time p.2 - cw for sad thoughts, drinking, eating habits

posting this even though i had work to do but i dont have wifi for my school isssued chromebook🥰

robert and jimmy never came to my house. yes, i did pass out multiple times per week and drank too much, but even at that

they still never showed up.

my body was now so weak.

and my mind wasn’t even bothered to do anything about it.

i barely woke up each morning, it was a surprise i still did. i stopped drinking more or less, my stomach couldn’t even down that.

i heard the calls, but i was scared i couldn’t pick up the phone.

slowly, i walked to my dresser. all the random shirts that robert gave me were still there. they still smelt like his cologne. the star jacket jimmy gave me off a bet, that was there too. the sweaters bonzo gave me for my birthday were there. the cool platform shoes jonesy gave me were there.

all the photographs we had together were taped on the wall still.

they were getting yellow, but they were still there.

everywhere i went in my house, i couldn’t escape it.

my music room that i hadn’t been in for 3 years was probably crying.

all the instruments untuning over time and all of them collecting dust.

it even made me sad.

but even there, on the door, was a poster. one that had us five onto a square. it looked cool back then so i bought it, stuck it on the door and it still remains.

above the poster was a bunch of

writing in sharpie.

all of their four names written on the wall by them, still there. all their silly messages were there.

my favorite was jimmy’s, “my les paul better not in there!” it was so silly, but it was an inside joke at the time.

then there laid bonzo’s “still jealous of this music room, best room to exist.” i wonder if he would still be jealous wherever he is.

then robert’s dumb “the golden god has blessed this room...!” with a winking face at the end.

then jonesy’s “my favorite creator of music.” it was so vague, but so sweet.

i never opened the door, too many memories would’ve came out of it.

god, i wanted to call someone. i needed too.

or else i’d drop dead and no one would know.

i grabbed the much too heavy phone and dialed robert’s number.

he picked up.

“hello?” i heard. his voice hasn’t changed, but his accent was fading.

“robert? it’s y/n.” i said, my voice almost gave out.

“y/n?! oh my god, how have you been? it’s been years!” robert exclaimed, at least he was happy.

“honestly percy, i need help. badly.”

his tone dropped, “what do you mean? is something wrong?”

“listen, just come to my house, then the rest, i don’t know. but please, quickly, or else my sanity is gonna call quits.”

it was true, if i hadn’t done this now, while my sanity was in check, i wouldn’t of done it. i was desperate.

“ok, yeah, i’ll be there quickly. same address, right?” robert asked.

“yeah, see ya.”

i heard robert hum in agreement.

it wasn’t even 20 minutes later when i heard someone knocking on the door.

i groaned, then croaked out, “the doors open!”

instantly, i heard the door open.

“y/n?” i heard robert’s voice.

it still had that youthful tone, with his sweet midland accent.

“living room.” i said back to him.

he ran, almost slipped, which caused me to giggle.

i saw tears prick in his eyes, mine did the same.

he walked over to me quickly and hugged me.

it was odd, i was sitting on the couch, he was sitting on the armrest.

but i still loved his embrace either way.

“christ, y/n i didn’t even think you were still around.” robert said, as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“i’m surprised i am, feels like any day now.” i muttered as i laid my head on his shoulder.

“don’t say that y/n... you’re still here and i-i’m gonna help you, yeah?” robert said, stroking my hair.

he’d always done that even back in the 60s. whenever i was stressed he knew it helped me somehow. i’d be damned if i remembered.

“i’d like that. thank you for coming, robert.” i smiled at him

which he returned, “i’m glad you finally called back, y/n.”

first thing we did was go back in his car.

we had some small talk, nothing major about me though.

“how’s maureen?” i asked.

“oh- that. we’re getting a divorce currently.” robert said, but he didn’t sound sad.

“really? did something happen?”

“no, we just didn’t love each other like we used to. sure, i still care for her and all that but i couldn’t pretend anymore. for the sake of the kids too. she said she felt the same. we’re still friends, we just couldn’t live together anymore.” robert explained.

i knew i didn’t need to tell him i’m sorry, because they still had a good connection.

“i’m glad things ended well then.” i told him.

“so am i.”

suddenly, i was being brought to one of our old favorite diners.

a family owned one, with green hues, with the best food around.

“gosh, we used to go here all the time, huh?” i said, reminiscing at our old memories here with bonzo.

“yeah, i heard the pancakes are the same.”

with that, we both ran in.

sadly, they had some new staff working but either way they made the food the same.

we both ordered the double decked out pancakes.

i had explained to robert how i might not be able to finish due to my stomach. he said it was perfectly fine, we could just get a to-go box for it.

“they really do taste the same.” i smiled.

robert nodded, he couldn’t really respond, his mouth was full.

he looked like a teenager all over again.

“how’s jimmy? i heard you guys were planning something on some magazine.” i asked.

“oh, he’s doing fine. he’s more real now, y’know? he doesn’t seem like a mysterious guy anymore, he’s more personal.” robert explained.

“that’s good. last time i saw him he did look much healthier.”

“you saw him-“

“on the television.” i said.

we laughed for some odd reason.

“what about jonesy? he’s doing well, yeah?”

“from what i heard, yeah. he’s doing great; loves the time with his family he’s got now.”

“always was a family guy.” i laughed.

to our dismay, we finished our pancakes. well, robert finished his. i was surprisingly able to eat half of them.

my stomach finally seemed at ease.

we both got into robert’s car again.

“where do you wanna go now? we could visit jimmy, he’s missed you.” robert suggested.

“really? the, jimmy page, missed me?” i asked, i was honestly surprised. i always had a close relationship to him but i didn’t know if he cared that much.

i guess my doubt grew over the years, i wouldn’t of doubted him missing me 5 years ago.

“oh, don’t say that, of course he missed you! you were like the best friend he always wanted or whatever he said. don’t you remember?” robert looked at me with concern in his eyes.

“sorry, it’s just me. the last few years left me confused with stuff, i didn’t really think i meant much to people. after being alone for so long.”

robert rubbed my shoulder in comfort, “well, now you can rest assured once more.” he flashed a smile at me.

then, off to jimmy’s house we headed.

it was a cool place.

it was made of this dark wood surrounding it with black patterns. definitely suited jimmy.

it had an extravagant backyard too from what robert told me.

i was anxious to say the least.

jimmy always wanted me to take care of myself before he took care of himself.

if he saw me like this, lord knows what he would say.

robert noticed how tense i was.

“hey, y/n, jimmy isn’t all wound tight anymore. he won’t be mad, just concerned, ok?” robert reassured me.

i nodded before we walked to his doorstep.

Jawbreaker

characters — taehyung x reader (aka kiddo) (ft. members of bts)

summary — taehyung thinks dating you is easy and it is, until it isn’t. then he doesn’t know what to do.

wordcount — 8.3k 

information — one shot. fluff. femme reader. character inspired by megan thee stallion, cardi b, and lil’ kim. direct sequel to more than you can chew. makes references to no limit. part of the baking news au. 

warnings — strong language. mean & aggressive characters. casual mentions of sex and sexual behavior (but no smut because i’m shy). light angst. excessive mentions of the color pink. vague mentions of other celebrities and influencers. 

author’s note — i meant to post this months ago, but it just didn’t want to get written. it was actually meant to be attached to more than you can chew, but it just would have been a beast of a story. i actually rewrote this part roughly three times and i am sure there are still some editing mistakes. i’m so sorry for the long wait. i’m not very happy with the final product. i promise the next story will be better. 

jawbreaker —

Taehyung really likes you.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if you let him—though you would never let him do such a thing. You were certainly the cooler head when it came to relationship intensity, knowing that if Taehyung had his way, you would be married already. “Oh my god, it’s only been five months,” you once told him in response to a picture of an engagement ring he had saved on his phone. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place in your studio as you fiddled with the hook of a track technically meant for Hoseok. “Calm down, lover boy.”

“It’s been almost six months and I just asked if you liked it,” he had replied with a small pout, pulling your chair away from your monitor and closer to where he was sitting on the loveseat. “Isn’t it good for me to know what you like?”

“We’re not there yet,” you replied simply, shaking your head at the way he rolled his eyes at you, as though you were the one being ridiculous.

“I might as well know everything now, so I don’t mess up later. Right?” He questioned, grabbing your left hand in his and fiddling with your ring finger. 

“If we make it that far,” you muttered, laughing lightly when he pinches you for your words.

“Answer the question. Do you like it?”

“Hmm…” you hum out, a small smirk settling on your face. “I think you can do better.”

Taehyung thinks he’s in love with you.

That is a secret. No one knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if he were sure about it—sure that you would reciprocate his feelings, sure that you loved him back; but he’s not too sure. You were almost too cool when it came to the relationship, never going above and beyond the most basic of expectations. You answered every text, showed up to every date on time, and referred to him as “the boyfriend” on a few of your Instagram posts not related to music, but that was about it. And yes, his boss Seokjin had told him that you were putting in more than enough effort for a relatively new relationship, but Taehyung still found himself craving for more.

