast bickered. He tried to balance paying attention to her and everyone else, but how could he when the most beautiful girl he had ever seen was right next to him and laughing at his jokes?
Court kicked him under the table, so hard he was sure he’d have a bruise there the next day. “The final haunt has begun! Right Damien?”
“It has! Belinda, which page should I turn to?”
“Page 28!”
He flipped through the book until he hit page 28, where a drawing of a large crow carrying a house stared back at him. “All of a sudden, the house begins to rumble. You watch as the ground slowly starts to grow smaller as a crow lifts the house into the air. Two parachutes have been placed on the ground floor. The two to make it out of the front door with a parachute live, while the others are left as food for the crow’s hatchlings. You may use encounters with one another to fight for a parachute. There is no traitor, every person for themselves.”
Y/N grew more and more competitive as they began to fight for parachutes, coming out of her shell and making more strategic moves than Damien, who was completely and utterly enamoured by her switch in behavior. Trevor had made it out first, but the two of them were currently fighting for the last parachute, as Court was stuck in a glue trap upstairs and Ian was being haunted by some evil turtle who was sucking his life force. She used a potion to raise her sanity, then an object to switch the attack from might to sanity, securing her win.
“Y’know, it’s a real shame Tristan, you were awfully pretty. But I guess looks aren’t everything.” She winked at him, then let her figure step out of the house.
Trevor yelled, “Y/N and I win!” Everyone started to clap, creating an uproar on set.
Damien smiled sheepishly, “Congratulations, you deserve that win.”
“Thanks!” She was beaming and practically bouncing out of her seat. “That was super fun!”
The shoot finished, most of the cast heading to hair and makeup to change back into their normal clothes, but Courtney hung behind, cornering Damien.
“I hope you didn’t plan on keeping your crush a secret, because after that I think everyone and their mother knows. You were practically drooling.”
“Do you think she noticed? I just- I can’t focus around her, and it makes me feel so dumb.”
“Honestly buddy? For your sake, I hope she did so maybe the two of you will finally kiss already, and hopefully that’ll fix your problem.”
“There’s no way she likes me like that, we barely know each other.”
“Did we even experience the same hour and a half? She absolutely does. Clearly she knew what she was doing to win like that, she didn’t need that much help or for you to hover around her that whole time.”
“Maybe she just wants to be really good friends!”
Court narrowed their eyes. “There’s no way you actually believe that. I’m gonna leave before you implode, but you need to figure this out dude. Good luck!”
Damien was left standing there, fluorescent lights of the office stinging his eyes. He grabbed his water and phone before slumping down onto the games couch, eyes closed and hoping for a few minutes alone with his thoughts. To his disappointment, the door creaked open and he felt someone sit on the couch next to him.
“Hey, I brought you a granola bar, I figured you might need something to keep your blood sugar up, Courtney mentioned you weren’t feeling well.”
Damien peeled his eyes open, taking the granola bar from her hand. “Thanks, I think I’m just exhausted and I need a little quiet time.”
She hummed understandingly. “I get that, I brought my book if you want to just sit. Sounds like they’re having some camera problems so they gave us 30.”
Damien sat up to eat. “That would be really nice actually.”
She leaned against the armrest across from him, getting comfortable and opening her book. Soon, Damien felt compelled to break the silence he had craved only ten minutes earlier. “Murder on the Orient Express is a good choice.”
“Oh! Thanks, I love mysteries. I don’t know if you could tell based on the things I stream, or even from the game earlier, but I really like puzzles. That’s why I play Blue Prince y’know, like something about it just makes my brain tick.”
“That makes sense.”
She closed her book with a soft thump. “It helps me understand how people work too. I’d like to think I know how to read people pretty well, though I could be wrong.”
Damien’s heart dropped. “That’s really cool, I am terrible at it. Like absolutely atrocious, social cues are nonexistent to me, even the most obvious ones ever.” He fidgeted with the rings on his fingers as she slid closer.
“I think I could tell,” she giggled, “I’ve been flirting with you this whole time.”
He gulped. “You have?”
“Well, not the whole time, at first I didn’t believe Trevor when he said you had a crush on me. I mean, whose internet crush for years actually likes them back? That’s the kind of stuff that only happens in romance novels. But uh, it’s hard to argue with the way you looked at me that whole shoot.”
“I’m so sorry Y/N, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable at all. They can recast me for the rest of the day if you want me to go and-”
She put a hand on his shoulder and he stilled, the spot feeling electric. “You aren’t making me uncomfortable at all.”
He sighed. “Good, good, that’s good, we can just forget about this then.”
“I don’t want to forget anything.”
“What?”
“I really like you Damien. Like, a lot. Like in a ‘want to date you’ way.”
It took him a second to process it, eyes going wide as pink crept up his neck, into his face and up to the tips of his ears. “You do?”
“110% yes. No doubt about it.” She smiled gently. “I totally get if you don’t want anything though, I know the whole online personality sphere dating shtick can be difficult. Trust me, I am not excluded from that rule.” She laughed bitterly.
“No, no, I do. I just didn't expect you to like me. Not like that.” He sighed deeply. “You’re you, and I’m me, the guy who does goblin stand-up on Youtube for a living.”
“Hey! Be nice to the goblin, he’s had a hard life as it is, especially in the year 2026.” She giggled, easing Damien’s doubts. “I like you for you silly, goblin stand-up and all. Besides, the hat was cute. And I’m sure my Subnautica streams full of screaming and muttering to myself aren’t the greatest look on me either.”
“It just makes me want to hold you more.” Damien slapped his hand over his mouth, embarrassed.
It was her turn to blush now. “That’s very sweet. Uh- forgive me if this is too forward, but we could try it sometime, if you want, of course.”
He slowly lowered his hand from his face, moving it to his shoulder to squeeze hers. “I would really like that. We could do dinner tomorrow? See where it goes from there?”
She squeezed back. “Sounds perfect to me.”
—----------
To no one’s surprise, Damien appeared on one of her streams a few months later. Her audience had been begging for more Subnautica content before the new one came out, and she really did not want to do it by herself. It took absolutely zero convincing to have him appear as her special guest, even if her cat Tansy seemed mildly offended by him taking her spot.
She went live in a hoodie that clearly wasn’t hers and an extra empty chair beside her. “Chat, we have a very special guest today,” she spoke in her best announcer voice, “Welcome, So Random’s Damien Haas!” She started clapping and cheering wildly as he walked into the room and slid on a pair of headphones.
“Hello, hello, thank you for having me everyone. It’s a pleasure to be here!”
She held out a pink plastic microphone, the kind that made every sound echo, up to his face. “Do you have an announcement to tell us Mr. Haas?”
“Well, not to brag, but I have had an update to my love life recently. One that I think people will be a big fan of.”
“Oh really? Do tell.” She raised an eyebrow questioningly, but her smirk said that she already knew the answer.
“I’ve started dating a very popular streamer who happened to feature on Smosh recently, and I am head over heels.”
“Jacksepticeye must be a very lucky man. Wouldn’t you agree Chat?”
“Unfortunately, your guess is wrong.”
“Oh, then who could it be?” She feigned surprise.
