“The thing with Taehyung is that he use his hands a lot while drawing and get his fingers stained with charcoal, a lot. But when I come back home later, I love to see the same black prints all over my body.”
+Pairing: Taehyung x femlale MC ft Seokjin +Genre: College!AU, Artist!kth +Warnings: sexual assault victim +Note: GUYS! This is an adaptation of the book “Easy” by Tammara Webber. I decided to start like this because im not sure of my writing skill yet, so enjoy!
I dutifully emailed the econ tutor when I got back to the dorm after class, and started on my art history homework. While tapping out a response essay on a neoclassical sculptor and his influence on the style, I mumbled a thank you to my inner neurotic that I’d at least kept up in my non-econ classes.
With Elee at work, I could buckle down to an evening of quiet studying. Here in our microscopic room, she couldn’t help being a near-constant distraction. While I attempted to cram for an algebra test last week, the following conversation took place: “I had to have those pumps for my job, Daddy!” she argued into her cell. “You said you wanted me to learn the value of work while I’m in school, and you always say a person should dress for success, so I’m only trying to follow your words of wisdom.”
When she glanced at me, I rolled my eyes. My roommate was a hostess at a swanky restaurant downtown, a position she frequently used as an excuse for overspending her clothing budget. Three hundred dollar shoes, essential for a job that paid nine bucks an hour? I stifled my laugh when she winked back at me. Her father always caved, especially when she employed the D-word—Daddy.
I wasn’t expecting a quick reply from the tutor. As an upperclassman and a tutor for a huge class like Dr. Park’s, he had to be busy. I was also certain he’d be none too thrilled to assist a failing sophomore who’d skipped the midterm and two weeks of class, and who had never attended one of his tutoring sessions. I was prepared to show him I would work hard to catch up and get out of his hair as quickly as possible.
Fifteen minutes after I emailed him, my inbox dinged. He’d replied, in the same formal tone I’d chosen after.
“Ms. Son, Dr. Park has informed me of your need to catch up in macro and the project you’ll need to complete in order to replace the midterm grade. Since he’s approved you to do this work, there’s no need to share the reason why you’ve fallen so far behind with me. I’m employed as a tutor, so this falls under my job description.
We can meet on campus, preferably in the library, to discuss the project. It’s detailed, and will require a great deal of outside research on your part. I’ve been instructed by Dr. Heller as to the level of assistance I should provide. Basically, he wants to see what you can do, alone. I’ll be available for general questions, of course.My group tutoring sessions are MWTh from 1-2:00, but those cover current material. I assume you’ll need more assistance comprehending the material you missed over the past two weeks. Let me know the times you’re available to meet for individual tutoring sessions and we’ll coordinate from there.
I clenched my jaw. Though perfectly polite, the tone of his email reeked of condescension… until his signature at the very end: KT. Was he being friendly, or casual, or ridiculing my attempt to sound like a serious, mature student? I read his email again and got even madder. So he thought I was too dumb to comprehend the course material on my own?
“Mr. Kim, I can’t attend your sessions because I have art history MW 1-2:30, and I tutor at the middle school on Thursday afternoons. I live on campus and am available to meet late afternoons Monday/Wednesday, and most evenings. I’m also free on weekends when I’m not tutoring. I’ve begun reading the course material on GDP, CPI, and inflation, and I’m working on the review questions at the end of chapter 9. If you want to meet to pass on the project requirements, I’m sure I can catch up on the regular coursework on my own.
I pressed send and felt superior for all of about twenty seconds. In actuality, I’d barely glanced at chapter 9. So far, it looked less like comprehensible supply and demand charts, and more like gibberish with dollar signs and confusing shifts tossed in for fun. As for GDP and CPI, I knew what those acronyms signified… Sort of.
Oh, God. I’d just haughtily dismissed the tutor provided by my professor—the professor who wasn’t obligated to give me a second chance, but had.