“But what more could she give you?” Seokjin asks during closing one night, his own soon-to-be fianceé (if everything went according to plan) mopping up the front of the bakery. Seokjin flips chairs on the top of tables, while Taehyung wipes down the now empty display racks. It’s a team effort that allows Taehyung to leave earlier, something he is always grateful for because he can spend more time with you. “Like do you want her to write a song about you?”

“I mean, yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just something, you know? Something more than studio dates and donuts. I feel like that’s all we ever do. What do you think, Noona? Am I asking for too much?” Taehyung questions, directing his words to the older woman up front. 

She stops her mopping and shrugs, leaning against a wall as she mulls over her answer. Her eyes go towards Seokjin as finally states, “I’d have to agree with Jin. But we have half of our dates in the kitchen after hours, so maybe we’re the wrong people to ask.” Taehyung sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’re not feeling satisfied, though, you should just talk to her about it. You know what they say, communication is key.”

“I don’t know how she would feel about that,” he replies, imagining just how easy it would be for you to misunderstand him or write him off as needy—though he didn’t exactly think being needy for you was a problem. 

“Aww, don’t be like that. You never know what she might say. She could surprise you.”

At this time, Seokjin flips the last chair on top of its table and moves toward his girlfriend with a cheesy grin. “Wow, what is this mess? You call this mopping? Have you ever mopped before? Have you ever held a mop before? If you needed help from a master cleaner like me, you could have just asked sweetheart,” he teases, grabbing the mop from her hand and pressing a sloppy kiss to her forehead.

His girlfriend cringes away from the kiss for a moment, but ends up leaning into the man nonetheless as she whispers, “You get what you pay for.”

He scoffs. “I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly,” she replies smugly, hand going up to pick dried frosting off of her boyfriend’s collar. Seokjin lets out a choked laugh, arm slipping around her shoulders and pressing her into a too tight hug. She pretends to struggle against him for a bit, before eventually wrapping both her arms around his waist and squeezing just as tightly.

Taehyung watches the silly display of affection with wide eyes, warmth flooding into his heart. The two people in front of him were so clearly in love that he couldn’t help but feel it too. It was plain as day. This behavior wasn’t something he was often able to do with you though. Taehyung understands well that no matter what he did or said to you, your responses would always be carefully calculated. He respects how methodical you are in the way you carry yourself, as though you are afraid something could go wrong at any moment. He knows it’s not easy, which is why his admiration for your handling of relationships in a notoriously cut throat industry grew almost everyday. 

Yes, Taehyung knows he loves you. 

Yet, as he watches the way Seokjin and his girlfriend begin to playfully fight over the mop, an intense love in their eyes, Taehyung finds himself wishing that you would let go and love him too. 

.

.

People don’t always believe that you’re a rapper. They tend to assume that you’re Hoseok’s girlfriend or a groupie when they meet you, failing to make the connection that you’re the infamous Kiddo until they see you on stage. You know why, of course. You’re the only woman in your crew, you’re nowhere near as popular as the other guys, and you don’t dress like a rapper. Or at least, that’s what Yoongi told you one night as you shared a cigarette behind the bar after a performance. 

“It’s the biggest thing holding you back,” he mumbled, the cigarette between his lips looking like it would slip out at any moment. You knew it wouldn’t, but you still eyed it carefully just in case. Attempting to quit had made you hyperaware of its presence, but you knew Yoongi wouldn’t let it drop. He was always so in control—one of many things about him that you envied. “You look like you’re ready to fuck at the drop of a dime.”

“Maybe I am,” you had grumbled back, eyes still on the cigarette. His words were trying your patience, though you didn’t know if your irritation was caused by their truthfulness or your desire to smoke. “Do you have a problem? Cause I can solve it for you.” 

“I don’t care if you dress like a whore,” he snapped at you. “Goddamn, you’re being a bitch tonight. Here, take this!” He snatched his half smoked cigarette out of his own mouth in annoyance, shoving it at you. You accepted it happily, choosing to ignore his insults in favor of savoring in your relapse.

You had long ago realized that most of the men around you would never understand how you dressed. The clothes you wore for performances and photoshoots were provocative to say the least. Vibrantly colored lingerie, leather, lace, and heels most others would deem too tall for comfort littered your closet. Your hair was always meticulously styled and your nails were always done in extravagant fashion. You made sure that your outfits highlighted as much of your body as possible, keeping all eyes on you. It was a far cry from the hoodies and occasional leather jackets sported by your friends, but you didn’t care. Your clothes made you feel powerful. The image you had constructed and thoroughly maintained worked to push your career further, making you stand out in the sea of sameness that had become common for the rappers around you. But those in your circle never see it that way.

Taehyung does, though. Taehyung watches with rapt attention as you show him the new pieces you buy, listening carefully as you explain why certain tops have to be paired with certain bottoms for maximum effect. He wordlessly takes pictures of you with various filters and backgrounds, never complaining when you ask him to take more because you don’t think they are good enough. He doesn’t tease you when you get cold from the lack of fabric, nor does he yell at you when you have unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions like the guys. Instead, he offers you his sweaters or quickly adjusts your clothes before you can even notice the problems. Taehyung knows just how important your image is to you.

Or at least, you thought he did.

“What?” You question, tone edging on impatient as his reflection continues to stare you down in the mirror. You refuse to turn around and face him physically, trying to keep your focus on the highlight you’re attempting to apply in the inner corner of your eye without poking yourself. The tension in your small bathroom is suffocating, but you don’t want to act on it. An argument is the last thing you need. 

“I always watch you do your makeup,” Taehyung answers robotically, eyes still on you.

“Yeah, but—”

“But?” He cuts you off, making you pause your motions in shock. He’s angry and you don’t know why. It puts you both in unfamiliar territory. While Taehyung has seen you angry a million and one times over small things relating to music, venues, promoters, and fans, you cannot say the same for him. The angriest he had ever gotten in front of you came when he suddenly had to pick up extra shifts at the bakery because a coworker had caused a car accident and that moment was nothing like this. 

“Can you just stop fucking looking at me like that? I’m trying to concentrate.” 

He lets out a tense laugh of disbelief at your words before exiting your bathroom and moving to sit on the small couch in your living room. He’s not surprised to find you following him less than a minute later—you were never one to back down from a fight and you both were in the beginning stages of one. When you position yourself directly in front of him, he drops his head to hands and averts his eyes to the floor in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. 

“What crawled up your ass and died tonight?” You ask.

“Go finish your makeup,” he requests quietly, words stilted as he refuses to look up at you.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothi—”

 “It’s not nothing. Don’t lie to me. You can’t even look at me right now.”

Taehyung’s head shoots up at your words, jaw clenching as he realizes his efforts to stay calm were futile because he can’t look at you without feeling another wave of anger crash over him. “Your outfit,” he bites out.

“My outfit?” You parrot back to him in sarcastic disbelief. “You’re staring at me like I fucked your best friend and murdered your mom over… an outfit?”

“You might as well have,” he mumbles under his breath, before stating a bit louder, “It’s lingerie.” 

He says it as though it’s obvious, but it’s not to you. “I-I… a-are you serious?” You stutter out, mind still trying to process his words. Taehyung doesn’t verbally respond, choosing to move his eyes back to the floor instead. You wrack your brain for the right thing to say, because what you actually want to say would likely lead to a breakup and you absolutely don’t want that to happen. You feel as though you’ve been transported into a particularly cruel episode of The Twilight Zone, where you watch your perfect boyfriend turn into one of your evil exes right before your eyes. “I… I wear lingerie for shows all the time. You’ve never had a problem before this. Hell, this covers more of me than what I was wearing earlier today. You didn’t seem to mind then.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” You shout out, frustration evident in your tone. 

“You wore that for me a month ago,” he replies, looking up at you incredulously. His blood began to boil the moment you opened your apartment door, immediately realizing that you had planned to perform in the black lace set. You were even wearing the same black and gold heels with it. He knew for a fact that you bought the lingerie for him, a slightly belated birthday present given to him in your studio. You made him cum as many times as it took to get tears running down his face, then took him to your place and cooked him his favorite food for dinner. He almost told you he loved you then, but decided against it lest you believed he was exaggerating his appreciation for your actions. It was the single most sentimental thing you had done for him in your relationship thus far and you knew just how sentimental Taehyung could get. In his mind, you should have known better than to think that he would want to share any part of that night with the world. 

You look down at your clothes, eyes acknowledging that it was indeed the set you purchased with his birthday in mind. It took you hours to find, trudging through the bitter cold to four different lingerie stores before you settled on it. However, you still didn’t see the problem. “So what? It’s not like it has your cum stains on it or anything.” 

“God, do you always have to be—don’t be crude right now. I’m being serious,” he grits out, feeling intensely out of control.

