Verses between us|| Svt hip-hop unit x reader drabble
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
You're already late to the studio when you catch the sound of his voice down the hallway—raspy, low, mid-verse.
Seungcheol doesn't stop rapping when you walk in. He just glances up with a smirk, mouthing, “you’re late,” while still in flow. You drop your bag and shoot back, “I’m worth the wait.”
It’s always like this with him—half competition, half something else. The something else he never names.
“You didn’t send the demo.” He pauses the track when his verse ends.
“You didn’t ask nicely,” you shrug, pulling your laptop out.
“I figured you ghosted.”
“I was mixing.”
“You always say that when you’re pulling away.”
You look up. He’s standing too close now, arms folded, shoulders tense. You hate that he notices things. Hate that you wish he’d act like he didn’t.
“Stop reading me.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “I don’t have to. You rhyme everything except what you’re really feeling.”
You don’t answer. He’s not wrong.
Later, when you leave, he doesn’t say goodbye. Just walks past you, brushing shoulders.
You tell yourself it’s better that way.
Wonwoo always waits until the room clears before he speaks.
You’re both tucked into the corner couch at Pledis, laptops open, music low, notebooks messy.
He doesn’t say much. But he watches. Every gesture, every bar, every half-line you scribble out and replace.
“You write like you’re trying to prove something,” he says, tapping your notebook. “Even when no one’s watching.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s too right.
“I’ve always had to,” you murmur, more to yourself.
He nods slowly, like he understands the weight without needing the details.
“I used to write like that too,” he offers. “Now I write like I’m protecting something.”
“Like what?”
He looks at you. Just for a second too long.
“You, maybe.”
The silence afterward is heavier than the beat still playing.
Mingyu is loud when he shouldn’t be.
He swings into the practice room with a smoothie and way too much energy for 10 a.m.
“You still look like last night’s draft,” he grins, sitting next to you on the floor.
You roll your eyes. “Your morning voice is an act of violence.”
He laughs and throws a hoodie at your head. “You’re welcome.”
There’s nothing serious between you two. Just teasing. Playful energy. But lately, he’s been staying after everyone else leaves.
Today, he catches you glancing at the mirror too long—at your posture, at your hair, at how out of place you sometimes feel in a space that doesn’t always reflect you.
“You look like you,” he says, like that’s enough.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He shrugs. “It should.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Just bumps your knee with his and changes the subject like he didn’t just steady you in one sentence.
Vernon catches you in the hallway with a beat playing through his phone speaker.
“You busy?” he asks, as if that’s ever stopped you before.
You follow him into one of the smaller recording rooms, walls scuffed from too many late nights.
He plays you a loop. Soulful, weird, unexpected. “You’d sound good on this.”
You hesitate. “It’s not my style.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I want you on it.”
He always pushes you out of your comfort zone. The weird metaphors, the experimental flows. You balance him—grounded, sharp—and he likes the tension.
“Why do you always want to work with me?”
He doesn’t look up from the mixing board. “Because when you rap, you mean it.”
You stare at the speaker for a long moment, pretending not to care how much that lands.
You write something raw that night. Not for the track. Just for yourself.
That weekend, all four of them end up at your place for a “working dinner” that turns into takeout and chaos.
Seungcheol is in the kitchen, arguing about spice levels. Mingyu’s trying to freestyle with chopsticks in his mouth. Wonwoo’s half-listening with that soft smile he gets when he’s at peace. Vernon’s already playing new instrumentals through your Bluetooth speaker.
None of them say it, but they’re proud of you. They always are.
You’ve worked hard for this—carved your space in a world that didn’t always make room. You used to feel like you had to perform yourself into being seen.
But with them, you’re just… here.
And that’s enough.
Later that night, when everyone’s gone, you look at the whiteboard by your desk. It’s filled with lyrics, half-finished hooks, post-it notes with their names scribbled next to beats.
You don’t know what any of this means yet.
But you know it’s real.
And maybe, for now, that’s what matters.
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
That weekend, all four of them end up at your place for a “working dinner” that turns into takeout and chaos.
Seungcheol is in the kitchen, arguing about spice levels. Mingyu’s trying to freestyle with chopsticks in his mouth. Wonwoo’s half-listening with that soft smile he gets when he’s at peace. Vernon’s already playing new instrumentals through your Bluetooth speaker.
None of them say it, but they’re proud of you. They always are.
You’ve worked hard for this—carved your space in a world that didn’t always make room. You used to feel like you had to perform yourself into being seen.
But with them, you’re just… here.
And that’s enough.
Later that night, when everyone’s gone, you look at the whiteboard by your desk. It’s filled with lyrics, half-finished hooks, post-it notes with their names scribbled next to beats.
You don’t know what any of this means yet.
But you know it’s real.
And maybe, for now, that’s what matters.
neither of you are actually on watch, but you didn’t want to stink up the cell block with the smell after being lucky enough to find a couple of pre-rolled joints tucked away in a metal tin on your last run.
the two of you are up in the west tower, and the sun’s setting so prettily behind you that daryl struggles to keep his eyes away. there isn’t much conversation, but the silence is comfortable.
daryl looks down at the joint between his fingers and holds it towards you, “‘bout finished, you wanna kill it?”
“nah,” you shake your head. your words are slower like this. no less measured, but still.
and daryl’s so transfixed by the way your lips are moving that he misses the rest of your sentence. when he looks up, you’re already meeting his eyes, smiling like you know.
god, do you know?
“what?” he grunts.
“i said,” you tease, dragging out the second word in a mimic of a whine, “just share it with me.”
“share it?” he grumbles, brows furrowing.
your answering chuckle is low, a little rough from the bit of coughing earlier, “yeah, just—“
you wave a hand in a loose gesture for him to take the last hit and he does, raising the joint to his lips and sucking in deep.
“now hold it, and i’ll—“
you pause as you move from your position leaned against the wall until you’re in front of his face.
daryl would have choked if his mouth wasn’t so full.
your mouth hovers a hair from his and you reach a hand up to grasp his jaw where it hollows to hold the smoke.
your smile when you meet his eyes is wicked and you whisper, “blow.”
he does.
daryl breathes the smoke into your open mouth, watching your face with lidded eyes as you inhale. through the haze in his mind he has the sudden thought that this might be the prettiest you’ve ever looked.
at ease, no threat on the immediate horizon, eyes red rimmed and twinkling with mirth.
he wants you so bad he feels it in his limbs. the look in your eyes is carnal and daryl is sure his read the same. he leans into you unconsciously and, for a moment, you exist together in that charged space, understanding, but not acting.
all too soon you’re pulling away and tipping your head up to blow the smoke away from his face.
the smile on your face when you look at him again is hazy, but the heat in your eyes hasn’t faded.
“thanks for sharin’,” you say quietly, calmly, “think i’m gonna turn in for the night.”
“yeah,” he grunts in reply.
a few minutes later, you’ve disappeared down the ladder and daryl is left in the watchtower alone. the sunset bleeds into twilight around him, and that would be a hell of a view if he wasn’t fixated on the hatch that you pulled closed behind you.
he drops the butt of the joint on the ground and crushes it under his boot before reaching down to yank the hatch back open and follow you inside.
