#industrial track light
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Enclosed - Kitchen Example of a large arts and crafts u-shaped slate floor and brown floor enclosed kitchen design with flat-panel cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, an island, a farmhouse sink, granite countertops, gray backsplash, stone slab backsplash and stainless steel appliances
#large range hood#dark farmhouse sink#large window over sink#industrial track light#kitchen island seating#large island seating#ceiling speakers
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The rooms of this open loft space are defined by groupings of furniture. In response to the increasingly limited amount of living space, homes of the twenty-first century will demand the creative treatment of multi-use areas in the home.
The Complete Book of Home Decorating, 1999
#vintage#interior design#home#vintage interior#architecture#home decor#style#1990s#living room#dining room#90s#black and white#fireplace#modern#artwork#animal print#loft#track lighting#industrial
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Industrial Farmhouse Kitchen
That kitchen island though 🤩
#toya's tales#style#toyastales#toyas tales#home decor#interior design#kitchen#kitchen inspiration#kitchen ideas#kitchen improvement#industrial#farmhouse#industrial farmhouse#track lighting#apothecary#cabinet#home design#home improvement#july#summer
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𝙳𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕👀𝚔 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚍
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔
𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎
𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚒𝚗’𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎
𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖
𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜
𝙰𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜
𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝���𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢
��𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙺𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠,
𝙺𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗
𝙺𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗
𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗
𝙷𝚎’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚞𝚗
𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚗
𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗‘ 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚙
𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑
𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎
𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗
𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗
𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜
𝙱𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎
𝙰𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜...
𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚐
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚝𝚜
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜
𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 🎧
𝙸 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚃𝚘 𝚋𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙱𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 🔥
@len0r @atomic-apricot @bethanythestrange @bigbonzo
#im freaking the fuck out#deepdarkanddangerous#gif moodboard#gif mood board#moodboard#4/2024#sex drugs and rock n roll#I Want You To#Black Light Burns#limp bizkit#track of the day#heavy metal#industrial rock#sexy beats#x-heesy#fucking favorite#music#now playing#spotify#music and art#dance the pain away#Headbanger#dancing in the dark
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been listening a lot to obsession II by siouxsie and the banshees. music to fall asleep peacefully to
#peter posts#can not believe that is a bonus track. god. its like if join hands was wider staged#its like being in that dkc industrial level where the lights go out.#but also the ghost of obsession (i) vocals haunting it bc it was a later bonus.......... honk shoo. sweet dreams
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Orange County Industrial Basement Example of a large urban walk-out basement with a dark wood floor and a brown floor and white walls.
#track lighting#natural wood columns#dark wood exposed beams#loft studio apartment#loft style living room#industrial ceiling
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New York Modern Living Room

Ideas for a large, modern, formal, and loft-style living room renovation with light wood floors, beige walls, no fireplace, and no television
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Farine Five Roses Building and Light Rail Train by Francois Flibotte Via Flickr: A light rail train on a bridge with the Farine Five Roses building in the background.
#Canada#Farine Five Roses#Montreal#Quebec#bridge#building#cityscape#cloudy sky#factory#industrial building#light rail#light rail train#mill#poles#sign#silo#tracks#train#train station#urban#wires#flickr
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In recent years, LED strip lights have become increasingly popular for home and office décor. Whether it’s for behind screens or on ceilings, these versatile lights add a modern touch to any space. At Nordusk LED, you can Buy LED Strip Lights Online in India, making it easier than ever to join this growing trend. Visit Nordusk LED website and Buy LED Spot Lights or Buy LED Track Lights.
#Buy LED Strip Lights Online#Buy LED Spot Lights#Buy LED Track Light#Buy Best Home Lighting Online#Buy LED Lights Online#Buy Outdoor Lights Online In India#Best Online Light Bulb Store#Buy Industrial Flood Lights#Kolkata#India
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Cake and Candles
Joel Miller x fem!Reader
Summary: Joel never forgets your birthday.
Warnings: fluff, reader is implied younger than joel through one piece of dialogue, Joel's love language being acts of service/gift giving, reader had a mom, dad and little brother
ITS MY BIRTHDAYYYY!!!! ellie birthday episode and my birthday being in the same week was too much fate for me not to write this.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
It had rained the night before, which meant the alleys smelled worse than usual — sour and metallic, like the city was rotting from the inside out. The puddles on the concrete looked more like oil than water and the sky hung low and mean.
The drop was supposed to be quick. A supply run from an abandoned ration depot near the North Wall to a safehouse two zones over. Painkillers, batteries, something with an industrial chemical label that Joel warned you not to breathe near.
You were three hours in, already soaked through, and the mood had turned to shit.
Joel barely said a word the whole time. Tess did most of the talking, leading the three of you through narrow side streets and broken corridors like she’d lived in the bones of this place for decades. You kept your eyes up, finger close to the trigger. Your boots were too loud, your nerves too exposed.
“Two more blocks,” Tess muttered, crouched beside a rusted-out vending machine. “Then we sit tight.”
You nodded, Joel only grunted.
And you told yourself not to think about it. About what day it was. About what it used to mean.
But you did. Of course you did.
The thought kept coming back like a compulsion: If things were normal, I'd be home right now.
Your mom would’ve been waking you up early — warm kitchen light, the smell of sugar and cinnamon, her telling you not to peek while she decorated. Your little brother would’ve made some half-glued card with stick figures and misspelled words, and your dad would’ve tried to act cool while holding out whatever he'd managed to barter for that year. Cheap jewellery. A book. A cassette tape. Whatever felt like something.
Now the idea of cake and candles made your stomach hurt.
But still. You remembered. You kept track.
