thee wrist kiss™ causing this much of a mass psych ward escapee situation amongst every aspect of viewers (korean, international, probably some aliens in space), is proof that the girls just yearn for subtle, timeless displays of affection that kdramas romances used to deliver consistently but have reduced in recent years. yes, a kiss scene and a bed scene are fun whatever but a WRIST KISS? a hand wrapped around the back of your head in a hug? that is what gets us to lose our collective shit. that is the undoing of us all.
Female readers ➜ I mostly write for my gals in mind, especially (always) when it comes to smut, but I think some some of my writing can be read as gender neutral if you look hard enough 🤷🏻♀️.
Smut warning ➜ This blog will contain content that is for audiences 18+. You’ve been warned and please do not interact if you are below 18.
Requests ➜ If you’d like, you may leave a request, but I cannot promise a response in return. I really only write for my own self-indulgence (and my spark for motivation lacks fuel sometimes), but I’m always up for a challenge 🤞. (P.S. any requests that make me uncomfortable will simply be ignored)
Disclaimer ➜ All of my writing is simply for entertainment purposes only. I do not own BTS or HYBE.
Vampire AU
pairing - OT7 x reader , BTS x reader
word count - 13k+ (so sry)
summary - The seven people haunting your thoughts are notably absent from class lately, and with the party sneaking up, your nerves are fried.
warnings - cussing , mention of creepy professor collins (ewwww)
Dusk Masterlist
Thursday wakes up bright enough to feel like a slap.
Sunlight cuts clean through your curtains, sharp and unapologetic, dragging you out of sleep before your alarm even gets the chance to try. For a second, you just lie there, squinting at the ceiling like it offended you.
Too bright. Too normal.
After yesterday, it feels wrong.
You drag your phone off the nightstand, thumb hovering for a second before unlocking it.
naomi: pls tell me ur awake
naomi: i don’t want to drive
You huff, rolling onto your side.
you: i am now
you: and u are driving 😌
Three dots. Gone. Three dots again.
naomi: traitor
You smirk to yourself and finally sit up, pushing your hair out of your face. The air in your room is warmer than usual, sunlight pooling across your floor.
The apartment is already awake by the time you step out.
Victoria is at the counter, half-dressed and fully caffeinated, scrolling through her phone with one hand and eating something out of a bowl with the other. Naomi is by the sink, rinsing out a mug, her bag already slung over her shoulder like she’s been ready for twenty minutes.
Rachel is talking.
Of course she is.
“…and I’m just saying, if he wanted to partner with me, he could have said something earlier instead of acting like—”
“Good morning,” you cut in, grabbing a mug before Rachel can spiral any further.
Victoria glances up. “Look who lives.”
“Barely,” you mutter, pouring coffee and taking a careful sip. “Why is it so bright outside?”
“Sun,” Naomi says helpfully.
“Unnecessary,” you reply.
Rachel eyes you as you lean against the counter. “You look tired.”
“I am tired,” you sigh.
“From what?” she presses. “We literally did nothing last night.”
“Existing is exhausting,” you deadpan.
Victoria snorts. Naomi smiles. Rachel rolls her eyes.
“Are we going or what?” Naomi asks, already halfway to the door.
The drive to campus felt… off.
Not in a way you can immediately name. Not dramatic. Not wrong enough to set off alarms. Just… different.
Maybe it’s the sunlight.
It paints everything in this too-clear, too-sharp clarity that makes the campus feel almost unfamiliar. The buildings look cleaner. The walkways feel wider. The people… there are more of them, or maybe you’re just noticing them more.
You fall into step beside Naomi, Victoria and Rachel just ahead of you, still half-arguing about something that has long since lost its original point.
Your eyes drift. You don’t mean for them to. You’re not looking for anything. They just… move. Across the courtyard. Toward the parking lot. Over the clusters of students gathering near the steps.
Nothing.
No familiar figures standing just a little too still. No luxurious clothing cutting through the crowd like it belongs somewhere else.
Why should there be?
Get a grip, you tell yourself.
English is loud.
Students talking over each other, chairs scraping, the professor barely trying to corral the chaos into something productive.
You slide into a seat beside Naomi, dropping your bag at your feet and pulling out your notebook.
“Bless,” Naomi murmurs. “Normal class.”
“Define normal,” you mutter.
“No one is staring at you like you’re the main character in a psychological thriller yet,” she replies under her breath.
You huff out a quiet laugh.
“Low bar,” you say.
“Very low,” she agrees.
The class settles eventually. The lecture starts. Notes are taken, questions are asked, and for a while, it’s easy to just… exist.
No tension crawling up your spine. No awareness pressing in from either side. No feeling like every movement you make is being tracked. Just you and Naomi. And a room full of people who don’t care what you’re doing. It should feel good. It does feel good. Mostly.
But there’s a strange absence sitting in the edges of it all. Like something that had been loud enough to notice yesterday is suddenly gone, and your brain hasn’t decided whether it’s feeling relief or something else.
You tap your pen against the page, eyes flicking once toward the door when it opens.
Just a late student.
You stop, look back down, and focus.
“You’re doing it again,” Naomi whispers as the class winds down.
“Doing what?” you murmur back.
“Looking,” she says simply.
You still.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she smiles, not unkindly. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Art feels bigger. Emptier.
Maybe it’s just because you’re sitting with Victoria and Rachel this time, the three of you clustered around your table with charcoal sticks and sketchpads spread out between you.
No Jungkook. No Jimin. No quiet tension humming under the surface of every movement.
Just Rachel complaining and Victoria making snide comments under her breath.
“Okay, but tell me why we’re doing still life,” Rachel groans, staring at the setup in front of the class. “I didn’t sign up to draw fruit.”
“You signed up for art,” Victoria says. “This is art.”
“This is torture.”
You snort softly, sketching the outline of the bowl in front of you.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Rachel accuses.
“I’m enjoying the silence,” you correct.
“There is no silence,” Victoria points out, gesturing to Rachel.
“Exactly.”
Rachel gasps, scandalized. “I’m being attacked.”
“You’re being loud,” Victoria says.
You shake your head, lips tugging into a small smile as you shade in your sketch.
It’s easier today.
Not better, necessarily, but easier.
Your hand moves without hesitation. Your focus stays where you put it. There’s no pull to the side, no distraction tugging your attention away from the page.
You glance up once across the room.
Nothing.
Just other students. Other conversations.
You look back down.
First Aid Industrial is quiet in a different way.
You take your usual seat, pulling on the disposable gloves provided as the instructor walks you through bandaging techniques with the kind of calm authority that makes it easy to follow along.
Wrap. Secure. Check.
Repeat.
Your hands move on autopilot, muscle memory kicking in faster than expected. This class feels easier. Partially because you had it alone already, but also because you’re kept so busy. Your brain doesn’t have time to stray, your hands have to move, and your brain has to keep pace.
It’s only one class, but it’s some sort of reprieve from your wandering mind. Your thoughts could get loud.
But not here, and not now.
By the time First Aid Industrial lets out, the day has started to yellow around the edges.
The bright, almost obnoxious sunlight from that morning has mellowed into something softer, warmer, more bearable, golden light stretching long over the concrete paths of campus and catching in the leaves of the trees that bordered the far end of the lot. It should have made everything feel easier. More picturesque, maybe. Like one of those afternoons people write home about, all soft light and the promise of a mild evening.
Instead, you just feel… tilted off your axis.
Not bad. Not upset. Not even tired in the way you’d been that morning.
Just strange.
Like the whole day had passed by in a series of disconnected moments that should’ve added up to something more than they did. A whole portrait instead of abstract art.
You shove your notebook into your bag and sling the strap over your shoulder, trailing out of the classroom with the rest of the students. Their voices blend together around you in bursts—weekend plans, complaints about assignments, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you didn’t hear. The sound follows you down the hall and out into the open air, where it gets swallowed up by the wide, sunlit quiet of campus.
For a few seconds, you just stand there at the top of the steps, blinking against the light.
People move around you in small groups, heading toward the lot, the library, the student center, the cafeteria. A normal Thursday. A completely uneventful afternoon.
You should probably feel relieved.
“Well,” Victoria says from somewhere to your left, drawing the word out until it sounds like a verdict. “That was weird.”
You glance over. She’s coming down the steps from another wing, sketch pad tucked beneath one arm, bag hanging low off one shoulder. Rachel is next to her, already talking with her hands, while Naomi trails half a step behind them both and looks about as worn out as you feel.
“Weird how?” Rachel asks immediately. “Like weird-weird or boring-weird? Because if we’re talking about boring, then yeah, absolutely. I almost died in—”
“You almost die every day, according to you,” Victoria cuts in.
Rachel flips her off.
No one had stared at you all day. No one had hovered near your desk, asked pointed questions in that too-soft, too-careful way that somehow made every conversation feel like it had a multitude of purposes. You got through English without the strange pressure of being watched from the row in front of you. You got through Art without the static hum of Jimin’s calm attention or Jungkook’s crooked smiles snagging at your focus. You got through your last class without glancing toward the door and finding someone already there.
You got what should’ve been a normal day.
So why does it feel like something’s missing?
The thought arrives uninvited and sits heavy in your chest.
You frown at it.
Then, because apparently your body has decided humiliation is the vibe for the afternoon, your eyes drag across the quad again. Over the students moving between buildings. Over the cars glinting in the lot. Over the shaded patch near the art wing, the benches outside the student resources building, the parking spaces lining the far curb.
Nothing.
No black Volvo. No sleek BMW. No expensive, impossible Rolls-Royce that looked ridiculous parked beside dented sedans and old pickup trucks. No impossible faces. No dark silhouettes. No too-still posture set apart from everybody else’s restless movement.
Nothing.
You let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold.
“What’s got you sighing?” Naomi asks.
You look up to find the three girls converging toward you, Naomi with her tote bag tucked against her side, Victoria carrying her sketchpad under one arm, Rachel with her sunglasses shoved up into her hair even though the sun’s already easing lower. They move toward you like they always do at the end of the day now, an accidental little pack forming in the lot.
You almost say nothing.
Almost.
Instead, because apparently you enjoy making things harder for yourself, you glance back toward the empty row where you’ve gotten used to seeing some variation of their cars and say, a little too casually, “It’s just kind of weird they weren’t here today.”
There’s a beat.
Then Victoria’s mouth opens in immediate delight.
Naomi actually laughs.
Rachel goes very, very still before the slowest, meanest little smile curls across her mouth.
“Oh my God,” Victoria says first, scandalized in the way only a best friend can be when she’s having the time of her life. “You noticed.”
Naomi presses her lips together, though it does absolutely nothing to hide how amused she is. “I told you she would.”
Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
Rachel’s laugh is softer, sharper. “No, no. Don’t backpedal now. You snapped at me last night because I asked one too many questions, and now suddenly we’re all supposed to pretend it’s not very interesting that you were keeping tabs on whether the Kims showed up to school?”
Heat flares at the back of your neck instantly.
“I was not keeping tabs,” you say, too quick, too defensive.
“You kind of were,” Naomi says gently.
“I was not,” you repeat, glaring between the three of them now. “They’ve been around a lot. They weren’t around today. I noticed. That is not the same thing.”
Rachel folds her arms over her chest and tips her head. “So just to be clear, when I bring them up, you bite my head off. But when you notice their absence and bring them up, that’s somehow normal?”
Your jaw tightens.
Last night flashes through you in a quick, unpleasant sequence—Rachel asking too many questions, you snapping, the whole room going tight and quiet afterward. The memory sits there between the two of you now, thin and prickly.
“Rachel,” Naomi starts, warning in her voice.
But Rachel only shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed on you. “I’m just saying.”
“No,” you reply, sharper than you mean to at first, then force your tone down before it can get away from you. “You’re holding it over my head because I snapped at you.”
Rachel raises her brows. “Should I not?”
You stare at her.
She stares right back.
Then Victoria, bless her, cuts through before it can turn into something uglier. “Okay, okay, before we all start throwing hands in the parking lot—yes, YN noticed they were missing. That does not automatically mean she wants to marry one of them.”
Rachel snorts. “She doesn’t have to marry one of them. I’d settle for her admitting she thinks they’re hot.”
“Oh, grow up,” you mutter, adjusting the strap on your shoulder and starting toward the car, because if you stay rooted to the pavement any longer you may actually combust.
The girls follow, of course.
“Hot is objective,” Victoria says, falling into step beside you.
“You know that’s not the part I’m curious about,” you groan.
Naomi nods. “The interesting part is that they weren’t there.”
You glance at her. “So it is weird.”
“A little,” she concedes. “But not in a bad way.”
Rachel makes a doubtful little noise.
“It’s not bad-weird,” Victoria says. “They do this.”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Disappear on nice days,” Rachel says before Victoria can. “Which you would know if you’d listened to me instead of acting like I was insane.”
That catches you off guard enough to slow your steps.
“They skip when it’s sunny?”
Victoria barks out a laugh. “Yeah. All the time.”
“All the time?” you repeat.
Naomi shrugs, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. A few students do, but the Kims do it enough that people notice. Especially this time of year, when everyone’s been trapped under rain for, like, three straight centuries.”
“They go do outdoorsy shit,” Victoria says. “Hikes. Trails. Cliffs. Forests. Whatever rich, hot recluses do when the weather turns nice. Like some weird REI campaign.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out.
And because the universe hates you, the sound only encourages them further.
“See?” Victoria says, pointing at you triumphantly. “You care.”
“I do not care,” you say. “I was asking.”
“Mhm,” Rachel says. “Because you were curious.”
“Because they were gone.”
“Because you missed them,” Rachel corrects smoothly.
You stop by the trunk and turn to face her fully. “I did not miss them.”