Damien leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You.” Pink spread across both of their cheeks as they watched the chat blow up. They sat in their bubble happily for a moment before Tansy hopped up onto her shoulder, startling them with a loud meow.
“Alright, alright, Tansy says it’s time to start so we’ll start. Welcome to Subnautica with my boyfriend!" She squeezed his hand, which was resting gently on the arm of her chair. "I hope you enjoy!”
A/N: I took a really long time to write this (two months), sorry Anon! I have about four scrapped versions of this but this is the final version where I was happy with it. I love these cuties so I hope it was worth the wait!
TW: Reader has spicy family issues, abandonment issues, self sabotaging issues (etc.), sex and suggestive talk (but nothing crazy), innuendos, Smosh besties being besties, reader has never been in a healthy relationship ever and has lots of walls up, perhaps also a minor drinking problem, Spencer is down bad
I take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three
You're too sweet for me
Too Sweet - Hozier
You ended up curled facing Spencer, chests pressed together as you exchanged kisses and ran your hand up and down his chest.
He pulled away with a groan when your fingers made their way up his side. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“They call it “la petite mort” for a reason you know.” He stared at you blankly. “A little death. An orgasm.”
“I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“I think there’s a lot you don’t know about me sweetheart.”
“One day, I’m going to know everything there is to know about you, and you won’t be able to stop me.”
“Good luck Sherlock. I have a reputation to uphold.”
He propped his head up on his elbow. “So why do you know French?”
“When my grandma retired, all she wanted to do was move to France, it was a bucket list thing. She had custody of me for a while until my mom decided she wanted me back for some reason. I nearly went to school there, but it was a bigger ‘fuck you’ to her to pursue music anyway.”
“Oof, yikes.”
“Yeah. I won’t get into that.”
He cocked his head. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
“It’s not relevant.”
He raised an eyebrow, but let it go. Rolling onto his back he sighed. “I don’t want to go home, but I have a cat to feed.”
“I’m sure she’ll be very happy you’re back.”
He scoffed, “More like very happy I’m feeding her and then she’ll go back to ignoring me.”
“Sounds bossy, I like her already.”
“Of course you would.”
You stuck your tongue out at him. “See yourself out if you’re gonna be rude.”
He peeled himself out of bed in faux anger, throwing on his jeans and t-shirt. You chucked his hat at him from the nightstand and he threw the bathrobe hanging on the back of your closet door back. It hit you square in the face.
You stood up and rolled your eyes, but kept smiling. You put it on and tied a lopsided bow around your waist. “You have good aim.”
He shrugged. “Easy target.”
“More like you can’t stop staring at my beautiful face so it was the first thing you aimed for.”
“Guilty.”
You pulled him into a hug. “Thank you for today and yesterday.”
“Of course, it was my pleasure. And yours too, I suppose.”
“You’re an ass.” You said into his shoulder, muffled by the soft fabric.
He tilted your head back gently, making you look at him. “And you’re stunning.” He softly kissed you, making your eyes flutter shut. He pulled back. “Thank you for having me.”
“Always. As long as you come back.”
“I don’t think I could resist.”
“Good.” You followed him to your front door, leaning against the frame. “See you some other day lover boy.”
“Not if I see you first.”
When Spencer left, you deflated, opening a bottle of cheap red wine and slumping on the couch. You knew exactly what you’d see when you opened your phone. Texts from your mom asking you to send money, texts from your sister calling you an ungrateful bitch, people tagging you in comments, calling you a slut. People told you to ignore it, but they didn’t get it. It consumed your life, killed everything you cared about without discriminating between the sinners and the saints, and now Spencer was in the crossfire. Not relevant my ass. You took a swig from the bottle and glared at the drip that traveled down the neck. You checked your phone, then threw it across the couch. On top of the usual texts was one from him, telling you he got home safe and had a great time.
It was too easy. Too easy to let him in. You had been craving someone for so long and he just fit. You wanted him to be yours for the long haul. Boyfriend. The word had a new meaning now, it was his.
y/n: self sabotaging is back
Syb: oh goodie
Bel: bitch if this is about your new bf I don’t want to hear it, go suck on his tongue or smth
y/n: ouch
Edie: you deserve goodness
Your friends didn’t get it either. The urge to hurt, to scratch the wound that always seemed to just be under the surface. That’s why you had a bottle of wine in your hand at noon on a Sunday when you should be trying to clean up your act. You took another long sip and closed your eyes. You didn’t know what had gotten into you yesterday, letting him in. He was so sweet, and you had opened your heart up, knowing all you could be was as bitter as straight battery acid. A slow acting poison on a good day. It was selfish to want to keep him, but he was intoxicating, addicting. And you knew exactly what it would do to you, but maybe he could make you better. As long as you didn’t destroy him first.
—---
Spencer had forgotten about going to lunch with his friends. He had forgotten anything but her. Shayne was waiting outside for him when he pulled into his parking spot, leaning against his car. He took in the sight of Spencer’s disheveled hair, marks on his neck and t-shirt that was definitely on backwards and smirked, amusedly.
“You seem too happy for this to be a walk of shame.”
“Oh fuck, sorry dude, I totally forgot about lunch.”
Shayne gestured to his apartment building. “Take all the time you need, maybe wear a turtleneck though. I’ll let everyone know we’ll be late, but you’re explaining why, not me.”
Spencer took off his hat and ruffled his hair, trying to put it back in some semblance of an order. “Fair enough.”
Miraculously, it only took him 20 minutes to feed the cat, get ready and get out the door. He had pulled a flannel over his shirt, trying to hide the bruises left by your teeth in order to appear somewhat presentable. His jean jacket had a higher collar, but he couldn’t find it for the life of him. He slid into the backseat of Shayne’s car and Court passed him a small tube of concealer.
“Next time tell her to be more careful, for hair and makeup’s sake.”
“I have no clue how to apply this.”
She huffed, leaning over the console into the backseat. She snatched it from his hand and started dabbing it onto his neck. “Is she a vampire? I think some of these broke the skin a little.”
He scratched the nape of his neck. “It was quite the night. She probably looks about the same.”
Shayne held out his fist for a fist bump. “Yessss dude, get your celebrity crush.”
“She’s not just my celebrity crush now.” He felt a feeling of pride bloom in his chest. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Wasn’t yesterday ‘not even a date’?” Shayne used air quotes, teasing Spencer about what he had told their nosy friends on Friday.
All he did was shrug with a beaming smile on his face. His heart was swirling, beating a hundred miles a minute. He replayed the night in his head, but paused when he realized that his jean jacket was absolutely on your kitchen floor, thrown off by your desperate hands.
Lover Boy: i think i left my jacket at yours
y/n 💕: mine now loser
He couldn’t argue with that, he was sure he’d be back at your place soon enough anyway. He had another tucked away, somewhere. But the idea of you, wrapped up in his favorite piece of clothing, made him weak in the knees. Maybe next time he’d leave a hoodie, just so you could have a bit of him all the time. His heart thudded wildly. Hers. He was hers now, undeniably, irrevocably. He had the teeth marks to prove it. His girlfriend. It made his smile grow even wider.
The car stopped with a jolt and Angela came running from the large table the cast was gathered around. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you guys are okay! We were so worried.”
