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thecchiiiiiiii · 23 days ago

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Say by Keshi – “Talking with your hands, but do you mean it? Baby, all you gotta do is say the word,I know what you're thinking, but just say it first” (Lara Raj x reader)

Synopsis: Lara loves all music. The loudness. Unfortunately for her, she likes you, someone who's familiar with the sound of silence.

—☆

Lara Raj had always been loud.

She was born on a Monday. The kind where thunder cracked straight over the town and refused to let up for two days. Rhea Raj, all of ten years old and furious at being stuck babysitting a red-faced newborn, still likes to say Lara came howling into the world with the storm inside her lungs.

By fifteen, Lara still hadn’t shut up.

Her mom said it with fondness, her teachers said it with exasperation, her sister said it with an exhausted grin when Lara burst into her room at 2AM to hum the bridge of a new song she’d half-written on a crumpled math worksheet.

Noise was Lara’s religion.

Guitar chords in the shower. Lyrics scribbled on gum wrappers. Laughing too loud when Daniela snorted soda through her nose at lunch. Singing out of tune in Rhea’s battered sedan on the way to buy cheap boba. Slamming the front door. Forgetting her keys. Never, ever whispering.

Lara Raj never knew how quiet could feel like thunder until she met you.

It starts the way most high school things do— in a hallway buzzing with static and rumor.

Lara’s fifteen, earbuds jammed in, a guitar pick in her pocket, the scent of new paperbacks and cheap cafeteria pizza clinging to her hoodie. She’s swapping textbooks at her locker when your name drifts to her through the static.

“Y/n can’t talk, right? Born mute?”

“Yeah, but they’re so pretty though. Have you seen their sketches?”

Lara freezes halfway through stuffing her chemistry binder into her bag. She knows of you, everyone does.

The kid who drifts through the halls soft as mist, smile tucked shy under the hem of your sleeves, words blooming only through your hands or neat black ink on the corners of notebook pages.

Something about your silence looks like the calm she’s always searching for between drum solos.

She should slam her locker, plug back into her music, forget about it. But when she catches sight of you later, sitting under the old acacia tree, knees drawn up, pencil scratching slow spirals of graphite across your sketchpad— she stops.

Something in the hush around you feels louder than any chord she’s blasted through her battered headphones.

So the first time she really saw you, sitting cross-legged under the battered old acacia tree behind the science wing, Lara Raj thought: "God, how can someone so quiet take up so much space?"

You weren’t exactly new. Everyone at school knew you in the casual, whispered way kids collect stories about each other like pressed flowers in their notebooks.

"Born mute. Never speaks. Some surgery rumor, a throat thing, vocal cords didn’t grow right."

Some people said your brother Eli once punched a sophomore for mocking your silence. Lara believed that one immediately.

Eli was a year above her— she’d seen him on the soccer field, barking orders like a drill sergeant, all broad shoulders and that big protective energy that made even senior boys hush up when he glared.

But you, you were nothing like him. The few times Lara had passed you in the hallway, you were tucked small against your locker, books held close to your chest, hair falling over your eyes.

You’d glance up if you caught her staring. Once, your gaze snagged on the frayed guitar pick tied to her backpack zipper, and Lara had wondered if you recognized the band logo Sharpied on it.

She never said hi. Too easy to get distracted. Too much noise in her head already.

Until that day.

She tries paper first.

Wednesday, third period Chem. Rain shivers at the window panes. She tears a corner off her math notes and writes, "Hi. You look bored. Want company?"

She slides it across your lab table, breath trapped in her chest like a note caught between chords. You glance at the slip, then up at her— eyebrow arched, mouth tugged into a shy, crooked grin.

You scribble back: "You’re the loud one, right?"

She nearly snorts out loud. Loud. Yeah— she guesses she is.

You flip the paper over, doodle a tiny smiley face next to your name, just Y/n, neat and small.

When the bell rings, she doesn’t even hear it, too busy tucking that scrap into her back pocket like it’s something holy.

She learns your schedule next, like the lyrics of a song she can’t stop humming.

Third: Chem.

Lunch: Under the acacia, always you and your sketchpad.

Fifth: Art elective— where you draw her guitar case without her noticing.

After school: Sometimes library, sometimes behind the gym where your brother Eli barks orders at sweaty soccer boys who pretend to listen.

It was mid-September, heat still clinging to the concrete.

She’d flunked her chem quiz, nearly lost her guitar pick for real this time, and forgotten her lunch on the counter— and Daniela had texted her, "we stole u fries lol come find us", but Lara found herself drifting instead.

To the back lawn. Past the dumpsters. To the battered acacia tree she’d only ever noticed as a landmark to cut behind when she was late for band practice.

You sat there, knees tucked up, sketchbook balanced carefully on top. You wore your headphones, one of those big, soft pairs, not the cheap white buds she used, and you were so still Lara swore you were part of the tree for a second. Your pencil scratched the page.

Lara stepped closer. Her boot hit a branch.

You looked up.

Later she would try to describe it to her friends, the look. It wasn’t shy exactly.

It wasn’t bold either. It was something in between— startled, but soft. Like you’d already forgiven her for being a clumsy intrusion.

Lara crouched, letting her guitar case slide off her shoulder with a thump.

“Hey, Y/n”

You blinked. Tucked your pencil behind your ear. Nodded once.

She rocked back on her heels. “Cool tree.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You angled the sketchbook just enough for her to peek, a rough outline of the crooked trunk, roots snaking like veins into the dirt. No name scribbled on the top; just tiny date numbers she couldn’t read upside down.

She whistled low. “You’re good.”

You tilted your head. The pencil slipped down behind your fingers— you tapped it twice on the page, then mimed holding another, holding it out. An invisible offering.

“Oh. Right.” Lara dug into her pocket.

She didn’t have a pencil, just the same chewed-up pen she used to scribble lyrics in study hall. She handed it over anyway. You took it, flipped to the back page, wrote in neat, careful block letters:

"Well, hello, guitar girl."

Lara barked a laugh. “Guilty.”

You shrugged, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth.

She watched your hands, the way you shaped words, even when you didn’t sign them yet. There was so much language there, unspoken, blooming out of your fingertips.

A bell rang somewhere. Lara winced. She should’ve been in remedial chem by now. She stayed rooted to the dirt instead.

“Can I—” She gestured at the grass beside you. “Sit?”

You patted the spot. She plopped down so fast she knocked her guitar case over. You caught it with one sneaker before it toppled.

And just like that, the loudest girl in school sat beside the quietest kid in town, the world humming around them, heat soaking into their backs.

The next day, Lara found you again.

She didn’t know if you’d be there, maybe you’d decided the girl who nearly flattened your tree with her chatter was too much. But there you were with the same headphones, same sketchbook, a different pencil.

Lara dropped beside you like she’d been there every day of her life. She didn’t say anything at first. She just pulled a crumpled piece of lined paper from her hoodie pocket, smoothed it out over her knee, and wrote:

"What are you listening to?"

You leaned over, read it. Your grin this time was tiny but bright— like a spark under her ribs. You tugged one earcup off and pressed it to her ear.

Soft piano, a voice that cracked at the edges. Not her usual blasting guitars, but it was… nice. Warm. Sad. She couldn’t catch the words, but the hush of it made her chest ache a little.

When she pulled back, you flipped her note over, scribbled in the margin:

'Do you sing?"

She snorted, took the pen back. "Yeah, but let me play for you. Want to hear?"

Your eyes widened. You nodded— once, twice, so quick it made her grin split wide.

That afternoon, she dragged you behind the band room, a dusty concrete corner where the choir kids snuck to chain-smoke before home time.

She cracked her guitar case open, tuned strings while you hugged your knees to your chest, eyes glued to her fingers.

She didn’t sing that first time, just let the strings do the talking.

The chords slipped easy, a half-finished verse she’d been stuck on for weeks but suddenly felt right. You watched every movement like she was magic.

When she finished, you clapped, soft, silent, fingertips tapping against your palm. Your smile was enough to make the traffic noise fade behind the gym walls.

—☆

At home, Lara’s sister notices first.

Rhea Raj is twenty, a student at the local uni who breezes in and out of the house like she owns every corner of it.

Her hair’s always tied up, sleeves rolled, mug of tea half-forgotten on the counter. She catches Lara once, sprawled across the living room floor, a sign language book open next to her guitar picks.

Rhea leans on the doorway. “Homework?”

“Kind of,” Lara mumbles.

Rhea arches an eyebrow. “For who?”

Lara doesn’t look up. Her fingers shape letters, shaky, stubborn. H-I. H-I.

Over and over. The page is creased from her nails.

Rhea pads over, flops down beside her. She flicks the corner of the book. “You’ve never studied this hard for math.”

“It’s not math,” Lara says, cheeks warm. She presses her palm to the page.

“It’s for… it’s for them.”

Rhea’s smile curves slow, fond. She brushes Lara’s hair back from her forehead, like she’s eight again. “You’re all heart, kid. Don’t mess it up.”

So, Lara tries.

The first time Lara tries to sign to you for real, she messes it up so badly you nearly fall off the bench laughing.

Friday, after Chem, she drops beside you under the acacia tree, heart thundering. You glance up, eyes bright as ever. She wipes her palms on her jeans, breathes deep, lifts her hands.

Lara stands in front of you, tongue caught between her teeth. She’s wearing the same grey hoodie she’s practically lived in all month, sleeves shoved up so she doesn’t lose track of her hands.

“Okay,” she mutters, flexing her fingers.

You tilt your head, grin already tugging at your mouth. You tap your chin— the universal go on.

She lifts her dominant hand, tries to shape the letter H, realizes halfway through she’s not even signing letters, just making weird finger claws. She fumbles, tries again.

“Shit. Wait— I swear I got this last night.”

You giggle, an actual soft huff of breath that ghosts over your teeth but never breaks into sound.

You sign the proper H-I so easily it makes her want to melt into the scuffed tile floor.

“Oh my god,” she groans, throwing her hands up.

“You make it look like art. I make it look like a cramp.”

You reach out, catch her wrist, tug her closer so her knees bump yours.

Gently, patient, you fold her fingers, straighten the curve of her index, correct the thumb. Your hands are warm. You look up at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters in this hallway full of echoing footsteps and dusty music stands.

When you’re done, you squeeze her knuckles once— "there. Got it."

She tries again, slow. H-I. You beam at her. Her stomach does a flip she’ll be too embarrassed to tell Rhea about later.

She tries it again, all by herself.

So stiff. So wrong. She knows it the second your brows lift, lips twitching— and then you laugh. No sound, but your shoulders shake, your grin explodes like dawn, and Lara’s face flames hot.

“Shut up,” she huffs, punching your shoulder. But you’re still laughing, eyes crinkled, teeth showing. Best sound she never hears.

Something deep in Lara’s chest shifts. She thinks, "God, if this is quiet, let me drown in it."

That night, she does tell Rhea. Not about the stomach flip, but the rest.

Rhea’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, textbooks spread out like a campfire around her laptop. She’s got an old band T-shirt on, collar torn at the seam, hair piled up in a bun that’s mostly falling apart.

Lara flops face-first onto the blankets. “How do you get your fingers to do the right thing?”

Rhea doesn’t even look up. “Context?”

“Sign language.”

That gets her attention. Rhea clicks her pen shut, pushes her glasses up her nose, and peers at Lara’s muffled groan into the comforter.

“Lara. Please tell me you didn’t insult them by accidentally signing something cursed.”

“I didn’t!” Lara protests, rolling over. “I’m just… slow. I can’t even do a hi right.”

Rhea smiles— that older sister smile, half smug, half secretly proud. She reaches out, flicks Lara’s forehead. “So go slow. Do it wrong until you do it right. You always do.”

Lara squints. “Is that an insult?”

“It’s encouragement.” Rhea leans down, presses a kiss to Lara’s hairline. “Now get out of my room before you eat all my brain cells.”

Later that week, Lara corners you behind the music room. She’s got crumpled printouts in her hand— beginner’s guide to ASL she found online.

“I’m learning,” she announces, holding up the messy pages like proof of her devotion.

You tilt your head. Your mouth quirks up, your version of a grin. You flick your fingers in rapid signs, but Lara can only catch the first word: slow.

“I know I suck,” she grumbles, shoving your shoulder playfully.

“Teach me, then.”

You do.

Some days, she finds you in the library, your hands patiently guiding hers, correcting her crooked signs.

Other times, you sit on the bleachers after school while she stumbles over the alphabet, her tongue stuck out in concentration while you laugh— silently but with your whole body.

She does. For you, she does it over and over until her hands cramp.

At lunch, during breaks, on the bus when she rides past her stop just to sit with you longer. Sometimes you take her hands in yours, fix her fingers, guide her wrists. Your skin is warm, and she thinks if she believed in fate, it would look a lot like this.

“You’re obsessed,” Daniela says, twirling a pencil between her fingers. They’re at Megan’s house, floor littered with pizza boxes and iced coffee cups. Sophia’s braiding Manon’s hair, Yoonchae’s scrolling through her phone.

Lara throws a cushion at Daniela. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Megan singsongs. “You literally bought a whole sign language book for them.”

“I just want to talk to them properly.”

“You barely talk to us properly,” Yoonchae deadpans. The girls laugh. Lara hides her burning cheeks behind a pillow. They don’t get it. Not really.

Because it’s not about them—it’s about you.

About how you look at her like she’s more than noise.

About how your eyes crinkle when she signs music wrong, and you gently fix her with patient hands.

About how you make silence feel like a song she wants to play on repeat.

—☆

Eli never liked Lara Raj.

To be fair, Eli never liked anyone who got too close to you.

He’s only a year older, but he carries himself like he’s twenty-five, broad-shouldered and loud in all the ways you are not. He yells across the soccer field like he owns it.

He stands behind you at the bus stop like a sentry. If anyone so much as brushes your shoulder in the hallway, he appears out of thin air, jaw tight, voice sharp.

The first time Lara tries to sit with you in the cafeteria, Eli’s there— arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she’s an intruder.

“Raj,” he says, like it’s an insult.

She just lifts her tray. “Raj,” she echoes sweetly.

She plops down next to you anyway. You look between them, cheeks pink. Eli clicks his tongue.

“She’s fine,” you sign to him under the table. Lara catches it, pretends she doesn’t.