When my email dinged again, I swallowed before clicking over to it. A new message from Kim T was at the top of my inbox.
“Y/N, If you prefer to catch up on your own, that’s your prerogative, of course. I’ll gather the information on the project and we can meet, say, Wednesday just after 2:00?
Kim T. PS What do you tutor?”
His reply didn’t seem angry. He was civil. Nice, even. I was so emotional lately that I couldn’t judge anything clearly.
“Kim T, I teach private lessons to orchestra students—middle and high school—on the upright bass. I just remembered I agreed to assist in transporting two of my students’ instruments to a program this Wednesday afternoon. (I drive a truck, to accommodate transport of my own instrument, and now I’m constantly inundated with requests to move large musical instruments, sofas, mattresses…)
Are you free any evening? Or Saturday?
I’d been playing the upright bass since I was ten. In fourth grade, one of the orchestra’s two bass players had a pee wee football collision the second weekend of school, resulting in a snapped collarbone. Our orchestra teacher, Mrs. Peabody, had looked out over the vast sea of violin players and pleaded for someone to switch. “Anyone?” she’d squeaked. When no one else volunteered, I raised my hand.
“Honey, isn’t that an odd choice of instrument for a girl to play?” my mother asked. Still petulant over my rejection of learning piano—her instrument of choice—in favor of the violin, she was immediately unsupportive of my new preference.
“Yes.” I glared at my mother and she rolled her eyes.
By the time I was fifteen, I’d reached my full five-and-a-half-foot stature and could perform with a three-quarter sized instrument, no height adjustment needed, though it was a close thing.
For the past year, I’d been giving lessons to local students—all of them boys—each of them some version of smug and impertinent until they heard me play.
“Y/N, Upright bass? Interesting.
I’m busy in the evenings this week, and most weekends as well. I don’t want you to lose time on this, so I’ll send you the project information later tonight, and we can discuss it over email until we can sync our schedules. Will that work for you?
KT. PS – I’ll keep you in mind if I buy a large appliance or need to move.”
“Kim, Thank you, yes—that would be great. (Re: sending the project information, I mean, not your brazen resolution to use me for my truck’s hauling capacity. You’re no better than my friends! They dodge U-Haul rentals and delivery fees, and I get paid in beer.)
“Y/N, I’ll send the project specifics when I get home, and we can discuss.The barter system is just primitive economics at work, you know. (And are you old enough for beer?)
“Kim, Far be it from me to knock an effective use of prehistoric economics. And I suppose friends who pay in beer are better than friends who don’t pay at all. (Re: my age—I don’t believe the job description of Economics Tutor makes you privy to that sort of personal information.)
“Y/N, Touché. I’ll just have to trust you not to get me arrested for supplying alcohol to minors.You’re right—impoverished, auto-lacking college students like myself should respect tried-and-true methods of transport negotiations.
I smiled at his candid admission of being carless, my face falling when I contrasted it with the sense of self-importance Seokjin got from his car. Right before we graduated, his parents gave his two-year-old Mustang to his sixteen-year-old brother, who’d wrecked his Jeep the weekend before. As an early graduation gift, they replaced Seokjin’s Mustang with the brand new BMW—sleek and black, with every available upgrade, including plush leather seats and a stereo system I could hear from a block away.
Fuuuuck. I had to stop linking every single thing that happened to me with Seokjin.
Arriving a minute before econ began Wednesday morning, the last thing I expected to see was Seokjin, leaning on the wall outside the classroom, exchanging phone numbers with a girl. Giggling after snapping a picture of herself, she handed his phone back. He did the same, grinning down at her.
He would never smile at me like that again.
I didn’t realize I was frozen in place until a classmate shouldered into me, knocking my heavy backpack from my shoulder. “’Excuse me,” he grumbled, his tone more ‘Get the fuck out of the way’ than ‘Sorry I ran into you’.