Rachel’s expression goes infuriatingly serene. “Then why were you looking for their cars?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes. Because there is no answer to that that doesn’t sound incriminating.
Victoria outright cackles. Naomi tries and fails to smother another laugh with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
“It is,” Naomi agrees, smiling. “But it’s also a little funny.”
You drop your head back and squint up at the sky for a second, blue fading at the edges now where late afternoon is threatening to take over. “You’re all awful.”
Victoria reaches over and hooks her arm through yours. “And yet, here we are.”
Rachel is still watching you like she’s waiting for a confession.
Not a dramatic one. She knows better than that. Just something small. A crack in the wall. Some tiny admission she can pocket and use against you later.
You give her nothing.
“They’re just people,” you say finally, opening the car door. “Hot, weird people who apparently ditch class to go roll around in the forest whenever the sun comes out.”
Naomi smiles. “That’s basically the gist of it.”
“Sounds kind of fun,” Victoria says.
Rachel scoffs. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You hate dirt.”
“I hate bugs. The dirt is just another reason not to go frollick into the fucking woods.”
You climb into the passenger’s seat before she can drag the conversation any further off course, and the girls pile in around you with the easy rhythm of routine already settling into your bones. Naomi slips into the driver’s seat. Rachel slides into the back behind her. Victoria drops in next to Rachel, behind you, leaning forward between the seats almost immediately.
“So,” she says, voice bright with menace. “Who do we think is the outdoorsiest?”
“Please don’t start,” you groan, listening to the engine start.
“It’s Namjoon,” Naomi says.
“It’s absolutely Namjoon,” Victoria agrees.
“Wrong,” Rachel says. “It’s Taehyung. He seems like the kind of person who would stand silently in a field for four hours and call it healing.”
You snort.
Victoria catches it instantly in the rearview and grins. “There she is.”
You roll your eyes and the car eases out of the lot, the golden campus slipping by in pieces outside your windows.
The conversation keeps going, because of course it does.
“Jungkook would go if there was an audience,” Rachel says.
“Jungkook would cliff dive for fun,” Naomi counters.
“Jimin would complain about his shoes,” Victoria adds.
“Seokjin would bring snacks,” Naomi says.
“Yoongi would mysteriously already be there somehow,” Rachel mutters.
You shake your head, trying not to smile and failing a little anyway.
Layered underneath your thinly veiled frustration is relief. The kind of relief that comes from having the weirdness made ordinary by other people. Like if Victoria can reduce the Kims to hot hikers in a fake REI ad and Rachel can make passive-aggressive comments about Taehyung communing with nature, then maybe all of this really is just… normal. Or normal enough.
You come to a stop at a red light just beyond campus, Naomi’s fingers tapping once against the steering wheel.
Your reflection stares back at you faintly from the windshield—sun-flushed cheeks, tired eyes, hair a little wild from the day. You look like a girl who had class. Nothing more. Nothing special enough to warrant this much attention from anyone, let alone a group of boys everyone in town seems to orbit from a careful distance.
“They really do this a lot?” you hear yourself ask.
There’s a tiny, satisfied silence from the backseat.
Rachel pounces first. “See? There it is.”
“Oh my God,” you mutter immediately. “That is not what I meant.”
Naomi laughs softly beside you. “Yeah. They do. At least from what I’ve seen.”
“Sunny days, especially,” Victoria adds. “They vanish. Sometimes for just the day, sometimes the whole weekend.”
“Hikes,” Rachel says dramatically, as though personally offended by the concept. “Trails. Scenic overlooks. Outdoorsy shit.”
“Maybe they like nature,” you say.
Rachel goes quiet for half a beat, then says, “Listen to yourself.”
“What?”
“You’re defending them now.”
“I am literally not.”
“You said maybe they like nature with your whole chest.”
You make a strangled sound and beg Naomi to hit the gas as the light changes.
The girls laugh.
Even Rachel.
The sound fills the car, easy and bright and a little mean in the affectionate way only friends can get away with. By the time you pull into the lot outside the quad, whatever tension had been threatening to wedge itself into the afternoon again has dissolved into something more manageable… lighter, even if you know damn well Rachel is not done with you.
The four of you pile out of the car in the slow, loose way of people who don’t yet have evening plans beyond homework and food and pretending not to be exhausted. Naomi stretches, arms overhead. Victoria grabs her sketchpad. Rachel waits until you’ve shut your door before circling back around the hood of the car to walk beside you toward the building.
You brace automatically for another jab.
It comes.
But quieter this time.
“I’m just saying,” Rachel murmurs as the others head a few steps ahead, “if you do like one of them, you can tell us. I won’t act weird about it.”
You glance at her. “That is the least true statement anyone’s ever made.”
She shrugs. “Fine. I’ll act a little weird about it. But not in a malicious way.”
“You’re lying,” you tell her, climbing the stairs.
“And you’re dodging,” she singsongs lightly.
The apartment door opens. Warmth spills out. Naomi tosses her keys into the bowl by the entrance. Victoria is already talking about snacks.
You step inside and toe off your shoes, the familiar creak of the floorboards grounding you more than anything has all day.
For a moment—just a moment—you let yourself imagine it.
Some winding trail deep in the trees.
The weather clear.
Seven of them somewhere under all that sun and sky, doing whatever strange, expensive, outdoorsy shit everyone swears they do on nice days.
The thought is so absurd it makes your mouth twitch.
Then Rachel breezes past you into the kitchen and calls, loud enough for the whole apartment to hear, “By the way, YN was looking for the Kims in the parking lot.”
Your head drops back.
“Rachel.”
Victoria howls.
Naomi gasps, “Dude!”
Your middle finger is loud and proud as you shoot it her way from the living room.
The apartment feels softer after sunset.
Not quieter, necessarily—Rachel is still Rachel, Victoria still has a running commentary for nearly everything she does, and Naomi hums under her breath whenever she’s focused—but softer in the way places do when the blinds are shut, the lamps are on low, and nobody has anywhere else they need to be.
You change into leggings and one of your old Portland State hoodies after dinner, hair twisted up in a claw clip that’s already threatening to give up. By the time you come back out to the living room, Naomi has spread her notes neatly across the coffee table, Victoria has claimed the floor with her sketchpad and a textbook she looks openly offended by, and Rachel is in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and four mismatched glasses.
You pause in the doorway.
Rachel notices.
“What?” she asks, already pouring.
“Nothing,” you say slowly. “I just didn’t take you for a red wine girl.”
Rachel snorts. “Please. I’m not a monster. I like a ton of different things.”
“Yeah, like the time she saw a French film in eighth grade and made it everybody’s problem,” Victoria says without looking up.
Rachel gasps. “That is such an oversimplification of my personality.”
“It’s not an oversimplification if it’s true,” Naomi murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop it, and Rachel’s eyes flick to you for just a second—not hard, not sharp, just enough for you to catch that she noticed.
The air between you is still a little bruised from last night. Not broken, exactly. But tender in the places where you both pressed too hard.
Rachel pours anyway.
“Study night,” she declares, setting a glass in front of each of you like she’s officiating something. “This can be a tradition starting tonight, since last night was messy. And before any of you start, yes, one glass of wine while studying is the mark of a well-rounded student.”
“It is definitely the mark of something,” Victoria mutters.
Naomi accepts hers with a smile. “Thank you.”
You take yours too, fingers curling around the stem. “If I fail a quiz or something tomorrow, I’m blaming all of you.”
The first twenty minutes pass in the easy, stop-start rhythm of four people pretending to study more efficiently than they actually are. Naomi is the only one truly committed to the bit, posture straight, highlighter uncapped, eyes skimming over her notes with deadly seriousness. Victoria does a decent enough impression of productivity until her attention starts drifting and she begins doodling in the margins of her reading packet. Rachel reads in dramatic bursts—three pages in perfect silence, then a loud sigh and a complaint to no one in particular. You bounce between actually reviewing your notes and letting your eyes go unfocused somewhere over the top of your glass.
The wine helps.
Not enough to make you fuzzy. Just enough to sand down the edges of the day.
It’s Rachel, unexpectedly, who shifts the night.
Naomi asks some harmless question about where everyone grew up—something that comes up because Victoria is making fun of the tiny-town energy of Forks and you mention Portland again—and somehow it circles its way toward Rachel before anyone fully realizes they’ve wandered there.
Rachel rolls her wine between her palms and stares into it like there might be an answer at the bottom.
“My dad’s a chef,” she says finally, tone so matter-of-fact it almost misses the room entirely. “Like, not line-cook chef. Actual chef. Ran restaurants in Seattle before he decided he was over the city and wanted to ‘curate a quieter culinary experience,’ which is rich-person code for opening a bougie place somewhere nobody asked for one.”
Victoria looks up, immediately interested. “Wait, really?”
Rachel nods once. “And my mom’s a flight attendant. Has been since before I was born. Still is, technically, though now she mostly picks the routes she wants and complains about junior crews.”
“That’s kind of cool,” Naomi says
Rachel gives a half shrug. “It is. I guess.”
You watch her over the rim of your glass.
There’s something different in her face now. Not softer, exactly—Rachel doesn’t really do soft—but less arranged. Less curated.
“Were you in Seattle before here?” you ask.
“Mostly,” she says. “Some Bellevue. Some Mercer Island when my grandparents wanted everybody closer together. My family’s got money, which is as annoying to say out loud as it sounds.”
Victoria snorts. “At least you know it.”
“Oh, trust me, I know it. I’ve known it since I was old enough to realize most people don’t grow up with dinner parties where everyone’s talking about mutual funds and prep schools over tiny food portions.”
Naomi smiles faintly. “That sounds awful.”
“It was awful,” Rachel replies, and this time there’s no sarcasm in it. “My parents aren’t bad people or anything. My dad actually worked his ass off for most of what he has, and my mom just… kind of floats through life like everything will work out because it always has. But everybody in my family is so—” she searches for the word, nose scrunching. “Polished. Intentional. Their kids all went to stupidly expensive schools. My cousins are all in law school or med school or marrying finance guys with vacation homes. And then there’s me.”
Victoria lowers her textbook a little more. “Forks College Rachel.”
Rachel smiles, but it doesn’t fully land. “Forks College Rachel.”
Naomi frowns. “That doesn’t make you a disappointment.”
Rachel glances at her like she doesn’t quite know what to do with being contradicted gently. “Tell that to my grandmother. She cried when I didn’t get into Yale.”
Victoria’s mouth falls open. “Shut up.”
“I wish I was kidding.”
“What did your parents say?” you ask.
Rachel swallows, then takes a drink. “My dad told me there were worse things in life than disappointing your family. My mom told me there was always the option to transfer later.” She laughs once, but it comes out thin. “So. You know. Different vibes.”
For a moment, nobody says anything.
The room hums softly around you, the heater clicking, pages shifting as Naomi absently straightens her notes, the distant rush of a car passing outside.
Then Victoria, quieter than usual, says, “That sucks.”
Rachel lifts one shoulder. “Yeah.”
There’s no dramatic breakthrough after that. No movie moment. Just the slow, strange comfort of the silence not turning hostile.
You take a sip of your wine and say, “Portland State turned me away.”
Rachel’s eyes flick to you. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“What the hell?”
You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly.”
Naomi looks between the two of you. “You guys are having a moment. Should I leave?”
Victoria gasps. “Don’t ruin it.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, but some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders.
“It’s not that deep,” she mutters.
But then, maybe because the wine’s warm in her system, or because the apartment feels safe in a way she didn’t expect it to, or because once a person starts saying things they usually keep packed away it’s hard to know where the stopping point is, she keeps going.
“There was this girl,” Rachel says, so abruptly that it takes the room half a beat to catch up. Her gaze stays locked on her glass. “When I was younger. Like… middle school into freshman year kind of younger.”
Victoria doesn’t move.
Naomi doesn’t either.
You stay very, very still.
Rachel laughs under her breath, but it isn’t a happy sound. “She was my best friend. We did everything together. Sleepovers, camp, soccer for one miserable season because her parents thought team sports would ‘build character.’ We were always at each other’s houses. Always texting. Always…” She trails off.
The silence stretches, but not unkindly.
“And?” Naomi asks gently after a second.
Rachel’s mouth presses into a line. “And nothing.”
Victoria’s brows lift just slightly, but she’s smart enough not to push.
Rachel stares down at the dark red in her glass. “I mean, not nothing. We were kids. But also—” She stops again, jaw tightening in a way that tells you there’s more there than she intends to give. “It got weird. Her family moved. We stopped talking because what was there to talk about anymore? End of story.”
It is very obviously not the end of the story.
But she’s done. You can feel it.
She lifts her glass and drains what’s left of it in one go, expression sharpening back into something more familiar. Guarded. Curated. Rachel-shaped.
Victoria, to her credit, only says, “That would mess with anybody.”
Rachel gives her a look. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“I literally didn’t.”
Naomi reaches for the bottle and tips it toward Rachel’s glass. “More?”
Rachel holds it out. “Please.”
The mood never gets maudlin. Thank God.
It brightens incrementally, though.
Opens up just enough that the next hour passes in a softer rhythm than the start of the evening had. Naomi talks about growing up in Washington, about how her family still sends her home with enough leftovers to feed an army every time she visits. Victoria tells a story about breaking her wrist in eighth grade trying to ollie off a curb because some girl she liked was watching, which gets enough laughter out of all of you that Naomi almost spills her wine. You talk about Portland, about tutoring, about the weird ache of leaving a city you never thought you loved all that much only to realize you miss it in specific stupid ways, your coffee spot, your bus route, the exact smell of your mom’s house after it rains.
Rachel listens more than she talks after that. But she listens differently now.
Less like she’s waiting to be entertained. More like she’s measuring what everyone says against herself.
