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bonvoyagenoona · 3 years

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The Road to You (M) | 03: Meeting the Mentor

The Road to You | Masterpost

Word Count: 13,870 | read on ao3

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader, Taehyung x Reader

Summary

Armed with your quick wit, creative passion, talent for storytelling, and innate understanding of your fanbase, you have met every challenge, surpassed every goal, and achieved the unimaginable. Despite the earth shifting erratically under your firmly planted feet, you’ve always had a plan. You’ve made peace with the sacrifices you’ve had to make, and you’ve long forgotten the rejections and heartbreaks that came as a result. Your agent keeps reminding you that you’re at the precipice of something new, that your audience is waiting for your next project with bated breath. This is usually when you thrive. So why do you feel so lost? And who can you count on from your past to help you find your way?

Chapter Excerpt

“You said you’d finally let me read some of it,” he reminds you, grinning. “You were always scribbling in it. I’ve missed reading your writing. And I’ve missed seeing it play out on screen.”

“I believe I said I’d let you take a peek.”

He raises his hands and backs off, but he flashes a smile at you when he does it.

“So then, how do I take a peek?” he asks, sending a shiver down your spine.

You shake your head and rest your elbow on the closed journal. You love this flirty little game that you’ve had going on since that first week of class. It reminds you of what made you fall in love with writing in the first place. The banter. The fun.

Yoongi sits back in his seat, waiting.

Content Warnings: Soft smut hours are oooooopen!, some hard smut too, and some emotional processing of existential crises, no big deal

Author’s Note: Pairs great with Be! 😂💜 How are we doing, ARMY?? Because I’m devastatingly in love with this album!

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld | the road to you @aliceollormusic @tangledsparkles @daydreamqueenjaycee (reply here if you want to be added!)

03: Meeting the Mentor

You really don’t know how the burgers are so good at this restaurant. You thought the bread was the defining factor, but it was just the easiest to communicate. The subtle nuances are coming back to you. The way they spice the meat. The ratio of barbecue sauce to cheddar cheese. The delightful mix of soft and chewy textures when you bite down. The feeling of a crisp, orange soda chaser.

“You really love these burgers,” Taehyung comments, watching you.

You must look insane. Your hair sits on top of your head in a messy bun that will hurt to detangle later. You’re in four-day-old sweats. And you’re staring, slightly cross-eyed, at the bite of the burger that you just took. And now, you’re laughing.

Instead of looking concerned or disgusted at you, Taehyung laughs along. “Birdie? Can you hear me?”

“Sorry, I just realized I haven’t eaten a real meal in five days,” you reply.

Taehyung’s up to speed on your writing. In the few short breaks you’ve taken in the past couple of weeks, you hang out, or you call him, telling him about how he’s inspired you, and what idea you’re jumping to next. He takes it as the highest compliment, and he jokes with you about getting a producer credit on your show.

“And this is with Youngho and Yun around?” Taehyung asks. “Who feeds you when you’re alone in the city?”

You shrug. “I just order out.” And then you wince.

“What?” he asks.

“There’s a sink full of dirty dishes at my apartment, and those are not going to be fun to get back to,” you reply. But then you shrug. “Oh well.” You take another bite of your burger.

Taehyung smiles fondly at you. He watches you reach for some fries and stuff them into your face.

“Do you ever come up for air?”

“I take it in through my skin, like a frog.”

He laughs, and you grin. You love making Taehyung laugh. He always thought you were so hilarious. And he laughs so easily.

His eyes find yours again, and his face sets back into that fond smile. “Well, when we’re done eating, you should join me at my grandmother’s for a bit. She’s in good spirits today. We might play a board game or do a puzzle.”

Your stomach sinks. You agreed to a celebratory lunch with Taehyung after your whirlwind of writing, but he doesn’t yet know about the rest of the project. How you’ll be gone for a little while. How you want to ask him to wait for you to return. How you’re not sure if that’s a fair question to ask, because you’re not even sure what you’re asking him to wait for. You had planned on telling him here, but it seems like a terrible idea now.

“OK,” you say. “That sounds like fun.”

Taehyung smiles fondly again, and you take another bite of your burger.

That bite doesn't taste as good as the others.

You follow Taehyung to his grandmother’s, parking next to him and walking with him to her door. You think you see Taehyung try to reach his hand out for yours, but he pulls back. You would have loved to hold his hand. But given what’s about to happen, you’re relieved that he changes his mind.

Taehyung’s grandmother is in a chipper mood, and even though she still thinks you’re one of the door-to-door salespeople from back home, she lights up when she sees you. “I’m not really interested in buying anything today, but if you’d like to sit a spell, my grandson and I were planning on doing this puzzle!”

“Aw, that’s nice of you to invite me,” you say, following her lead.

She ushers you into the living room, where she’s already opened the box and flipped all the pieces color-side up.

“You got everything ready, Grandma?” Taehyung asks.

She smiles proudly. “I was excited when you called and said you were coming over!”

You all crowd around the table and talk about your day. Sometimes, Taehyung’s grandmother starts shifting the conversation, and you and Taehyung have to play it by ear to keep it moving forward. Sometimes, you’re one of the salespeople. Sometimes, you’re the waitress from her favorite cafe. Sometimes, she forgets you’re there completely. But you’re happy to do anything to give her a sense of fun company, an opportunity to have some semblance of life before.

At the end of the afternoon, as the sun is setting, Taehyung walks you to your car.

“Are you two having dinner soon?” you ask him.

“Yeah, and then I’ll help get her ready for bed.” Taehyung smiles. “Do you maybe want to stay for dinner some time?”

“I would.”

“When are you free?”

“Well…”

You lean back against the trunk of your car. This isn’t going to be easy. You haven’t quite made up your mind about Taehyung. You’ve been enjoying the past couple of weeks hanging out with him. Lunch dates like these. A couple of movies. More phone calls. The first two activities end with heavy makeout sessions at his place, or in either of your cars. The last activity sometimes ends with more naughty activities, but you still don’t know what it feels like to have Taehyung wrapped around you in the way that would fully satisfy that need. And you’re definitely not going to be able to find out for a little while.

“My project,” you say. “I need to go do some work on it. Start the interviews that I mentioned.”

“Oh,” Taehyung says, nodding. “OK. Well, where are you going? Back to the city?”

“Yeah, for a bit. I’m actually going out to my old college town first. And some other places.”

Taehyung looks at the ground. He seems disappointed.

“Tae,” you say, bringing him close to you. “This time with you has been amazing.”

He leans on your body, pressing into you, and tucking your hair behind your ear. “I feel the same way.”

You aren’t sure how to express what you’ve been feeling. Things never get past a certain point with Taehyung, and you aren’t really sure why. At first, you thought it might be due to his duty to his grandmother, which you would completely support and understand. But even when you’ve both been given time and space, neither of you have taken it. Sure, you’ve realized that this trip only slightly delays your progress together, but in all honesty, you’re beginning to resign yourself to the possibility that you may never find out where things with him could go.

You’ve been in relationships that you thought would never end. You’ve also been in relationships where you saw the end coming. You’ve learned that you don’t want to let the latter keep you from experiencing the former.

“I know we haven’t really defined this,” you say, “and I’m not saying that we need to. I just---”

“Then let’s not,” Taehyung says, taking the news a little easier than you expected.

“OK,” you say, still not sure what that means.

“Let’s leave it open,” Taehyung suggests.

“...Open?”

He takes your hands in his. “Birdie, I’m going to miss you. But it sounds like you have work to do. And I…” His eyes follow the line of your arm down to your fingers, which he’s gently feeling with his, interweaving them into braids and undoing them again, touching every square of your delicate skin.

“I have some things to think through.”

You’re immediately curious about what exactly Taehyung needs to think through. But he quells your curiosity with a deep, meaningful kiss. He lifts both of your hands and puts them over his head to let them rest around the nape of his neck. He wraps his arms around you. He smushes you against your car, his chest pressing up against your breasts as he towers over you and dives back in for another wave. You feel his thumbs move across your bellybutton as he grasps your hips and pulls them to his.