“Well what would you prefer I say?” You ask, exasperation heavy in your tone. You feel tired and annoyed, knowing this argument might affect your performance later in the night.

“I want you to say that you’ll change.”

“No,” you reply after a beat, a dark laugh surrounding the word, though it lacks any humor. “No fucking way. I’m not changing.” You couldn’t believe that he was asking you to do such a thing. It wasn’t the first time that a person you were dating had made such a request—in fact, your ex had made the request often and it was equally as often ignored. However, it was the first time Taehyung had asked you to change and all you could feel was hurt. You couldn’t believe he fell so easily into the simple trap of insecurity that had tainted your previous relationships. “Look, unless you have a real reason for me to change, you’re just gonna have to get over yourself.”

 “I just gave you a real reason,” he stresses bitterly. “And if you cared about me at all—”

“It’s not about caring for you, Tae! They are just clothes. They don’t do anything, but sit on my body and make me feel good. You, of all people, know that. It’s stupid to as—”

“It’s not stupid to ask you to keep some things private!” He yells, up on his feet with a fire raging in his eyes. You can feel your heart beating hard in your chest, nerves getting the better of you because you aren’t used to this level of rage from him. It’s a feeling both too familiar and too uncomfortable at the same time. It was everything you didn’t want in another relationship and everything Taehyung had promised not to be through his sweet words and actions—and yet you found yourself back there again. “You’re not wearing regular clothes or basic lingerie you buy just to perform in. You bought that specifically for me! You had sex with me in that. So now everyone at your show and everyone who follows you online is going to know exactly what you look like when you fuck me. I didn’t sign up to share that part of my life with the whole goddamn world!”

His rant finishes in a roar, the last sentence screamed so loudly that the final words come out hoarse and broken. His eyes are rimmed red, but he continues to stand tall, bracing himself as he expects you to respond in kind.

You don’t.

Rather, he watches you take a large step back and whisper, “Get out.”

“What?” He responds dumbly, unable to fully comprehend your words. It wasn’t in your nature to extinguish fights so completely, preferring to keep going until disagreements had naturally run their course or threats of violence had been made. You never walked away and you certainly never let others walk away. This was different. This hurt.

“You don’t get to yell at me over clothes. You don’t get to yell at me, period. So get out.” 

You watch as Taehyung takes in the full meaning of your words, opening his mouth briefly as though he wants to argue more, but closing it again. Giving you a rough nod, you can do nothing but watch as he grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and exits your apartment, slamming the door in his wake. 

.

.

Eight days. Eight long days. Eight miserable days. Eight long, miserable days of Taehyung slowly losing his mind. You had not spoken to him or seen him in eight days. Every single attempt he made to contact you was ignored. If it weren’t for read receipts and the fact that you had kept all the pictures of him up on your Instagram, he would have assumed that you were broken up. Although, at this point, he would have preferred a break up. At least, he could have made moves to win you back. This current situation left him stuck with nowhere to go.

“What do I do?”

“Well you can start,” Namjoon states, setting a pastel pink mug engraved with his wedding date down in front of his friend, “by drinking that.” Taehyung stares at the clear liquid inside of the cup curiously before shrugging his shoulders and taking a swig. His tongue instantly curls back into his mouth as his taste buds are assaulted by a strong, bitter flavor. He slams the mug back down on the coffee table with a gag. Namjoon lets out a chuckle at his reaction, sitting down beside him with a matching mug of his own. “Drink slow.”

“Is this vodka?”

“A strong drink for strong business,” Namjoon responds, taking a sip of whatever he has poured into his own cup. Namjoon had invited him over at the end of his shift, taking note of how much Taehyung had been moping around the shop. His mood was bad for business, apparently, and Namjoon was the ultimate fixer when it came to those sorts of things. “Now I think I know what happened, but can you tell me your side of things again?”

Taehyung throws his head back, staring at the ceiling as he recounts the argument once more. It’s all he’s been able to think about, hyper focusing on every sour facial expression and negative word you said. It makes his heart hurt; he misses you. “And then she told me to get out, so I did. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“Ouch. How long has it been?”

“Eight long days and counting.”

“Damn, I guess she knows how to hold a grudge. Good for her,” Namjoon comments with a light laugh, as though he was impressed by your actions. Taehyung wants to scream, but he settles for a deep scowl. “But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about Tae. She still claims that she is very much taken. You aren’t broken up or anything.”

“I just want her to talk to me,” Taehyung whines, hands running through his hair in distress. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed and just fought it out.” Namjoon laughs at his words, but Taehyung continues, “I keep listening to her songs just to hear her voice, but it’s not enough. I don’t want Kiddo saying she’ll fuck me to sleep, I only want her.”

Namjoon snorts, nudging his younger friend with his shoulder. “That’s so stupid, Tae. You know you can’t have one without the other. They are the same person. If you keep separating her into different parts in your head, the two of you are gonna keep having these problems.”

Taehyung hums out a confused note. “What do you mean?”

“Your girlfriend is kind of like a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung grunts, reaching for his mug again. “Listen, if you’re about to describe all the ways she’s going to keep hurting me, don’t bother. Jungkook already did that—twice. And it was worse the second time around.”

“I mean the candy,” Namjoon starts, pausing to take another sip of his drink as he contemplates the best way to continue. Taehyung thinks Namjoon is the only other person in the world whose way with words rivals your own. He speaks with a certain amount of care and consideration that make Taehyung jealous. Perhaps, if he were more like Namjoon, he wouldn’t be in this mess. “A jawbreaker is this candy ball that’s really popular abroad,” he continues. “They are huge, big, and sweet—but hard. You can’t bite through them like normal candy. You’ll break your teeth or dislocate your jaw if you try, thus the name jawbreaker. If you want to eat it and enjoy it, you have to suck it down.”

“If this turns into some sex thing, I swear to god—”

“It’s a metaphor, you pervert. Keep up.” Namjoon chastises.

“You’re the pervert,” Taehyung mutters gruffly under his breath, taking a long swig of the vodka in his cup. “Fine. Continue.”

“Jawbreakers have different layers and flavors. The more you suck on it, the more layers you’ll get to experience; but at the end of the day, it’s still all the same candy.”

“I hate this metaphor.”

“You hate it because you don’t understand it,” the older man says sagely, giving his friend a slow head tilt. “It’s really quite simple if you think about it.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just spit it out, Joon!”

“She’s a sweet girl, Tae. You and I both know that. You approached her because you were attracted to her, but you stayed because she’s obviously more than a pretty face. She’s just not always going to be that easy to digest though—at least not all the time. Sometimes you might get the layer that cooked you dinner for your birthday and other times you might get the layer that thinks nearly nude bar fights are appropriate. It’s still the same candy, just like it’s still the same girl. You have to take your time with her like you would a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung’s ears perk up at Namjoon’s words, panic shooting through him as he questions, “Did she get into a naked fight?”

“Last year. It didn’t start nak—don’t worry about it.”

Taehyung places his cup back on the table, dropping his head forward with a deep sigh. “So you’re saying I just…  have to wait this out until she’s ready to be with me again?”

“Well she hasn’t technically left you yet.”

“And you’re sure there is nothing else I can do? There’s nothing here that I’m missing? I don’t want to wait anymore. I just want to be with her.”

“I know that, but if you want to be with her, you just have to accept who she is. Don’t think she’ll change or come running back to you just because you do something extravagant. She’s not gonna suddenly see your point of view or be rescued from her own bad judgement. You’re not actually her hero, Tae. That’s not how life works.”

“Things are fine when she’s not wrapped up in her whole Kiddo persona—”

Namjoon cut him off with an annoyed groan, shaking his head roughly. “You’re not getting it. You say you want to be with her, right? That means you want to be with all of her, including all the shitty ‘Kiddo’ flavors and colors that go along with it.”

“But—”

“Kiddo isn’t just a persona. It’s her. And if you don’t like it, maybe you don’t need to be with her.”

Taehyung wants to argue back, but can’t find the resolve to do so as guilt and shame begin to settle in his chest. He never consciously thought that his favorite parts of you were separate from your rap identity, but he couldn’t fight Namjoon’s words. While he respected the more sexually aggressive side that came with your career, he clearly adored the soft and sweet side of you more. He wonders, glumly, if he’s treated you differently because of his preference, only to be crushed by the realization that the argument proved he had been. 

“I’m in love with her,” Taehyung murmurs quietly, making Namjoon sit up. Everyone knew Taehyung’s feelings for you were strong, but no one expected love to be in the cards. Sure, it had been closing in on a year in terms of a relationship, but on the outside looking in, things still appeared fairly casual between the two of you. Your behavior from day one hadn’t changed at all. 

“Is that right? Are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, words coming out like a stream of conscious thoughts. “I love her. I’ve known for months. It’s just sometimes… I feel like I get more Kiddo than I do—I mean you’re right, they’re the same person, she’s just one person. I just wanted something that didn’t have to be a part of her image for once. I was never trying to control her or separate her, but I just…” He stops when he can no longer think of what to say, leaning back into the couch with his eyes going up to the ceiling. 

