#notes on fretboard

[portable-document-format]

i either need bigger hands or a smaller bass …

[whywalkwhenyoucanride]

trying to learn hardingfele without prior violin experience. struggling but improving. slowly. lots of fun

[svnd14ll1ng]

three times in the past 24 hours i have been told i have a natural ear for music and its getting to my ego

[musicalcolorsmc]

Learning the simplest guitar chords is the best place to start if you're keen to learn the guitar. With the help of these fundamental chords, even novices can play their own songs with ease and speed. Our thorough guide makes studying easier by offering concise visuals and helpful hints for efficient practice. Whether you're performing solo or with friends, these color-coded chords can help you progress musically. Explore our resources to start playing guitar to the fullest extent possible. Take advantage of the simplest chords that any aspiring musician should be familiar with and embrace the thrill of creating music! For more details, please visit our website www.musicalcolors.com

[evandore]

i listed out all the major and minor chords i use rhe most and just using the fretboard chart i listed out all the notes used and then i checked it against like looking up what the notes were and it was correct !!! so the idea on guitar is youre not pressing down strings that have the notes but making sure all the the strings play one of the three notes in a chord. so like like for am its (a / c / e) but the first string you dont need to press anythinf down cause its already an e....this feels like elementary music theory but its a crazy breakthrough for me LOL

[kathaelipwse]

The Moment I Saw You || C.San

Pairing: Rookie.Idol!Reader x Idol!San

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 10,495 words ; Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Trope: Rookie Idol x Idol | Slow Burn to Soft Romance | Protective!San | Music Show Encounters | Mutual Pining | Secret Relationship | Fame vs. Love | Angst + Comfort | Found Love in Chaos

Warnings: Idol industry pressures | cyberbullying | hate comments | mention of funeral flowers (harassment) | strong emotional scenes | protective behavior | slight suggestiveness (humor) | fluff | comfort | consent talks | ONLY A WORK OF FICTION | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: They called you the "guitar rookie" — cool, mysterious, and unforgettable on stage. But for San, it only took one performance to fall completely under your spell. What starts as quiet glances and backstage banter slowly turns into secret texting, emotional confessions, and late-night comfort. But fame is cruel, and love in the spotlight even more so. When the hate gets brutal, San does something no one expects — he fights for you.

Author’s Note: This story’s a love letter to that electric spark between two people who meet in the whirlwind of fame and find peace in each other. I adore writing flustered San, loyal San, "ride-or-die" San — so this fic gave me life. Hope you enjoy the slow burn, tension, and soft chaos.

The air in the practice room always smelled faintly of sweat and ambition, a potent cocktail that you had grown accustomed to. Just six months into your solo debut, the buzz around you was a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw talent that crackled through your live performances. In a sea of perfectly synchronized dance routines and polished pop anthems, you offered something different: grit. Authenticity. And a damn good electric guitar.

Your company, a smaller label that had taken a gamble on your unique blend of idol charm and rockstar edge, was cautiously optimistic. Your digital single had performed respectably, earning you a small but fiercely loyal fanbase who appreciated your self-composed tracks and the way your fingers danced across the fretboard during live stages – a genuine rarity in the current idol landscape.

You yourself preferred the quiet hum of anticipation to the deafening roar of immediate fame. It gave you space to breathe, to hone your craft, to let the music speak for itself. Your stage presence was a carefully constructed paradox: cool and composed, almost aloof, yet undeniably magnetic. There was a mysterious charm about the way you’d offer a fleeting smirk after a particularly sharp riff, the way your dark eyes would scan the crowd with an unreadable intensity.

Tonight, however, the quiet hum was about to be amplified to a deafening roar. Tonight was the culmination of a year’s worth of relentless work: the prestigious Gayo Daejun. The air backstage thrummed with nervous energy, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, last-minute mic checks, and the hushed excitement of idols from every corner of the industry.

Your own dressing room felt like a small island of calm amidst the storm. Your black custom guitar, affectionately nicknamed 'Shadow', leaned against the wall, its sleek body gleaming under the soft lighting. Your stylist fussed with the subtle silver chains adorning your black leather jacket, while your makeup artist dabbed at your already flawless smoky eye.

“Ready, Y/N-ah?” your manager, a kind but perpetually stressed man named Mr. Kim, poked his head in.

You offered a small, confident nod. Inside, however, a familiar flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. This was the biggest stage you’d ever performed on. The audience wasn’t just your fans; it was the entire Korean entertainment industry, fellow idols you admired, and millions watching at home.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension backstage thickened. Snippets of other performances drifted into your room – the booming bass of a powerful dance track, the soaring vocals of a ballad. Then, Mr. Kim gave you the signal. It was time.

Walking towards the stage felt surreal. The backstage area was a blur of glittering costumes and anxious faces. You took a deep breath, the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume filling your lungs. The roar of the crowd beyond the heavy curtains was a tangible thing, a wave of sound that promised both exhilaration and potential disaster.

Your name flashed on the monitor, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. This was it.

The lights dimmed, and a single spotlight pierced the darkness, landing squarely on your silhouette as you stood center stage, Shadow slung low across your hips. A hush fell over the arena, a pregnant silence that amplified the frantic beating of your own heart.

Then, you raised your hand, your fingers hovering over the strings. A single, clean note rang out, cutting through the silence. It was the opening of your self-composed track, a raw and edgy anthem about breaking free. The crowd responded with a wave of cheers, but you barely registered it. Your focus narrowed, your world shrinking to the six strings beneath your fingertips.

The first chord hit like a punch to the gut – a gritty, distorted power chord that reverberated through the stadium. The stage lights pulsed in time with the music, casting sharp shadows that danced around you. Your cool composure settled over you like a second skin. Head tilted slightly, you launched into the opening riff, your fingers a blur of practiced precision.

From the side of the stage, hidden in the shadows after the explosive finale of his own group’s performance, Choi San stood catching his breath. Ateez had just delivered a high-octane set, leaving the crowd in a frenzy. He was about to grab a water bottle when a lone figure walked onto the stage. He barely glanced up, expecting another flashy dance number.

But then, the first chord struck.

San froze. The plastic water bottle slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering unnoticed on the floor. His jaw went slack, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t just the sound – though the raw, live tone of the electric guitar was a shock in itself – it was the sheer confidence emanating from the figure bathed in the spotlight.

His heart, which had been pounding from Ateez’s intense performance, now seemed to have vanished entirely, replaced by a strange, hollow ache.

He watched, unblinking, as you moved with a fluid grace that belied the aggressive energy of your music and your soft voice blending well. The way your head would snap back with a flick of your dark hair during a particularly powerful strum, the fleeting smirk that would play on your lips as you effortlessly shredded a solo – it was captivating.

The music surged, a tidal wave of sound washing over the arena. San was oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, the flashing lights, the murmurs of his own members nearby. His entire world had narrowed to the figure on stage, the girl with the guitar, the raw talent that seemed to bleed from her fingertips.

He watched as you stepped closer to the edge of the stage during a particularly intricate solo, your eyes locking with unseen members of the audience. There was a fire in them, a fierce passion that resonated deep within him.

The final chord crashed, echoing through the stadium before fading into a sudden, profound silence. Then, the arena erupted. The cheers were deafening, a testament to the captivating performance they had just witnessed.

You offered a small bow, the corner of your lips tilting into that enigmatic smirk one last time before you turned and walked off stage, disappearing behind the curtain.

San remained rooted to the spot, his mind a complete blank. The echoes of the music still vibrated in his chest. It wasn't just that you were talented; there was something else, something that had resonated with him on a visceral level.

Finally, as his members started to nudge him, concern etched on their faces, San managed a single, breathless utterance, his voice barely a whisper amidst the lingering roar of the crowd.

“…who is she?”

--

The adrenaline from Ateez’s performance had long since faded, replaced by a persistent, almost unsettling hum within San. Back in their dorm, the usual boisterous energy of the members felt muted, a backdrop to the insistent replay echoing in his mind. He’d excused himself shortly after they’d arrived, claiming exhaustion, but instead, he’d retreated to his bunk, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

The YouTube video title glowed on the screen: “Y/N - Iconic Solo Debut Stage @ Gayo Daejun” He’d found it within minutes of searching, the algorithm already attuned to the sudden spike in interest surrounding the mysterious guitarist.

He pressed play.

The opening chord of ‘[Your Song Title]’ reverberated through his earbuds, sending a familiar jolt through him. He watched, his eyes glued to the screen, as you stepped into the spotlight. Every subtle movement, every confident strum, every flick of your hair was magnified, imbued with a significance he couldn’t quite articulate.

He watched the entire performance again, and then again. A strange tension coiled in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just admiration for your talent; it was something deeper, something that felt intensely personal.

On the fourth viewing, he paused the video. It was a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible – a small, genuine smile that flickered across your lips after nailing a particularly challenging riff. It wasn’t a practiced idol smile for the cameras; it was a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, a glimpse behind the cool facade. San’s thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the curve of your smile as if he could somehow capture the feeling it evoked within him. His chest tightened.

He replayed the solo, the intricate melody and the raw energy of your playing sending shivers down his spine. He’d always appreciated good musicianship, but this… this was different. It wasn't just skill; it was soul. It was like the music was an extension of you, a direct line to something honest and captivating.

A restless energy began to build within him. He needed to know more.

He exited YouTube and opened his browser, typing in your stage name. Information flooded the screen: your full name, your company, the name of your debut single, even a few interviews where you spoke shyly about your music and your unconventional path as a guitar-playing idol. He clicked on every link, devouring every piece of information, piecing together a fragmented image of the person behind the captivating performer.

He learned you were a soloist, which surprised him. Your stage presence felt like it could command an entire band. He scrolled through fan forums, reading comments that echoed his own fascination: “Who is this girl?”, “That guitar solo was insane!”, “Her vibe is so cool.”

Later, when a few of the members had gathered in the common room, their post-show buzz slowly dissipating into comfortable exhaustion, San couldn’t contain it any longer. He wandered in, his phone still clutched in his hand.

“Do you guys know the rookie guitarist from tonight?” he asked, his voice a little too eager.

Wooyoung, sprawled on the couch scrolling through his own phone, looked up, a playful smirk already forming on his lips. “You mean the one you haven’t stopped watching on your phone?”

San flushed slightly, trying to appear nonchalant. “I was just… impressed. Her live playing was really something.”

Jongho, ever the straightforward one, nodded. “She was good. Definitely stood out.”

Hongjoong, who had been quietly sketching in a notebook, looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bro. You’ve watched that clip six times since we got back.”

San’s ears burned. He hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious. He mumbled something about needing to analyze different performance styles.

Hongjoong leaned back, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Analyzing, huh? Or maybe… admiring?” He tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “She did have a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

San avoided his leader’s gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

“Just ask her out already, Romeo,” Hongjoong added, his voice laced with playful teasing.

San’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Hyung! What? No! I just… I was curious about her music.”