The kiss feels stronger than all the others you’ve shared.

You playfully wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that you’re about to go talk to all of your old boyfriends.

And then he pulls away. He looks softly at you, with a melancholy smile.

“When do you leave?”

“In a couple of days.”

He nods. “I don’t think I’ll be able to see you before you go. But you can call me. Anytime. For anything. Even if you’re just bored.”

“I will.”

Taehyung kisses you on the cheek and takes a step back from you. “OK, then. You should get going before it gets dark.”

You sigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Why haven’t you asked me when I’m coming back?” you pout, feeling a bit childish.

Taehyung laughs, and he steps back into you, kissing you one more time.

“Because you don’t know the answer to that yet,” he guesses rightly. “And I don’t want anything to loom over you while you write. But I’ll be looking forward to your calls.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Especially if they’re later at night.”

You smile.

He hugs you tightly. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

He watches as you get into your car, and you watch him waving in your rearview mirror as you drive away, the image of him blurring as tears form in your eyes.

The drive is the same as you remember, though driving away from Youngho, Yun, and Mi-cha is harder than you expect. You promise that you’ll see them when you get back and spend more time with them before heading into the city. Youngho and Yun are excited for you, but Mi-cha cries out for you when you get in the car, and Yun tells you later that she doesn’t stop until she falls asleep that night.

Your lip quivers as you choke these fresh tears down. You’re always heartbroken whenever you leave home. But in a way, this project, this trip, might help you find a piece of home that will stay with you wherever you go.

You pull into your first destination: the car wash. This journey brings the prospect of new understanding. Renewal. The car wash feels like a necessary step in putting your best foot forward. You make a mental note to tell your father about this new meaning. You can imagine the proud grin on his face now that you’re the one making these observations for yourself.

Before you pull fully into the machine, you park and walk a quick perimeter around your car. You kick the tires to make sure they’ve got enough pressure. You grin to yourself, thinking about the last time you saw someone do this, and how you’ll be talking to them in a few hours.

As you pull up to the machine, and the chain latches on, you wipe your eyes and reach for your phone. You pull up a playlist that you’ve made to get you in the mood. You’re going to be driving for hours, and you need to get back into the headspace that you were in when you were a college kid. All your old favorites stream through the cabin of the car, and eventually, you’re singing along to each track, laughing at the ease with which you remember every lyric and rhythmic quirk.

The music brings a wave of nostalgia, and sooner than you expect, the sights around you start to build upon it.

The university’s flags along the lampposts greet you with friendly waves in the breeze. The main road is full of students crossing to get to their classes, and your heart goes out to one student who’s still in their pajamas, desperately trying to make the green light so as not to be late for class.

You know that student. More often than not, you were that student.

You turn the corner and see your freshman dorm, still in need of several repairs. It looks like the kind of place where you would learn how to shotgun both beer and weed, and you smile to yourself at the memory of doing both.

The rental that you’re staying at isn’t that far away from it. You park and grin at how funny it is to be here, and how fond you feel. You loved your time here, but you weren’t planning on ever setting foot on this campus again. Neither did he, and you smirk to yourself at how hilarious it is that things have panned out this way for him. For both of you.

You sprawl out on the bed and decide that it would probably be smart to take a quick nap. But before you do, you pull your journals out of their special suitcase, and you can’t help but get lost in more memories.

You flip to the pages about that mysterious TA, starting from the beginning. You laugh heartily as you read what you wrote.

September 12th

Loving college so far. Missing home. Missing Jimin, obviously. Making some friends, though. My roommate Dae is definitely cooler than I am. She has a pixie cut and all sorts of piercings and tattoos. She keeps inviting me out and dressing me up in her clothes. At first, I felt kind of like a pet project of hers, but honestly, I’m having more and more fun when we go out with her friends.

The one thing that probably isn’t going well right now is my screenwriting class, which is the one class that I absolutely cannot drop. My grades are perfect, but the professor in that class might as well be nonexistent. Instead, we’re at the mercy of this super strict TA. He’s only a senior, but he thinks he knows everything. He sits on his desk when he teaches, like he’s trying to be cool or something. I went to his office hours to ask a simple question, and I gave one tiny critique about class, and I’ll never forget what he said: “Listen, missy, why don’t you just let me worry about that?”

Are you kidding me? “Missy”?!

What a massive asshole.

You chuckle. You read on, and you notice the dates on the top line, the pages separated by surprisingly short gaps in time. You’re entertained by how things between you change so quickly.

October 30th

This TA is into me.

I think.

OK, fine, I still can’t tell.

I’ve gone over it and over it with Dae, and she keeps saying that you can always tell. That your gut tells you.

Well, my gut is telling me that it’s been two weeks since my blind rage has transformed into a rabble of butterflies, and they haven’t gone away. I know how rare that is for me, but I don’t know if I’m just romanticizing it all. I’ve been to his office a few times to get feedback on my show idea, and even though we got off to a terrible start at the beginning of the semester… I don’t know. I feel like I leave class with even more new ideas. New experiments. Ways to play with form. Topics to dig into. Honestly, he’s captivating. Challenging. Encouraging. Funny that all of this inspiration comes from a guy who barely says twenty words to me each time we talk.

You grin to yourself and notice that this journal entry was written the day before everything was officially set into motion with him. You lie back in your bed and let the memories of the rest of that year wash over you.

Halloween really isn’t your thing. Parties really, really aren’t your thing. But Dae really, really, really wants you to come. She’s whirling around your dorm room, climbing back and forth between your two beds and punctuating her pitch for this party with flourishes of makeup on your face, taking a curling iron to your hair every so often and running her fingers through your strands so wonderfully that eventually, it’ll be impossible to say anything but “yes” to her.

The costume that Dae decides to go with is a punk rock zombie. The night before, she dyed her hair -- and your dorm sink -- pink. Now, it’s styled it into a short mohawk. Her skin is covered in a pallid gray, and she’s used her lipstick to draw lines of dried blood down her chin. She’s dressed in ebony, silver-studded leather pants and a tight, onyx tank top. Even in zombie form, she’s the raddest person you’ve ever seen.

That means the spare costume, a pair of butterfly wings paired with an iridescent mini-dress, is now yours. It’s hanging on the back of the door. You stare at it, the anxiety rising in you. You’ve never worn something so tiny and short. Your eyelids are uncomfortably dotted with glitter and glued-on gems. Your fake lashes are so, so heavy.

You squint up at Dae, sitting obstinately under your covers, the anxiety frothing from your mouth.

“I think I should stay in,” you insist.

“Don’t chicken out on me now,” Dae pouts. “You look amazing.”

She holds up her compact mirror to your face, and you do admit that you look amazing.

“Wow, Dae,” you sigh. “You did a great job.”

“So don’t waste it!” she laughs, slapping you on the arm and getting up to grab the costume.

You slip into the butterfly dress, try not to breathe too hard so as not to rip the seams of the dress, and walk arm-in-arm with Dae out of your freshman dorm and across campus. You pass by the frat houses. So many people are already plastered and wandering around in a stupor. Some of them are popping out of bushes, screaming and scaring each other. Some of them are tucked into corners, making out. Some of them are like you, merely passing by on their way to the next party.

You reach one of the upperclassmen apartment complexes, and you meet Dae’s friends from her business classes. You think it’s hilarious that someone like Dae, who prides herself on being so counter-culture, is in the marketing program. But the way she’s pitched the party to you and gotten you to come out is a testament to her skillset.

Everyone’s doors are open, and people are traipsing from apartment to apartment for different vibes. Some apartments are loud and dancey. Some apartments are chill and more focused on food, snacks, and conversation. Most apartments are a little mix of both.

The group starts with a party room, where karaoke is going on in full force.

Dae clambers for the mic next, and she growls “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones. Everyone sings along. You hear people trying to guess her name. You hear people making plans to ask her out. By the end of the first verse, everyone is infatuated with the punk rock zombie.