“I know,” Namjoon states suddenly, “and she knows too. She’s not innocent in all of this. I told her as much when I saw her.”

This information shocks Taehyung. “You spoke to her?” The older man hums an affirmative sound and nods. “When?” 

“A few days ago. She came into the bakery.”

“She came in?” Taehyung asks, voice increasing in pitch as he turns to fully face Namjoon. “Where was I? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Calm down, Tae. You were off. She just wanted donuts, but didn’t want to see you,” he answers with a mild shrug. “It’s probably better that you weren’t there. Jungkook refused to serve her and then Hoseok started arguing with him and threats started flying—it was a mess.” Taehyung groans, knowing that if anything, Jungkook’s actions only made you more angry at him. “But Jin and I were able to calm things down.” 

“Do I even want to know what she said?”

“To Jungkook? A lot. Your girl has a hell of a mouth on her. I haven’t heard some of the words she used in years. Seokjin was blushing.” Taehyung lets out a sad laugh, thoughts racing with all the possible things you could have said. Part of him wished he was able to hear all the things you had uttered and seen the shocked look on people’s faces, but he supposed it was better that he wasn’t around. “But to me?” Namjoon continued, “Not much. Things involving your sex life should be private. It’s just going to cause problems in the future if she keeps trying to bring it to the stage. She knows better.”

“So you told her I was right?”

“You were both wrong,” Namjoon replies smoothly. “You shouldn’t have tried to force her hand and she shouldn't have crossed that line. Neither of you were thinking of each other. You can’t be selfish in a relationship.” There is a beat of silence, Namjoon’s statement lingering in the air for a moment. “I know how some people feel about her, but I actually like you two together. In all the years that I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever been with someone who cares about her like you do.” Taehyung can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, nodding slowly at Namjoon’s words. “Just give her a little bit more time. Things will work out.”

.

.

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. He feels like he’s seen a ghost. It’s been ten days.

“Hi,” you say quietly. You come off as shy, eyes bouncing around the displays, but never settling directly on Taehyung even though he’s right across from you. It feels odd, not at all like how your relationship normally functions. Any other day would have found you leaning the entire upper half of your body on the counter, throwing out suggestive quips as you ordered in an attempt to make Taehyung stutter. Your current lack of confidence is startling, causing Taehyung to stare at you for a few seconds longer than normal as he searches for any changes in your face, hair, and shape. It’s only been ten days, but he knows just how much can change in ten days. Relief floods through his system when comes to find that—physically—you look just as he expects you to. 

Finally, he breathes out an equally gentle, “Hi, stranger.”

The tease hits you harder than he intended it to, with your back straightening out and eyes narrowing. “I’m a stranger now?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in ten days…” he trails off, the sarcastic lilt to his tone making you visibly bristle with discontent. 

You should have expected the cold shoulder, given how long you had gone without speaking to him. You needed more time to process than you realized and going to your friends didn’t help. To say opinions were divided on the matter was an understatement. Some people were disgusted by what you wore, while others were furious with Taehyung’s behavior. You were most surprised by Hoseok, who normally sided with you when it came to relationship troubles. This time, however, he turned his nose up at your outfit choice and referred to the various ways Taehyung had attempted to reach out to you as “pathetic and underserved.” Yoongi had no strong opinions one way or the other, but his fianceé had plenty to say (which only served to rile you up again). She couldn’t believe how serious his demands were and how easily he left your house. She wondered, quite loudly, where the sweet and perfect Taehyung had gone. 

But it was actually Namjoon’s words that dealt a huge blow to your ego. He dressed you down in a way that only he could, never raising his voice or calling you names, but calmly explaining all of your missteps to you until you felt smaller than a coffee cup. His final words had been running around your head for days: “I know it’s not what you’re used to, but sometimes it pays to be soft. You can’t have a successful relationship if you’re going to be so hard all the time.”

Thinking of his words once again, you inhale slowly to calm the little fires building in your heart. “I’m sorry for that,” you start, taking another deep breath before continuing by saying, “I shouldn’t have ignored you. It was wrong.”

Taehyung takes in a shocked breath of his own at your apology. He had expected a bit more pushback or an apology without actually saying the words. You were never one to easily admit when you were wrong, your pride being too strong for such casual admittances of guilt. Your repentance most often came in the form of covering drink tabs or ordering food. This sort of softness was new to him and all he could feel was thankful. 

Leaning over the counter, he grabs your hand in his own and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it, smiling widely when you don’t pull away. “I’m really sorry too. I mean it. I know I must have told you a hundred times already, but I cr—”

“It’s okay,” you stop him, squeezing his hand gently so that he knows you are serious. “Namjoon said that we’re both idiots. We’ve said our sorries and I want to just leave it at that.”

Taehyung lets out a short chuckle at your words, pressing another kiss to the back of your hand because he finally gets to hold it again. “ Well, I would never call you an idiot. I’m more than ready to leave things be if you are. I really, really missed you.” 

“I—”

“Hey Tae, can you help out in the bac—oh!” You let go of Taehyung’s hands quickly as he turns to find Jungkook standing in the kitchen doorway, a tray of bread in his hands and his eyes locked on your in a fierce glare. “You really came back here? What? Was there nobody to free off of at the Krispy Kreme?” He questions, audacity laced through his words. It was clear that there was no love lost between the two of you.

You roll your eyes dramatically, spitting out, “Bite me, bread bitch.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise at your insult, visibly tensing up. He opens his mouth to retaliate, Taehyung sharply states, “Don’t start!” Jungkook’s jaw locks in frustration, eyes shooting to his coworker in anger, but Taehyung keeps going. “Not right here and not right now. Seokjin will kill us. Bite each other’s heads off later, outside of the shop. Please!” Although there were very few people in the bakery, it was beginning to gain a small reputation amongst the older crowd for being a place for “rough housers;” Seokjin and Namjoon would crawl into individual balls and die if another incident occurred.

Jungkook clicks his tongue in annoyance, but otherwise relents, quickly placing the tray on the counter. “Hurry up and finish whatever this is. There’s a big takeout order of macarons that we need to get finished before five.” Taehyung nods in affirmation, a pleading look in his eyes that appeases Jungkook enough to send him back into the kitchen. 

“I fucking hate him,” you grumble as soon as the younger man disappears through the door.

Taehyung turns to face you, reaching for your hand again only to find that you have shoved both of them in the pockets of your coat. “He’s just over protective, that’s all. You should have seen him when he found out who his sister was dating. Once you get to know him, you’ll se—”

“I don’t want to get to know him,” you state matter-of-factly. “He’s an idiot who thinks I’m using you for fucking donuts. Honestly, who would risk falling in love for donuts? They’re good, but they’re not that good. You can buy donuts anywhere.”

Taehyung stiffens, mouth dropping open in shock as he takes in the full implication of your words. Did you love him too? You had never said anything even mildly similar to him. You didn’t talk about your feelings for him unless pressed and even then your answers were short. Confessions of desire and attraction were saved for intimate moments in your studio or his apartment, where no one but Taehyung could hear them. Even then, they were often cushioned between jokes that led to him scolding you, telling to stop pretending that you didn’t like him. You never seemed close to confessing love, but your words made it appear as though you had been in love with him all along. 

“Did you just… say you love me?” He questions quickly, mind still reeling. 

“Huh” You question, the confusion that washes across your features slowly melting away as you come to realize the implication of your words. It doesn’t surprise Taehyung when you mutter, “I didn’t say that,” but his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach anyway. The small flame of hope he carried in his heart extinguished momentarily, as he mentally kicked himself for getting his hopes up. He was lucky you were even talking to him again—a declaration of love was just ridiculous. Life wasn’t a hallmark movie. He didn’t know what he was thinking. 

Biting back his disappointment, Taehyung swallows before replying, “I misunderstood. That’s not even what you were talking about.” You blink slowly at his words, eyes shining as though you have something to say; however, you just end up biting your lip and casting your gaze down. “Just… please don’t even think about Kook, okay?” Taehyung pleads, wanting nothing more than to grab you in a hug or kiss your cheek to get the physical reassurance that things were completely okay between the two of you. Instead, he settles on asking, “Can I see you after work tonight? I get off at six and I can bring you some takeout.”

You break into a small smile, nodding your head once. “Bring a donut and some hot chocolate and you have a deal.”

.

.