You weren’t even sure why anymore.
Tess glanced over her shoulder as you cleared the alley and stepped into the shadow of a half-collapsed parking garage.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said, voice low.
You tried to shrug it off. “Just tired.”
But her eyes narrowed, suspicious in that way she got when she knew you were lying but didn’t feel like calling you on it yet.
“Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t lose your edge. We’re not safe yet.”
Joel gave you a sidelong glance, like he’d caught the lie too.
The handoff went fine. Quick, quiet, almost clean. You met the contact in an old laundromat with half the ceiling caved in. Joel stood near the back, one hand resting casually on his pistol, eyes cold and distant.
You did your job. Took the crate. Loaded the bags. Moved through the checkpoint tunnels without drawing attention.
You didn’t say a word the whole way back.
By nightfall, you were holed up in the safehouse near the old subway tracks. It wasn’t much — one small room, a gas lamp, sleeping bags, and a metal table with one leg shorter than the others. But the door locked, and now that was enough.
Tess peeled off her jacket, wrung out the rainwater, and looked between you and Joel like she was trying to decide which of you would implode first.
“Alright,” she said, grabbing her pack. “I’ve got another deal to check on. You two hold down the fort. Try not to brood each other to death.”
Before she left, she paused in the doorway and shot you a look. Her voice softened.
“You doing okay?”
You hesitated.
You could lie. But something about the way she looked at you — not pitying, not prying, just… knowing — made your throat go tight.
“It’s just a day,” you said finally.
Tess nodded slowly, her gaze flicking briefly to Joel. “Yeah. That’s what we all tell ourselves.”
Then she was gone.
You sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, staring at your hands.
Joel was already at the table, stripping and cleaning his gun with mechanical precision. Every movement deliberate. Detached.
You listened to the sound of metal clicking, cloth brushing steel.
Finally, he spoke.
“You gonna tell me what the hell’s eatin’ at you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Your jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”
He snorted. “You’ve said less than ten words all day. Even Tess noticed. And she’s usually too busy talking to hear herself breathe.”
You huffed, reluctant, but the words were already pushing forward.
“It’s stupid.”
Joel didn’t answer. Just waited.
You looked down at your hands again.
“It’s my birthday.”
That made him pause. He set the cloth down slowly and looked up. Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to catch.
You laughed, but it was hollow. “I know. Dumb thing to care about now. I just— I always used to. My family made a big deal out of it. Even when we didn’t have anything. And now… I don’t know. I guess part of me keeps expecting someone to remember. Even though they can’t.”
Joel’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. He looked away. “Birthdays don’t mean much anymore.”
“I know. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
You stood, pacing now, energy suddenly too restless to hold.
“But it’s like… this twisted kind of hope, right? You spend all year just trying to survive, and then one day rolls around and you remember you used to feel important. Used to feel seen. And now it’s just another reminder that you’re alone.”
Joel’s jaw worked.
You didn’t see him move at first — just the rustle of his coat, the sound of the door unlatching.
You turned. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. Just pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.
You sat in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window boards. The minutes stretched. You tried not to think about him. Tried not to wonder if he’d come back, or if maybe you’d said too much, crossed a line he didn’t want crossed.
Then the door creaked open and Joel stepped back in, face cold, holding something wrapped in a rag. You blinked as he walked past you, set it down on the table, and unwrapped it slowly.
A dented metal can.
You stepped closer.
Peaches.
The label was torn, but you could still make out the picture — bright orange slices swimming in syrup. It looked like something out of a dream.
You stared.
Joel didn’t meet your eyes.
“Found it near the East checkpoint. Took it off some jackass who was trying to trade it for antibiotics. Almost got himself shot.”
You swallowed hard.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “It’s a one-time thing.”
You sat slowly.
He cracked the can open with his knife. The scent hit instantly — sweet and sharp, syrupy and thick. It brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them.
Joel handed you a spoon.
“Happy birthday,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
You looked up. “Thank you.”
You didn’t talk much after that. Just sat and shared the can between you, passing the spoon back and forth in silence. It was too sweet, too sticky, but it tasted like something close to memory.
You should’ve left it there—quiet and safe, something unspoken you could both pretend didn’t matter tomorrow.
But the sugar and the warmth of it, the bitter nostalgia curling behind your ribs, made your guard slip. You stared down at the last peach in the can, barely more than syrup and pulp now, and said it before you could stop yourself.
“Do you remember yours?”
Joel didn’t look up. “My what?”
“Your birthday.”
He stilled. Spoon halfway to the can, hand clenched just a little too tight.
“You don’t have to answer,” you added quickly. “I just— I don’t know. You did this for me. Made me feel like I mattered today. Thought maybe that meant birthdays meant something to you, too.”
Joel exhaled through his nose. The sound was flat. Dry. Almost a laugh, but not.
“They don’t.”
You looked at him carefully. “But they used to?”
He stared ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the room. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped.
“Long time ago,” he said. “When things were… different.”
“Family?”
His jaw tightened. You regretted asking, wanted to take it back.
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight, carved in by time and grief and things he’d never said out loud.
“Had a daughter,” he said finally. Voice low, rough-edged. “She used to make me pancakes. Every year. Even when she burned ‘em.”
Your breath caught.
Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on some point far away, like the past was something he could still see if he squinted hard enough.
“After… everything,” he said, “I stopped keeping track. Seemed easier that way.”
You were quiet for a long time.
Then he said it. Quiet. Flat. Like something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times but never let pass his lips.
“September 26th.”
You felt the air shift. The weight of it settle between you.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Joel didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry.”
He just gave a small shake of his head, like he didn’t know what to do with your sympathy. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.