The second glass of wine is what does it.
Not enough to make you sloppy, not enough to have you spilling your guts against your will, but enough to warm your face and melt the part of your brain that usually keeps a hand clamped over your mouth. Enough that when Rachel starts in again, this time not about the Kims exactly, but about your classes, your professors, how “Professor Collins looks like he sleeps in a coffin” and how “Art would be better if Modez had better taste in charcoal”, you don’t think before speaking.
“Phillips is weird with me.”
The words fall into the room almost lazily, like they don’t know they’ve changed everything.
Naomi’s pen pauses over her notes.
Victoria looks up first, brows furrowing.
Even Rachel stills a little, the stem of her wine glass hovering halfway to her mouth.
“What do you mean weird?” Naomi asks softly.
You stare down into your glass, watching the dark red slide against the curve of it when you tilt your wrist. “I don’t know,” you mutter. “Just… weird. Too familiar. Too comfortable.”
Victoria sets her textbook aside entirely. “Define that.”
You shrug one shoulder, suddenly wishing you’d kept your mouth shut, but the wine’s already loosened the knot and now the thread keeps pulling. “He keeps checking in on me. Which, okay, fine, he’s my professor, whatever. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like…” You grimace, searching for the right word. “Like he’s trying to make it seem like we have some understanding or something. Like we’re in on a private conversation nobody else can hear.”
Rachel lowers her glass. “That’s gross.”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “It is.”
Naomi’s expression has gone pinched in that gentle, worried way of hers. “Has he actually said anything out of line?”
You shake your head almost immediately. “No, not really. That’s what’s pissing me off.” You laugh once, humorless. “It’s all technically harmless, I guess. It just…” You look up then, meeting Victoria’s eyes before glancing away. “It makes my skin crawl.”
Nobody jokes.
Nobody interrupts.
The room stays very still around the confession, all that easy warmth from a minute ago settling into something more attentive.
“What’s he doing?” Victoria asks, voice flatter now. Colder.
You tuck one leg beneath yourself on the couch and exhale through your nose. “He keeps hovering. Complimenting stupid things. Acting like he’s checking in because he cares how I’m adjusting here, but it never feels like that. It feels like he’s trying to—” You cut yourself off, frustrated. “I don’t know. Get comfortable. Make me comfortable. Or make it look like I’m comfortable.”
Rachel’s nose wrinkles. “Oh, that is such a type of man.”
You glance at her, a little surprised at how quickly she says it. She catches the look and rolls her eyes, but there’s no sting in it.
“I grew up around rich restaurant people,” she says. “There’s always one. Usually with a scarf and a weird obsession with mentorship.”
Victoria makes a face. “Ew.”
“Exactly.”
Naomi shifts closer on the couch, cardigan sleeve pushed over her hand. “Did he touch you?”
“No,” you answer. “Not like that. He’ll crouch near my desk or stop beside me and comment on my notes or whatever, but…” You swallow. “It’s the way he says things. The way he looks at me after. Like he’s waiting for me to play along.”
Naomi’s mouth tightens.
Victoria’s jaw does too.
Rachel, to your mild surprise, looks furious.
“Okay,” Victoria says after a moment. “So he’s a creep.”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Thank you.”
“No, seriously,” she says. “That’s creepy. I know creepy. Pastor energy was not a joke.”
That gets the smallest smile out of you.
Rachel leans back in her chair, arms folding over her chest. “Have other people noticed?”
Your mind flashes to the classroom yesterday. To Jungkook beside you, too close and too aware in that way he always seems to be. To the sound of his soft throat-clear when Phillips lingered too long. To the way he and Seokjin had gone oddly quiet while your professor stood over your desk smiling like he’d earned it.
You stare at your glass again.
“I think Jungkook did,” you say finally.
That gets everyone’s attention for a completely different reason.
Naomi blinks. “Jungkook?”
You nod. “Yesterday. In Drama. Phillips came over to my desk after class and was doing his whole check-in thing, and Jungkook was still there with Seokjin. He kept clearing his throat, like—” You make a vague gesture with your fingers. “I don’t know. Like he was trying to break it up. Or remind Phillips he wasn’t the only person in the room.”
Victoria’s eyes narrow with interest. “Oh?”
“It was weird,” you say quickly. “Not weird like that. Just… he was there for it. He definitely heard enough to know something was off.”
Rachel is watching you with a look that’s half-curious, half-thoughtful. “And did he say anything?”
“No.” You shake your head. “Not directly. But when I left, Jin looked at me all…” You trail off and grimace. “I don’t know. Apologetic, almost.”
Naomi’s brows knit together. “That’s kind of telling.”
You shrug, the motion sloppy this time from the wine. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it because I already felt gross.”
“No,” Victoria says immediately. “If a man is weirding you out, and another man in the room notices, you are not reading too much into it. That’s just survival instincts.”
Rachel hums into her wine. “Especially if the second man is usually busy being hot and mysterious instead of socially aware.”
You cut her a look.
She lifts her shoulders. “What? I’m right.”
You hate that she kind of is.
Naomi reaches over and nudges your knee gently. “You don’t have to brush this off just because he hasn’t technically crossed some huge line.”
You look at her.
She holds your gaze.
“That’s still enough,” she says quietly. “If he’s making you feel weird, that’s enough.”
For a second, something in your chest eases. Not all the way, and definitely not enough to disappear. But enough.
“I know,” you murmur. “I just feel stupid saying it out loud when it all sounds so small.”
“It doesn’t sound small,” Rachel says, sharper than usual, like she’s annoyed on your behalf now. “It sounds calculated.”
You blink at her.
She rolls her eyes immediately, like she regrets being perceptive in public. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“That one,” she mutters. “Like you’re surprised I occasionally have a functioning brain.”
Victoria snorts.
Naomi smiles into her glass.
You laugh then, soft and brief, but real.
Rachel points a finger at you. “But if he says anything weird again, I want details.”
“Rachel—”
“No, seriously. I’m not saying go nuclear over one off feeling, but if he keeps doing it? That’s a pattern.”
Victoria nods. “Agreed.”
Naomi adds, “And don’t stay after class alone with him if you can help it.”
You sink a little deeper into the couch, warmth from the wine and the room and their attention settling over you all at once. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” Victoria says.
Rachel tips the rest of her wine back and sets the glass down with a soft click. “Also, just for the record, if Jungkook noticed and looked concerned, that means it was probably very obvious.”
You groan and tip your head back against the couch cushion. “Please don’t make this about him.”
“I’m not making it about him,” she says. “I’m saying if Captain Lip Ring clocked it, then Creepy Phillips was not being subtle.”
Naomi chokes on a laugh.
Victoria nearly spills her wine.
And despite everything, despite the crawl of discomfort that still lingers when you think about Phillips’s voice or smile or the way he hovers, your own laughter joins theirs a second later.
Not because it’s funny.
But because the room is safe, and the girls are here, and the thing that felt ugly and private and easy to dismiss in daylight has been dragged into the open where it looks smaller. Less like a thing eating at you and more like something real and manageable and witnessed.
Eventually the books come back out in earnest, and the wine settles into your bloodstream just enough to make everything feel pleasantly slowed. Naomi quizzes you on some English reading. Victoria makes Rachel explain an econ concept she’s pretending not to understand just to watch her get dramatic about it. Rachel actually helps, though—sharp and quick when she wants to be, irritation giving way to competence so fast it almost makes you laugh.
It’s close to eleven when the night finally starts to fold in on itself.
Naomi yawns first, hand flying to cover her mouth.
Victoria notices immediately. “Grandma alert.”
Naomi shoves her shoulder. “Some of us believe in a healthy sleep schedule.”
Rachel gestures vaguely at the living room. “And some of us believe in suffering for the sake of higher education.”
“You go to bed at ten thirty when no one’s looking,” Victoria says.
“That is slander.”
“That is a confession.”
You carry your empty wine glass to the kitchen, rinse it, and leave it upside down by the sink. The apartment is warm in the sleepy, lived-in way you’re starting to recognize already. Naomi is stacking her notes. Victoria is gathering her sketchpad and textbooks into a messy armful. Rachel is recorking the bottle even though there’s barely anything left.
You disappear into your room long enough to swap your hoodie for an oversized sleep shirt and wash your face, and when you come back out your phone is buzzing on your bed.
Mom.
You smile before you even open it.
Mom: Are you alive, college girl?
Mom: Or have your new roommates already sold you for rent money
You laugh softly and type back as you sit on the edge of your bed.
You: still alive unfortunately
You: if they sell me i hope it’s for a decent amount
Her reply comes quick.
Mom: Minimum $40 and a good candle
Mom: How is school going?
You stare at the screen for a second, thumbs hovering.
How was school?
Too many ways to answer that.
You: weird
You: but okay weird
You: made progress w the girls tonight tho
This time there’s a slightly longer pause.
Mom: That sounds promising
Mom: Okay weird is survivable
Mom: Bad weird, less so
You smile and flop back against your pillow.
You: yeah no not bad weird
You: just new place weird
You: everyone already has their dynamics here and i’m kind of dropped in the middle of it
Mom: You’ve always been good at finding your footingMom: Even when you pretend you’re not
Your throat tightens in that stupid, small way it always does when she says the exact right thing too easily.
You: don’t get all wise on me at 11 pm
You: i’m fragile
Mom: You’re dramatic
Mom: Go to sleep
Mom: I love you
You hesitate only long enough to let yourself feel it.
You: love u too
You: tell the dog i miss him
Mom: He misses your bed, not you
Mom: goodnight baby
You set your phone down with a smile still tugging faintly at your mouth.
When you step back into the hall to brush your teeth, the apartment has entered that final stage of winding down where every sound seems louder than it should—the click of Naomi’s door, the rustle of Victoria changing in her room, the faint murmur of Rachel’s voice as she talks on the phone to someone in a tone that’s flatter and more guarded than the one she uses with you girls.
By the time you’ve finished up and climbed under your blankets, the place has gone still.
Not silent. Still.
The kind of stillness shared spaces only get once everybody has retreated behind their own doors with their own thoughts.
You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling for a while.
Your mind drifts through the day in strange fragments. English with Naomi. Art without them. First Aid Industrial. The parking lot. The girls laughing because you’d noticed the Kims were gone. Rachel admitting just enough to make sense of some things and not enough to absolve others.
And underneath all of it, annoyingly persistent, is the knowledge that tomorrow is Friday.
The party.
Small college guy house, according to Victoria. Loud music. Questionable drinks. A crowd full of strangers.
And, if the girls are to be believed, absolutely no Kims.
That should probably comfort you more than it does.
At some point your thoughts blur into dreams without warning.
Friday morning arrives faster than it has any right to.
Sunlight doesn’t attack you this time—it slips across the room in pale, pretty strips, soft enough that for a second you almost forget where you are. Then the apartment groans awake around you and it all comes back: school, Friday, party.
You stretch beneath the covers and squint toward your phone.
7:49 AM
A new day.
From somewhere beyond your door, Victoria’s voice carries down the hall.
“If Rachel uses the bathroom for thirty minutes again, I’m going to commit a crime.”
Naomi laughs.
You groan into your pillow.
Friday, apparently, has begun.
Rachel is talking in the kitchen.
Not loudly, exactly. Just… continuously.
Something about eyeliner. Something about a top she swears she left draped over the back of the couch. Something about tonight, tonight, tonight in that increasingly animated way that means the party has officially taken over her brain.
You stare at the ceiling for a second, eyes still gummy with sleep, and let the noise of the apartment build around you like weather.
Cabinet doors open and shut.
The coffee machine sputters to life.
Naomi laughs softly at something Victoria says.
Rachel says, “No, because if Kyle thinks I’m showing up looking anything less than incredible after the week I’ve had, he can actually go to hell.”
You close your eyes again and let out a quiet breath through your nose.
Friday.
The thought sits in your chest with an odd combination of relief and dread.
At least you only have two classes.
At least after those, the day is yours.
You check your phone again. No new messages.
Nothing from your mom. Nothing from the girls’ group chat beyond Victoria reacting to something Rachel said at one in the morning with three skull emojis. Nothing of note.
For once, your brain doesn’t reach automatically for the thought of them.
Maybe because the pattern is already there now. Sunny means absence. Easy enough.
Annoying, but easy.
The apartment smells like toast and Naomi’s vanilla lotion when you step out into the living room.
Victoria is perched on the counter in bike shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, one leg swinging idly while she drinks iced coffee through a straw. Naomi is at the stove, poking at something in a pan that looks suspiciously like scrambled eggs. Rachel is seated at the table with one leg tucked under her, a compact open in front of her while she does the lower half of one eye with surgical precision.
No one says good morning right away.
You lean against the kitchen island and take the mug Naomi wordlessly slides your way.
It’s only after your first sip that Victoria glances over and smirks.
Rachel flicks her gaze up to you in the mirror of her compact. “You look less haunted than yesterday.”
“Thank you?”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
Naomi makes a quiet disapproving noise. “Be nice.”
“I am nice,” Rachel says, and even she sounds unconvinced.
“Objectively false,” Victoria replies.
You cradle the mug in both hands and let their familiar bickering wash over you. It’s easier this morning—lighter than it had been the day before. Rachel still has that little edge when she looks at you, like she hasn’t fully let go of the fact that you snapped at her despite your bonding last night. Still, it’s buried under enough eyeliner, enough caffeine, enough anticipation for tonight that it doesn’t bother you.
“Only two classes, right?” Naomi asks, finally sliding a plate your way.
You glance down. Eggs. Toast. Something green shoved onto the side like she’s trying to rescue your health by force.
“Yeah,” you say. “Drama and astronomy.”
“Bleak,” Victoria says.
“Agreed.”