The other members exchanged knowing glances, a chorus of suppressed chuckles filling the room. San knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. The image of you on stage, bathed in that single spotlight, the raw sound of your guitar echoing in his ears, was firmly imprinted in his mind. The quiet hum of curiosity had morphed into something far more insistent, a burgeoning fascination that felt dangerously close to… obsession. And he had a feeling this was just the beginning.

--

The fluorescent lights of the music show backstage buzzed with a familiar, almost sterile energy. A few days had passed since the Gayo Daejun, and the memory of your performance still lingered in San’s mind like a favorite song he couldn’t stop humming. He’d tried to play it cool around his members, deflecting their teasing with awkward jokes and feigned disinterest. But the truth was, he’d spent a significant amount of his downtime rewatching your stage and scrolling through any new information he could find about you. He even found a few fan-made compilation videos of your live guitar moments, each one further solidifying his initial captivated impression.

Fate, or perhaps his own carefully orchestrated movements, had brought them both to the same music show today. Ateez had an early performance slot, and San had been surprisingly subdued throughout their pre-show preparations, his usual playful energy noticeably absent. His mind was elsewhere, a nervous anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. He kept replaying Hongjoong’s teasing words – “Just ask her out already, Romeo” – and a ridiculous scenario where he tripped over his own feet while trying to introduce himself.

He’d subtly inquired about your schedule from one of the staff members he knew, feigning general interest in the lineup. When he learned your dressing room was on the same floor, a few doors down from Ateez’s, a plan began to form – a flimsy, transparent excuse to be in your vicinity. He’d even rehearsed a few potential opening lines in his head, ranging from a simple “Hello” to a more elaborate (and probably disastrous) compliment about your guitar tone.

Now, his heart hammered against his ribs as he stood outside your dressing room, a half-empty water bottle clutched in his hand. He’d “coincidentally” run out of water just as Ateez’s segment wrapped up, and this hallway, he’d reasoned, was the most logical place to find a water dispenser. He leaned against the cool wall, trying to project an air of casual nonchalance, taking slow, deliberate sips. Every distant footstep echoing down the corridor sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. He silently berated himself for his lack of composure. He was Choi San, for crying out loud. He commanded stages filled with roaring fans. Why was this one potential interaction turning him into a stammering mess?

Then, the door to your dressing room opened.

San’s breath hitched. You stepped out, your manager, a slightly harried-looking man in a crisp suit, a few paces behind you, both seemingly engrossed in a quiet conversation. You were dressed in a stylishly understated outfit for your post-performance interviews – dark wash jeans, a slightly oversized band tee, and a delicate silver necklace peeking out from beneath the collar. Your dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of your jawline and the delicate curve of your neck. San’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long.

For a split second, your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral, a polite acknowledgment of a familiar face in the industry. But for San, it felt like a spotlight had suddenly illuminated him. He froze, his carefully constructed facade of nonchalance crumbling into a jumbled mess of nerves and a sudden, intense awareness of his own slightly sweaty post-performance state.

He hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t rehearsed any smooth lines that could possibly convey the impact your performance had had on him. All the witty remarks and carefully crafted compliments he’d mentally conjured vanished from his brain, leaving him with a single, overwhelming thought: it’s really her. Up close, the intensity he’d witnessed on stage was somehow both amplified and softened.

As you drew closer, his throat suddenly felt incredibly dry. He pushed himself off the wall, his legs feeling strangely unsteady, like he’d just finished a particularly grueling choreography session. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled, almost bird-like sound. He winced internally.

“You were…” he finally managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the relatively quiet hallway, and tried again, his gaze fixed somewhere around your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. “You were… amazing. At the Gayo… the guitar part? Insane.” He cringed internally at his utterly inadequate delivery. Insane? Really, San? That’s the best you could come up with?

You stopped walking, a genuine hint of surprise flickering in your dark eyes. You shyly tucked a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear, a delicate, almost unconscious gesture that San found inexplicably endearing. A faint blush, barely perceptible, dusted your cheeks. You lowered your gaze slightly.

“Thank you,” you replied softly, your voice even more melodic and nuanced than he’d expected from your powerful yet soft singing voice. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed. It felt a little… out of place, maybe, amidst all the other amazing performances.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile.

San’s internal monologue was a chaotic scream of flailing limbs and incoherent noises. She doesn’t think anyone noticed?! It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! Tell her! Tell her how it made you feel! Tell her you haven’t stopped thinking about it!

But outwardly, he could only manage a slightly wider, albeit still awkward, smile and a more emphatic nod. “Noticed? Are you kidding? It was… captivating. The way you played, the energy… it was completely different. In a really, really good way.” He finally managed to meet your eyes, and the intensity he felt seemed to momentarily surprise you. He quickly looked away again, suddenly feeling like he was staring.

He wanted to say so much more – to tell you how the rawness of your sound had cut through the usual polished perfection, how your confidence with the guitar had been incredibly inspiring, how he’d rewatched your solo countless times. But the words seemed trapped in his throat, choked by a sudden wave of self-consciousness and the unexpected reality of you standing right in front of him.

He offered another small, slightly less awkward smile, hoping it conveyed at least a fraction of the genuine admiration and burgeoning fascination he felt. You returned the smile, a brief, shy curve of your lips that sent another unexpected jolt through him, settling somewhere warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

Then, your manager, who had been patiently observing the exchange, gently placed a hand on your arm. “We should probably get going, Y/N-ah. The interview with Star News is starting soon, and they’re waiting.”

“Right,” you said, nodding apologetically. You offered San another quick, polite nod, your eyes briefly meeting his again with a hint of something he couldn’t quite decipher before continuing down the hallway with your manager.

San watched you walk away, your ponytail swaying gently with each step, his mind still reeling from the brief but impactful interaction. He’d actually spoken to you. He’d sounded like a complete idiot, but he’d spoken to you. He replayed the exchange in his head, dissecting every word, every glance, the shy tuck of your hair, the soft melody of your voice.

He took a long, shaky gulp of water, the coolness doing little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. He leaned back against the wall again, a goofy, starstruck grin slowly spreading across his face. Choi San, the charismatic performer known for his powerful stage presence and confident charm, was officially a flustered mess. And he had a distinct feeling that this brief backstage run-in was just the beginning of a much more complicated – and potentially exhilarating – chapter.

The weeks that followed the music show took on a surreal quality for both you and San. For you, the unexpected compliment from a senior idol, especially one as charismatic as San of Ateez, had been a pleasant surprise. You’d replayed the brief interaction in your mind a few times, a faint warmth spreading through you at the memory of his earnest, if slightly stammering, praise. You’d even found yourself looking up Ateez’s performances afterwards, a newfound curiosity piqued by his intense stage presence and the powerful dynamic of his group.

Then, the “bump-ins” began.

It started subtly. At the company cafeteria, you’d be mid-bite into your kimbap when you’d glance up to find Ateez at a nearby table, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. More often than not, your eyes would meet San’s, and he’d offer a quick, friendly smile, sometimes accompanied by a small wave. You’d offer a shy nod in return, a blush creeping up your neck.

At music show waiting rooms, their paths seemed to intersect with increasing frequency. He’d always find a reason to approach – a casual “Hey, Y/N-ssi, your performance today was great,” or a lighthearted comment about the chaos backstage. Once, he’d even complimented the unique design on your guitar strap, sparking a brief, slightly awkward but undeniably pleasant conversation about your musical influences.

You tried to rationalize it as coincidence, the inevitable overlap of schedules in the relatively small and interconnected idol world. But a persistent feeling, a delicate dance of anticipation and nervousness, began to bloom in your chest. Every time his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at you, a little spark ignited within you.

You found yourself paying more attention to your appearance on days you knew Ateez would be at the same events, and a nervous flutter would erupt in your stomach whenever you heard their distinct laughter echoing down the hallway.

San, on his end, was far from relying on mere chance. He’d become a surprisingly adept strategist, his internal radar constantly pinging for any sign of your presence. He’d casually inquire about your schedule from friendly staff members, linger a little longer near common areas he knew you sometimes frequented, like the practice room hallways or the studio lounges, and even subtly enlist the help of Wooyoung and Seonghwa to “casually” scout ahead.

His members, initially amused by his sudden, laser-like focus, were now exchanging knowing glances and offering increasingly unsubtle teases. “Looking for your sunshine again, San-ah?” Hongjoong had quipped one afternoon, earning him a playful shove.

Then came the official announcement that sent a genuine tremor of excitement through the industry: a special collaboration stage for the upcoming Golden Disc Awards. And your name was listed alongside Ateez. Specifically, the press release detailed a duet and a joint performance piece that would culminate in a powerful instrumental break featuring your guitar playing alongside Ateez’s signature dynamic energy. And the duet partner? Choi San.

A wave of surprise, quickly followed by a surge of nervous excitement that made your palms sweat, washed over you when your manager relayed the news. A collaboration with a group as globally recognized and incredibly talented as Ateez was a monumental opportunity, a chance to reach a wider audience. But the thought of working so intimately with San, the idol who had sparked this unexpected and rather persistent flutter in your heart, sent a different kind of thrill, a more personal and slightly dizzying sensation, through you.

Rehearsals began a week later, a whirlwind of choreography practices with Ateez’s formidable dance line, vocal run-throughs where your voices surprisingly blended with a unique harmony, and meticulous stage blocking sessions. The song was a powerful, emotionally charged ballad that built to an explosive instrumental bridge, perfectly designed to showcase both Ateez’s dramatic performance skills and your raw, emotive guitar prowess.

During these rehearsals, San’s attention was often, though not always overtly, fixed on you. It wasn’t the intense, unwavering gaze from the Gayo stage, but a softer, more curious observation. When you were carefully tuning Shadow before a run-through, the delicate movements of your fingers across the fretboard seemed to captivate him.

He’d lean against the wall, his usual playful banter momentarily silenced, his eyes following your every adjustment. Once, he’d even asked, his voice genuinely curious, “What tuning are you using for this song? It sounds… different.” You’d explained the drop-D tuning and how it lent a heavier feel to the lower register, and he’d listened intently, nodding thoughtfully.

Between takes, as you’d often hum the melody to yourself, lost in the intricacies of the arrangement, his gaze would linger on you, a soft, almost fond smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, he’d even hum along quietly, and you’d catch his eye, a shared moment of musical connection passing between you.

From his perspective, every small detail about you seemed to be etching itself into his memory. The way your brow would furrow in intense concentration as you worked out a particularly complex chord progression, the way you’d tap your foot rhythmically even when you weren’t playing, the small, almost imperceptible sigh you’d let out after a particularly demanding vocal section.

Even the subtle scent that seemed to perpetually surround you – a delicate blend of warm vanilla and a bright, refreshing citrus – became a comforting and uniquely yours sensory detail that he’d subconsciously started to associate with moments of quiet focus and unexpected smiles.

He started calling you “sunshine.” It began innocently enough, a casual remark during a particularly grueling rehearsal when you’d offered a quiet but encouraging word to a visibly tired Wooyoung. “You’re like sunshine, Y/N -ssi,” he’d said with a genuine smile, and the nickname had stuck.