“I was at work,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Didn't mean to be that late. My daughter wanted to bake something, asked me to bring a cake home. She was real excited. Kept asking me to stay home that night.”
You didn’t breathe.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop.
“Anyway. It was that night."
You nodded, throat tight.
Joel reached out and pushed the last piece of peach toward you with the spoon.
You took it.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For this.”
“Won’t make a habit of it,” he muttered.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
You woke before the sun, the cold biting at your nose through the cracked window. The room was dark, quiet — just the soft hum of wind threading through boarded slats. Another day. Another job. You told yourself it was just that.
You sat up slowly, pulling your jacket closer, and tried not to think about the date. But of course you did. The date. It nestled in your jaw like a bad tooth, aching every time your mind circled back.
It was your birthday.
You hadn't told anyone. Not this year. Not after how last year had gone, with Joel’s voice going flat when you asked about his own birthday, the air going still when he’d muttered September 26th, and your stomach flipping when you realised why that date mattered. You hadn’t meant to open a wound — you’d just wanted to share something.
So this year, you didn’t bring it up. You told yourself it was fine. That birthdays didn’t mean anything anymore.
Still, you hoped — foolishly, silently — that someone might remember. That Joel might remember.
“Pack light. We’re headin’ to Bill’s.”
You glanced up from where you were tightening the strap on your boot, heart giving a soft lurch. “Supply run?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt — not exactly a yes, but not a no either — and turned back into the hallway without another word. Typical.
You exhaled slowly. Today of all days. You couldn’t decide if it was a relief that he didn’t remember or if it stung more because you’d spent the last few days nervously rehearsing whether or not to bring it up. Your birthday had crept up again like it always did now — not with excitement, but with that same sharp pang of twisted anticipation that you couldn’t fully shake.
The truck ride was long and uneventful. Joel didn’t say much beyond the occasional grunt when a pothole jostled the tires or a flick of his hand to indicate a change in route. The countryside passed in blur — dead trees, skeletal remains of billboards, rusted-out signs and roads that had long since stopped leading anywhere. He’d said they needed extras. Ammo from Bill, spare wires, maybe some of Frank’s dried herbs.
You kept your face turned toward the window and tried not to count how many birthdays you’d had since the world ended. It didn’t matter.
Bill and Frank’s compound came into view as the sun was dipping into its late-afternoon golden hour, the light casting long shadows across the fence line and orchard. The gate creaked open automatically — someone had been watching. Of course they had.
Bill met you at the entrance like he always did: with a gun over his shoulder and a permanent scowl on his face.
Joel nodded at him. “Need to pick up some things.”
“Yeah, sure,” Bill muttered, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Something unreadable passed across his face.
Frank, ever the gracious one, stepped out onto the porch and beamed at the sight of you. “Oh, good! You made it.”
You were still pulling your pack off your shoulders when you noticed something strange: the smell. Not just smoke or stew — something sweet. Spiced.
“What's that smell?” you asked.
Frank smiled wider. “Dinner. You’re just in time.”
Joel clapped a hand on your back — that rare kind of Joel-touch that said move along without words — and steered you toward the house.
You turned to him, brow furrowed. “I thought we were here for supplies?”
He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door and motioned you inside.
And then… you saw it.
The table was already set. Not with mismatched tin and rusted forks like you were used to, but with real plates and silverware. Frank had pulled out linens — actual cloth napkins, even candles in old mason jars. There were roasted vegetables, a stew simmering, warm bread, and at the centre of the table — a cake. Small, imperfect, decorated with little wildflowers and what looked like foraged berries.
It took a moment to register. You stared, heart pounding in your ears.
Tess was already inside, leaning back in one of the chairs with a glass of wine, smirking.
Joel brushed past you with a low, almost dismissive grunt. “Figured we’d eat while we’re here. Been a while.”
You stood there frozen for a second too long. You didn’t know what to say. The warmth in your chest warred with the confusion, and just behind it, that flicker of shame — for hoping. For thinking it might mean something.
“Frank,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”
He beamed. “A proper meal. For a proper occasion.”
“What occasion?”
Frank glanced at Joel, then at Tess. Neither of them said anything. Tess just raised her glass.
And you knew.
You swallowed hard. Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Tess,” you said quietly, “Did you—?”
But she cut you off. “You hungry or not?”
The meal passed in a haze of laughter. Frank filled everyone’s glasses with the wine he’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and even Bill joined in with a dry story about nearly electrocuting himself fixing the generator.
You smiled and laughed where appropriate, but your mind kept wandering — back to the cake, to Joel’s deflection, to Tess’s knowing glances.
You still thought Tess had orchestrated it. It was the kind of thing she’d do, drag Joel into playing along.
It wasn’t until later, after the plates had been cleared and Frank had started a record in the other room, something jazzy and low, that you found yourself alone with Tess in the hallway. The candlelight from the kitchen cast her in soft gold, and she was sipping from a chipped cup, arms crossed, watching you with that same half-lidded look she always had when she knew something you didn’t.
“So,” she said. “Nice night.”
You nodded. “Yeah. It is. Sorry I'm just overwhelmed— Thank you, honestly.”
“You think I planned all this, don’t you?” she asked.
You blinked. “Didn’t you?”
She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Hell no. I just helped Frank make dinner.”
Your stomach dipped.
She tilted her head, her voice quiet now. “This was all Joel. Every bit. He’s the one who remembered,” she said. “He’s the one who asked Frank to make the cake. Told Bill to keep his mouth shut. Hell, he even insisted we make it look casual so you wouldn’t freak out.”
Your heart stopped.
