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btsydtrash · 3 years

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Euphoric Endeavours [6]

vampire bts, poly ot7 x uni student yn

(AN: Hi, all! This story is actually already posted on AO3. But! I want to try and grow a little community on Tumblr, too. So, I decided to post it on here. I have almost 50 chapters of this story up over there, so I’ll slowly be adding them onto here too. I hope that you like it!)

also, i don’t have a tag list, but if you follow/put notifications, you’ll get alerted. tysm loves!

find me on twitter word count: 4k

(angst / smut / fluff / gore / yandere)

Chapter 6 - ‘Collision’

Stepping out into the chilly weather, you realise that it’s nearing one in the morning and your body is exhausted, but you know you won’t be able to sleep if you don’t figure out what happened, and the only person you can go to lives at this address.

Walking into the decorative foyer of the expensive building, barely taking in the smooth marble floors, the white stone pillars holding up an outrageously high ceiling,

you lock eyes with the singular concierge behind the desk. He’s dressed in a suit, hair slick back and appearance perfect, despite the late hour. He takes one look at you, narrowing his eyes briefly at your unkempt appearance, before the perfunctory smile takes place.

He greets you, politely, head inclining slightly in interest, “Hello, Miss. May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Kim Namjoon’s floor,” you tell him, not having the energy to come up with an appropriate lie. “It’s important.”

His eyes narrow fractionally, and he says, “Unfortunately, I will not be able to give you that information.”

For the first time, you regret with your whole being never taking Taehyung up on his offers to come study at his apartment. You’d always been too hesitant, too wary, to be in his home, away from the safety of the prying eyes in the library and study hall. He’d always offered, and he seemed genuine enough, but still – you felt weary. If you had, maybe you’d have more information to use.

“I understand all of that, but I need to talk to him,” you reply. Leaning your elbows against the marble desk, you say, “If you could just ask him to come down, I’d be really appreciative.”

“Like I said, Miss, I won’t be able to disturb the residents this late at night,” he says. “If you knew his apartment number, you could use the phone to call up and he could grant you access to the building.”

“I don’t know it,” you answer, frustration building at the front of your head. Rubbing at the sore spot, you say, “I’m not interested in coming back here. He has some information about something that happened to my friend, and I need to speak with him.”

The man sets his jaw and replies, “Then, I would suggest trying to contact him directly at another time.”

Letting out a huff of frustration, you rest your head against the cool marble and whine, “My friend is in the hospital and I can’t do anything but cry outside of some jerk’s apartment. Today truly is the most pathetic I’ve felt in a while.”

“YN?”

You perk up at the call of your name, turning around to see Taehyung’s cautious expression fill your line of sight. He looks awfully comfy, the way he’s dressed, and he cards his hand through his damp brown hair, grin widening. “I knew it was you. I’d recognise the line of your back from anywhere.”

“That’s not remotely perverted at all,” you tell him, humourlessly.

“Is something wrong? Your face is all puffy,” he says, approaching you. Tilting your head with the crook of his finger, he lets out a light hiss, expression darkening. He gets serious unreasonably quickly. You don’t know why it makes you feel flutterly inside, so you pull yourself away from his touch. “You’re almost crying. Why?”

You push your glasses into your hair and scrub at your eyes, banishing your tears with the sleeve of your sweater. “The weather outside is windy, that’s why I cried.”

The break in your voice on the last words makes him grimace, and he says, softer, gentler, a note of tenderness that makes your stomach flip, “Talk to me.”

“Why do you care?”

He shrugs. “I care because you’re a friend of mine. And I worry about my friends, even the stubborn ones.”

“We aren’t friends,” you inform him, tightly. “Your brother wants to beat my ass.”

“Ah, hyung wouldn’t do that,” he teases, lips pulling up into a carefree smile, glad that your tears have subsided. He’d prefer you to be smiling, of course, but progress is progress, he supposes. “He’s just not used to getting his way, is all.”

“He’s spoiled,” you huff, dirty shoes squeaking as you kick at the marble floor.

He nods, in agreement, or to placate you – you don’t know – and asks, mischievously, “Did you come all this way to tell him that again?”

You shake your head. “I need to talk to Namjoon.”