He used it sparingly, mostly during lighter moments or when he wanted to offer encouragement. But the way your cheeks would instantly flush a delicate pink every time the nickname escaped his lips, the way your gaze would momentarily soften and then quickly dart away, told him it had a deeper, more personal impact.

You tried your best to maintain your professional composure, focusing intently on the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San and the precise timing required for your guitar solo within Ateez’s powerful choreography. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the warmth that spread through you every time San’s gaze lingered a little too long, or the way your heart did a little flip-flop whenever he offered you a genuine, encouraging smile, often accompanied by that endearing nickname.

His presence was a constant, gentle distraction, a warm current that made it harder to maintain your focus but also made the often-stressful rehearsal process feel surprisingly lighter, filled with stolen glances and unspoken understandings.

The tension between you was building, an invisible thread stretching taut with each shared rehearsal and fleeting interaction. It wasn’t just the pressure of the highly anticipated Golden Disc performance; it was the undeniable pull of mutual attraction, a silent conversation conducted through lingering glances, shy smiles, and the shared language of music.

You both knew something was subtly shifting, a delicate connection forming beneath the surface of polite professional interactions. The Golden Disc stage was looming, and with it, the tantalizing promise of a closer collaboration, and perhaps, something significantly more.

The exchange of phone numbers had been a purely practical affair, orchestrated with the efficiency of a military operation by your respective managers under the guise of “seamless rehearsal coordination” for the Golden Disc collaboration. Your contact list now held a new, somewhat official-sounding entry: “San (Ateez) 🎤.” You’d sent a polite introductory text confirming your number, a brief “Hi San-ssi, it’s Y/N. Got your number,” and he’d replied with a simple but friendly, “Got it! Looking forward to working with you, Y/N-ssi :)”. The initial exchange felt formal, almost anticlimactic, leaving you wondering if that would be the extent of your direct communication outside of rehearsals.

However, as the intense rehearsal schedule for the Golden Disc Awards kicked into high gear, the need for direct communication occasionally and organically arose. A last-minute change in the choreography blocking that affected your stage positioning, a question from San about the specific tone you were aiming for during the instrumental break, a quick confirmation needed on shared wardrobe elements to ensure visual harmony on stage.

These exchanges were usually brief and strictly professional, yet each notification that popped up on your screen displaying San’s name still elicited a subtle, almost involuntary quickening of your pulse, a tiny flutter of anticipation that you tried to suppress.

Then came the night after a particularly grueling full dress rehearsal that had stretched late into the evening. You were finally back in the quiet solitude of your dorm room, the distant hum of the city lights painting faint, blurry streaks across your ceiling.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, your mind still buzzing with the complex choreography, the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San, and the soaring melody of the collaboration song that had been looping in your head for hours. You’d changed into comfortable pajamas and were mindlessly scrolling through social media on your phone, a familiar and usually effective way to unwind before sleep claimed you, when your phone vibrated with a new message.

The contact name displayed brightly on your screen read “San (Ateez) 🎤.” Your thumb hovered over the notification for a long moment, a strange and unfamiliar mix of anticipation, nervousness, and a touch of something akin to excitement swirling within you. It was late; you hadn’t expected to hear from him.

San (1:03 am): Were you nervous that night? At the Gayo. You didn’t look it at all. Like you owned that stage from the moment you stepped on it.

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. He was thinking about your debut stage again. It felt like a lifetime ago in the whirlwind of the past few months, yet the memory of the intense spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and the raw, unfiltered energy of your music was still incredibly vivid. You hesitated for a moment before replying, carefully considering your words, unsure of how much vulnerability to reveal.

You (1:04 am): Terrified. Honestly. My palms were sweating so much I thought I might drop Shadow. I just didn’t want to screw up on such a big stage, especially as a relatively new face.

Your reply felt honest, stripped of the cool, composed confidence you consciously projected on stage. You wondered if he’d find it surprising, perhaps even disappointing, that the seemingly fearless guitarist had been battling a storm of nerves underneath.

His response came almost immediately, the speed of it making you smile again.

San (1:04 am): Seriously? You were incredible. You commanded that stage like it was your own. The way you moved, the way you connected with the music… and that guitar solo… still gives me chills every time I watch it. You have such a unique energy.

A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest at his words. It was different from the polite, often generic compliments you usually received from industry colleagues. There was a genuine enthusiasm and a keen observation in his message that felt… real and deeply validating.

San (1:05 am): Next time you’re on a big stage like that, I’m cheering for you from the front row. Promise. I’ll even bring a giant banner with your name on it!! :}

Your heart did a little unexpected flutter at that playful promise. A promise from Choi San, delivered in the quiet intimacy of a late-night text message. You typed out a simple “Thank you :]” but deleted it, feeling it was far too inadequate to express the warmth that was blossoming within you.

You (1:06 am): That means a lot, San-ssi. Really. It’s… reassuring to hear that.

The late-night texts slowly but surely became a more regular, almost anticipated occurrence. They were often initiated by San, usually after both of your demanding schedules had finally wound down for the day, when the rest of the bustling idol world seemed to have finally fallen silent.

They talked about everything and nothing – the unique pressures and unexpected joys of being an idol, their individual musical tastes and surprising shared interests in obscure indie artists, funny and sometimes slightly embarrassing anecdotes from their respective days.

You found yourself genuinely looking forward to these digital exchanges, the quiet intimacy of sharing your thoughts and feelings with someone who seemed to genuinely understand the unique and often isolating pressures you faced in the industry.

San was surprisingly easy to talk to, his digital persona mirroring the warm and playful energy he exuded in person, but with an added layer of thoughtful curiosity. His texts were often punctuated with a liberal use of playful emojis and genuine, insightful questions.

He’d delve into your songwriting process, asking about your lyrical inspirations and the emotions you aimed to convey through your music. He even remembered the name of your guitar, Shadow, and would occasionally ask about it, curious about its history and your connection to it.

You found yourself opening up to him in a way you hadn’t with many others in the industry, the relative anonymity and unspoken understanding of the late-night messages creating a safe and comfortable space for vulnerability.

One particularly hectic afternoon, in the midst of a chaotic day of back-to-back schedules that included a radio interview and a photoshoot, your phone buzzed with a picture message from San. Your initial thought was that it was probably another funny meme his members had sent him.

But when you opened it, your breath hitched slightly. It was a selfie of him, looking slightly tired but grinning broadly, his dark hair a little tousled, holding up a piece of slightly crumpled white paper. Scrawled on it in playful, slightly uneven lettering, adorned with a few charmingly crooked doodles, were the words: “Team Y/N”. He’d even drawn a little stick figure playing a guitar next to your name, its shape endearingly lopsided.

A genuine, unguarded smile bloomed on your face, chasing away some of the day’s accumulated stress. You quickly saved the picture to a private album in your gallery, tucking it away amongst your personal photos, a secret little treasure.

Every now and then, when the relentless pressures of the industry felt particularly overwhelming or isolating, you’d find yourself subconsciously scrolling through your gallery and stumbling upon that silly, heartfelt selfie, and a wave of unexpected warmth and quiet support would wash over you, a tangible reminder of the connection you were slowly building. The late-night whispers in the digital darkness were undeniably weaving a delicate but strengthening thread of something special and undeniably personal between you and Choi San.

--

The Golden Disc Awards ceremony was a blur of flashing lights, roaring applause, and the nervous energy that permeated every corner of the massive venue. Your collaboration stage with Ateez had been a resounding success.

The ballad, initially a gentle blend of your vocals and San’s, had built in intensity, culminating in the powerful instrumental break where your guitar solo intertwined seamlessly with Ateez’s dynamic performance. The crowd had been captivated, a sea of glowing lightsticks swaying in unison.

Backstage, the atmosphere was electric with post-performance adrenaline. You exchanged exhausted but exhilarated smiles with the Ateez members, a sense of shared accomplishment hanging in the air. San’s eyes had met yours a few times amidst the congratulatory chaos, a soft, knowing smile passing between you that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

As the evening progressed, and the awards ceremony moved onto other performances and announcements, the opportunity for a private moment felt increasingly elusive. Yet, a silent understanding seemed to exist between you and San, a shared desire to acknowledge the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface of rehearsals and late-night texts.

Finally, during a brief intermission, amidst the flurry of idols heading to the refreshment areas or making quick phone calls, San caught your eye from across the bustling backstage corridor. He offered a subtle nod towards a less-trafficked hallway leading towards the emergency exits, a silent invitation.

Your heart skipped a beat. You made a quick excuse to your manager about needing some fresh air and followed him, your steps light with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

The hallway was dimly lit and blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos you’d just escaped. San was leaning against the cool wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his stylish stage jacket. He looked up as you approached, his usual playful energy replaced by a soft, almost vulnerable expression.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You fiddled with the hem of your dress, your gaze fixed on the patterned carpet.

“That was… incredible,” you murmured, breaking the silence, the adrenaline of the performance still coursing through you. “Thank you for… for everything during rehearsals. It was amazing working with you all.”

San pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. “The pleasure was all ours, Y/N-ah. Your playing… it added a whole other dimension to the song.” He paused, then his voice softened. “But you know… tonight… when we were performing…”

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question in your eyes.

You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling both inevitable and terrifying to voice, “You weren’t looking at the audience tonight, San-ssi. Not really. You were looking at me.”

A soft, almost shy smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made your heart do that familiar little flip. He took another step closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah, I was. And you’re right.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. “That’s… that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your hand, sending a jolt of electricity through you. He didn’t take your hand fully, but the light touch was enough.

“From the moment I saw you on that Gayo stage,” he continued, his voice earnest and sincere, “there was something… I don’t know. Something about your passion, your talent… it just… it hit me. Hard.” He chuckled softly, a nervous sound. “And then getting to know you during rehearsals, those late-night texts… it just confirmed what I was already starting to feel.”

He finally met your gaze fully, his eyes filled with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. “I… I really like you, [Your Stage Name]-ah. A lot. And I know this is probably crazy, especially with our careers and everything… but I wanted to be honest with you. I want to give this a real shot. If… if you’re okay with it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the gentle touch of his fingers, the vulnerability in his eyes – it all washed over you, confirming the feelings that had been quietly blossoming in your own heart. The late-night conversations, the stolen glances during rehearsals, the unexpected warmth of his attention – it had all pointed to this moment.

A soft smile bloomed on your own lips, mirroring his. You finally laced your fingers through his, your touch tentative but firm.

“San-ssi,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, “I… I like you too. A lot more than I probably should.” You took a deep breath, your gaze locked with his. “I was… I was falling too.”

A wave of relief washed over his face, his grip on your hand tightening gently. The quiet hallway suddenly felt like the only place in the world, the hushed silence amplifying the unspoken emotions that hung between you. In that dimly lit space, amidst the whirlwind of the idol world, a new chapter had quietly begun.

The initial secrecy of your relationship with San was a fragile, precious thing. It thrived in the quiet moments, in the stolen glances across crowded rooms, and the coded language of late-night texts. Small, tangible tokens of affection became your secret communication.