“He said he didn’t wanna make a thing out of it,” Tess added, “But he’s been planning this for weeks.”
You were quiet for a long beat.
“But… he didn’t say anything,” you said, the words a whisper.
Tess’s smile turned a little sad. “He’s not good at saying things, but he remembers.”
Later that night, when the others had drifted off and the music had faded into the background hum of insects and wind in the orchard, you found Joel on the porch. He was leaning against the railing, watching the dark. You stepped beside him, your heart thudding hard enough to drown out the world.
He didn’t look at you when you approached. Just spoke low.
“You enjoy dinner?”
You nodded. “It was perfect.”
A pause.
“You remembered,” you said.
He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t hard.”
You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to make it weird again, like last year.”
His voice was low. “Wasn’t your fault.”
You turned to him. “Thank you.”
You reached for his hand. You didn’t expect him to take it — but he did.
And then you leaned in.
The kiss was soft, slow, uncertain — but it wasn’t one-sided. Joel met you there, warm and still, his hand brushing lightly against your back like he’d been waiting, too.
When you pulled back, he kept his eyes on yours.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured.
This time, the words didn’t hurt.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
It rained for three days straight.
The kind of cold, spitting drizzle that soaked through your coat no matter how tightly you cinched it, that made your boots squelch with every step. The wind howled through broken barns and trees stripped bare, and every shelter you found smelled like old rot and abandonment.
You trudged through it with your shoulders hunched and your hood pulled low, your boots squelching with each step. Every now and then, Ellie would grumble something under her breath, mostly complaints about the cold, or how the rain made her hair look like a wet mop, or how she was going to die of trench foot.
Joel, as always, didn’t say much. He just led.
You were somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, miles from anything even remotely familiar. The landscape blurred — trees, collapsed fences, skeletal houses too picked over to be worth stopping for. You’d passed a rusted water tower around midday and Joel had muttered that there was a town not far off.
No one said it, but you were all tired. Supplies were low. Joel had slept in fits, always with one hand on his rifle, and you could see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen by the hour.
Your back ached. Your ribs still twinged from a bad fall two weeks back. You could feel the day’s date sitting heavy on your tongue.
You weren’t sure if he’d forgotten this time. Or if he remembered, and just decided this year, there wasn’t room for sentiment. It was stupid to care. It always was. Especially now. Anyway, it wasn’t like you could blame him. You hadn’t seen anything resembling a candle in months.
Still, it sat in your chest, heavy and hollow and echoing.
You didn’t say anything about it. Not this year. Not with Ellie around, and Joel already stretched taut with exhaustion and responsibility. You hadn't said anything last year either, but back then it had been different — the ghost of a good night with Bill and Frank, a flicker of something soft in Joel’s eyes, a secret truth Tess had given you like a gift.
This year you felt like a burden for even remembering.
By late afternoon, you reached the outskirts of the town Joel had mentioned.
It was nothing more than a collection of crumbling buildings, storefronts with glass long shattered, faded signs swinging in the breeze. A gas station sat caved in at the edge of town. A church steeple leaned crooked over a few blocks like a snapped spine.
Joel’s eyes swept the horizon. “We’ll hole up here tonight. Find shelter, stay outta the open.”
You nodded, too tired to argue. Ellie sighed and muttered something about praying for a haunted mansion.
What you got was a busted-up diner with broken windows, a torn-up vinyl booth, and a kitchen that smelled like grease and mildew. But it was dry, and it had a back room with a door that locked. That was enough.
Joel checked the place with his usual precision — every room, every corner, even the roof. You stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping water, hands shaking with cold, watching the ghosts of an old world flicker in your memory.
You remembered diners.
Birthday pancakes. The sound of your mom singing off-key while stirring coffee. The way candles flickered when the waitress brought out cake with sparklers on top.
You shook your head. That was gone.
You shrugged off your pack and sat on an overturned crate while Ellie stretched out on a dusty counter, flipping through one of the comics she’d scavenged.
Joel stood by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street.
Ellie rolled out her sleeping bag and plopped down onto it with a theatrical groan. “So glamorous. When do the spa treatments start?”
You laughed, sitting beside her and rubbing warmth into your frozen fingers. Joel didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked to you for a half-second.
Then, abruptly, he muttered, “I’m gonna check for propane. Maybe see if there’s any storage behind the hardware store. Stay in here. Lock the door behind me.”
You perked up. “I can come.”
He shook his head. “No. Stay here. Get warm. Lock the door behind me.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “You already said that.”
Joel shot her a look and was out the door before either of you could respond.
The rain slowed around dusk. The wind picked up, scraping against the glass and groaning in the walls. He was gone longer than you expected.
The minutes crawled. You tried to help Ellie pass time with a round of card games using a half-destroyed deck she found in a laundromat weeks ago. Her jokes got weaker. Her eyes drooped. Eventually, she curled into her bag, comic book in hand, and let sleep claim her.
But the silence in the room settled heavy. And with every passing minute, you grew more convinced Joel had forgotten.
The funny thing was, you weren’t even angry. You didn’t expect anything — not really. What could anyone do? You were in the middle of nowhere with a teenager, a man whose burdens you could feel like a shadow following him, and enough food for maybe two more meals if you stretched it.
But it still hurt — that tiny, stupid ache under your ribs.
You told yourself you were being childish. That birthdays didn’t matter anymore. That survival was the only thing worth counting.
But then the door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside, soaked from the knees down, his coat dripping. He was carrying something wrapped in a tarp and a small dented tin. He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room, dropped the bundle near the fire, and lowered himself with a quiet grunt.
Ellie stirred but didn’t wake. The fire crackled. Joel adjusted the tarp and looked over at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.