You really like Taehyung.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. You would write about him in all of your songs if you could—though, of course, you could never do such a thing. You didn’t want to subject Taehyung to that type of scrutiny, knowing all too well how many problems came along with dating a rapper when they weren’t waxing poetic about their relationships on tracks. People ate up those types of songs, only to place severe judgements on the rapper’s partner as though they were an expert. “You never talk about me in your songs,” he once told you, referencing a song called “Fiancé” that had been released by one of your friends. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place during closing time in Baking News as Taehyung mopped the floor around your feet. He taps your legs lightly with the edge of his shoe. “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“It’s too much work,” you had replied, kicking your feet up so he could mop underneath them. He thanks you quietly, quickly getting to work so that you can lower your feet once more. “People are gonna read too much into it and make all of our lives a living hell. Just as Yoongi.”

“So you’re never gonna write about me?” He questioned jokingly, setting the mop to the side to hover over your seated form.

“I write about you,” you quickly retorted, craning your head up to look at him. He leans down and places a small peck on your lips, going in for a second with a small hum. “It’s just for my eyes and ears only.”

“Don’t you think I deserve to see?” He said, standing again to resume his task. From the kitchen, you hear the telltale sign of metal pans dropping. It’s followed by a loud, yet muffled “fuck” from Seokjin and the laughter is his girlfriend. 

“I don’t think you’ll like all the things I have to say about you, lover boy.”

“Hmm…” he hums in a mocking way, facing away from you as he works on a particular sticky patch on the floor. “I’m going to disagree with you there. I like everything about you, even the cheesy love songs you write about me.”

“Who said the songs I write about you are love songs?” You quip, making him turn to you quickly and point the edge of the mop at you accusingly.

“Stop pretending that you don’t like me!” 

You think you love Taehyung.

That is a secret. No one knows it. You would write about it in all of your songs if you were sure about it—sure that he would reciprocate your feelings, sure that he wouldn’t leave you high and dry when the going got tough and things had to happen that he didn’t like. But you weren’t sure; relationships were always a gamble and you knew the stressors would only grow when your career really took off. One wrong outfit choice had Taehyung turning into your exes right before your eyes. It made you wonder what would happen if you did the wrong collaboration or wrote the wrong lyrics. You tried your best to make it clear to Taehyung that you didn’t want to be in yet another awful relationship filled with fights and arguments, but it seemed like a real possibility regardless of your efforts. It was a tough pill to swallow.

And yet, as you stared at the lanky man seated on your couch, watching as he tried to sneak yet another picture of you wearing the custom, pink bunny ear headphones he got you for Christmas, you knew that you didn’t want to let him go.

“Put the phone away!”

“Just smile for me one time.”

“Stop.”

“I haven’t taken a picture of you in almost two weeks. My Instagram story is dying without. Let me take a picture.” He leans closer, laughing when you move to smack his phone on the floor, but miss.

You groan deeply, shaking your head at his antics. “It was not two weeks. You’re so goddamn dramatic.” You find yourself smiling for him nonetheless, legitimately laughing at him as he moves his phone around to catch you at different angles. After about 10 clicks of the camera shutter, you move to knock the phone away again. “Cut it out, Tae.”

“I’m not finished,” he whines out, though he still continues clicking away.

“Who died and made you paparazzi?”

“I’m better than the paparazzi. I’m your number one fan,” he murmurs, pushing your arms away from his phone. “You gotta get used to this, especially if you’re gonna be the number one rhyme killer in Korea.” He explains, bringing up a potential new tag Hoseok had come up with a few weeks ago.

“That’s more than enough for your Instagram story.”

He huffs in faux annoyance, leaning back on the love seat to scroll through all the pictures he took. “These aren’t even for my Instagram,” he reveals, tone still playful. “It’s for me only. I’m the only one who deserves to see you this cute. I gotta at least have that to myself.” You scoff loudly at this, anger filling your chest instantly. You know that he only means it as a joke, not realizing exactly what he was insinuating with his words—but it still stings, the wound from your previous fight not completely healed. “What’s wrong?” He questions, only to panic when you let out an annoyed grunt and turn around in your chair. It takes it a moment to click in his head, and then he’s sitting up, dropping his phone and pulling at your chair to try and turn you back around. “Baby, it was a joke. I promise, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just saying that I wasn’t going to put them on social media. Nothing more.”

“I didn’t know studio time had to be kept private too,” you reply sarcastically, planting your feet firmly on the floor to resist Taehyung’s actions.

“I didn’t mean that. Come here,” he says, pulling you with more strength until you’re facing him again. “Don’t be mad at me. You know how I feel about you. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

You shake your head, trying to remember Namjoon’s words and not start another argument. You fight to keep your voice level as you say, “Sometimes I think I know how you feel, but then you say things like that and I start to question your intentions.”

Taehyung is silent for a moment, eyes busily searching your face for something, though you cannot tell if he finds it. He reaches for both of your hands, cradling them in his gently as though they will break in any moment. “Don’t say things like that. You know my intentions and you know exactly how I feel.”

“I don—”

“I’m in love with you,” he interrupts you, squeezing your hands in his when he realizes what he’s confessed. You’re mildly shocked by his words, eyes widening like saucers. He takes your silence as rejection and starts to ramble. “If you don’t love me back, it’s okay. I’m not… you know I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, so of course I’d fall faster than you. But I can wait for you to fall in love with me too. I waited for months for you to even accept going on a date with me, so you know I’m patient. Just don’t question my intentions, I only want the be—” 

“If you love me, then why do you want to have me all to yourself?” You question, voice meek. 

He furrows his brows, irritation painting his features before they soften once more. “That’s not… I don’t want to keep you all to myself. That’s not even possible. You’re Kiddo,” he teases lightly, “Loved by everyone and belonging to no one.”

“But, obviously you want to keep certain parts of under wraps. For your eyes only, you know? And I just don’t get how you can say that you love me, but you want to control me like this.”

He sighs deeply, head falling forward as he admits, “It’s just… we don’t have anything, you know? We don’t have a single thing that we do that’s just our thing. Dates in the studio, hanging out in the bakery, watching old movies on my couch, even sex now—it’s all things we do other people too. And I know, I really know that your career comes first right now. I just sometimes want… more.”

You bite your lip, Namjoon’s words once again becoming prominent in your head. Removing your hands from Taehyung’s, you spin around in your chair to face your desk. Taehyung tries to stop you once more, his argument falling on deaf ears as you quickly grab the pink notebook sitting and hand it to him. “Look through it,” you order. 

He stares at the book in his hand, knowing exactly what it is, but still unsure as to why you gave it to him. “Baby, what’s in here?”

“You said you want more. There is it,” you answer, before turning back around to face your monitor. The sound of pages turning makes you anxious, so you slip your headphones on and load up a messy track that you had been having trouble with. Time passes by slowly and your heart can’t stop fluttering as you think about all of the pages he has to look through and all of the words he has to read. Taehyung is thorough. He’ll give each page the time it deserves, regardless of how nervous you feel. Time ticks on. You turn up the volume on your headphones.

You do not know for certain how many minutes have passed when your headphones are suddenly knocked off of your ears; all that you know is when you turn around to berate him for his act, his lips are covering yours in a harsh kiss. You only briefly return the kiss, pushing against his chest to get him off of you, though he only moves an inch away from your face. “You’re in love with me,” he accuses wryly, a big smile on his face. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing gently in delight.

“If you tell anyone I let you read that, I’ll kill you,” you respond, though you can’t get the tone of your voice to reflect your words. His happiness is contagious and you can feel yourself soften in his embrace. “I’m serious, Tae. No one is allowed to read that notebook.” Your lyric notebook was something you kept to yourself, only sharing a select few pages with those around you when you were going to lay down vocals. For your eyes and ears only. Sharing it in its entirety with Taehyung was already a big step, never mind what you actually had written in there.

“But, wait. What are the numbers for?”

“What numbers?” You feign confusion.

“The numbers on the last page of the book.” You roll your eyes at his words and he nudges his nose against yours. “No time for lies now, I already know that you’re in love with me.”

“Days without cigarettes,” you mumble. His smile somehow becomes even wider, so large that you think his face might split in two. “I swear to god, Taehyung, if you tell any of the guys about this, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you myself.”

“I love you and you love me and you write love songs about me,” he teases. He hoists you up to your feet, pulling you into his body and wrapping his arms around you. You follow his lead, burying your face in his chest. “You’re even quitting smoking for me. How did I get so lucky to have a woman who loves me so much?”

“Stop it,” you whine, face flushing with embarrassment.

“Stop pretending that you don’t love me,” he whispers, hands moving up to cup your face gently. The way he looks at you reminds you of your first date. It leaves you completely vulnerable. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Donuts and hot chocolate and lyric notebooks. That’s our thing. Nobody else can share those with you or me. Deal?”

“Deal!” He agrees quickly, leaning down as though he’s about to kiss you, but stopping short just before his lips press against yours. “I knew you were a softy,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your lips before you can reply. You allow yourself to enjoy it. 

.

.