You smile as Dae points at you and sings the second verse. You’ve never been that kind of girl, the kind who draws attention like Dae does. It’s a thing to behold, Dae on stage, basking in the glow of attention and desire. And it’s nice to feel the warmth by proxy. It makes you feel a little special.

And then, a voice asks, “You up next?”

The cup you’re holding is still quite full, so you nearly spill your drink onto him when you startle and turn to him.

It’s weird but not weird to see Yoongi outside of the Creative Arts and Communications building. He’s wearing exactly what he wore to class today, save for a pair of black cat ears on his head.

“No,” you laugh.

“Can’t sing?” Yoongi asks, smirking as he raises his beer bottle to his lips.

“I can sing,” you defend. “Just don’t want to. You can go next.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Can’t sing,” he says, making you chuckle.

Dae finishes her song and jumps over to you. “Hey!” she cheers, breathless.

“Great job,” you say, high-fiving her. “I think you’ve got about twenty people who are about to ask you for your number.”

“Damn, that’s lower than usual,” she says, still panting. She takes your cup and takes a sip of punch as she looks over at Yoongi. She looks back at you and hands you the cup. And then she looks back at Yoongi.

She smiles. It’s her planning smile, and you aren’t sure if you’ll like what’s about to happen.

“Are you the TA she’s always going on about?”

Yoongi smiles at you like he’s caught you in some act, and you blush and stare at the floor, making a mental note to spray Dae’s side of the room with your perfume that aggravates her allergies.

“What has she been saying about me?” Yoongi asks gleefully, fully turning to Dae.

Dae’s grin is so wide that all of her sparkly white teeth are showing. “She says you’re cool, smart, and imaginative, but to be honest, I don’t see it.”

“You don’t?” Yoongi asks, amused.

“No. Your costume’s a bit lacking.”

Dae digs out her black eyeliner pencil from her purse and hands it to you.

“Do me proud,” she says with a wink, “and text me when you head home.” She leans into you. “That is, if you’re heading home!”

You laugh together, making Yoongi arch an eyebrow, and Dae scampers off to find the rest of her group.

Yoongi turns to you and takes another sip of his drink.

You feel so, so nervous. But you try to channel some of Dae’s energy and confidence.

“Well?” he asks.

“You heard her,” you say. “We’ll need a place to sit.”

“My place is chill,” he offers.

He turns and leads you out the door, and you follow him, trying to hide how excited you are.

You walk side-by-side with him down the walkway, thankful for the respite from all the laughing, yelling, and booming music. The night air feels good on your skin, but it is a little cold. You shiver, and your butterfly wings shake.

Yoongi laughs when one of them tickles his upper arm.

“Been partying a while?” he asks you.

“This was our first stop,” you say.

“Hmm.” Yoongi nods. “You were right to skip Greek row. Everyone’s a mess by this time.”

“We passed by on our walk over. We saw the debauchery first-hand.”

Yoongi laughs.

You reach one of the quieter apartments, where people are sitting in their costumes and playing board games, eating snacks, and just hanging out. People greet Yoongi when he enters, and they smile at you as you follow.

He leads you to his bedroom, and he pulls out his desk chair for you to sit. He plants himself on the edge of his bed, and he waves you in.

You look around at the posters and figurines decorating his space. Lots of movie posters, which is to be expected. Lots of basketball paraphernalia, which isn’t. And there’s a half-smoked blunt sitting in an ashtray on his nightstand.

“You want?” he asks, following your eyes.

You shrug.

“Come sit,” he offers, setting his drink down and picking up the ashtray. He digs out a lighter from the drawer, and you sit in his chair, setting your drink next to his.

He lights the blunt and turns his head to exhale the smoke away from your face. You’ve only really been smoking for a couple of months, thanks to Dae’s stash and tutorial, but you already love everything about it. The taste of it. The smell of it. You like how it quiets the negative, nit-picking thoughts in your mind. And you like how it makes everything just feel that much better.

You tell him so, and he smiles.

“Same. And my writing gets more exploratory when I’m high,” Yoongi admits, handing you the blunt.

You nod knowingly. You’re finding the same goes for you, too.

You take a hit, and he watches the smoke stream out from your lips. You hand him back the blunt, and then you pull out the eyeliner that Dae gave you.

He eyes the pencil and frowns at you. “Really?”

You give him a jokingly reproachful look and say, “You heard what my roommate said. We’ve gotta do something to spruce up your costume.”

He arches an eyebrow again, and you want to tell him how you’re quickly becoming a fan of that expression on his face. And just his face in general.

You lean forward and start drawing a black, upside-down triangle on his nose.

“Did you know I lived here?” he asks, his eyes watching yours.

“No idea,” you say truthfully.

“Happy surprise, then,” he replies, making you grin and blush.

He stares into your eyes.

“Did Punk Zombie Roommate do your makeup?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, starting to sketch some whiskers onto his left cheek. “What do you think?” You lean back and model your look a little for him.

“Cute,” he whispers, reaching up to touch one of the glued-on gems by your eyes. You make a note to thank Dae for her service. You giggle, and Yoongi smiles, his cheek puffing up and ruining the line you’ve just sketched.

“Hold still!” you exclaim.

Yoongi laughs, and you lick your thumb to erase the smudges he’s created. When your thumb makes contact with his skin, he bites his lip.

He takes your hand in his, and then he drags your thumb down his cheek, holding it at his chin.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he tells you, suddenly looking nervous.

“Me too,” you admit, the butterflies swarming around in your stomach.

“You’re the only one who ever comes to office hours,” he says.

“Then why do you still hold them?” you laugh.

“I just told you,” he replies simply.

You think of Jimin briefly. He’s the only other person who has been this intimate with you before. You wonder if it’s too soon to be entertaining a crush like this. Mere weeks ago, hadn’t Dae awkwardly caught you crying about him in the middle of the night? The conversation that you had with her afterwards, an incoherent hodgepodge of your sobs chased by her empathic whimpers, led to you becoming new friends. It’s just now occurring to you that this is why Dae is always bringing you around everywhere, and why she so masterfully set you up with that eyeliner-whisker move with Yoongi. But is Dae right to encourage you to let him go? Especially when you yourself aren’t sure you can?

At first glance, Yoongi’s so different. More adamant. Kinda rude sometimes. And those new characteristics helped you put a solid barrier between these two arias in your seemingly expanding relationship repertoire. But in this moment, you’re learning that it’s a bit of a front. He’s more like Jimin in that he has the kinds of traits that you value. He’s actually pretty gentle. And kind. And he’s staring at you with a softness in his eyes that you would take completely seriously, if not for the fudged whiskers and cute cat ears.

You smile. “You could just ask me out on a date,” you offer.

“I would,” Yoongi says, setting your hand back in your lap and letting go. “But… I can’t be that forward yet. If you get what I’m saying.”

Of course he can’t, and you knew that. He’s your TA. But he’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to explain that he does want something to happen. It just can’t be the kind of something that you had with Jimin, bold, and out in the open.

You have to wait.

And the wait will burn.

Your alarm rings, and for a moment, you panic. You check the time. You’re relieved to know that you got a couple of hours of sleep, and though you pressed snooze twice, you still have plenty of time to get ready.

You’ve packed outfits for all sorts of occasions, but this one is special. You pull on tight, black jeans and a white tunic. You check your makeup one more time. You ruffle your hair and spray some extra hairspray to make sure it doesn’t fall flat when you walk across campus to the designated classroom.

When you reach the door and catch your reflection in the little sliver of a window, you’re glad that it hasn’t.

And when Yoongi sees your face in that little sliver of a window, he laughs sheepishly, making you smile. He has his glasses on, and you melt instantly. He looks so professorial. Which would make sense for the dean of film studies.

His students turn back to follow his gaze. He waves you in, and you slip into the classroom.

“Well, hi there, Professor Min,” you say, walking to the head of the class and joining him by his desk.