Notes, folded into impossibly small squares, would appear nestled amongst the strings of Shadow, San’s playful handwriting a stark contrast to the serious intent of his sweet messages. Bubble teas, delivered with a knowing smile by a staff member who’d clearly been briefed, were a small, sweet rebellion against the demands of your schedules. You, in turn, would leave little gifts in Ateez’s studio, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that was growing stronger with each passing day.

But the digital world offered no true sanctuary. The leaked photo, blurry and taken from a distance, was enough to shatter the illusion of privacy. Two figures, walking hand-in-hand under the dim glow of a streetlamp – San’s unmistakable silhouette, your smaller frame – were all it took to ignite the internet.

The explosion was immediate and brutal. Comment sections became battlegrounds, initial curiosity quickly morphing into a torrent of negativity. Accusations of using San for fame were rampant, your talent dismissed, your worth questioned. “She’s just a leech!” one comment screamed. “Riding on Ateez’s success!”

The rigid expectations of idol life fueled the fire. “A rookie dating? Unbelievable!” another user fumed. “She should be focused on her career, not boys!” The attacks grew increasingly personal, descending into cruel insults about your appearance and unfounded rumors about your character. “She’s so plain,” one anonymous commenter sneered. “No wonder she has to cling to someone famous.”

Yet, in the face of this online onslaught, your fans stood firm. They defended your talent, your hard work, your right to a private life. “Leave her alone! She’s an amazing artist!” their voices echoed across the digital space. Surprisingly, a significant number of ATINYs joined their ranks, their support for San extending to his personal happiness. “If San is happy, we should be happy for him,” one ATINY wrote, a sentiment that resonated with many.

Despite this unwavering support, the sheer volume of hate was overwhelming. The negativity seeped into the real world. Your company’s social media was flooded with abusive messages. Your manager’s phone rang non-stop with angry calls.

Then came the chilling delivery. A stark white box. Inside, funeral flowers – white chrysanthemums. A typed note, its words a venomous threat, a stark warning to stay away from San.

The sight of those flowers, a tangible manifestation of such intense hatred, sent a cold wave of fear through you. The joy of your new relationship was instantly poisoned.

San, who had been watching the online storm with growing fury, finally snapped when he learned about the funeral flowers. The image of those stark white blooms, the direct threat against you, ignited a protective rage. He couldn't stand by while you were subjected to such vicious malice.

The playful, loving man you were falling for was momentarily consumed by a fierce, unwavering determination to shield you from the darkness that had descended upon you.

The notification popped up on countless screens simultaneously: “ATEEZ San is live.” Within seconds, the number of viewers skyrocketed. Fans, still reeling from the leaked photo and the ensuing chaos, flooded the chat with questions and worried emojis. San’s lives were usually energetic, filled with playful banter and updates on Ateez’s activities. This felt different.

The camera focused on San’s face, his expression uncharacteristically serious, his eyes holding a raw intensity that made viewers instantly fall silent. He was in what looked like a quiet corner of their dorm, the usual playful clutter noticeably absent. He took a deep breath, his gaze steady and direct.

“Atinys,” he began, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that commanded attention. “And… everyone else who is watching.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the unseen viewers. “Over the past few days, there has been a lot of… speculation and negativity online. Regarding the recent photos that were circulated.”

He didn’t name you directly, but everyone knew who he was talking about. The chat, which had been a torrent of messages moments before, slowed to a crawl, a collective holding of breath.

“I usually try to keep my personal life private,” San continued, his voice firm. “But the level of hate and maliciousness that has been directed towards… someone I care deeply about… it cannot be ignored.”

His jaw tightened. “So, I want to be clear about a few things. Firstly, the hateful comments, the personal attacks, the threats… they have gone too far. My company, KQ Entertainment, is already collecting evidence, and if this does not stop immediately, we will be taking strict legal action against those responsible. This is not a request; it is a warning.”

A hush fell over the internet. The mention of legal action, especially from a company known for its protective stance towards its artists, was a serious deterrent.

San’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Secondly,” he continued, his voice dropping a notch, becoming more personal. “I have seen a lot of unfair accusations being thrown around. Especially towards… her.”

He paused again, taking another deep breath. “So, let me be absolutely clear on this. She did not pursue me. She did not initiate anything. If anyone is to blame for… for us… it is me. I was the one who was captivated from the moment I saw her on stage. I was the one who sought her out. She didn’t confess; I did.”

The impact of his words was palpable. The narrative that had been so viciously constructed online, painting you as an opportunistic rookie, crumbled in an instant.

San’s expression hardened again, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. “Finally,” he said, his voice ringing with conviction. “The person you are all attacking… she is not some fantasy you have created in your minds. She is not some character in a story. She is a real person. She has feelings, she has dreams, she has worked incredibly hard to get where she is.”

He looked directly into the camera, his gaze unwavering. “And yes,” he stated, his voice firm and resolute, each word carrying weight. “She is mine.”

The internet seemed to hold its breath. The usual rapid-fire commentary in the live chat was replaced by a stunned silence. San’s raw honesty, his direct address of the hate, and his unequivocal declaration had landed like a shockwave.

Slowly, tentatively, the tide began to turn. The sheer force of his statement, coupled with the explicit threat of legal action, had a chilling effect. The most vicious hate comments began to subside, replaced by more cautious and uncertain messages. The fear of facing legal repercussions started to outweigh the anonymity and perceived impunity of online hate.

The narrative had shifted, propelled by San’s unwavering defense of the person he loved. The silence on the internet was heavy, pregnant with the aftermath of his words, and the dawning realization that they had crossed a line they might now have to answer for.

The moment San ended the live stream, the adrenaline that had coursed through him began to recede, leaving behind a raw ache of anxiety. Had he said too much? Had he made things worse for you? The uncertainty gnawed at him as he practically sprinted out of the dorm, his members watching with a mixture of concern and understanding. He didn't offer any explanations, his only focus was getting to you.

The drive to your dorm felt like an eternity. Every red light, every slow-moving car, amplified his fear. He imagined you alone, facing the fallout of the scandal, the weight of the hate, and now, the potential repercussions of his public declaration. He cursed himself for not being there sooner, for not being able to shield you from any of it.

Finally, he reached your building, his heart pounding in his chest. He practically flew up the stairs to your floor, his knuckles rapping urgently against your door. Every second felt like a lifetime.

The door creaked open, and there you stood. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and your face was pale, but the sight of him seemed to bring a flicker of relief. Before either of you could speak, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce protectiveness. He held you so close he could feel the tremor that ran through your body.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry for all of this.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Your own voice was muffled against his jacket as you finally spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, San-ah,” you whispered, your words catching on a sob. “You… you didn’t cause this.”

The dam of your carefully held emotions finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, hot and heavy against his shirt. The fear, the anger, the exhaustion of the past few days – it all poured out in a torrent of silent weeping.

He held you tighter, his hand stroking your hair soothingly. He didn’t try to stop your tears; he simply held you, offering a silent reassurance, a solid presence in your moment of vulnerability. He knew words were inadequate. What you needed was comfort, understanding, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.

He held you like that for a long time, until your sobs gradually subsided, leaving behind a quiet hiccuping. He gently pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with a deep tenderness. He brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You managed a small, shaky nod. “Just… scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling you back into his embrace. “I know. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed with you that night. You didn’t talk much, the silence filled with a comfortable understanding, a shared exhaustion. He held you close on your small couch, his presence a warm and reassuring weight. Sleep eventually claimed you both, a fragile peace found in each other’s arms amidst the wreckage of the scandal.

The aftermath of San’s live stream was a strange mix of relief and lingering tension. The most vitriolic hate comments online did indeed slow down, replaced by a hesitant uncertainty. The fear of legal action had cast a pall over the most aggressive antis. However, the underlying prejudice and negativity hadn’t vanished entirely.

In the days and weeks that followed, healing became a slow, deliberate process. You leaned on each other, finding strength in your shared experience. San was a constant source of support, his presence a quiet reassurance that helped to soothe your frayed nerves. You talked, tentatively at first, then more openly, sharing your fears and anxieties. He listened without judgment, offering comfort and unwavering support.

Your company, emboldened by San’s public stance and the threat of legal action, stepped up their efforts to protect you, increasing security and actively pursuing legal avenues against the most egregious offenders. The storm hadn't completely passed, but the intensity had lessened, a fragile calm beginning to settle in its wake. The healing had begun, nurtured by the quiet strength of your connection.

--

Eleven months. The memory of the scandal’s harsh glare had begun to soften around the edges, like a photograph left in the sun. In its place bloomed a quiet resilience, a steadfast focus on the music that truly defined you. The songs you’d poured your heart into during those months of healing, each note and lyric a testament to your journey, were finally seeing the light.

Your new album, a collection of melodies that whispered of romance and longing, resonated with a global audience in a way that surpassed all expectations. The vulnerability and emotions in your voice, the delicate arrangements, the raw honesty of your lyrics – they spoke a universal language of the heart. Fans, who had witnessed the subtle shifts in your music and your demeanor, intuitively understood the quiet inspiration woven into each track.

You watched, a profound sense of gratitude washing over you, as your album soared up international charts, your name now synonymous with a unique blend of idol charm and genuine musical artistry. The label of “rookie guitarist” had faded, replaced by the recognition of a rising star, your music captivating hearts across continents.

Throughout this whirlwind of success, San remained your unwavering anchor, your most enthusiastic supporter. His encouragement was a constant, a quiet strength that buoyed you through every demanding schedule and nerve-wracking performance. He’d be the first to text after a show, his messages a flurry of emojis and heartfelt praise. The Ateez dorm often echoed with your new tracks, his members offering good-natured teases while secretly humming along to the catchy melodies.

And when your solo concerts began, San made sure he was there. He’d often slip into the venue unnoticed, a face in the crowd, his gaze never leaving you as you commanded the stage. From the shadows, his phone would capture fleeting moments – the intense concentration etched on your face during a complex guitar solo, the radiant smile that bloomed when the audience sang your lyrics back to you, the sheer joy that radiated from you as you connected with your fans through your music. His phone gallery became a secret testament to your talent and the pride he felt.

One night, after an electrifying concert in Las Vegas, the energy between you and the roaring audience a tangible force, San felt an overwhelming wave of love and admiration. He wanted the world to know the depth of his feelings, the sheer luck he felt in having you in his life.

Back in his hotel room, the glittering cityscape spread out before him, he scrolled through the candid shots he’d taken that night. He selected a few that truly captured your essence – the focused intensity in your eyes as you played, the pure joy in your laughter as you interacted with the crowd, your silhouette a powerful presence against the vibrant stage lights.

He opened his public Instagram account, his thumb hovering over the share button. He wanted to express his feelings honestly, openly, for all to see. Finally, he typed a caption, his heart laid bare:

“Watching you shine so brightly tonight, Y/N, fills me with a happiness I can barely describe. Your talent is breathtaking, your passion is infectious, and the way you connect with everyone who hears your music is truly magical. I feel incredibly lucky, every single day, to have you in my life. You inspire me endlessly. ❤️🎸”

He attached the soft, candid photos, a public declaration of his love and admiration. The post went live, and the internet responded with an outpouring of warmth and support. Fans, who had long sensed the depth of your connection, were touched by his heartfelt words and the genuine pride that shone through.