But she sees the way your shoulders hunch when Eli sighs, the way you shrink when he hisses: “They’ll hurt you. Everyone does.”

Lara hates that.

Hates that your softness looks like weakness to other people, when she knows better— your quiet is strong, patient, louder than any shout.

She leans closer, bumping your arm with hers until you look at her. She signs I’m not everyone. Not yet fluent, fingers sloppy, but her eyes promise the rest.

You smile.

Eli hates it immediately.

The first time Lara shows up at your locker after last bell, guitar case thumping her shin, Eli’s there too— looming like a brick wall with legs.

“Raj,” he grunts. He says her name like a curse.

“Hey, Captain Buzzkill,” Lara shoots back.

You hover between them, eyes darting, mouth pressed thin. Eli bristles when Lara steps too close, when your hands brush, when she signs a sloppy Hi that makes you giggle.

“Heard you’re trying to make my sibling your pet project,” Eli says, voice sharp.

Lara rolls her eyes so hard it might stick. “I’m trying to be their friend.”

Eli scoffs. “Yeah. Right.”

He tugs your backpack over your shoulder like you’re five again. Lara sticks her tongue out when his back turns. You grin at her over your brother’s shoulder, your fingers flicking a quick, secret Later.

He’s always there— lurking around corners like some overgrown bouncer, glowering at anyone who so much as bumps your shoulder in the hall. Lara knows he’s just protective, but it makes her teeth itch.

It comes to a head on a Thursday.

She’s waiting for you outside the gym, guitar case balanced upright between her knees, thumb scrolling mindlessly through old photos on her cracked phone screen. The boys’ soccer team floods out in a sweaty wave of laughter and deodorant clouds.

Eli’s at the tail end, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey half untucked, barking something at a sophomore who immediately stumbles an apology and scurries off.

Then he spots her.

He stops dead, like someone yanked his shoelaces tight. His eyes flick from her guitar to her ripped jeans to the bracelets jangling around her wrist.

He doesn’t say anything yet, just stands there, chest rising and falling, blocking her view of the exit like a human eclipse.

Lara sighs. “Hey, Big Brother.”

He grunts. Points a thumb over his shoulder. “Practice’s over. Go home.”

“I’m waiting for them.”

Eli’s jaw ticks.

He glances back, and there you are, emerging from the locker room with your bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp at the temples.

You brighten when you see Lara. Then your eyes flick to Eli and you hesitate, shoulders drawing in like you’re trying to fold up small.

Something hot and sharp twists behind Lara’s ribs.

She stands up. Shifts her guitar strap higher, squares her shoulders. “I’m allowed to wait for them, you know.”

Eli looks at her like she’s a mosquito buzzing in his ear. “Yeah? And I’m allowed to tell you to knock it off.”

“Why?” Lara snaps.

“Because you think they’re glass? They’re not. They’re a whole human, Eli.”

His nostrils flare. He turns to you— and you flinch, just a little. Not because you’re afraid, exactly, but because the world’s always made you small when Eli’s made himself big to protect you.

Your hands lift— quick, subtle. It’s fine, you sign at Lara over his shoulder. It’s okay.

But it’s not okay. Not to her.

“Look,” Eli grits out, voice dropping low so the other boys don’t overhear.

“I’m not the enemy here. I just— they don’t— I don’t want people messing them up.”

“I’m not people,” Lara fires back. “I’m me.”

Your hand finds Lara’s sleeve then gentle. She feels the brush of your fingers through the fabric like a heartbeat. Your thumb rubs a tiny circle into her elbow. It’s enough.

Eli sees it. He sees the look in your eyes— the stubborn, quiet please. And for once, he just sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. Mutters, “Fine. Whatever.”

He stomps off without another word. Lara watches him go, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. You squeeze her arm once before pulling your hand away.

“He’s a jerk,” Lara says lightly.

You sign: He loves me.

“I know.”

You bump her hip with yours, barely a nudge. Her grin splits so wide it hurts her cheeks.

Lara’s friends are the worst.

In the best way, obviously, but still. The next day, she plops her tray down at the girls’ table and immediately regrets it.

Daniela leans over her fries like a vulture. “So. How’s your little crush?”

Megan whistles. Sophia tries to hide her grin behind her juice box. Manon just hums dramatically and Yoonchae throws a balled-up napkin at Lara’s shoulder.

Lara shoves a fry in her mouth. “I don’t have a crush.”

“Liar,” Daniela sing-songs. “Yoonchae saw you under the acacia again yesterday. Looking all soft.”

Yoonchae cups her hands dramatically around an invisible heart. “So romantic. So tragic. The music freak and the mute kid.”

“Hey,” Lara snaps, but there’s no real bite. “Don’t call them that.”

Yoonchae’s grin falters, just a hair. She lifts her palms. “Didn’t mean it bad. I mean— they’re sweet. They look at you like you invented the sun.”

That shuts Lara up. Heat crawls up her neck. She drops her eyes to her tray, pushes her peas around with a plastic fork.

Daniela nudges her foot under the table. “We’re just teasing, Raj. Seriously. It’s cute. You deserve a soft love.”

Lara chews her lip. Her mind drifts— you, under that crooked tree.

The soft hush of your pencil on paper. The way you sign Hi now every time you spot her across the quad.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “They do, too.”

“You’re gonna get in a fistfight with Eli at this rate,” Dani says, chewing on a pen cap.

Lara flops beside Sophia, and replies. “I’d win.”

Sophia snorts. “No, you wouldn’t.”

Megan pops a chip in her mouth, muffled around the crunch: “Lara’s stubborn. Might stand a chance.”

Manon hums, braiding her own hair across her. “Yoonchae says Eli’s bark is worse than his bite.”

“Yoonchae knows everything,” Daniela mutters. Yoonchae looks up from her phone, flicks her hair back, and grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“I say,” Yoonchae drawls, “if Raj wants the quiet kid, Raj gets the quiet kid. Screw Eli.”

Lara sits up, a smile blooming across her face. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

“Obviously,” Yoonchae says.

One night, Lara sits at the kitchen counter, twirling pasta around her fork while her mom hums by the stove. Mrs. Raj, always half-listening, half-cooking, full of soft warmth. She taps Lara’s elbow when she realizes her daughter hasn’t said a word in ten minutes— a record.

“Who’s got you so quiet, huh?”

Lara jolts. Her fork clatters to the plate. “What?”

Mrs. Raj just smiles, slicing basil. “You’re humming. But you’re not loud. That’s new.”

Lara shrugs. Pushes her hair behind her ear. “Just… someone from school.”

Her mom’s knife stills. Her eyes soften, that gentle mother-knows-everything look. “Someone good?”

“Yeah.” Lara’s voice cracks a bit. “The best.”

Her mother just hums, brushes Lara’s cheek with the back of her knuckles. “Then bring them here sometime. I want to meet the silence that can hush my Lara Raj.”

Lara tries to be quiet when she tiptoes into the kitchen at 2AM. She really does. But her guitar case bangs the table leg and the kettle switch snaps too loud and the squeak of the fridge door is a death sentence in a Raj household that wakes at the drop of a spoon.

Rhea appears in the doorway, hair a mess, one slipper missing. She squints at Lara like she’s seeing through six layers of teen angst and unfinished chord progressions.

“You practicing or writing love songs?” she mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Lara freezes mid-pour, instant ramen steam curling into her face. “Neither.”

Rhea snorts. “Liar.”

Lara sighs. She plops down at the kitchen table, guitar half out of its case. She picks a chord, then another, fingers fumbling quiet, sleepy notes.

“It’s not a love song,” she says after a minute. “It’s… them. It’s just them.”

Rhea leans against the counter. Watches her sister shape silence into music. She doesn’t say be careful. She doesn’t say what if they break your heart. She just pushes off the counter, ruffles Lara’s hair, and says, “Play it loud tomorrow.”

—☆

It happens in pieces.

She’s waiting by your gate after soccer practice, Eli storms out first, sweat dark on his collar, eyes narrowed when he spots Lara perched on the fence.

“Again?” he snaps.

“Miss me?” she chirps.

You appear behind him, bag slipping down your arm, hair damp with practice sweat. Lara’s grin softens. You look tired, shy, but your fingers lift.

Hi.

She signs it back— better now. You beam. Eli sighs, curses under his breath.

“Don’t you have other people to bug, Raj?”

Lara hops off the fence, shoulders her guitar. “Nope. Just yours.”

You giggle into your sleeve when Eli throws his hands up in defeat.

The first time you sign something secret to Lara, it happens on a bus that smells like wet vinyl and half-finished homework.

It’s mid-October, dusk folding itself tight around the city in that sticky way only monsoon season knows.

Lara’s wedged against the window, shoulder braced so the cold glass hums against her cheek. Your sketchbook is balanced on your knees— not open to the acacia tree this time, but to something else: a half-finished doodle of her guitar. The strings are too many, winding off the page like roots.

Outside, the rain comes down soft but relentless. Lara likes it, how the world hushes under water. How it forces her to sit still. How you’re close enough that your elbow bumps hers every time the bus lurches.

She leans closer, nose nearly brushing your temple. “Show me?”

You stiffen, just a flicker, then angle the sketchbook toward her. There’s a tiny version of her name hidden in the curves of the guitar body. She laughs, loud enough to make the kid across the aisle glance up from his phone.

“You’re cheesy,” she says.

You sign back, You like cheesy.

“Guilty.”

The bus rumbles through a puddle big enough to rock them sideways. Lara’s giggle fizzles into a sigh. She traces the tip of her finger just under the sketch— close enough to the pencil lines that she can feel the pressure in her skin.

“I wish I could draw like you,” she murmurs.

You tap her knuckles— You sing.

“I shout.”

You sing. You repeat it with your eyes, with the soft slope of your mouth.

She wants to grab your face and kiss you right then— but the driver’s rearview mirror glints at her like an accusation. So, she stays pressed close instead.

Your fingers brush hers, a new sign she’s only seen once before. Secret.

Lara leans in, mouth so close you can taste her mint gum. “What?”

You tug your sleeve down, hiding your hands for a second, then pull it back up, slow, dramatic. You spell it letter by letter, your thumb trembling: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

Lara’s brain short-circuits.

For a heartbeat, she forgets her own hands work. She forgets how air works. She forgets the bus is full of sleepy students and flickering window condensation and someone’s backpack wedged under her boot.

Then you look up, and you’re smiling. Shy. Brave. Yours.

She bursts into laughter, then clamps a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t blow the roof off the bus.

Your cheeks go pink. She catches your wrist before you can tuck it away again. Carefully, she shapes her reply— fingers clumsy but certain.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

The driver misses her stop that day. She doesn’t care.

She carves out pieces of you wherever she can.

Some days it’s little things: you passing her your pencil when she forgets hers (which is often).

You slipping notes in her locker— tiny doodles of her guitar, or of you and her stick-figured and holding hands under the sun. She tapes them inside her binder like relics.

Other days, it’s bigger things: you showing her your sketchbooks.

She flips through pages and pages of soft graphite lines, trees, clouds, the curve of her jaw, her guitar propped on her knee. She stares at her likeness drawn by your hands and feels her heart press up against her ribs like it wants out.

She lets you listen to her music. She buys a cheap pair of over-ear headphones, pink and peeling at the edges. She presses one side to your ear, the other to hers, and leans so close your shoulders touch. The world hums around you— nothing but chords and breath.

When Eli finds her waiting at your gate, he loses it.

It’s a Friday, right after soccer practice. Lara’s leaning against the chain-link fence, guitar case strapped to her back, boot tapping against the concrete.

Eli spots her, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. He storms up, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell do you want now, Raj?”

She lifts a hand, calm. “I’m here for Y/n.”

“You think you’re cute? Hanging around like a stray? They don’t need—”

Your presence is thunder. Lara knows that best.

You step from behind him, hand on his arm. You don’t sign anything at firs, just look at him, then her, then back at him.

Then you sign I want her here.

It knocks the wind out of Lara every time, the way you choose her so plainly.

Eli curses under his breath. He hates it. He hates her. He hates that you’re not his baby sibling anymore, easy to guard with snarls and barked threats. He glares at Lara like she’s something he can scare off.

Lara just steps closer, grin sharp and warm all at once. She lifts her hands, signs something new— something you taught her just last week.

Family.

Eli scoffs, storming off. But Lara swears she sees the corner of his mouth twitch, like he knows he’s losing, and maybe that’s okay.

There are nights when Lara lies awake replaying it all.

Your smile under the acacia tree. Your hands covering hers when she messes up. The way you tilt your head, eyes soft and bright, when she rambles about chords and lyrics and new bands she wants you to hear.

You made her love quiet. You made her crave it. Crave sitting in silence with you, no need to fill it with empty words. The world is loud enough. You are enough.

So she keeps showing up.

When your bus breaks down? She’s there with her old bike, demanding you hop on the back while she pedals you home, both of you laughing so hard you nearly tip over.

When you forget lunch? She shoves half her sandwich in your hands, glaring when you try to sign I’m fine. She’s not taking no for an answer.

When Eli picks you up late from practice? She sits with you on the curb, head on your shoulder, humming under her breath so soft you feel it more than hear it.

One afternoon, she drags you to the music room.

The door clicks shut behind you. Sunlight slants through dust motes. There’s an old piano, scuffed and slightly out of tune, but perfect. She sits, pats the space beside her.

You watch her hands dance across the keys— hesitant at first, then stronger. A melody tumbles out, notes half-formed and shy. She glances at you, a grin tugging at her mouth.

“Learned this for you,” she says, even though you can’t hear her voice. She signs it, messy but clear.

You lean in, press your fingers to the keys with hers. Your hands move together, music you can feel. Her heartbeat in every chord. The hush between notes. Your breath, her breath, the silence that sings louder than any amp she’s ever plugged in.

It’s not perfect.

Eli still worries. Her friends still tease. You still laugh when she fumbles a sign and accidentally says banana instead of beautiful. She throws her pencil at you, but you catch it, smile so wide her knees go weak.

It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And that’s enough.

It’s late October when Lara’s friends decide they need a real high school sleepover— cheap horror movies, too much soda, ghost stories that make them squeal loud enough for Mrs. Raj to knock on the door at 1AM and threaten to confiscate the microwave popcorn.

