#I had a script and everything right in front of me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

psformybss · 28 days ago

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You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

#drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x oc #drew starkey #drew starkey obx #drew starkey angst #drew starkey fanfic #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey imagine #rafe cameron #obx #drew starkey outer banks #rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #rafe cameron x reader

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webslinger-holland · 8 days ago

Note

AAAA in love with your depictions of all the characters:3 could you write the thunderbolts* reacting to you calling them by their last name? tysm :3

Prompt: The Thunderbolts react to you calling them by their last name.

Warning: fluff, some angst, angry reader moments

Note: Threw in some Alexei just for good laughs. Hope you like it!

Yelena: The two of you were circling each other during another sparring session. You duck under her arm mid-swing and land a clean hit to her side. You circled back into stance, muscles coiled and ready again.

The air between you crackled with challenge—and maybe something a little more personal beneath the friendly fight.

“Come on, Belova. You’re slow today.”

Instantly, Yelena stands up straight and her entire fight stance goes back to normal. Her hands fall back down at her sides, her shoulders drop like she's no longer in the mood.

She narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Belova? You trying to sound like Valentina?” she teased, clearly disgusted. “That’s gross.”

You laughed. “I didn't think you'd hate it so much."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "It's not the name. It's the way you said it. Felt a little degrading."

You grinned. “Maybe that was the point.”

She rolled her shoulders, cracking a smirk. “Well, if you want to keep playing that game, you better be ready to lose.”

You laughed, stepping back into your stance. “Bring it on.”

Bucky: The mission had gone sideways, not catastrophically per se. It was messy, chaotic, and just sloppy work. During the height of it all, Bucky went off script which made you more mad than anything. You refused to speak to him on the way back to the safe house.

You stormed through the front door first, tossing your gear onto the couch with more force than necessary. He followed, though slower and more casual—like nothing had just happened.

“We made it out, didn’t we?” Bucky called out. He began peeling off his gear.

You didn’t turn around. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Oh, come on—”

"I'm not talking with you about this," you quickly cut him off, giving him a warning glare. You were still fuming and frustrated with him. And he knew it. "I'm going to go shower."

He says something under his breath. You stop walking. You turn back to face him ever so slowly.

"What was that?" You were seething now.

“What? Don’t give me that look—” Bucky shakes his head.

"Barnes."

He knew exactly what that meant.

The name cut through the air like a warning shot. He straightens immediately, swallowing thick and realizing the severity of your seriousness. You never use that name — not unless he’s in big trouble.

He watched you for a moment, jaw ticking like he was deciding whether or not to push his luck. Eventually, Bucky took some quiet calculated steps towards you. He watched you carefully, waiting for any more warning signs.

"Oh...I know that tone," Bucky said cautiously. He kept his movements limited, but still few closer to you. "You're mad at me."

You crossed your arms over your chest and spun around on the heels of your feet so that your back was facing him. You didn't even want to look at him right now, still beyond annoyed and frustrated by his reckless behavior.

“I hate it when you’re mad at me,” Bucky admitted softly as if trying to win you back. “Especially when you call me that. You say it like I’m someone you don’t even like.”

You threw a brief glance over your shoulder, still keeping composure. "Well, right now, I don't."

He cracked a small, sad smile. “Fair.”

Another beat passed. The tension had softened, but it was still there just coiled tight between frustration and care.

Bucky took a step closer. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Finally, you willed yourself to turn around in order to face him head on. His breath caught in the back of his throat as he awaited your reaction. You looked at him, really looked, and let out a slow breath.

“Stop acting like you have to handle everything on your own.” Your voice still laced with venom.

“I’m trying,” Bucky nodded. “Old habits die hard.”

You scoffed, a sound almost playful. Your tight demeanor slowly melting away because he always seemed to know just the right thing to say.

"Will you forgive me?" Bucky wondered, catching your gaze and sounding hopeful.

Though you sported a soft smile on your lips, you still weren't willing to just cave into him like your normally did. He needed some punishment; otherwise, he'd never learn his lesson.

You strode towards the bathroom without saying another word, leaving him to watch your retreating figure. You didn't give him an answer, but he knew what this meant for him.

"I take it that means I'm sleeping on the couch tonight?" Bucky called after you.

"Damn right."

John: It was one of the many moments when John simply wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on his phone, scrolling endlessly through messages, articles, and whatever had his face on it.

You needed help carrying a heavy box into your room. Struggling near the doorway, you carefully set it down and looked over at him expectantly. You wiped the sweat from your brow.

“John,” you called, but he didn’t look up. You tried again, a little sharper this time. “John.”

Nothing again. You placed your hands on your hips, clearly annoyed that he wasn't listening to you at the moment. It was time to bring out the big guns.

"Walker!" That got his attention real fast.

He looked up, confused. He put his phone down. “Yeah?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him with your arms crossed over your chest.

"Wait. Did I do something?” John observed, seeing the obvious look of annoyance in your eyes.

“You weren't listening to me," you explained to him blankly.

“Okay…” He frowned. “But very rarely do you ever call me by my last name. It almost sounded like I was in trouble."

You blinked, raised a brow at him. “Do you want to be in trouble?”

He shrugged, sending you a slight smirk. “I mean… not unless it’s the fun kind?”

Your shoulders slumped. “Walker.”

He grinned nervously. “There it is again! Is this a dominance thing? A flirting thing? Am I—am I supposed to salute you right now?”

You leaned closer. “I could make you.”

Alexei: Getting ready for another mission, Alexei was already decked out in his gear, but there were very few times where he wasn't wearing the suit anyways. He quickly fitted his helmet securely on his head when he heard his name being called loudly down the hallway.

“Shostakov!"

"Uh oh.” He said to himself.

Hearing his name like that made his blood run cold and the color drain from his face. He cautiously made his way to the door and stepped into the hallway to find you standing there with your hands on your hips. Giving him that look.

“Shostakov?" Alexei repeated, clearly confused because you rarely said his last name like that. "What is this, prison? You trying to sound like KGB agent or angry ex-wife?”

You snorted. “You don’t like it?”

“I hate it,” Alexei made sure to enunciate. “Call me Alexei. Or Red Guardian if you are feeling romantic.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic?”

He winked. “Well, you calling me Shostakov—I assume you’re mad at me. I cannot allow this. Come here.” He held out his arms exaggeratedly.

You laughed, dodging around him, but he followed anyway.

“You wound me. You treat me like I'm some careless brute.” Alexei was always one for the dramatics. You threw a glance over your shoulder.

“You are a brute,” you explained to him. “Especially with that whole tall, loud, intimidating thing going on.”

His eyes gleamed instantly. He snapped his fingers like he'd just discovered something remarkable. “Ahhh. Now I see. You are flirting poorly, but enthusiastically. This I admire.”

You stopped in your steps, spinning around to face him. He held his hands up in surrender, almost afraid you'd hit him or something. “I am not flirting poorly.”

He took your hand, placed it over his chest. “Feel this? This is the heart of a man falling for you because you called him Shostakov with sass in your eyes and sin in your voice.”

You drew your hand away and grumbled under your breath. "At least I got your attention."

Ava: The whole team was gathered in the conference room for the updates, logistics, and information collected for an upcoming mission they were planning. The team sat in their designated seats, growing bored of listening to Valentina talk for hours on end.

By the end of the meeting, Valentina ordered you to hand out the files to each member. You dutifully passed them out in order.

You pass her a file without looking up.

“This one’s yours, Starr. Try not to phase through the intel this time.” You mentioned offhandedly.

Ava’s fingers froze on the pages. Her head lifted slowly, eyes narrowing. “You said that like I’m already guilty.”

You smile faintly. “You usually are.”

She cleared her throat, a little too loudly, and pushed to her feet. You both started toward the door, footsteps echoing softly in the empty hallway.

"You used my last name," Ava mentioned. Her eyes straight ahead so not to draw attention to them.

"Mhmm. Did I?" You teased.

"You usually only call me that when you’re annoyed.” Ava added. You were a few steps ahead, but she watched you from the corner of her eye.

You shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “Or when I want your attention.”

That stopped her—not physically, but you could feel the pause in her silence, the way the air shifted behind you. You didn’t look back.

But you didn’t need to.

She was already watching you. And you knew she'd follow.

Bob: You spot Bob fiddling with some tech gear in the corner of the room, completely focused. You walk up behind him, pretending to look serious. But really just doing it to mess with him.

"Be careful, Reynolds." You warned.

His head snapped up so fast you thought he’d given himself whiplash. He dropped the gear immediately like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to to.

"If I catch you breaking another one of my gadgets, you’re going to owe me more than just an apology.”

He breathed a nervous laugh once he realized you were just messing with him. He put some distance between him and the table in front of him. He looked nervous, avoiding eye contact with you.

You tilted your head, noticing his odd behavior. “What’s with the face?” You asked.

“Well, you never call me that unless something’s wrong.” Bob noticed, now messing with his sleeves.

“Maybe something is wrong.” You smiled, but he misinterpreted it.

He panicked instantly; his hands flying up in deference. “I knew it. You saw the footage. I—I didn’t mean to break your favorite mug. I—It just slipped out of my fingers—"

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You broke my favorite mug?”

This time, Bob really flinched.

"You—you didn't know." Bob realized slowly, like he was only now realizing the true depths of his betrayal.

“No, Reynolds. I didn’t know.” You crossed your arms and he hated the way you used his name with that tone. “But I do now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, honestly!” he rushed out. “Let me buy you a new one. Or—or fifteen new ones. Whatever you like. It's on me. I’ll handcraft one. I’ll invent pottery. Just—please don’t hate me.”

Your originally upset expression started to ease away at his idea. Your mouth twitched. The part of you that wanted to be mad stood no chance against his pleading eyes.

“You’d really buy me fifteen mugs?” You batted your eyelashes at him and he only smiled back.

"Whatever it takes to make you happy," Bob confessed truthfully.

You bit your lip, trying hard not to laugh. Your arms slowly dropped from their crossed position.

"You're lucky I like you," you silently forgave him and he couldn't help the smile that grew on his face.

"I think I'm the lucky one."

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pohyuck · 19 days ago

Text

where pretend becomes real

lee donghyuck x reader — a variety show marriage. a fake spouse. cameras in your face every day. (5.9k)

• in celebration of our fullsun’s birthday!! this story is inspired by the show we got married, though please note that it may contain some inaccuracies, as it’s not strictly based on the show’s actual format or segments

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you almost didn’t sign the contract.

the offer had come out of nowhere. an email from your manager, phrased with cautious excitement. 'we got married' was being rebooted after years off air. you’d be one of the main couples, if you agreed.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you reread the email several times before closing your laptop and calling your best friend. “do i look like i have time to fake a marriage right now?” “you’ve literally been single for two years,” she said flatly. “yeah, but at least that’s authentic.”

the truth was, your agency thought it would be good exposure. and part of you, deep down, was curious. about what it would feel like. to pretend to fall in love. about whether pretending might start to feel real.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

donghyuck said yes because he thought it’d be funny. the managers barely got the words out. “they want you for we got married” he started laughing before they finished. “you’re joking. that’s the show where idols act in love for strangers, right?”

but later that night, lying in bed, he scrolled through old clips of the show. something about the way those couples looked at each other in the last episodes stuck with him.

he could fake chemistry. easy. he’d been doing that for stages and fan signs since he was fifteen.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the camera lens captured everything.

your nervous fidgeting, the way your eyes darted around the unfamiliar set, the tiny puff of breath you let out when the PD said, “action.”

you weren’t a stranger to the industry, but this was different. this wasn’t acting. this was you, paired with someone you’d never met, pretending to be newlyweds on national television.

and then he walked in.

lee donghyuck. better known to most as haechan—nct’s infamous sunshine with a mischievous streak and a smile that could disarm even the toughest senior idol.

you have seen clips of him before: teasing his members and turning charm into a weapon. and now, he stood in front of you, grinning like he already knew all your secrets.

“oh?” he said, head tilting slightly. “they really blessed me with a pretty wife.” you blinked. “they told me my husband would be cute, but i didn’t expect him to flirt five seconds in.”

he laughed, hand coming up to hide his mouth. “gotta give the fans what they want. don’t worry, i’m not always like this.”

“…actually, i am”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the first few shoots were awkward, as expected.

you learned quickly that haechan had no shame in front of the camera. he was a professional flirt, tossing out compliments and jokes with effortless precision. every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d flip the script.

"you’re not wearing your ring," he pointed out during episode two, eyes flicking to your bare finger as the two of you sat across from each other in a café.

"i forgot," you said, deadpan. "i left it next to the dignity i lost when they made us do couple yoga yesterday." he cracked up, but you caught the flicker of something behind his smile. maybe he hadn’t expected you to match his energy.

after that, it became a rhythm. witty back-and-forths. glances that lingered a second too long. moments that should’ve been harmless, like sharing an umbrella, decorating your "married" apartment, brushing flour off his cheek during a baking segment, but somehow weren’t.

you told yourself it was the cameras. the setting. the editing. they were supposed to make it look romantic.

still, you couldn’t help but notice the way haechan’s teasing softened when the staff weren’t around. how he started remembering the smallest things about you. how, during the fourth shoot, when your heel broke and you stumbled slightly, he caught you with an ease that felt too natural.

he blinked down at you. you blinked up at him.

then someone yelled "cut" and the moment disappeared like smoke.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was around episode six when things started to shift.

you were filming a camping trip. just the two of you, a tent, a rented suv, and several production crew members pretending not to exist.

after the marshmallow roasting and scripted couple games, you found yourselves sitting by the fire, wrapped in matching blankets. it was one of those rare lulls where neither of you felt like performing.