The image of the charismatic idol so openly celebrating his partner resonated deeply, solidifying their perception of your relationship as a source of strength and inspiration. The rise of your star was no longer just your own triumph; it was a shared journey, a testament to the enduring power of love that had weathered the storm and now shone brightly for the world to witness.

--

The relentless pace of idol life often blurred into a continuous cycle of performances, recordings, and travel. But tucked away in the quiet corners of their shared apartment, a haven carved out amidst the chaos, existed a different reality – a space where the bright lights faded and the masks came off.

Tonight was one of those nights. You were curled up on the plush couch, a worn paperback novel open in your lap, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp. San’s oversized hoodie swallowed your small frame, the sleeves pulled down over your hands. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, secured with a stray hair tie, and your glasses rested on the bridge of your nose, your makeup-free skin looking soft and natural. You were completely absorbed in your book, oblivious to the world outside and the adoring gaze fixed upon you.

San, who had been quietly tinkering with some music equipment across the room, paused, his eyes drawn to the picture of domestic bliss you presented. A soft smile touched his lips. He reached for his phone, snapping a quick, candid photo of you, your brow furrowed in concentration as you turned a page.

Without a word, he opened his phone settings and set the photo as his wallpaper, a private reminder of the quiet joy you brought to his life. You remained engrossed in your book, completely unaware of his silent adoration and the new image gracing his phone screen.

A mischievous glint suddenly sparked in San’s eyes. He moved silently towards the couch, a playful grin spreading across his face. In one swift motion, he scooped you up in his arms, lifting you with surprising ease.

“San!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in surprise as you were suddenly airborne. The book tumbled to the floor, landing with a soft thud.

He carried you the few steps to the bedroom, his grin widening with each flustered protest you made. “Operation: Relocate the Bookworm!” he declared in a mock-heroic voice. With a playful grunt, he gently tossed you onto the soft mattress.

You landed with a soft bounce, your glasses askew, your heart hammering in your chest. You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh my god, San, I’m a virgin I don’t think you’ll fit—”

San froze mid-chuckle, his playful expression instantly morphing into one of utter shock. He stood there, a statue of bewildered surprise, his mouth slightly agape, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by your slightly panicked breathing. Then, a slow dawning of realization crossed San’s face, followed by a flicker of something akin to amusement struggling to break through the surprise.

“…I was trying to cuddle?” he finally managed, his voice a hesitant whisper, a bewildered question mark hanging in the air. He even gestured vaguely with his hands, as if demonstrating the concept of a platonic embrace.

Another beat of silence. Your eyes widened further, the color rising in your cheeks as the full implication of your utterly mortifying statement hit you. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

San’s eyebrows shot up even higher. “…Wait,” he said slowly, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. “You’ve never—?” He trailed off, a slow, knowing smile starting to play on his lips.

Your face flushed a deep, uncontrollable crimson. You became a flustered mess of tangled limbs and stammered denials. “NO! I mean… I’m waiting… I—ugh! This is so unbelievably embarrassing! Can we just… can we just forget I said anything?” You buried your face in the pillows, mortified beyond words.

A soft chuckle rumbled in San’s chest, a sound that held genuine amusement but also a surprising tenderness. He gently sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to carefully pull you into his arms. You kept your face hidden, your cheeks burning like twin embers.

“Hey, sunshine,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s okay. Really. There’s absolutely no pressure, no expectations. You take all the time you need, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He held you close, his arms a comforting and reassuring embrace. He kissed your temple again, a lingering, tender gesture.

A playful smirk tugged at his lips, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “But,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement, “I am definitely teasing you about this forever. You know that, right? Like, for the rest of our lives.”

You groaned into his chest, but a small, reluctant smile finally broke through your embarrassment. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” you mumbled, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, I would dare,” he said, his chuckle deepening. “In fact, I’m already planning the anniversary celebrations for ‘The Night Sunshine Thought I Wouldn’t Fit.’” He punctuated his words with a playful squeeze.

You swatted playfully at his arm, your face still buried in his chest. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” he countered, his voice full of mirth. “Especially the look on your face. Priceless. I should have taken a picture.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can? For posterity?” He made a mock attempt to reach for his phone.

You tightened your grip on his hoodie. “Don’t you even think about it, Choi San.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. “Alright, alright. My lips are sealed… for now. But just so you know, the next time we’re cuddling, and you look even remotely tense…” He trailed off suggestively, raising a playful eyebrow.

You playfully punched his arm again, a giggle escaping despite your lingering embarrassment. “You are the worst.”

“The worst… but you love me,” he finished, nuzzling his face into your hair.

You sighed contentedly, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last vestiges of your mortification. “Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his chest.

“See? Admitted it,” he teased triumphantly. “Now, about that book you were reading… maybe we can cuddle and just read?” He emphasized the word “just” with a playful wink that you couldn’t see but could definitely feel in his tone.

You finally lifted your head, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “Maybe,” you said, leaning into him. “But if you even think about bringing up the ‘fitting’ thing again…”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it… for at least five minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was a testament to the comfortable, playful love that defined your quiet moments together, even the hilariously awkward ones. In the safe haven of their shared home, amidst the endless teasing and the deep, unwavering affection, their unique and tender story continued to unfold, one laugh, one cuddle, and one mortifyingly iconic misunderstanding at a time.

-- The end <33

[14dayswithyou]

I beg of you please, PLEASE, a CRUMB of soft/fluff [REDACTED] content p le a se

I just wanna- I just- I wanna- hhhhhhnnnnghh-

(sorry i’ve gone absolutely bonkers, feel free to ignore this!)

⌞♥⌝ I got a bit angsty at the end with this one, sowwie

"That's it. Now move your hand here." With the utmost gentility, your beloved hacker moves your fingers along the fretboard until it's in the correct spot. "Just like that."

He gives you enough space to strum the guitar yourself, though his chin doesn't seem to move from its spot on your shoulder. Cold, blue eyes peer down with a look of pride in them as you fumble around with the strings, and [REDACTED] pays no notice whenever you mess up a note or rush through the tempo. Instead, he gives you an encouraging nod of his head and steadily taps your thigh in an attempt to keep you in time with the rhythm.

Soon enough, [REDACTED]'s bedroom is filled with a soft melody, and you beam up at your partner with a wide, accomplished grin on your face.

"Here," Leaning back into the warmth of his chest, you shift the guitar in your shared laps so that [REDACTED] can easily reach over to grab it. "Why don't you play something for me now?"

A look of genuine consideration pulls at their features before they take you up on your offer — gently pulling you and the guitar closer to his chest before peering over your shoulder once more.

It must've been second nature with how easily his fingers fall into place, and before long, the immediate sound of a soft, haunting song starts to fill the once-empty silence once more. Although you weren't able to see his expression, you could tell that [REDACTED] had found their flow state with the steady rise and fall of his chest, as well as how languid their grip on the instrument seemed to be.

After what feels like hours, his melancholic song soon comes to a slow stop — until the only noises left are your shared breathing and the quiet hum of your partner's PC in the background.

"I used t'play that song for my sister when we were younger." He muses, "It used t'calm her down whenever—"

Almost suddenly, you feel [REDACTED] adjust his position from behind you before his grip on the guitar returns. "Here, d'you wanna learn something else? Why don't I teach you another easy riff?"

[hipatti-fante]

Installing Frets on Your Guitar with Profession by Fante

[noctunis]

hi love!! i saw that your requests are open and im here to help🫡

can i request some red dead headcanons/blurbs? maybe what their affection/kisses are like? arthur, john, javier and charles are my pookies (especially charles oh my god i love him so so much) but i would love to hear your thoughts on anybody really!!

hope you’re doing well <3

AFFECTIONATE - VAN DER LINDE BOYS

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ notes - for some reason i cannot post rdr2 with my manga headers or cutesy pink dividers it feels so off to me i have no idea why 😭 but thank you for sending this request in, i love it sooo much!’ it’s nice to see another charles lover in this fandom lolol— you take care as well!! 🫶

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ warnings - mentions of injuries in kieran’s and charles, kisses and kissing (?), hispanic!reader / spanish speaking!reader in mind for javier’s, intended lowercase, alcohol and drinking in sean’s, lmk if i missed anything!! 🫶

ARTHUR MORGAN who will put calloused hands around your waist when you’re alone in your tent at night, burrowing his nose in your hair as he lays behind you. you can smell his musk, the scent of the outdoors and faded linen, as it clings onto you with its tight grip and lingers. you don’t mind though, and neither does arthur; simply basking in your warmth as the crickets chirp in harmony with your soft exhales.

“‘ve missed you.” you say, your right hand crawling to interlock itself with his own draped over your waist as it fiddles with the soft skin there.

“missed y’too, darlin’.” you can feel his chest rumble with his voice, tone deep and gravelly from the lack of use. you let your eyes close as you savored the feeling of his hands caressing the small chub that gathered itself in his hands when he squished too much. you would give anything to have moments like these with arthur whenever you could.

JOHN MARSTON who’ll scoff as you pressed kisses along his face, sitting on his lap as the campfire graced your bodies with its warm glow. his affections held a more stand-offish tone to them but on the off occasional that he got a little too tipsy, you could never pry him off of you.

“if i’d’a known any better, i’d have thought you was in love wit’ me,” he huffed. regardless of his dumb comments, his hands never failed to find their way upon the dips of your hips, rubbing circles over the fabric of your clothes.

you bumped your head into his head as he chuckled, raspy voice rumbling throughout his chest as you halted your kisses and instead rested your head on his shoulder. your foot, bare and tapping against the ground in tune with the distant strums of javier’s guitar and karen’s drunken singing kept you grounded — kept you remembering that this was real, this was all real; and you were alive.

“why? you complainin’?”

you felt john’s cheeks widen with his grin. “naw,” was all he said.

two things that JAVIER ESCUELLA cherished most in this world were family and freedom; and he knew that he felt at peace knowing he had both of these things in that moment. you by his side, as neither of you had a care in the world. the sun glimmered and lazed around, taking its place on your backs and replacing the cool, dawn air with its heat. affection with javier is passionate and it’s scary, you never know what you’ll get or suffer the next day but it doesn’t matter — you persevere knowing you’ll find home in his arms a night more, you’ll live long enough to seek refuge and if you died in the process; it’d be okay knowing you died with who you loved.

deft fingers came to slide up and down the wooden fretboard along with his other hand plucking on the strings. you hadn’t realized you’d been staring until he peeked one eye open from under his bowler hat, a teasing smirk on his face as he mumbled, “no me miras con esos ojos, corazón.”

you rolled your eyes, “que quieres decir, javi?”

he hummed, he knew you knew what he meant — and you knew that he knew. but for now, you’d continue to stare, admiring your beloved that sat so prettily on that log; simply playing his guitar. he had his freedom, and he had his family right here.

loud laughs erupted from the obnoxious irishman known as SEAN MACGUIRE, a jug of alcohol in his hand and his darling in the other.