You’re there, curled up on the end of Lara’s bed. Her room’s a riot of posters, old band flyers, glow-in-the-dark stars, sticky notes with half-finished lyrics. You sit cross-legged on the faded quilt Rhea passed down when she moved to her dorm.

Megan’s telling some nonsense about the library ghost that slams locker doors at midnight. Manon’s half under the covers, eyes wide, clutching a pillow like a shield. Daniela is braiding Yoonchae’s hair, whispering shut up, Megan every time she tries to ramp up the tension.

Lara’s not listening. She’s watching you.

You’re pressed into her blankets like you belong there. Your sketchbook’s tucked under your thigh, safe, private.

Every time the story spikes to and then it grabbed her ankle, you flinch a little, but your eyes dart to Lara like you’re making sure she’s still looking back.

She is.

At some point, the lights stay off, the ghost stories fade into quiet giggles and the hiss of soda cans settling on the floor. Megan passes out first, sprawled halfway off Lara’s beanbag. Sophia curls up beside her, hair fanned out like a halo.

Lara catches your sleeve. She mouths, Stay?

You sign Safe— the same sign you taught her weeks ago, thumb hooked to pinky, palm pressed over your heart.

She shifts closer. Under the blankets, your fingers brush hers. In the hush of her bedroom, the hum of the old desk lamp, the wheeze of the fan, your silence feels like the loudest lullaby she’s ever heard.

You wake to the soft squeak of the door in the morning. Lara’s half-draped across your side, hair a tangled mess under her chin. Her breath tickles your collarbone.

Mrs. Raj stands in the doorway, housecoat tied at the waist, eyebrows lifted in that way that says I knew this was coming, don’t even try to deny it.

You tense— just a little. Lara snuffles, shifts, tightens her grip on your hoodie sleeve like a kid clinging to her blanket.

Mrs. Raj just smiles, small, sleepy. She lifts her mug in a mock toast, mouths, Breakfast?

You nod, careful not to wake Lara. She stands there another heartbeat, takes in the soft sprawl of her daughter tangled up in you, the hush of your fingers laced tight even in sleep.

She closes the door without a word. Later, she’ll put an extra mug on the table beside Lara’s cereal. She’ll slide you a plate stacked too high with bread. She won’t ask for an explanation.

She doesn’t need one.

Daniela wakes up first, hair stuck to her cheek with static. She sees you, sees Lara drooling on your shoulder, and bites back a squeal so loud it makes Manon shoot awake like a kicked cat.

“Oh my god,” Daniela hisses. “You two are so soft I’m gonna throw up.”

You blink blearily at her, squint at the new morning sun. Lara only groans, buries her face deeper against you. Her fingers curl tighter into your hoodie, that old frayed sleeve you’ve let her tug around your knuckles like a promise.

That afternoon, Rhea finds you both on the couch, same position, but this time Lara’s learning how to shape a new sign. Stay. Promise. Forever.

Rhea raises an eyebrow from the kitchen. Lara doesn’t see her, but you do. Rhea catches your eye, tilts her head— You okay?

You nod.

Rhea nods back, then flips a pancake, humming off-key, pretending the world isn’t quietly rearranging itself into something softer.

—☆

It’s not all sunshine.

Lara’s too loud sometimes, you flinch when her voice spikes, when she laughs too sharp at a joke someone shouts across the quad. You hate that your own head can’t handle noise the way hers craves it.

One afternoon in November, it boils over.

She’s showing off, busking near the fountain, her friends hyping her up, Megan filming with shaky hands. The chords are bright, the lyrics half nonsense, her grin so wide you swear you could fit the sky inside it.

But the amp squeals, feedback shrieking like a bomb.

Your palms fly to your ears before you even know you’re moving. Lara doesn’t notice — not at first. She hits the next chord, laughing when Daniela throws a coin that bounces off her shoe.

Then she sees you, curled small on the edge of the fountain, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders rigid. She drops her pick so fast it skitters across the pavement.

She’s there in two steps, hands on yours, pulling them down gently. You flinch anyway. Her smile falters.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You won’t. Not yet. You hate that it feels like her noise— the thing she loves most, can hurt you.

She says your name. Once. Twice. Her voice drops to a whisper. She presses her forehead to yours, breathes out, Stay with me in the hush only you can hear.

When you finally look up, your eyes are wet. Hers too.

Later, on the bus ride home, she signs Sorry so many times your knuckles ache from her insistent fingers.

You tug her hand to your mouth, press your lips to her palm. Not your fault, you sign back. Never your fault.

She doesn’t speak the rest of the ride. But her thumb traces I love you into your knee until the bus wheezes to your stop.

The winter fair hits their small town like a sudden heartbeat, all string lights draped over the quad, cheap tinsel snagging in the breeze, paper snowflakes taped to the library windows even though it’s still too warm to ever really snow here.

Lara loves it, the mess, the music blasting from battered speakers, the noise of a hundred kids yelling about raffle tickets and overpriced cotton candy. She drags you through it like she’s never letting you go.

Your fingers stay tangled in hers the whole time. You pretend not to see how Eli watches from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, his protective shell peeling off piece by piece as he sees you smiling. Really smiling.

Daniela buys them both neon bracelets that glow under the fair lights. Manon spills blue soda down her sweater and blames Megan for shoving her mid-sip. Yoonchae drags them to the fortune teller’s booth, where an old lady squints at Lara’s palm and mutters something about love found in the hush between words.

Lara nearly chokes laughing. You just grin, tucking her hair behind her ear while her cheeks go red from the cider.

When the group scatters to ride the rickety Ferris wheel, Lara tugs you away— down the back path that curls behind the food stalls, away from the sugar haze and broken pop songs. She wants you all to herself tonight. Wants the hush. Wants to hear you in your own way.

The two of you find an old bench under strings of fairy lights half burnt out. The music is a distant echo now, a heartbeat behind the rustle of dry leaves and the squeak of Lara’s boots scuffing the concrete.

She swings your joined hands between you, breath steaming in the cold. Her neon bracelet glows pale against your wrist where it brushes your sleeve.

“I think this is my favorite night of the year,” she says, voice soft for once. “I get to be loud and you still show up.”

You tap her chest, sign You are always loud.

She snorts, shoves your shoulder gently. “Rude.”

You sign again; I like it.

She goes quiet. Really quiet.

The kind that makes the world tilt. Her thumb runs circles on your wrist, brushing the tiny half-moon scar you once told her came from falling off your bike when you were seven.

She wants to say I love you again. But the words feel too small, too flat, for this moment. So she presses her lips to your knuckles instead, lets the hush say it for her.

Eli corners her two days later, not under the acacia or behind the music wing this time, but on the cracked rooftop of the school gym where he sometimes goes to be alone.

She’s up there because she needs air, the fair’s high fading into the post-festival quiet, her brain chewing on unfinished chords she can’t get out of her head.

When she finds Eli, he’s sitting on the ledge with his back to the wall, chewing a toothpick like it owes him money.

He doesn’t look up when she flops down next to him.

They sit in silence a while. A crow hops along the fence, caws once like it’s scolding them for not filling the air with noise.

Finally, Eli grunts, “You’re gonna hurt them.”

Lara stares at the cracked tile. “Yeah.”

“You gonna stop?”

“No.”

He snorts— a bitter half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Figures.”

She picks at the frayed hem of her hoodie. “You know I’d never hurt them on purpose, right?”

Eli’s jaw works, that same stubborn clench she’s seen in your face a hundred times when words fail you but your hands say too much. He flicks the toothpick into the wind.

“You’re loud,” he mutters.

“I know.”

“They’re not.”

“I know.”

“They need—” He cuts himself off. His shoulders slump. “They need quiet.”

Lara’s throat aches.

She thinks of your hands signing I love you on that rainy bus, of the way your shoulders curl in when the noise spikes too high, of how you always come back anyway.

She says it like a promise. “I can be quiet.”

Eli barks a laugh— sharp and surprised. “Lara Raj. Quiet?”

She grins through the sting behind her eyelids. “Not always. Just… when it matters.”

He studies her then, really looks.

For a second, he’s not the overgrown guard dog blocking her way home. He’s just a brother trying to make sure the best thing he’s ever had stays whole.

Finally, he nods. “If you break them, I’ll break your guitar.”

She snorts wetly, wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Fair deal.”

It happens under the acacia, of course. Where else?

They’ve grown roots into this tree together, secrets scribbled in your sketchbook, songs that only ever found their bridge when Lara sat here humming chord progressions into the bark.

It’s stupidly early, dawn just bleeding pale pink into the courtyard. There’s dew on her boots, her breath curls white in the cold.

You’re there before her, legs tucked under you, a thermos balanced on the grass, sketchbook closed for once. You’re watching the horizon like it’s a song only you can hear.

When you see her, you smile, small, sleepy, all yours.

Lara doesn’t sit right away. She drops her bag, cracks her knuckles, stands in front of you like she’s about to give a speech in front of the whole damn school.

She doesn’t trust her voice. Not for this. So she trusts her hands.

She signs slow— every motion shaped like a prayer, a confession, a secret song:

You made me love quiet.

Your eyes widen. Your breath fogs out in a tiny laugh you can’t voice but she hears anyway.

She keeps going, stumbling through the shapes you’ve taught her one clumsy letter at a time.

You are different. You make me feel complete. You are the loudest noise I ever heard.

She chokes on the last bit, her fingers fumble. You reach out, steady her wrist, guide her through the sign again: Noise. Loud. Heart.

She drops her hands. Laughs, breathless. “I’m really bad at this.”

You shake your head, tug her down so she’s kneeling in the grass. You touch your forehead to hers, close enough she can taste the warmth of your silence.

You sign back— one word. The only one that matters.

Stay.

She does.

She lifts her hands. Slow. Careful. You watch every letter.

She swallows, breath caught in her throat. You reach for her wrist, steadying.

I love you.

It’s so quiet under the tree— no bell, no kids yelling, just the hush of your heartbeat pressed against hers when you lean in. Your fingers move, the words she wanted most.

I love you too.

Lara didn’t need a crowd cheering or a guitar riff or a bass drop.

You are the loudest thing she’d ever heard.

She thinks of the first note in Chem, the first clumsy Hi, the loud hum of her guitar and the hush of your laugh.

She thinks she could live a thousand noisy days if every silence ends with you.

Rhea’s the first to spot you when you both stumble in, grass stains on Lara’s jeans, your hoodie sleeve damp from where she wiped her eyes.

She’s leaning on the counter, mug balanced in one hand, phone in the other. She takes one look at Lara’s dopey grin and your shy tucked-in shoulders and just snorts.

“Good morning, heartbreakers.”

Lara flips her off with the gentlest middle finger in the world. You giggle, silent, soft, still louder than anything she’s ever heard.

Mrs. Raj appears behind Rhea, wipes her hands on a tea towel. Her eyes flick from her daughter to you, the hush you bring with you like a gift.

She smiles. “Pancakes?”

You nod. Lara bumps your hip with hers, signs Please just to show off.

Rhea rolls her eyes but ruffles Lara’s hair. Mrs. Raj pours too much syrup on your plate. Someone’s phone plays a crackly old love song on the windowsill.

Outside, the day stirs awake, birds in the wire, the street rumbling with a distant bus. The Raj house hums with the hush Lara never knew she needed.

And in the middle of it, the loudest girl in town holds your quiet like it’s the sweetest song she’ll ever write.

#daniela avanzini #jeong yoonchae #katseye x reader #lara raj #manon bannerman #megan skiendiel #sophia laforteza #lara raj x reader #thecchi writes

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 2 months ago

Text

Clear for Takeoff

bob floyd x fem!reader

Smut

The base was already alive by 0700, humming with movement, boots on pavement, jet engines revving in the distance.

Bob Floyd sat in the briefing room, posture straight, hands folded neatly over his open flight notebook. His pen was uncapped, ready to underline whatever Cyclone barked at them today. He’d already finished his coffee, already done a final walkaround of his aircraft, already memorized the sortie plan twice.

He did not look up when the door creaked open behind him.

He only looked up when he heard her.

“Don’t worry, I’m here. You can all relax now.”

She strolled in like she owned the place—coffee in one hand, aviators perched high on her head, flight suit rolled to her waist to reveal the fitted black tank top beneath. She smiled at Phoenix on her way by, shouldered Hangman with a lazy grin, and dropped into the empty seat next to Bob with the kind of confidence that came from always winning.

“Morning, Floyd,” she said, voice casual.

“Vixen,” he replied, quick and even.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not at the way a few strands of her hair had slipped loose from her bun. Not at the curve of her mouth around her straw. Not at the patch on her shoulder or the scrape on her knuckle or the place her knee accidentally brushed against his under the table.

He absolutely did not look.

And yet.

She smiled a little to herself and sipped her coffee.

⸻

“Who wants first go at Vixen?” Phoenix asked an hour later as they crossed the tarmac.

“In the sky or in general?” Hangman drawled.

“In the sky,” Vixen said sweetly, tugging her hair into a bun. “The rest of you couldn’t handle me.”

Bob didn’t mean to glance her way, but he did.

Her smirk turned sharp.

“C’mon, Floyd,” she said, slinging her helmet under one arm. “Take me up?”

He blinked. “I—I’m not flying with you today.”

“Shame.” She turned on her heel, sauntering toward her jet. “Guess I’ll have to kick someone else’s ass.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Poor Bob. You look like she just stepped on your throat and you said thank you.”

Bob didn’t answer. He just watched her walk away.

⸻

From the ground, he watched her take off. Smooth, powerful, elegant.

She flew like gravity was optional. Like the sky was hers and she’d never even heard of crashing.

Bob stared too long. He always did.

“You got it bad, man,” Fanboy said beside him.

Bob blinked. “What?”

“For flight envy,” Fanboy replied innocently, clapping him on the shoulder.

Bob rolled his eyes, but his stomach twisted anyway.

He didn’t have it bad. He didn’t have anything.

Not for her.

Not for Vixen.

He was just…watching.

That’s all.

⸻

Later, in the locker room, she was laughing with Hangman, peeling off her flight suit and towel-drying her sweat-slick hair. Bob passed by in a clean shirt and jeans, fully intending to keep walking—until she turned and winked at him.

Just a flicker of amusement in her eyes. Teasing. Innocent.

It wrecked him anyway.