"are you always like this?" you asked. he glanced at you. "like what?"

“like you’re constantly trying to win some imaginary flirting competition."

haechan smirked. "would it kill you to admit i’m charming?" "i think the entire population already knows that," you said flatly.

his smile widened. "so you do think i’m charming." you groaned, pulling the blanket over your face. "regret. immediate regret."

but he didn’t tease you further.

instead, he sat in quiet beside you. the fire crackled. you could hear distant rustling, maybe a staff member adjusting the camera angle, but the world felt oddly still.

you peeked out from under the blanket. haechan was watching the flames, his expression unusually unreadable.

"you know," he said after a moment, voice low, "i thought this would be easier."

you turned to him. "what do you mean?"

he didn’t look at you. "i thought i’d be better at pretending."

you didn’t answer. you weren’t sure you could.

because the truth was, you were struggling too.

not because you didn’t like him.

but because maybe you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the next few shoots blurred together.

the couple trip to busan. the matching outfits. the accidental hand-holding that neither of you pulled away from. the unscripted glances. the too-long hugs. the inside jokes that the cameras didn’t catch.

you still called it acting. he still called it fan service.

but the way his hand always found the small of your back? the way you leaned into his shoulder when you were tired between takes?

that wasn’t in the script.

neither was the night he texted you after filming, a message that simply said:

"are you okay? you seemed quiet today."

you stared at it for too long before replying:

"yeah. just tired. thanks."

he didn’t say anything else.

but the next shoot, he brought you your favorite coffee order without asking.

you didn’t thank him. he didn’t mention it. the moment passed quietly, like all the others.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it happened on an off day. no cameras. no script. just the two of you, killing time between schedules.

your manager had dropped you off early at the company building. haechan’s studio was just a floor above, and somehow you ended up in the practice room together. music played low from the speakers, nothing specific, just some playlist on shuffle. you were stretched out on the wooden floor with a water bottle pressed to your cheek, eyes closed.

"you know you’re allowed to sit on the couch," haechan said, voice light.

"i’m cooling off," you mumbled. "this floor has healing properties. don’t question them."

he laughed, sitting cross-legged beside you, watching as the sunlight through the window caught the edge of your hair.

for a while, neither of you said anything. it was easy, being quiet with you. easier than it should’ve been.

he leaned back on his hands, eyes tracing the outline of your face.

you were still in your casual clothes, makeup faded from earlier, a faint sheen of sweat on your skin from dance practice. there was nothing particularly special about the moment.

you opened one eye, looking at him sideways.

"what?"

"nothing," he said, too quickly.

you sat up a little. not fully, just enough to look at him properly.

"do i have something on my face?"

"no," he said again, quieter this time. "you just... look different when you’re not acting."

you blinked. "we’re not acting most of the time."

"aren’t we?" he asked. and then smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "sometimes i forget what’s real."

you watched him carefully, the air going still between you.

"i don’t think it matters anymore," you said eventually, voice soft. "real or fake. you’re still here."

he looked at you like you’d said something too big. like he hadn’t expected you to cut through him so cleanly.

you turned away after a second, brushing your hair out of your face. he didn’t move.

and that’s when it hit him.

not with fireworks. not with a romantic soundtrack or some grand emotional monologue. just a quiet, breathless awareness that settled into his chest like gravity.

he liked you.

he thought about you even when he didn’t have to. texted you jokes late at night, rehearsed conversations he wanted to have with you while waiting in traffic. his mood shifted depending on whether you smiled at him that day. he’d started looking forward to filming, not because of the exposure or the paycheck, but because it meant he got to stand next to you for a few hours and pretend you were his.

and it wasn’t pretend anymore.

haechan looked down at his hands. his palms were a little sweaty.

he was in trouble.

he stayed quiet after that, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the truth might spill out too fast.

you didn’t notice the way he looked at you after that.

but he did. and he didn’t stop.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

he didn’t flirt as much anymore.

at least, not in the same way.

it was subtle, the way things shifted. haechan still joked, still teased, but his words started landing softer. less edge, more care. the things he used to say to get a reaction out of you—calling you pretty just to see you roll your eyes, leaning too close just to fluster you— were all starting to feel real.

you didn’t notice.

or maybe you did, but refused to mind it.

when you got a sore throat from overworking and showed up to set with a raspy voice, he handed you a warm honey drink without a word. you assumed a staff member gave it to him.

when you forgot your phone charger during an overnight shoot and muttered about your battery dying, he offered you his without hesitation.

"don’t you need it?"

"i can live without my phone for one night," he said, smiling.

when your hands were cold in the middle of winter filming, he tucked one of them into his coat pocket with his.

you laughed. "you’re just doing this for the cameras." "yeah," he said. but he wasn’t looking at the cameras.

you brushed it off. he was haechan. playful, dramatic, full of unnecessary skinship. you’d seen him flirt with microphones, charm auntie fans, do aegyo on command like it was second nature.

so when he started waiting for you after your other schedules, just to walk you out, when he started sending you good morning texts before call time, and good night ones after wrap, when he got weirdly quiet whenever someone on set joked about you two being a real couple, you didn’t think too hard about it.

because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging that it felt different now. that he felt different now.

you told yourself it was still fake. that he was just that good at his job.

you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you when you weren’t looking.

didn’t catch how he started memorizing your moods, your habits, your silences. how he stopped filling every silence with jokes and started letting you be.

you stayed blissfully, stubbornly unaware.

and haechan let you.

because even though he wanted you to see it—even though his feelings were starting to rise up like a tide, impossible to hold back—he was still scared.

scared that if he said it out loud, the spell would break. scared that you didn’t feel it too. scared that you’d laugh, like it was just another punchline.

so instead, he kept showing you in all the quiet ways.

and you, heart fluttering in ways you still refused to name, kept calling it coincidence.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode thirteen.

you weren’t nervous, exactly. but you did reapply your lip tint twice in the van on the way over.

the producers had teased a surprise guest for today’s shoot, and variety shows loved nothing more than forced love triangles. you braced for awkward. but you didn’t brace for him.

cha sungwoo.

tall. handsome. charming in that effortless, trained-for-this way. you’d filmed a drama together almost two years ago, and for a brief moment, fans thought the on-screen chemistry might have spilled off-camera. it hadn’t. but the rumors stuck anyway.

"look who it is," sungwoo said as you stepped onto set, voice warm. "didn’t think i’d get to see you again on a fake honeymoon."

you smiled automatically. "long time no see."

beside you, haechan shifted his weight.

he didn’t say anything at first. just watched. his expression was unreadable, but his silence was louder than anything.

finally, he spoke.

"should i be worried?" he asked, light tone cutting sharp beneath the surface. "or is this just good tv?"

"depends," sungwoo said, amused. "are you the jealous type?"

haechan smiled. not the usual, teasing kind—the one that reached his eyes. this one was smaller. flatter.

"only when i have a reason to be."

you laughed, trying to brush it off, but your fingers tightened slightly around the sleeve of your jacket.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the shoot moved on. it was supposed to be funny and competitive—three of you cooking dinner together like a sitcom setup.

you were chopping vegetables when sungwoo leaned in behind you, his hands brushing yours.

"still bad with a knife?" he said, voice low near your ear.

you didn’t even flinch. "i’ve improved."

but behind you, haechan dropped the spatula he was holding.

you turned. "you okay?"

he bent to pick it up, muttering, "yeah. slipped."

but when he stood again, his eyes didn’t meet yours.

they were still on sungwoo.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

later, the three of you sat at the low table, eating what barely passed as a meal. the cameras were still rolling, but things had turned quiet.

sungwoo was telling a story—something about a late-night shoot and a prank. you were laughing, loose and warm in a way you hadn’t noticed before.

and haechan was watching you.

his chopsticks hung in mid-air. his shoulders tense. his jaw set like he was biting back words.

you looked at him. "what?"

he blinked. "nothing."

you tilted your head. "you’re acting weird."

"just tired."

"you sure?"

he didn’t answer right away. then he leaned in, low voice meant only for you.

"you act like none of this matters," he said quietly.

you stared at him. "what?"

"this." he gestured, vague. "the show. the pretending. him."

you searched his face, unsure if this was part of the bit or something else entirely.

"we’re just filming, haechan."

his eyes didn’t leave yours.

"maybe you are."

the words hung there. suspended between you, fragile and real.

you opened your mouth to respond—but the PD clapped, announcing a break, and the spell broke with it.

haechan stood up without another word and walked off set.

you sat there, blinking, unsure why your chest felt so tight.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you didn’t call haechan after the shoot.

you almost did. twice.

once, when you got home and dropped your bag on the floor like something was missing.

once more, in the middle of the night, when you were staring at your ceiling and couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at you before he walked off set.

you didn’t call. you couldn’t.

so instead, you called her. your best friend. the one who knew the before version of you, before the show, before the cameras, before him.

"hey, everything alright?" chiya asked, her voice quiet over the line. soft with sleep but already worried.

"can i come over?"

"always."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

her apartment was warm. messy in the way homes should be. you sat on the floor wrapped in an old hoodie you’d left there months ago, your fingers curled around a mug of tea neither of you remembered making.

you told her everything. not just about today, but about all of it.

the way filming used to feel like a joke, like a role you could slip into and out of without thinking.

how that changed.

how he changed.

how you changed.

"today… he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me," you said. "like he was hurt, and trying really hard not to be."

she didn’t speak, letting the silence hold space for you.

"and when sungwoo showed up, it felt like the air shifted. like i’d stepped into a room i didn’t belong in anymore."

"because of haechan?" she asked gently.

you nodded.

"he didn’t say much. just… one thing."

"what’d he say?"

you swallowed.

"he said, ‘you act like none of this matters.’"

the words still echoed in your head. they’d been soft, almost careful. like he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. like he was asking you to see him.

"and i didn’t know what to say. because i didn’t know how to tell him that i think it does matter. more than it should. more than i want it to."

your voice shook.

"and i’m scared. i’m scared that maybe this isn’t just acting anymore. not for me."

your best friend moved closer, resting her chin on your shoulder like she used to when you were both teenagers, crying over things that felt too big for your hearts to hold.

"have you ever been in love before?" she asked quietly.

"not like this."

you weren’t even sure it was love. but it was something. something that blossomed slowly, and then all at once, when you weren’t looking.

"he makes me feel like i’m being seen. not the version of me that the cameras want. just... me. and when he looks at me, sometimes i feel like he’s about to say something he doesn’t know how to say."

"and what do you want him to say?"

you paused. the answer hurt to admit.

"that i’m not just imagining it."

your friend reached over, squeezing your hand.

"you’re not," she said. "i don’t even need to meet him to know. you’re not the kind of person who gets confused about this stuff. you’d never fall for someone unless it was real. and it sounds like you already have."

your eyes stung.

"i didn’t mean to."

"you never do."

she pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since you wrapped that scene, you let the weight of it press down on you. not the confusion. not the fear. just the feeling.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode fourteen

you weren’t sure how to act around him now.

you told yourself you’d just play it cool. do what you always did: slip into character, smile when you were supposed to, laugh when the producers gave you a cue, go home.

but when you saw haechan waiting on set, leaning against the kitchen counter in the little “home” you’d built together over the past months, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from styling, something inside you stilled.

he looked up when you walked in.

and then he smiled.

small. real. tired, maybe. but his eyes softened the way they always did when he looked at you.

"hey," he said, voice gentle.

"hey," you replied, and the word felt different in your mouth. too small for how much you’d missed him in just a few days.

he opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the PD clapped loudly and called for standby.

you both moved into position like professionals.

but you couldn’t stop glancing at him.

and he didn’t look away when you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the day’s concept was domestic bliss.

folding laundry. grocery shopping. making dinner together. things that looked boring on paper but, somehow, felt like the most intimate parts of the fake marriage.

just pretend it’s real, the writer joked before you started rolling.

you wanted to say, it’s getting harder to pretend it’s not.

you were standing beside haechan at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when your fingers brushed under the running water. you flinched slightly.

he didn’t.

his hand stayed against yours just for a second too long.

your heart skipped, and you hated how noticeable it felt. how loud it became in your own chest.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low.

you nodded too quickly. "just cold water."

he didn’t call you out on it. but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a long time.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

after filming, you stayed behind for a bit. the cameras were off, the crew busy packing up equipment. haechan was still in the kitchen, stacking plates to be returned to props.

you didn’t know why you lingered. only that you didn’t want to leave yet.

he looked up, sensing you there.

"you didn’t call," he said quietly.

you froze. "what?"

"after the last shoot. i thought maybe you would. or… maybe i hoped you would."

you opened your mouth. closed it again.