His brow puckers, in confusion, before he asks, “Namjoon? Why?”

“He helped my friend,” you explain, desperately. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions about what happened.”

Taehyung plays with the metal dangling from his ear, and suggests, “Why don’t you ask her?”

“She’s still unconscious. Young-mi said she’ll call me when she wakes up,” you gesture to your phone, but when the device doesn’t respond, you let out a gentle curse. “Fuck, it died.”

“Come on up. Joonie should be home, and you can charge your phone all you like,” he offers, helpfully. When he notices your hesitancy, he lets out a dark chuckle. “We really don’t bite, YN. Not unless you ask first.” Then, he lightly tugs your wrist, pulling you towards the elevator. He throws a wave at the baffled concierge and says, enthusiastically, “Thanks, Kyungsoo-ssi. Get some rest, okay?”

You feel the concierge’s disapproving stare, but you refuse to spare him a glance back, although you want nothing more than to childishly stick your tongue out in his direction.

The ride up to their floor – the top floor, your brain supplies unhelpfully – is silent, save for Taehyung humming along to some trot song that must be running through his brain. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way up. When the doors open, he tugs you down the hall, and taps in the code to their apartment, pulling open the doors and nudging you inside. Instantly, you’re met with the scent of rosewood and vanilla.

Sniffing experimentally, you make a face, and Taehyung giggles. “It’s Jungkook. He likes sweet smelling things, so he’s been buying oil diffusers to put around the house.”

“It’s good,” you admit, kicking off your shoes, awkwardly. “It smells really good, actually.”

He beams before gesturing with his head to the corridor to the left. “Come. Joonie should be in his room.”

“I’ll wait here,” you reply, planting your feet. The lounge area felt more neutral than walking deeper into their personal spaces, potentially nearing their bedrooms. You already feel so wildly out of your comfort zone, and you know that it shows on your face.

“Suit yourself,” he answers, still just as bubbly. “Take a seat in the living room and we’ll be out in a second, okay?”

You nod, shuffling into the living area, taking note of the cream, deep green and brown colour scheme, the crystalline centrepiece dangling from the high ceiling, the picturesque sight that greets you from the lofty windows. It looks like something out of a furniture magazine, not somewhere that a bunch of university students live.

“I hear someone’s looking for me?” An unfamiliar voice rings out, deep and gentle, a light airiness twisting around every consonant. His voice doesn’t match his appearance, wearing an oversized shirt dangling from his broad and tall frame, with some matching baggy pants. Fluffy honey-blond hair atop his head sticks all over, as if he’d just been woken up. “YN, right? Taehyung has told us a lot about you.”

Unwinding your arms from around your middle (when had you done that, you wonder), you reach out to shake his hand and his brows climb his forehead in surprise. “T-Thank you, for helping my f-friend.”

He takes in your trembling hands, your watery eyes, your wobbly bottom lip, and lets out a soft sigh, avoiding your eyes. “I’m glad she’s okay. I didn’t mean to leave without making sure she had someone with her, but I had a previous engagement and I had to leave.”

“N-No. You g-got her to the h-hospital,” you assure him, holding his hand tighter. “T-Thank you.”

He glances down at your joined hands, a grimace on his face, before uncoupling your hands and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, awkwardly. “I didn’t do anything, really.”

“What happened? I can’t ask her. And honestly... None of it makes sense to me, so please... Can you tell me what you remember?”

His eyes get a strangely guarded light to them, before he nods. “Take a seat?”

You both do, and you turn to watch him. He doesn’t seem happy with you being here, but he is accepting of your presence, if only to assuage your sadness. He is sympathetic, of course, but he doesn’t reach out to physically console you, and he was uncomfortable with you touching him earlier.

In short, he didn’t like you being in his presence.

In any other context, you wouldn’t really care and would likely remove yourself from his periphery without being asked, but right now, you don’t have that privilege. You needed the answers he held in his brain.

He begins, “I was walking home from work, passing by some bars, a couple convenience stores. Then, I walked past an alley, near an arcade and bowling alley. And something, I don’t know, I just caught the sight of her dress on the floor. She was all crumpled up in the corner and covered in blood. I just- I couldn’t just leave her by herself, so I grabbed her up and took a cab to the hospital. End of story.”