Then he pushed the tin toward you across the floor.
You looked down. “What’s this?”
He didn’t answer. Just gave a nod — go on.
You opened it slowly. Inside, nestled in worn paper, was a chocolate bar. Slightly melted, slightly warped, but real.
You blinked at it.
You blinked at it.
“I—what?” You looked up at him, heart stuttering. “Joel…”
“Found it in an old vending machine. Back by the rail yard.” He cleared his throat. “Still sealed. Figured it might be okay.”
“Joel… I haven’t had chocolate in—”
“I know.”
You stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he reached for the tarp and unwrapped it with deliberate care.
A book. Its spine was cracked but intact, the cover a faded storm-blue cloth with the title in gold: Wuthering Heights.
You gasped. Your hand went to your chest.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded, glancing down. “You told me once. That your mom used to read it to you. I saw it a few weeks ago in some house. Had to double back. Took a while to get to it.”
“You… you went back for this?”
He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I wanted to get you somethin’. I know it don’t fix anything. But…”
His voice trailed off.
You stared down at the book and the chocolate, your throat thick with emotion.
Joel shifted again. Looked at you, then quickly away.
“I know you didn’t wanna bring it up,” he said, voice low, “and maybe you thought I forgot.”
You felt your chest cave inward.
“I don’t know what this day means to you now. But I know it ain’t right that someone your age has to spend it freezing in some busted-up diner with nothin’. You should’ve had… more.”
“I had this,” you whispered. “This is more.”
He gave a dry, almost-bitter smile. “Maybe I just… I’m glad you’re still here. That we’re still here.”
Silence.
Then, hesitantly, like it hurt to say: “I look out for you. You know that, right?”
You nodded slowly, heart in your throat. “I know.”
“And it ain’t just… ‘cause of Tess. Or the job.”
Your eyes lifted to his. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening every line of sorrow carved there.
Your hand moved to his — fingers wrapping over his, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know what you mean.”
He swallowed, jaw tight.
You shifted closer and leaned in. Your lips brushed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. A test. A promise. When he didn’t pull away, you kissed him softly — long, tender, and steady.
His hand came to rest on your back, warm and protective, holding you there for just a moment longer.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured.
You smiled, tears glistening. “It is now.”
Later, after the fire burned low and the storm outside quieted, you curled beside him on your sleeping bag, the book tucked between you, the warmth of his body pressed into yours.
And for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep not with a rifle in your hands — but with his arm around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time with yours.
You didn't even care about the jokes Ellie would make.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
You knew what day it was.
You didn’t need to mark it on a calendar. It lived in your chest like something raw and coiled, like a bruise you’d pressed your thumb into just to see if it still hurt.
Even in the early years after the world ended, you'd tried to mark the day — a scavenged piece of candy, a lucky pair of socks from a trading post. Something. A way to remember who you were, who you used to be, before the world fell apart and took your family with it.
And then you'd met Joel. And Tess. And Ellie. And for the first time in years, someone had remembered. Joel had remembered.
Although, Joel had said nothing last night. He’d eaten dinner with you like he always did and kissed your forehead on the porch before heading to his own cabin across the way. No words. Just warmth, familiarity.
You didn’t know what that kiss meant anymore. If he kissed you because he loved you, or because it had become habit — part of the quiet routine you’d built together.
Routine had settled into your bones. You worked supply runs twice a week. Helped repair fencing. On Sundays, you took guard shifts with Maria. You had a room in one of the old lodges — warm blankets, real soap, even a bookshelf that you slowly filled with whatever Joel found for you.
You and Joel hadn’t put a name on what you were.
You’d shared nights. Touched hands in quiet kitchens. Kissed, softly, like it might break something inside you both. But life moved differently now — slower, more careful. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Sometimes, you did the same.
It was two weeks before your birthday when you first noticed Joel acting strange. He was quieter than usual — and for Joel, that was saying something. He didn’t meet your eyes as often. His hands lingered on tools longer than needed when you passed them over. He volunteered to help with fence repairs even though Tommy had told him to rest his knee.
And then he did the one thing that gave it away: he started asking questions.
“What kinda food d’you miss the most?” he’d asked one night, seemingly out of nowhere, while you washed dishes in the lodge kitchen.
You shrugged. “Pasta, probably. Like… real pasta. With too much cheese.”
He grunted. “Noted.”
Two days later, he wandered into the rec center where Ellie and a few others were playing cards, and asked what kind of music you liked.
She later told you — with a devilish grin — that he pretended it was about planning a patrol route and needed to know how to boost your morale. Ellie lived to embarrass him now.
But you didn’t say anything.
You didn’t bring up the date.
Last year on the road had meant more than you could put into words — the chocolate, the book, the warmth of his body beside yours. And the year before that, Bill and Frank’s. But this time felt… heavier. Safer, sure, but somehow harder.
Because now you were stable. And that meant facing things you used to avoid — feelings, fears, memories that hadn’t knocked for years.
You let the covers fall off your shoulders and sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms. You dressed in silence, pulled on your boots and stepped outside.
It was still early. The sky was the color of ash, the town wrapped in the hush of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys in slow spirals. Your breath fogged in the air as you crossed the quiet streets, your boots crunching softly beneath you. A few neighbors nodded as you passed. One of the children in the community handed you a tiny knitted bracelet without a word and ran off. You stared at it for a second before tucking it into your pocket.
You slipped into the warmth of the dining hall, nodding to a few early risers. Maria stood behind the serving counter, already ladling out bowls of oatmeal and pouring coffee.
She spotted you and smiled. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” you said with a shrug. “Habit.”