"i didn’t know what to say," you said eventually.

he nodded, like he understood. like he’d expected that.

then, after a long pause

"you don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "but i need you to know… i wasn’t acting. not with that."

you met his eyes. for once, there was no smirk. no sarcasm. nothing playful to hide behind.

just him.

just the truth.

your breath caught in your throat.

but before you could speak, a crew member popped their head in.

"you guys done? we need to lock up soon."

haechan glanced away. the moment passed like a held breath.

he nodded slowly. "yeah. we’re done."

but as you walked out of that little house, your fingers still tingling from the brush of his, you knew something had shifted for good.

you weren’t just playing pretend anymore.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was the last shoot before the final week.

the set felt more quiet than usual, like the whole crew was holding their breath. maybe because everyone knew this was the last stretch—the end of the show, the end of pretending.

you and haechan moved through the day’s scenes with practiced ease, but the easy rhythm from before was gone. now, everything between you felt heavy, like invisible strings tugging tighter with every look and every touch.

you were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you weren’t really looking at the screen. your eyes kept flicking to haechan, who was sitting beside you, hands folded awkwardly on his lap.

he glanced at you once, then quickly looked away, face unreadable.

the silence between you stretched longer than usual, thick and uncomfortable.

finally, you broke it, voice barely above a whisper.

“are you okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. then, without meeting your eyes, he said, “i’m fine.”

you didn’t believe him.

he shifted in his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

the director called “cut,” and the crew buzzed quietly as they reset the next scene, but you and haechan stayed still, caught in a space where neither wanted to cross the line first.

he looked over, voice low, almost rough.

“this… all of this. it’s harder than i thought.”

you swallowed, heart racing.

“yeah.”

“i don’t want it to end,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours.

you felt your breath hitch. everything inside you was screaming to reach out, to tell him you felt the same, but the words stuck.

“me neither,” you whispered.

he gave a small, sad smile.

“what do we do now?”

you looked down, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

“i don’t know.”

but maybe that was okay.

maybe the not knowing was the start of something real.

the cameras might have been off for the moment, but the space between you was alive with everything you couldn’t say—and everything you both desperately wanted to feel.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the last day of filming felt like the end of something you weren’t ready to lose.

the set was buzzing with energy, but for you and haechan, it was heavy. heavier than before. the playful teasing, the easy smiles—they were all there, but beneath them was a current you could no longer ignore.

during a break, you found yourselves alone in the quiet corner of the studio. the noise of crew and cameras faded, and suddenly the space between you felt too small.

haechan looked at you. his usual grin gone, replaced by something softer, vulnerable.

“i’ve been a coward,” he said, voice low, almost breaking.

you blinked, heart pounding.

“me too,” you whispered back.

he took a slow breath, stepping closer, hands trembling slightly at his sides.

“i was supposed to be the one who didn’t fall,” he said, “but it’s me. it’s always been me.”

you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in.

“why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“because i was scared,” he admitted. “scared you wouldn’t feel the same. scared it was just me.”

your eyes stung. “it’s not just you.”

the silence stretched, thick and full of everything you hadn’t said before.

finally, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “can i.. hold you?”

your breath hitched, but you nodded.

as he pulled you close, the world outside the studio ceased to exist.

for the first time, pretending wasn’t enough. this was real.

and somehow, it left you feeling both lucky and appalled.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio emptied quickly, the usual noise fading until you and haechan were left alone. the silence between you felt thick, heavy with everything neither of you had dared to say.

he led you to the rooftop garden, the soft glow of string lights wrapping around the space like a secret only the two of you shared.

you sat close, shoulders brushing, every tiny movement sending sparks you could feel deep under your skin.

his fingers found yours, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. the warmth of his touch spread, setting fire to nerves you didn’t know you had.

he tilted his head, eyes dark and searching. “you feel it too, right?”

your breath hitched, heart pounding. “i do.”

his hand slid from your palm, fingers grazing your wrist, then up your arm, light as a whisper.

“this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this isn’t just for show.”

you swallowed hard, the heat in your chest rising. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, daring you to say no.

instead, you leaned in, letting your breath mingle, the space between you crackling with anticipation.

when he finally closed the gap, his kiss was slow, teasing—like he was savoring every second.

his hand cupped your neck, thumb stroking softly, sending shivers down your spine.

you curled into him, the world narrowing to the press of skin on skin, the heat of his breath, the ache building in your chest.

he pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”

your voice barely a whisper, “me too.”

the night wrapped around you, every touch, every glance loaded with a promise neither of you was ready to say out loud.

but both of you knew.

this was only the beginning.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room.

you stirred slowly, the weight of haechan’s arm draped over your waist anchoring you in place.

for a moment, everything was still, the world outside paused, and there was just this—the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat.

you turned your head slightly, catching his profile in the morning light. his eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks, peaceful and completely unguarded.

a gentle smile tugged at your lips.

careful not to wake him, you traced lazy circles on his arm, memorizing the feeling of skin beneath your fingertips.

he shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t open his eyes.

you let yourself soak in the quiet intimacy, the kind of closeness you hadn’t dared imagine before.

finally, haechan blinked open his eyes, meeting yours with a soft, sleepy smile.

“good morning,” he whispered, voice rough but warm.

“good morning,” you replied, heart fluttering.

he tightened his arm around you just a little, as if afraid you might disappear.

“last night was… real,” he said, voice low, full of something like awe.

you nodded, feeling the same weight of it.

“yeah,” you said softly. “it was.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke, just held onto the fragile newness of what had started between you.

and in the quiet of that morning, everything felt possible.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio was buzzing again, crew rushing, cameras rolling, but for you and haechan, the world felt different.

you caught each other’s eyes across the set more times than you could count, every look loaded with a secret neither dared say out loud.

during a break, haechan slipped beside you, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“you okay?” he asked, thumb brushing lightly over your hand.

you nodded, heart pounding. “yeah. just… tired.”

he gave a small, knowing smile. “me too.”

the silence between you felt full, like an unspoken understanding.

filming felt harder now. not because the scenes were difficult, but because the line between acting and feeling was thinner than ever.

when the director called cut, you both lingered, reluctant to step back into the roles you’d played for so long.

haechan caught your gaze, eyes searching.

“we need to talk,” he said quietly.

your breath hitched.

“about us,” he added, voice softer now.

you nodded, the weight of it settling in your chest.

“after this is over,” you whispered.

“of course,” he agreed.

the cameras might have been rolling again soon, but in that moment, the world outside could wait.

because finally, you were ready to stop pretending.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the days after filming ended felt like a strange in-between.

you and haechan were no longer pretending, but everything else still felt like uncharted territory.

text messages came more often now, sometimes just a good morning or a meme that made you laugh, other times long, quiet conversations about fears and hopes.

you met up after practice one evening, somewhere quiet—a small café off the main streets where no one knew your names.

he was a little awkward, fumbling with his words like he was nervous all over again.

“i’m not great at this,” he admitted, stirring his coffee.

“neither am i,” you said, smiling softly.

he reached across the table, taking your hand. “guess we’re both beginners.”

some days were easier than others. sometimes, a glance or a touch spoke louder than any words.

other times, the weight of schedules, the constant eyes watching, made it hard to find space just for the two of you.

but slowly, you learned to navigate the new rhythm—stealing moments between rehearsals, quiet calls in the middle of the night, little jokes shared just between you.

there were missteps, too—missed calls, misunderstandings, moments where the fear of losing what you had made you both pull away.

but every time, you found your way back.

because beneath it all was something real, something neither of you wanted to let go.

and as the days turned into weeks, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just a story.

it was your story.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it started with a headline.

nothing scandalous, but enough to stir the internet—a fan account posted a blurry photo of you and haechan leaving a café, the caption dripping with speculation.

are they dating for real?

fake marriage turned real?

what does this mean for their agencies?

the messages flooded your phone—some from friends, some from fans, some from strangers.

you stared at the screen, heart pounding.

haechan was beside you, phone in hand, face tight.

“they’re going to spin this into a mess,” he muttered.

you nodded, biting your lip.

it was the first time your private feelings had become public territory, and neither of you knew how to navigate it.

that evening, you met at haechan’s dorm, wanting to face it together.

“what do we do?” you asked, voice trembling.

he took your hands in his, eyes steady and fierce.

“we don’t let rumors define us,” he said. “we keep being honest. with each other, and when we’re ready, with everyone else.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of the moment.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. “of losing what we have.”

he pulled you close, forehead resting against yours.

“me too,” he said. “but whatever happens, i’m not walking away.”

in that quiet room, surrounded by the noise of the world outside, you found a promise that felt stronger than any headline.

you weren’t just partners on a show anymore.

you were something real.

and you would face whatever came next—together.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the room was tense as you and haechan sat across from your agencies. the conversation was careful, cautious, filled with questions you’d both anticipated but dreaded.

“are you sure this isn’t just for publicity?” one manager asked.

“this is real,” haechan said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “we want to take this seriously.”

your own manager nodded slowly, “then we’ll support you. but you need to be prepared for everything.”

the words hung heavy in the air, a mix of relief and new pressure settling over you.

once the meetings ended, you didn’t speak much on the way back. the city lights blurred past the windows, your hands finally finding each other’s in the quiet.

as soon as you stepped inside haechan’s apartment, the tension broke.

he pulled you close, fingers threading through your hair, lips pressing soft and sure against yours.

“no matter what they say,” he murmured between kisses, “this is ours.”

you traced his jawline, heart pounding in your chest.

“ours,” you echoed.

the night wrapped around you, a sanctuary from the world.

in the quiet between heartbeats, you’ve found a place—a fragile world where pretend becomes real.

#haechan #haechan x reader #lee donghyuck #nct #nct x you #nct fic #nct x reader #lee donghyuk x reader #haechan x oc #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #haechan fluff #lee haechan #happy birthday haechan #nct imagines #haechan imagines

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hexlenx · 8 months ago

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EVEN IN OTHER UNIVERSES, I LOVE YOU. — aaron taylor-johnson

In which you came home tired from work and only just wanted to lay down on your shared-bed with your husband. Only to see five different version of said husband.

note: hello! So I have come to write another one shot or fic or whatever you call it because I couldn't help myself but write this new idea I thought of. I do hope you enjoy!

warnings!: none because we fluffy today pookie.

__________________

Sighing tiredly you let out a groan as you took a small break in your car, resting your head on the steering wheel as you closed your eyes for a few moments.

You just finished your work from helping your director write the script for the next movie you're starring. You see, you've been an actress in the industry for a long time now and even though it's tiring you continue to work through it as it is your passion. Plus, it's where you met your lovable and handsome husband. A fellow well-known actor in the industry.

The director asked for your help because you had experience in directing as well as a degree for it. So hence why you also came home late while your husband went ahead after a bit of your persuasion. Thinking of your husband, you smiled fondly. How can you be so lucky to have such a man?

While you were taking a small break from your car, said husband was sweating profusely in the kitchen with a spatula in hand while wearing a pink apron.

Looking at the five males in front of him, Aaron cursed underneath his breath.

"Fuck me."

The gate opened automatically after scanning your car's number plate. Before driving in reverse towards the garage door. Humming a soft tune you put the car on park and grabbed everything you need from the car before coming out of it.

Opening the door connected to the kitchen, you took off your shoes and hanged your coat on the hanger before calling out to your husband with a bright smile.

"Honey, I'm home!" Your smile slowly turned into worry as you were greeted by nothing. Usually you were greeted by a beaming charming smile as well as a giant hug lifting you off from your feet while being spun around by your husband.

Where could he be?

"Aaron? You there?" In slight worry you walked around the first floor of the house searching for your husband, but alas there was no sign so you moved upstairs.

There was a thump in one of the rooms when you were in the middle of walking on the stairs making you feel worry and fear when you heard a voice groaning as well as cursing. Your mind was running in a fast pace as you run up from the stairs towards the source of those noises.

No it can't be, please tell me he didn't—

The scene in front of you shocked you. The noises stopped as the figures looked at you in silence.

"Love, I can explain—" Aaron was the first to break the silence with his hands up as if he was trying not to anger you. And let me tell you, you do not want an angry wife at you.

However, instead of an angry wife. You looked like you were about to cry. You see, another thing about you is that you are quite an open and very sensitive person. Your legs gave up as you collapsed on the floor, tears running down your face as your exhaustion mixed with your anxiety was not a good combination right now.

"I—i thought you were with a w-woman—" you stuttered as your husband immediately went over you to put you in his embrace the moment your knees buckled whispering praises as well as reassurance to you. Desperately trying to calm you down. He knew you were very tired since it's about ten in the evening by now and he supposes that the noises he and the others made, made you think of something else.

His heart broke just by thinking he was doing things to another woman other than you, he cannot and will never do such a thing to you. He loves you too much to do so.

The five other male in the room looked at the scene in front of them, disbelief clear in their faces as they looked at your figure. Hearts beating uncontrollably as the younger looking male in the room muttered a name.

Your name.

This made all of you to snap your heads up to the male. Now that you look at it, they all looked just like your husband. No, actually all of them are your husband. No one can impersonate your husband unless it's your husband himself, his face is too unique to be able to copy.

"Why are there five more of you?"

Now that the situation has calmed down, you, your husband and five more of him sat in the living room in silence. Assessing the situation.