Set Me Free [MYG]

The abbey has been a constant in Yoongi’s life: his home, his school, his workplace. Now it’s burning, pillaged by invaders - and it’s up to him to keep their relic safe. The strange man he meets at the high altar doesn’t seem to understand that, but he does understand staying out of harm's way.

word count: 5.7k // genre + rating: SFW (12)

warnings/tags etc: violence, injury, minor character death (unnamed characters), mention of corporal punishment, some Not Nice People, as you might have guessed - angst with a happy ending, monk!Yoongi (sort of), vague middle ages AU, religious imagery, religious references, mainly ft. Jimin but the others have a cameo at the end too. [This is my first fic so I'm not used to tagging - please, please tell me if I've missed something important!]

Masterlist

Yoongi never thought he’d be grateful for a childhood spent chasing chickens, but here he was. With the wind snarling around his reddened ears and loose pebbles rolling under his feet, he was immensely thankful that he’d always been given the outdoor duties. At the time, he’d hated it, of course, but it had built his stamina - and if there’s one thing you need when fleeing up a mountain, chased by murderous bandits, it’s the ability to run.

Not that he was going that fast anymore. The terrain was difficult, path narrow and winding, and the cut on his arm was distractingly painful. It wasn’t bleeding so much now, thankfully, but it throbbed with every beat of his worn-down sandals against the dusty rock. His one advantage over his pursuers was that he knew this path well and they didn’t. He had gained a lead on them in the twisting corridors of the abbey – his abbey, now nothing more than hollowed, blackened stone burning violently in the valley below – and left them scrabbling foolishly in the dense foliage at the base of the mountain. It wouldn’t be long before they made their way through, though, and he had to reach the top first. He had to make it to the altar.

A misjudged footfall coming around the last corner slid Yoongi into the floor, landing heavily on his left shoulder as the strap of his sandal broke apart. Every ache in his body rose now that he wasn’t moving, screaming up towards the bright midday sky even as he forced himself to let out nothing louder than a pained groan. He couldn’t let them know anything was wrong. Let them think he was safe. Let them think he was long gone.

Testing his shoulder with a gentle roll – ah, painful – the young acolyte turned onto his knees and rose shakily. The broken sandal was all but useless, barely staying on his foot as he stepped forward. This high on the mountain, though, the ground was harsh and stony, the only foliage being the flowering apple tree next to the altar Yoongi couldn’t yet see but knew was just over the next rise. He’d have to hobble to keep the shoe on but it was preferable to tearing the sole of his foot on jagged stones. If only he hadn’t given his best shoes as an offering, he thought bitterly – and then instantly chastised himself. The gods had ben pleased with that offering, had taken it quickly and sent plentiful rains in response. It had been a worthwhile sacrifice, even if he was now struggling to reach sanctuary.

A noise below told him the bandits had broken through the tree cover already. They were gaining on him. He hobbled faster.

No one had expected an attack that day. Yoongi had been by the stream when it started, bathing his battered hands in the cool waters, breathing in the dews of the spring day and hoping they would sweeten his tears.

(It had been his turn to watch the blessed fire, but he had been sick all week and the abbot had caught him sleeping at his post. The welts of his punishment would linger for a few days: they always did.)

Hearing the tower bells had pulled Yoongi from his mournful reverie – it was not yet dawn, and those bells should not have been ringing. Something was terribly wrong.

Cold grey stone was already dripping red warmth by the time Yoongi reached the doors to the place he had called home since his seventh winter. Prayerful silence had given way to terrible screams, like the great oaken entrance had buckled beneath the force of the invaders’ battering. Centuries of monastic tradition was no match for the terror of a freshly forged blade baptising itself in the blood of the aged brothers, it would seem.

He could have run there and then, abandoned it all to its inevitable oblivion and fled towards the slowly rising sun. There were things he had grown to value there, though, lessons that had been drummed into him by chant and fast and blood. To run with no attempt at saving the abbey’s great treasure would be an insult to the gods too grave to contemplate. Sure, he would survive – but it would not be a life worth having, cursed to his final breath.

So he had waded through the wails of his brothers, the dying agony of those who had raised and formed him, taking the hidden passages to reach the inner sanctum before the newcomers did. They seemed to plunder aimlessly, unaware that there was only one prize worth having within the abbey walls, more valuable than the golden triptychs or the silver-wrought chalices. For the blessed fire – the one Yoongi had been punished so harshly for failing to attend – burned to light the presence of a great relic: a priceless stone that betokened the favour of the gods. That favour had passed now from the vaulted corridors of the abbey it had settled on for centuries, that much was clear. Even so, as Yoongi crawled past the death-closed eyes of the kind, wizened man he had once playfully addressed as halabeoji, he knew the stone must be preserved and taken to the high altar until the gods chose to bestow it anew. If he could just get it there, he could beg their protection in return – he could beg preservation from the terrible fate that had fallen out around him.

Now, finally dragging his trembling limbs over the last mound, Yoongi saw the goal he had been fighting towards since daybreak. Half-shrouded in bruised blossoms from the apple tree stretching lazily by its side, the high altar basked in afternoon sunshine, dark stone glistening where droplets from the nearby waterfall had lost their way. He had seen it many times, in all weathers – sent far up the mountain in deepest winter to offer penance for a drifting mind; honoured to represent the community in late summer and give thanks for a bountiful harvest. Always the end of his journey and always a place of refuge. Looking at it, he could almost forget about the horrors he had seen. It was almost relaxing.

Only almost, though. Not only was he aware of the toll his journey had taken – not to mention the danger still snapping at his blistered heels – but when Yoongi looked at the altar today, he saw something he had never seen there before.

A young man – small, lithe, delicate – was sitting on the altar, back against the sacred tree. He was a vision in the dappled light, so beautiful next to Yoongi’s swollen eyes, bloodied robes and dusty feet. Looks were deceiving, though, and apparently Yoongi was to add another sacrilege to the list of crimes committed against everything he held dear. The man, damn him, was eating the offerings left upon the altar for the gods. Had he had more energy, Yoongi could have burst into tears at the sight.

“What are you doing?” he cried, voice cracking and distraught. “Get off! Go away! Those are offerings, we need them! I – please. I need the gods’ favour. Go away!” The boy did little more than blink at Yoongi and tilt his head slowly to the left. A child-like hand raised a flask of blessed water – blessed water – to full, pink lips and Yoongi choked on air, disbelieving.

“There are no gods here, silly.” A soft, high voice came from the young man, sure and unconcerned. “Only me.”

Angry tears did slip from Yoongi’s eyes then. How dare this – this boy say such things? Yoongi had not endured the destruction of his home for some spoiled brat to anger the gods and leave him defenceless and a failure. Marching towards the altar, he bowed quickly and muttered an apology to the tree before taking a firm grasp of the boy’s black hair and yanking him down unceremoniously, heedless of the responding cry.

“I am the last acolyte of the abbey and I will not have you defile this altar and the offerings left to our gods.” His speech would have more impact if he weren’t gasping through tears and physically shaking, but Yoongi was doing his best. “We have been beaten and burned and murdered today and I am here to return the stone of favour to the gods for safekeeping and beg their protection from the evil that has pursued me all day and you – how dare you treat this place with so little respect?” Wide eyes and a soft pout looked up at him from the ground, the boy not having moved from where Yoongi had thrown him. He realised that the ground was still harsh here and felt a little bad – even if he was a sacrilegious blasphemer, this boy seemed a couple of years younger than Yoongi and the fall must have hurt him. Still, there were more pressing matters at hand. Yoongi did his best to rearrange the remaining gifts on the altar (so few, the boy must taken so much of it, the gods would be displeased) and placed the stone carefully in the centre before dropping stiffly to his knees. Wiping his tears and bowing his head to the ground, he muttered out a series of chants and then sat back on his heels, chin lifted to the skies and streaming eyes closed against the light.

“Great gods above, hear my call,” he declared, loudly as his ragged throat allowed him. “We know not why you have withdrawn your blessing from us. We thank you for having granted it at all, for letting us live such charmed lives for you for many years. We return now your stone. Please retain your grace in it and bestow it anew upon others. Do not abandon us all, oh great ones. Hear me when I call to you, worthless as I am. Do not forget us all.” His voice faltered and Yoongi tipped his head forward again, barely managing a whisper. “I ask your protection. Please. I know I have not served you perfectly, but I have tried so hard. I wanted to please you. I want to deserve your favour. You’ve always answered me so graciously – and I know better servants have died horribly today, but please. I don’t want to die. Protect me.” The thunderous footsteps of the bandits started to reach his ears and Yoongi gasped, pressing his face desperately to the ground once more. A soft noise behind him reminded him he was not alone and he spoke again. “Protect us both.”

For a few moments there was silence, and then Yoongi heard the stones to his left shifting quickly, as though someone were running towards him. He tensed, still bowing before the altar and praying that somehow the gods would protect him. A pair of hands grabbed his upper arms and pulled, and he couldn’t help but let out a sob. He knew he had never deserved anything from the gods, but he had hoped so dearly that they would spare him.