“The doctor mentioned something about a dog?”

“I didn’t see a dog,” he spits the word out, before pausing, reigning in the surprising flash anger in his expression. “But the injuries were… extensive. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did get bit by a dog.”

With a hand to your mouth, you ask, contemplatively, “You said she was in an alley?”

He nods.

“Mei Li is severely claustrophobic, she wouldn’t have been in an alley, regardless of time, but especially not at night,” you mumble, more to yourself. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t what to tell you, but… that’s what happened,” he tells you, but he’s staring out of the window. You don’t want to say he’s avoiding your eyes, but he certainly won’t look at you when you try and catch his gaze. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“No… No, you did more than enough. Thank you,” you say, frown deepening the more you thought about his words. “So much.”

Taehyung bounds into the room, excitedly, and announces, “Cutie, I found a charger for you. Give me your phone.”

He takes your phone, surveying its cracked screen for a second in displeasure, before he shoves the device into the wall. He sits on the floor at your feet, blinking up at you with big eyes, before he asks, “Did you get everything you needed from Joonie?”

You lick your lips, grimacing before you nod. “He- He told me what he knew, so for that, I’m appreciative.”

The tall man nods, pushing his hair from his eyes and he moves to stand up. “It’s getting late and I have a morning lecture, so I guess I’ll see you around?”

You nod, distractedly, and he disappears down the hall, back to where he came from, sleepily dragging his feet as he goes. You miss the heated look that he and Taehyung share over your head, too lost in your own thoughts.

Finally, you become aware of your surroundings and the awkward atmosphere that you can practically feel suffocating you, you say, “Taehyung, I’ll just get a cab and charge my phone at home. There’s not enough time.”

“You don’t have a class until midday,” he says, pouting. Putting on a childish voice, he pleads, blinking up at you prettily, “Stay for a little while?”

Staring down at him, you enquire, curtly, “And do… what, exactly?”

“Just talk,” he replies, that boxy smile still in place. “I want to get to know you some more.”

“Taehyung…”

He echoes, with a playful wink, “YN…”

“Wait, how do you know my class schedule?” You frown as you query the bright-eyed artist.

He shrugs, unabashedly. “You can get any information if you pay enough for it.”

Your brows raise in surprise. “You paid someone to find out my schedule?”

“I didn’t pay with money, if that makes you feel better,” he says, lips pouting. “If you must know, I went on a date with a secretary.”

With a smirk, you ask, “So, you prostituted yourself to find out which classes I’m in?”

He slaps your knee lightly, the warmth from his palm soaking through your sweats. “Cutie, if I were to engage in sex work, I promise you the price would be much higher than just a simple date. Besides, we respect sex workers in this household.”

Unable to help yourself, you let out a soft giggle of your own, and he seems so proud of himself for being the one to make you do it that he does a little dance on the spot. “Your laugh is so pretty, Cutie.”

“Ugh, I look a mess,” you tell him, pushing your hair out of your face.

He nods. “You do look like you’ve had a rough night. Tell me about it?”

You let out a soft sigh, and decide that, while you’re waiting, you might as well tell him. It’s only when you start to talk that you realise just how much you’ve been needing to say. He’s a good listener, an amazing one, acknowledging your pain with a strangely serious expression on his face, thick brows pushed together when you recall seeing your friend, grey-skinned and unconscious in the hospital room. You talk until there’s nothing else to say, until you’ve exhausted every word, every stress, every complaint that has been weighing on your chest for the last few weeks. You contemplate letting him know about your worries about your parents, their health, your work, your tuition – there’s something compelling about the way he sits, how carefully blank his face is.

You really feel as if he’s not just listening, but he’s hearing you.

He pushes his lips up in a curious pout and enquires, “Mei Li? The sociology major that Hobi-hyung was dating?”

You nod, feeling tears fall once more. He brushes them away with the corner of his finger, seemingly unconsciously, staring at the offensive bubble of liquid before wiping it away on his pants. He rests the side of his face on the chair, staring up at you, and he whispers, hand resting on your knee, a comforting weight, “Cutie, I really don’t like seeing you cry.”