"So you're telling me that you, Dave was getting beaten up almost to death before coming here? James, you got here when you were stuck by Voldemort. Alexei, got here when you fell from your horse at full speed, head first. Tangerine, you got here after getting shot on the neck trying to kill the White Death's child and Pietro, you got shot multiple times by saving Clint from dying? Have I summarized it correctly?" You summarized outloud as the others nodded to confirm your statement. You sighed as both you and your husband looked at each other, not knowing what to do since unlike some of their worlds, you guys don't have the power to bring them back to theirs. But they all don't seem like they're hurt from their explanations. Maybe it's cuz they're in a different world.

"What were you doing before I barged in the room?" You asked your husband who looked everywhere but you.

"I was trying to give them some clothes, Dave, Pietro and James was the only one who accepted it but the other two wanted something that fit their styles." Aaron sighed as he took a sip at the coffee he made since it was getting late. He really thinks that you should rest first and let him handle it though.

"Sorry gentlemen, but it's quite late in the evening and I would like to take a nap and rest. We will take care of this tomorrow." You sent them a tired smile as you stood up from your seat and towards your bedroom upstairs, leaving all six of them in the room.

As soon as you were out of hearing range, Aaron's expression turned cold as he looked at Dave. Even if he knew the kid wouldn't hurt his wife because he played his character years ago, he will still not let loose his guard. Dave flinched from the glare and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly while the others stared at him the same way as Aaron, that's weird.

"How do you know my wife?"

This made the men's eyes go wide. Wife? That made them collectively let out a sigh of relief. Wife..

"She's also your wife?" James asked Aaron, it's kind of weird talking to yourself as he looked at the older one in wonder.

"also?" Aaron questioned.

"Yea, I mean. In my universe I married her and had Harry after we got married at twenty-one." James enthusiastically explained as his face brightened up when talking about his lover.

"Uh.. she's my girlfriend in my universe too." Dave lifted up his hand awkwardly. Though you can see that he is also happy to announce that you are his lover.

"I'm also her lover when I have escaped Hydra with my twin sister." Pietro said with a charming smile, his face brightening up whenever he mentioned his wife.

"I'm married to'er in my universe. Doll, was the only one who accepted me other than my brother." Tangerine uttered out as he lit up a cigarette before puffing it out the smoke from his mouth, where he got that from? I don't know and neither does the others.

"...she is my affair, my lover that I intend to protect with all of my soul. The only maiden who saw me for me and not some viscount." Alexei said as his eyes were clouded with the memories of his lover. Ah, how he longed to be in her arms again.

"All of us are her lovers in another universe, huh?" Aaron sighed out, his smile coming out as he thought that even in different versions of himself, he chooses you and is still with you. It makes him sigh in content and happiness as he is assured that no matter what happens, he is still with you in the end.

"Even in every other universes, I love you." All men uttered out, the atmosphere becoming serene as they sat in a few moments of silence.

Warmth filled their chests as the leaned back in their seats as their thoughts only circled in one subject.

You.

#aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson #tangerine #tangerine x reader #james potter x reader #james potter #dave lizewski #kick ass #alexei vronsky #count vronsky x reader #count vronsky #anna karenina #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #marvel

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buckysleftbicep · 28 days ago

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letters through time (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: none, just so much fluff honestly

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author’s note: hi loves! so i’ve had this series completed, sitting in my laptop for a while now and wasn’t sure if i should post it, but here it is. if you’d like to read chapter two, let me know, your support means the world <3

i love bucky in the 40s | series masterlist

The apartment smelled like dust and old wood.

It wasn’t much—creaky floors, chipped crown molding, and a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies—but it was yours. After months of scraping together rent and tip money from your part-time museum job, you’d finally landed something livable. Cozy, even, if you squinted hard enough.

And the best part?

It had character.

The kind of character that came with water-stained wallpaper and antique furniture left behind by the previous tenant, who, according to the landlord, had “just up and vanished” one winter years ago. No warning. No forwarding address. Just left everything behind like they’d evaporated into thin air.

You didn’t mind. There was something about the place that whispered stories. The faded velvet armchair in the corner. The leaning bookshelf filled with weathered paperbacks—spines cracked and titles barely legible. A dusty turntable with a warped Billie Holiday record still on it.

And then there was the cabinet.

Tall and narrow, tucked against the far wall of your bedroom like it had been placed there decades ago and simply never moved.

Walnut wood, dulled brass handles, carved edges softened by time. You weren’t even sure it could open—it looked like something the building itself had grown around.

Curiosity got the better of you on your second day.

You ran your fingers across the surface, tracing the curves in the wood. It creaked under your touch. The drawers groaned when you tugged them open—empty, except for the bottom one, which stuck stubbornly like it hadn’t been opened in years.

You knelt.

Braced yourself.

Pulled harder.

The drawer yawned open with a reluctant creak, the smell of old paper and aged wood wafting out. You expected dust. Maybe some forgotten receipts or brittle ribbon. But instead, you found only one thing.

A single envelope.

Your brows drew together.

It was thick and off-white, the kind of paper that felt important just from its weight. The edges curled, yellowed slightly with age. You lifted it carefully, fingertips brushing over the smooth surface. A name was scrawled across the front in deep black ink, slanted and formal:

To whomever finds this, from James B. Barnes, 1944.

You blinked.

No—your heart stopped.

James B. Barnes?

You sat back on your heels, pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The name echoed in your mind like a bell.

Bucky Barnes.

It was impossible not to know it. He was carved into the walls of the Smithsonian. Immortalised in textbooks. Revered in documentaries and wartime exhibits alike. He wasn’t just a person—he was a symbol. The brave soldier. The lost hero. Captain America’s best friend.

And now that name was written in ink on a letter in your hands.

Your rational brain scrambled for footing. It’s a prank, it whispered. Some elaborate reenactment. The previous tenant could’ve been a collector, or just really into vintage ephemera.

But it didn’t feel like a joke.

You peeled open the flap gently, heart thudding, and pulled out a single sheet of stationery. The handwriting was clean and old-fashioned—neat lines, slanted script, the kind they don’t teach anymore.

You read.

Brooklyn, New York March 12th, 1944 To whoever finds this, I know it sounds odd, writing a letter to the future. I don’t even know if anyone will ever read this, but something about it… well, it feels like hope. And right now, we need hope more than ever. My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call me Bucky. I’m twenty-six years old, born and raised in Brooklyn. I’m a Sergeant in the 107th and currently deployed in Europe. But I’m back in New York for a short leave. The war is— God, it’s hell. That’s the honest truth. Every time I close my eyes, I see something I wish I could forget. But then I think about the future. About you. About the kind of world we might be building, and it keeps me going. What’s it like where you are? Is Brooklyn still standing? Did we win? Do you remember us? Anyway. If you’ve read this far, thanks for indulging a soldier’s ramblings. Maybe write back. Leave a letter in this drawer, and who knows? Maybe time really can fold in on itself. Yours, Bucky

You read it again.

Then again.

Your fingers trembled as you folded it back along the original creases. Every detail felt real. The texture of the paper. The faint, lingering scent of something smoky—gunpowder and cologne, maybe? The way the words had been pressed into the page like he’d written them with purpose.

You should’ve laughed it off.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stared at the drawer—still open, still waiting—like it held something sacred.

Your hand reached for a notebook on your desk before you could stop yourself. You tore out a clean page, grabbed a pen, and wrote the first words that came to mind.

Brooklyn, New York March 12th, 2020 Dear Bucky, Okay, I know this is crazy. You probably won’t see this. But your letter was tucked in an old cabinet I found in my new apartment, and I couldn’t not write back. I’m (Y/N), by the way. I live in your old neighbourhood. Well sort of. A lot’s changed in eighty years. The buildings are taller, the streets are louder, and people walk around glued to these little rectangles that hold the entire internet. It’s like a library and a phone and a camera all in one. You asked if Brooklyn’s still standing. It is. In some ways, it’s barely recognisable. But in others, it’s still the same. The brownstones. The corner delis. The noise and the chaos and the strange charm that keeps people here. And yes… we won. You and your friends, you guys did it. The war ended. You were remembered, Bucky. I don’t think you’d believe how many people know your name. Anyway, I don’t know if this’ll reach you. But if it does… write back? Yours, (Y/N)

You folded the page with care, tucked it into a fresh envelope, and slid it back into the drawer beside his letter like placing an offering on an altar.

Then you closed it, slowly, gently. You didn’t know what to expect—didn’t truly believe anything would happen. But still, that night, you slept with one eye on the cabinet, your heart curled tight like a fist.

You woke at dawn, the sun filtering softly through the blinds, casting pale gold across the room. Dust swirled lazily in the light like confetti, and for a few long seconds, you lay still, almost afraid to breathe.

Then, heart steadying, you rose and padded quietly to the cabinet. With hesitant fingers, you opened the drawer—and there it was. A new letter, resting neatly where the other one had been. Same paper. Same slanted handwriting. As if time had folded in on itself just long enough to bring him back to you.

March 14th, 1944 Well, would you look at that? You wrote back. I almost didn’t believe it when I saw your letter. Thought I’d finally lost my mind. But here we are. I read your words three times, maybe more. The future sounds wild. Phones that do everything? You sure you’re not pulling my leg, sweetheart? It’s funny, I keep wondering if you’re real. If this is real. But I guess even if it’s just a dream, it’s a damn good one. Thank you for telling me we win. For telling me I’m remembered. That’s more than I ever hoped for. Tell me more about your Brooklyn. And about you. You said your name’s (Y/N)? That’s a beautiful name. I bet it suits you. I’ll be waiting, Bucky

You stood there for a long time, staring at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to catch up with reality. It was real—or if it wasn’t, it was close enough that you didn’t care.

Somehow, impossibly, James Buchanan Barnes had written to you from 1944. Not just a name in a museum, not just a faded face in a history book or a footnote in a war journal. A man. A soldier. Someone lonely, hopeful, aching for a future—and against every rule of time and logic, he’d reached you.

That night, you stayed up until well past midnight.

You told him about your work—how your days were spent cataloguing artefacts from the war he was still fighting, sifting through rusted medals and yellowed letters that felt different now, heavier.

You told him how, every morning, you passed the Captain America exhibit at the museum without realising you’d one day be writing to the man who walked beside the legend himself.

You painted him a picture of your world—of your quiet apartment, the rain that whispered against your windows in the early hours, and the warmth of your favourite red scarf as you ducked into the little corner bookstore you loved.

You described the neighbourhood: the gentrified coffee shops where everything was oat milk and soft jazz, the thrift stores where history lived on hangers, the vibrant murals of old veterans painted across crumbling brick walls.

How American flags still fluttered from windows, even if most people had forgotten what they were saluting.

And before you sealed the envelope, you wrote one more line:

Write back soon. Please.

Because you already knew—

You couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.

a/n: i used to write just for myself and honestly never thought i’d post anything on tumblr… but here we are. this is one of my most loved serie, one i’ve been super hesitant to share, so i really hope it doesn’t flop 😭 thank you for stopping by, it means so much to me <3

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himasgod · 9 days ago

Note

Hi, if you have time I want to make a request about twisted wonderland for the first year boys (just for funnies and giggles)

The reader and the first year spend a great time together (studying, doing tasks or just chilling) and at the end of the day, before the reader goes back to their dorm, the reader said "it's a really great day! I am looking for we always have time like that" and then the boys realize THAT WAS A DATE!

the realization will hit them as a brick, they had a date and don't act like that, they probably did everything wrong and that was the worse date on the story (they will overthink likely) so did they try to make it up? Or pass away when they notice they have a special someone?

Basically the first year realizing they mess up with what should be their date and now SOMEHOW they still have a partner (as you can see I just want to mess with them)

FIRST YEARS X READER

Where they realize they just had a date with you

How would the first years react if, after having spent an incredible afternoon, they found out that what they just had with you was a date?

You and Ace spent the afternoon chilling, which mostly consisted of you dragging him to actually study (while he whined), him dragging you into a prank war with Grim (which you won), and ending it all with snacks on Heartslabyul under the stars.

Just fun. Just casual. Totally not a date

…right?

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “Yeah, yeah, see ya—”

Ace, 3 seconds after you left:

“...Wait.” “WAIT.” “THAT WAS A—???”

Cue full-on existential crisis.

He’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway outside like he got KO’d.

The line replays in his head over and over: "I hope we always have time like this."

Bro just realized he was on a DATE and didn’t even open the door for you. Or flirt (well, he did tease you a lot—but that doesn’t count if you didn’t know it was a date!!)

He didn’t even dress nice! He wore his basketball club hoodie with cheeto dust on it!!!

Now he's thinking:

“Did I even compliment them??” “Did I make it seem like I knew it was a date?!” “Do I look like a jerk who doesn’t care???” “I told a dumb fart joke. THAT was my big date move???”

Ace is spiraling.

He panics and shows up the next day with the dumbest “apology date” ever—he drags you to the vending and tries to pay for your snack like it’s a fancy dinner. When you ask what’s going on, he’s sweating bullets.

“I’m—I’m just making up for yesterday, y’know. Since I uh… totally knew that was a date. And uh. You deserve a redo. Of the… date. Not that the last one sucked!! I just… you deserve better than THAT.”

He won’t even look at you. He’s blushing. He’s crashing.