Some of his students gasp and recognize you instantly. Your heart is warmed by the fact that most of the ones who do recognize you are young women.

Yoongi gives you a polite hug but mumbles into your ear, “Hey there, missy,” ending in a bit of a growl as he squeezes it out of his embarrassed grin. Your skin forms goosebumps when you hear your nickname in his deep, playful voice, a tone that you’ve only ever heard him take with you, and that’s gone as soon as it leaves his lips.

When you called him to set up a meeting, he asked if you’d be interested in speaking to his graduate class. You remember blushing when he asked you. You’ve spoken at tons of seminars and panels. You’ve even given introductions and speeches at awards shows. But it still means the world to you that Yoongi thinks so highly of your talent that he’s hoping you’d share some of it with his proteges.

Yoongi introduces you as an old friend first before he gives a rundown of your professional credits, and then he sits at his desk chair to listen.

You take Yoongi’s trademark pose on his desk and flash him a bit of a mocking smile over your shoulder. The students laugh immediately, which tells you he still does this. He rolls his eyes, and then you turn back to the students, having won the rest of them over with this tiny move.

And then you open the room up for discussion.

His students ask you tons of great questions. How you got started. Whether it was everything you expected. What surprised you about your journey. When one eagle-eyed student notices your Yoongi journal on the desk next to you, they ask what you’re working on now. Yoongi pretends like he’s reaching for the notebook, and you snatch it away, making everyone laugh.

You find a way to give the students a vague taste of what you hope will come of your next project. That whatever you create, you just hope it provides a sense of your roots to people. To home.

His students are so easygoing and intriguing, undoubtedly an aspect of being under Yoongi’s tutelage, and they each personally thank you for the opportunity to have a discussion with you.

One shy student, a young woman who could have easily been you a few years ago, waits until the room has cleared. Then, she walks up to you and shakes your hand. She asks you a couple of questions about resumes and internships, and then she takes a deep breath.

You’ve been in her shoes before. You get the sense that she could have spent the next few hours detailing how and why and what your show has meant to her, easily pointing out the jokes and reflections that you’ve buried into your scripts so that only the kindred spirits would find them. But she also knows that it would be impossible to get you to fully understand, just as it would be impossible to get anyone to fully understand what’s going on in her mind. So, she chooses to express gratitude instead.

“Your show really, really meant a lot to me,” she says quietly. “Thank you for sharing it.”

“You saying that means a lot to me,” you say. “Thank you for sharing that.”

You clasp her hand in hers, and you both know that you’ve bonded through the inexpressible.

She beams, and then she gathers her things to leave. She bounds out the door, but not before chirping, “Have a great evening, sir!” without so much as a glance at Yoongi.

You turn to him.

“Sir?” you mock. “I bet you love that shit.”

He looks back at you, his hands resting behind his head as he leans back in his chair, and his eyes following your silhouette, up from your ass in those tight jeans sitting on his desk, up the convex curve of your hips, the concave curve of your waist, up the bends of your arm and shoulder, and then to your face. His teeth bite his lower lip as he beams at you. He licks his lips and lets his mouth hang open as he pauses before he speaks, a habit of his that is still so incredibly attractive in the way it draws you in, feeding your anticipation of what he’ll say. And then the words slide out of him in that low, entrancing voice.

“...Hazelnut lattes?”

You smile.

You walk and talk across campus to the coffee shop where you used to spend hours and hours writing your scripts. The main Yoongi journal, your map for tonight, is tucked under your arm as the two of you travel through time.

You settle at the bar by the window, and you fall back into things surprisingly easily, but maybe that’s because you’ve talked on and off over the years by phone. He’s an industry insider, so he’s already familiar with how you rose to the top of the TV and film scene. Even as you recapped the highlights for his students during your talk, you know he barely listened to what you were saying as he just sat in his chair, smiling knowingly while watching you.

That’s the thing that you like best about Yoongi. He already knows so much. He seemed to know so much about you on some kind of existential plane before you even really learned about one another.

So, he’s never been one to ask you all the same questions that everybody else does.

Instead, he asks you how you are.

And you tell him more of the truth. More of the turmoil. More about the things that didn’t pan out.

Yoongi had always been more of a confidant to you than the others. For the short time that you were together, you told him your deepest fears. You told him your most hidden secrets. You broke down crying in his arms when you felt like you weren’t good enough. Like you had no talent. Like you had made a gigantic mistake in pursuing this path. He always reassured you that the path was not traversable through talent. It also took real courage to walk this path. And he told you that you could do it because you had both.

Without his guidance, you probably wouldn’t have even taken your first, albeit shaky, steps.

His smooth voice guides you through the not-so-smooth path that he’s taken, too. Even when he’s talking about the unexpected things in life, he always sounds so sure. You knew he was a professor, but you aren’t caught up on all the details. You know that he graduated and got into a prestigious film academy. You were there to see him off. But since then, he had learned that he missed teaching. He describes the painstaking process of shifting his strategy, applying and completing a PhD program in pop culture studies, and after that, the doubly painstaking process of applying to and getting professorships, all while finishing his dissertation on barriers to representation of Asian communities in Western media. He found it hilarious that the professor he had TAd for as a senior had recently left, making Yoongi a shoo-in at your alma mater. Now, he offers consultations for industry leaders while also building out the film program at the university as dean.

“But all that’s boring,” he says, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Let’s talk about why we’re really here.”

He reaches for the journal you’ve set on the table.

“Now, now,” you chide playfully, stopping him again before he’s gotten the journal all the way over to his side.

“I believe I said I’d let you take a peek.”

Yoongi raises his hands and backs off, but he flashes a smile at you when he does it.

“So then, how do I take a peek?” he asks, sending a shiver down your spine.

Yoongi sits back in his seat, waiting.

You take a deep breath. “Everyone’s been asking me about what I’m working on next, but for a while, I had absolutely no ideas. Remember when I called you a few months ago?”

“Yeah, you said you had just watched three documentaries about these salmon tunnels that help get fish back to the shores where they spawn.” Yoongi laughs. “I had no idea what you were talking about.”

“Well, it was probably because I hadn’t left my apartment in who knows how long by that point.”

Yoongi’s eyes meet yours, and he looks serious.

“Messy bun?”

“Yup.”

“Sweats?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Insomnia?”

“For weeks.”

Yoongi sits back again. “Maybe we shouldn’t have met here,” he says, raising his eyebrows and looking around the coffee shop as you take a sip of the hazelnut latte that he bought for you.

You smirk and swallow your sip. “I’m OK now,” you explain reassuringly. “Back on track. And with a new idea. And I’m glad we’re here, because I think the sense memories are actually helping me capture everything.”

“Is this where I come in?” Yoongi asks.

“Yes, hopefully, if you’re into it,” you say. “I’ve just been so distracted and off my game, and I feel like checking in with you might help me turn this into something real.”

“It’s already real,” Yoongi reminds you, making you grin.

Given your success, talent, and reputation, Yoongi still isn’t sure what you’re doing here, or why you needed to meet in person. You’ve told him that you’ve got an idea and a new show bible, but you need his help getting started in some way. So, he waits until you’ve gathered up enough courage and conviction to share where you’re going.

“The thing that helped me get back on track is that I went home for a little while,” you say. “My childhood home. To see and spend time with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece. And while I was there, I ran into my high school boyfriend.”

“They guy you had just broken up with before we met?” Yoongi asks.

“Yeah. And I ran into someone else. Another old friend.”

“An old friend like me?” Yoongi asks, smiling a little.

“Sorta,” you say, a fond smile forming on your face as you think of Taehyung. “Bumping into them made me think about my old relationships, and I guess this project is about that.”

You forgot how open Yoongi’s listening face is. His jaw is set slightly ajar like it usually is when he’s thinking, but his eyes are much wider, almost as if he’s trying to absorb every single detail. He hears what you’re saying, but he also notices the way your mouth moves when you say it. He learns what you’re feeling, but he’s also triangulating it with the way your eyes are poised when you share it. He’s focused on you, but he also knows that the stage you set for this scene is just as important, and he tries to assess what’s important to you based on what you focus on versus what you tune out from the coffee shop around you. And as he understands more and more of what you’re aiming to do, he nods and crinkles his eyes.