The three of you got out of the car. “Sorry, Spence was busy getting his dick wet.”
Courtney smacked him. “At least let him announce it.”
Spencer was standing off to the side, turning red. Court had missed a small spot and Angela’s eyes were immediately drawn to it.
She started backing up, then turned and ran back to the table, yelling. “Oh MY GOD! YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE IT GUYS!!! YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS!!!”
He sighed. “Thanks for that, Shayne.”
“You needed some street cred bud.”
“Shut up.”
The three of them walked to the table and sat down. Spencer put his head face down on the table, allowing Damien prime access to see the uncovered spot. He whistled. “Damn, that looks gnarly, let me know if you need bruise ointment for that one.”
“You should’ve seen his neck before I put concealer on it.”
Damien gently rubbed some off the pale liquid. He smirked. “Someone had fun last night.”
Amanda chimed in. “Guys, as much as I love teasing Spence, I’d love to hear about his date and how he probably tripped all over his own feet.”
They gave him the emotional space for him to be able to lift his head. “It was perfect. She’s perfect.”
Amanda gave him a nudge. “What did you guys do?”
“Well, we were just going to hang out at her place, but then she got a call from one of her bandmates so she took me to the studio and I actually got to meet them and see them record for their upcoming album. And then, we got dinner and made chocolate covered strawberries, which I still quite don’t understand how it works, and then-” He trailed off, getting to the part he wanted to keep private.
“And then?” He wasn’t sure who said it, but he kicked Angela from under the table anyway. She didn’t even notice, too enraptured by his story.
“And then I slept over.”
“And somewhere in there, he asked her to be his girlfriend.”
Everyone’s mouths dropped wide open, but all Spencer did was shake his head. “She’s the one who asked me actually. I would’ve been the stupidest person on Earth to say no.”
“Dude! You have a girlfriend!” Angela smacked his arm lightly. “And she’s cooler than you! She’s literally a rockstar.”
Spencer’s phone rang, it was her. Angela gestured for him to put it on speakerphone and he rolled his eyes and did it. If it was really important, she would’ve texted before she called. He picked up.
Her melodic voice floated through the speakers. “Hey lover boy.”
“Hey yourself. You’re on speaker by the way.”
“Hey guys. Now hypothetically, when are you hoping to have this jacket back?”
He chuckled. “Next weekend? Preferably?”
“Hmm, okay.”
“Do I get to know what you’re going to do with it?”
“Throw it off a cliff into the sea like in a period piece.”
“Really?”
“No. And you don’t get to know anything except for that this jacket and I will be very busy this week.”
“Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“No promises. Bye everyone, bye lover boy.” She drew out the pet name before hanging up.
Angela gasped. “Holy crap, she’s mysterious in real life too. I thought it was a front.”
“I don’t even know her favorite color, though I have a feeling it’s red.” He poked at the sandwich and chips he had ordered. “Is that weird?”
Shayne shook his head. “You guys technically barely know each other, you just had your first date and it’s your second time meeting in person. I think you’re fine dude.”
Spencer took a bite and swallowed, not realizing how hungry he was until he started to eat. “You’re right, I just really like her.”
“If you didn’t that would be concerning.” The whole table burst into laughter.
Spencer grinned. “It really would be, wouldn’t it.”
A/N: This has been sitting in the drafts forever while I wrote Chapter 4.5. I won't be putting the taglist on the interlude smut chapter(s) if I decide to write more of them just in case but they'll have no impact on the main storyline besides being fanservice lol. Also if you thought Spencer and reader were gonna have a nice, easy relationship I do hate to break it to you butttttt no. never :)
18+ MDNI!!!!! I really mean it y'all minors gtfo there's no lore in this chapter it's just freaky, go read Chapter 5 (out now), Smosh if you see this no you don't you better skip to chapter 5 too
TW: Baby's first smut, softdom/service top Spence, but reader has an attitude and he loves it so lowkey switchy, y'all wanted spice so here it is it took me months to write, minor foodplay (chocolate, strawberries and kissing), protected piv (wrap it before you tap it babes), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving), cumming untouched, fingering, lots of biting/hickeys and I mean LOTS, Spencer said he loves boobies so I took it and ran with it, CONSENT IS SEXY
Babydoll
Maybe i'll let you have me
I'ma fall hard and fast
Could you catch me?
Babydoll - Ella Boh
“There is absolutely zero reason why this should be as difficult as it is.” After the date, the two of you had gone home and decided to make chocolate covered strawberries, one of your favorite late night snacks. In your opinion, they were easy to make, but Spencer seemed to disagree. “Why is it sliding off like that?”
“You aren’t drying your strawberries enough, the chocolate we’re using is hydrophobic.”
He paused. “The chocolate hates gay people?”
“I really wish I could tell if you’re joking or not.”
“I’m like 90% joking.”
“Eh, good enough.” You bit the strawberry you were holding and the juice ran down your chin. Spencer stopped trying to coat his strawberry and stared at you, eyes sparkling.
“You have a little something on your face.”
“Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?” You challenged teasingly.
He licked his thumb and rubbed the trail of juice with it, then popped it into his mouth. “Delicious.”
“I don’t know if that was hot or gross.”
“Mm, guess we’ll have to try again to find out then.” He held up the strawberry in his hand, messily covered in chocolate and held it out for you to take. Instead of using your hand, you leaned down and bit right above the stem. Once you were done you licked the chocolate off the tips of his fingers. “Oh-” He spluttered, surprised.
You stood up to your full height. “Definitely hot.” You dipped your finger in the bowl of chocolate, swiping it across his lips, which were still open in shock. “But I think this will be better.” You grabbed the back of his neck with your clean hand and pulled his face to yours. Kissing him hungrily, you ran your tongue across his lips before sticking it in his mouth so he could have a taste. He walked you backwards until you hit the kitchen counter, pinning you between his warm hands and the cool marble.
“Tell me if you want to stop.”
You threaded your hands through his hair and tugged gently. “If you stop now I’m going to commit a crime.”
He chuckled, starting to kiss your neck. “Noted.” You let out a gasp as he nipped the soft skin, knees buckling a little underneath you. He paused, looking at your glassy eyes. “Let’s move to the bed baby.” He took a second to allow you to come to your senses before releasing you from your position. You stumbled a little, and he caught you against his chest. “Whoa, are you okay?” He brushed your hair back behind your ear.
“Jelly legs. I’m okay.” He curled his arm around you protectively, leading you to the bedroom and gently helping you onto the bed. Laying beside you, he gently cupped your face.
“And you’re sure about this? I’m not dreaming?”
“Promise.”
You leaned toward him, recapturing his mouth in a deep kiss. He took initiative and slid on top of you, making your breath hitch. You could feel his half-hard cock pressing into you as he straddled your hips, but he seemed set on taking his time. He moved from your lips to your neck, lightly scraping his teeth across the sensitive spot from earlier. You whimpered, trying to get closer to him. “Oh, do you like that baby?” He whispered, moving to suck on your pulse point. You felt a surge of heat crawl up your abdomen as you whimpered again under his touch. “Words, pretty girl.”
“Please Spence.” You whined, tugging on the hem of his shirt.