Do you tease him? Please do. He deserves it.

Deuce was so proud of himself.

He helped you carry books back from the library, he got your favorite drink from the cafeteria, and you even helped him with homework. You both took a walk through the courtyard in the evening, laughing.

He went to bed feeling like a proper gentleman.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” Deuce: 😊 “Me too!”

Deuce, in his dorm at 2am, staring at the ceiling like a corpse:

“Wait. WAIT. That was a DATE???”

He bolts upright in bed. His face goes red immediately. His heart is racing. He’s pacing the room in his pink pajamas like he’s being interrogated by the Headmage.

“I didn’t open any doors for them… I didn’t even iron my uniform… What would my mum think of me...!”

He writes a WHOLE SCRIPT in his head for how he’ll apologize and ask you out again properly.

The next morning he finds you at lunch and, without even saying hello, slams a little card down in front of you.

“Please allow me to reattempt the previous engagement under official romantic terms. Sincerely, Deuce Spade.”

He’s shaking. You ask if this is a date invitation and he yells “YES!!” so loud people turn around.

You went outside NRC shopping for potion supplies and snacks, mostly. Epel had the chance to show you some hidden spots in the woods nearby, and he even climbed a tree to get you a weird fruit he claimed “tastes better than it looks.”

You ended up sitting on a bench, sharing the weird fruit and people-watching.

He was smug the whole time. He thought he was SO cool.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “Heh. 'Course ya did. Yer hangin' out with me.”

Epel, two steps into his dorm:

“...Wait. Did they say ‘great day’? And... always?” “....HUH?!”

Epel has stopped working. This poor boy goes from smug to panicked farm boy in 0.5 seconds. He starts talking to himself in full panic accent.

“Did I just make ‘em climb a hill in the mud on our date?!”“No no no no no—did I even brush my hair?? Vil’s gonna KILL me!”“They gave me THE look and I was talkin’ about cow manure like a FOOL!!”

He spends the next hour writing an apology letter in messy penmanship, then throws it out because “no, that’s lame,” then tries to act normal the next day until he sees you again—and completely breaks down.

“HEY—listen, if that was a date, I didn’t mean to ruin it, okay? Let me take you out PROPERLY. I’ll comb my hair! I’ll wear cologne! We’ll eat food that don’t smell like onions!!”

He’s shaking you by the shoulders like the world is ending and you're just laughing, making him go even redder.

It was simple, peaceful.

You helped Jack train in Savanaclaw, he showed you some stances, you gave him water and cheered him on like a personal coach. He even slowed down his reps so you could try a few moves. Afterward, you two cleaned up and walked back together under the sunset. Calm. Comfortable. Quiet.

You gave him a little wave before heading to Ramshackle.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “...Yeah. Me too. Take care.”

Jack, turning around:

Hm. That was...

Jack mid-walk pausing in place like he got hit by a tranquilizer dart:

“Wait.” “WAS THAT A DATE.”

He STOPS IN HIS TRACKS and just stands there like a statue. The wind is howling, birds chirping, but Jack?

Dead silent. Mentally imploding.

The spiral begins:

“I made them spar with me. That’s not a romantic activity, is it?” “I was sweating the entire time—ugh, did I smell bad?” “I didn’t even offer to walk them all the way back...” “They deserved a better time than that.”

He sulks all the way to his room. Tries to sleep. Ends up going on a 5km run at 3am to "clear his head."

The next day you find a neatly folded towel, a new water bottle, and a protein bar with a sticky note that says:

“Next time, I’ll plan something more fun for you. Sorry I didn’t realize it was a special day.” – Jack

He’s too embarrassed to say it out loud but yes, he is 1000% trying to plan a redemption date.

You’ll catch him looking up “date ideas” in Magicam.

You offered to help Sebek with his study session in the library.

He was unusually flustered, but he eventually settled down and you two got into a good rhythm—him ranting about Malleus and quietly organizing your notes so they were less of a disaster.

Later, he walked you all the way back to Ramshackle like the knight he is.

You turned before going inside.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.”

Sebek (arms crossed, puffed-up):

“OF COURSE IT WAS, HUMAN. ANY TIME SPENT IN MY COMPANY IS—uh—GREAT.”

Sebek, hours later, in his room, gripping his pillow like it's the last life vest on a sinking ship:

“WAIT. WAIT A MOMENT.”

Complete meltdown. He throws himself to the floor like a Shakespearean tragic hero.

“I SPOKE OF LORD MALLEUS FOR TWENTY-TWO MINUTES STRAIGHT…!” “I FORGOT TO COMPLIMENT THEIR APPEARANCE!” “I MADE THEM CARRY THEIR OWN BOOKS!”

He scribbles in his notebook: “How to properly court a human”

The next day, he corners you in a hallway and formally bows, nearly headbutting the wall in the process.

“I—I was tragically unaware that our previous engagement was of romantic nature. Allow me to formally request another, in which I shall behave appropriately.”

He looks like he's facing a military tribunal.

You say yes.

He short-circuits and power walks away at supersonic speed.

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okay-j-hannah · 3 months ago

Text

The Kickstart | Smosh 💛

Smosh : Multishot

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, Spencer pining, reader is struggling in LA, not a lot of money, multiple jobs, poor studio apartment, inconsiderate boyfriend, lots of musical theatre talk, reader insert but a few things are already decided (last name is Bennett, favorite drink is Diet Coke, love the colors blue and green, artist, theatre nerd, etc.)

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: I haven't written for Smosh in years... but the current cast and crew has me sucked back into the fandom. And I am sorely in need of more Spencer content 😭

I was initially inspired by this incredibly well done fic "Late Night" by @simpingsavant Please give it a read because it's a masterpiece.

Part 1: The Kickstart {You Are Here}

Part 2: Mama Bear

It was nearly three in the morning. The witching hour, you think with a smile. There was a light flickering near the fountain drinks. You lean against the checkout counter, thumbing through an aged script.

You memorize the cue lines that signal when quick changes are supposed to happen between scenes. The current musical you are working on is Hairspray.

Going through the script and your production notes really help pass the time.

The small rinky-dink gas station you manage is your reluctant home most nights. It wasn’t your favorite place, but it helped with the bills. Trying to make a living on production design for musicals isn’t the money maker you hoped it would be in LA.

You barely made anything doing hair and makeup for the community theatre. But it was something you loved.

And wouldn’t you rather be doing something you love than being miserable in a high paying corporate job?

Sure, you think.

It had been nearly eight months since you started working at this gas station. The owner was as rinky-dink as the store itself, speaking in short, to the point sentences and avoiding eye contact. There were only two gas pumps out front that rarely attracted customers.

The biggest commodity are the cheap drinks and snacks inside. Many stop by for something quick on their way to and from work.

Normally working the night shifts from 10pm to 6am, you are quick to notice any regulars. Not many people are awake at this time of night, let alone on their way to the gas station for a drink.

The bell sounds above the door as a familiar face enters. It was Glasses.

That’s what you called him after seeing him for the third time in a week, back when you first started working here.

He usually came in late like this, looking exhausted. He has curly dark hair, gold rimmed glasses, and some scruff. Today he’s dressed in jeans rolled up at the cuffs, brown boots, and a gray sweatshirt.

He gives you an awkward, close-lipped smile as he passes. You watch him go for the drink fridges. Energy drinks are his specialty, maybe the occasional coffee or breakfast sandwich. He always bought them two at a time, taking the slight discount for buying a duo instead of a single.

About every other week he’s there three to four of those days. You’ve always wondered why – especially when he always looked so tired when he came in.

But you’ve never had a conversation that’s lasted longer than the cordial exchanges.

“Hello,” you say.

“Hello,” he replies with his awkward smile.

You scan his drinks, Mountain Dew Kickstarts like always. “Find everything you need?”

“Yep.”

The computer beeps. “That’ll be $8.56.”

“All right.” He taps his card on the machine in front of him.

“Would you like your receipt?”

“No thanks.” He grabs his two cans.

“Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

It had been like that for maybe six of those eight months. After that, your curiosity began to plague you. The next time he came in, you watch him browse for a Kickstart and a breakfast muffin.

Saying hello to him had felt routine. But it was clear that you both recognized each other. So you decide to say something a little more than usual.

“Getting breakfast a little early?” you joke in your quiet voice.

He smiles, pulling out his wallet. “I just haven’t eaten anything all night.”

“Sounds like a rough night. That’s $9.34.”

He scans his card. “It has been.”

With him looking down at the keypad, you take the time to look at the circles under his eyes. “You should try the croissant sandwiches. Much better than stale muffins.”

He nods his head, “Next time. Thanks.”

You watch him walk away, still at a loss as to why he’s always in there this late at night.

A couple days later he’s walking in and giving you a wave. You smile at him as he makes for the drinks again.

He’s dressed in those same jeans and combat boots. Now he wears a t-shirt with a denim jacket. If you had friends to talk to, you’d want to tell them how Glasses loves to wear the same jeans and jackets all the time.

He comes to the counter and clears his throat.

You scan his drinks and a breakfast sandwich. A croissant sandwich.

You chuckle, “You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says, tapping his card against his hand while he waits.

“Haven’t eaten anything all night again?”

He hums, shrugging his shoulders, “Felt peckish.”

“Do you want your receipt?”

“No, that’s fine. Have a good night.”

You throw the balled up receipt into the garbage bin beside you. “You too.”

You’d love to tell a friend that Glasses seems shy. He seems nice.

A few weeks later, you’re drawing sketches for costume designs. You were doing Shrek The Musical at the community theatre. Papers were full of drawings depicting a white rabbit, a wicked witch, a wolf in granny clothes, and fairies with colorful makeup.

You were humming one of the songs when Glasses came in with a yawn. His eyes search for you and he waves, “Good evening.”

“Good night,” you say sarcastically.

He grabs his drinks and comes to the counter with wandering eyes. You try to move your sketches and pencils out of the way.

“Sorry,” you say, “That’ll be $8.56.”

He scans his card, but keeps looking at your art. “You draw those?”

“Yeah,” you say, abashedly. “Little project.”

“They’re really good,” he pops open one of the drinks and takes a sip. “Are they just for fun, or…?”

You shyly pull out a drawing of a person in a dragon scale costume. “They’re for the musical I’m a part of. Down at the local theatre.”

“That’s cool,” his face lights up.

Something warm tickles your stomach. You were actually having a normal conversation with Glasses.

“Are you the costume designer?”

“Assistant,” you bow your head. “I’m head of hair and makeup.”

He nods, clearly interested. “Have you been a part of production teams much?”

“For years,” you smile, “I love theatre. I’ve done almost everything. Acting, costumes, set design, lighting – you name it.”

He pockets the other energy drink in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like fun. Have a nice rest of your night.”

“Thank you, you too.”

If you had friends, maybe you’d tell them that Glasses might become a friend. The only person you have to text is your new boyfriend Aaron. But he wasn’t a fan of nonsense texts – texts that were unnecessary.

A few weeks go by, now seven months into your job at the gas station. Glasses was still making his almost daily visits. You caught him standing outside the window for a minute before coming in.

You have confusion in your face, but a smile on your lips. “You okay there?”

He raises his eyebrows and talks as he walks to the fridges. “What do you mean?”

“Was there something on that window or were you just making sure you weren’t a vampire?” At his knitted brows, you continue, “You know… checking that you still had a reflection.”

Heat floods your face at the poor attempt at a joke, but Glasses laughs, nonetheless. “I might be nocturnal, but no, I’m not a vampire.”

You smile, admiring him walking towards you. His fluffy curls were sticking out from beneath a green hat. In white embroidery it says, Smosh.

“How were auditions?” he asks, getting his card ready.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Good. I think we’ll have a good cast.” Earlier that week he asked about the latest Hairspray script that was on your counter. “The quick changes will be fun.”

He clears his throat, having paid but still standing at the register.

“I’m sorry, did you want your receipt?” you ask suddenly. “Normally you don’t so I stopped asking.”

“No, no – sorry. I’ve been trying to find some clever segway to introduce myself. But we’ve been seeing each other for months and it feels strange to do it now.” He rubs his forehead, struggling to maintain eye contact with you while he talks. “I mean, it’s not like I have a nametag like you.”

You look down at your chest to see (Y/N) printed on the laminated tag. “That’s true.”

He takes a deep breath and extends his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

You take his hand. It was very warm. “(Y/N).”

He smiles, “Nice to officially meet you.”

Maybe you’ll tell Aaron that Glasses has a new name now. Spencer.

One night at two in the morning, you were asked to do inventory while another employee managed the registers. It was strange to have a coworker with you on night shifts, but when things need to be restocked, it took a team.

You use a box cutter to break through packages, pulling out chip bags and candies. You roll them out on a dolly. Plastic wrappers crinkling as you restock shelves, you don’t notice who Eric at the counter is talking to.

But then a pair of glasses peek around the corner. “Hey!”

You smile wide, “Spencer!”

He smiles back, “I was worried when I didn’t see you at the registers.”

“Yeah, they need two of us here when we do inventory,” you shake a bag of doritos before putting it on the shelf. “How was your day?”

He sighs, opening his drink, “Long. Shooting weeks always are.” He tells you about the online comedy group he’s a part of. It was called Smosh.