Fanboy, behind him, snorted. “Jesus, dude, she looks at you and your ears go red.”

Bob didn’t dignify it with a response. Just kept walking. Straight past the hangar. Straight to his car. Straight home to try and forget that her call sign echoed in his head like it belonged there.

⸻

That night, the group chat lit up.

phoenix: hard deck in 30, come on losers

hangman: I’ll buy the first round if Vixen shows up in that sundress again 😮‍💨

vixen: I’ll show up if Bob does. He’s the fun one 😇

fanboy: ohhhh??

bob: …

He stared at his phone for a long time.

He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t get her.

But he found himself getting ready anyway.

——

The Hard Deck was full by 2100, all warm lights and louder laughter. The jukebox crooned something old and flirty. Phoenix was on her second beer, Hangman was already halfway through his tequila truth spiral, and Bob was—unexpectedly—drinking.

Not nursing a beer like usual. Actually drinking.

“You feeling alright, Floyd?” Vixen asked as she leaned beside him at the bar.

He didn’t meet her eyes. Just tugged at the hem of his shirt and muttered, “Fanboy made me.”

Fanboy raised his glass like a devil on Bob’s shoulder. “Peer pressure works, baby.”

Vixen grinned. “Well… I like drunk Bob.”

Bob turned to look at her—and promptly lost his train of thought.

She was wearing that sundress again. The white one with the little flowers and the thin straps. Her hair was down and her smile was sharp, and he was not equipped for this. Not even with three drinks in him.

Maybe especially not with three drinks in him.

“Y’know,” she said, sipping her cocktail, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“I’m not,” he said too fast.

She smiled, slow and pleased, like she’d won something. “Good.”

And then she walked away.

Bob turned back to his drink and whispered, “I’m so fucked.”

⸻

The pool table was already a battlefield when he shuffled over an hour later, cheeks pink, sleeves pushed up. Phoenix handed him a beer he didn’t remember asking for, and Fanboy gave him a pat on the back.

“Vixen versus Hangman. Place your bets,” Payback called.

Vixen stepped up, cue in hand, sundress fluttering around her thighs. Bob leaned against the jukebox, watching her line up her shot.

She bent over the table.

And something just broke in him.

“God, I love the view.”

The words came out low and slow, like he didn’t even realize he was speaking.

The bar went silent.

She didn’t even look up.

Bob kept going. Louder now. Looser.

“Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.”

CRACK.

The cue ball missed.

Hangman turned, stunned.

Phoenix’s mouth fell open.

Fanboy muttered, “What the fuck.”

Bob blinked slowly, half-aware of what he’d done. He was warm, and swaying, and drunk on more than liquor.

And Vixen—still bent over the table—turned her head and looked at him.

Something feral flickered behind her eyes. And Bob realized too late: he’d said that out loud.

Fanboy grabbed him by the shoulders. “Alright. Time to go. Let’s get you home, buddy.”

“No, wait—” Bob stumbled, trying to look back. “I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean—”

“Yup,” Fanboy said, steering him through the crowd. “You meant every word. And you’re gonna regret all of it in the morning.”

The door slammed behind them.

⸻

Vixen stood up, pool cue still in hand.

Hangman let out a breath. “What the hell was that?”

Phoenix laughed, still wide-eyed. “Bob’s been holding that in?”

“Freaky little freak,” Hangman muttered, resetting the balls. “Who knew?”

Vixen didn’t speak.

Not right away.

She just walked around the table slowly. Cue dragging along the felt. Bob’s voice echoed in her head like a bell—

Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.

She sank the eight ball without blinking.

⸻

That night, Vixen lay awake in her room, staring at the ceiling.

She hadn’t touched her drink since Bob left. She hadn’t stopped replaying it since either.

He liked her.

No, scratch that.

He wanted her.

He wanted her bad enough to say that in front of everyone.

She laughed to herself—half-stunned, half-delighted.

“You freaky little freak,” she whispered into the dark.

And she smiled.

———

Bob Floyd woke up with a hangover and absolutely no memory of the night before.

His head throbbed. His tongue was dry. His hoodie smelled like someone else’s spilled whiskey. But none of that concerned him as much as the sick, gaping blank where his memories of the Hard Deck should’ve been.

He remembered arriving. He remembered the pool game starting. He remembered Vixen in that sundress.

After that? Nothing.

He stared at the ceiling in horror. “Oh no.”

From the other room, Fanboy called out, “Morning, Casanova!”

Bob winced. “Why are you calling me that?”

“You’ll see.”

⸻

He got to base early, mostly to hide in the back of the squad room and suffer in silence. But fate, and Hangman, had other plans.

“Hey there, Romeo,” Hangman drawled the second Bob stepped inside.

Phoenix snorted into her coffee. “Speak of the devil.”

Bob froze. “Okay, what is going on?”

Hangman spun lazily in his seat. “You really don’t remember, huh?”

Bob blinked. “Remember what?”

Fanboy walked in behind him with the biggest smirk on his face. “You don’t remember anything you said last night?”

Bob’s stomach dropped. “No.”

“Ohhhh, buddy,” Phoenix said.

Hangman leaned back and crossed his arms. “Let’s set the scene. Pool table. You’re posted up by the jukebox. Vixen bends over for a shot—”

“Okay,” Bob interrupted, already red in the face. “You can stop there.”

“I will not,” Hangman said gleefully. “Because then you, Robert Floyd, opened your mouth and said—quote—‘God, I love the view.’”

Bob went still.

Hangman continued, voice full of dramatic flair. “And then, because you apparently hate peace, you added: ‘Bet she tastes as good as she looks too.’”

Bob made a sound like a dying animal.

Phoenix just laughed. “The delivery was pornographic, Bob. I almost passed out.”

Bob sat down hard in the nearest chair. “No. No, I didn’t say that. You’re messing with me.”

“Multiple witnesses,” Phoenix said, sipping her coffee.

Fanboy nodded. “You left right after. I dragged you out of there before Vixen could do anything crazy like climb you like a tree.”

Bob dropped his head into his hands. “I’m gonna pass away. This is it. I’m gonna die.”

“Want the real kicker?” Hangman added.

Bob didn’t lift his head. “What.”

“She’s here.”

That made him look up.

The door opened and in she walked—aviators in her hand, ponytail high, mouth glossed and smiling.

Bob felt his soul leave his body.

“Morning, gentlemen,” she said lightly.

She looked directly at him.

“Hi, Bob.”

He squeaked. Actually squeaked.

She took the seat in front of him like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t heard any of it. Or worse—like she had.

Bob panicked. Panicked.

He rushed over to her desk before his legs could talk him out of it. “Vixen. Hey. Um. Can I talk to you?”

She looked up with faux-innocence. “Oh? About what?”

“I—I heard I said some things last night and I just wanted to say I didn’t mean—well I didn’t mean to say them. I don’t even remember saying them and I would never—”

She cut him off, head tilting. “So you’re saying… you don’t have a crush on me?”

He blinked. Froze. “What?”

“I mean, I woke up extra early,” she continued, tapping her glossed lips, “put on cute earrings and everything—so if you’re gonna stand here and tell me last night meant nothing…”

Bob’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

Her voice dropped. “Didn’t you say something about the view?”

He combusted.

“No! I mean yes! I mean I do! I have a huge crush on you! I just—I didn’t mean to say it in public like that—”

She leaned back in her chair, triumphant. “There it is.”

Bob stared at her, stunned.

“You—you wanted me to say that?”

She smiled. “I wanted you to say it sober.”

———

It started as a joke.

“Movie night at mine,” Vixen said casually in the locker room, unzipping her flight suit halfway. “Bring snacks. I’ll provide the trauma.”

Bob looked up from where he was tying his boots. “Wait. Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Unless you’re too scared to be alone with me now.”

His jaw dropped. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight.”

⸻

Bob brought Red Vines, kettle corn, and a six-pack of root beer because—of course he did.

He also spent forty-five minutes debating which shirt to wear (he settled on a navy Henley because it “accidentally” made his arms look good), and paced outside her door for a full minute before finally knocking.

She answered in shorts and a tank top.

He died.

“Wow,” he said, blinking.

She grinned. “Wow what?”

“Nothing. You just… uh. Look comfortable.”

“Should I be less comfortable?”

“No! I mean—no. You’re fine. I mean—you look—you’re great.” He cleared his throat. “I brought snacks.”

She took them from him with a smirk. “Floyd, relax. We’re watching a movie. You’re not meeting my parents.”

⸻

Ten minutes in and Bob was not watching the movie.

He was watching her.

Not intentionally. It was just… every time she shifted on the couch, her thigh brushed his. And every time she leaned forward to grab popcorn, the neckline of her tank would dip just enough to make his ears turn red. And when she laughed—

He was gone. Fully gone.

“You’re quiet,” she said at one point.

He jolted. “What?”

“You’re always like this when you like someone?”

His head whipped toward her. “What? No! I mean—I don’t—what?”

She looked smug. “You’re blushing again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “You were more confident when you were drunk.”

He covered his face with both hands. “Please never bring that up again.”

She laughed and tugged one of his hands away. “C’mon. I liked drunk Bob.”

“You liked freaky little freak Bob?”

Her voice dropped. “I liked hearing what you actually thought.”

Bob swallowed hard.

“Y-you remember all of it?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, not looking away. “Every word.”

He blinked at her. “And you’re not… mad?”

“I was flattered.”

“Oh.”

Their faces were closer now.

She didn’t move.

And neither did he.

“Bob,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want to kiss me… now would be a good time.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

⸻

The kiss was soft at first.

Hesitant.

But then her hand slid into his hair, and his fingers found her waist, and suddenly they were pressing closer, breathing each other in like they’d been holding back for months.

Her mouth was warm. Sweet. Open. Inviting.

Bob groaned into it before he could stop himself.

She smiled against his lips. “There’s that freaky little freak.”

He pulled back, dazed. “You’re gonna make fun of me forever, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

And she kissed him again.

———

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

They still trained together, still flew with the team, still threw snark back and forth in the locker room like nothing had changed. But it had.Something about the way they looked at each other now—longer, slower, heavier.

Needier.

It all came to a head on Friday night.

She invited him over again. Just another “movie night.”

But this time?

He brought nothing.

Just showed up on her doorstep in a plain black t-shirt that clung to his chest, all tense posture and unreadable eyes, and said:

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

⸻

They never made it to the couch.

She kissed him the second the door closed. He backed her into the wall, breathing hard, hands planted on either side of her head like he was afraid to touch her too soon.

“I’ve been going crazy,” he whispered. “Thinking about the things I said that night.”

She smirked. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to take them back,” he said, mouth brushing her jaw. “But I can’t. Not when every word was true.”

“Even the—‘she probably tastes as good as she looks’?”

He groaned, low and wrecked.

“I think about it all the time now,” she whispered, fingers curling in the front of his shirt. “Wondering what else you’d say if no one else was listening.”

That broke him.

His hands grabbed her waist and lifted—just enough to pin her between the wall and his body, mouth dragging down her throat, slow and sinful.

“Jesus, Vixen…” he muttered against her skin. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“I can,” she panted. “You started it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You really want to know what I’d say?”

She nodded, breath shaky.

His voice went dark. “If I didn’t respect you so damn much, I’d be on my knees right now with your thighs over my shoulders.”

Her lips parted.

“I’d pull that pretty little tank top off. Take my time with your tits. Bite just enough to make you gasp.”

“Bob—”

“I’d make you beg.” His grip tightened on her hips. “Make you cry for it.”

Her nails dug into his arms.

“You don’t say stuff like that,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

“You asked,” he said, mouth ghosting hers. “You asked what I’d say sober.”

She kissed him hard.

⸻

They made it to the bedroom. Eventually.

It was messy. Clothes everywhere. Breaths gone. Hearts racing.

She was straddling his lap, grinding slow and taunting, her tank top somewhere on the floor. His hands kept sliding under the waistband of her shorts like he couldn’t stand not touching her.

“You wanna keep pretending this is just a little crush?” she whispered, voice teasing.

His eyes were dark.

“I’m not pretending anymore.”

He sat up, hands cupping her face.

“I’m so into you it’s ruining me.”

And then?

His mouth was on hers again—hotter, rougher, hungrier.

———

She woke up to sunlight on her back and Bob Floyd’s hand already sliding up her thigh.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough, his lips grazing her shoulder.

She smiled into the pillow. “You’re awake early.”

“I never went back to sleep.”

He sounded calm, but his hand was not. It was slipping under the hem of the borrowed t-shirt she’d thrown on after they collapsed last night. He pushed the fabric up slowly, knuckles grazing the bare curve of her ass.

“I’ve been lying here thinking about how wet you were for me.”

Her breath caught.

“About how you begged.”

She rolled over, chest brushing his bare one, and met his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, starving.

“You were loud last night,” he said, voice soft but wrecked. “You gonna be louder this time?”

“You want me to be loud?” she asked, already breathless.

“I want the walls shaking, baby.”

He kissed her like he needed her to breathe. Like the night wasn’t enough. Like he’d been thinking about round two since the second round one ended.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispered against her mouth. “Laid out like this. All warm and sleepy and mine.”

Her hips rolled into his on instinct.

“Still needy?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she teased, reaching down to wrap her fingers around him. “You tell me.”

Bob groaned. Long and ragged.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then die slow.”

She kissed down his throat. Took her time. But Bob didn’t stay patient for long. Once she slid her shorts down and straddled his lap again, he was all hands—gripping her thighs, dragging her forward, lips at her ear.

“Ride me,” he said, voice a growl. “Nice and slow. Want to feel everything.”

She whimpered.

He licked into her mouth. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

She rocked against him, slow and deep, and Bob lost it. His fingers dug in. His head tipped back. And the filthy things that poured out of his mouth—

“Fucking heaven.”

“Feel so good, baby, look at you—”

“Taking me so well. Like you were made for it.”

She moaned, thighs shaking.

“Yeah, that’s it. Give it to me. Give me everything.”

She clenched around him and Bob’s head snapped forward—forehead resting against hers, jaw tight, voice trembling.

“You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you?”

She nodded, too far gone to speak.

“Goddamn. I knew it. Knew you were a filthy little thing under all that flight gear.”

“Bob—”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

She shattered.

⸻

When her vision cleared, she was still shaking. Still straddling him. Still trying to breathe.