Rachel clicks her compact shut and looks at you over it. “At least creepy Phillips will be the highlight of your day.”
You frown. “That sentence feels criminal.” You tear off a piece of toast and shrug one shoulder.
Victoria gags. “I’m telling you. He screams pastor energy.”
Rachel actually laughs at that. “Oh my God.”
“No, seriously,” Victoria presses. “Like he’d ask if you’ve accepted the Lord into your heart and then compliment your skirt.”
“That is horrifyingly specific,” you tell her.
“And accurate,” Rachel adds, grimacing.
Naomi gives you a sympathetic look. “Well. At least it’s Friday.”
At least it’s Friday.
You nod like the words mean more than they probably should.
Campus is all glare and motion by the time you get there.
People seem louder on Fridays, even when they aren’t actually speaking above a normal volume. There’s something looser in the air. A kind of early-release energy. The trees along the far end of campus cast thin, sharp-edged shadows over the walkways, and everywhere you look there are groups of students lingering a little longer than necessary, half-turned toward the weekend already.
You walk with the girls until the courtyard splits you apart.
“Text me if Phillips says anything gross,” Victoria tells you, adjusting the strap of her bag.
“What am I supposed to text?” you ask. “‘He breathed weird in my direction’?”
“Yes.”
Rachel slides her sunglasses up into her hair and points at you. “And if he gets too friendly, remember you have a father-shaped ally on campus.”
You stare at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Trevor. Or whatever. The old dude your dad knows.”
“Professor Phillips is Trevor.”
Rachel’s entire face changes. “Oh.”
Victoria starts cackling.
Naomi covers her mouth.
Rachel points at you again, horrified this time. “That’s worse.”
You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head as you back away from them. “You’re all useless.”
“Good luck!” Naomi calls after you.
“Don’t die!” Victoria adds.
Rachel cups her hands around her mouth. “And if he says something weird, weaponize a stage prop!”
You keep walking, cheeks warm with laughter, and don’t look back.
Intro to Drama is half full when you get there.
The door sticks a little when you open it, the metal handle warm from the sun. Inside, the classroom is dimmer than the hall, blinds half-drawn against the brightness outside. Dust hangs lazily in the warm bands of light that still make it through, drifting over the rows of desks and the little raised strip of floor at the front that Professor Phillips insists on calling a stage even though it’s barely more than a platform.
You pause just inside.
Then, because habit is a strong and stupid thing, your gaze skims automatically toward the side of the room where Jungkook and Seokjin had sat.
Empty.
Of course.
No weird little twist settles in your chest this time. No reflexive disappointment. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
Sunny day.
Gone.
Right.
You move farther back and choose a seat near the wall, one with a decent view of the room and plenty of space between you and everyone else. Your notebook comes out. Pen. Syllabus shoved to the side. You settle in, trying to let the room become just a room.
For a while, it works.
Professor Phillips is late enough to be noticeable but early enough that no one comments on it. He breezes in through the side door with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and enough forced charm in his smile to make your shoulders tense before he even speaks.
“Morning, my little tragedians,” he announces, voice already too warm for eight-something in the morning.
A few students laugh.
You don’t.
He crosses to his desk, dropping the papers down and smoothing a hand through his hair like he’s stepping into a spotlight instead of a community college classroom. There’s a looseness to him today, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie absent, collar open one button too low. Casual, but in the calculated way some men are casual when they want to be praised for it.
His eyes sweep the room.
You hate that you know the exact second they find you.
“Good turnout for a Friday,” he says, and the line is clearly for everyone, but the smile lingers in your direction just a beat too long.
You look down at your notebook and uncap your pen.
Today’s class ends up being less Shakespeare and more performance theory, which should be boring enough to numb you out, but Phillips has the kind of ego that turns even straightforward material into a monologue about his own past successes. He paces when he talks. Uses his hands too much. Stops beside desks without needing to.
The first time he comes near yours, you tell yourself not to stiffen.
You fail.
He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say anything out of line. Just pauses by your row while explaining emotional realism in modern acting, glances at your notes, and says, “You’re a fast writer.”
You look up. “Uh. Thanks?”
He smiles like you’ve offered him something rather than the other way around. “Good skill to have.”
Then he moves on.
It’s innocuous enough that if you repeated it later out loud, it would sound ridiculous to even mention.
That’s what makes it worse.
The second time is during a small in-class exercise where he has everyone pair off to read a scene flatly, then again with exaggerated emotion. You end up with a girl named Amber from the front row who has a nice voice and smells like peaches. It should be painless. Mostly, it is.
Until Phillips crouches at the edge of your shared desk while you’re reading and says, low enough that it doesn’t carry, “There you go. More confidence today.”
It sends a ripple of discomfort over your skin so fast it almost makes you lose your place on the page.
You recover.
Barely.
Amber doesn’t seem to notice anything odd. She just keeps reading, then smiles at you when it’s your turn.
You read your lines. You do the exercise. You keep your expression neutral and your voice steady and your pen moving whenever there’s a gap long enough to fill.
And all the while, somewhere under the surface of your thoughts, one small ugly certainty begins to harden:
Rachel was right.
Not about the Kims.
About him.
By the time class ends, you feel wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with the material.
Students start filing out in loose, chatting little groups. Chairs scrape back. Backpacks zip shut. Amber gives you a quick wave over her shoulder as she leaves. You return it automatically and begin gathering your things as efficiently as possible, every instinct in your body suddenly singular and focused: leave.
Just leave.
You’ve got your notebook in your bag and your hand around the strap when Professor Phillips’s voice cuts through the room.
“YN?”
You close your eyes for half a second.
Then turn.
He’s standing near his desk with one hand braced against the edge of it, papers tucked beneath the other arm again like some kind of prop. His expression is friendly. Too friendly.
“Yeah?”
“Quick question,” he says.
Almost every other student is gone now.
Of course they are.
You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder, careful to keep distance between you and the front of the room. “Okay.”
“Are you looking for work or experience?” he asks.
The question is mild. The tone isn’t.
Or maybe it is. Maybe you’re too keyed up. Maybe this is all perfectly harmless and you’ve just talked yourself into unease because he reminds you vaguely of every other overfamiliar adult man who’s ever mistaken politeness for invitation.
Either way, your smile feels brittle as glass when you offer it.
“Not particularly.”
“Oh?” his brows lift. “Well, I have an opening for an assistant if you do happen to find yourself interested.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” you nod.
He studies you for a second too long. “Still making friends?”
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He smiles again, smaller now, easier to mistake for sincere. “College can be lonely at first.”
You say nothing.
He seems to realize, finally, that he’s losing whatever rhythm he thought this conversation had.
“Well,” he says, straightening. “My door’s always open if you need help with coursework. Or just getting adjusted.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
You grip your bag strap tighter and force yourself not to visibly recoil at the or just getting adjusted of it all.
“Thanks,” you say, putting just enough distance into the word that even he has to hear it. “I should get to astronomy.”
Something flickers in his face, not irritation, not exactly. More like surprise that you’re ending the exchange rather than letting him. It’s gone fast enough to make you wonder if you imagined it.
“Of course,” he says.
You don’t wait for anything else.
You turn and head for the door, heartbeat a little too loud in your ears, and the second you’re out in the hall you pull your phone from your pocket and type a message to Victoria.
You: i need u to know u were right and he DOES have weird pastor energy
The reply comes before you’ve made it down the hall.
vic: LMFAO
vic: WHAT DID HE DO
You type as you walk, weaving around slower students.
you: nothing bigwhich is somehow worsehe just keeps being weirdly familiar and acting like we have some special understanding when we literally don’t
Three bubbles appear.
Then disappear.
Then reappear.
vic: ewkill him
You snort under your breath.
you: working on it
It helps.
A little.
Enough to get you across campus without grinding your teeth.
Astronomy is cooler than the rest of the buildings.
Not temperature-wise, exactly. Just in feeling. Professor Jones keeps the blinds open, lets the sunlight in where Phillips had tried to tame it, and something about that alone makes the room feel easier to breathe in.
The class is already filling when you slip inside. You choose a seat near the middle this time—not all the way back, not all the way front. A compromise between wanting an exit and wanting to be treated like a person rather than a body in a chair.
As you sit, your gaze catches on the empty seat beside yours.
You blink once.
Then drop your notebook down and sit anyway.
No Namjoon.
Right.
Still no sting to it, exactly. Just a little hollow acknowledgment, quickly smoothed over.
Professor Jones starts class promptly, which you appreciate more than you can say. No monologuing. No pacing. No weirdly pointed check-ins. Just lecture, diagrams, questions, and that steady, intelligent cadence of someone who genuinely likes her subject and trusts that liking it is enough to teach it well.
You take notes until your hand aches pleasantly, and when Professor Jones projects a grainy image of Andromeda up onto the board, the room goes dim and blue around the edges and you feel, for the first time all morning, fully present inside your own body.
The universe helps with that sometimes.
Its scale.
Its indifference.
The comfort of knowing how little any one strange classroom interaction or overfamiliar smile really matters when set against collapsing stars and cosmic drift.
“Miss LN?”
You look up, startled enough that a few people glance your way.
Professor Jones is smiling faintly from the front of the room. “You looked like you had a thought.”
Heat flickers in your cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Share, if you want.”
You glance down at your notebook, then back up. “I was just wondering if irregular galaxies are always the result of disruption. Like collisions or outside gravitational influence. Or if some of them… just form that way.”
Professor Jones lights up.
Actually lights up.
“No, that’s a great question,” she says, turning back toward the board. “Often there is some kind of interaction involved, yes, but not always in a dramatic way…”
And just like that, the room moves with her into the answer, and you let your mind be carried along with it.
By the time the lecture ends, you’re calmer than you’d been walking in.
Students start packing up. Someone a few rows ahead of you is already talking about beach plans. Another girl complains loudly that if the weather stays this nice she’s never going to survive being indoors this weekend. You linger long enough to copy one final line from the board, then slide your notebook away.
Professor Jones catches your eye on your way out and says, “Good question today.”
Simple. Warm. Professional.
You smile back, and this time it comes easy. “Thanks.”
Then you step outside into the bright noon air and feel the day slacken.
Done. Friday, officially, your own.
The parking lot is sun-soaked and crowded in the disorganized way Fridays always seem to be, students peeling out of campus in clusters and waves. You spot Victoria first by her car, then remember with a little jolt that no—today’s your day to drive after all. Or was it? You squint.
No. The girls had arranged to go back together and then Uber later.
Right.
Your brain is already halfway toward tonight.
You pull out your phone, and there’s a text from Naomi.
naomi: we’re by the front steps!!! don’t get kidnapped by professor creep
A second later, Rachel’s name pops up beneath it.
rachel: if he tries anything, remember you can always bite
And then, because apparently Victoria cannot let anything sit unpunctuated:
vic: or seduce him and ruin his life
for legal reasons this is a joke
You bark out a laugh, earning a brief look from a passing student. Then you type back as you head for the front steps:
you: you’re all deranged also i survived also if anyone mentions the kims today i’m steering us into a tree idc if Victoria’s driving
naomi: so I should sit passenger good to know
When you round the building and spot them waiting in a bright patch of sun, Victoria shades her eyes dramatically and calls, “She lives!”
Naomi smiles. Rachel lifts her iced coffee in salute.
And for a moment, with the sky wide and blue overhead and the whole strange, sunny day flattening itself into something manageable behind you, it feels easy to smile back.
Friday is only half over.
But it’s yours now.
And somewhere underneath the relief of that is a different kind of anticipation entirely, already beginning to hum.
Tonight.
The evening starts in pieces.
In the slow drag of your brush through still-damp hair. In the soft hiss of Victoria’s curling iron from the bathroom. In Naomi kneeling on the floor of her bedroom trying to decide between two cardigans even though nobody sane wears a cardigan to a house party. In Rachel standing in the middle of the living room in a slip and one earring, barking directions at all of you, looking like she’s running a backstage production and not trying to find her lip gloss.
Your room is warm from the sunset still fading through the blinds, the last of the daylight catching on the navy blue dress you’d laid out hours ago like setting it there would make the night easier to walk into.
It doesn’t.
It just makes the whole thing feel more real.
The dress is simple enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard, but fitted enough that when you pull it over your head and smooth it down your hips, you do pause and look at yourself in the mirror a second longer than necessary. Navy suits you. It deepens everything, your eyes, the curve of your shoulders, the line of your waist. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t beg for attention but catches it anyway.
“YN!” Victoria calls from the hall. “If you’re hotter than me, I need a warning before I see you.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Rachel says somewhere behind her, followed by the sound of a cabinet slamming shut. “It’s exhausting.”
You step into your heels and open your door.
Victoria, halfway through clipping an earring in, turns and stops dead.
“Oh, fuck off,” she says immediately.
You laugh. “What?”
“That is not fair,” she says, pointing at you accusingly. “You cannot just come out looking all—” She gestures at you helplessly. “—that.”
Rachel appears behind her a second later and lets out a slow whistle. “Okay. Cute.”
“Cute?” Victoria repeats, scandalized. “She looks like she’s about to ruin somebody’s will.”
Naomi, who’s just emerging from her room in black jeans and a forest-green top with her makeup done softer than usual, smiles the second she sees you. “You look really pretty.”
“Thank you,” you say, warmth creeping into your cheeks.
Rachel is still looking at you in that assessing way she has, like she’s trying to decide whether to be nice or feral. Tonight, apparently, she chooses nice.
“The navy was the right call,” she says. “Makes you look expensive.”
“Was that finally a compliment.”
“It was.”
Victoria finally finishes pinning in her earring and points to herself. She’s in a black mini skirt and a white baby tee tucked just so, curls fluffed out around her face like she was born under a disco ball. “And what about me?”