He cooed at how desperate you looked already. “Tell me what you want, baby.” He teased, knowing exactly what you wanted.
“Clothes off.”
“Anything for you.” He stood for a moment and you shivered at the loss of his warmth. But it was soon replaced by a roaring fire in your veins as you watched him strip down to his boxers. He smirked when he caught you staring. “Like what you see?” Your voice caught in your throat, so all you could do was nod. “Your turn.” He leaned down to where you had sat up on the bed and pulled off your shirt, revealing your black bra. You wished you had known he would see you like this so you could’ve worn something a little nicer.
You shifted, balancing yourself so you could take your pants off without getting off the bed. He ran a hand down your side, marveling at how soft the skin was. But you had never been a patient person. Taking his hand, you pulled him back onto you and kissed him hungrily, finding your voice. “As much as I appreciate you taking your time with me, I need you Spence.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Condoms?”
“Top drawer.” He dug through the drawer, finding the condoms and ripping one open. By the time he turned back to you, you had removed the rest of your clothes, watching his movements with a darkened expression. He took off his boxers and rolled on the condom in one fluid movement.
He crawled back on top of you, ravishing you in small kisses before settling comfortably. “I know you’re impatient baby, but I need to open you up first, let me know what feels good, okay?” He crashed into your lips, not giving you a chance to answer, and his hand snaked down to your core. It was clumsy at first, but he slid a finger in, sending a sting that turned into a pleasant stretch through your body. When you gave him the okay, he slid in a second, curling them upwards and finding the spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. He pulled back from your lips, watching your face to see what made you wince and what made your breath hitch. He dipped his head down and teased your nipple with his tongue, feeling you clench tighter around his fingers. Boldly, he took one into his mouth and sucked, scraping it with his teeth gently.
“Holy fuck Spencer.” You gasped, words pitching into a whine. “Get your dick inside me before I combust.”
“Can you ask nicely?”
You glared at him through the haze in your eyes. “No. I will blue ball you. Your balls will never be the same.”
“I only have one.” He paused and slid into you, making your back arch at the sudden fullness. “But I don’t think it makes much of a difference, does it baby?”
You shook your head wildly, prompting him to move. He groaned, his forehead falling against yours as he rutted into you. You kissed him with reckless abandon, all tongue and teeth. You moved down his neck, trying and failing not to leave red and purple marks in obvious places. He responded in kind, biting the soft skin of your chest. He grabbed your hip and hiked it higher around his waist, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.
You slid your hand down, finding your clit and rubbing small circles to get the external friction your body craved. You moaned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten as he bucked into you. “Spence, please.”
“Take what you need from me baby, I’m yours.”
An electric pulse roared through your body, causing your legs to lock around him. He was muttering curses under his breath, chasing his own high. “Fuck, Spence, I’m-” Your vision went white around the edges as you came. He groaned and let himself fall against your chest. You ran a hand through his curly hair. “Goddamn.”
He tilted his head to the side, meeting your eyes. “You said it.”
—---
Sometime between Spencer cleaning you up and him turning into your personal blanket, you had drifted comfortably to sleep. But now, something was tickling your neck, disrupting your rest. Sleepily, you tried to push it away, but all it did was come back more aggressively. You tried again and as you slowly came to, you realized the tickly mass was laughing at you and kissing the bare expanse of your neck and shoulder. You grumbled, trying to avoid it to go back to bed, but it moved onto your cheeks, nose and finally, your lips. Sinking into it, you murmured against his lips, “There’s a man in my bed.” He slipped his tongue into your mouth, his bare chest sliding against yours and making you shiver. The hand that wasn’t holding him up threaded through your hair and tugged, making you keen.
He finally responded, eyes dark. “A man in your bed? We’ll have to do something about that.”
“Mmm, maybe. Or maybe we could stay here forever.”
He started to kiss your bare chest, teeth catching on your sensitive nipples. He sucked an angry purple mark right next to the ones he had left last night and your hips bucked involuntarily. “Patience baby. Be good.” And oh, you hated when a man told you what to do, but the saccharine words dripping from his mouth told you that it would all be worth it. He continued down the bed, nipping and kissing the soft skin of your stomach and leaving a hickey right on your hip. He gently maneuvered your thighs over his shoulders, looking at your glistening pussy like he had seen God for the first time. Sliding his fingers over your wet slit and inside, he whispered, “All this for me, pretty girl?” He curled his fingers up and you moaned, fisting your hand in his hair and pulling him towards your cunt. He chuckled, “I’m going, I’m going.” He dipped his head down, one hand holding your thigh and the other still buried inside you, found your clit, and sucked.
Tears pricked the edges of your eyes at the sensation, legs starting to shake. All he did was go deeper, slipping his tongue inside to help his fingers and using his nose to keep nudging your clit. His hips ground against the mattress at the sight of you falling apart under his mouth and fingers. Up until a few months ago, it was something that had only haunted the edges of his deepest fantasies. Now, you were real and warm beneath him, using him to take exactly what you wanted, and god, did it feel like heaven. He hoped that he could memorize this exact feeling, the warmth, your sounds, and his heart feeling like it was about to burst. As you reached your climax, your legs tightened around his head, and he groaned, hips stuttering against the sheets. Only when you started to push him away did he lift his head up. He looked debauched, dark and glassy eyes, swollen lips, and utterly covered in you.
“It’s unfair that you look that good after eating pussy for so long. I’m more than happy to return the favor.”
He had the audacity to look bashful, even while licking your cum off his lips. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”
You sat up on your elbows, looking at him quizzically before noticing the wet spot on your fitted sheet. It was too far down to be from you, so he must’ve- “Oh, sweetheart. You’re just too cute, aren’t you?”
He tucked his face into his shoulder shyly, avoiding your gaze. “You’re just too hot. I couldn’t help it.” He mumbled. You heard, but you wanted him to say it louder, more confident.
You tilted his chin up so he could meet your eyes. “What was that?”
“I couldn’t help it.” He sounded more sure, less anxious. “You’re so beautiful.”
“So are you.”
A/N: Baby's first smut?????? It legit took me forever to write because it was just so awkward. I'm like so tempted to just delete this and give up on the spice bit but they're too horny to be contained I think. Idk if I'll write it again. Truly very on the fence. But also Chapter 5 is out so plz read that!
Something so funny about rereading one's own unfinished fics. Like wow this is pretty good! Almost as if it was written exactly according to what I personally like in fact! Someone should finish it!
Fluff, teeny tiny sprinkle of angst (physical pain)
A soft, relaxing pool day with Angela and the aftermath, where she takes care of you after you get sunburned.
TW: Suggestive talk, reader has easily burnt skin, wear your sunscreen people!, Angela’s nickname for reader is ‘sunshine’ and reader's for Angela is 'sweetheart' just cuz, description of really bad sunburn
After what felt like forever, you finally had a day off. It was an absolutely beautiful, sweltering day in LA, and despite the fact that it was incredibly crowded, you absolutely had to make use of the pool at your apartment complex. You had books to read, music to listen to, and sun to enjoy, and a beautiful girlfriend to sneak glances at while she floated around in a flamingo floatie, trying to avoid splashes from kids. What could be better?