“i’m tellin’ ya, luckiest man alive—! they said they loved me, can y’believe it?” his accent only got thicker by the minute as he raved to everybody that walked by about how you had suddenly professed your love once more as you two sat on the barrel circling the rounded, wooden table. you smacked his arm to which he let out a rasping cackle. “shut up, will you?”

“ah, never. y’know ya love me,” he puckered his lips dramatically as you scoffed. giving him a chaste kiss, he groaned as you pulled away too quick before you went in deeper, seeing his eyes widen in shock before yours fluttered closed. he laughed out the side of his mouth before his hand, ever so gentle, buried itself in your hair. sean was a loud lover, one you’d typically be embarrassed by — but that only meant he loved you more than anything. a drunk man’s words is a sober man’s thoughts and he had you on his mind all the time.

CHARLES SMITH who’ll treat your wounds silently, as he always did except this time would be different. a tense silence would fill your tent other than murmured hisses and apologies due to the peroxide and other various natural remedies he preserved for your care. charles would always keep a level head, warning you not to go on jobs that micah would egg you on yet charles would always wait for you to return.

he never said anything during these times, charles loved silently. instead of telling you he loved you every second or having you on his lap like others, he’d bring you a trinket you remembered wanting from a storefront window or he’d take you out hunting with him; teaching you how to properly set up bait ( not in the reckless way that sean or bill would attempt to mansplain about ). he’d take care of you and he’d listen to you. so when you’d gasp and bite your fist from how badly he had to stitch your leg up, his hand would grab yours and bring it down to rest on your thigh — intertwining fingers as his thumb grazed over the crescent shaped marks your teeth left.

you really did love KIERAN DUFFY, seeing the way he’d try to puff his chest out when the guys at camp would look at you when really, he’d get all shy and blushy when you babied him. he wasn’t so used to this sorta thing, you know, relationships. everybody in camp looked at you like you were crazy, but they knew better than to tell that to you ( or him ), knowing they’d only get an earful from you about how sweet kieran really was.

you’d dress his wounds and in return, you’d find your horse prepped and groomed all pretty in the mornings — already fed and provided with water. and when you’d ask arthur or tilly, they’d always shrug and say, “must be that o’driscoll boy.”

you treated him with care, like no one had ever had, and that was the greatest gift in itself to kieran. he saw you as an angel, he’d even try telling you sometimes although backtracking a bit just to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. kieran duffy’s affection was careful and nervous, stiff gestures presented to you although all of his worries melted away once he heard your sweet laugh. he didn’t know much about this stuff but that was okay, he’d learn just for you.

𐙚 taglist ; @ch3rryfiles @maskedteaser

𐙚 requests are closed — june twenty eighth, 2024

[kryllia]

Strings of Obsession

Yanndere guitarist x reader

art from pinterest

The spotlight bathed the stage in a warm glow, illuminating the band as they launched into their opening number. My eyes were drawn to the lead guitarist, his fingers dancing across the fretboard with effortless grace. He was a whirlwind of energy, his grin infectious as he poured his heart into every note. When his eyes met mine across the crowd, he faltered—just for a moment. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before his smile grew sharper, almost predatory.

His name was Eli. After the set, he approached me with a mix of boyish enthusiasm and something darker. “Did you like it? Did you have a favorite part?” he asked, his golden eyes locking onto mine like a hunter cornering prey. There was a magnetic pull to him, and I felt myself nodding along, unable to look away.

Over the next few months, Eli wove himself into my life with deliberate precision. He invited me to every gig, insisting I sit front and center. He’d send me voice memos of riffs he wrote “just for me” and pouted if I took too long to reply to his texts. It was flattering… but it was intense.

One evening, after a performance that left the room thrumming with energy, Eli dragged me to their cramped rehearsal space. The air was thick with the smell of old amps and cigarette smoke, and I perched on a sagging couch as they played. Every time Eli nailed a solo, he’d glance at me, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Did you hear that? All for you,” he whispered, his voice dripping with unspoken meaning.

His bandmates – Liam on bass and Noah on drums – teased him relentlessly. “Dude, you’re gonna write her a whole album,” Liam snorted, strumming his bass absentmindedly.

Eli didn’t deny it. Instead, his eyes glinted as he looked at me. “Maybe I already have.”

"Oh good maybe it will be new hit dude. Maybe I can add some my own love songs." Noah thinks about new album and watching you.

Later that night, as he walked me home, his arm draped possessively around my shoulders, a group of guys passed us on the sidewalk. One of them lingered a moment too long, his gaze sliding over me appreciatively. Eli’s grip tightened, his knuckles brushing against my arm in a silent warning.

“You’re cold,” he said abruptly, slipping his jacket over my shoulders. His voice was low, almost tender, “You look better in this than I do,” he murmured, but his eyes stayed locked on the group until they disappeared around the corner.

From then on, Eli’s possessiveness deepened. If someone at a gig so much as smiled at me, he’d appear at my side, his arm around my waist, announcing himself as “her boyfriend” in a tone that left no room for debate. He’d kiss my temple, murmur how much I meant to him, and shoot venomous glares at anyone who dared linger.

One night, after a particularly packed show, Liam offered me a ride home while Eli packed his gear. As I started to follow Liam out, Eli appeared in my path, his expression dark.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice low and taut.

“Liam offered me a ride,” I said, confused by his sudden tension.

“I’ll take you home,” he said flatly. His hand clamped around mine with a strength that made my heart stutter. Liam raised his eyebrows but didn’t protest, leaving me alone with Eli’s smoldering presence.

The walk was tense, Eli unusually quiet. When we reached my doorstep, he turned to me, his expression raw with emotion. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” His voice was low, trembling. “Promise me you’ll always stay with me.”

The words didn’t feel like a plea—they felt like a threat.

Days later, Eli invited me to his apartment. It was cluttered but cozy, an intimate window into his chaotic world. But when he led me into his bedroom, my breath caught. The walls weren’t just covered in posters of bands—they were covered in pictures of me.

Photos I didn’t remember posing for. Photos from angles I couldn’t have noticed. Some were printed from my social media, but others… others were taken when I wasn’t looking.

“I wanted to keep you close,” he said, his voice soft but laced with something unyielding. He stepped closer, cupping my face with calloused hands. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Say you’re mine.”

I stammered something, my mind racing for an escape. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Over the following weeks, Eli became omnipresent. He’d appear at places I hadn’t told him I’d be. His texts came in waves—affectionate, frantic, demanding. His gifts became lavish: jewelry, custom-written songs, a notebook filled with sketches of me.

Then came the darker moments. His frustration when I spent time with others. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes when he saw me with Liam.

The breaking point came one night at a café. Liam and I were discussing a project when Eli walked in. His presence was like a shadow overtaking the room. He slid into a chair uninvited, his gaze fixed on Liam with quiet menace.

Liam left quickly, leaving me alone with Eli’s simmering anger. “Why him?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

“We were just working—”

“You could’ve asked me to help,” he interrupted, leaning closer. His hand found mine, his grip vice-like. “I don’t like sharing you.”

When I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened. “Eli, you’re hurting me,” I whispered.

His face crumpled in remorse, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t fade. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I just… I love you so much. Too much, maybe.”

That night, I received a text from him: “You’re mine. I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

The next morning, I woke to find my apartment filled with roses. Hundreds of them. My phone buzzed with another message: “You deserve the world. And I’ll give it to you—even if it kills me.”

A knock sounded at the door. My heart raced as I approached, but I knew who it would be.

Eli stood there, a bouquet in one hand and a knife in the other. His smile was heartbreakingly tender, his eyes glowing with devotion.

“Let’s make it official,” he said, stepping inside.

[lazysoulwriter]

strung up on you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x musician!reader, established relationship, guitar lessons, Joel prep, praise-heavy, chaotic student behavior, soft domestic vibes, lots of love.

---

“I wanna learn ‘Blackbird.’”

You looked up from your tuning, blinking slowly. “Pedro.”

“Yes?”

“You can’t start with ‘Blackbird.’”

He blinked back at you, completely serious. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not beginner level. That’s like… intermediate-to-soul-crushing.”

Pedro scoffed. “I’m emotionally prepared. I’ve seen things.”

“Have you seen your pinky reach that far down the fretboard?” you quipped, and his expression turned sheepish.

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

He pouted, looking devastatingly adorable in his hoodie, glasses sliding down his nose as he plopped beside you on the couch. The new guitar — a beautiful, walnut-colored acoustic — rested carefully between you both.

“So no Beatles?” he asked, voice soft.

“Not yet. But we’ll get there, I promise.”

That was all it took for his grin to return, wide and boyish, as he leaned forward eagerly. “Okay. Teach me everything. I wanna impress Bella, make Craig cry, and Joel the most believable sad dad on TV.”

You giggled, handing him the guitar. “Let’s just get you to pluck clean notes first, cowboy.”

And so it began — Pedro Pascal, award-winning actor, world’s most dramatic man… reduced to grunting every time his fingers betrayed him and the strings buzzed instead of sang.

He was so determined though. Furrowed brows, lips pursed, mumbling to himself: “fifth fret… skip the string… what the hell kind of chord is this?” You couldn’t help but fall in love with him all over again.

Eventually, he got it. Enough to finger-pick a simple progression, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas. “Wait. Wait. Did I just—? Baby, did you hear that?!”

“I did!” you clapped. “That sounded amazing!”

He put the guitar down and tackled you into the pillows like a golden retriever. “You’re the best teacher ever. I mean, seriously. You’re like—guitar goddess. My muse. My six-string siren.”

“Stop,” you laughed, hiding your face in his chest.

“No. I won’t. Everyone’s gonna know. I’ll be doing interviews for season two like, ‘Yeah, I play guitar now. My girlfriend taught me. She’s incredible, by the way. Did I mention she plays better than John Mayer? Because she does.’”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And so in love.”

Later that week, on set:

Pedro: “Hey, uh… just so you all know — I’m doing this whole scene using the technique my girlfriend taught me. So if it sounds good, it’s because of her.”

Bella: “We know. You’ve said it three times already.”

Pedro: “I just think people should appreciate talent when they see it!”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[musicalcolorsmc]

Learning the simplest guitar chords is the best place to start if you're keen to learn the guitar. With the help of these fundamental chords, even novices can play their own songs with ease and speed. Our thorough guide makes studying easier by offering concise visuals and helpful hints for efficient practice. Whether you're performing solo or with friends, these color-coded chords can help you progress musically. Explore our resources to start playing guitar to the fullest extent possible. Take advantage of the simplest chords that any aspiring musician should be familiar with and embrace the thrill of creating music! For more details, please visit our website www.musicalcolors.com

[evandore]

wait crazy development...ive sort of started to understand how the notes on the fretboard line up now bc ive been playing lyre and thats all individual notes. you can do chords too but im still figuring out the actual like science behind it idk i just do it LOL

[oofmybad]

Guitar songs

synopsis: billie helps you play the bass guitar.

warnings: fluff, very very minor angst, slight inferiority complex, not proofread at all

a/n: i wrote this cuz i think about it all the time. imagine getting in the car with billie and having to sing along to songs with her next to you. no thanks!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“fuck!” you groan in frustration. “this fucking thi-“

billie’s head dips into the room, “you good, mama?”

realizing that you must have been louder than you thought, you look to billie and offer her an apologetic smile.