“’m sorry,” you mumble, sniffling pathetically. “I just really want her to be okay.”

“She will be,” he guarantees, and his positivity, his assuredness makes you falter for a moment. You feel yourself getting lost in the chocolate orbs of his eyes, shining dully under the dim lights overhead. He looks so certain and solid and real that you feel your sob catch in your throat, almost as if you were under a spell. “She’ll be nothing but okay. So, stop worrying yourself sick over it. You’ll make me worry.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nod along with him, and he beams, knocking you over with just how pretty he looks, despite the early hour. You uncurl your legs (when had you gotten that comfortable in his house that you felt okay putting your feet on his couch?) and stretch your arms over your head. “What time is it?”

“Nearly three,” he replies, letting out a surprisingly wide yawn, nostrils flaring before his face returns to his regular handsomeness. “You seemed to need to get quite a bit off your chest.”

“Are you kidding me?” You nearly vault over his body to get to the phone, and sure enough, you have a few missed calls from Young-mi, and a picture of Mei, fragile-looking with her eyes cracked open ever so slightly, and you feel your legs give out before you can save yourself.

“YN, be careful,” Taehyung chastises when you collide with the floor. “Your knees might get bruised.”

He moves to shove the legs of your sweats up your calf to check the area, but you wiggle away. He frowns down at your refusal, eyes narrowing slightly. You stammer out a pathetic explanation, “My legs- I haven’t shaved them in a while.”

He stares at you, blankly, before letting out longest wail of a laugh that you’ve ever heard. His eyes are practically leaking with how funny he finds your honesty, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

“YN, p-please, never change,” he pleads, grin disarming. “I don’t care about leg hair. Everyone grows it. You should see Jimin sometimes. You could probably braid his leg hair.”

Letting out a bubble of a laugh, you feel yourself relax. He smiles once more, incredibly proud that he was the one to put that smile on your face. “So, you all live here? Together?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” He asks, observing the tender area of your knees, pressing around the area lightly, before giving them a satisfied nod and rolling your pants down. “We’re practically family.”

You repeat, puzzled, “Practically?”

“You thought we were actually related? We don’t even have the same last names.” He giggles. “I guess, to some extent, you could probably say we are closer than blood. But no, I have a younger brother and sister back home.”

He’s sitting too close to you for you to be able to relax properly, and he seems to notice how you shrink in on yourself, glaring down at your feet.

“Are you nervous, Cutie?” And the way he says it is like he knows your answer before you give it, frustrating you further.

“Not nervous, just… I don’t know, this whole day has been a wreck,” you reply, but he can hear the flutter in your voice. He lets out a soft snort of air through his nose, but the front door opening and closing behind someone stops whatever undoubtedly charming words were gearing to come out of his mouth.

“Hyung!” He says, perking up adorably, like a puppy. You can almost see the way his ears would stand to attention. “You’re home early.”

You look over to see Yoongi walk into the house, and he eyes you, expression unreadable. “I only had two sets.”

“Hyung deejays at all the best clubs in Seoul,” Taehyung explains, excitedly, when he takes note of your puzzled expression. “He sometimes bounces from four or five places a night. He’s so cool, don’t you think, Cutie?”

Ignoring Taehyung’s question, Yoongi takes a step into the living room, eyes still fixed on your frozen form, and asks, “What is she doing here? At this time?”

“She needed to talk to Joonie,” the artist explains, excitedly. “But, that was hours ago. We’ve been talking since then. She’s so interesting, hyung.”

“Hardly,” you mumble, eyes still stuck on the pale student’s body as he drops his heavy backpack carefully on the floor. You say, awkwardly, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, you should,” Yoongi advises, with a quirk in his brow. You feel your cheeks heat up at his curt words. “It’s late, and Taehyung has class. I don’t wanna hear any complaints tomorrow morning, brat.”

“You won’t, I promise,” he laughs. He moves to stand up and taps your shoulder, playfully. “Come, YN. I’ll take you home.”

“No, I will,” Yoongi intervenes, shaking his car keys disinterestedly. “Hurry up.”

He kicks into some slides near the door and walks on ahead, not even waiting for you to catch up.

“See ya, Taehyung,” you say, snatching your phone out of the charger port and nearly fall over trying to kick into your shoes.