You were sprawled out face down in a lounge chair with your airpods in, listening to the audiobook of Little Women for the millionth time that month, when you felt dripping on your back. You welcomed the cool drops on your sun-warmed skin.
“Sunshine, you’ve gotta put more sunscreen on, you’re turning into a lobster by the second.”
“‘M comfy.” Your voice came out muffled by the towel. “Don’t wanna get up.”
You heard the click of the sunscreen as she opened the bottle, pouring some on your shoulders and gently massaging it in. “You don’t have to get up, just let me do it.” Her cool hands rubbed every inch she could reach, from the back of your neck to the soles of your feet. “Now you have to flip over.”Reluctantly, you rolled onto your back. Angela giggled at the imprint of the towel on your stomach, before turning into cackling as she realized it also covered your legs and shoulders. “How long have you been laying like that?!”
“Long enough to know that you’re being mean to your beautiful girlfriend.” You humphed, crossing your arms and turning away from her.
“She is very beautiful today, have you seen her around anywhere?”
Your jaw dropped open. “Oh my god, you are so making dinner tonight, just for that comment.”
“Wasn’t I already?” You turned back to face her and watched her eyes sparkle with mirth.
“You hate me and want me to die.”
“Nooooo, I could never. Why else would I be sunscreening you?”
“Maybe you’re seasoning me to cook and eat me for dinner.”
She started rubbing more sunscreen on you, propping one of your feet up on her thigh where she was crouched on the ground. “You know me so well. Seasoning you is exactly what I’m doing.” She smirked menacingly, “Now are you gonna do the rest or am I gonna have to tickle you until you do it?”
“Keep those grubby hands away from me, I’ll do it myself.” You stuck your tongue out at her.
“I know you secretly love it when these ‘grubby hands’ are allll over you!” She half-sang, sinking down into the chair next to you and wiggling her fingers towards you. “Remember this morning?”
Your sunburn hid the bright red of your blush. “Ange! Not in front of the kids!” You hissed, even though the kids were on the other side of the pool, clearly enraptured by bright red popsicles.
“They have no clue what I’m talking about sunshine, you however, clearly do.”
“I’m- ugh, you- ergh,” You watched her grin grow wider as you fumbled with your words. Standing up, you finished rubbing the sunscreen into your neck. “I’m getting into the damn pool.” You grumbled, hoping to escape the teasing.
“Enjoy yourself sunshine,” She winked, popping the top on a drink. “I’ll be here, enjoying the view.”
You placed your phone and airpods until your towel, then hopped into the pool, opting to float lazily on your back. You closed your eyes, feeling the water ripple around your fingertips. All of a sudden, you felt your head bump into something. Opening your eyes, you found yourself looking up at your girlfriend, who started to gently support you with a hand between your shoulderblades.
“Hi there sweetheart.”
“Hi sunshine, I missed you.” She smiled softly down at you. “Feeling good?”
“Very relaxed, just what I needed.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
You reached a hand toward her, clinging onto her elbow. “I like seeing you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Soft, not stressed, all for me.”
“I like seeing you like that too.”
You stared at each other for a while, enjoying the moment, when you heard a kid yell “Cannonball!!!!” causing the water to violently erupt into waves. Angela helped you stand up before you got water up your nose.
“I think that means it’s time to go home.”
“Agreed.”
The two of you got out of the pool, wrapped towels around yourselves, and leisurely walked back to your apartment, enjoying the fading sunlight.
—---------
You hated when Angela was right. Well, you hated when she was right to the detriment of your ego. You were indeed, as red as a lobster. In fact, it was so bad that the skin on your shoulders had started to peel and blister a bit after one day, and it felt like you were being burned alive. You had even spent the past few nights sleeping on the couch with a fan pointed directly at you to be as cool as physically possible, which Angela hated with a passion.
“Come to bed with meeeeee.” She flopped over the arm of the couch and onto your shoulder.
You sleepily pushed her away. “Too warm. Also ow.”
“Sorry sunshine. It’s kinda hard to believe that you got burned with SPF 50 applied to you twice, we were only out there for a few hours.”
“Mmph.”
“You want aloe?”
“Please.” She went to fetch it from the fridge and you pulled your hair up off of your back, wincing as it caught on some of the sensitive skin. She tried to hand it to you, but you gently pushed it back at her. “Will you get my back please? It's hard for me to reach.”
“Of course.” You tensed, bracing yourself for the impact of something touching your sensitive skin, but instead, all you felt was the relief of the cool aloe and the soft touch of your partner. She was thorough, swiping the green gel over every bit of inflamed area. Once she finished, she kissed the back of your neck softly. “Will you come to bed now please?” She gave you her best puppy eyes, and you melted.
“As long as you don’t mind me getting aloe on our sheets, I will.”
“All I care about is that you’re comfortable sunshine.”
"Then take me to bed sweetheart. But the fan is coming with too."
A/N: Bitches be sunburnt. It's me, I'm bitches. I'm so mad because I legit wore lots of sunscreen and it happened anyway! And the weather has been amazing this week and I've just been like, inside and suffering instead of enjoying it. I have like three Angela WIPs that I haven't finished so obviously I had to write an entirely new oneshot from scratch, because duh.
spencer and cast!reader hardlaunching their baby in a new video? then fans had to look back in previous vids for signs of reader's pregnancy that they missed lol. tyia!
My Beautiful Melody
Spencer Agnew x f!reader
TW: Light angst (haters being fatphobic, general anxiety, new parenthood), lots of Disney talk, use of Y/N, girl dad Spencer my beloved
This is a standalone fic but it also takes place in the universe of one of my other fics. Read Olives here!
This is your world, my darling
One world, the land and sea
My hope for you for always
Is that your heart will hold part of me
Down to the Sea - The Little Mermaid 2
“Hello everyone and welcome to Smosh’s annual costume competition! We have some very eager competitors today ready to compete for the title of-” Angela picked up the trophy on the table. “Best Dressed!”
“You couldn’t remember Best Dressed?”
“Shut up and let me do the intro.”
“I’m obviously the super hot and sexy Elsa from Frozen.” Chanse spoke up, “Thank you all for voting on which awesome costumes we got to wear today.” He snickered.
“And I’m Olaf.” Angela sunk down into her chair, defeated. “I hate everyone.”
“We’ve got some fun surprises and even some special guests coming up, so we’re going to start now. Everyone will be rated on performance, quality, and originality on a scale of 1-10 stars. Let the games begin!”
You fidgeted in the back as the video started with Shayne and Court as Allan and Weird Barbie from the Barbie movie. Spencer leaned his head on your shoulder, baby in his arms. “Hey, we’re gonna be just fine. Everyone’s gonna love this.”
“I just don’t know if I’m ready for her to go from being ours to the world’s.”
He turned your head so he was looking you right in the eye. “She will always be ours. We made her, we care for her day in and day out. And most of all, we love her. No one can take that away. But we can always leave her out of the video.”
You shook your head. “No, as much as I’m scared, I’m also tired of hiding her and walking on thin ice around the fans.” She cooed and reached for a strand of your wig. “We can’t protect her forever. And the fans have been mostly respectful and kind about Amanda, H and Cole. It’ll be fine.”