Her smile widened just slightly, as if she knew something you didn’t. “Big plans today?”
You blinked. “Uh… no. Just patrol, I think.”
“Mm. Right.” She slid a mug of coffee toward you.
You sat at the corner table, your usual spot, and picked at your breakfast. The oatmeal was warm, sweetened with something, but you barely tasted it.
Then the door opened, and there he was.
Heavy boots. That worn flannel you liked. His hair still damp, his jaw clenched in that familiar Joel way. He walked over to you, slow and purposeful.
“Morning,” he said, voice low.
“Morning,” you returned, wary.
He looked around, then leaned down a little. “Got a job. Maria wants us to check the old supply cabin. South side of the river.”
You furrowed your brow. “That hasn’t been used in months.”
He gave you a blank look. “Still gotta check it.”
You eyed him suspiciously. “On foot?”
“Nah, horses. Not far. But we gotta leave now.”
You stared at him, heartbeat skipping.
“Is this about today?”
His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.” You stood slowly, collecting your tray. “Let me get my gear.”
He nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. But his eyes lingered on you as you turned away.
It was just the two of you on horseback. The trees lining the trail were coated in snow, branches low and heavy. Joel rode ahead a few paces, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.
It felt normal, and that made it worse. You didn’t know if you were mad at him for pretending today didn’t matter — or mad at yourself for still hoping he’d remember.
But then Joel turned off the main trail.
You frowned. “Joel? This isn’t toward the storage cabin.”
He didn’t look back. “Shortcut.”
“Uh-huh.”
You followed him another five minutes until the trees thinned out and you saw it — a small cabin tucked between two birch trees. Smoke rose from the chimney.
You halted your horse. “Joel, what is this?”
He dismounted. “C’mon.”
You followed, suspicious.
Inside, the cabin was warm. The table was set and steam rose from a pot in the center. The scent of tomato, herbs, something rich and warm hit your nose.
He walked in behind you, rubbing his hands together. “Figured if I tried to do this in Jackson, or if I told you, you'd find some excuse not to come.”
You swallowed hard. “You cooked?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda. Got help from Maria. Ellie made fun of me the whole time.”
He stepped closer, slower now. “I know we don’t always say things the right way. I don’t. But you’re…” He looked down, jaw working. “You’re important to me. And this day’s important. Not ‘cause of cake or candles or whatever. But because you made it. You’re here.”
“Joel…”
He finally met your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Still.”
You took a shaky breath. “You remembered my book last year. The chocolate.”
His voice was low. “That wasn’t enough. Wanted to do somethin’. For you.”
“I told you I didn’t need anything.”
“I know. That’s why it matters.”
You blinked back sudden tears.
He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I remember everything about you.”
He took a deep breath, as if deciding something. You looked at him, eyes wet.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small box — old, metal, a little rusted. You opened it carefully. Inside was a ring. Simple, silver, with a faint scratch on the band. It was beautiful.
“It’s not for anythin’ fancy,” he said quickly. “Just… wanted you to have somethin’."
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I love you,” he said, low, like he’d been holding it in for years. “And I’m not good at this. But I want more. With you. Here. However you want it.”
You stepped forward and kissed him, fiercely, your hands curling into his jacket. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his mouth slow and reverent on yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He stilled — just for a second — before his arms came up and folded around you.
You stood like that in the cabin’s quiet warmth, holding on.
“I don’t need big things,” you whispered into his chest. “Just this. Just you.”
He didn’t respond right away. But his grip tightened. His lips brushed your hair.
“Then you got me,” he said. “Today. Tomorrow. Long as I’ve got breath.”
Later, after dinner, after laughter and a glass of something Joel had insisted was aged but clearly wasn’t, you sat beside the fire with a blanket draped across both your legs. He rested his hand on your thigh.
And when the fire burned low, and your eyelids drooped, you leaned into his shoulder and let yourself fall asleep there — warm, safe, remembered.
#tlou fanfiction#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fluff#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x reader fluff
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brat | track one
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producer!suguru x popstar!reader
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wc: 2k
content: smut, fluff, smau / exhibitionism (concealed in a public setting), fingering, drug/alcohol use, ambiguous relationship status / a little scene-setting before we get into it next chapter :)
taglist is closed! 18+ please <3
Variety — YEAR OF THE BRAT: SUGURU GETO AND YN HAVE THE INDUSTRY IN A HEADLOCK (AND THEY’RE LAUGHING ABOUT IT)
Vulture — INSIDE THE CULT OF YN AND GETO: WHY EVERYONE’S COPYING THE CHAOS
The Cut — THE ART OF BEING WATCHED: THE ROLLOUT THAT TOOK OVER YOUR TIMELINE
[ seven days, 14 hours to drop ]
you’re chewing gum when you walk in.
the meeting room is glass-walled, over-lit, aggressively air-conditioned. it smells like money and emails. a brand director is mid-slide, gesturing at a screen filled with words like reach and multi-platform ecosystem. someone else chimes in about vertical integration.
suguru trails two steps behind you with half a croissant in his hand, headphones slung around his neck. he doesn’t say a word—just drops into the chair beside yours and opens his laptop as if the room isn’t full of people.
you don’t take your sunglasses off. their fault for lighting the place like an interrogation chamber.
“the aim is cultural virality,” someone says. “we’re thinking cross-brand utility meets niche rebellion.”
you blink slowly. blow a bubble. pop it.
“is there a slide where you tell us what the fuck that means?”
suguru doesn’t look up, but he does smirk beside you—the silent, crooked kind he gives you when he thinks you’re being mean on purpose. (you are.)
a younger exec tries to pivot. “no, like—we just want to elevate your image without diluting the—”
“please don’t say authenticity.” you cross your legs. “i’ll have to light myself on fire.”