“I think this will be good for me to do,” you say. “I just feel like I lost everything when the show ended. My skills. My team. My friends. My fiance.”

His eyes grow even wider when he watches you drop that last bit of information. You forgot that he didn’t even know you were engaged. You think of Taehyung not knowing that you dated Jimin. You wonder if your entire life has been this compartmentalized.

“Well, how do you think I can help?” he asks.

“I’m not exactly sure yet,” you say. “But I know that whenever I talk to you, I learn something vital for moving forward.” You stand and smile. “So, what do you think about grabbing dinner and helping me hash this thing out?”

Yoongi chuckles and stands.

“If you’re looking for more sense memories, I know just the place.”

Grades are posted.

You don’t even care what they are.

The point is that they’re posted.

The semester is finally, officially over.

Dae gets the notification a millisecond later than you do, the blue, bell-shaped icon popping up with a ding! in the top right corner of her laptop screen.

Before she checks her classes, she moves her eyes from that icon to your stone-cold face.

She grins and asks, “Are you freaking the fuck out right now?”

“Why would I be freaking the fuck out?” you ask. But you know the answer to your question. Because you really are freaking out.

The reason you ask anyway is that both nature and nurture have given you the tendency to mask your true feelings about any given thing for the sake of collective harmony and polite conversation. You’ve learned to gauge how people respond when you turn the question back around. It gives you an indication of how much people really want to hear what you have to say. That’s why you retreat whenever you feel anything strong. Jimin had shown you bits and pieces of what open communication could look like, but you hadn’t yet learned how to let go of those chains disguised as manners. In some ways, you still haven’t.

Dae knows you know the answer to your question, too. She rolls her eyes and lowers her laptop screen halfway so that she can see your entire face from her spot, lying on her stomach on her bed. She’s cut from the same cloth that you are, but she isn’t going to let you use that as an excuse to get out of talking about it. She isn’t going to say anything. She’s simply going to wait.

And you’re tired of waiting.

“Yes, OK?” you say. “I’m freaking out.”

“I know that I’ve only hung out with him a handful of times, but with the way he looks at you and talks to you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were on his way over here to pick you up and fuck you right now,” Dae says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I’d let him if he did,” you let yourself mutter, and Dae squeals. You laugh gleefully together. Dae entertains your crush with the kind of uncontained teenage fervor that you had only really seen on TV shows. You like how present she is when she talks to people. How she mirrors their emotions back to them to make them feel seen, but also maintains her own stance and opinions. She’s really one of the most remarkable people you’ve ever met, and making her squeal and laugh are quickly becoming two of your favorite things to do.

Then, there’s a knock at your door.

Dae looks at you excitedly, her eyes so wide that she almost looks like she doesn’t have eyelids.

“That can’t be him,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “It’s probably your friends picking you up.”

Dae shrugs and turns to the door before setting her eyes back on you. “Why don’t you open the door and find out?”

“Wow, really?” you ask.

Dae’s closer, but you know damn well that she’s going to force you to get up and answer it.

You stand, make a show of crossing the room, which makes Dae laugh again, and you open the door.

To your surprise, Yoongi’s standing there, his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, and his eyes widening when he sees you.

“Hey,” you say, completely caught off-guard.

“Hey,” he replies.

Yoongi also looks a little flustered, but then Dae breaks the silence with another enthusiastic, “Hey!”

You and Yoongi laugh, and you angle back so that Yoongi can see Dae grinning and waving at him. He waves back, and he looks so dorky that you can’t help but make heart-shaped eyes at him when he does it. Dae catches your expression, and you know she’s going to give you hell for it later.

“You busy?” Yoongi asks.

“She’s completely and totally free,” Dae calls over to him, cupping her mouth with her hands.

He looks at you to confirm, and you smile and nod.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair. “Well, uh, so… I don’t know if you saw, but grades are up.”

“Mmhmm.”

“So…”

Yoongi scrunches up his face and looks at you. “Well, if you’re free right now, would you maybe wanna go watch a movie? Or get something to eat? Just… y’know, hang out?”

“At your place?” you ask hopefully, your mouth watering at the prospect of food, but also of something more. You were tentative about admitting it to Dae, but you weren’t kidding when you said you’d let Yoongi do things to you.

Yoongi smiles. “Sure. Let’s go.”

You grab your coat, shoot Dae a nervous smile as you leave, and follow Yoongi across the street to a sandwich shop. Yoongi swears they have the best halal chicken and rice. You make small talk when you approach the shop window. You figure that Yoongi must go there a lot because he doesn’t even need to order for the cook to know exactly what he wants, and the cook and Yoongi shake hands before you leave.

Yoongi’s apartment is exactly the same as you saw a couple of months ago. You had taken great care to commit everything that you saw to memory on your way back out to the party. The way all his clothes were hung up neatly in his closet. And generally just how neat everything was. Even his blunts.

You notice now that the basketball memorabilia are Jordan and Iverson posters and figurines. There are ten or so movie posters pinned to his wall, but none of them are scary movies. You smile to yourself when you remember the conversation you had during his office hours of how much he disliked scary movies.

But the only thing that’s really any different is the smell of food wafting from the bag that the two of you picked up on the walk over.

He takes your coat, and he hangs it up in his closet.

You reach for his chair, but then he places his hand on top of yours and gives you a questioning look.

You raise your eyebrows. Maybe you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion about what this is. Maybe you’ve already overstayed your welcome.

“Bed’s more comfortable,” he says, setting the food on his desk and nodding over to his mattress.

You smile, and you sit on his bed, bouncing a little when you land. He stands in front of you but bends down, hands moving toward the floor as he says, “Here.”

You aren’t quite sure what that means, but you absolutely want him to do whatever he’s about to do.

He reaches for your foot, and you give it to him.

He unties your shoelaces and slips off your shoes. He looks up and smiles at you before he turns back to reach for the food on his desk.

And something inside of you springs into action.

You grab the collar of his hoodie and pull him toward you. He cries out and falls on top of you. When he turns to you, you kiss him deeply, his eyes widening like they did when you opened your dorm room door.

But then he settles into your kiss.

It’s shy at first. So tentative. You’re both primed by your previous roles as student and TA. You both have played by the rules for as long as you needed to, seeing him only during office hours and settling for your pinkies or your knees or your elbows almost touching as you both read and reviewed your work, or keeping things to group hangouts that end with you and Dae walking home together instead of you and Yoongi pairing off. There are weeks of pent up excitement and restraint that built this moment, but it doesn’t come gushing out in a flood. It appears like stars, one-by-one, as day slowly fades into night.

And it’s such a simple moment, too. Not as ostentatious or calculated as you might have expected from him, given his proclivity for showing off in class.

He deepens your kiss by meeting your tongue with his, flexing and weaving it through your lips and into your mouth in such a way that thrills you all over. He senses how nervous you are and starts to slow down, showing you ways that you can respond to his moves, teaching you how to communicate with him.

It all starts to click and hit a groove, and now, your bodies are moving together. He whispers, “Is this OK?” with each new step. Like just before he nudges your knees with his to ask you to spread them apart. Or before he sinks back down onto you, lying between your legs. Or before he starts to move his hand from your cheek, down your neck, and then down to your chest.

You let out a soft grunt, and you both look into each others’ eyes.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, smirking at you.

You beam at him. “That you have no idea how badly I have ached for you to kiss me and touch me like this. How many times I imagined it. How I still had no idea what was coming.”

Yoongi hums quietly at what you’ve said. He takes you in, admiring the way you look in his sheets. And then he leans down and kisses you again.