“You look like the reason somebody’s girlfriend is going to get into a fight tonight,” Rachel says.
Victoria beams. “Thank you.”
Rachel looks incredible too, unfortunately. A fitted burgundy top, dark jeans that probably cost more than your monthly gas bill, and hoops that catch the light every time she turns her head. Naomi’s gone softer, sweeter—gold gloss, brushed-out lashes, that green top hugging her just enough to make the whole look effortless.
And then there’s you.
Navy blue minidress. Hair down. A little gloss. A little perfume. Feeling just steady enough to pretend you’re not thinking too hard about the fact that you’re about to walk into a stranger’s house full of drunk college kids.
“You good?” Naomi asks quietly when the others drift toward the kitchen.
You nod. Then, because she knows you well enough already to catch a lie in your posture, you add, “I will be.”
She smiles. “That works.”
The Uber gets there while Rachel is still fixing her lipstick with the front camera on her phone. Victoria snatches the tube right out of her hand and drags her toward the door before she can start a second coat.
“You can overline in the car,” Victoria says.
“I hate you,” Rachel mutters, but she’s smiling when she says it.
The outside air is cooler than you expect, carrying that clean autumn edge that only shows up once the sun disappears fully. The neighborhood around the quad is already slipping into night, porches lit up, the occasional burst of music floating from some distant apartment window. Your heels click against the pavement as you all pile into the backseat, somehow managing to fit in a tangled mess of bare knees, bags, perfume, and last-minute complaints.
“Can somebody tell me if my eyeliner’s uneven?” Rachel asks.
“Yes,” Victoria says instantly.
Rachel gasps.
“I’m kidding,” Victoria adds.
“No, you’re not.”
Naomi laughs under her breath and leans into you as the Uber pulls away. “Okay,” she says. “Game plan.”
“Oh Christ,” you mutter.
“No, listen,” she insists. “We stay together for at least the first half hour. Nobody disappears upstairs with some guy named Hunter or Brayden or whatever. We watch our drinks.”
Victoria nods sagely. “And if anyone starts crying, we go home.”
Rachel turns from the front-facing camera long enough to point at her. “No. If I start crying, we go home. If one of you starts crying, I reserve the right to pretend I don’t know you.”
“That’s expected,” you say.
Rachel smiles approvingly. “Thank you.”
The ride is short enough that your nerves don’t have time to settle into anything too big to ignore. You pass through darker residential streets, then brighter ones, then into the kind of neighborhood where college boys think three couches and a rented speaker count as a personality. By the time the Uber slows, you can hear the music before you even see the house.
It’s alive.
That’s the first word your brain gives you.
Alive.
The house is bigger than you’d pictured and absolutely vibrating with noise. Music punches out through the walls and open windows, low bass rattling through the pavement beneath your heels as the Uber pulls to the curb behind a line of cars. The front lawn is crowded with people holding red cups and shouting over each other in loose, gleeful clusters. String lights have been thrown up across the porch in a way that looks accidental but not unsuccessful. Somebody’s laughing so hard near the front steps they nearly topple sideways into a bush.
“Oh, this is already disgusting,” Rachel says with approval.
Victoria grabs your wrist before you can hesitate. “C’mon.”
The four of you spill out onto the street and into the party’s orbit all at once.
Everything hits at the same time.
Music. Heat. Perfume and beer and weed smoke and somebody’s vanilla body spray. Bodies pressing in from every direction as people head in and out of the house in waves. Laughter so loud it doesn’t even sound human for a second. The dark sky above all of it, clear and crisp and full of stars no one here is bothering to look at.
Your pulse kicks.
Not with fear, exactly.
Just impact.
“Well,” Naomi says, wide-eyed as she takes in the house. “This is… more than I expected.”
Rachel’s grin turns wicked. “I told you.”
“God, I love a fire hazard,” Victoria sighs.
A guy you vaguely recognize from somewhere on campus opens the door wider when he sees Rachel and immediately brightens.
“Rachel!”
“Kyle,” she says, like she’s greeting both a nuisance and a fan. “You remembered to invite hot people. I’m proud of you.”
Kyle laughs a little too hard at that and ushers you all inside.
The party swallows you whole.
The entryway is packed shoulder to shoulder, floor sticky already, walls vibrating with music. Colored lights flash from somewhere deeper in the house, turning people blue, then red, then purple in quick succession. The living room is chaos—girls dancing with drinks sloshing over their wrists, boys yelling over a game on the TV no one is actually watching, somebody perched on the arm of the couch like they were born there.
“Drink first,” Rachel declares, already leading the charge toward the kitchen.
The kitchen is somehow worse.
A counter covered in bottles. Cups stacked in precarious towers. Ice melting in a sink that looks like it gave up on being useful hours ago. A guy in a backwards hat attempts to flirt with Victoria while pouring something violently pink into a cup and gets ignored so thoroughly you almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
Rachel makes all your drinks like she was put on this earth for exactly that purpose.
“Vodka Sprite,” she says, handing one to Naomi.
“Thank you.”
“Rum and Coke,” she says, handing one to Victoria.
“My love.”
She looks at you, then at the bottles, then back at you. “You?”
You hesitate just long enough for Victoria to notice.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Make her something fun. She deserves whimsy.”
“I do not need whimsy.”
“You absolutely need whimsy,” Rachel says. “You’ve had weird-girl energy all week.”
“Thank you so much.”
She ignores that and mixes you something with cranberry juice and vodka and maybe lime, sliding the cup into your hand with a smug little nod. “There. Pretty and dangerous. Like you.”
Naomi chokes on her drink.
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
You take a sip.
Cold. Sweet. Strong enough to make your nose wrinkle.
“That is mostly vodka.”
Rachel smiles. “And yet?”
You take another sip.
“And yet,” you admit, “I’m not complaining.”
The first drink goes down faster than you mean for it to.
Then half the second.
The party starts to blur at the edges in the nicest possible way—not messily, not badly, just enough that your shoulders loosen, your laugh comes easier, and the pressure of being in a crowded stranger’s house starts to ebb beneath the warm buzz settling low in your veins.
You dance a little.
Not enough to call it dancing, really. Just that loose swaying, laughing, moving-with-the-room kind of motion that happens when Victoria grabs your hands and Naomi lets herself get pulled into it and Rachel acts like she’s above all of you while absolutely singing along to the song.
At some point, Victoria disappears long enough to reappear with a guy she apparently knows from one of her classes and then disappears again when Naomi sees someone from your English class and drags her into conversation. Rachel gets intercepted twice in one hallway by people who either want to talk to her or be looked at by her.
You’re not alone, exactly.
Just… momentarily unanchored.
You don’t mind.
Not until you drift near the dining room doorway with your third drink and look up.
And there they are.
Your stomach drops so fast you almost feel it in your knees. At first it’s just one of them.
Jungkook.
He’s leaning against the far wall near the archway between the dining room and what looks like a den, a glass in one hand. He’s dressed nothing like anyone else in the room, which is saying something considering half the people here look like they got ready in a dark closet. Black slacks. Fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms and jewelry. Hair pushed back from his face in a way that makes him look older, sharper, less like a boy trying to get under your skin and more like a man who already knows he can.
He’s laughing at something someone says.
Then he looks right up at you, like there’s a magnet pulling his attention towards you.
The laugh doesn’t leave his mouth so much as fold into something else… slower, knowing.
Your hand tightens around your cup.
“Nope,” you murmur under your breath.
Like that alone might undo the fact that he just spotted you, or that he’s at the party in the first place.
Then your gaze jerks past him.
Jimin is there too, seated on the arm of a chair with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, looking unfairly elegant in charcoal slacks and a dark wine-colored shirt that makes his silver hair look almost luminous under the low lights. A ring flashes when he lifts his drink. He follows Jungkook’s line of sight.
He finds you and smiles, half moons on partial display. It’s not the kind of smirk Jungkook wears. Jimin’s is soft-- for now.
Your breath catches.
And then, because apparently tonight is not interested in subtlety, you start seeing the rest of them.
Namjoon near the back of the room, broad shoulders turned half away from the crowd, dressed in dark gray and black so cleanly put together it makes your brain stutter. Seokjin by the fireplace, posture perfect, shirt open at the throat just enough to be cruel about it. Yoongi half-shadowed in a chair with a drink no one else would dare bother him enough to spill. Hoseok laughing with his whole body near the hall, pale blond hair bright even in the low light.
And then—
Taehyung.
He’s standing just past the others near the doorway to the back deck, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. Black trousers. Dark silk shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair falls softer tonight, loose and dark around his face in a way that should make him look younger and somehow only makes him look more dangerous. More unreal. The lights from inside catch on the planes of his face and turn him into something too beautiful for this house, this town, this stupid sticky floor.
He’s watching you.
Not glancing. Not accidentally catching your eye. No, he’s watching.
And unlike the others, there’s no easy smile waiting when you notice.
Just that same unreadable, charged stillness that had been following you around since the assembly. The same sense that he is both restraining something and failing at it in tiny, visible ways.
The room tilts.
Not literally. Not enough to make you stumble.
But enough that everything else drops one layer lower, muffled beneath the sudden thunder of your pulse.
They’re here. All of them.
Even Taehyung.
At a party they “never” go to. At a house full of people they supposedly avoid. At a party you are at.
A hand catches your elbow, and you jump.
Victoria appears at your side with a drink in her hand and one eyebrow arched so high it’s nearly in her hairline. “Okay,” she says slowly, following your stare. “So either I’m drunker than I thought, or we have a bit of a situation.”
You don’t look away from them. “You told me they don’t go to parties.”
“They don’t,” she says.
“They are literally here.”
“I can see that.”
Naomi appears on your other side a second later, mid-laugh at something over her shoulder, until she follows both your gazes and stops cold.
“Oh my God.”
Rachel, of course, takes the longest to arrive and the shortest amount of time to react. She looks where the rest of you are looking and nearly drops her cup.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Jungkook lifts his glass slightly from across the room.
Like he enjoys the effect it has on you.
Victoria makes a strangled noise. “They don’t go to parties. This has never happened.”
Naomi shakes her head, stunned. “Not once.”
Rachel turns to look at you, expression split cleanly between vindication and disbelief. “You. This is your fault somehow.”
“My fault?” you hiss.
“Energetically.”
“That is not a real thing.”
“Then why are they staring?”
You open your mouth and shut it, because she’s not wrong.
Not all of them stare at you, at least, not all at once. Not obviously enough for anyone else in the party to pick up on it. But enough.
Enough that it’s impossible to pretend you imagined it.
Namjoon’s gaze passes over the three girls flanking you and settles on your face with something calmer than the others, but no less intent. Seokjin says something to Jimin without taking his eyes off the room. Hoseok, halfway through smiling at someone beside him, turns just enough to catch sight of you and goes visibly still for a fraction of a second.
🎵 “If you’re looking for devotion, talk to me…”
— “Earned It” by The Weeknd
🐨 Namjoon — The Voice That Lowers
It’s never loud.
That’s the thing about him.
You’re rambling. A little upset. A little stubborn. Crossing your arms while pacing his studio.
“I just think you don’t understand—”
“I do.”
His voice drops. Not sharp. Not angry. Just… grounded.
You stop mid-sentence.
He walks closer slow, calm steps. His hands slide into his pockets like he’s containing himself.
“Don’t assume I’m against you,” he says softly. “I’m on your side. Always.”
It’s the way he looks at you steady eye contact. No wavering.
“And lower your voice when you’re frustrated,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Not because I’m controlling you. But because you deserve to be heard clearly.”
You feel it in your spine. That authority that isn’t force it’s certainty.
He brushes your hair behind your ear.
“Talk to me. Not at me.”
And suddenly, you’re calm.
Because he doesn’t dominate you.
He centers you.
🐹 Jin — Teasing Dominance
He pretends he’s not like that.
But he absolutely is. You’re on the couch, arguing about who gets the last strawberry.
“It’s mine.”
“It’s not.” You grab it but he’s faster. Holds your wrist lightly.
Raises one eyebrow. “Are you challenging me?” he says, amused.
You roll your eyes. He leans closer, voice playful but slightly lower.
“Be careful. I might like that.”
He lets go. Lets you take the strawberry. Because he always lets you win. But the smirk stays. And later, when you’re still pretending to be annoyed, he whispers: “You look cute when you think you’re in charge.” Teasing. Light. Never overwhelming.
He doesn’t need to overpower.
He just enjoys the game.
🐱 Yoongi — Quiet Control
He barely speaks.
That’s why when he does you listen.
You’re overthinking again. Spiraling. Talking too fast. He doesn’t interrupt.
He just reaches out and gently hooks his finger in your sleeve. Pulls you back to sit beside him.
“Enough.” Soft. Firm. Not angry. He places your hand in his.
“Breathe.”
You try to argue.
He squeezes your fingers slightly. “I said breathe.”
It’s not command. It’s reassurance wrapped in control. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. When you finally calm down, he brushes his thumb across your knuckles.
“I’ve got you. So stop trying to hold everything alone.” And somehow, that feels stronger than anything loud.
🐿 Hobi — Confident Reassurance
He’s warm. Bright.
But when he gets serious?
It’s different.
You’re nervous before an event. Doubting yourself.
“I don’t look good,” you mumble. He gently grabs your chin.
Not forceful. Just enough to make you look at him. “Look at me.”
You do. His expression softens — but his tone is steady. “Don’t talk about my girl like that.” Your heart flips. He smiles, but there’s something solid underneath.
“You walk in there with me. Head high. And if anyone looks at you wrong—” he pauses, grin widening, “—they’ll answer to me.”
Playful. But real.
He fixes your outfit carefully. Straightens your collar.
“Trust me,” he whispers. “You shine. I just get the privilege of standing next to you.”