Bob kissed her shoulder, her throat, her cheek.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “You’re not gonna walk straight today.”

She smacked his chest, giggling. “Shut up.”

He just grinned, smug and satisfied and utterly ruined.

———

It started with a look.

Bob was already twitchy that morning. Watching her like he hadn’t just had her falling apart in bed twenty-four hours ago. His hands kept twitching. His jaw kept locking. And when she bent over the Ops table during the briefing?

He whimpered.

Quiet. Barely audible. But she heard it.

And smirked.

⸻

The break between briefings was only fifteen minutes.

She barely made it three steps down the hallway before a strong hand wrapped around her wrist and tugged her into the nearest door.

SLAM.

Supply closet.

Dim light. No windows. Shelves full of classified binders and aircraft grease.

“Are you seriously—”

Bob kissed her before she could finish.

“I couldn’t wait,” he muttered, already lifting her onto a crate like it was muscle memory. “Been thinking about this all day.”

She gasped as his hand slid up her inner thigh. “We’re on base—”

“Locked the door.”

“Someone’s gonna—”

“Don’t care.”

His fingers found the waistband of her uniform pants and tugged. Hard.

“Bob—”

“I need you,” he whispered, wrecked. “Right now.”

And that was it.

⸻

Meanwhile…

Hangman was walking by with an energy drink in hand when he heard it.

The thud.

The whisper.

The distinct sound of Bob Floyd moaning.

He paused.

Turned back toward the supply closet. Stared at the locked door for a beat.

Then?

He sighed.

Leaned against the wall.

And waited.

⸻

Inside, Bob had her against the shelving unit, pants halfway down her thighs, his mouth hot against her neck.

“You’re already wet,” he rasped. “You like sneaking around with me?”

She nodded, breathless.

“You like being bad?”

She gasped as he slid two fingers inside her. “You’re the one who pulled me in here!”

“And you didn’t stop me.”

She grabbed his face and kissed him hard. Grinding against his hand. Breath catching on every thrust of his fingers.

“Want you,” she whispered. “Want you now.”

He groaned. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me, Bob—”

That was it.

He spun her around, pressed her chest to the shelving, and pushed her pants the rest of the way down.

“Keep your voice down, sweetheart,” he whispered, dragging the tip of himself over her slick heat. “Unless you want the whole hallway to hear you.”

⸻

Outside?

Hangman popped open his drink.

Sipped.

Checked his watch.

Smirked.

“Two more minutes,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe three if she’s feeling generous.”

Then he heard the slam of a hand on metal and a choked-off whimper.

He snorted. “Damn. Vixen’s got him on the ropes.”

⸻

Inside, Bob was losing it.

“Fucking tight,” he gasped, driving into her slow, deep, filthy. “You feel like heaven—shit—I’m not gonna last—”

“You better,” she whispered, bracing herself on the shelf. “Or I’m leaving you in here with blue balls and shame.”

Bob laughed, breathless.

Then he grabbed her hips harder, pulled out almost all the way, and slammed back in.

Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

“You want it like that?” he rasped. “Tell me.”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

“You want me to fill you up right here in a goddamn closet?”

“Bob—”

“Say it.”

“*Yes—*want you to come inside me—please—”

Bob shuddered.

And then?

He did.

⸻

Two minutes later, they emerged—flushed, hair mussed, uniforms barely pulled back together.

Hangman was standing right there, sipping his drink.

Bob froze.

Vixen blinked.

Hangman just raised his can in a lazy toast. “Hope y’all used protection. You know how many germs are on that shelf?”

Bob turned bright red.

Vixen grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy.” (please tell me you guys get this joke)

They kept walking.

Hangman whistled after them. “Don’t worry, Romeo. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Then he muttered, “Until next briefing.”

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ducksido · 3 months ago

Note

Might I request Vil and/or Idia with a s/o who has a habit of doodling on their skin? In specific they tend to draw on their non-dominant hand. It's usually just a star here, a crescent moon there, maybe the stray card suit every now and again. But one day the hand doodle is instead a bunch of lines flowing into each other, some thicker others thinner. The end result kinda looks like a bunch of thorns.

Perhaps the characters' general reaction to the skin drawing when they first find out about it, as well as the scenario described above?

-🥀🪻anon (if that is alright)

(Hello 🥀🪻anon 😁)

Vil Schoenheit

When he first notices the doodles:

At first, Vil catches sight of the little drawings during a shared study session, when your sleeve rides up slightly as you flip a page. A small star glimmers faintly in smudged ink across the back of your hand.

He blinks.

“Darling,” he says, raising a perfectly plucked brow, “did someone draw on you, or have you taken to decorating yourself like a notebook margin?”

When you shyly admit it’s your own handiwork—a habit, just little things when you’re thinking or zoning out—Vil’s tone softens. Just a bit.

“I’d prefer you not stain your skin, but… it’s not completely without charm.”

He starts watching for new doodles—making offhanded comments like “That crescent would look better with a sharper arch” or “Hearts again? Feeling romantic?” Eventually, he buys you fine-tipped skin-safe pens in a rainbow of colors and high-quality makeup remover—practical, but still thoughtful.

When he sees the thorny lines:

It’s after a long week, stress coiled in both your shoulders and his. You're curled up on the sofa in his dorm room, hand resting palm-down on your knee. Vil approaches with two glasses of infused water and freezes mid-step.

“...What is that?”

Your hand is covered in thick, dark lines—some like vines, others jagged like thorns. The design isn’t random this time; it spirals, tenses, curls. It looks almost angry.

Vil sets the glasses down with care and kneels in front of you, gently taking your wrist in his hand.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your knuckles, “this isn’t like your usual drawings.”

He doesn’t jump to conclusions—but he doesn’t ignore it either. His voice becomes quiet, almost coaxing.

“Was this just idle sketching… or are you trying to say something?”

If you brush it off, he won’t push—but he’ll watch you closely after. If you admit you were upset or stressed, his expression tightens, and he presses a kiss to the side of your hand.

“I’d rather you come to me, before your hands become canvases of pain.”

And he means it. After that, he pays more attention to your non-dominant hand than ever—like a barometer for your heart.

Idia Shroud

When he first notices the doodles:

The first time Idia sees your doodles is during a gaming night. You reach for a controller, and he sees a little star and spade etched on your fingers.

He kind of malfunctions for a second.

“Wha—you… draw on yourself? Like, on purpose?”

His hair flickers orange with interest. He scoots closer, peering at your hand like it’s an ancient artifact.

“That’s kinda… cool. And retro. It’s like an NPC with flavor text written on their body. Uh, not in a creepy way! I mean—it’s cool!!”

From then on, he lowkey loves spotting new drawings. He’s too awkward to comment every time, but he notices. Sometimes he’ll awkwardly say, “That one looks like a mana circuit,” or compare your crescent moons to ones from his favorite JRPGs.

He even starts sending you memes and reference pics: “This flower looks like the one you drew on Thursday. Just saying.”

When he sees the thorny lines:

It’s late—your wrist resting on his desk as you both work on some coding for a club project. He glances down to ask a question and immediately stops.

His eyes lock on your hand.

Those aren’t your usual scribbles.

The lines twist and intersect—sharp angles like brambles, elegant but tense. They remind him of curse marks, or the corrupted glyphs in a horror visual novel.

He doesn’t speak at first, just hovers his hand over yours, as if afraid to touch it.

“…Hey.”

His voice is soft. Hesitant. Different from his usual rambling.

“Is this, like, a vibe thing? Or are you… okay?”

If you try to brush it off, he gets quiet—but his hair flickers violet-blue with worry.

“…It’s just. You’re usually all stars and sparkles and—this one looks like it came from a bad end route.”

If you tell him it’s stress or something emotional, he goes full support mode in his own awkward way. He doesn’t know how to comfort with words, so instead he gently takes your hand and starts tracing around the thorns—not erasing, just acknowledging.

“…It’s okay. Even thorny roses are still roses. Just… let me know if the vines start creeping too far, okay?”

And later, he makes you a custom pen that glows faintly and can only draw with skin-safe ink. A little light, so he can always find your marks in the dark.

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu #twst headcanons #vil schoenheit x you #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #vil #idia shroud x reader #twisted wonderland idia #idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #twst idia

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

Note

Hellooooo so erm I’ve been following u and I have to say I love ur works sm, and I was wondering that if u don’t mind, could I send in a request?

So I’d like to request a reader who loves literature and who reads the most angsty pieces of literature and many different authors. Like a scenario where how the reader acts after reading the most angstiest book in all of literature (white nights for me 😔✌🏽) and then the characters catch her crying abt it and then theyre horrified cuz they don’t know what’s going on and then reader yaps abt the book

so yeah that’s it

it’s ok if u don’t wanna do it

bye

🫶🏽

“𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭”

a/n: hi! i was able to write a little bit about it since i know a bit of the story white nights... but only the general scope of it, still hope you enjoy!

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru, karasu tabito

itoshi rin

walks into the room and sees you absolutely sobbing.

his immediate thought: someone died.

his second thought: you’re breaking up with him.

“what the hell happened? who do i have to kill?”

you, sniffling: “... nastenka… she was in love with someone else… and he just let her go and was happy for her and–”

he blinks. “who the hell is nas–”

and suddenly you’re spiraling, explaining every detail of the story, your voice cracking as you quote the most heart-wrenching lines. you’re devastated. he is confused.

rin: “is this a real person?”

you: “NO THAT’S THE TRAGEDY!!!”

he just sits there in silence. stunned. reevaluating how dangerous literature is.

itoshi sae

walks in sipping a drink and sees you curled on the couch clutching a book like it betrayed you.

“... you okay?”

“no.”

“... you hurt?”

“not physically.”

“... someone in the book died?”

“no. worse.”

he raises an eyebrow and sits down. listens to your dramatic retelling with a bored face, but he’s actually paying close attention.

“… so he waited for her. and she just left?”

“yes,” you cry. “AND HE WAS STILL HAPPY FOR HER.”

he stares. nods slowly. “damn. even i wouldn’t do that.”

actually kind of impressed by the emotional devastation. gives you a tissue and tells you he’s never letting you near russian literature again.

isagi yoichi

he panics. so fast. sees your tears and is IMMEDIATELY on his knees beside you like “what happened? who hurt you? was it me?”

you barely manage to whisper “... it was dostoyevsky…”

he blinks. “who???”

and then you launch into an emotional monologue about the book’s themes, the tragic character arcs, the lost love, the gut-wrenching ending. like you’ve fully become an english lit professor mid-breakdown.

isagi is so overwhelmed. nodding too much. doesn’t know half the words you're using but he’s trying to comfort you like “i-i’m sure… the guy in the story… um. he’s okay now. in heaven maybe?”

gives you hot chocolate and wraps you in a blanket. tells you to read something happier next time. like manga. specifically sports manga.

mikage reo

thought someone harassed or assaulted you. got so scared.

when you tell him you’re crying because a fictional man couldn’t be with his true love and just let her go… he’s SHOCKED at your loyalty to characters you’ve known for like 200 pages.

“so like. this man just lost everything?”

“YES.”

“and you chose to read that?”

he’s baffled. voluntarily choosing pain is not in his rich boy vocabulary.

hugs you dramatically like he’s the one who lost nasenka. buys you a fancy notebook to “write your feelings.” starts researching classics so he can join your next breakdown.

nagi seishiro

“why are you crying?”

you show him the book. he reads the first line and immediately goes “nope.”

not built for literary pain. not even a little bit.

listens to you rant while lying upside-down on the couch. looks vaguely horrified when you start passionately yelling about unrequited love.

“why didn’t they just… text each other or something.”

“nagi. it was 1848.”

goes completely silent.

“oh.”

he lets you lie on his chest while you cry. plays soothing music in the background. he doesn’t understand it, but he respects it. kind of.

bachira meguru

walks in while you’re sobbing and immediately gasps like he just read the ending.

“WHAT HAPPENED WHO DIED I’M READY TO FIGHT.”

you tell him it was a fictional man in 19th-century russia who just wanted to be loved.

instantly invested.

sits beside you, holding your hand, fully immersed as you retell the story. reacts to every twist like it’s a soap opera.

“no way. she just left???”

“AND HE WAS HAPPY FOR HER.”

“BRO.”

cries with you. then doodles little fanart of the characters afterward. names your tears “artistic expression.” dramatic soulmates.

karasu tabito

sees you crying. looks around. sees no blood, no broken bones, no evidence of trauma.

“you read something stupid again, didn’t you.”

“it wasn’t stupid. it was tragic.”

you start explaining it and he immediately starts judging the characters like a reality TV show host.

“man had no self-respect. could’ve fumbled a rebound. what was he doing.”

you get mad and defend the main character like he’s your son. karasu’s like “i’m just saying. love yourself, bro.”

but secretly he memorizes the book title and reads it later so he can understand what made you cry that hard. will never admit he did, but starts casually quoting lines at you when you least expect it. bastard.

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ktownshizzle · 6 months ago

Text

Honey & Citrus | an myg drabble

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~

Series Masterlist | More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist

There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.

Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).

But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.

And then there’s him.

“Iced Americano for Yoongi…”

He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.

A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.

But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by.

Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession.

Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.

One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.

Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?

You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.

Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.

You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.

Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.

The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.

This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.

By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.

You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.

Not until—

“Fighting~”

You blink.

He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.

A real one.

The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.

Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.

And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.

A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.

Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.

You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.

Small wins.

The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.

And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.

The next day, though, he beats you to it.

You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”

You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.

Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.

You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

And so it begins.

For a week, you play the game.

One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card.

You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.

Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.

Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.

You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:

Shit. No winner today.

You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.

“Are you always this competitive?”

“Are you?”

You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.

“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”

Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.

As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.

“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”

Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.

“What?” you ask.

“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.

The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”

Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.

His ears are bright red.

The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.

You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.

But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.

He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,

“How about we have that first date right now?”

Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious.

Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.

His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”

Huh.

You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it.

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”

His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”

The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...

A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!

Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list. Caved! Here's the H&C masterlist

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo

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mistbehavior · 15 days ago

Note

more damian wayne content pls pls pls ཐིᗢཋྀ

❛ Art block’s hitting hard. Good thing the thief Damian is always chasing is better at emotional support than she is at staying out of trouble.

ABOUT THE POST: SFW, female!reader, may contain some errors—english isn’t my first language!