Soon, there isn’t a need to ask. You both know this is what you both want, and you’re smiling excitedly into your kisses as you help each other undress. You like the pile of clothes you’re making. Your sweater wrapped up in his hoodie. Your tights intertwined with his sweatpants. Your shoes lying next to each other, one of them lying on its side. Your bra and panties on top of his boxers. This minor, messy mound of items thrown haphazardly onto the floor tells you that you’re both free now. Free to be yourselves. Free to explore what you could be together.

His kisses travel down your neck, and he plants himself at your collarbones while he rubs his hands together.

“Why are you rubbing them together like that?” you laugh. “Are you, like, plotting something?”

“I’m making them warm,” Yoongi chuckles, and your heart does a little flip.

He places them on your body, and they start traveling down your waist, grabbing at your flesh as he goes.

“Do you like tickling?” you laugh again, squirming deliciously with each touch.

“Yes.”

He pokes at you more, delighted at your cute squeals.

And then he places his hand against your pussy, and he grunts at how ready you are for him, your engine revved and your juices flowing.

“How many times have you done this before?” you ask.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Yoongi says, and you know he’s only teasing.

“I’m just a little… inexperienced,” you explain.

Yoongi lifts his hand from you and looks at you. “Is this your… your first…”

“No,” you’re quick to say. “But, well, I’ve only had one boyfriend.”

Yoongi smirks. “You don’t have to have a committed partner to have sex.”

You smile shyly. “I know. But I’ve only been with him.”

Yoongi nods. “Well, do you still want to… um…” He clears his throat. “We don’t have to. I wanna do whatever you wanna do.”

You sit up and pull Yoongi back down to you, kissing him and wrapping everything you can around him. Your arms. Your legs. Your body. Your breath.

He moans, and he places his hand on your pussy again, rubbing his fingers around your eager clit. You’re no longer squirming because things tickle. You’re squirming because things ignite.

He strokes your thigh with his free hand as you kiss, and you feel like he’s almost breaking you in, easing you into this because he now knows that it’s still new to you. You come two or three times, you’ve already lost count, but he persists. He takes his time, never changing his pace just because you might want him to. It’s like he knows better, somehow. It’s like he knows that if he stays the course, he’ll take you somewhere that you’re going to enjoy.

And you trust him. That trust is rewarded when he slips his fingers into you and pumps his hand in and out, flicking his wrist in different ways that are the perfect way every time. It’s rewarded when he climbs down and places his tongue where his fingers were, making you come so hard that you moan like you’re in pain, because that’s the only thing up until now that you’ve felt that extremely. And it’s rewarded again when he grabs a condom and slides his length into you at the same tempo that his fingers and tongue had moved.

His dreamy eyes hold a complicated look. He’s concerned and wants to make sure you feel good. Safe. He’s also having fun, getting to be a part of this with you. But he’s also just so curious. He just saw you come from the way he moved his fingers, but he wants to see what you look like when he moves you with his tongue. And he definitely wants to see what you look like now, as he draws a chilling, resplendent orgasm out of you with his long, thick cock, his shaft covered in your slick, sweet ambrosia.

He flips you over, and you’re so exhausted and spent by that point that you don’t think you can feel anything else. But when he slides into you again, grabbing your ass and pushing your hips into the mattress, your eyes alight because he changes up the pace and force with which he enters you.

“Jesus, how many times are you gonna make me come?” you whine, and he snickers.

You shake as your final orgasm washes over you, and when he sees you still, he lets himself take his own release. He sighs and leans over you to catch his breath, holding himself up with his palms pressed against the mattress on either side of you. You reach for his wrist and bring it to your lips, kissing the back of his hand as he straightens and brushes your hair back.

He pulls out of you, and you hear him rustling in the room behind you, throwing his condom away and grabbing a towel to gently wipe you both down. He hums a little when he runs the towel along your skin, and he cradles you against him as he rests against the pillows next to his headboard.

You can’t believe how good that felt. You can’t wait to do it again.

You lie in bed with each other, all smiles.

When you wake up, Yoongi isn’t beside you.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You try not to immediately jump to the conclusion that you are some one-night stand that he’s been chasing all semester. Yoongi just doesn’t seem like that kind of person. But mostly, you would feel embarrassed for falling for a trap.

You reach down and feel blindly for your clothes, and it’s not until the hem hits your thighs that you realize you’ve put on Yoongi’s hoodie by mistake. But you get up anyway and pad into the hall.

Though you don’t know what time it is, you know you’re in the hours that you’re never sure whether to classify night or day. You hear the coffee maker gurgling, and you hear Yoongi clear his throat from the living room. You look over to the kitchen and smile to yourself, silently taking the mug from the counter and pouring coffee into it.

You tiptoe into the living room and see Yoongi wearing nothing but his boxers, facing away from you, sitting at the card table that he and his roommates use as a dining area. He’s listening to music on his headphones and typing something on his laptop. You see the familiar color patterns and logos of your shared favorite scriptwriting software, and you smile to yourself.

Yoongi jerks back when he sees your arm set the mug of coffee down on the table, but he settles when you embrace him from behind, looping your arms around him and resting your forearms against his bare chest, and pressing a kiss onto the nape of his neck.

He slides his headphones off of his ears, the music spilling slightly into the room as he sets them next to the mug.

“For me?” he asks.

“I know you take it black,” you say. “You’re always rushing into class with a mug or a plastic cup.”

He places a kiss on one of your wrists.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers, as he holds your wrist to his lips and leans back and into your touch.

“Is that why you’re working out here?” you ask.

“Yeah, I woke up and wanted to write, but I didn’t want to be too noisy.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Neither did I.” He turns around and looks at you. “You scared the shit out of me just now.”

You chuckle, and he takes a deep breath in. He undoes your arms and pulls you around from behind him. He scoots the chair back and grabs your thighs to have you straddle him.

Now that he can see you, it registers that you’re wearing his hoodie, and when you sit on his lap, it registers that you’re wearing nothing else. He moans as you sink onto him, and you kiss him, rocking your hips as you angle higher and higher to devour more and more of him.

Yoongi pulls away and smiles at you. “It’s really late, and you’re really turning me on,” he mutters, kind of a compliment, and kind of a warning.

“Have a sip of coffee and then do something about it,” you say, smirking.

He shakes his head and laughs. He wraps his arms around your waist so that you don’t fall off his lap when he reaches forward for the mug you’ve brought him. He brings the mug to his lips and takes a drink of his coffee, and then he arches his eyebrow before holding it out to you. You smile and take a healthy sip.

And then he picks you up and carries you back to his room.

From the beginning, you know that it’s so much more than just sex with Yoongi. You learn how deep in your feelings you really are when one day, you’re sitting at your favorite coffee shop near campus, squinting at your screen and frowning. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you reach for your phone and call Yoongi.

“Hey, missy,” he greets you, making you smile warmly. “We still on for tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, “but can I quickly run a couple of ideas by you? I can’t tell if I’m overthinking this treatment that I’m writing.”

“You called me because you were stuck?” he asks.

“Yeah, can you help me?”

He pauses, and at first, you think he’s about to say no.

“I like being the person you call when you’re stuck,” he says meaningfully, and your heart swells.

He meets you at the coffee shop, and you walk over to that halal place that he loves so much. The cook brings you two orders, and you sit on the curb as you eat and talk.

“We need more places to just sit and eat around here,” Yoongi complains, looking at the run-down road.

“Focus,” you say, handing him his drink and patting the spot next to you.

He sits next to you, and you both start digging into your meal.

“Is this about the script about writers?”

You nod. Everything show or movie that you’ve watched that claims to be about the writing process is really more about the industry as a whole. Actor- and producer-type characters get the bulk of the attention. Writing is harder to show on screen because of how it plays out in real life. No one wants to watch long bouts of silence where a bunch of people just type and stare at their laptops all day.

“So why are you having trouble?” he asks.

“Because I’m not a writer?” you say, as if it should be obvious to Yoongi already.

“Are you writing?”

“Yes, but---”

“Then you’re a writer.”

“But I’m not a real writer,” you explain. “I’ve never been in a writer’s room. I haven’t even thought about internships or summer programs or---”

“First of all, you are a ‘real writer’,” Yoongi says, using air quotes.