That sentiment did not stop the pit from growing in your stomach. Some haters had been commenting about your weight gain in the videos you did decide to join, saying you were letting yourself go. That was already detrimental enough to your mental health, you didn’t need them going after your daughter too. But when you looked at Spencer’s kind smile, mirrored by hers, the feeling settled. They couldn’t hurt your family, and even if they tried, you wouldn’t let them. That would always be yours.
Erin came up to the three of you in her Blue Man Group costume. “Do you want me to keep her back here for a second for an extra reveal?”
Spencer’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Duh.” He readjusted the bow in her hair before passing her over to Erin, who was very careful not to get any blue on her white dress. He adjusted the pale yellow bow in yours too, before taking your hand. “It’s just Chanse and Angela, they’ll freak.”
“They better, it took forever to make these.” He pulled you out from behind the divider, leading you onto the familiar purple and blue set.
Angela’s eyes went wide. “Holy crap! Chanse!” She shook Chanse’s shoulders aggressively. “Do you know who they are?”
“I mean I can tell they’re Ariel and Prince Eric but I don’t recognize the yellow dress.”
“They’re from the Little Mermaid 2! The sequel?!?!” Her eyes narrowed. “No way.”
“No way what?” Chanse looked confused, but you just giggled, sensing she had caught on. You stepped back behind the divider, taking your little girl from Erin.
“It’s a family costume Chanse. They brought her!”
Holding her in your arms, you brought her in view of the cameras. “This is Melody, our baby. By the time this comes out she should be almost a year old.” Melody opened and closed her fist in a tiny wave, and Spencer brushed some of her dark curls behind her ear.
“We chose this costume because well, for anyone who knows Disney,” Spencer flashed a quick smile at Angela, whose mouth was hanging wide open, “the name will seem really familiar to anyone who knows the sequel to the Little Mermaid.”
Angela whispered. “She’s named after the movie.”
You nodded. “She named herself after the movie.” You laughed. “It’s kind of a long winded story, maybe we’ll tell it another time.”
“She named herself??? What a baby.”
Spencer looked down at Melody lovingly. “What a baby indeed.”
Chanse held up his whiteboard. “Tens across the board!” He wiped fake tears from his eyes. “What a beautiful story.”
“Oh wait!” Angela scribbled on her whiteboard quickly. “Perfect score! I’d give more points if I could.”
In the end, you tied with Trevor, who had brought Napkin in as Remy and been Linguini from Ratatouille. It helped that he had somehow gotten Napkin to sit on his shoulder and move his hands like he was “cooking”. For the finale, Shayne held up Melody, who was giggling and kicking her feet at all the excitement, and yelled “Smosh Baby!!!”
“Smosh Baby!!!” The rest of you echoed loudly, then burst into laughter. All the anxiety from earlier was gone, everything would be alright.
—-------
When the video was posted, about three months later, people freaked out.
Ilovey/n2: OMG the baby hard launch!!!!!!!
shart4eva: no way she looks just like spencer how tf did they find the copy and paste button on life
Oliviasuifanclubprez: Literally obsessed, kill me now
gunkgunkgunk: is this the project that y/n took a hiatus from smosh and social media for?
y/nagnew: maybe… 😉
gunkgunkgunk: THE QUEEN RESPONDS HELLO QUEEN
Lookslikealiteralqueef: she named herself??? Need a smosh mouth ep on that asap
y/nagnew: 👀
Ilovey/n2: I am so sat
Trevrashafan: napkin was robbed
Politeduck1234: y/n and spencer had a literal baby and you think napkin was the one who was robbed?????? he’s a dog bro
spennser: you’re entitled to your wrong opinion
trevorevarts: he absolutely was robbed ty for noticing
SmoshClips: Just made a compilation of all the times Y/n was hiding her pregnancy and all of us missed it! Watch it here
You and Spencer were sitting and responding to comments on the couch after putting Melody to bed. Spencer raised an eyebrow when he saw it. “Do we watch it?”
“I think we’re legally obligated to.” You clicked on the link. The first clip was of you laughing during a game of Don’t Win Mario Party, wearing an oversized hoodie of Spencer’s to try and hide the slowly growing bump. As the audio played, the two of you started to laugh at your past selves.
“Fucking fuck! Ugh I can’t believe you did that! Fuck!”
“Little ears Agnew.” You glared at him.
“Sorry Trevor.”
“Hey! I’m an adult!”
“Yeah, who’s like barely out of his teens. What if your brain hasn’t fully developed yet? We can’t have you picking up Spencer’s bad habits, now can we?”
“You’re lucky I love you.” Spencer grumbled through the cone of shame.
“Oh, I know honey.”
The next clip was from right after your honeymoon, in the background of a Tiktok, you were holding a pillow on top of your stomach, sitcom style, in order to not be revealed.
You nudged him lightly. “I think we were ordering paint for the nursery there, we argued about colors for the whole day.”
“I think you nearly bit my head off.”
“You would’ve deserved it.”
Clips kept rolling and you smiled fondly at all of the sweet memories captured of your early stages of pregnancy, final wedding planning and post-honeymoon glow. The final one was of your hiatus video, the camera focused on you sitting at the Board AF table, bump concealed under the wood.
“Hey guys, I’ve decided to take a break from being in Smosh videos and on social media for a while. I’m working on a really big project, and it requires a lot of time and effort to be put into it, and I don’t want to spoil it for you all. This isn’t for forever though, and there will still be plenty of videos that I’m in and that I helped produce to sate the Y/N craving I know you all will have. I’ll be back before you know it, and Spence will still be here to be your court jester and can cause enough chaos for the both of us combined. Stay safe and be kind everyone!” You waved, smiling shyly to the camera. Then the video went dark.
Spencer spoke up first. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched your hiatus video.”
“I think that’s fair, you don’t get a hiatus from me after all.”
“I would never want one.”
—----------
“Welcome to Smosh Mouth! I’m Shayne,”
“And I’m Amanda! And with us today we have two new parents who have gone really viral online recently.”
You laughed. “I really didn’t expect it to blow up as much as it did.”
“But also it’s awesome, our baby’s famous. Just like the Four Seasons hotel kid. Or Charlie Bit My Finger.”
“It didn’t go that viral Spence.”
“Close enough.”
Shayne started the questions. "First we've got to talk pre-baby. You wanna enlighten the class on your pregnancy cravings?"
You sighed. "It was green olives and peanut butter. I got a lot of flack for this from people in the office, but genuinely I thought I would die if I didn't have an olive."
Spencer shook his head fondly. "Sometimes she kept them on her nightstand for when she woke up in the middle of the night. It was like Zooey Deschanel's drawer of night peanuts in New Girl." Shayne and Amanda both started to crack up, but all you did was pout.
"Sometimes a girl who carried a baby for ten months and was in labor for 13 hours wants a snack in the middle of the night. Sue me."
Amanda put her hand on your shoulder before the bickering could start up again. “Alright, alright, Y/N's right, leave her alone. So the part people loved the most is that she picked out her own name. You two wanna tell us how that happened?”
“So I watched a lot of old Disney and Barbie movies for the nostalgia and warm fuzzy feelings once I started to get really sentimental and emotional, y’know? And I remembered having The Little Mermaid 2 on VHS when I was a kid so of course I had to watch it.”