“Oh, you’ve worn some merch that has that logo on it,” you say, moving a box out of the way.

Spencer nods, “Gotta promote whenever we can.”

“How large is the group?”

“Well, it’s more of an entertainment company. We have a huge production team and a cast. We film content for four different channels.”

“That’s impressive.”

He suddenly dips down to help hand you boxes of candy. “I guess. I think most of LA are internet personalities in one way or another.”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “It is impressive.”

You learn about his directorial position on one of the channels. Being a head producer, he has a lot of sway on that content. You commend him on the responsibility, and he seems pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

He excuses himself not long after that.

You head towards the registers to restock the candy on the counters. Eric is there giving you a telling smile.

“What are you looking at?” you ask.

The middle-aged man scoffs, “That guy came in with the biggest smile on his face, but then he realized I was the one standing at the counter and he looked so disappointed.”

“I’m sure he was just in need of an energy drink.”

Eric shakes his head, “It wasn’t me that he wanted to see.”

Now in the present, you stand at the counter while Spencer leans against the other side. You had just revealed the fact that you have a boyfriend.

“H-How long have you been together?” he asks with much more nervousness than before.

You scrunch your nose in thought, “About two months. It’s been great though. He gives me rides to work and everything.”

“You don’t have a car?” Spencer asks, paying for his snacks.

You throw the receipt away, “No. I was taking the bus before I met him.” Noticing the awkwardness enter Spencer’s face, you say, “Rough I know. But I manage.”

“It’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, especially because I don’t really make enough to get a car right now.”

“Isn’t that why you have this job on top of the musical theatre stuff?” he offers you a package of your favorite candy.

It makes you smile, “Sure. But rent isn’t helping with my savings. Living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Does Aaron drive you to theatre too?”

Your gaze falls from Spencer’s, eating a piece of candy to give you some time before answering. “No, he’s not a big fan of musicals.”

Spencer scrunches his brow. Unsure of what was stepping over the line with this new friend of his, he tiptoes. “He won’t drive you because he doesn’t like theatre?”

“It’s kind of inconvenient asking him to come get me late after rehearsals. I shouldn’t ask for so much, he’ll think I’m dating him just to have a cab driver.” You snicker at your joke, but Spencer doesn’t seem to think it’s very funny.

He drinks from his can when another customer enters the store. That always meant he would excuse himself so you could get back to your job.

You start to expect Spencer each week. You wait for when you know a filming week was at Smosh. During that time, Spencer would visit for his necessary caffeine. He always stops to talk to you for a few minutes before leaving.

You always feel bad since he normally came in exhausted from work. He denies himself sleep just to spend a few more minutes with you.

It takes a couple more weeks, but he starts to stay even when more customers come in. He just steps to the side and waits for you to ring the customer up.

Then he comes back to continue your conversation.

“So do you prefer acting or production?”

You share the snacks that he’s purchased. “Production, for sure. I kind of developed stage fright a couple years ago. But I do miss being on stage sometimes.”

He looks at you while you talk. He’s an active listener. He zeros in on your face while you speak, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything.

But when he speaks, he tends to look elsewhere. “Did something happen?”

You shrug, “I just get nervous being in the spotlight now. I don’t like the attention much.”

“I get that. I haven’t always loved being on camera. It’s taken finding the right company to do it.”

You nod, “That sounds nice. To be so comfortable in the workplace. And to have everyone there as friends.”

He agrees, “Though a lot of them like to crack jokes about not seeing each other outside of work.” He chuckles as he remembers something. “It’s great being a part of a company where the goal is comedy content. You get to have fun with your friends every day.”

“And you’ve been there for so long,” you say, “You’ve definitely earned your place.”

“Thank you,” he feels warm around the collar, “It’s been hard at times, but well worth it now.”

You suddenly feel a warmth in your cheeks. “You know, um… my show opens next week. If – If you’re interested in seeing it. I’ll be there every night.”

“Helping Edna quick change into her fancy 60s outfit,” he smiles kindly. His eyes are soft and considerate as he watches your nervous gesture. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

You brighten, “Great!”

A week later you’re in the wings of the stage, sweaty with the heat the spotlights generate. A headset adorns your head, microphone near your mouth. You’re readjusting a costume onto a rack from the last quick change.

The last number of the show was currently playing: You Can’t Stop the Beat. You whisper the lyrics and subtly follow along with the choreography.

It was safe to do so with the curtains hiding you from the audience.

You listen to the applause as the cast bows. You imagine them gesturing to the tech booth, acknowledging the production team behind the scenes. You give a little imaginary bow to the audience.

Waiting in the dressing rooms, you help organize the costumes and clean up the makeup counters. Cast members thank you for your help, carrying massive bouquets and presents from the crowd.

You compliment the flowers and give your praise to their performances. It’s forty minutes later, having put the makeup and hairspray away, preening the wigs, and spraying down the character shoes, that you find your purse and head towards the front doors.

Outside on the sidewalk you’re met with an unexpected surprise.

Spencer.

He stands under the white lights of the theatre logo. He adorns his usual rolled up jeans and band t-shirt, denim jacket over it. His curls look extra defined tonight and in his hand are three colorful carnation flowers.

“Spencer? What are you…? I didn’t know you were coming tonight!” You walk towards him and for the first time since meeting him – you hug him.

Arms around his shoulders, smelling his clean, fresh scent. He seems timid to hug you back.

“Well… I did say I would come see the show.”

You shake your head. “I would have come out sooner if I knew you’d be here. I’m so sorry to keep you so long.”

“It’s no problem,” he offers the flowers. “Worth the wait.”

You give a smile, but your face is still regretful, “You shouldn’t have. I wasn’t even on stage.”

“Of course you were,” he says, “Your costumes and wigs and makeup were there.”

You hold the few flowers, completely endeared by him. “Thank you. This is really kind of you. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, shoving his empty hands into his pockets. “It’s kind of weird seeing you out of uniform. I’ve never seen you out of that polo and black pants.”

“Well, stage crew attire isn’t much different,” you laugh, gesturing to the long sleeve black shirt and leggings. “What did you think of the show?”

“It was excellent,” he says, “It’s such a fun show. I bet you loved teasing those wigs and picking out costumes with those crazy patterns.”

“And the quick changes?”

“I counted like 38 seconds,” he laughs, “That’s super impressive.”

You smile warmly, though the night air had a chill to it. “Thank you for coming, Spencer. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” he steps away, “I’ll see you later.”

You start to walk down the sidewalk, opposite the parking lot. Spencer suddenly has a thought. He runs up to you.

“Wait, how are you getting home?”

“Oh, I walk to the bus stop and take that.”

He looks down at your crossed arms trying to keep you warm. “Aaron really won’t come get you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience him.” You wave away the look of worry in his face. “I do this every night, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t have to.”

“Have a good night, Spence.”

You’ve never used a nickname with him before. He huffs a little before following your retreating figure, “Then let me give you a ride.”

You keep walking, “Really, Spence – I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, “But let me help. I want to give you a ride. It’s cold.”

Your fingers feel like ice against your arms. You look in the direction of the bus stop before looking at the pleading in Spencer’s face.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Relief floods his expression, “Great, this way.”

He guides you to his car and even opens the passenger door for you. It’s a kind gesture that you aren’t used to. He turns on the heater and your seat warmer before exiting the parking lot.

You direct him to your poor excuse of a studio apartment. The pair of you speak pleasantries the entire way. The lighting design of the musical, the strategic sets that move quickly, the realistic prop hairspray, and things like that.

He didn’t notice how you cower in the seat. He thinks it’s just because you’re still cold.

“Is the gas station good about changing your schedule so you can be there on show nights?”

“Yes, they’re so kind about it,” you say, playing with your fingers. It was a nervous habit of yours – pinching, rubbing, and picking at them. “I switch with a usual day shifter.”

Spencer nods, “I – I’ve missed seeing you at our usual time.”

“Our usual time?” you laugh, like your gas station hangouts were scheduled playdates.

He smiles, embarrassed, “Yeah, I mean… your customer service is so excellent. How am I supposed to get a Kickstart when you’re not there?”

“You know there are dozens of other gas stations and convenience stores around here.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have you.”

Something beats loudly in your chest. It sends a waterfall of warm, fizzing fireworks into your stomach.

Your apartment building is in a scary part of LA – but it’s what you can afford. Aaron was hinting at moving in together just for the ease of splitting the rent. It did sound appealing when you could actually save a little for a car.

“Thanks again for the ride,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

He looks nervous again, “Anytime. And… maybe we could exchange numbers – in case you need another ride from the theatre?”

You look at him warmly, “I’m not going to ask you to come grab me when you could be in a filming week.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I would still come.”

With a small smile, you take out your phone and open a new contact. In the name slot you put ‘Glasses.’ Spencer switches your phones and puts his number in.

You smile wider as you put your name in the contact and put a little theatre emoji after it.

“Glasses?” he asks, handing you back your phone.

“Yeah, that’s…” you brush warm fingers with him as you accept your phone. “That’s what I called you when I noticed you as a regular at the gas station. I didn’t know your name, so I gave you one in my head.”

He seems overly please about that. He has to look away from you and smile. “That’s funny, I like it. What would you do if you saw me without glasses? It would be a whole new identify to you.”

“Very Clark Kent of you,” you laugh.

He suddenly removes his gold rimmed glasses and looks at you all serious. “You’re right, during the day I’m fighting crime with the Justice League and at night I refuel at the gas station.”

“Superman refuels with energy drinks?” you laugh, causally reaching over to snatch his glasses. “I don’t know if Krypton would approve.”

“No, no – Kryptonians thrive off extra energy. Sun energy and now caffeine energy.”

His eyes are a dark green-gray color. Maybe that’s just because it’s dark outside. But you can’t decide what color they actually are. They’re definitely not brown.

You raise the glasses to your eyes and look at him. “I didn’t realize Superman was so blind.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer laughs, looking at you fondly.

You return the glasses, “Drive safe. Thanks again for the ride. Text me when you get home safely.”

He waves you off, waiting until you’re able to unlock your door before driving away.

Inside your apartment, you look at the chipped walls and cracked ceiling. The musty, uncomfortable couch in front of the small tv atop a table you got free off a lawn. To the right is the tiny kitchen with only one counter and no dining table.

Rummaging through a cabinet, you find a tall plastic cup to put your carnation flowers into.

The bathroom is straight ahead, where you go into to get ready for bed.

The porcelain of the tub and sink have rust stains around the handles. The tile of the floor is broken in places and the dim light above is giving off an ugly yellow glow.

You open the mirror cabinet to grab what you need to brush your teeth. Brand names are all obscure as you did get the supplies from a dollar store down the street.

If you had a little more money, you would buy a face wash and face towels. But the essentials were good enough.

You cross the hall to get to your bed. Being a studio apartment, there isn’t a separate room for your bed. It lies on the floor behind the tv stand and in front of the only window in the whole place.

The queen mattress was the one thing you spent a little more money on. It doesn’t have a headboard or support to keep it off the ground, but it was comfortable and had nice periwinkle blue sheets.

You change into sage green pajamas with little daisies on them, climbing into your bed and fumbling for the phone charger next to the mattress.

As you plug your phone in, a text message comes in from Glasses.

“Just got home. You did amazing tonight! See you later this week.”