[ six days, 12 hours to drop ]
@/cultyn (instagram post) 📸 : your silhouette behind a sheer curtain with silver tinsel, suguru’s tattooed hand pulling the curtain aside. 💬 : countdown in bio. don’t be late ⏳
@/cultgeto (instagram post) 📸 : same as yours. 💬 : it begins 🔄 360 video friday
[ four days, 22 hours to drop ]
you feel it before you name it—that warm, sparkling edge of visibility. the music’s perfect. the lights are forgiving. everyone’s looking, seeing exactly what you want them to.
but the only eyes that matter are fixed on you from a corner—suguru, legs spread and an arm slung over the back of the couch like the section belongs to him. (it does.)
he waits.
you let it build. air-kiss people you barely remember. twirl a girl’s hair between your fingers, whispering something that makes her giggle. lean into camera flashes, catching light in your earrings, your clothes, your teeth.
and when you’re satisfied, you cross the floor, hips swinging like a threat, and slot yourself between his knees. he leans back and gives you that look—somewhere between dare and devotion.
“having fun?” he asks, amused.
you straddle his thigh without answering. your skirt rides higher, his eyes drop lower. instead of stopping you, he grabs his jacket from the seat and drapes it over your bare shoulders—possession dressed as modesty.
“so fucking spoiled,” he mutters, more observation than complaint. like he’s proud. like he made you this way on purpose.
you roll your hips once. then again, slower, dirtier. a palm settles on your ass to guide you, not stop you. his show now, not yours. every grind hits harder as you fall into the rhythm he sets.
he takes your drink, downs it in one swallow, sets the glass aside. you watch his throat work before that same hand trails condensation up your thigh and under your skirt.
you’re slick through your panties.
“you’re such a fucking handful,” he says with a smirk, planting kisses from your cheek to your jaw. his voice is hot in your ear, close enough to catch between beats. “you know that?”
you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “wanted you to touch me.”
his smirk deepens when you slide your knees wider on the seat for him. he shifts your panties aside and sinks two fingers in.
your mouth drops open as he sets a pace. you arch into him automatically, grinding harder, already after something without permission. his palm presses over your clit with every thrust. it’s sloppy—shallow breath, parted lips, heavy eyelids.
you try to keep the rhythm, to stay composed, but his fingers work in time with the music, eyes pinned to your face. he kisses you when he catches it—the split second where it stops being teasing and starts being need.
“breathe.”
your hips stutter, the warning landing between your lungs and your legs.
“you’re gonna cum too fast.”
you nod, or shake your head—you don’t know. you ignore him like you always do, desperate now, chasing it like you’re not surrounded by strangers. if anyone’s watching, suguru’s already made sure they can’t see anyway.
“you wanna be fucked on this couch in front of everyone?” he asks, voice dropping to something fond and a little mean. “or are you gonna behave?”
you don’t answer. can’t. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hitching as his cologne fills your senses. you’re right on the edge—
“i know, baby.” he murmurs it like a spell, dragging his thumb up your clit. “i know. make a mess if you need to.”
you cum on his hand like it was his idea. like you didn’t start the whole thing in the first place.
he keeps you there, fingers still inside, letting you come apart in pieces on top of him. your hips twitch and you whimper into his throat, melting against him. he lets you ride it out. lets your slick flood over his fingers and down his hand, then pulls out slowly. tucks your panties back into place too carefully for what just happened.
then he brings one finger to his mouth, licking it clean. he offers the other to you, and you take it like you always do—lips parted, tongue out, wrapping around him slow in the way you know drives him insane. you suck, humming low in your throat like a thank you.
you start to lift your head, suddenly aware of where you are and the fact that the song’s changed twice, but a hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he kisses your temple.
“not yet,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”
so you exhale and let yourself sink into him fully. your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm snug around your waist, jacket still warm over your shoulders. the music keeps playing and the lights keep shifting, but for a few more seconds, you stay where you are.
[ four hours to drop ]
you’re twenty-five minutes late and only partially dressed when you go live.
you rarely do interviews separately. don’t take meetings separately either, unless you’re trying to scare someone. livestreams are the same—it’s him or nothing.
suguru stands behind you, black shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up. he’s halfway through lacing your corset, rings flashing as he works the ribbon like he’s tying a gift.
“i told you to start getting ready two hours ago,” he mutters, eyes on his hands.
“you did,” you agree with a nod, squinting at the phone propped against the hotel mirror. the chat scrolls too fast to follow, but you catch a few:
SUGURU HANDS WATCHERS STAND UP he’s doing it wrong but like… sexy?? she’s so calm i would be screaming and crying and biting
“chat says you’re doing it wrong.”
“chat can’t get you out of a corset with one hand,” he deadpans, not even looking up.
you seal the joint in your hands with a slow press of your tongue, dragging it across the paper like you know he’s watching. (he is. he always is.)
he finishes with a final tug, knotting the ribbon tight and smoothing the laces like he’s proud of himself. his fingers trail down your spine in a lazy line as he kisses your bare shoulder once, soft and thoughtless.
the lighter clicks. you inhale, exhale. watch him in the mirror as he disappears from the frame to rifle through the jewelry you’d dumped onto the counter earlier.
he returns with earrings, necklaces, and bangles in hand.
“stay still.”
his fingers are cool where they skim your neck. he hooks the earrings in slow, fastens your necklace, slips each bracelet on one by one and brings your hand to his lips when he’s done.
you pass him the joint.