Amanda nodded understandingly. “They’re very good for that. And they don’t kill the kids, which is always a big plus. Playing Resident Evil 8 was so hard because of that.”
You rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. “I know. It’s hard.”
She motioned for you to continue, and you waited for Spencer to go, but he just said, “It’s your story honey, you take the stage.”
“So anyway I was watching it, and during the opening song she just started to move, to the point where I was a little concerned. And every single time they said ‘Melody’, she kicked, which was cute, but also really hurt. I even paused the movie at some points to go get a snack or a drink, and she would totally stop. But as soon as the movie said ‘Melody’ she would kick again.”
“Once she told me about it, I was like, ‘well, that’s her name now.’ Completely threw our baby name list out the window.”
“We didn’t even know her gender yet, but Spencer was so sure that it was meant for her that we didn’t call her anything else.”
Shayne chimed in. “And so Melody Agnew named herself. How’s being a parent to the best baby ever?”
“I mean, Amanda knows how this goes, but she’s been teething lately, so we haven’t gotten a lot of sleep in a while.”
“And she hates her bassinet.”
“Oh yeah. Anytime we put her in it she screams and cries so hard that last week she got a heat rash. We’ve been taking turns rocking her to sleep in the rocking chair my mom bought us, which normally ends in one of us falling asleep there.”
Shayne wheezed. “I was wondering why you had an ice pack on the back of your neck the other day, Spence.”
“But other than that, it’s good. She’s trying to stand, which is cute to me and worrying for Spence.”
“I think I’m getting gray hairs already.” Spencer muttered. “She’s just like her mother.” You pushed him, nearly toppling him off the chair. “You’re proving my point you know.”
“Anyway, but you know, it’s new every day. She loves the ceiling fan and the park and obviously the Little Mermaid.”
“And peas.”
“Yes, we have a big pea fan in our house.”
“That being said, even if we aren’t sleeping a whole lot and our countertop is stained green.” Spencer grabbed your hand on top of the table. “We really wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You looked at him, softly meeting his gaze with a smile. “No, we really wouldn’t.”
A/N: This request was so cute and fit so perfectly with a concept I'd wanted to write for ages so ofc I had to combine them, thank you Anon! Choosing to pretend that Erin Dougal did not leave Smosh in these fics bc she's my fave and I miss her already. Also the whole Little Mermaid 2 thing was based on how it was my favorite movie growing up and because Ariel's daughter looks exactly like if Spencer had an animated baby. Like, you can't tell me I'm wrong because I'm absolutely right.
Like be so fr look at this baby. No one can convince me otherwise.
To wish @illusorytherapy a very belated birthday!! (It was yesterday I meant to make this yesterday whoopsies)
As the president of Illusory’s fan club it is incredibly important I make this message for our queen of the Iris-verse!
We love your work and you and we hope that there is so much love and kindness in the next year (and all the years after!!!)
And also cake. Cake is important.
If you do not wish her a happy birthday I will haunt your house as the ghost of a very loud mouse who you will always hear in your walls by your head while you’re trying to sleep.
Ooh! What about Reader with chronic pain who struggles to take care of them selves (I.e, sit down when they need to, advocate when they can’t do something etc) because they always feel bad doing that (maybe family ingrained or something) and Damien always helps and makes sure they’re okay? Totally chill if not
A/N: Hi Anon! This was totally self-serving to me bc I have endometriosis and it is horrid and I hate it so much. Please take care of yourselves, especially if you have a chronic illness, your body needs so much rest and you may feel lowkey useless but the more rest you get, the more it actually helps. Also currently I'm having a low spoons day today so it was nice to imagine being cared for like this, and I hope you feel the same. - T 💜
Chronically Yours
Damien Haas x f!chronically ill reader
TW: Endometriosis, lots of period talk (kinda graphic), lots of blood (duh, it’s normal), unintentional self harm (nails digging into skin), bad self care habits, self doubt, one use of Y/N
Maybe I'm dying
So comfortable crying
I don't know the difference between
Lying and smiling
Chronic - Claire Rosinkranz
You should’ve known it was coming. You had been snippy at your boyfriend, slightly nauseous and getting migraines all week, but no, you had simply chalked it up to stress and ignored it, just as you had your whole life. So when the wave of pain hit, nearly bringing you to your knees in the middle of the office, your heart dropped into your stomach.
Amanda stopped talking when she saw you wince and take a deep breath in. “Is everything okay?”
“My period just started.”
She passed you a super sized tampon from her bag. “That is one thing I didn’t miss while pregnant.”
Another cramp hit and you clutched your stomach. “I can’t blame you one bit. I’ll be back.”
You went to the bathroom, checking your underwear. They were absolutely soaked through, the deep red taunting you. “Great, awesome, cool.” You were lucky there was only a little on your jeans, not visible from the outside. Peeling them off, you put the underwear in the sink, turning on the cold water and letting them mildly soak with soap while you cleaned yourself up. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as the pain set in.
You took a mental tally of what hurt. Stomach, check, back, check, hips, check, upper legs, check, your literal asshole, check. Everything felt like it was being stabbed and twisted, and all you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die. But you couldn’t, you had things to do. You were doing your work as well as covering for Damien while he was at auditions, which meant there was no room for you to slack off. There was no reason for you to slack off anyway, it wasn’t that bad, it was normal, right?
Then why does it feel like I’m in a medieval torture chamber?
1 in 10 women. One in ten women did this every month, and so could you. Easy peasy. Amanda knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”
“Yeah, bled through my underwear so I’m cleaning up right now.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Actually, if you could grab me a plastic bag from the kitchen, that would be great. The last thing I need is to get blood everywhere.”
“Aye aye captain.” Two minutes later, a Ziploc slid under the door.
“You’re the best.”
You put yourself back together painstakingly, making sure you looked exactly as you had earlier. No one besides Amanda needed to know what was going on, and if you had it your way, she wouldn’t notice all that much either. You opened the door, forcing a smile onto your face. “See? Just fine.”
“Uh huh.” She raised one of her eyebrows.
“I’ll take a painkiller and it’ll be okay. Trust.”
She put her hand on your shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything, I’m here for you. And I can always threaten Ian into giving you the day off.”
“Unfortunately I do have things to get done so that’s not gonna fly today. But I will. Promise.”
She nodded and let you go back to your desk, telling you to take care of yourself and take it easy for the rest of the day.
—-------
You absolutely did not do that. When you went to look for your prescription painkillers that frankly, did barely anything, in your purse, they were nowhere to be found. You scrounged up two Ibuprofen (which would do less than nothing for your cramps) and took them instead. At least it got rid of your headache. You were losing an exorbitantly high amount of blood, going through a super sized tampon every one and a half to two hours. You burst into tears at a critique from Spencer at a games meeting, and ever since he had been avoiding you like the plague. Several people asked you if you were okay, and all you did was lie and pretend like you didn’t feel like you had been scooped by the scooper in FNAF Sister Location (a video you had helped film earlier that day). You were just about to pack up for the day when you saw a chocolate bar slid across your desk.
“Sorry about earlier.”