You heart his message and give him a thank you in reply.

~~~

The end of the week is approaching and you’re at the theatre again. Headset on, you hang in the tech booth, grabbing a few more safety pins, mic tape, and alcohol wipes.

The oversized fanny pack you love to wear across your chest is open and full of supplies. You stuff the microphone items inside, watching the stage from the view of the booth.

Tracy was beginning the song Welcome to the 60s. You turn on the microphone by your mouth.

“Head to the wings for quick change pretty please.”

A muffled reply comes through the headset, “On the way, (Y/N).”

You leave the tech booth and walk out of the audience room to the side entrance of the wings. Waiting on stage right, you hold Edna’s new dress for the song. Two stage crew members help by holding accessories and waiting to take off Edna’s current costume.

“Go mama, go, go go!”

Edna comes running off to stage right, tossing their purse to the stage crew member. They wiggle out of their simple purple plaid dress and step right into the sparkly pink dress you have waiting open on the floor.

You pull up the fabric as you hear the lyrics continue on stage.

“Don’t let nobody try to steal your fun, ‘cause a little touch of lipstick never hurt no one.

The future’s got a million roads for you to choose, but you’ll walk a little taller in some high-heeled shoes.”

You zip up the dress and readjust the mic pack on the suit strap beneath. Stage crew throws a new necklace on and a sparkle to the lip makeup. The other stage crew snugs a fuller wig onto the actor, starting to pin it down onto the wig cap. You hand a feather boa to the actor and help pin the new wig in.

“Come on out, hear us shout. Mama, that’s your cue!”

Just in time, you think, sending the actor back onto stage. It always felt like a close call, but the audience shouting their surprise and praise always felt like a reward.

You smile at the stage crew members and wave them off to help with set pieces. You then take the old purple plaid costume to the rack to keep it from wrinkling on the floor.

While in the dressing rooms you meet the actress playing Penny Pingleton, “Hey, sis – I noticed your mic tape not sitting so good on your cheek.”

She smiles worriedly, the action making the mic tape unstick from her face and the microphone dangle from her ear. “Just a little.”

You pull out an alcohol wipe and roll of tape from your pack. “There might just be too much makeup in the way.” You wipe the spot where the microphone sits on her cheek, fanning your hand to make the alcohol dry.

Cutting two pieces of tape, you line the microphone and stick it in place. The actress keeps her face straight, letting it adhere.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

“Anytime.” You leave the dressing room to find the man playing Seaweed. His mic belt kept twisting beneath his costume.

You track him down and use safety pins to secure the mic belt to his undershirt. Now as he dances and changes, the mic pack will stay in place. He shares his gratitude and runs off to the next scene.

The rest of the show goes without a hitch. The audience claps during the bows, and you give your imaginary bow to the curtains.

You begin to clean the dressing rooms when you get a text. From Glasses.

“Hey, I’m at the entrance by the concessions when you’re done in the back.”

A smile creeps onto your face. He saw the show a second time? You text back, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You’re quick to clean up and organize the costumes before heading out. The front was still packed with audience members trying to talk and take pictures with the cast members. You push your way towards the concessions table to see Spencer there.

He was wearing a black Creed t-shirt, arms full of silly tattoos on total display. Instead of holding flowers, he’s holding a Diet Coke from the concessions. You grin, falling out of the crowd and into him for a hug.

He catches you and hugs you back. You feel the cold soda against your shirt.

“I can’t believe you came again!” You pull away, eyes shining. You’ve never had someone to meet outside the theatre after a show before.

He extends the drink he got for you. “I told you it was an excellent show. And I wanted to bring a friend to see it too.”

A woman stands beside him, “And he misses seeing you at the gas station every day.”

You miss how Spencer nudges the woman with his elbow. You were too busy recognizing her face.

“Oh my god – oh my fucking god,” you accidentally shake the soda as you wave your hands. “You’re Angela Giarratana!”

Her brown eyes widen ridiculously, “Um… yeah, I am.”

“You were on Nerdy Prudes Must Die!”

A smile replaces the surprise on her face, “Oh, yes! I was in that show last year. You really scared me there for a second.”

Spencer licks his lips, watching the excitement on your face. “I wondered if you’d seen anything from StarKid.”

“Well, I’m a theatre kid, aren’t I?” you say, “I literally have a Hatchetfield Nighthawks letterman jacket. It’s so nice to meet you, Angela. I’m (Y/N).” You lean into a hug and Angela returns it kindly.

“I know, Spencer’s talked about you.” She steps away and compliments the show, “You did a great job with the costume design. Spencer and I were timing the quick changes.”

“I am very proud of those,” you say excitedly. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop smiling. Thank you for coming to our show. How do you know Spencer?”

Angela smacks Spencer’s arm, “We work together. He’s more behind the scenes and I’m more on camera.”

“At Smosh? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she says, looking to Spencer and then laughing. “I gotta be careful or Spencer won’t put me in any of the videos on Games.”

You open your soda, drinking it like you were parched all night. “Are you working on any more theatre projects?”

“Eh, not at the moment,” Angela says, folding her arms. “I’m spending most of my time on Smosh sets.” She eyes you for a second before saying, “Do you have a portfolio by chance?”

“A portfolio?” you ask, wiping your lip of soda. “Of what?”

Angela rubs at her chin, “Sketches of your costume designs or makeup aesthetics. Maybe a performing arts resume. Pictures of your work on stage.”

“Um…” you pull awkwardly on the edge of your shirt. “No, not formally. But I could pull something together.”

“That’d be great. I’d love to see more of your work.”

Spencer looks incredibly pleased with himself, biting on his lips. “Would you let me give you a ride home?”

Your eyes are still shining, flitting your gaze between the two friends. “Um… yeah – that’d be great.”

All of you walk outside the theatre and towards the parking lot. Spencer is quick to open the passenger door for you and you give an awkward thank you.

Angela rolls her eyes and climbs into the back. “He’s such a doofus.” You watch Spencer walk around the hood of the car to get into the drivers side.

“A what?” you laugh.

“Just watch him – you’ll notice sooner or later.”

He climbs in and uses the seatbelt, “Watch who?”

You clear your throat, “Joey Richter. He’s another actor on StarKid Productions. He’s super talented.”

Angela snickers in the back. “What was the first thing you watched on StarKid?”

“A Very Potter Musical,” you laugh, “Way back in the day.”

“Classic,” Angela says, folding her arms and slumping into the seat. “What brought you to LA?”

You play with your fingers. “I wanted to move out of my home state. And I wanted to get more into the arts. But it’s been hard to find stable work.”

“You’re telling me. That’s the life of an actor – just jumping from one gig to another.”

“It would be the dream,” you sigh, “To do this full time. I just wish I had a little more security with it. A stable income. Not to be afraid with how I’ll afford food every month.” You awkwardly laugh as you realize you might’ve said too much. “But I’m doing all right.”

Angela agrees, “It’s hard to do well in the arts.”

“Hard to be recognized,” Spencer says. “(Y/N) already does well in the arts.”

You smile, your cheeks warm. “When is your next filming week?”

“Next week,” Angela sighs, yawning big. “Which reminds me – I gotta pick up that new pair of glasses for the office.”

“Angela is super blind and never wears her glasses during shoots,” Spencer explains. “Especially on the games channel. She’s always squinting super bad at the tv whenever we’re playing a game.”

“And I’ve been doing just fine!” Angela says loudly, “I’ve been training my eyes to see that far.”

Spencer scoffs, “Yeah, and the compilations of you squinting are growing at an exponential rate because of it.”

“Shut up!” Angela yells.

You laugh at their antics. “Are you allowed to yell at your boss like that?”

Spencer looks in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, Angela. As your superior you need to treat me with a high level of respect. I expect a full written apology and a certain amount of groveling before you’re allowed back on the Games set.” His tone was serious, but by the wide comical look in his eye, you know he’s using hyperbole as a joke.

“The heads of Smosh are actually Ian and Anthony, so don’t you even pull that superiority card!”

You keep giggling at this funnier, more outspoken Spencer. Proof that he was very comfortable with this coworker and their workplace.

It sounds nice.

~~~

Angela sits in the passenger seat now, slumped into the door and leaning her forehead against the window.

“She’s really nice.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says quietly, thoughts still lingering on you.

Angela looks over at him and smirks. “You like her so fucking much. I knew you did when you wouldn’t shut up about her at the office, but damn – seeing you with her was nearly painful.”

“What are you talking about? I’m so subtle about it.”

“So you don’t deny it!” she sits up stick straight, so fast that the seatbelt locks into place and stops her from moving anymore.

Spencer flounders, “I – what – no, that’s not what I said!”

“You totally did you little fucker! You like her so much it hurts. You like her so much your cheeks are going to burst into flames. You like her so much you can’t get a full sentence out.”

“Angela, shut the fuck up – you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She bounces in her seat, “I’m so subtle about it. I can’t believe you. You’ve been talking about this girl for almost a year. Of course you have a crush on her!”

“Angela, I swear to god, don’t ruin this for me.”

“How would I ruin this? I want my little Spencey to have true love. You have to ask her out.”

“Yeah, genius – you’re forgetting about a teensy little detail. She has a fucking boyfriend.”

Angela freezes, sitting back. “Right.” She bites her lip, “Should have made your shot earlier.”

“And risk looking like a creep asking a girl out at a gas station? No thank you.”

“Is you considering her for the production team on Smosh an elaborate way to play the long game with her?”

“No!” Spencer grips the steering wheel, sounding like a bickering sibling. “She has real talent, and I think she deserves the position.”

Angela holds up her hands, “All right, okay.” She side eyes him with raised brows, “… but you wouldn’t be upset if she suddenly became available and you could ask her out?”

He refuses to meet Angela’s eyes. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction by answering that question.”

“You basically just answered it,” she folds her arms, “You know… I can’t promise I can keep this from Amanda. Or Shayne.”

Spencer puts his elbow against the window and holds his temple.

“Or Chanse.”

“I figured.”

Angela gave him a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth – I think she has a real shot. We should get her portfolio to Ian and Anthony asap.”

~~~

You’re cleaning the counters at the gas station. It’s nearing the end of your shift, almost 6am. And Spencer hadn’t visited you like he usually did. It was actually making you worried.

You had spent the last few days collecting every piece of art and experience you had to compile a portfolio. It didn’t feel like a very thick folder, but it had every ounce of hard work from the last few years.

It sits within a blue cover under the registers, waiting for Spencer to come.

“Hey!” there he comes through the door. “I’m so sorry, we had an overnight shoot, and I forgot to tell you.”

You look confused, “Spence, you didn’t have any obligation to be here. We didn’t make any plans.”

“I know, but I usually…” he looks flustered and upset. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

You smile kindly, “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

He runs a hand through his curly hair, his eyes considering you as you clean. “This early in the morning, we both look exhausted now.”

“Aw, we have matching dark circles under our eyes!” You go under the counter to grab the blue folder. “Here’s that portfolio Angela was asking about. I wasn’t sure how to get it to her, so maybe you could take it to work?”

“Um… yeah, for sure. Thanks.”

The bell above the door rings, signaling the appearance of a new customer. Usually at this point in the mornings, customers would come in for their sustenance before work. You’re focused on Spencer, unaware of the person walking towards you.

“(Y/N), let’s go.”

You turn your eyes around and see Aaron beelining for your counter.

“Oh, hey,” you say quietly, “You’re twenty minutes early.”

“And?”

This man was over six foot, broad shouldered, and unkempt. His eyes are lazy and hard pressed, his jaw tense as you contradict him.

You wring your hands, “I’m not allowed to leave until six.”

“Well, I’m here now. Let’s go.”

“That’s…” you suck in a breath. He smells like stale beer. “Let me clock out and tell my boss.” You round the counter and are quick to enter the back rooms.

Spencer stays where he is, holding the blue portfolio, and looking at Aaron with an air of disdain. It was not the first impression he was expecting when picturing your boyfriend.

“You waiting to buy something?” Aaron asks, frowning at the way Spencer’s looking at him.

“No, I was just…” he swallows. “I was just talking with (Y/N).”

Aaron squints his eyes, hands moving to his hips. “And you know her because?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“(Y/N) doesn’t have any friends.”

“Untrue, because I’m standing right here.”

Aaron flexes his jaw, “She hasn’t mentioned you before.”

“Yes, I have,” you reappear without your nametag and your purse now around your shoulder. “I’ve talked about him a couple times.” You stand beside Spencer and instantly feel the tension.

Aaron extends his hand like he wants to take yours. “If you did talk about him, I would have remembered. We’re leaving.”

You go to hold his hand, but he moves his to grab your arm, pulling you towards the door. You turn your head to mouth, “Sorry,” towards Spencer.

Spencer waves at you, his face placid and upset. He watches out the windows to see Aaron let you go on the sidewalk to get into the car yourself. He slams the car shut, neglecting his seatbelt, and squealing out of the parking lot.

Still upset, Spencer gets into his car and contemplates his next move. His instincts told him that you weren’t completely safe. He wonders if you and Aaron have moved in together yet – he was trying to pull the ‘cheaper rent’ card on that account.

It was blatantly clear that Aaron was gaslighting you. Within three minutes, he was pegged as an asshole.

Spencer pulls out his phone and sends you a text. “Nice seeing you today, hope you get some good sleep.”

He rubs hard at his face before driving off. He plans to show your portfolio to Ian and Anthony tomorrow.

~~~

You’re sitting on the couch, playing on your PlayStation, when someone knocks on the door. Enjoying the day off, you wonder what door-to-door salesman is at your house.

You open the door and a giant smile envelopes your face, “Spencer! You didn’t tell me you were going to visit.”

He take a breath, “Um… yeah, I wanted to ask you something and I couldn’t wait until you were on shift.”

You lean against the doorframe, biting your lip. “Well, I would invite you inside, but I have to warn you… it’s not very nice.”

“I don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly. “I just want to talk.”

“All right,” you say shyly, opening the door wide. You watch his reaction, already feeling embarrassment brewing in your stomach.

Spencer looks around for a second, taking in the minimal furniture and all around lackluster state of the structure. He zeros in on the old tv displaying your video game.

“Are you playing Red Dead Redemption 2?”

“Uh… yeah,” you say quietly, holding yourself and you walk into the living room. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Spencer smiles, finding it amazing to learn something new about you that he loves. “Nice horse.”

You laugh, sitting on the couch and grabbing your controller. Your cowboy character was riding a white horse in the middle of a river. “It’s the White Arabian you have to tame by Lake Isabella.”

“Is that… like the best horse or something?” Spencer comes to sit beside you, sinking into the musty couch.

“It’s the only elite Arabian horse that you can find in the wild.”

Spencer leans against the couch arm, resting his face in one hand. “I didn’t realize you were a gamer.”

“The more you know me, the more of a nerd I become.”

“Nothing wrong with that, you big nerd.”

You giggle, “What did you want to talk about?’

Spencer clears his throat. “I uh… I took your portfolio to work.”

“What did Angela think?”

“She thought it was all great. But um… a few others got a look at it too.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “There’s this job opening on the production team, specifically on the Smosh main channel. But they would help with all the channels.”