“But---”

“Second of all,” Yoongi presses on, “you’re having trouble because that’s not what you’re really writing about.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You told me the setting,” Yoongi says. “A writer’s room. A room full of people like us, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What is the show about?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking… slice of life. Dubliners, y’know, James Joyce. But also Sylvia Plath. And Mad Men?”

“OK, so you’re giving me influences,” Yoongi says.

“Right,” you say, sighing.

“Take a moment to think about it,” Yoongi says. “What is the show about?”

“Stuff we deal with as writers?” you try. “Y’know… learning how to be better at our craft, figuring out how to break into the industry, all the personal relationship stuff that happens along the way…”

“You’re telling me plot points, and maybe some characterizations,” Yoongi says. “These could be episodes. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“Dig deeper, missy. What is the show about?”

You think for a while, but then you sigh. “Fuck. I don’t know anymore.”

“Yes you do,” Yoongi says. And you hear it in your head before he says it out loud. When he does, you chime in.

“Every story is about you.”

You both laugh, but you recognize that he’s made this same exact point to you the night before when he noticed you scribbling down your latest journal entry. He observed the fervor with which you were writing, and you bit back the impulse to tell him that you were happily writing about him. But the conversation led to a revelation, like so many of them do. He told you about his philosophy that your scripts should feel like you’re writing in a journal. It should feel that deep and personal. Though you need to provide consistency in order to be coherent, a writer’s job isn’t optimizing people’s lives and character traits and immediately tying them up into neat little bows. If that were the case, then there wouldn’t be a story to tell.

“OK, then,” you say. “It’s about me.”

“What about you?”

“My fears,” you admit.

“Fears about what?”

“About not belonging in the writer’s room in the first place, I guess.”

Yoongi nods. “OK. Now we’re getting somewhere. What else?”

You stare out at the street, watching cars drive by, and students walking, and the sun setting. You let Yoongi’s question really sink in, and all sorts of answers start to bubble up.

It’s about ideas. It’s about how something, like a TV show, can be made from seemingly nothing. How almost anyone could do it. But most importantly, it’s about what it’s like to be the kind of person who so easily conjures amazing storylines and dialogue in her head, rife with passion and intrigue and excitement, yet who still has no idea what life is actually like. The frustration that comes with reality not meeting expectations. The disappointment that comes with having to temper them for your own survival, and how it feels like you must deny parts of yourself to let other parts flourish.

“What else?” Yoongi repeats.

You come back from wherever you traveled to, and you turn to him and grin.

He smiles back.

“Was that enough?” he asks.

You nod, and you kiss him exuberantly, chicken and rice smearing all over your faces.

Yoongi laughs and uses his sleeve to wipe your mouth before wiping his own.

“Yes. Thank you for listening to me,” you say.

“Thanks for sharing,” he says, shrugging.

It goes on like this for a few, blissful months. Talking about your influences. Your creative processes. Helping each other try on new things. New shapes. And not just for your work. But for your hearts. Your bodies. Waking up tangled in Yoongi’s bed, surrounded by the smell of his perfectly rolled blunts. Waking up in your twin bed, smushed together and lazy when Dae’s away. Weekends here and there spent naked and in front of each others’ notebooks and laptops, all of these vignettes in one long work that you’re writing together about TV and movies and cinematography and scripts and editing and directors and writers and philosophy and meaning and life. You love this, working on your projects, and telling each other where you are in your stories. Not just the ones you’re writing, but the ones you’re living.

What you have with Yoongi is decidedly romantic, full of the passion and connection that exists unspoken but skyrockets when fueled by Yoongi’s way with words. And maybe even your own.

But it all unfairly ends on a spring day that’s too sunny and flowery for something as sad as what’s about to happen.

The last semester ended with a new beginning. This one will, too. Unlike last time, you won’t get to watch it unfold with each other.

“Make sure you follow-up on the internship applications that you haven’t heard back from,” he says, throwing a backpack into the backseat of his hatchback.

“I will.”

“And keep pulling the thread with that main character in your script about the writers working for the TV show,” he says, loading the last of his luggage. “She’s nearly there, but it’s like we talked about. You have to be willing to showcase her faults as much as her successes. Less Mary Sue, more Martha.”

He loves that you’re the kind of writer who instantly picks up on an Edward Albee reference. He loves that you know that he’s cleverly disguised life advice in a writing critique. And you love that he loves that.

You’re turning Yoongi’s film academy acceptance letter over in your hands, watching him do a final walk around the perimeter of his car, kicking the tires to make sure they’re road-ready.

“Also, if you’re ever going to drive a long distance, it’s a good idea to check the pressure of your tires. You tend to ride them until they’re already a little flat,” he says, finally turning to you.

You gaze at him, tears pooling in your eyes. “Any last words of wisdom?”

His heart sinks at the sight of you crying. He reaches out for you, and he pulls you into him.

“You shouldn’t have come today,” he says quietly.

You frown.

“I just mean that it’s… no one’s dying, y’know? And… seeing you like this is…”

He takes a deep breath.

“I just feel like we’re breaking a butterfly on a wheel,” he explains.

You think of how all this started with butterflies.

“You watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind enough times and I guess you become an Alexander Pope aficionado,” you tease.

He scrunches up his face, touched. “You always find my references.”

“You always write them into the perfect places,” you sigh.

He wraps you up in a warm embrace, hugging you with his entire body.

You share one long, deep kiss full of everything you have left to say.

And then, he whispers into your ear.

“Keep my number, and I’ll keep yours. Let’s promise to tell each other when they change. OK?”

You nod.

And then he’s gone.

And you wonder how many more times you’re going to see ambition marching ahead of the other things in life.

The chicken and rice is better than you remember.

The last time you saw this place, it was just a brick wall with a window. Now, it’s that window, with a line of college students leading up to it, plus a whole restaurant, with groups of friends and family eating inside, and a couple of cute, small tables on the patio.

As you and Yoongi sat down at one of those small tables, Yoongi told you that the cook has retired, and the cook’s son owns and manages the restaurant. In fact, the cook’s son joined you as Yoongi was updating you, and he and Yoongi shared some greetings and well-wishes before he disappeared to get two of Yoongi’s usuals.

Your knees keep knocking into each other, so Yoongi slides his left foot between yours, your legs alternating and interlocked. You’ve been sitting alarmingly close like this as you’ve been chatting and eating.

“Did we even get around to eating the first time?” you joke, making Yoongi blush and look away.

“Why don’t you check your journal and see?” Yoongi jokes, still averting his eyes and taking another bite of food.

You laugh. “You are dying to read this, aren’t you?”

“C’mon.”

“I highly doubt there’s anything about the food in that night’s entry.”

“Humor me.”

You open the notebook and look for the entry you wrote about your first time with Yoongi. You scan the pages and smile at your words. And then you find that he’s right.

It’s unfair, you think. He still knows you so well, yet everything he does still disarms you.

You quote, “We didn’t get to the chicken and rice until the next morning. It’s delicious. Definitely the best spot on campus to eat. But I bet it’s even better when it’s warm and fresh.”

He smiles, self-satisfied. “So?”

“It is better.”

“Does it say anything else about that night?” Yoongi asks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

Your eyes settle into his, and you tilt your head. You feel the way you’re lighting up from within. It’s less like meeting an old friend and more like meeting a celebrity. He’s always been so astonishing and unreal, even in his humility.

“It does.”

His eyes sparkle. “Read on, then.”

You rub the inside of his thigh with your knee.

“Why don’t we write some new pages instead?” you say, looking at him.

And it’s nice to see him look disarmed for once.

The walk back to the place you’ve rented out for the night is a blur. You just remember smiling tight-lipped and walking arm in arm, laughing every now and then without saying anything, and exchanging knowing looks.

When you step inside, his lips are immediately on yours, and his arms are around your waist.