“yeah” you huff, “i’m fine. i just can’t get this right” you tell her.

“d’ya want some help?” billie asks you as she approaches you. you’re stood on the other side of the studio, a white bass guitar in hand - it’s weight hanging from the strap around your shoulders.

———

billie bought you the guitar as a gift last week. before a couple weeks ago, you had never shared with billie that you can actually play a few instruments - feeling that it was silly to mention the things you do as a casual hobby to an actual musician. your differing skill levels highlighted your natural tendancy to not feel ‘good enough’ at things.

so when she found out, she was at the very least, shocked, and at most, excited to have a newfound shared ‘thing’ with you.

———

“…no” you whisper, sounding defeated. billie’s eyebrows furrow at your objection, “why not?” she questions in a delicate tone of voice.

“‘cause you’re better than me and it’s embarrassing to fail in front of you” you tell her, giggling to cover up the sincerity of your statement.

“nuh uh, not at the bass. that’s all you, pretty girl” billie tucks your hair behind your ear.

reluctantly, your eyes peel away from your guitar, making shy eye contact with billie, “your good at everything you touch, and i’m… not.”

“is that what you think?” billie laughs as though you’ve said something utterly ridiculous. but to you, she can do no wrong. ever.

you nod your head in response. billie rolls onto her tippytoes, her face inching closer to yours.

“i suck at cooking...” she kisses your left cheek.

“i suck at waking up in the morning...” she kisses your right cheek.

“i suck at being on time....” she kisses your forehead.

“i suck at texting people back” she kisses the tip of your nose.

“and worst of all, i suck at piano” she kisses your lips with a smile on her own.

“that last one doesn’t make me feel better because i can’t plat at all” you joke back as billie shrinks back on her heels.

she rolls her eyes at you and tries again, “let me help you, please” a convincing smirk on her lips, “i’ll fret, you pick.”

billie walks around your body, her front pressed to your back - her right hand gently caresses your right hip while her left hand cradles yours on the fret board.

your heartrate quickens slightly. partly from the physical contact, partly at the prospect of playing in front of her.

“bil, i definitely can’t play with you this close” you try to protest.

“why not? i’ll do half the work” billie questions, totally oblivious to your quickening pulse.

“because i get nervous when your body is on mine”, you turn your head to look at billie.

her cheeks flush at ypur implication, but she’s quick to regain her composure. yet ANOTHER thing she’s better than you at.

“you’re cute” billie smiles at you. she nods her head to silently tell you to go ahead and start playing.

you focus your attention to the sheet music in front of you, reading the first four bars of music before you begin.

under her breath, billie counts you both in, “one, two, three, and four…”

your pointer and middle finger alternate plucking the top string, creating the bassline. to your left, billie’s fingers dance across the fretboard, appplying pressure for eah new note.

as you two play, the pre-chorus comes up quickly. billie clearly notices your fright because she’s quick to mumble, “you got it. don’t stress.”

much to your surprise, you do have it! last time you played your fingers kept getting tangled at this point. but with the relief of not having to focus on the notes, you can put all of your efforts into geting the fingerpicking.

now playing past the chorus, you stop playing, letting billie know to stop as well.

“see, mama! you’re good!” billie says, her head craning around to catch your eyes.

you open your hand and palm her face, teasingly pushing her body away from yours.

“you’re good. i just kinda kept up with you” you retort as you peel the guitar off of your body, leaving it resting on the stand, and turn the amp off.

“why do you talk down on yourself like that?” billie asks, not in a rude way, moreso genuinely curious.

you sigh and think for a moment, allowing yourself to arrange your words how you want them.

“because we have the same ’talents’. you’re just better at them. when i draw something, you can draw it better. when i play something, you can play it better. when i journal, it’s never to be seen again. when you journal, it goes number one on the charts. when we sing along to a song in the car, you make it sound like god incarnate. i guess i have only-child syndrome and i just wanna be the best at everything.” you laugh as you say the last part.

secretly, you’ve always had this little insecurity while dating billie. she is so perfect to you - and quite frankly, millions of others - so how could you not feel inferior?

“baby…” billie sighs, grabbing your hand and pulling you to the floor - her legs criss-crossed underneath you with you sat on her lap. “is that really how you feel?”

“sometimes” you whisper as you nod.

“that’s so silly. i see you and feel exactly the same way - i just do the thing anyways” billie explains, her thumb stroking your side.

she continues, “when i see you dancing around the house, i wonder how someone could move so fluidly”

“i think that’s just a side-effect of being black” you quip; billie does her signature cackle at your joke.

“seriously though, baby, i see you in the same way you see me. i think everything you do is perfect. even when it’s not - it’s perfect to me.”

“you’re sweet” you reply to her as you lean your head to rest on her shoulder.

“i wish you didn’t feel this way. i love when you do things you enjoy. it’s my favorite version of you - seeing you wholy engulfed in what you’re doing” billie says, a soothing tone in her voice.

“you know that you bite the corners of your lips when you’re really focused doing something you love?” billie asks you, her eyes searching for yours.

“well that explains why the inside of my mouth is all cut up” you chuckle.

“and i also love that we share the same hobbies, it makes me happy when we do them together” billie finishes up. she scoops the side of your face in her hands, leaving a kiss on your squished up lips.

you scrunch your nose up cutely in hopes of covering up how shy you feel under her soft touch.

“maybe… you try and play the bass by yourself so that i can see you stumble and then not feel so bad” you joke giving billie the most pleading, doe-eyes possible.

“deal, baby” billie happily agrees with a giggle. “up” billie taps your hip twice to signal for you to get off of her.

she walks over to the guitar sitting in it’s stand, and pulls it over her shoulders, the instrument sitting low at her hips.

“well, for starters, you’re gonna have to help me shorten the strap ‘cause i’m not as beautifully long as you are” she comments, looking down at the guitar a mile away from her and her hands unable to reach the fretboard.

you cackle at her, taking your phone out to get a picture before moving to help her, “of course, my love.”

[mungdou]

DANDELIONS PT. 2

PR. ushijima x reader; semi x reader

W. swears

GR. angst, comfort, resolution

WC. 3.2k

AN. revenge is so sweet; tysm for all the love on the first part!! it was such a warm welcome back haha :)) requests are still open so please ask away my brain is highkey empty.

(pt. 1)

It's been a while since you've felt lonely. After that day, Semi started sitting with you during lunch to chat about his day, hum some new riffs he was testing out on his guitar, or just as good company. He'd get something from the cafeteria whilst you ate the pre-packed lunch you made the night before. Needless to say, there were more than a few bites missing from your lunch after the hour was over. It was peaceful and more than anything you could ask for.

"Y/n, listen to this-" He played a short video clip of a new song he was practicing. The sound was smooth, almost as if he had run the audio through a creamy filter. Were his fingers always this nimble? Or did you just start noticing? Mesmerized by the short clip, you couldn't help pressing the reset button 3 or 4 times before Semi began pulling away.

Your eyes looked up, snapped out of the trance his fingering put you into. "Oh! Sorry, I couldn't help myself-" You smiled as your face burned with embarrassment. "That was amazing, Semi-Semi, definitely remind me next time you practice- I'd love to come listen to you live." Your fingers twiddled under the table, hoping the sudden advance didn't come out too eager. His playing was beautiful- his fingers danced on the fretboard meticulously and the notes were so smooth, almost like magic.

His lips curled in a proud smile and he seemed to perk up like a dog. "You... wanna come over? Like, to hear me practice? Me? Really?" He mustered out, his words stumbled over another. His ears turned pink and waved his hands around, gesturing between the two of you without direction.

You giggled at his flustered reaction and grasped his flailing hands. They were flushed at the knuckles, and you could feel the hard-earned callouses that had formed from years of guitar and volleyball practice. His palms were warm, but his fingertips were cold, and as you squeezed his hands, they seemed to relax into a gentle position.

"Yes! I'd really like it if I could... does this Sunday work? You'll be going home for the weekend, right?" You eagerly spoke, your hands squeezing his just a bit harder.

Semi nodded shyly, his eyes darting between his enveloped hands and your eyes. "Ahem-" He coughed softly. "Here, give me your phone, I'll put my address in for you." He took your phone off the table and typed in his address before turning it to you to confirm that you had it.

"Hmm? Oh! You live so close by to me!" You exclaimed, smiling brightly. "Yeah this is like, a 15 minute walk from my place! Wow, Why haven't we seen this before, that's so convenient, Semi-semi!"

"Oh really? That's crazy, we could have been catching the bus together or something-"

"SEMI-SEMIIIIII??" The disembodied voice of a familiar lanky middle blocker interrupted your newfound discovery. "DID SHE JUST CALL YOU SEMI-SEMI????"

"Goddamnit" Semi groans, turning away from Tendou, banging his head against the table.

"Hi Tendou, what's going on?" A shit-eating grin creeped on your face with full intent to milk this 'Semi-semi' privilege you held over his head. One of the only things you could hold above his head to be honest.

Tendou's teeth grit, greeting you with a playful glare before turning to Semi, "Why can she call you Semi-semi without getting verbally attacked? This isn't fair, I'll have you know." He tsked, "And what's this about meeting up?? Hmm?? Unsupervised, might I add?"

"Shut up, Tendou." Semi growled, picking up his tray and walking away.

You smiled nervously at Tendou, "So..." You began.

"So..." Tendou copied.

"How's Ushijima been? I mean- well- yeah." It was hard asking. It had been a few weeks since he insulted your character and needless to say, everything about it was hard. His words and your acceptance of those words. As much as you wish it didn't, time still moved on even though you were left in pain and embarrassment. The only thing that helped you get through with it was Semi and Tendou.

"He's doing okay, I guess?" Tendou mused before sauntering to pester Goshiki abut his bowl cut or something.

You guess? Okay, weird.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Even though Tendou stayed close to Ushijima, he still came over to ask about how you were doing every so often, or to tease you about something or another. It was refreshing, that despite all this, he still treated you the same.

At least he didn't pity you.

It was a shame how fast rumors spread after Ushijima rejected you so coldly.

Most said that it was your fault for interfering with his feelings.

Some thought that it was his fault for being so blunt without apologies.

Even less thought it had to do with Aoi.

Most people in the inner volleyball ring knew the truth. That Aoi had changed their cornerstone ace for better and worse. On one hand, he worked twice as hard to impress her and to better himself. On the other hand, he became ever so slightly distracted, and it didn't help that Aoi rarely did her manager duties.

At some point, it had become too much for you to handle basic manager duties on top of appealing to Aoi and Ushijima. Aoi's whole point of being here was to help out, but instead of pushing carts, hanging laundry, or taking notes, she could be seen trailing her boyfriend up and down the court with a water bottle and towel only for him.