His dominance isn’t pressure.
It’s pride.
🐥 Jimin — Intense Eye Contact
He doesn’t touch you at first.
He just looks at you. And that’s worse. You’re joking with someone else at a party. Laughing loudly. When you turn around, he’s watching.
Not jealous.
Just… intense. He steps closer. Close enough that you feel his presence before he even speaks.
“You having fun?” His tone is soft.
But his eyes don’t break contact. You nod. He leans down slightly.
“Good. Just remember who you’re going home with.”
Your breath catches.
He smiles sweetly. Almost innocent.
But his fingers lightly brush your waist — grounding. Claiming without claiming.
He doesn’t need to announce anything.
His gaze says enough.
🐯 Taehyung — Slow, Deliberate Closeness
He moves slowly.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
You’re cooking. He comes behind you quietly. Doesn’t speak. Just places his hands on the counter on either side of you. Not trapping.
Just surrounding. “You’re ignoring me,” he murmurs against your ear. You pretend not to react. He leans in closer. His breath warm.
“I don’t like that.”
His voice is low. Calm. Almost lazy. But his presence is heavy. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grab. Doesn’t demand. He just waits.And eventually you turn around, Because he knows you will.
He smiles softly. “See? You come back.”
His dominance is patience, he doesn’t chase. He pulls.
🐰 Jungkook — Playful but Possessive Tone
He’s teasing you all day. Play fighting. Stealing your phone.
You roll your eyes. “You’re annoying.”
He grins.
But later, when someone flirts with you as a joke — you see the shift. He wraps an arm around your shoulders casually.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “She bites.” You look up at him.
He leans down slightly.
“And I don’t share.”
It’s playful. But there’s weight in it.
When you’re alone later, he nudges your forehead with his.
“You like making me jealous?” You shrug.
He smiles — but his hand tightens around yours. “Don’t test me too much.”
Then he kisses your knuckles softly. Because he would never cross a line. But he does like reminding you he’s there.
summary: She eagerly stepped into her new home, filled with excitement and a sense of newfound independence. Unbeknownst to her, the house held a hidden secret, as seven ethereal beings lingered within its walls, trapped in a realm between the living and the dead. Their presence would soon intertwine with her life, revealing a haunting tale of mystery where she would be forced to free them, bringing them back to the land of the living.
warnings: mentions of ghosts&demons, mentions of death, murder, blood, haunted house, horror, smut, fluff, angst, jump scares, bts haunt y/n… (warnings will be at the start of each chapter)
authors note: this was meant to be a lot longer but i just needed to get something out... pls ignore how bad this is it’s just the start so it’s kind of like a filler? idk ? AND IM GETTING THERE SORRYYYYY 🥹🥹🥹 also don’t be a silent reader and lmk ur thoughts 💛
The moving truck groaned to a halt in front of the house, its engine rumbling as if reluctant to let go of the cargo inside. You stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, clutching your coat tightly as you looked up at the house that was now yours. It stood at the end of the quiet street, its weathered exterior bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The shutters sagged slightly, and ivy crept up one side, giving it a certain charm that had called to you the moment you saw it. It was a house with history - a place that felt alive.
The movers began hauling your furniture and boxes into the house, grunting under the weight of your belongings. You directed them inside, navigating the maze of boxes and half-assembled furniture.
It didn't take as long as you expected, and soon enough, all the boxes from the truck were now somewhat neatly placed inside your home, ready to be opened and emptied, a task you couldn't wait to begin.
The house was a huge catch, and you couldn't find the words to explain your gratitude to the universe for helping you come across it. It was perfect. Two stories with a basement and an attic. What more could you possibly ask for? The only downside was that it was a little old and uncared for, the grass at the front and even at the back was far past being overgrown, in desperate need of being cut and the inside of the house had an even more antique and rustic look to it. It would take a lot of work to bring it right to your standards.
A newfound surge of excitement and independence coursed through your bones as you basked in the glory of your home, skipping up the steps of the porch and looking out at the neighbourhood. Your eyes caught sight of your neighbours standing across the street.
A man and a woman stood on the curb, their faces unreadable as they watched you. The man whispered something to the woman, who frowned and shook her head. You waved, offering a polite smile, but they didn't wave back. Instead, they turned and walked away briskly, their murmured conversation carrying on the wind.
You didn't think anything of it, not everybody was friendly at the beginning. Shrugging, you made your way inside.
Your first few days in the house were a whirlwind of unpacking and organising. You carefully placed your favourite books on the shelves, hung up curtains that caught the light just right, and arranged cozy touches that turned each room into a small sanctuary. Boxes lay scattered, slowly dwindling in number as you added pieces of yourself to the space, arranging and rearranging until it felt less like an empty shell and more like a home.
By the time you were finished, you sighed in satisfaction, leaning against the worn wooden banister that framed the staircase. It was quiet--almost too quiet-but the kind of silence that felt peaceful, wrapping you in a sense of calm.
You didn't notice it at first, the faint sounds overhead, until you settled onto the couch with a cup of tea and heard a soft, rhythmic tapping drifting down from above, coming from the attic.
That first night, you dismissed the noise as nothing. "Old house, old noises," you reassured yourself, pulling a blanket tighter around your shoulders. But as the hours passed, the tapping continued. You could almost convince yourself it was just the wind, until you realised it had a pattern.
The second night, the noise returned, louder and more persistent. This time, curiosity overcame your unease.
Finally, with a deep breath, you set your cup aside and rose, casting a glance up the dim stairway. You grabbed a flashlight, though you weren't sure why; something about the attic's shadowy corners unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain. Still, you found yourself climbing the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step, a hint of something stale lingering in the air.
At the top, you hesitated before pushing open the attic door, half expecting dust and cobwebs, maybe a few forgotten boxes. But as your flashlight's beam swept across the room, you froze. Across from you, lined up along the far wall, was a row of portraits. Each one was framed in intricate, dark wood, perfectly preserved but muted in haunting gray tones.
Heart pounding, you stepped closer. Seven faces, frozen in time, gazed back at you—young men, each expression somber and strangely intense, as though they had secrets hidden just behind their eyes. The photographs were stunning in their detail, each capturing a distinct personality, a different mood. They wore vintage clothing that seemed pulled from another era, their gazes seeming to follow you, almost as if they were watching, waiting.
Chills prickled down your arms as you moved down the row, taking in the portraits one by one. A strange familiarity tugged at you, though you couldn't quite place it. You didn't know them, but something about them felt almost... known.
As you leaned in closer, the silence shattered. A whisper, barely audible, brushed past your ear. You spun around, flashlight trembling in your grip, but the attic was empty. The air seemed to thicken, the temperature plummeting as if an unseen presence lingered in the corners. Turning back to the portraits, your heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force.
And then, your eyes caught onto something else. Each portrait bore a small brass plate, each engraved with a single name, each name once again oddly familiar, but now feeling strange and haunting in this setting. Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.
Your breath caught as you stared into their eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of movement—did they just blink? You stumbled back, heart pounding, questions swirling through your mind. Why were they here, preserved in this lonely attic? And what did it mean that you had found them? The whispers began again, soft as a breath, as if the walls themselves murmured secrets you weren't meant to hear.
Panicked, you turned and fled down the stairs, the lingering image of their eyes etched in your mind. Yet as you descended, the unnerving feeling wouldn't leave you. No matter how you tried to shake off the encounter, you couldn't help but feel you had disturbed something hidden, some mystery that lay just beyond reach, waiting for you to unravel it.
You could practically hear your heartbeat thumping against your chest, rapidly gaining speed and causing a rush of blood to run through your body. You held a hand to your heart in a futile attempt to calm it down, taking deep, laboured breaths and closing your eyes for a second.
Although you managed to calm your heart down, your mind continued to wonder, causing a throbbing ache to grow inside of it.
That night, sleep refused to come. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as the weight of those portraits pressed onto your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, their faces hovered in the darkness.
At some point, exhaustion finally won, pulling you into uneasy dreams. Shadows slithered through your subconscious, whispers curling around your ears like tendrils of smoke. In the dream, you stood in the attic once more, but this time, the portraits were empty. The frames remained, perfectly aligned, but the faces; gone. You turned your head, and instead of them being frozen in time in the portraits, the seven of them stood with their unmoving eyes watching you, until a loud thud yanked you from your sleep.
You sat up, heart hammering against your ribs. The house was silent again, but the sound had been real. You knew it.
Swallowing your fear, you swung your legs over the bed and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, the air colder than it should have been. You followed the unease settling in your bones, your feet carrying you forward before you could second-guess.
As you passed the staircase, something caught your eye. A shape—a figure—just at the edge of your vision.
You froze.
Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Your breath hitched. The shadows clung to them, obscuring their features, but you could make out the silhouette of a man. He stood completely still, head tilted slightly, as if observing you.
Your fingers loosened around the barrister, your voice caught in your throat. A scream threatened to rip out of you, but something was stopping you from doing so. Hesitantly, your feet pulled you towards the light switch, flicking it on without turning away from the figure before you.
And just like that, it was gone.
The air around you felt heavier now, pressing in on your lungs. You knew fear. You had felt it before, in the attic, in the dream, in the weight of those stares. But this? This was something else.
Gathering whatever courage you had left, you descended the stairs slowly, each step measured and careful. The wooden boards groaned beneath you, but the house was still, too still. The silence felt unnatural, charged with something unseen.
Then, from the living room, the record player clicked on.
A soft static hummed through the air before a hauntingly slow melody crackled to life, its sound eerily distorted. The hairs on your arms stood on end. You didn't own a record player.
Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned toward the sound. The living room was empty, but the record player spun lazily, its needle gliding across the vinyl.
A voice spoke out.
Soft, low, and undeniably real.
"You're not supposed to be here."
It came from behind you.
Ice shot through your veins. You turned, pulse roaring, eyes darting across the dim space. There was nothing. No one. But the air was charged, as if something unseen had just been there.
The melody from the record player warbled, slowing, distorting into something unnatural before cutting out entirely.
The silence returned, deafening in its weight.
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but deep down, you knew you were not alone in this house.
Millions of thoughts raced through your mind. Was this somehow connected to the paintings? It couldnt be, right? Your heartbeat pounded unnaturally fast, breath hitching as your entire body trembled. A violent sob tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Without thinking, you bolted up the stairs, desperate to reach the safety of your room. But just as you reached for the door, it slammed shut in your face.
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, throat tight with unshed tears. Your gaze darted frantically around the dim hallway before you lunged for the handle, yanking it open.
A ghost? A spirit? No. That thought had long been buried. This wasn't some supernatural force—this was real. Someone had broken in.
You threw the door shut behind you, heart hammering as you stumbled towards the bed and snatched up your phone. Your fingers, trembling and slick with sweat, tapped out the first numbers that came to mind.
911.
Seconds dragged unbearably long as the ringing tone buzzed in your ear. You sank onto the bed, one leg bouncing uncontrollably, hands clenched into fists. Until, finally, a voice called out from the other side.
"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice. Soft. Steady.
You sucked in a shaky breath. "I— There's s-someone in my house. I think they broke in. I—I'm pretty sure they're still here." The words spilled out, tripping over themselves.
"Okay, miss. Take a deep breath for me. What's your name and address?"
You answered quickly, throat tightening as you waited.
"Stay on the line with me. Can you tell me what makes you think someone broke in?"
Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. The memory surged back, ice-cold and unmistakable.
"I saw a man," you whispered. "They spoke to me."
The line crackled for a moment, filling the silence in your room with static. Then, the dispatcher's voice returned—calm, controlled, as if she hadn't just heard the most terrifying thing you've ever said.
"They spoke to you?"
You swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Can you tell me what they said?"
Your mind raced back to that moment—the voice, the way it seemed to slither into your ears like a whisper only meant for you. You could still hear it, low and deliberate, replaying over and over.
You're not supposed to be here.
You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would make it go away.
"They said I—I shouldn't be here.," you managed, voice barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence. Then, "Y/N, are you somewhere safe?"
Safe.
Your eyes flickered toward the door, the flimsy lock on the knob. A thin piece of wood separating you from whoever, or whatever, was out there.
"I don't know," you admitted.
The dispatcher's voice softened. "Help is on the way, okay? I need you to stay quiet and listen carefully."
A rustling sound echoed from outside your room. Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
Your blood turned ice cold.
"They're still here," you whispered into the phone.
Another pause—this one heavier, more urgent. Then, the dispatcher spoke again, voice low and firm.
"Lock the door. Now."
You lunged for the knob, twisting it until you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place. You barely had time to step back before a thud sounded from behind it.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Something had just pressed against the door.
The phone shook in your hands. The dispatcher's voice was still in your ear, but you could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your head.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A slow, deliberate knocking.
Your stomach dropped.
The voice from the other side was familiar.
"Let me in."
It was the same one from earlier.
Your breath hitched.
Every fiber of your being screamed at you to move, to do something, but you were frozen in place, your body paralyzed by sheer terror.
"Let me in."
The words slithered through the door, slow and deliberate.
Your entire body went rigid. You knew that voice. That painstakingly low, guttural tone that had sent a chill down your spine the first time you heard it. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it crawled under your skin, wrapping around your bones like something cold and suffocating.
It was him.
The man from earlier. The one you'd tried so hard to convince yourself wasn't real.
And now, he was standing just outside your door.
The phone nearly slipped from your grip. Your fingers clenched around it in a desperate attempt to hold on, but the tremors in your hands made it feel like you could drop it at any second. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled themselves into knots at the back of your throat, choking you. Finally, you forced them out in a ragged whisper.
"T-There's—" Your voice faltered, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic threatening to consume you. "There's someone outside my door."
The silence that followed was thick, almost unnatural.
"They're—" You sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turned white. "It's the same one from earlier."