It was supposed to be a pastime. A hobby. Something Damian did in his free time simply because he wanted to, not because he had to. It was spontaneous—unlike the moves and strikes etched into his memory, his pencil strokes were instinctive.

That week had been so hectic—with schoolwork, stressful patrols, and, to top it off, mandatory public appearances—that he hadn’t had a single minute to even sketch a line.

He was eager—well, maybe not exactly that, but certainly looking forward to the moment he could just sit down and relax while creating something. But when he opened his sketchbook as usual, he couldn’t have felt more apathetic.

He closed it, opened it again, but nothing came to mind. There was no spontaneous, instinctive urge to draw, to let the lines form into something. Not even when he forced himself to grip the pencil and drag it across the page.

Of course. Of course that miserable week hadn’t been enough. The universe just had to throw one more problem in his lap.

He closed the sketchbook, taking a deep breath and standing up. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor, wood creaking beneath it, felt louder than usual. More annoying than ever. “It’s the paper’s fault.” Damian tried to convince himself. It obviously wasn’t his fault.

Yet, even after buying three different sketchbooks, nothing came to mind. And the little he could squeeze out, flipping through and relying on his old sketches, just looked… soulless. No personality. Not worthy of having him as the author.

Even at school, he couldn’t bring himself to doodle on the last page of his notebook. The pencil spiraled and spiraled until the paper ripped.

Damian swore he didn’t care. It was just a hobby. He had simply lost interest—he could find another one. He was better than this. Why should he care so much? It wasn’t like he was obligated to create art after art.

But by the middle of the following week, everyone around him could tell he was getting more irritable and bitter by the day.

The first to notice? You. After the fourth night in a row that he failed to catch you—or even get close to your trail, for that matter.

You leapt onto the next rooftop, taking a few steps before stopping as you realized he had done the same. Except… he didn’t land on his feet. Your eyes rolled almost automatically. You let the expensive stolen necklace drop to the floor. You crossed your arms. “Again?” you said—not mockingly, but with a hint of impatience.

Damian was still on his knees, one hand on the ground like the world had suddenly gotten heavier. His cape hung awkwardly from his shoulders. He didn’t answer, his jaw too tight to let even an insult slip out.

You walked toward him, picking the necklace off the floor and spinning it between your fingers like it wasn’t worth tens of thousands.

It was strange that, with all the time he had, instead of getting up and lunging at you, he simply closed his eyes. “Shut up.”

“So young, and already losing your edge, Robin?” you teased again, searching for that spark he used to have when the two of you threw insults while playing cat and mouse.

Damian didn’t answer. His silence cut sharper than any blade he had ever wielded. You tilted your head, watching him.

The moon barely reached that rooftop, the taller buildings blocking most of it, but from a certain angle, it still lit up his face just enough for you to catch the exhausted expression he tried to hide.

Losing interest in the game, you stopped fiddling with the necklace and sighed. “Want me to leave?” you asked, genuinely this time.

He finally looked up at you, those green pupils burning with barely-contained frustration behind the mask. “You never leave.”

“Fair.” Your eyes watched him sit instead of stand. “Wow, you used to be better than this.”

You crouched down, grabbing his hand—which he pulled away—but you grabbed his cape instead and dragged him up, practically forcing him to sit by the edge of the rooftop.

For a moment, there was just silence between the two of you. He sat there, quiet. At your side. Neither of you caring how vulnerable that proximity was if the other chose to strike.

You raised your hand, holding up a black sketchbook. “This yours?” You opened it, flipping through it lightly. The drawings were good. Others, more recent, were scratched out, abandoned halfway. Some even torn out. You didn’t know much about art, but you knew frustration when you saw it.

His eyes widened—and in seconds, he was on top of you. “When— how!?” He tried to snatch the sketchbook, but you pushed him off—any other day, he’d easily overpower you. But frustration was clouding his instincts.

“Give it back.” Damian demanded, his ears burning, in contrast to the icy chill down his spine when you straddled him.

“Pretty, but depressing. Got a creative block, Robin?” you smiled, finally connecting the dots about what had been stressing him out. “If you want, I can pose for you, just with the necklace on, you know?” Standing up, you let the sketchbook fall onto his chest.

Damian shut his eyes tight for a second, like he was trying to erase the image you’d just painted with your words—but it was too late. It was already stuck in his mind: vivid, colorful, annoyingly alive. And not unpleasant.

“You’re ridiculous,” he growled, but there was no real anger in his voice. It was tired. Dry. “And unbearable.”

You just smiled, shrugging like you hadn’t heard him. You sat beside him again. For a few minutes, only the wind spoke. Gotham buzzed in the distance, but on that rooftop, everything felt suspended. “You know it doesn’t have to be good, right?” you said suddenly. “The drawing, I mean. Doesn’t have to be the best. Doesn’t even have to be finished. It just needs to exist.”

Damian turned his face toward you, like he wanted to ask what the hell you knew about creating anything—or to say he didn’t need anyone’s pity—but he swallowed the words before they came out. How could he arrest or insult you after all the shame he’d already gone through? It was pointless—at least for tonight.

“That’s the problem, idiot. I can’t make anything exist.” He sighed, turning his face toward the sky now. His silence was almost an acceptance. A quiet surrender.

You leaned back, resting your elbows on the roof behind you, letting your legs swing over the edge like there was no danger at all. “If you want to go back to your little hobby…” you began, slowly turning to face him. “I won’t cause trouble tonight. It’s no fun running from someone who can’t even stay on their feet.”

He raised an eyebrow—finally, a small smile appearing on his face. “I’m better, but not in the mood.” Damian stood up without another word, picking up the sketchbook and staring at it. The frustration still sat on his shoulders, but it felt… lighter now. “I will arrest you tomorrow.”

You let out a low, lazy laugh, like he’d just said the sky was blue. “Of course you will. Robin chasing me through the night like a loyal puppy? It’s already routine,” you said, resting your chin on your hand, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

#dc x you #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul #batman x reader #damian wayne x y/n

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strwbyoons · 4 months ago

Text

EQUILIBRIUM

STARRING ... SPIDEY!J. JUNGKOOK X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... how long can you pretend not to notice you're falling headfirst?

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slow burn. mutual pining. they’re both falling so hard they need a helmet AKSJASK. reader’s acceptance era. they wanna kiss each other so bad but are too stupid to realise it someone please bonk them on the head. implied spidey!jk fight. she’s a lil bit short but that’s okay things are moving forward!!!

playlist : give you the world (steve lacy). i think (tyler the creator). me gustas tu (manu chao). falling for ya (grace phipps). the feels (twice). out of my league (fitz and the tantrums). more than a woman (the beegees). be my baby (the ronettes). rather be (clean bandit). cupid (fifty fifty).

taglist. prev. next.

he’s been staring at the same sentence in his notes for the past five minutes.

it’s not even a hard one. something about limiting reagents and product yield—stuff he could usually recite without blinking, but you’re sitting right there.

curled into the far side of the library booth, legs tucked under you, pen twirling between your fingers like you’ve likely done a hundred times before. there’s a smudge of blue ink on your thumb and a crumpled piece of gum wrapper on the table between you, and jungkook can’t seem to make his brain work long enough to finish a full thought.

you hum under your breath as you copy down the last equation he walked you through. nod a little to yourself when it clicks.

jungkook has never hated a reaction more.

not because he minds teaching. not because he minds being here. but because he wants to kiss you. he’s been thinking about it more than he should. enough that it’s starting to interfere with things, like memory and rational thought and knowing when to look away.

your lips purse as you underline something. your brow furrows. he looks back at his notes and pretends he didn’t notice.

“you okay?” you say after a moment.

your voice is soft. casual, like you haven’t just dragged him out of a thought spiral that involved your lip gloss and his complete and utter lack of self-control.

he glances up too fast, eyes wide. “what?”

you blink at him. “you’ve been on the same line for ages. just wondered if you were, i don’t know... buffering.”

a beat, then you grin.

jungkook exhales through his nose and drops his pen. presses the heel of his palm to his temple like that’ll help short-circuit whatever his brain is doing. “i’m fine,” he mutters.

“uh-huh,” you say, clearly not buying it. you nudge the gum wrapper closer to him with the back of your knuckle. “you sure it’s not the limiting reagent that’s got you in a chokehold?”

“positive,” he says. “limiting reagents are easy.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and yet?”

he glares at the sentence in his notebook like it’s personally wronged him, and you laugh under your breath, the sound warm, bright in a way the library doesn’t deserve.

he hates that it makes his stomach flip.

“okay, professor,” you tease. “if you’re done glitching, i have questions.”

he nods slowly, swallowing back everything else he wants to say. “hit me.”

you scoot a little closer, shifting your notebook between you, your leg bumping his under the table. not on purpose, probably, but jungkook flinches anyway. you don’t seem to notice. you’re already flipping back a page and chewing on your bottom lip, scanning your notes.

“this one,” you say, pointing to a messy line halfway down the margin. “the molar ratio part? i think i missed something.”

he leans in before he can stop himself. close enough to see the faint shimmer of your lip balm, the way the library’s overhead lights reflect in your eyes. bad idea. he clears his throat, forcing his eyes back down. “you just have to compare the coefficients from the balanced equation. it’s about how many moles of reactant are required to fully react with the other.”

“right,” you nod, writing as he speaks. “so it’s about proportion?”

“exactly.”

you hum again, more to yourself this time, scribbling in the margin. your handwriting is uneven and fast and a little chaotic, but it makes something in his chest ache anyway.

you’re too close.

he shifts a little, subtly. just enough to give himself space to breathe. because he doesn’t want you to see the way it’s affecting him the way everything you do lately seems to be affecting him. it’s getting bad.

the way you lean into him when you’re focused. the way you smile when you finally understand something. the way you call him ‘professor’ sometimes, like it’s a joke, but he still thinks about it later when he’s brushing his teeth.

you nudge his notebook with your pen. “you’re being quiet again.”

“just thinking.”

you glance at him sideways, a small smile tugging at your lips. “about chemistry?”

he lies. “yeah.”

you laugh. soft and a little disbelieving. “you don’t sound very convincing, you know.”

he shrugs, eyes still on your notes. “i’m not good at this whole… thing.”

“mm. i don’t know.” you twirl your pen again, the ink-stained tip catching a smudge across your palm. “you’ve managed to teach me more in two weeks than i’ve learned all semester. that’s gotta count for something.”

jungkook wants to say thank you. wants to make a dumb joke. wants to reach across the table and take your hand just to see if you’d let him. instead, he stares at the gum wrapper between you. you don’t seem to notice the shift.

“you’re good at it,” you add, quieter this time. “the tutoring thing. i didn’t expect that.”

he raises an eyebrow. “why not?”

you glance at him like it should be obvious. “you don’t really talk. during class, i mean. you kind of just show up, take notes, and disappear.”

he shrugs again. “maybe you just weren’t paying attention.”

your smile falters a little, flickering into something softer. more real. “maybe,” you admit. “but i do now.”

and there’s something in the way you say it that makes his heartbeat stutter and his mouth dry.

you shift again, settling back into your seat. “anyway. i think i get it now.”

he nods, pretending like what you said doesn’t matter to him as much as it does. “good.”

“do i get a gold star?”

he finally smiles, small but genuine. “i’ll bring stickers next time.”

you grin. “i’m holding you to that.”

he’s not sure if you mean it. but he will.

you stretch your arms above your head, spine arching just slightly, a soft groan escaping your throat. jungkook looks away so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.

“we’ve been at this for too long,” you say, voice light, dragging your hands through your hair before letting them fall into your lap. “my brain’s starting to leak out of my ears.”

he huffs a laugh, flipping your notebook closed. “sure. break time.”

“thank god,” you sigh, slumping dramatically against the back of the booth. “i was two problems away from crying.”

“you’ve cried over chemistry before?”

“once,” you say, lifting your fingers to make a tiny gap between your thumb and forefinger. “just a little. like a respectable amount.”

he grins. “respectable tears?”

“very academic,” you nod solemnly. “phd-level sobbing.”

you’re joking, but your smile is tired in a way that makes his chest tug. he wonders how much sleep you’ve been getting. how often you let yourself take breaks when he’s not the one insisting. he doesn’t ask.

instead, he pushes the textbooks aside. “what do you usually do during breaks?” he asks, half teasing, half genuinely curious.

you blink at him, clearly not expecting him to ask. “usually?” you say. “scroll. draw. steal other people’s snacks. the essentials.”

jungkook hums, amused. “should i be worried?”

“only if you brought anything worth stealing.”

he reaches into his bag, pulls out a granola bar, and slides it across the table.

you gasp. “an offering?”

“a peace treaty,” he says. “in case you cry again.”

you laugh, peeling back the wrapper, and something in his chest unwinds. “this’ll buy you fifteen more minutes of tutoring,” you say through a mouthful of granola. “maybe twenty if you pretend i’m doing better than i am.”

“you’re doing fine,” he says before he can stop himself.

you glance up at him. blink once. then you smile, and it’s not playful—not teasing or smug or exaggerated. it’s quiet. sincere. “thanks,” you say softly. “i’ve been trying.”

jungkook swallows. nods. looks down at his hands just so he doesn’t have to look at you.

you chew slowly, shoulders relaxing against the booth.

“i kind of like studying with you,” you say after a minute, not even realizing what you’re doing to him.

his throat is suddenly too dry. “yeah?”

you nod. “you’re patient. and you explain things better than my professors do. and you always bring snacks.”

“only brought one.”

“you’ve brought others before.”

he snorts under his breath. “you keep track?”

you shrug. “when you’ve got as many things on your mind as i do, it’s nice when something’s consistent.”

and god, he wants to say something. to tell you he’d bring you granola bars every day for the rest of the semester. to ask if he’s allowed to be one of the things you count on. but instead, he picks at the edge of his textbook and says, “i’ll bring two next time.”

you grin. “spoiling me.”

he shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “you deserve it.”

you look at him for a second—really look at him, eyes soft, head tilted just slightly, trying to figure him out. then, just as quickly, the moment shifts. you smile again, all light and teasing. “if you keep saying stuff like that, i’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

you say it like a joke, like it’s nothing. like it’s funny.

and maybe it is to you. maybe you’re just playing around. maybe you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists in his lap, or how he forgets how to breathe for half a second.

he laughs. too late, too forced.