As I bent to retrieve my backpack, praying Seokjin and his fangirl hadn’t seen me, a hand grasped the strap and swung the pack up from the floor. I straightened and looked into clear brown eyes. “Chivalry isn’t really dead, you know.” His deep, calm voice was just as I remembered from Saturday night, and from Monday afternoon, across the Starbucks counter. “Oh? ”He slipped the strap back onto my shoulder. “Nah. That guy’s just an asshole.” He gestured toward the guy who’d bumped me, but I could have sworn his eyes raked over my ex, too, who was crossing to the door, laughing with the girl. “You okay?” For the third time, this question, from him, held deeper significance than the usual, everyday implication. “Yes, fine.” What could I do but lie? “Thank you.” I turned and entered the room, took my new seat, and spent the first forty-five minutes of class fixing my attention on Dr. Park, the whiteboard he filled, and the notes I took. Dutifully copying charts of short-run equilibrium and aggregate demand, all of it seeming like so much nonsense, I realized I would have to beg my tutor Kim for help after all. My pride would only cause me to slide further behind. Minutes before the end of class, I turned and reached into my backpack as an excuse to sneak a look at the guy on the back row. He was staring at me, a black pencil loose between his fingers, tapping the notebook in front of him. He slouched into his seat, one elbow over the back of it, one booted foot casually propped on the support under his desk. As our eyes held, his expression changed subtly from unreadable to the barest of smiles, though guarded. He didn’t look away, even when I glanced into my bag and then back at him. I snapped forward, my face warming.
Guys had shown interest in me over the past three years, but other than a couple of short-lived, certainly never revealed or acted-upon crushes—one on my own college-aged bass tutor, and another on my chemistry lab partner—I’d not been attracted to anyone but Seokjin. The economics lecture reduced to background babble, I couldn’t decide if my response to this stranger was lingering embarrassment, gratitude that he’d saved me from Junmin, or a simple crush. Perhaps all three.
When class ended, I packed my textbook into my backpack and resisted the urge to look in his direction again. I fiddled long enough for Seokjin and his fangirl to leave. As I stood to go, the persistently sleepy guy who sat next to me spoke.
“Hey, which questions did he say to do for the extra credit? I must have knocked off for a few seconds right around when he discussed those—my notes are indecipherable.” I glanced at the spot he indicated in his notes, and sure enough, the scribbles became less and less readable. “I’m Jungkook, by the way.”
“Oh, um, let’s see…” I flipped through my spiral and pointed to the assignment details printed across the top of the page. “Here it is.” As he copied it, I added, “I’m Y/N.”
Jungkook was one of those quite and nice guys, I’ve had seen him talking to his friends these days. He seems relaxed all they time.
“Thanks, Y/N. This saves my ass—I need those extra credit points. See you Friday.” He snapped his notebook closed. “Unless I accidentally sleep in,” he added, giving me a genuine smile.
I returned the smile as I moved into the aisle. “No problem.”
Maybe I was capable of making friends outside of my Seokjin circle. This interaction, along with the defection of most of our friends to Seokjin after the breakup, made me realize how dependent on him I’d become. I was a little shocked. Why had this never occurred to me before? Because I’d never thought Seokjin and I could end?
Foolish, naïve assumption. Obviously.
The room had almost cleared, the guy from the back row included. I felt a stab of irrational disappointment. So he’d stared at me in class—big deal. Maybe he was just bored. Or easily distracted.
But as I exited the room, I spotted him across the crowded hallway, talking with a girl from class. His demeanor was relaxed, from the navy shirt, open over a plain gray t-shirt, to the hand tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. Muscle didn’t show under the unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt, but his abdomen looked flat, and he’d put Junmin on the ground and bloody easily enough Saturday night. His black pencil sat atop one ear, only the pink eraser at the tip showing, the rest disappearing into his dark, messy hair.
“So it’s a group tutoring thing?” the girl asked, twirling a long loop of blonde hair around and around her finger. “And it lasts an hour?”