The moment those words left your lips, the air in the room changed.
On the other end of the line, the dispatcher hesitated. It was barely a second, but you felt it. The carefully measured calm in her voice cracked, just slightly, but enough to tell you that she knew that something wasn't right.
"Y/N," she said, slow and deliberate. "Is there anyone else in the house with you?"
You shook your head instinctively before realising she couldn't see you. You swallowed again, throat dry and tight.
"No," you whispered.
Another pause. Another moment of silence.
Until the handle rattled.
Not violently. Not in an attempt to break in. It was slow. Controlled. Testing it.
Your breath hitched, a sharp, strangled sound catching in your throat. You staggered backward, nearly losing your balance as your legs collided with the edge of the bed.
And then it spoke.
"End the call."
The voice was different now, more soft. Too soft. It shouldn't have made your blood run cold, shouldn't have sent that horrible, skittering sensation crawling up your spine.
It sounded like a recording played back at the wrong speed, stretched and warped just enough to feel off. Just enough to make your body reject it, to tell you that whatever was on the other side of that door wasn't supposed to exist.
The dispatcher's voice was tighter now. Urgent. "Listen to me. Stay where you are. Do not open that door. Officers are on route. Can you find anything to barricade it?"
Your brain struggled to process her words, to latch onto them through the growing fog of terror. Your eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for anything to use as a barricade.
The desk. The dresser. The chair in the corner.
Could you move them in time? Would it even matter?
"You're not supposed to be here."
Your stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up your throat.
The rattling of the door handle combined with the knocking managed to drown out the comforting voice on the other side of the phone.
And then, silence.
The knocking stopped. The rattling ceased. The presence outside the door just... vanished.
The air in the room felt heavier now, thick and unmoving, pressing down on you from all sides. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting.
The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, but it felt distant, muffled beneath the deafening ring in your ears.
"Miss? Are you still there?"
You couldn't answer. You couldn't move.
Because your gaze had drifted—just slightly.
The door was still closed. Still locked. But, behind you, the closet was open, creaking slightly as it continued to open until finally, it slammed against the wall.
The closet door slammed against the wall with a force that sent vibrations through the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating, a thick, unnatural quiet that pressed against your ears like cotton.
Your body refused to move at first, the sheer weight of the moment rooting you in place. Your eyes locked onto the darkness beyond the threshold of the closet. It wasn't just darkcit was void, an abyss that swallowed the faint glow of your bedside lamp before it could reach inside.
Then, something shifted.
A presence.
At first, it was subtle—a slow, creeping awareness that prickled at the back of your neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. A deep, bone-chilling cold seeped into the room, frosting over your skin and sinking into your muscles.
"You're not supposed to be here." The voice from the beginning called out, slithering through the air like an icy tendril, curling around your ear in a breath that wasn't entirely human. It was layered, distorted almost, as if spoken by multiple voices at once, each one slightly out of sync with the other.
Your body reacted before your brain could. You stumbled backward, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your heel caught the edge of the rug. Your legs buckled, sending you crashing onto the floor.
The phone slipped from your grasp and landed beside you, the dispatcher's voice buzzing through the speaker in broken static.
"Officers... on their way... stay with me—"
You barely heard her.
Because something moved in the closet.
A figure.
It was impossible to make out, but it was there, a mass of shifting darkness that loomed just beyond the threshold. Not quite human, not entirely formless. It seethed in the black, pulsing with something unnatural, something wrong.
And then it stepped forward.
Your breath turned to ice in your lungs.
The air itself seemed to warp around it, bending and distorting like a heat mirage, but cold. Unfathomably cold. The shadows clung to its frame, shifting and unraveling, like the edges of its form couldn't quite stay together.
Then, the hand shot out; long, spindly fingers, impossibly thin yet unnervingly strong, clamped around your wrist. A chill unlike anything you had ever felt surged through you, locking your muscles in place. It wasn't just cold, it was absence, a void where warmth had never existed.
The grip tightened.
A sharp, excruciating pain shot through your arm, like icy needles burrowing beneath your skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you let out a strangled scream, instinctively yanking back.
It held firm.
The thing in the closet didn't move, didn't lurch or stagger. It simply existed, an unrelenting force beyond the grasp of reason.
Slowly, deliberately, it began to pull.
Your heels dug into the floor, desperate to find purchase, to fight against the inhuman strength dragging you toward the black maw of the closet. Your free hand flailed wildly, knocking over a lamp, sending glass shards scattering across the hardwood.
A scream tore out your throat, thrashing against the tightening grip.
But just as suddenly as it had grabbed you, it released.
You fell back hard, the impact rattling through your bones as you gasped for air, clutching your wrist. The skin there was ice cold, a deep, aching numbness settling beneath the surface.
The room was still.
Too still.
The figure had retreated.
But the closet door remained open.
The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, sharp and urgent.
"Y/N, are you safe? Are you safe?"
You couldn't answer. You couldn't breathe.
Because just as the sirens outside wailed closer, flashing red and blue against your window—
The closet door clicked shut.
And in the heavy silence that followed, you swore you heard it again.
That voice. A breath against the shell of your ear. It was hard to make out what it said, but you could feel its lingering presence all over your body—like hands roaming over you.
Another scream ripped from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as sobs shook your entire body. Your mind struggled to grasp the impossibility of the nightmare unfolding around you, but reality felt fractured, distorted beyond comprehension.
Somewhere in the distance, the dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, urgent and persistent, The shrill noise of the sirens blended with the dispatcher's frantic calls, layering over the ringing in your ears. A flicker of red and blue light pulsed against the windowpane, flashing in rhythmic bursts, casting eerie shadows across the room.
But you couldn't form words, you could barely even breathe properly. The weight of fear pressed down on your chest like a vice, suffocating, paralyzing.
Your fingers dug into the cold wooden floor, grasping for any sense of stability. With trembling arms, you pushed yourself up, legs wobbling beneath you. Every movement felt sluggish, as if you were moving through water, but you forced yourself to stand.
Help was finally here, but you didn't feel any safer than you did before. What could they possibly do now? There was something much more deeper, darker happening here that the police would not be able to solve.
Deep voices, commanding shouts joined the chaos outside, overlapping with the howling sirens.
Short, rapid breathes left your throat in an attempt to calm yourself down as you slowly took steps towards your door which was still surprisingly locked. Your quivering hands reached out, clasping onto the metallic handle and twisting the door open. A violent banging sounded from downstairs, causing you to flinch in fear, before realising it was just the police outside. They continued to shout, and you managed to make out the sound of your name frantically being called by someone.
Your feet dragged you down the stairs, as you wiped your face, removing any trace of the former tears that had fell from your swollen eyes. Before you could open the door, it was already being pushed open and officers rushed inside.
Two officers stood in front of you, the other two had taken on the task of exploring your house, checking if there truly was a burglar -- an invader -- lurking inside.
You carefully explained the previous events that had occurred before their arrival, and they listened intently, nodding along to everything you said. Soon enough, the other two joined in with a concerned look etched on their faces.
"There's.." one of them began, all eyes on him. "There's nobody here. We checked every room." He clasped his hands behind his back, glancing towards his colleague.
"There wasn't a trace of anybody.. But you did leave the front door unlocked." the other added.
"Oh, it must've slipped my mind..." you trailed off, mentally facepalming at your stupidity. You never left the door unlocked. Ever.
Noticing your sullen expression, the female officer spoke up, "Hey, don't worry. We'll do one last check, right?" she looked over at her peers, causing them to nod along, followed by a chorus of 'yes'.
You muttered out a quick thank you, hands clenching into balls in your lap as you watched them make their way back up the stairs, in search of someone you were no longer sure had ever been real.
Summary: Tired of the endless misery of being an omega in the corporate world, Y/N takes a chance: she quits her job and buys a ticket to Vegas. There, she meets an alpha who changes her life---for the worse? For the better? Only time can tell. It's jaded and imperfect, but it's love.
A/N: Hello everyone!! I am alive :D After the worst writer's block I've ever had, I'm back with a new OT7 x reader fic! Now, I will admit I have not completed writing this AU but I have a good portion of it done so I hope you guys will enjoy it <33 Also, if anyone's up for it, I'd like to start doing taglists and even some polls for future chapters!!! Any thoughts, please let me know as I've never done it this way before. This fic will also be cross-posted to AO3 for anyone who'd prefer to read it there.
Anon, thank you for this very fun request: "Hey, could you make one for the boys asking you if they can do your hair? Or like them just trying to do your hair? How it ends up- them making a mess or being decent or actually doing well- you decide for each <3" And just a tiny warning for Jimin's part: I allude to pregnancy and labor. Nothing graphic or detailed, just mentioned.
Namjoon
While taking a shower together, he asks to wash your hair, which you happily agree to. He lathers the shampoo carefully to make sure none gets in your eyes, his fingers expertly massaging your scalp at the same time. However, when he applies your conditioner, he mindlessly runs his fingers through your hair, accidentally ripping through a small knot. You yelp from the pain, and he yelps in response. He begins to apologize. "It's OK, Joonie," you say (because it really is), "Just start from the bottom of my hair, and work your way up."
Seokjin
Right before, you have a moment of clarity - should you really be letting Jin trim your bangs? Well, you are already sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and Jin is hovering over you with scissors. Fuck it. "Go for it, baby," you tell him. With your bangs sandwiched between his index and middle finger, he lines up everything before snipping away several millimeters of hair. When he is done, he steps back and you assess his work in the mirror. They're even, and no longer in your eyes. "Thank you, Jin," you exclaim, planting a kiss on his cheek.
Yoongi
When you bring home an at-home keratin treatment kit, he is skeptical. But when he catches you mumbling about 'rising salon costs' and 'the economy,' he feels proud and weirdly more eager to help. As you hoped he would, he quickly takes over, thoroughly reading the instruction manual before telling you what to do first. He is in charge of the timer after you apply the product. And when it comes time to blow dry and straighten your hair throughout the process, he makes sure you don't miss any parts on the back of your head.
Hoseok
While watching a movie together, you sit in between his legs. "That feels really good, Hobi," you hum when he begins to play with your hair. He doesn't respond because, little do you know, he is creating a masterpiece. Minutes later, he startles you when he speaks suddenly, "Hey, can I have that?" He snakes one of his arms around you, and points to the hair tie on your wrist. Although confused, you give it to him. After a few more seconds pass, he says, "Done!" You touch the back of your head and find that he has done a perfect French braid.
Jimin
As your contractions get even closer together, and the nurses begin talking about you needing to push soon, he notices you angrily swipe hair out of your face. Without a second thought, he briefly leaves your side to retrieve a hair tie from your go-bag. "Jimin, what are you-" you manage to get out before he is next to you again. He wordlessly gathers your hair into a loose ponytail before securing it with the hair tie. He holds his hand out to you again, which you immediately grab ahold of, squeezing it tightly, forever grateful for him.
Taehyung
Whenever he holds you in his arms, there's a good chance he will also play with your hair - stroking your hair, twirling your hair between his fingers. If his gentle touches begin making you drift to sleep (which they often do), he will tease you. "Is my baby tired?" he coos with a small smirk. You pout in response, "This is your fault, Tae. I feel so good right now." He laughs softly. "Don't fight it, (Y/N)," he responds, "Just let it happen." You want to argue back, but you begin to doze. Unsurprisingly, he is not far behind you.
Jungkook
"Is this giving you ASMR?" you ask, jokingly, when you notice him linger while you are curling your hair. He doesn't respond, but his cheeks turning a faint red tell you all you need to know. He continues to linger because he thinks to himself, so what if he finds you brushing your hair; and the sound of your hairclips when you section your hair; and the sound of the curling iron to all be calming sights and sounds. You manage to convince him to do one curl for you, but one is enough (despite him giggling the whole time). He just wants to watch.
When he asks you to stay the night, he is prepared to present the most compelling reasons as to why you should. However, before he can do so, you respond with a, "Sure! I would love, too, Joonie." He blinks once, wondering why he ever thought he would need to put up a fight in the first place. "Oh, okay," he breathes, "I'll just go grab you a t-shirt and sweatpants then." "Sounds good, Joonie! Thank you."
Seokjin
He wants you to stay, but he also likes to plan out his night, so he asks you as soon as you arrive. "Do you want me to?" you question as you slip out of your shoes. "Well, obviously," he responds, "I just want to know how much time with you I am working with, just a few hours or all night." You giggle. "Of course, I'll stay the night, Jin," you reply. His claps his hands together, "Ah, (Y/N), this is great news!"
Yoongi
After excusing himself, he returns to his living room minutes later and tosses one of his t-shirts and sweatpants into your lap. You give him a knowing look. "And what am I supposed to do with these?" you tease him anyway. He mumbles a response. "What, Yoongi?" "You put them on," he responds, just slightly louder. "Am I staying the night?" you ask, unable to hide your smile. He nods, ears turning pink.
Hoseok
He sighs heavily as he walks you to his front door. "I wonder what I'm going to do for the rest of the night," he says more to himself than you as you slip on your shoes, "Since I'll be all alone - just me, myself, and I." "It'll be OK, Hobi," you giggle but when you look at him, he looks pitiful and you're not sure why you're leaving anyway. You kick your shoes off. "I knew you would change your mind," he exclaims.
Jimin
He practically holds you hostage by cuddling you, his arms wrapped tightly around you as he lays his head on your chest. "Five more minutes," he pouts whenever you try to call it a night. Eventually, he says, "It's getting late, you should just stay." With a sigh, you agree (although you never really wanted to leave to begin with). "Really, baby?" he asks, excitedly, finally releasing his grip on you.