You pause the game again and really look at him. “What is the position?”

“An assistant art coordinator. They help the art directors with creating sets, costumes, and character looks.”

“And what are the responsibilities?”

“They’re looking for someone to manage hair and makeup for Smosh skits and any character work on other channels. Most of the cast do it themselves, but we do need someone who specializes in prosthetics makeup. And you seem to have done that a lot in theatre. We also need someone to manage costume work – the upkeep of them.”

You swallow hard, arms slowly moving to hold yourself. “Do you know what the salary is?”

“I think it’s around 50k-60k. You’ll make between $24 - $28 an hour.”

You bite your cheek. “That’s great.” You look at your surroundings. This new job would be paying you over $10 more than you’re getting now. “Are you saying Smosh is interested in interviewing me for assistant art coordinator?”

Spencer nods his head. “That is basically what I’m saying.”

“Did you show your bosses my portfolio on purpose?” You lower your eyes but look at him through your lashes.

He takes a deep breath, stretching out on the couch. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you deserved a chance.” He looks at you seriously, “I think you’ve got some real talent, (Y/N). You should go for an interview.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

You look at him, “I’m suddenly super nervous.” A laugh escapes you, “I… I have to talk to Aaron about it.”

“Okay,” Spencer says with an edge. He tries to be respectful. “Have you two…”

“We’ve moved in together,” you say softly. “To make bills a little easier. And… and as a trial run, I guess. I’ll be able to save up for a car now.”

Spencer has a finger on the corner of his mouth. “Do you think you could make an interview this Thursday?”

You think for a second, “I’m sure Aaron would be okay with that. I’ll just talk to him about it tonight.”

He doesn’t seem happy about that statement. But instead of saying something he might regret, he points to the PlayStation. “Have you completed this game before?”

“Oh, yeah – maybe three times,” you pick up the controller again. “This time I’m trying to complete all of the side quests before finishing the main story.”

“You should be wearing a cowboy hat while playing.”

“That would be awesome,” you laugh. You look at him with sincerity, “Thank you for looking out for me, Spence. I appreciate the chance.”

He gives a close-lipped smile. “Always.”

~~~

You step off the bus and begin to walk down the street. Using your phone, you follow the directions that Spencer gave you.

The Smosh office was right around the corner.

You enter the building, pulling on the only pair of dress pants you own. You readjust the simple blouse to show off the single diamond necklace you wear around your neck. You hope it gives you a professional first impression.

The main entrance of the building shows a little receptionist desk and plush chairs to wait in. You advance the desk while noticing behind it are many tables and folding chairs – probably for lunches.

“Hello, how are you?” a nice lady at the desk says.

You wave shakily, “I’m good. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Hecox and Mr. Padilla.”

She seems to find you saying their surnames comical judging by the little smile on her face. But she gestures to the plush armchairs behind you. “Sure, just wait there and I’ll call them.”

You turn around and notice that behind the chairs is a large window showing a large kitchen. The lunch tables and folding chairs makes more sense.

“Thank you,” you say, looking down at the name plate, “Selina.” You sit down and holding your famously large fanny pack in your lap. It gives you something to hold with your fidgeting hands.

Now sitting, you can see the wide windows behind Selina’s desk. There’s a long conference table in there with a television and speakers on a stand. There’s a phone speaker in the middle of the table for any people that are being called in remotely.

Behind the conference table is a little sitting area with a couch and armchair. A couple tables and folding chairs are in the rest of the open space. It’s probably a big room for any meetings with teams or big groups of people.

“(Y/N) Bennett?” someone asks. You jump and stand to see two men coming around the corner.

One is taller with dark, wavy styled hair, a nose ring, and cool tattoos spidering up his neck. He has a great smile and just radiates a natural energy you like.

The other is slightly shorter with brown hair in a classic cut. He has a scruffy beard and black square glasses. He gives very much dad energy with how he’s dressed.

“Yes,” you say rather breathlessly. “I’m (Y/N) Bennett.”

“I’m Anthony,” the taller says, “And this is Ian.”

You shake hands with them, Ian gesturing to the conference room. “We’ll meet in here.”

The three of you walk into the room and take seats around the long table. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say quietly, “Thank you for offering me an interview.”

“For sure,” Anthony says, leaning forward in his chair. Ian sits and immediately starts spinning back and forth. “We saw your portfolio and were really impressed with your work.”

“Thank you,” you say eagerly.

Ian clears his throat, “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’m living here with my boyfriend. I’ve lived here for about two years. Before that I was in Nevada, just outside of Vegas. My family is still there,” you say quietly. “I’ve been a theatre and fine arts student all my life. I’ve been doing community and school productions since second grade. I have experience in both stage acting and in tech behind the scenes.”

“Which do you prefer?” Anthony asks.

You hold onto your fanny pack, “Right now, probably tech. I really enjoy designing costumes and putting characters together. Sometimes I do miss acting though.”

“What do you enjoy about art design?” Ian questions.

You focus on his chair spinning back and forth. “I’m a fan of storytelling. I think one of the greatest talents a person can have is in telling a story, no matter the platform. If I can be a part of that process, I’d enjoy every second. I want to show the story in costumes, hair, and makeup. It’s the most expressive way to describe a person or character.”

“Well said,” Anthony nods. “How would you manage a set when coordinating those things?”

“I would need to see the costume closet to know how to care for it. Organization is key, ensuring you don’t lose any pieces. You’d need a costume rack on set and some essentials, like safety pins, apparel tape, a lint roller, things like that. Makeup vanities will need to be disinfected and cleaned after use, brushes clean and organized. Prosthetics and stage makeup would need to be cared for to make sure we don’t share any germs and possible infections. The same goes for any hair and wig essentials.”

Ian seems a little lost in your explanation, just impressed that you were on top of it. “You have a fine arts degree, is that right?”

You nod, voice still quiet with the nerves. “That’s right. I got a bachelor’s in fine arts at Utah Tech University in St. George, Utah.”

“Is that close to where you’re from in Nevada?” Anthony asks.

You smile, “Yeah, it’s just over an hour away. It has a well known outdoor theatre called the Tuacahn Amphitheatre. I helped with a few tech things during summer shows. And then I acted at the college.”

“What shows did you act in?” Anthony asks further.

You play with your fingers. “We did Footloose, Addams Family, The Drowsy Chaperone, Elf: The Musical, Measure for Measure, and Much Ado About Nothing.”

Anthony whistles, “You did Shakespeare?”

“I love Shakespeare,” you say. “Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite play.”

“You are a major theatre kid,” Ian says, “Why don’t you act anymore?”

You squeeze your fanny pack, “I’ve gotten a little camera shy the last couple years. I prefer helping with quick changes and fixing any mic tape mishaps.”

You take a turn asking some questions about their art department and typical filming schedule. You learn about their expectations for the job and what the salary would be. It was exactly as Spencer had said.

Ian and Anthony share a look with each other before leaning forward. Anthony looks at you kindly, “Would you mind if we conference for a minute? We want to give you an answer today.”

You widen your eyes, “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The pair stand and excuse themselves to discuss things outside the room. You’re left in the swivel chair, picking at your fingers and praying that the interview went well. It would be incredible to be given a job that grants you the security and stable income you wanted.

There was a chance to have friends here. Spencer and Angela would be here. You would be storytelling in little comedy sketches. You’d be a part of a team that designed characters. You’d be in charge of ensuring faces weren’t shiny on camera, hair was in place, and clothes looked good.

This could be a home for you.

It takes almost ten minutes for Ian and Anthony to return. They come back with two others that are introduced as Cassie and Erin. They are art director and assistant art director for all productions.

You would be working beneath them should you be offered the position.

More questions are asked by the newcomers, and you find them to be very kind and artistic like yourself. You agree on many fronts, having many things in common. You would be happy to be working in their department.

Ian and Anthony both have smiles on their faces when they say:

“(Y/N), we want to formally offer you the position of assistant art coordinator. Responsible for hair and makeup, and the costumes of the cast. You’ll be our main reference for any special effects makeup and prosthetics. And you’ll help coordinate for all four channels.”

Tears start to form in your eyes. “Really?”

Cassie and Erin had faces full of sympathy. Cassie was covering her face with her hands. Erin was folding their arms and smiling.

Ian was standing their awkwardly, looking at your emotional reaction, but Anthony was quicker to ask. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh tearily, “Yes! Yes, I’d love to take the position. Thank you guys so much. I’m so excited – I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

They all clap momentarily, Ian announcing, “Then we should call everyone to the lunchroom and make introductions.”

“We’ll have Selina bring up contracts to sign,” Anthony says, gesturing to the door. “You want to follow us?”

You nod enthusiastically, shaking hands with everyone on the way out. There are lots of thank yous and congratulations.

Cassie, Erin, and Ian go to round up cast and crew to the lunch tables you spotted earlier. Anthony goes to speak with Selina at the receptionist desk.

You exit the conference room, wiping tears away and clutching your fanny pack.

Spencer was there, pacing by the plush armchairs you sat in earlier. He has his arms crossed, one hand at his mouth, tracing his lips in a nervous gesture.

At your arrival, his head whips to you, eyes wide at the tears running down your face. He looks so afraid, unsure of how the interview went. But he might’ve misinterpreted your tears.

“(Y/N),” he says softly, “What… what did they say?”

He didn’t even notice the other people gathering at the lunch tables.

You walk towards him, still trying to wipe at your face, “Spence.”

He wants to hug you desperately then. He wants to comfort you. And he wants to hurt whoever decided to make you cry.

You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face there. He holds you back, still at a loss as to what the final verdict was.

“(Y/N)!” you hear Anthony, “Get over here!”

Spencer still holds you as you whisper to him, “I got the job.”

He pulls away and holds your waist, “What?”

“I got the job,” you whisper more excitedly. “They’re about to announce it to everyone.” You flounce away to stand at a counter with a few mini fridges, addressing a group of cast and crew. You notice Angela standing in the crowd.

She gives you two thumbs up and you wave back.

Spencer walks over just as Ian begins to talk.

“Hey, guys! We wanted to introduce our newest member of Smosh. This is (Y/N) Bennett!”

Anthony continues, “She will be working in the art department as an assistant art coordinator. She’ll be our head of character design and management of costumes, hair, and makeup.”

The crowd begins clapping and shouting their congratulations. Spencer joins them, standing next to Angela and a few others.

Unbeknownst to the pair of you, some cast and crew were sharing looks. People you hadn’t met yet were winking at each other. They knew full well how much Spencer wanted you to get this job.

You wave at everyone, “Hello! I’m so excited to meet you all and start working on these projects.”

Everyone breaks apart to introduce themselves.

Angela brings over a number of people, “Hey, (Y/N).” She says, “Here are some of our castmates.”

A tall woman in a beautiful jumpsuit says, “I’m Amanda, welcome to the Smosh family.”

“I’m Shayne,” a fit blonde man shakes your hand, “And this is Courtney.”

“Hi,” a blonde woman then shakes your hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Angela sticks her head in, “Those two are married.”

You nod, giggling, “Wonderful.”

“I’m Chanse,” a curly haired man says, giving you a hug, “Welcome to the team.”

A tall man with a great mustache waves, “I’m Tommy!”

“Hi!” you say, “It might take me a while to remember all your names. Thank you for being so welcoming. I’m so excited to start.”

“Spencer’s told us a lot about you,” Amanda says with a cheeky smile.

You look toward Spencer’s rosy face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” Shayne laughs, “He has nothing but praise for you.”

Spencer ignores the immediate retort that the single worst thing about you is your boyfriend. “You guys need to calm down.”

“Can we give you a tour?” Amanda asks, taking your arm, “The office has a lot of sets and rooms.”

Courtney appears on your other side, “We can show you the art department and the costumes closet!”

“And the makeup vanities,” Chanse says, already leading the way, “There are a couple by the sets, but there is one in the green room where Angela takes her naps.”

“Hey!” Angela instantly retorts, “Hey, hey, hey… uncalled for!”

Amanda scoffs, “But true.”

Angela snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

You are dragged away by Amanda and Courtney, Chanse and Angela still bickering along the way.

Spencer stays where he is with Shayne. The latter having a very knowing smirk on his face. Spencer ignores him as long as he can.

“Have you ever been told that you shouldn’t make faces because you’ll be stuck that way?”

Shayne chortles, “I’m just curious how you feel about this.”

“Clearly you already have a theory.”

“I do, based purely on the last eleven months of you pining over this girl.”

“I am incapable of pining.”

Shayne wheezes, “Yeah, sure. What do you call bringing up (Y/N) whenever possible, talking through ways to introduce yourself to her, workshopping conversations with me to get to know her…”

“All of those things were in confidence.”

“And all blatant examples of pining over a woman you’ve grown attached to!”

Spencer licks his lips, watching you being dragged by Angela towards the pods of employee desks. “I don’t… I can’t do anything about it now.”

“I’ve never seen you like this, man,” Shayne chortles. “It’s kind of throwing me off right now. You don’t talk about girls much.”

“The dating apps have been seriously lacking the last year.”

“Because you’ve been talking up some chick at the gas station,” Shayne laughs again. “I have to commend you for playing the long game.”

Spencer shakes his head, “I have to be fine with being just friends.”

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to be your best friend.

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