You try to lead him to the bedroom, but he notices the stacks of journals in your open suitcase. Being a writer, he can’t help but be distracted by all those collected thoughts sitting there like that.

He turns to you and raises your eyebrows. “Those aren’t all about me, are they?”

“No, c’mon,” you say, biting your lip and tugging at his sleeve.

Yoongi smiles and watches you. He kisses you again, and then he runs his hands through your hair, smoothing it as he places his hands on your shoulders.

“I need to ask. What is this project really about?”

You try to avoid crying, but you feel the twinges already happening in your cheeks. You’re scrunching up your face, and Yoongi’s doing his best to stay strong as he watches your expression twist from one of bliss to one of turmoil.

“Because I want to fix things,” you say.

“What things?” Yoongi asks.

You take a deep breath, but then you shake your head.

“Buck up, missy,” he encourages you. “Be brave, like you already are. Help me understand.”

“I want to…”

You sigh and let tears fall.

“I want to fix me,” you finally admit.

Yoongi holds you and listens as you get your thoughts out.

“I’m tired of feeling like I lose everything,” you say. “Everything I’ve written about is over. And when I look back on it all, the only common thread I can see is me. So I must be the problem. I must be why I can’t get things right.”

He holds your face in his hands. “If that’s how you feel, then I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“What?” you ask. “Why?”

“Because there’s nothing to fix about you,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

He brings your face to his and kisses you meaningfully. He pulls away, and he looks around the room, trying to decide which door is the main bedroom. You smile, and you pull his arms around you, guiding him toward the bed.

You kiss as you undress, hurried by your want for each other, but not rushing. Your bodies transfer blinding heat back and forth, your hands and lips nearly branding each other as you hold each other close.

He lays you down on the mattress, and for a moment, he looks exactly like he did all those years ago, concerned with making you feel safe and free. But then you pull him toward you, and you show him what you’ve learned since.

You push him down onto the bed and lie on your stomach next to him. You take his long, hard length inside of you. He reaches out for you, any part of you that he can grab and hold onto, but as you sink your throat down and around him, he lets out a flurry of gibberish and moans that forces his head back onto the pillow. He tries to hang on for as long as he can while you gobble him up, and before long, he whines and sits up, cueing you to release him.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, rolling you onto your back. “All this time? All those phone calls and meetups, and we never---”

“Do you always ask so many questions?” you joke.

Yoongi adorably pouts before he snuggles between your legs and kisses you the way he kissed your mouth, his lips spread open so that he can devour you. His tongue makes its way around your entrance, and then it finds that special spot, your clit reaching back out for him with such a strong need that you can barely feel anything else, not even the way his hand grasps yours or the way his other hand is massaging your breasts.

He watches you, curious to see if the faces or moves that you make are the same or different. He smiles when he makes you come quickly because he learns that it’s both. You’re the same in that there are certain movements that are exact copies of what he’s seen before. You’re different in that there are certain movements that come from other experiences, and instead of feeling jealous or uneasy about them, he’s curious about them. He’s even thankful for them. He doesn’t know why you’re feeling so down about yourself in this moment, but he knows that everything you’re feeling right now, a combination of what he’s doing and what others have done for you, is good. And there can never be too much good in this world.

He runs his hands up and down your waist, his thumbs flicking across your nipples as he moves up to meet your lips with his. He places his knee between your legs, like it sat between your legs at the table at dinner, and you grip his thigh with yours. He smirks down at you, and you start to move against him, both of you grinding your hips against each other. You reach down to grab his length and stroke it, and he groans with pleasure at the feel of your hand on one side of him, and your soft thigh on the other.

By the time he slides his cock into you, you’ve lost track of the amount of times that he’s made you see stars. But you know you need him just one more time. With him, you’ll always want one more time.

You ride him harder and harder, and he stills for a moment to experience it. He moans and presses his forehead against you, kissing your chest and stomach, and you run your hands through his hair as you move. You’re glad that, for as much comfort as you give, being here like this, reassuring him that the tiny yet transformative bit of time that you shared together was worth it, that you can still give him something new to discover about you, too.

You settle in one place on the mattress, gasping for air, and he retakes the lead. He pumps into you, harder and faster, and you wonder if it’s because he knows you can take it now. God, and the way he pumps into you. So smooth. Never losing full control. He wants to save that for when it’s really time. He is a mastermind.

He even knows the way you’ll respond to him, too. Daring him to push even further. Daring him to challenge you more. You remember feeling like this with his words. You had forgotten how much more powerful he actually was with his body.

He’s most disarming with his eyes. When you’re close, he locks his on yours, and he licks his lips, making you close your eyes and wonder where the hell he gets the audacity to give it like this to you after all this time apart. When he looks at you like that, even when you just feel his eyes tracing your body, you feel like someone is breathing fire onto you.

He jerks his hips up, and you arch back. He wraps himself around you, slamming into you harder than ever, and you cry out as you both come, shuddering against each other.

You don’t know how much time passes until you finally, finally catch your breath.

As you lie in bed, you come to the sobering realization that Yoongi will leave soon. It’s not that he doesn’t want to stay. It’s never that. Or maybe it is. But you get the sense that it’s more that he’s kind of already given you everything that you need from him.

You have minutes, not hours, for the last thing that is left.

So you try and soak up as much of him as possible while you’ve got him.

“If I’m so perfect, then why didn’t we end up together?” you ask him.

He takes a deep breath and thinks about it.

“Because you being perfect isn’t the only thing that determines that,” he says, and you know he’s right.

“What are the other things?” you ask.

“Well, that depends. The situation. The context. You know.”

“What were the other things for you?”

You look at him so sincerely that his heart is breaking trying to have this conversation with you. He knows how perfect you are, and how perfect this whole picture looks in your mind.

He holds out his hand.

You think he’s gesturing to the warm and cozy place that you’re in. But to him, he’s gesturing to nothing in particular.

“If this were what I wanted, trust me. I would have wanted to share it with you,” Yoongi says.

You gaze at each other from the pillows that belong to neither of you, in the bed that belongs to neither of you, in the house that belongs to neither of you, in the time that belongs to neither of you. You’re two explorers that are bound by the mere desire to travel and nothing else. And for you both, that’s enough.

“Can I ask you a question?”

You blink. Yoongi never asks you questions for himself.

“You said you were engaged.”

You nod. “For a little while. But I wasn’t for too long. And now I’m not.”

“I’m sorry that it didn’t work out for you.”

“Don’t be. It’s OK.”

He nods. “Well, if things were different... If I were different… and we had… if I had… would you have…?”

His eyes look questioningly at you.

You’ve never seen Yoongi struggle with words.

Ever.

And that tells you that he means what he’s not saying just as much as what he is.

You slip out of bed and pick up the Yoongi journal.

You climb back into bed and snuggle next to him as he wraps his arm around you.

You flip to the entry that you wrote the day after you saw Yoongi drive away.

And you hand the journal back to Yoongi.

April 21st

Yoongi’s gone.

This one hurts more than the last. I didn’t even think that was possible.

You don’t come back from something like this. You are left forever changed.

Even so, I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t know how to tell him that I care for him in a way that I still can’t describe. I don’t have the words. The things I felt for him transcend all the definitions I know, and it hurts that he didn’t have more time to teach me.

I don’t know if he’ll ever know that...

That if he stayed.

That if he asked me to go with him.

That if he had asked me to be his.

That if he ever asked me anything.

I would say yes without needing to think twice.

I wouldn’t even need to think in the first place.

A soft sigh escapes Yoongi’s lips.

You share one more longing kiss.

He pulls away, smiles, and kisses you on your forehead.

“You’re going to create endless beautiful works of art. You know that, right?”

And you think you see tears form in his eyes before he rolls out of your grasp and reaches for his pants on the floor.

← 02: Supernatural Aid | 04: Crossing the Threshold →

The Road to You | Masterpost

#my fics #the road to you #bts fanfiction #bts fan fiction #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #suga x you #suga x reader #suga x y/n #good god how many times did i listen to blue & grey while writing and editing this omg

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