He hitched his backpack, twitching wayward bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah. From one to two.”
As he gazed down at her, she tilted her head and rocked her weight slightly from side to side, as though she was about to dance with him. Or for him. “Maybe I’ll check it out. What are you doing after?”
She huffed an annoyed breath. “You’re always working, Taehyung.” Her pouty tone hit my ears like nails on a chalkboard, as it always has when used by any girl above age six. But bonus—I’d just learned his name.
He glanced up then, as though he sensed me standing there, eavesdropping, and I pivoted in the opposite direction and started walking swiftly, too late to pretend I hadn’t been purposely listening to their conversation. I wove through the rush of people in the packed hallway, ducking out the side exit.
No way was I going to those tutoring sessions if Taehyung attended them. I wasn’t sure what he meant—if he meant anything at all—staring at me like that during class, but the overt intensity of his gaze made me uneasy.
Genre: Vampire AU (not your average vampire tho ;-) )
Taehyung likes to play God more often than he should. He’s been alive for five centuries, give or take a few decades, and he likes to believe that he is the sole reason that history took the course that it did. He laughs at the face of humanity, because yes they’ve identified him as a vampire, but an entirely wrong species of vampire. He wasn’t like those filthy lowlifes that feasted on the blood of humans (or animals if they were vegetarian). No, Taehyung was a better, more evolved breed of vampire. Humans have yet to properly identify him, so he just calls himself an empathetic vampire. Taehyung feeds on the raw emotions that emanates from humans. He gets high on happiness and drunk on aggression, and he’s very well capable of manipulating others to give off the emotional energy he desires. Some of his proudest moments include the start of wars; the anguish and hatred radiating from the years worth of fighting satisfying his neverending hunger.
Now, Taehyung wouldn’t say he has an addiction; he hardly feeds and when he does it’s only for a moment or two, nor has he found anyone who’s emotions are strong enough to pull him in, let alone becoming a possible mate for the boy. Taehyung admits that he gets lonely at times, and he’s had his fair share of sleeping around over the centuries, but everyone was the same. Emotions blissful at first, but dull a moment later. He starts thinking that perhaps he’s meant to live his life in solitude. After all why would a manipulative monster like him be given a chance at his own happiness? It’s years later though, in a park in Seoul that he runs into you, and decides that perhaps he can get addicted, and that maybe, just maybe, you’re the one he’s been waiting for all these years.
You tiptoed into Minseok’s room, smiling to yourself. He didn’t know you were in South Korea, as he wasn’t expecting you yet for another week. A little bit gleeful, you carefully sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes were still closed in sleep, his lips slightly parted. You felt a little bad waking him, but you knew he would be upset if you didn’t. You ran your fingers through his hair, softly calling, “Baby~ Hey cutie, it’s time to get up.” He stirred, and you kept smoothing back his blond hair. His pretty brown eyes flickered open, sleepily focusing on me. He sat up, rubbing his eye. You continued to stroke his hair, and he leaned into your touch. “You’re early,” He mumbled. “I haven’t cleaned, the place is a wreck.” “Minnie, your room is spotless.” You teased. He yawned. “No, the rest of the dorm is messy.” “You think I care? I came to see you, not the dorm.” You hugged him. He hugged you back. “I missed you.” You giggled. “I missed you too.” He pulled away long enough to kiss you, then rested his head on your shoulder. “Got big plans today?” You asked. “If staying with you in bed all day counts, then yes.” “I’m surprised. Didn’t I mess up your neatly ordered day?” “No, my manager gave me the day off. I was going to sleep in and be lazy today.” Minseok yawned again. You hummed in acknowledgment. “Cuddle with me, I missed you.” He pulled you down onto the bed. You wiggled up against him, enjoying his sleepy warmth. You were starting to feel drowsy when he kissed your cheek and mumbled, “I love you.” You turned your head, your lips meeting his lazily. “Love you too, Minseok-ah.”