“we were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago and it’s thirty minutes away,” he says, exhaling smoke.
“mm,” you reply, dabbing on lip gloss. “better hurry up and pick my shoes then.”
i’ve never wanted to be a joint so bad in my whole life HE PICKS HER JEWELRY?????? is this foreplay or a grwm
[ 30 minutes to drop ]
the diesel party is still going by the time you leave. your heels click loudly against the sidewalk. suguru’s hand rests low at your back, half-steering. he smells like weed and your favorite cologne.
someone with a press badge calls your name—matte lipstick, eyes wide like she can’t believe you’re real. she catches you just before the car with a mic, a cameraman, and a hopeful smile.
“just a second—can we get a quick word? you both look—” she hesitates, trying to find the right language. “—unreal.”
suguru stops halfway behind you, not moving his hand from your waist.
“so,” she starts, practically vibrating. “what made you two want to show up together for tonight’s diesel launch?”
“we love a party,” you reply, smiling.
she laughs like it’s charming. follows up with something about your sound, the visuals you’ve been putting out recently. you let suguru answer that one—you’re busy watching the lights bounce off the gloss you left on his cheekbone.
“okay, last one. you probably get this all the time, but—are you two… together?”
suguru grins. “we’re the same person.”
you don’t miss a beat. “worse.”
the interviewer laughs, flustered and delighted. “right. okay. thank you—”
but you’re already sliding into the backseat.
the car door shuts and the world cuts out. no bass, no flashing lights. just dark leather and air conditioning and exhaustion behind your eyes.
you exhale once, sharp, and start leaning forward to unbuckle your shoes.
suguru stops you. “let me.” like it’s obvious.
he pulls your feet into his lap one at a time, slipping the heels off like you’re breakable. his thumb circles your ankle, slow and grounding. your breathing evens out.
outside, cameras flash against the windows, but the tint’s too dark for them to get anything real.
it echoes in your head. are you two together?
“you didn’t say no,” you say softly, eyes closed.
he keeps rubbing. “you didn’t either.”
when you look at him, he’s smiling at you, eyes soft like he’s listening for something unspoken.
you settle deeper into the seat, one hand resting over his.
neither of you has said it.
but he always shows up. always looks at you like you’re the only person in the world speaking his language.
and you do the same.
you’re each other’s. just not in a way you can put in writing.
[ three minutes post-drop ]
the 360 video drops at midnight. it’s trending by 12:03.
the internet does what it always does.
@/bratchive: every brand strategist watching this with tears in their eyes
@/getogirl: brat / tamer dynamic so loud you can hear the leash drag
@/forynonly: legacy is UNDEBATEDDDDD icon behavior
you don’t check your phone, but you feel it—the shift, the buzz, the spin of it all. the world catching up to something you’ve already lived through.
#⎯ writing#jjk x reader#suguru x reader#geto x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#suguru geto x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x you#jjk#geto jjk#geto suguru#jjk geto#jujutsu geto#geto suguru smut#geto suguru x reader#suguru geto smut#geto smut#jjk suguru#jujutsu kaisen suguru#geto x you#geto x y/n#suguru x you#suguru x y/n#jujutsu kaisen x you#jjk x y/n#⎯ brat
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Freestanding Home Office Example of a mid-sized minimalist freestanding desk dark wood floor study room design with gray walls and no fireplace
#leather armchair#floor to ceiling windows#track lighting#modern artwork#black & white#industrial desk
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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
#kpop#kpop fluff#kpop x reader#kpop smau#kathaelipwse#atz fanfic#ateez#atz x reader#atz smut#ateez scenarios#atz#ateez smut#ateez x reader#ateez fic#ateez fanfic#ateez x you#ateez fluff#ateez imagines#ateez fanfiction#ateez au#ateez drabbles#san x reader#choi san#choi san x reader#choi san smut#choi san hard thoughts#choi san fanfic#choi san x you#idol x idol story#idol x reader
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𝖃2:
𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆, 𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘,
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘
𝖃2:
𝕴’𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓
𝕱𝖆𝖈𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖔𝖒 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗,
𝕾𝖜𝖎𝖒𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖆 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗,
𝕴𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖆 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜,
𝕴’𝖉 𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊
𝕮𝖑𝖆𝖞 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌
𝕺𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖓𝖚𝖒𝖇, 𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌
𝖄𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖞
𝖃4:
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝕴’𝖉 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖙 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖚𝖕,
𝕵𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚
𝖃2:
𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆, 𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘,
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘
𝕴’𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖚𝖉 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚’𝖗𝖊 𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖜 𝖎𝖙 𝖆𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖆 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖊
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖈𝖚𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖙, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖘𝖐 𝖒𝖊 𝖎𝖋 𝖎𝖒 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖐𝖆𝖞
𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖎𝖘 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗,
𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖙 𝖚𝖕,
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗
𝕴𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖊,
𝖄𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖎𝖙 𝖆𝖎𝖓’𝖙 𝖌𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖞
𝖃4:
𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖙 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖚𝖕,
𝕵𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚
𝖃2:
𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆, 𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘,
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘
𝖃2:
𝕴’𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓
𝖃16:
𝕮𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓 🔥
𝕸𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖆 𝖇𝖞 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝕭𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖘
@frenchpsychiatrymuderedmycnut @bigbonzo
#im freaking the fuck out#headbanger#gif moodboard#gif mood board#mood In between#3/2024#mesopotamia#black light burns#heavy metal#industrial rock#Sex drugs and socks with holes#sex drugs and rock n roll#i need to dance the fuck out#nu metal#track of the day#bouncer#freak with me#x-heesy#fucking favorite#music#now playing#spotify#music and art#gif attack
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