“yeah, well,” he says, eyes fixed on a scratch in the table. “can’t have that.”

you don’t respond right away. you just pick at the corner of your granola bar wrapper, folding it neatly in half.

“mm,” you say finally, like you’ve filed that away somewhere. “would ruin the academic integrity of this tutoring relationship.”

he nods. “exactly.”

another beat passes. you lean your cheek against your hand, watching him with something unreadable in your expression. “guess i’ll just have to keep wondering, then.”

and before he can figure out what that means, or if you meant anything at all, you’re reaching for your notes again.

“alright, professor,” you say lightly. “break’s over. teach me something.”

jungkook picks up his pen with shaking fingers. he doesn’t say a word.

you’re already flipped to a fresh page, pen tapping against the paper as you glance at him, waiting. expecting. jungkook clears his throat and tries to focus. tries to remember what you were working on before you smiled at him in a way that made it hard to breathe.

"okay," he says eventually, voice quieter than usual. “uh. equilibrium constants.”

you nod, jotting down the title at the top of the page.

his hands are still shaking. he doesn’t think you notice. you lean in a little, not quite touching, but close enough to make his skin prickle. "so," you murmur, pen at the ready, "what’s the deal with k?”

and god.

you’re doing it on purpose. or maybe you’re not. maybe this is just how you are—curious, warm, bright in a way that doesn’t burn but still somehow sets him on fire.

he exhales slowly through his nose.

"it’s a ratio," he starts, keeping his eyes on your notebook instead of your face. "products over reactants. a way to measure if a reaction favors the left or the right.”

you hum under your breath. “and what if it favors neither?”

he lets himself glance at you then, just briefly. “then it’s balanced,” he says.

you meet his gaze, smile tugging at your lips. “sounds ideal.”

jungkook looks away. he’s never wanted anything more than he wants to kiss you right now. he doesn’t let the thought linger. it’s dangerous—too loud, too close to the surface. he presses the tip of his pen to your notebook instead, draws a quick diagram, lets the movement steady his hands.

"see how the concentrations shift?" he says, voice even, like his pulse isn’t hammering in his throat.

you lean forward again, shoulder brushing his just barely.

"so when k is greater than one..." you murmur.

"it means the products are favored."

you nod, scribbling it down, brow furrowed in concentration.

and jungkook clings to that. your focus, your curiosity, the way you chew your lip when you're thinking hard. if he lets himself look at you for too long, he knows he won’t be able to look away.

and if he lets himself feel everything he’s feeling, really feel it, he might never stop.

he watches you write, lets the silence stretch just long enough to steady himself. then “okay,” he says softly. “your turn.”

you glance up, pen pausing mid-stroke.

“what does it mean when a reaction is at equilibrium?”

your brow furrows, eyes flicking between his face and the sketch of the reaction chart on your page. he waits.

you tap the end of your pen against the paper, thoughtful. “it means… the rate of the forward reaction equals the rate of the reverse?”

when he nods, you continue, voice more confident now. “that the concentrations stop changing. not because the reaction stops, but because everything’s happening at the same time, in both directions.”

he smiles, and it’s small, but it’s real. “exactly.”

you grin, wide and a little proud, and his heart goes stupid in his chest.

“see?” you say, nudging his elbow with yours. “i am learning.”

“you’re a model student,” he says, just to hear you laugh again.

you do. soft and sudden. the kind of sound that makes him feel weightless.

you go back to your notes, but jungkook doesn’t move right away. he keeps his eyes on the margin of your page, watching your pen move.

equilibrium.

forward and reverse, happening at once. equal effort. equal weight. it sounds simple in theory.

he wishes it were. he wishes he was brave enough to just be honest with you about how he feels, to say it plainly. without stumbling, without second-guessing, without hiding behind chemistry terms and granola bars and excuses that sound a lot like maybe next time.

he wants to tell you that he thinks about you more than he should. that every time you smile at him, it takes him a second too long to recover. but instead he points to the next problem in your textbook. “you wanna try this one on your own?”

you glance at it, then at him, then back at your notes.

“sure,” you say, and your voice is casual, but the corners of your mouth curve just enough to undo him all over again.

you start working through the equation, mumbling under your breath, pen tapping as you go, and jungkook watches. he doesn’t say what he wants to. he doesn’t risk it. not yet.

you furrow your brow at the middle of the problem, chewing on your pen cap while your eyes scan the numbers. “wait,” you mutter, pointing to the molar ratio. “isn’t it supposed to be three to two here?”

“yeah,” he says, quiet. “good catch.”

you grin, triumphant, scribbling something onto the page. he looks away again, smile threatening the edges of his mouth.

god. he’s so gone.

completely, utterly, irreversibly.

you don’t even know. you’re just here, sharing your notebook, offering up pieces of yourself so easily it’s like you don’t think twice. he wishes he could match you in that. be just as open, just as brave.

“what?” you ask suddenly, glancing over at him. “you’re staring.”

“no, i’m not,” he says, and it’s instant, reflexive.

you raise a brow. “you kinda were.”

he clears his throat. “i was just… surprised. you’re getting good at this.”

you smile, a little bashful. “guess i’ve got a decent tutor.”

jungkook looks at your face, the way you’re trying to hide how proud you are. he wants to reach out.

he doesn’t.

“you’re not so bad yourself,” he says instead, voice low.

your eyes linger on him a beat too long. and then you look down again, flipping to a new page.

his heart doesn’t slow down for the rest of the hour.

jungkook winces as jimin dabs at his cheek with a sting-soaked cotton pad.

"jesus," jimin mutters under his breath, voice tight with irritation. "you need to stop letting public transit rearrange your face."

“i’m fine,” jungkook grits out, though the words come slower than he means for them to. his head’s still spinning, just a little. he blinks hard, trying to clear it.

jimin pulls back, eyes narrowing. “uh-huh. and i’m the queen of england.” he swipes at a dried streak of blood along jungkook’s jaw, a little less gently this time.

jungkook flinches, shoulders curling in. “i don’t have a concussion.”

“right.” jimin scoffs, tossing the cotton pad into the trash. “because when a ten-ton hunk of steel smacks you into a goddamn billboard, the first thing you think is thank god my brain’s still in one piece.”

jungkook sighs, leaning back against the couch, one hand dragging down his face. he hates this part, the aftermath. when the adrenaline’s gone and everything hurts and the city’s quiet again and jimin’s looking at him like he’s one bad landing away from being a memory.

“you should’ve gone to the ER,” jimin mutters, disinfectant in one hand, gauze in the other.

“they ask too many questions.”

“they ask questions so you don’t die, genius.”

“you’re patching me up anyway,” jungkook mumbles, gesturing vaguely to the half-open first aid kit on the coffee table. jimin doesn’t answer right away. just presses the gauze to the cut on his temple a little more firmly than necessary.

jungkook hisses.

“you’re an idiot,” jimin says, quiet.

“i know.”

he does. he knows.

jungkook closes his eyes for a second, lets the pressure of jimin’s hand ground him. the sting, the scent of antiseptic, the soft buzz of a heater kicking on somewhere in the apartment.

he’d thought about going to you. when he was dragging himself out of the alley, ribs screaming, blood sticky down the side of his face, your apartment flashed across his mind. a quiet thought, tucked into the corner of the chaos.

she’d open the door.

she’d help.

she always does.

even in his addled state, he knew it was a bad idea. stupid. selfish even.

as much as he’d enjoyed it last time—being there, letting you fuss over him, hearing your voice up close, feeling your fingers skim his cheek like he was something fragile—it wasn’t something he could get used to.

not when you didn’t know who he was. not really.

“you zoning out on me?” jimin asks, tone clipped.

jungkook blinks his eyes open again. “no.”

jimin doesn’t buy it. he never does.

“you sure? ‘cause your pupils look two different sizes and you haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.”

jungkook exhales a dry laugh. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” jimin mutters, tossing the bloodied gauze aside and grabbing clean bandages. “next time, don’t think. just duck.”

“tried.”

“try harder.”

he doesn’t mean to sound harsh. jimin never does, not really, but there’s a tremble underneath it. fear, maybe. and jungkook doesn’t have the heart to brush that off. not tonight. not after the way his own legs gave out two blocks from the fight, not after the taste of copper and pavement still lingers in his mouth.

so he just nods and lets jimin tape him back together again in silence.

jimin’s quiet for a while after that. he works the way he always does when he’s trying not to feel something. quick, precise, hands steady even when his breathing isn’t. jungkook watches the ceiling, eyes unfocused. the room spins a little when he turns his head, so he doesn’t.

“you’ve gotta slow down,” jimin says eventually, voice low.

jungkook hums. “can’t.”

jimin’s fingers still against the side of his face.

“why not?”

jungkook doesn’t answer right away. he could say it’s the city. the people who need help. the guilt that chews at his ribs when he thinks about what would happen if he just stopped.

but none of that is what comes out.

“she was there,” he says quietly.

jimin freezes. “when?”

“before the fight,” jungkook mumbles. “at her mural. painting.” he swallows. “she didn’t see me. i didn’t stay.”

jimin sighs, sits back on his heels, eyeing him carefully. “you shouldn’t keep doing this.”

jungkook blinks. “doing what?”

“using the mask as an excuse to orbit her,” jimin says flatly. “you’re not doing her any favors. and you’re definitely not doing you any favors either.”

jungkook looks away, jaw tight. “i’m not trying to mess with her,” he says. “i just… i don’t know. i miss her.”

“you see her,” jimin says. “you tutor her. you sit across from her in cafes and make a fool of yourself in front of her every week.”

“it’s not the same,” jungkook mutters.

“no,” jimin agrees. “because at least when you’re you, you’re not lying to her face.”

the silence that follows is heavier than anything else.

jimin doesn’t push. just leans back against the couch, pulls his knees up, and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh that sounds way too tired for how young they are. the room is quiet again, save for the low hum of traffic outside and the soft groan of jimin’s air conditioner in the background.

jimin exhales through his nose, slow and tired. he presses the last strip of tape to jungkook’s temple, then drops the empty wrapper onto the table with a quiet crinkle.

“you’re lucky you didn’t black out,” he says. “again.”

jungkook doesn’t respond. just leans back into the couch, arm slung over his eyes. he’s so tired. not just in his body. not just the bruises, or the cuts, or the ache in his shoulder that still hasn’t gone away from last week’s rooftop landing. it’s in his chest.

the constant push and pull of being two people. the version of him who makes you laugh across tables, and the one who swings past your apartment in the middle of the night just to see if your lights are on.

the one you know.

the one you don’t.

“you should tell her,” jimin says eventually. “before it gets worse.”

jungkook drops his arm, looks at him with tired eyes. “tell her what, hyung? hey, i’m your tutor and the idiot who bled on your furniture that one time. surprise?”

jimin just shrugs. “sounds about right.”

“she’ll hate me.”

“she might.” jimin doesn’t sugarcoat it. “but she also might not.”

jungkook swallows hard.

he’s thought about it. a hundred different ways. a thousand different outcomes. and in every one, you look at him differently after. sometimes with betrayal. sometimes with disbelief. sometimes you don’t look at him at all, and that’s the part that scares him most.

he scrubs a hand down his face and groans. “i can’t. not yet.”

jimin watches him for a beat, then nods.

“then don’t wait too long,” he says. “because if she finds out on her own, it’s gonna hurt worse.”

jungkook doesn’t say anything, because deep down, he knows jimin’s right. that’s what scares him second most.

you stare down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

here early, grabbed a table near the back x

sent fifteen minutes ago.

you sigh and lock your phone, flipping it face down on the table.

the cafe is warm. quieter than usual, save for the low hum of an indie playlist and the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. your untouched drink sits beside your notebook, still steaming. you haven’t taken a sip.

you know jungkook’s probably caught in traffic. or maybe the bus was late. maybe something came up. maybe he’s just having one of those days. but your brain doesn’t care about reason. it cares that he was the one who asked to move the session earlier this week. said he couldn’t do the weekend.

so you cleared your schedule. shifted your plans. you told taehyung no, you told yourself it was fine, you told yourself you weren’t too excited when he sent the text.

and now here you are.

alone in a corner booth with your highlighters lined up in color order and your thoughts spiraling at full speed.

you try not to take it personally, and you fail. your mind jumps straight to that place you hate—what if he forgot? what if he bailed? what if he’s slowly realizing he doesn’t actually like being around you at all? you exhale, sharp and quiet.

then the bell above the door jingles, and jungkook stumbles in, breathless and disheveled, hoodie askew and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. his hair is a mess, and his backpack looks half-zipped, and there’s a coffee stain on the cuff of his sleeve.

he spots you instantly and his shoulders sag in relief. “hey…” he pants as he approaches, breath visible in the air behind him, “sorry. i’m so sorry.”

you blink, and despite every insecure thought you were stewing in two seconds ago, your chest loosens just a little.

“…you okay?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean for it to be.

he nods quickly, dropping his bag onto the seat across from you. “yeah. yeah. just—” he pulls his hood back, raking a hand through his hair, “—bit of a mess getting here. totally my fault. i should’ve texted.”

you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “you’re here now.”

he meets your eyes, sheepish.

“still,” he says, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, “thanks for waiting.”

you shrug, flipping open your notebook. “you owe me a sticker for it.”

he exhales a laugh. “i brought two sheets.”

you lean back in your seat, watching him dig through his bag, fingers fumbling for his notes or maybe a pen or maybe just something to distract from how flustered he is. he finally pulls out his notebook, slaps it onto the table, and exhales like he’s just run a marathon.

“you didn’t have to sprint here,” you murmur, reaching for your drink at last. “i would’ve waited.”

he smiles, boyish, still a little breathless.

“i did make you wait,” he says. “felt bad.”

you’re about to wave it off when you notice just the faintest smudge. barely there, high on the edge of his nostril, a smear of red that’s mostly faded but not invisible. your brows draw together.

“hey.”

he looks up. “hm?”

you reach into your pocket for a tissue and slide it across the table. “you’ve got—” you motion to your own nose, eyes narrowing. “what happened?”

he falters just for a second. his hand lifts instinctively, brushing at the spot with the back of his knuckle before glancing at the tissue and taking it.

“oh. must’ve been from earlier.”

you stare. “earlier?”