Taehyung
As soon as you arrive at his apartment, he spots your small overnight bag that you brought with you. "Is that what I think it is?" he asks, excitedly. You glance at the bag before looking back at him, your cheeks growing red. "I know I should haven't assumed anything," you begin to say but he cuts you off by pulling you into his arms. "You're welcome to stay the night anytime, baby," he reassures you.
Jungkook
"I want to show you something," he says, excitedly, pulling you through his home until you reach the bathroom. With a dramatic flourish of his arm, he points to the edge of the sink, where there is a cup with two toothbrushes - his and yours? "For when you stay the night," he explains. "You want me to stay the night?" you ask. He nods, but then adds, quickly, "But only if you want to, (Y/N)."
Thank you, @coffeedepressionsoup, for the request: "I was wondering if you would be interested in doing a reaction of the boys to their S/O snoring (for the first time or after many years)." Hope you're doing well, too! And thank you for your continued support and feedback. I really, really appreciate it. ♡
Namjoon
"Didn't sleep?" you ask him after he yawns for the umpteenth time while you eat breakfast. "Your snoring kept me up," he explains. He doesn't think twice about his response (he's a light sleeper, and you hardly ever snore) until he finds you frantically shopping for nasal strips on your phone. When he asks what you're doing, you look at him with tears in your eyes, "I feel so bad, Joonie, for keeping you awake. You already having trouble sleeping - I don't want to make it worse." "You don't," he reassures you gently as he gathers you in his arms, "Last night was a one-off. You have nothing worry to about."
Seokjin
The morning after your first time spending the night at his apartment, you find him in his kitchen, cooking you both breakfast. "Good morning, my little snorer," he sing-songs, cheerily. You stop dead in your tracks, feelings of horror and embarrassment immediately creeping through your body. When he notices your reaction, he moves to your side. "I was only joking," he reassures you with a soft smile, "Well, you actually do snore, but don't worry about it, (Y/N)! A little snoring won't disrupt Worldwide Handsome's beauty sleep." You begin to whine, but he interrupts you, "It's OK, I promise."
Yoongi
"Don't you have more work to do?" you ask, sleepily, as he lays down beside you on the couch in Genius Lab. He yawns. "I do," he says, simply, "But I also need a nap." And while that is partially true, your snoring minutes ago had also impeded his work. It was a rare occurrence for you so he just laughed it off when his multiple attempts to record something was interrupted by your snores, and instead he decided to join you. With his arm draped around your waist, he snuggles closer to you. "You're warm," he whispers, his breathing quickly evening out as he begins to doze.
Hoseok
One morning, he shows you a video he filmed on his phone the night before. The video is of him in bed next to you, the only light is from his phone screen causing the video to be grainy and his face to look gaunt. He talks in a hushed voice. It's giving Blair Witch Project x Paranormal Activity vibes. "I'm filming this as proof that you snore," he whispers, quickly, before the frame of the video shifts as he presumably holds his phone closer to you. For several seconds, there is nothing but silence before you hear the loudest, single snore ever. The sudden sound causes him to yelp.
Jimin
With him being a heavy sleeper, and having dealt with the other members' snoring for years, he hardly notices your snoring. However, he still likes to announce you snore to other people, as if it were just a cute fun fact about you. After he mentions it at dinner with a group of your friends, you begin sulking when you get home. "What's wrong?" he asks, immediately picking up on your mood change. He tries to reach for you but you move out of his reach. He tries again, quicker this time, and manages to pull you into his arms. "You told everyone that I snore," you whine, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
Taehyung
You don't know you snore until he mentions it, and you don't realize how much it bothers you until that night. You find yourself afraid to fall asleep because you don't want your snoring to keep him awake. The thought bothers you so much, you eventually move to the living room to try to be considerate. However, in the middle of the night, you are awoken by his arms wrapping around you. "What are you doing out here, baby?" he asks, "Are you mad at me?" You shake your head once. "I don't want my snoring to keep you awake," you explain, sleepily. "I prefer your snoring over sleeping apart," he counters.
Jungkook
One of the other members stay with you and Jungkook while their home is undergoing renovations. On the first night of their stay, just as they are about to drift off to sleep, they hear the most terrible sound. After straining their ears, they realize that despite your bedroom being down the hall, they can hear you and Jungkook snoring. Both of you are loud, and while your snoring sometimes overlaps, it also alternates (you snore and then he snores), creating a constant stream of cacophony. The next morning, the member asks both of you, "Have you ever considered doing a sleep study?"
Thank you for the request, anon: hii could you please write what would be bts' reaction to the reader being a photographer? I'm sorry it took me so long. Also sticking to my word about including the link to this post/message about AI. I never, ever use AI to write my posts. However, a lovely anon brought up the harm of even accessing it for personal use. This was an important discussion to have.
Namjoon
As you work on editing the photos of a wedding you shot over the weekend, Namjoon cannot help but look over your shoulder. Never minding his curiosity, you let him watch quietly until he sniffles. You look up at him, bemused. "Joonie?" you question. "I don't understand how you capture love so brilliantly," he offers, simply, placing a hand on your shoulder. You put your hand over his and look back at your computer screen. One thing’s for sure - this man loves love.
Seokjin
The sudden, rapid shutter sound of your camera startles Jin, who is zoning out as he waits for a nibble on his fishing line. "Yah, (Y/N)," he says, ready to scold you, "You almost gave me a heart attack." His words don't register as you are too excited. "Jin, did you see that bird?" you exclaim. He didn't, but you were able to capture it as it dived towards the water, presumably hunting a fish. As his heart rates goes down, he says, fondly, "Let me see the photos, (Y/N)."
Yoongi
When several of your photos are featured in an architecture magazine, any semblance of Yoongi's typical, nonchalant demeanor leaves his body as he slips into "proud partner" mode (although he is always proud of you). He comes home with many copies of the magazine issue in his arms. "What are you going to do with all those?" you question. "I'm going to make sure everyone sees your work," he says, "One for Seokjin, one for Hoseok, one for Namjoon..."
Hoseok
With new choreography plaguing him, he asks you to tagalong with him to one of the practice rooms late one night. But even after an hour or so of practicing, he still does not like what he sees in the mirror. He huffs, "I'm never going to get this, jagiya." You turn the screen of your camera towards him - he didn't realize you were taking photos of him. "But you looked beautiful, Hobi," you insist, scrolling through the photos, where you captured his fluid movements so accurately.
Jimin
With you specializing in black and white portraits, Jimin eventually convinces you to take his photo, after being together for months. When you finally do, your hands tremble for a moment as you bring your camera's viewfinder to your eye, weirdly nervous to have him on the other side. You expect him to choose an intense, maybe even smoldering, gaze, but instead you find him smiling brightly for your camera. "Perfect," you say before pressing the shutter button.
Taehyung
"This is my favorite," he declares as he stops to look at a photo in your portfolio - a lake surrounded by a thick forest. He flips to the next photo and inhales sharply. "No, this one is my favorite," he says, now looking a photo of a different landscape. "Tae, you've said that about every photo," you giggle. He looks at you, he blinks once. "I can't have more than one favorite?" he deadpans. "You can, but-" He cuts you off as he flips to the next photo, "Now, this is my new favorite."
Jungkook
Jungkook doesn't realize how he ignorant he was to the impact of your work until one day, when he clicks on a news article about a current event that the country has been anxiously following. A photo accompanies the article, and that's when he sees it, "Photo courtesy of (Y/N)." In the same room as him, you ask, "Everything OK?" He looks up, eyes wide. He's OK and he tells you so, but he still thinks to himself, you are documenting history.
could i get an iced latte with an ube cream puff :3 like bsf!bts reactions to when u have another boy bsf and they’re jealous? tysm
A/N: OMG thank you for humoring me and placing an order hehe! Also, thank you for celebrating me reaching 1k!
Warnings: mdni 18+, this is my version of my ot7! I write these people like characters - I don't know them fr, fluff
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Namjoon - Namjoon takes it quietly. His mind is racing as he flicks his eyes from you, you're pointing at some guy pictured on your phone, and the photo. He doesn't like that, not at all. His eyebrows knit in concentration, zoning in on the guy, wondering where he's been that you allowed yourself another best friend. He sighs and decides he's going to have to change your mind. Only he gets that attention, that title.
Jin - Jin's head whips so fast to look at you, because he must have misheard. Why did you just introduce him to this boy and say it was your best friend? His eyebrow raises, his lips curving into a frown. He doesn't hesitate to step slightly in front of you, blocking you from the guy in front of him. He sticks his hand out to the guy, a fake grin plastered on his pretty face. "Hey, I'm Jin. Her actual best friend."
Yoongi - Yoongi scoffs a laugh, his lips tilting up in a condescending smirk as he looks at the guy up and down. "Don't joke like that," his voice is soft but deep, his dark eyes looking over at you with a dangerous glimmer. He folds his arms across his chest, ignoring the man, to lean closer to you. His face is close, making your heart leap to your throat. Yoongi's eyes flicker between yours, "I'm your best friend."
Hoseok - Hoseok's smile tightens, the brightness in his eyes dulling a little as he looks from you to the guy next to you. Best friend? That's his title. He huffs a laugh, raising an eyebrow at you, a teasing grin on his face. "You're just throwing that title to anyone, huh?"
Jimin - Jimin looks at the guy's hand that reaches for his in a handshake before looking back at you. "What?" His eyes squint in confusion because he's pretty sure you just said this guy was your best friend??? That's Jimin's label? "I'm pretty sure I am your best friend, last time I checked." He's not letting you off the hook, waiting for your response with a raised eyebrow.
Taehyung - Taehyung is instantly triggered. Excuse you? His face scrunches into a frown. Looking at you like you've grown three heads. He doesn't know why it's bothering him. You've introduced friends before; they were girls, but still. He pursed his lips, not agreeing with your opinion when you pointed at some guy across the party. His fingers twitch to pull you closer, instantly not liking the guy and glaring.
Jungkook - Jungkook is upset. You dare tell him some random guy is your best friend? You tell him it's some childhood friend back from school - but Jungkook doesn't carrreeeee. He grabs you, hugging you close to him, giving the guy a mad side-eye. He goes as far as to tell the guy that he's your emergency contact, that's how best friend he is. What a dork.
He pushed your buttons, riled you up until you were angrily shoving him back. He’s so much bigger than you, taller than you, with wide shoulders and a broad chest as he lets you push him around.
Your lips are pulled back in a sneer when you sink down on his cock. Your body is hot and your pussy swallows every mouth watering inch of his fat cock like it’ll be a punishment for him, somehow. Your puffy pussy lips kiss his heavy balls in greeting with each hard bounce you give. The ‘plap, plap, plap’ of your pussy smacking his pelvis makes your head spin. But the anger is still thrumming under your skin. You’re not letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his plump cock head smooching your cervix with little spurts of hot gooey precum with each drag of your pretty cunt.
The air fills with skin hitting skin, your cute little whimpers slipping from your glossy lips and mixing with the obscene squelches of your drooling cunt that slurps his heavy cock deeper into your wet channel.
His girth stretches your gummy walls wide, filling you up to your limit until you’re feeling him in your stomach, your lungs, fuck, your throat. And you can’t help but wrap your fingers around his throat, wanting to shut him up as you rode him into the bed, the floor, the couch -
But when you look down at him, you only see his fucked out face, smiling with a lovesick grin as he looks up at you with hearts in his eyes - your pussy grips his cock tighter and his eyes roll to the back of his head, the love sick grin growing as he bucks his hips up to meet each one of your angry and filthy bounces.
Yes, yes, take your anger out on him. He can handle it. Fuck, he wants it. It’s why he started the argument in the first place.
Summary: how the guys would react to randomly being given flowers.
Warnings: none I think.
A/N: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this, it was really fun to write, I hope you enjoy it!
Requests are open
Masterlist
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Seokjin: I feel like he would be the type who likes sending flowers pretty often, so when you turn the tables on him, he pretends to be a bit offended at first, like "I'm supposed to buy YOU flowers! Why are you stealing my move?!" But he absolutely loves it.(although, he will have to outdo you with a more elaborate arrangement for you now)
Yoongi: Shy boi. Tries to play it of as no big deal when you show up with a bouquet of daisies, but it's no good. If his ears turning bright red weren't a giveaway to how flustered he is, the way his face keeps slowly scrunching up into that tiny smile thing he does is.(please buy him more flowers, it's too cute)
Hobi: His whole face immediately lights up with a huge smile and crushes you in a big hug(nearly crushes the flowers too, but thankfully you manage to swing them out of the way in time), while squealing about how sweet and cute he thinks you are. He's the one getting flowers, and yet somehow your the one thst ended up blushing?
Namjoon: Gets flustered, but then instantly gets worried. Did he forget an anniversary? Birthday? Is someone sick? When you tell him you just bought them cause you thought he deserved something nice, he's back to a blushing mess again. Keeps them in his studio for inspiration.
Jimin: Absolutely melts. The moment you walk in and hand him the bouquet of roses, he turns into a smiley little ball of giggles. Lowkey brags to the others about it because aren't they so pretty? Isn't he so lucky to have someone like you who loves him so much? Probably dries a few and keeps them as part of his collection of little momentos.
Taehyung: He loves being doted on, so when you show up to your weekly movie night with flowers, he gets the biggest grin on his face. He will end up teasing you a little though, like "You like me that much, huh?" Another one that'll brag about it, but he won't let anyone near them. They're HIS flowers, he's not sharing!
Jungkook: Sorry, JK.exe has stopped working. Like, I think this would break his brain a lil bit for some reason. Don't misunderstand, he's touched, but he just doesn't quite know what to do with himself at first. He just kinda laughs and says thank you, but then, after like an hour of his eye being drawn back to them over and over, he comes back and just kinda tackles you in a backhug because why are you so sweet?!