“It’s just me, acolyte, get up.” The words filtered through his distress like thick cream through muslin, slow and awkward. He couldn’t quite grasp them. “We have to go, now.”

“Can’t,” he stuttered out, managing to open his eyes and twist away from the young man’s grip, crawling back towards the altar. “I have to be here. The gods –“

“The gods won’t help you.” Though his words were harsh, the man looked concerned, reaching a hand out towards Yoongi again imploringly. “Let me help you, please. Come with me. They’re close now: we have to go.” Yoongi knew he was telling the truth – he could hear voices as well as footsteps now, could almost hear the singing of the blades he knew the bandits were carrying. But he couldn’t leave the altar – could he? It had always been his safety and it was the last remains of his abbey – his faith. He had run this far for the gods. If he ran further, for himself, did that make him a coward? Would he have betrayed them all? Would he prove himself as unworthy as the abbot had always told him he was? Teary-eyed and shaking, he set his mouth and looked the young man right in the eye.

“Save yourself if you can. I cannot leave.” It had the desired effect. The man nodded curtly, stood and began to leave, pausing by the altar as he did so.

“Fine,” he called back. “But I’m taking the rest of this food with me. No point letting it go to waste. This stone is pretty, too. I don’t know about it being blessed or anything, but I think I’ll take it.” Sure enough, he picked it up, tossed it in the air and pocketed it with a stunning smile that all but closed his eyes. Then, he started simply sauntering away, all sense of urgency gone.

He’s baiting me, Yoongi thought. He hadn’t managed to convince him to leave on his own, so he was taking the stone like some sort of carrot, hoping Yoongi, like a donkey, would follow. Yoongi half wanted to be stubborn, to sit there and die like a fool just to prove that he had a stronger will than this brattish stranger presumed. The louder part of him, however, was relieved at having been given permission to abandon the altar, a reason beyond self-preservation to stand up and follow him to safety. He couldn’t leave the stone of favour in the hands of someone with so little respect that he would lean against a sacred tree and eat the gods’ offerings with his feet on their altar. Impossible. It was his sacred duty to stagger up and stumble after him, calling chastisements as loudly as he dared and trying to match pace when the stranger sped up, leading him around the corner from the altar to a hidden path he had never thought to look for.

The altar was at the top of the mountain path – Yoongi had never considered that there might be other paths down beyond it. It was the destination, the end of the line. Going further just wasn’t something he’d ever considered, and that this man was leading him like it was second nature was the last straw for him. Lost in a haze, he followed wordlessly, almost blindly, the ache of his arms and his legs and his feet whispering somewhere but barely decipherable through the thick fog of his mind. At some point they entered a dark tunnel and the young man took his hand gently, perhaps aware of how feeble Yoongi’s grip on awareness was. Between the soft touch and the pressing darkness around him, Yoongi let himself go.

Waking up again was a far less pleasant experience than drifting off had been. It wasn’t a slow rise to the surface, lazy and comfortable like waking to a summer dawn – it was a sudden dive from absolute nothingness into decided somethingness. All at once Yoongi was aware again of the stiffness in his calves and the ache of his arm; the throb of his head from a week of sickness, a lack of sleep and the dehydration of having cried his frustrations out on the mountaintop. The fog lifted and he sat up quickly, huffing softly through his nose as the movement made his stomach lurch and his vision swim. He could remember being annoyed at a bright smile, and fluffy, black hair disappearing into a tunnel – and the stone! Right, yes. Dangerous bandits, bratty stranger, following the stone. That’s what had happened.

“There’s some water next to you – you should drink it,” he heard the stranger say from somewhere off to his right. Yoongi glanced around him, twisting on the bed roll laid out in his corner of what seemed to be a small, wooden room. Sure enough, there was a whole pitcher of water beside him. After a few seconds of blinking at the floor failed to magic a cup into existence, Yoongi picked it up and hesitantly tilted it against his lips. The water was lukewarm and hardly counted as refreshing, but he hadn’t had anything to drink since the abbot had woken him before, well, everything and his throat was grateful to be soothed.

“What did you do with the stone?” Even after a few mouthfuls of water, his voice was deep and gruffer than he had meant it to be. The stranger just giggled and Yoongi managed to make out his shape in the low light, sitting against the opposite wall.

“Don’t worry, acolyte. It’s safe here. I’ll give it to you in the morning, if you like.” Yoongi grumbled and the stranger laughed again. “You know, you were cute when you were half asleep. All whiny, like a kitten.”

“I’m not a kitten.” (He had a vague notion that his mother used to call him that. He hadn’t seen her for years, not since she had given him away in the hope of pleasing the gods and bringing a good harvest. Maybe he had dreamed it up. He certainly hadn't had a nickname since joining the abbey.)

“Who are you, then?” The question took Yoongi by surprise and he cleared his throat as he shifted back a little, resting against the wall behind him and drawing his knees painfully up. From the feel of the fabric under his fingertips, he was still in his robes from earlier and whilst he was relieved that the stranger had not undressed him, he desperately wanted to be clean. He wondered whether there was any chance of getting a bath, just soaking in hot water and letting it steam away everything that had happened. Probably not.

“Yoongi,” he said shortly. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s Jimin. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” Yoongi didn’t like where this was going.

“Hyung!”

“No.” He thought he could see a flicker of a pout and was glad of the cover of darkness. Living around older monks meant he hadn’t really been exposed to much cuteness – he hadn’t been anyone’s hyung ever– so he didn’t think he’d be able to hold out against it. At least if he couldn’t see this Jimin’s face, the only thing he had to resist was the whining that started up immediately.

“I saved your life, let me call you hyung!”

“You desecrated my altar!”

“I told you, Yoongi-hyung, there are no gods here! If the altar’s not really sacred, how can I have desecrated it?” That stung worse than the other injuries vying for Yoongi’s attention. He had devoted his life to serving the gods. It was all he had known. He had put up with long nights and early mornings for years, allowed the other monks to literally beat him into shape, all in the hope that it would appease some deity with the power to improve people’s lives - and now this clueless boy wanted to tear it all into pieces.

“There are gods, Jimin-ssi. We have left them offerings for centuries, and they have always taken them and given what we asked for in return.” He thought he heard a snort, and it was his turn to pout.

“Like what, hyung? When have the gods taken something and given something in return? How would that even work?” Yoongi didn’t have to think.

“Last autumn. The rains were late so the farmers were worried the fruits wouldn’t ripen properly and they would have to feed their livestock from reserves, which might mean they would run out before the frosts ended. I’d been working on a new pair of sturdy boots all year because mine had fallen to pieces, but we needed an offering, so I brought them up to the altar and left them there. Two days later, the rains started, and the boots were gone. We gave the boots; they gave the rains.” He sounded smug. He knew he sounded smug, but he also knew he was right. Traditions existed for a reason, and the abbey existed because it worked. It helped. The monks prayed and trekked up the mountain to offer sacrifices because the gods listened to them and protected their people. Or at least, they used to.

“Oh.” There was the sound of shuffling across the room, and then a hiss as a flame was struck. Yoongi blinked blearily as Jimin lit a candle, picked something up from the floor and shuffled over, nearly tripping on the long, woven blanket he had wrapped around his narrow shoulders. “Um, Yoongi-ssi – those boots, they, um. Well. They didn’t look like this, did they?” Kneeling next to Yoongi’s bed roll, Jimin lifted the candle and proffered a muddy pair of boots with his other hand. Slightly crooked teeth worried his lip as he waited for the acolyte to respond. Yoongi took the boots reluctantly, fingering over the caked mud and peering closely. He couldn’t see much, in truth – and he had only ever felt his boots when they were brand new, unworn. His fingertips didn’t recognise these ones, leather both soft with wear and rugged from the elements. Guiding Jimin’s hand closer to gain more light, he turned them over and picked at the dirt dried into the arch.

“You’re terrible at looking after boots,” he muttered as a large clump came away in his hand, revealing the sole. Jimin didn’t respond. The last bit of mud fell to the floor and Yoongi coughed on a harsh sob. There, tucked next to the heel, was the mark Yoongi put on all his things.

“I’m so sorry,” Jimin whispered as Yoongi’s eyes drifted blankly to the wall beside him. “I didn’t realise you had offered them up. I always – ever since I was tiny, there have always been things there and we always took them, so I thought they were meant for us. I thought you all knew we were taking them. I thought you were looking after us.”

“You’ve been taking the offerings for years?” Maybe if he asked the question quietly enough, the answer would be different. It wasn’t.

“All my life. Yoongi-ssi, I’m so sorry. My parents showed me and when they were gone - I guess I didn't think about it. I didn’t know it meant anything until you shouted at me earlier, and then I thought you were just being… I don’t know. Sanctimonious?” Yoongi huffed, still not looking at the younger man.

“Big word.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you thought – but those offerings didn’t go to waste. We’d have died here without them.” A silence stretched tensely between them, Jimin left without words to explain himself and Yoongi winded by how abruptly his world was turning itself inside out. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that he had lost everything that had ever been familiar to him. He also had to have his faith shaken and his understanding of how the world worked ripped out from under him. There was only really one thing to do.