“yeah, it’s nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly. “i get nosebleeds sometimes. weather shift, i guess.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it. just dabs once, then folds the tissue and tucks it under his notebook like it never existed. you don’t believe him, but you don’t push, either. “…you sure?”

he nods. “promise.”

and it sounds certain enough that you don’t press, even as something unsettles deep in your stomach. instead, you flip open your own notes and reach for a pen.

“fine,” you say softly. “but if you pass out mid-equation, i’m not catching you.”

he huffs a laugh, and it sounds a little more real this time. “deal.”

you pretend to scan your notes, pen tapping idly, but your eyes drift. jungkook’s hunched forward, elbows on the table, scribbling something in the corner of his page. his hair’s a mess, long and black and tangled from either wind or movement or both, curling at the ends where it brushes his hoodie. there’s a little patch that won’t fall the right way, hanging stubbornly across his forehead.

and then there’s the glasses.

you haven’t seen him wear them before. they sit low on his nose, slipping a little every time he shifts, catching the light and reflecting it just enough to make you pause. you don’t mean to stare, but you do until he looks up and catches your gaze head-on.

“…do i have something else on my face?” he asks, cautious.

you blink. hard.

“what? no.” you shake your head, a little too fast. “no. i was just… thinking.”

his brow lifts slightly. “about what?”

you scramble for anything but you look really good like this and i can’t stop looking at you.

you flick your pen toward the table. “i was wondering why we met here instead of the library.”

he blinks, then ducks his head, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle, suddenly shy. “oh. um. the café’s closer to where i live.”

you nod slowly, biting back a smile. “huh.” you tilt your head. “so you dragged me across town for your own convenience?”

“not dragged,” he says, a little defensively. “i picked a place with good coffee.”

you raise your brow and he shrinks just slightly in his seat.

“and you said you didn’t mind,” he adds, quieter.

you don’t. you really don’t. but you’re not about to let him off that easy.

“mm. you’re lucky the coffee is good.”

he grins, soft and crooked.

“i am lucky.”

he doesn’t know what he’s saying. what it’s doing to you.

you don’t trust your voice enough to respond, so you flip to the next page of your notes and hope he can’t hear your heartbeat from across the table.

he, for his part, doesn’t say anything else. just ducks his head again, hair falling even further into his face as he pushes up his glasses with one finger. your eyes follow the movement before you can stop yourself.

it’s almost unfair. how soft he looks like this.

you draw a slow breath, steadying yourself before you speak.

“alright, professor,” you murmur, aiming for light. “you’ve got me at a café. impress me.”

he huffs a laugh, head still bowed.

“no pressure or anything,” he mumbles, flipping to a page of problem sets.

you lean your chin into your hand, elbow propped against the table. “you’re the one who insisted on the earlier session.”

“and i stand by it,” he says, voice warming again. “even if i almost died trying to get here.”

“do you always get nosebleeds when you're rushing to meet girls?”

he pauses mid-scribble. you see the smile tug at the corner of his mouth before he tries to hide it.

“only the pretty ones,” he says, barely above a whisper.

your breath catches. just for a second, just long enough to feel it, sharp and hot in your chest. you glance down at your notebook, heart thudding.

you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

your fingers freeze over the spiral of your notebook, eyes trained on a random line of notes that suddenly means nothing to you.

across from you, jungkook goes still, turning red. not just a faint dusting across his cheeks. full-on, unmistakable, spreading fast across his face and up to the tips of his ears. he ducks his head, hiding behind the curtain of his hair like he’s trying to disappear into it, lips pressing together in a tight, horrified line.

you’re not sure either of you can believe he just said that.

he thinks you’re pretty, he thinks you’re pretty, he thinks you’re pretty. it plays on loop in your brain, each echo a little more dizzying than the last. your heart skips and stumbles all over itself, half stuck on the words and half on the fact that he meant them. he must’ve meant them.

jungkook coughs into his hand, trying to recover. “i.. uh. sorry,” he mutters, still not looking up. “that was—i was joking.”

“bad joke,” you say quietly, eyes still on your page.

he exhales a shaky breath. “yeah.”

neither of you look up. neither of you move.

the silence stretches. not awkward. not exactly. just charged.

you pretend to read your notes, pen tapping against the margin, heartbeat thudding loud enough that it might as well be on the table between you. jungkook still hasn’t looked up.

you steal a glance at him.

his hair’s fallen further into his face, half hiding the flush that still stains his cheeks. his fingers are clenched around his pen, knuckles pale, foot bouncing under the table in a restless rhythm.

he’s panicking.

not outwardly—he’s too quiet for that. too soft. but it’s there. in the way his eyes stay fixed on the same spot in his notebook, in the way his throat moves when he swallows. and for some reason, the realization makes your chest squeeze.

you almost tell him it’s okay. almost say, you don’t have to be sorry. i didn’t mind it. i’m still thinking about it.

but then he shifts, shoulders squaring, and finally meets your eyes.

“can we pretend i didn’t say that?” he asks, voice low. he says it with a forced little smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

and maybe that’s what makes your decision for you. you look at him for a second longer, then nod once. “sure,” you say, and it comes out smoother than you expect. “you didn’t say anything.”

jungkook exhales through his nose, relief barely veiling the disappointment that flickers across his face.

you both go back to your notes, but neither of you turn the page.

the apartment is quiet when jungkook gets in. the door clicks shut behind him, soft in the silence, but it still makes him flinch. he toes off his shoes, drops his bag by the door, jacket halfway off before he even makes it to the couch. when he does he sinks down hard, palms dragging over his face.

“fuck,” he mutters into his hands.

he’s still rattled.

still replaying the way you looked at him right after—head tilted, eyes wide, something unreadable passing over your face like you were trying to decide if you’d actually heard him right.

only the pretty ones.

the words hit like a sucker punch even now.

he hadn’t meant to say it. hadn’t planned to. hadn’t even realized it was hovering on the tip of his tongue until it was already out there between you, hanging in the air, sticky and impossible to ignore.

you went quiet. you let him backpedal. let him pretend it was a joke, let him erase it even though he wanted nothing more for you to know how pretty you are to him. he leans back into the couch, head tipping against the cushions, and he closes his eyes.

the quiet is louder than it should be.

no city noise, no music, no jimin yelling at him to put ice on something or to stop being so obvious whenever your name comes up. just the echo of that one second. that one look.

you didn’t smile, didn’t tease. you looked stunned. and jungkook can’t decide what’s worse; the fact that he said it, or the fact that some part of him wants to say it again and again until you believe it, until you say something back.

he exhales, long and shaky, and scrubs a hand through his hair. he’s so far in it he doesn’t know how to claw his way out.

he’s not even sure he wants to.

you’re supposed to be paying attention.

there’s something about classical conditioning echoing through the lecture hall speakers. something about pavlov, about dogs and bells and salivating, but your pen is too busy trailing along the edge of your notebook, filling the margins with half-formed flowers and a lopsided spider.

you try to focus. really, you do. you nod when the professor emphasizes a point, scribble a keyword or two, underline extinction twice. but then your eyes drift. out the window, across the aisle, down to the corner of your desk where you’ve already drawn the same sleepy-looking face three different times.

and somehow, every version of it ends up looking a little like him.

you bite the inside of your cheek and shake your head, as if that’ll snap you out of it.

it’s just been happening more often lately—this thing where your thoughts spiral without warning. one second you’re zoning out mid-lecture, and the next you’re remembering the way his fingers brushed yours last week at least three different times.

your professor clicks to the next slide, and the class collectively shifts to pretend they’re still with him.

you sigh, resting your chin on your hand. you don’t mean to get so distracted. but it’s hard not to, when every other thought seems to circle back to the same person.

stupid.

you draw another web in the corner of the page. smaller this time. neater. you don’t know what you’re waiting for. but something in your chest keeps tugging like you’re supposed to be paying attention to something else entirely.

you tap your pen against the edge of your desk. once, twice. again.

“focus,” you mumble to yourself, but it’s useless.

your mind’s already gone, drifting somewhere else entirely—back to the café, which shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, where jungkook stumbled in late, glasses slipping down his nose, hair a mess, breathless and apologetic and still unfairly handsome. back to the night even further back when spider-man nearly collapsed onto your living room floor.

you press the pen harder.

jungkook, spider-man.

one sitting next to you with messy hair and nervous hands, the other bleeding on your couch with too much weight on your shoulder. neither of them probably thinking about you right now.

you don’t even know why that stings.

you’re not dating jungkook. spider-man’s not your friend. you’re just someone who needs help in chemistry. someone who opened her door because someone looked like they were going to fall apart.

you sigh, draw another line across the page. your flowers are losing their shape.

maybe it’d be easier if your chest didn’t feel so tight every time you thought about either of them. you wonder what that says about you. you wonder what that says about them.

your professor says something about freud. you hear someone snicker near the back. you don’t laugh. you just stare down at the little spider in the corner of your page, and trace the thread it’s dangling from. the line stretches up toward the edge of the page, thin and a little shaky.

your pen pauses. you wonder if you’re doing the same thing—hanging off something delicate and invisible, waiting for it to pull or snap or hold.

your professor’s voice drones on, something about repression now. the subconscious. emotional imprinting.

you huff under your breath. “great timing.”

the girl in front of you glances back, but you don’t bother explaining.

your hand shifts again, pen back to work. you draw another figure next to the spider. smaller. a blur of curls and oversized sleeves. he’d probably laugh if he saw it. or tilt his head in that curious way he does when you’re speaking and he wants to say something but doesn’t.

jungkook’s always holding something back. you wonder how much of it is hiding, and how much of it is habit. you shake the thought away before it can settle too deep, scribble a lazy border around your newest doodle to distract yourself.

you’re being emotional. a tad dramatic. maybe it’s just the weather. or the exhaustion. or the fact that every time jungkook smiles at you, it feels like your ribs are curling in on themselves.

you press your pen down until the tip almost snaps. whatever it is, it needs to stop. you’re not built for this kind of uncertainty. you never have been.

you don’t remember the last ten minutes of lecture.

the lights flick on, and the room starts moving before your brain catches up. notebooks close, zippers hum, someone’s already halfway down the stairs before the professor even says have a good weekend.

you sigh, stuff your notes into your bag, ignore the half-page of doodles that somehow ended with a cracked spiderweb and a boy curled up at the center of it. your legs ache as you shuffle out into the hallway, pulled along by the current of students flooding toward the exits.

taehyung finds you near the vending machines, all slouched posture and too-long sleeves.

“there she is,” he says, popping a piece of gum into his mouth without offering you any. “my favorite academically struggling genius.”

you shoot him a look. “what’s with the weird greeting?”

“you’ve got your crisis face on,” he says, tapping his temple. “it’s very i’m thinking too hard about boys again, so i figured i’d meet you halfway.”

you scoff. “i’m not thinking about boys.”

taehyung squints. “okay, so which boy, then?”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

he lifts his brows, smug. “that’s what i thought.”

you push open the building doors and step out into the cold, the wind catching your sleeves and snapping at your legs. “it’s not like that,” you mutter.

“you always say that when it’s exactly like that.”

you glare at him. “are you going to walk me to my next class or just psychoanalyze me until i melt into the sidewalk?”

“i can multitask,” taehyung grins, pulling his hood up as he falls into step beside you. “so, is it the covalent cutie or your friendly neighborhood rebound?”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“nothing.” he stretches his arms behind his head, all faux innocence. “just wondering how many men you’re collecting this semester.” you bump your shoulder into his, harder than necessary, and taehyung wheezes and laughs. “god, you’re so defensive when you’re in denial.”

you don’t respond. mostly because he’s right.

taehyung shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, lips pursed in mock thought. “so, there’s gonna be a party friday,” he says casually.

you glance at him, unimpressed. “cool. have fun.”

he snorts. “you’re not even gonna pretend to consider it?”

“nope.”

“rude.”

“you invited me like you were ordering takeout,” you say, stepping over a crack in the pavement. “not exactly persuasive.”

“fine.” he sighs dramatically. “you, my beloved friend, are cordially invited to a moderately chaotic social gathering where someone’s bound to cry in the bathtub, and no less than three people will make out in the kitchen.”

you lift an eyebrow. “tempting.”

“right? i’m selling this.”

“still no.”

he pouts. “why not?”

you shrug. “i’ve got stuff to do.”

“you always have stuff to do.”

you don’t respond right away. you just keep walking, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, the wind pulling at the hem of your shirt. taehyung sighs again, quieter this time.

“you know,” he says, bumping your arm lightly with his. “you’re allowed to take a break. have a drink. forget about whatever mess is chewing you up for a couple hours.”

you chew on the inside of your cheek.

you know he’s right. you just don’t know how to say it doesn’t really help when the mess comes with a charming smile and really cute doe eyes and the prettiest lips you’ve ever seen.

so you shrug again. “maybe next time.” taehyung groans dramatically, flopping his head back as you both walk. “you are so stubborn.”

“thanks.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

you snort. “sure it wasn’t.”

he glances sideways at you, lips pursed. plotting. calculating.

“okay,” he says finally. “what if i told you it’s not just any party?”

you raise a brow. “is this where you tell me it’s a secret underground masquerade with a five-star buffet?”

“no,” he says, deadpan. “but there will be snacks. and possibly jello shots. and—” he pauses for effect, wagging his eyebrows, “your chemistry tutor might be there.”

you blink. “jungkook?”

taehyung shrugs, faking nonchalance. “could be. dunno. hoseok’s throwing it, and i know they’re tight. might swing by.”

your stomach does something stupid. you look away before taehyung can see it. “that’s not a reason to go.”

“oh, it’s definitely a reason.”

“tae—”

“look,” he says, gentler this time. “you’ve been tense for weeks. you deserve, like, two hours of being normal. you don’t have to dance on the table or hook up with anyone. just show up. breathe. hang out.”

you slow your steps. you hate that he’s making sense. you hate that the idea of maybe running into jungkook makes your chest tighten in a way you refuse to examine too closely.

you sigh. “fine.”

taehyung beams. “yes. victory.”

“don’t make it weird.”

“no promises.”

you shake your head, but you’re smiling when he throws an arm around your shoulders, loud and smug and already gloating. you pretend to be annoyed.

you pretend it’s not already the only thing you’re going to think about for the rest of the day.

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