The radiant artist waves, animatedly. “Bye!”

You don’t see how his expression shutters as soon as the door closes behind him, how dark his eyes turn and how his lips slowly morph into a grimace.

Yoongi’s waiting impatiently at the elevator, foot blocking the door from closing, and you rush down the corridor to join him. He gets in first, plugging his AirPods in as soon as you open your mouth to thank him, leaving you, once more, bathed in silence.

“Fantastic,” you mumble.

He leads you to the basement of their building, and some of the cars in there, you’ve only ever seen in movies and on the TV. He presses his key and a car beeps in response. A compact black BMW M3 beeps back in response.

“No way is this your car,” you gasp in surprise. You haven’t sat in such an expensive car, well, in ever, and a small part of you is overly excited by the luxury. You can’t help it – you’re a broke college student and the only way for you to get around is the subway, your best friend’s car or walking. You’re going to revel in this extravagance and nobody is going to make you feel guilty, dang it!

“Get in,” he commands, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming his door closed.

“Grouchy,” you tut, but you do as he tells you, feeling thankful for the protection from the chilly air outside.

“Put in your address,” he says, gesturing to the console at the head of the car, switching on the air conditioner, despite your chattering teeth. “Quickly.”

You do so, only making a few mistakes in your nervousness, before settling back in the leather seats and closing your eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he grumbles, flicking on the radio. An unfamiliar mix plays from the speakers embedded in the headrest behind you, not too loud but enough to keep you engaged. The rapping voice is familiar, as metaphors describing the heady sensuality of success fill your ears. The beat is hard-hitting and rough, the words cut at your skin, but the volume stops the music from being overwhelming. You can picture the song being played in clubs, for sure. You know you’d work up a sweat, grinding along to the song, for sure.

To assuage the stilted silence growing in the car, you ask, awkwardly, “Is this- Is this your song?”

He doesn’t answer with words, but he simply nods, eyes fixed on the road ahead. It starts pelting with rain again once you pull out of the parking lot, and you watch as rivulets of rain trickle down the front window. The song moves onto topics more specific – the hatred of the dark, the addiction of victory. The way he craves it like he yearns for air, a thought that never leaves him, even in the dead of the night. The sultry sentiment of arrogance, of how enchanting it is to be adored.

You compliment, blithely, “It’s good. How long have you been doing music?”

“A while,” he replies.

That’s all you’re getting?

“It’s good,” you murmur.

“You said that already,” he answers, turning the wheel. He’s the picture of disengaged, and you feel shame heat up your cheeks over forcing a conversation with someone who clearly isn’t interested. Instead, you quieten down, and let the next song – more upbeat but just as intelligent – fill the silence between you two.

The journey is smooth, equal parts due to the early hour and the lack of cars on the road, and by the time you pull up at your apartment, you find yourself almost drifting to sleep in the corner of the seat.

“I said don’t fall asleep,” he mumbles, reaching over to poke you in the side, forcing you to jerk up out of your restful state and you wipe your chin, just in case you started to drool. You rub at the area he jabbed and let out an unwitting noise, once you realised what he’d done.

“Ticklish?” He suggests, quirking his brow, leaning back into the safety of his side of the car.

Nodding, feebly, you swallow and angle your body in his direction. “Uh, I just- thank you.”

“It’s nothing, honestly,” he replies. “Just get into your place safe. Taehyung won’t stop nagging me if something happens to you.”

“That… is the most you’ve ever spoken to me,” you tell him, blankly.

He snorts. “I don’t have much to say to you, honestly.”

“I- Strangely respect that,” you mumble, sliding out of the car. “Drive home safe.”

He nods curtly at you and pulls away from your apartment complex once you’ve stepped a safe enough distance from his car window. You watch until his red lights disappear from your line of sight, and then retreat inside, practically shivering by the time you get into your living room.

Showering off the stress and quickly dressing for bed, you send Young-mi a message before you drift off almost as soon as your head touches the pillow.

Your phone lights up with a text message in the dark, while you snore, lightly, into the air.

Don’t trust them.

- end -

Masterlist / Chapter (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7), (8), (9), (10), (11), (12), (13), (14), (15)

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