“Spencer, you literally have nothing to apologize for.” He pushed your keyboard to the side, sitting on your desk.
“I made you cry.”
“That was a fluke.”
“Well if you don’t want the chocolate I’ll eat it myself.”
You snatched it before he could grab it. “No no, I do.”
“Chocolate always helps Erica when she’s on her period.”
“How could you tell?”
“Amanda told me.” Goddamnit Amanda. “You should’ve gone home early.”
“Emails won’t write themselves.”
He took a peek at your computer. “Are you doing Damien’s work so he doesn’t have to catch up again?”
“No…”
“You’re a bad liar, terrible poker face. Go home before I tell Ian you’re too sick to come in tomorrow.”
You stuck your computer in your bag along with the chocolate bar. “Bitch.”
“I’m a delight.”
“Yeah to no one ever.”
“The chocolate begs to differ.”
You rolled your eyes before slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Give Erica a kiss for me!”
He hopped off the desk, landing with a soft thump on the tile. “Only if you give Damien one from me!” You walked off, flipping him off and ignoring his laughter fading from behind you.
—--------
When Damien got home, he could immediately sense something was off. All the lights were off, there was no lively music playing through the record player you loved so dearly, and neither you nor the cats ran up to greet him like they usually did. He flicked on the light and saw nothing. No you curled up with your nose in a book, no clicks of your computer, not even a faint sound from the TV that you liked to have on in the background. “Anyone home?” Nothing.
He made his way to the bedroom, and that’s where he found you. Well, something he thought was you. It was more of a suspicious shaped lump under the covers, shaking and rocking back and forth in an attempt to self soothe. The cats were curled up near your head, tucked into you as close as possible as if they could save you from yourself. He heard muffled cries coming from under the blanket. Gently, he untucked it from your head and pulled it down.
His heart shattered at the distraught look on your face, and it hurt even more when you realized he was there and immediately sat up, wiping your tears away and pretending like nothing happened.
“Hi Dames, how were auditions?”
He kissed your forehead lightly. “Hi baby, they were good, but what’s going on?”
“Nothing! I’ll get started on dinner, you must be hungry.” You winced, but started to crawl out of bed. He stopped you with a gentle hand on the knee.
“Y/N L/N. Talk to me.” At the use of your full name, your shoulders slumped.
You tried once more to brush it off. “Just a bad day, nothing to worry about.”
“Bad days mean you’re in the tub with a glass of wine, this is more than that.”
You conceded with a sigh. “Surprise period. Lots of pain. You know the drill.”
He froze, heart sinking down. You had endometriosis, which meant that your periods were notoriously bad. Even your doctor said you shouldn’t be handling them by yourself. “You should’ve called me. I could’ve helped.”
You shook your head. “Things needed to get done, and you had a busy day today. I can handle it, I’m a big, strong, independent woman.” You tried and failed to crack a smile.
“You’re allowed to need help.”
You shrugged. “You had things to do, and so did I. I managed, no harm done.”
He sighed. “There is harm done. You suffered all day with no help taken from anyone. Don’t think Court didn’t text me telling you that you had a breakdown on the games set by yourself.”
“I didn’t think anyone saw that.”
“Everyone was worried, they all care about you honey. And they all know about your condition. You don’t need to hide.”
“Just because I have endo doesn’t mean I’m useless.” Tears started to slide down your face. “I deal with pain all the time, this is just that.”
He brushed them away with his thumb. “You weren’t made to just be useful, you were made to be you. And your organs are literally fusing together, I think that warrants at least a little bit of concern. You’re literally having surgery for it in a few months honey.”
A sharp pain ripped through your abdomen, and you collapsed into his shoulder, your sobs picking up. “It hurts so bad.” The words came out pathetically through frantic breaths, your nails digging into your arm to try and ground yourself. Instinctively, you tried to curl up into a ball, hoping that maybe your body heat could fix some of the pain.
“I know baby, I know.” He scooped you up in his arms. “I’m here now, I’ll take care of you.” You whimpered as he picked you up, cradling you to his chest. He moved your clenched hand from your arm to his shirt sleeve and situated you so you were tucked into the crook of his neck. He grabbed the comforter off the bed, much to the chagrin of the cats, and slowly but surely made his way to the couch. He set you down gently, wrapping you up in the blanket and cooing soft words in your ear. When he started to step away to get what you needed, you grabbed his wrist.
Looking up at him with big eyes, you whispered, “Stay.”
“I’ll be right back with the heating pad, medicine and some tea honey, it’ll be two minutes, promise.” You nodded, shifting uncomfortably to try and find the position that hurt the least. He quickly pulled the heating pad and pain meds out of the bathroom and made tea in the microwave for the sake of ease. When he came back, you were propped up on pillows, hands pressed tightly into your stomach and knees up to your chest. He slid the pad in between your hands and your stomach, then plugged it into the wall behind you. The warmth was a familiar friend to you and the needles in your abdomen. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn’t, but at least you could be comfortably warm while you felt like you were dying. He passed you your favorite mug, careful not to spill a drop of the steaming tea inside, and a few painkillers. He watched as you swallowed them and took a sip. “Good?”
“Sorry for being difficult. And bothersome. And-”
He silenced you with a kiss on your lips. You tilted your head back, relaxing into it for a minute before he pulled away softly. “You are never bothersome or difficult. You deserve to be taken care of. We’re in this together, remember? You would say exactly the same thing about me.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, sighing. “I know. It’s just, hard.”
“I know.” he kissed the top of your head. “You’re so strong, but even the best magicians need an assistant.”
You raised an eyebrow. “This seems a lot different than pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”
“You make plenty of magic all on your own, I’m just grateful to be able to cheer you on.”
“Arguably you’re more famous out of the two of us.”
“Shhhh just let me have my metaphors.” You rolled your eyes. He booped your nose with a wide grin on his face. “There’s my girl.”
“Your girl would like a kiss pretty please.”
“How could I refuse someone as beautiful as you? C’mere.” Just as he was leaning in, you flinched in pain, taking deep breaths to try and push through it. He backed up, frowning. “I wish I could help more.”
“Me too. I guess you could make dinner though, you’re probably starving.”
He gave you an amused look. “I’m the one who’s hungry?”
You pushed his shoulder. “Shut up manservant.”
He gave a little bow and kissed you on the cheek. “Anything for my lady.” He started to get up, but you pulled him back in by the collar, kissing him more fervently than before. When you pulled away, he was flushed. “Now what was that for?”
You shrugged. “A gift from Spencer.”
He spluttered. “What the fuck?”
“I’m just the messenger.”
He shook his head fondly. “I thought we were having a moment.”
“We can have moments after you make dinner.”
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I do. But I love you even more.”
“I love you too.”
As the smell of garlic and lemon wafted into the room, you took a deep breath and leaned your head back, hoping the pain would dull. But even if it didn’t, there would always be a silly man and his cats to make sure you were completely and utterly loved, even on the worst of your hard days.
A/N 2: I really need this vibe in my life right about now. Also you can pry banter and pet names out of my cold dead hands.
I went to the beach for three hours this weekend and applied sunscreen twice and your girl still has second degree burns kms!! So sad bc I love the beach and it really did me dirty with this one :(