Imagine pulling a hundred pound anchor of dead weight on a chain with your teeth while using your hands to organize papers and running 5 miles an hour.

It was obvious that people noticed. They pitied you more than they cared to admit, but they were too afraid to speak out. Plus, you reassured them that everything was fine as to not stress them out further.

Besides, it wasn't like you could fire her at this point. She was supposed to be taking over after you graduated and it was already too soon to the end of the year to start over.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

That Saturday, you woke up earlier than usual to make some cute thumbprint jam cookies to bring over as a snack for your hangout the next day. You biked out to the local grocery store to grab some missing ingredients and some nice fruit for his parents before visiting for the first time. After grabbing all the ingredients, all that was left was to peruse the aisles for fun.

"Ooh, they have truffle fry chips? That's new- ahh I shouldn't... but then again... hmmm." You murmured to yourself, crouching down to look at the options of savory treats when you heard a voice call out your name.

"Y/n-senpai?" A familiar cute, yet unfeeling voice rang in your ears, making your stomach flip in anxiety. You turned around and saw Aoi standing at the end of the aisle. Whipping your eyes back down to the bottom of the shelf, you took a few deep breaths as you heard the pitter-patter of her heel-adorned feet run down the aisle towards you.

"Aoi." You curtly nipped, with an unfamiliar lack of emotion lacing your words. "What are you doing here?" Standing back up to face her, you noticed that she had showy makeup on and was dressed nicer than usual.

"I'm here to get something with Toshi~ But I should be asking you that." She smirked boastfully, her cute demeanor barely shielding her bitter intentions. "You are so... weird. No offense. Why are you here? Probably stalking Toshi like always. Ugh, you're so suffocating, like, leave us alone. He. Doesn't. Like. You. What don't you get about that? Honestly, I might need to call the police or something to report you-"

"I. Don't. Give. A. Flying. Fuck. You. Dense. Ass. Child." You clapped back, clapping between every word, emphasizing your hate towards her. "You wanna talk about being clingy and obsessed? Really? Because last time I checked, who's the one who constantly follows Ushijima around the court, ignoring everyone else around them? The one who's always rushing over to hover over him to gush about how amazing he is after practice while others pick up your slack?"

Her face turned pink with anger, the flush blocked by the sheer amount of concealer she had on. "Well- you were rejected, yet you still show up around him, to practice and to show the notes to him all cutesy and whatever. You're practically begging for attention." She ticked her head to the side, as if she was saying checkmate.

You doubled over laughing. Tears formed at the corner of your eyes as you wheezed, trying to catch your breath. "Hah... Hah.. Oh my god you are such a little comedian." Wiping away the tears, you stood straight up and finished off your thought. "Showing up to practice and taking notes, putting aside my differences to make sure that the team functions?? Aoi, I'm gonna metaphorically hold your hands while I say this."

I stepped forwards and leaned down, moving my lips close to her studded ears. I lowered my voice, babying my voice to make sure she understood.

"That's what you call being a mature manager. Woahh~~ Whahh~~ Isn't that amazing? Though, if I'm being honest, you probably don't even know what being mature means, so I don't blame you if this completely flies over your head."

You walked past her frozen figure, waving nonchalantly as you passed. "And by the way, to answer your question, I live in the area- in fact, I live right next door to Ushijima. The same place for the past 5 years, so forgive me for intruding on his space or whatever."

On your way out, as you scanned your ingredients by the self-checkout, you caught a glimpse of a softly weeping Aoi and a silent, but furious, Ushijima in the background.

Well, at this point, what do I have to lose? If he's mad at me, I've already accepted that. If he's mad at her, I win.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

When you returned home, you hastened your pace, prepping all the ingredients and efficiently moving around your kitchen to make your cookies as quickly as possible.

Flour, butter, eggs, sugar, jam.

Finally, after an hour, you popped the cookies into the oven, wiping the sweat off your brow in triumph. After setting a timer on your phone, you ran up the stairs and collapsed on your bed.

As you lay there looking out the window, you began to think about what happened just a few hours ago. Oh the rant you were about to go on when you see Semi later tomorrow.

The thought of seeing Semi relaxed you, a heavy weight leaving your shoulder, and now all you were stressing about was to not fall asleep before your cookies were done.

Don't sleep. Don't do it, you're going to burn your whole house down. You'd better not pass the fuck ou-

"Get out."

A voice bellowed from outside your window. You sat up quickly and peered out your curtains. Across the way you could see Aoi and Ushijima arguing in his room. It was hard to hear, and only snippets were caught.

"but-"

"did i stutter? please, get out. i am saying this as nice as I possibly can."

"Toshi- please, she was the one harassing me, I swear!"

"do you think i am that dense? i was in the next aisle, i am not deaf."

Your cookie alarm loudly rang from your pocket while you peeked out the window, scaring you, but also getting the attention from the perfect couple next door. Their heads sharply looked over, but you slammed the window and shades to avoid their gaze before rushing down to take your cookies out of the oven.

phew. at least they came out nice.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It's a weird feeling, waking up before your alarm.

After dressing up in a nice white top, a jean skirt, and a gray overshirt, you went downstairs to pack your cookies and fruits into a canvas tote before leaving your house to walk over to Semi's place.

"Y/n." Ushijima's deep voice startled you.

"Oh! Good morning, Ushiji-" You started before being cut off.

Ushijima cleared his throat, "You should call me by my first name again. We aren't unfamiliar, after all."

You smiled, a sigh of relief escaping your lips. "Wakatoshi. What's up?"

"You heard, did you not?" His intense gaze wavered for a split second, tilting down towards the curb.

"Well, it was hard not to- though I didn't mean to eavesdrop like I did... Sorry about that, by the way." You sheepishly looked away, struggling to meet him in the eyes.

"It's alright. I should be sorry for the way I've treated you for the past few weeks. I never should have let her blind me into treating you like that. I never thought that her intentions were impure." He looked into your eyes, a light gentleness glazed over his own. "Do you think you could ever forgive me?"

"I can," You began, "and I will, eventually. But I don't think I can just forgive and forget right now, but lets just establish good terms from here on out? I'll let you know when I've healed- emotionally- that is."

"Thank you." He paused before speaking up, "Where are you off to?" looking at your treat stuffed bag.

"O-oh. I'm on my way to visit Semi... I'm running a bit late, so I'll catch you later! Bye Wakatoshi!" You jogged off, quickly making your way over to your destination.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You arrived on Semi's doorstep, but before you rang the doorbell, you tried to catch your breath. However, the door swung open to reveal Semi, draped in a loose gray hoodie and cargo pants. Both of you flushed with embarrassment.

“You… hah… I didn’t even ring the doorbell, Semi-Semi.” You laughed, out of breath, looking at him as he put his hands over his face, trying to hide his flushed cheeks. “Were you waiting for me~”

“N-no-“ Semi turned around, holding the door open to let you in before turning back to dace you, “Well, you were running late, y’see- and, uh, I was worried…” he trailed off after seeing the pouch in your hands. “What’s that?”

You looked down at your hands, “I made cookies for us to eat! Oh!! I also got some fruit for your parents- are they home?” You rummaged through your bag and took a nicely wrapped melon.

“Nah, my parents aren’t home right now… We can just leave it in the basket over there.” He led you to the kitchen and took the melon to store away.

"So... you were waiting for me, weren't you?" You smiled, leaning in close, "I didn't even ring the doorbell- You were definitely looking for me through the window..."

"I- No, It heard your huffing and puffing a mile away-" he stammered, his ears now flaring red. "A-anyways... let's go upstairs- you can bring the cookies with you..."

Following him up the stairs to his room, you noticed all the baby photos adorning the walls, before stopping in front of a familiar one.

Semi heard your steps come to a stop, turning around to join you. "Wow this is so embarrassing- that's from my daycare graduation-" He started, before turning to see your face.

You looked almost startled, "I have this same photo in my house, look-" Your finger pointed at the little girl behind the platinum haired toddler. "In the pigtails behind you-"

"Seriously?" Semi huffed, looking closer at the photo, "Damn, you're right- it really is you."

"Wow Semi-Semi, your hair is naturally this color? I could've sworn you dyed it or something-" You giggled, examining the photo in detail before quietly whispering, "You were a really cute baby."

Semi looked at you with wide eyes. "I heard that-" He coughed out before grabbing your arm and pulling at you to his room. You yelped in surprise, but after walking through the hallway of pictures, you finally made it into his room. It was covered in band posters and at the very corner stood a guitar propped up on a stand.

"Wow- your room is so decorated, it's putting my room to shame," You laughed before plopping onto the floor. Semi picked up his guitar and started to tune it.

"It's nothing special, just some stuff that I've printed throughout the years." He smiled, plucking at the strings before playing some chord progression.

It was almost angelic, the way he played. His fingers danced around the strings so naturally, like he was born to play.

"You play so beautifully," You smiled, looking intensely as he played, "If you put a halo on and wore all white, I could swear you were an angel or something."

"Probably not as beautiful as you are, though." He blurted before catching himself, his fingers frozen in place. "Wait-"

"Really?" Now it was your turn to blush. "Wow Semi, you are such a flirt~" You felt the blood rush to your face while the words fully sunk in.

He cleared his throat. "Uh... Yeah... You are really pretty, did you know that?" His fingers hovered over the strings, almost as if his brain didn't know how to control them anymore.

"You too." You squeaked out, trying to find your voice and composure. "You too, Semi-"

He put the guitar down, and it's hollow body clattering when it hit the floor. "I like you." He smiled shyly, not sure what to say next. "I really really like you."

You shuffled, closing the distance between the two of you. "Me too." You mumbled, looking down at the ground. "I really really like you too."

Both you and Semi sat in silence for a while, though the room kept getting warmer and warmer.

"O-oh!" You exclaimed, stopping the stagnant silence. "The cookies! Uh- Really good! Eat-"

Good job, Y/n, really, really good job.

Semi, in a state of panicked eagerness, grabbed one and practically swallowed it whole before choking a bit. He pounded his chest, tears watering in his eyes.

"Ah!! Water- Water!" You scrambled, pulling out the thermos in your bag.

Semi quickly took the bottle and gulped down the water, sighing in relief after the cookie passed through.

"Are you okay?" You exclaimed, the panic leaving your body. Semi nodded in embarrassment.

"Yeah... it was really tasty- the choking was my fault."

"No, I should have warned you that it was the crumbly kind of cookie." You paused, before buckling down laughing. Tears welled up in your eyes as you gasped for air.

Semi started to laugh, and soon the silence and panic was replaced with cackles.

"Hah... this is gonna be a good story to tell everyone." You sighed, calming down and leaning on his shoulder.

"Yeah...." Semi smiled, resting his head on yours, grasping your hand and interlacing your fingers.

"Wait-" he froze. You looked at him, puzzled by his reaction. "No we can't tell anyone- Especially not Tendou- I can't take the embarrassment any further."

You giggled, looking up at Semi through your eyelashes.

"No promises."

AN: omg this took so long haha my bad yall, hope u liked it :)

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