“I’m going to sleep,” he mumbled, curling up to face the wall even though it meant lying on his wrenched shoulder. Behind him, he heard Jimin place the candle on the ground and move the boots – his boots? Yoongi’s boots? it didn’t matter anymore – away.

“Hyung,” came the soft voice again as a small hand reached over his hunched shoulder, “here. I think you should keep this. We can talk again in the morning.” Firm fingers prised Yoongi’s hand away from his side and pressed something cool and round into his palm. The stone, he thought. There is still the stone. He fell asleep with it pressed against his chest, safe.

They didn’t speak the next day. In fact, Yoongi gave Jimin the silent treatment for three weeks, only staying with him because the heavens opened during the night and refused to close again for long enough to allow Yoongi to even hope to venture off the mountainside. He didn’t have anywhere to go in any case – and whilst he was furious with Jimin and completely lost without his routine and the guidance of the other monks, he knew being somewhere warm and dry, with a reliable source of food and someone to offer to massage his aching shoulder was better than dying in a ditch somewhere from stubbornness.

(He never accepted the massage offers, of course, but it felt nice to know that someone cared enough to ask.)

When the rains finally cleared, Yoongi had Jimin show him the way back up to the altar. The blossom was all gone now, flushed away by the rain, but the leaves were strong and the waterfall babbled happily. Yoongi didn’t think the tree would fruit this year, since the flowers hadn’t had time to set before the storms, but it still stood. The altar still stood. That was something.

Sitting on the edge of the mountain, he could see the charred ruins of his home below – joined now by more ruins to the west. Though they hadn’t found him, the group who had attacked the abbey had travelled back down the mountain and continued their rampage, working through the nearby villages and taking what they could. Bright sunshine was no remedy for such heaviness, and Yoongi felt his face crumple watching the birds fly down towards the blackened remains of thriving communities. Maybe Jimin was right and there never were gods – maybe it was better that way. To think that they had been abandoned to such death and ruin hurt more than believing they had never been blessed by anything more than good chance in the first place.

“Hey, hyung – look!” Jimin called excitedly from the waterfall, oblivious to the destruction right below him. Jimin, it turned out, had never really come down off the mountain. His parents had retreated to a small cabin in a hidden glade after a particularly nasty feud with a distant cousin, and he had been raised in near solitude. He knew about the villages, of course, but he had never been to one. Their loss was a sad idea to him, but no more than that. Flowering daisies were all it took to distract him, and he sought to do the same for Yoongi, even if he was ignored.

“Hey, Grumpy-hyung! I saved your life, you know, you can at least pretend to be interested when I try to show you the finer beauties of this world!” A thought struck Yoongi, finally back in the place where he had thought for certain his life would end. It hit him hard enough to make him gasp, head tilting up to the sky so quickly that Jimin forgot his flowers and came rushing to see what the matter was.

“You’re wrong!” he declared as soon as Jimin settled beside him, before the younger boy had even spoken. “You’re wrong.”

“Something tells me you’re not talking about daisies.”

“There are gods.” Yoongi brought his chin down again and looked at Jimin straight, eyes still red from his tears but perfectly sure. “You said there weren’t gods. There are.”

“Um. Ok.”

“There are. I asked them for their protection and they protected me.” Jimin’s brow crinkled a little and his eyes followed Yoongi’s movement as he stood and paced to the altar, one hand reaching out gently to touch the bark of the apple tree.

“I mean, not to be pedantic, but I protected you, hyung.”

“Sure.” Yoongi had never admitted that before, no matter how much Jimin wheedled for acknowledgment. He figured either this was a minor miracle or the pressure had finally cracked him. “I’ve been coming up here for fifteen years, Jimin-ah. All times of day, all seasons, all weathers. I’ve never seen you. None of us have. And then the one day I need someone to be here, when I’m being chased and I’m completely alone for the first time in my life - you’re just sitting on the altar." For the first time, Jimin saw Yoongi smile – a bright, full-toothed, gummy thing that lit up his eyes and transformed his face. “Like an offering. We gave them offerings, they gave them to you – and then they gave you back to me.” When Yoongi chuckled and leant against the tree, Jimin couldn’t help but giggle as well.

“I don’t think that’s compelling theology, hyung, but if it makes you happy, you go ahead and think that.”

“Just admit it, Jimin-ah. You’re wrong. The gods exist and they’re here and they care and we’re going to be alright. Just you wait.”

It had taken two years for the invaders to take everything they could from the land, and three more for life to start again once they abandoned it to decay. Now, though, from his rock on top of the mountain Yoongi could see white smoke rising from chimneys once more, could follow the path of trundling carts along the roads between each growing settlement. He had taken Jimin down there a few times, to see how the people lived and to do what he could to help them. Although the abbey and the men who had raised him were gone, the skills he had learned remained and he had a lot to offer. If in time it meant he could earn a little money and make life a bit easier, that was a blessing too.

Life with Jimin had taken some time to adjust to. He had considered leaving after his revelation, heading north in the hopes of finding a new monastery and enfolding himself once more in the familiarity of an ordered life. He'd got as far as packing a small bag of food and reclaiming his boots from Jimin. When he had put them on to leave, though, it had all felt wrong. Officially, the boots had worn to Jimin's feet already and Yoongi refused to make a long journey in uncomfortable shoes. Jimin had accepted that excuse without fuss, thrilled to keep his companion, but they both knew that wasn't the real reason. After all, Jimin had watched Yoongi stumble into a mountain clearing with a sword wound on his arm, a dislocated shoulder and a broken sandal all for the sake of a small stone. Uncomfortable boots were hardly going to stop him leaving if he really wanted to.

For whatever reason, he had elected to stay, to learn how to live with just one person for company and without orders and punishments and bells to mark his day. Chasing chickens was also useful for catching rabbits, it turned out, and he taught Jimin the skills he needed to find food now that there weren't regular offerings to pilfer. Jimin taught him to dance, and sang real songs to him. He taught him to laugh again, and if anyone were to suggest they be parted now, he would probably growl at them and pull his dongsaeng behind him for protection.

The altar would always be special to him. When the weather was good, Jimin would often find him up there long past dark, listening to the waterfall or leaning against the tree. One autumn, he even convinced him to sit up on the altar itself.

("Hyung," he had whined, "don't leave me up here alone. If the gods didn't like it, they would have struck me down years ago. Live a little."

"Brat," Yoongi had muttered in reply, hiding his smile even as he climbed up onto the stone. Since he was yet to be blasted to smithereens, he figured he was alright to keep doing it.)

It was there that he was sat the day the monks returned to the mountain. The afternoon sunshine was lazy, winding its way through the apple tree's branches and kissing its growing fruit softly. Yoongi had brought a cushion and was leaned back against the tree trunk, legs stretched out across the altar and mind drifting when an outraged shout made him open one eye and smirk.

"Yah!" a tall stranger exclaimed, pulling his robes up with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other as he strode purposefully towards Yoongi. "Get off of there! Get down! That's a sacred altar!" Behind him was a group of four men, two looking nervous and carrying large baskets of food and one cradling a ceramic pot like it was glass while the last glared at him. Yoongi thought the glare might have something to do with the fact that the pot was missing one handle - which he located in the glarer's hand. Good to know every monastery had its own god of destruction.

"I take it you are the monks in charge of rebuilding the abbey?" Yoongi drawled, crossing his feet, completely unbothered by the new arrivals. Their leader halted in his striding, pulling his head back slightly in confusion.

"Uh - yes. That's us." One of the food bearers turned to the other with wide eyes, but received no more than a shrug in response. They looked very young - Yoongi hoped they were close. He thought he saw the one holding a pot begin to say 'hyung' and stop sheepishly when his hyung's heart-shaped mouth frowned even harder. Cute.

"Excellent." Hopping off the altar, Yoongi pulled a string from around his neck and took the stranger's hand. Unfurling crooked fingers, he placed the object in his palm and patted his shoulder familiarly, smiling at the gawk he got in return. "You'll need this, then. I've had it these past five years and I've been more blessed than I ever thought I would be. Guard it well, brother." He turned to walk away as the leader looked behind him, proffering the stone to one of his followers and saying, "Namjoon-ah, is this -" The answering gasp suggested they knew exactly what the stone meant.

"Oh, by the way," he called back at the corner where the path down to his and Jimin's cottage started. "If you ever need anything, just come here and leave a note. My friend and I will be happy to help. You never walk alone." With a soft smile, he disappeared around down the mountain and left them to their offerings.

(And if Jimin bounced home that evening with fine wine in a pot with a broken handle - well, Yoongi wouldn't be surprised.)

One Digit Off

A Jared x Reader Oneshot

After a hard day at work, Y/N just wants some peace and quiet. Instead, an accidental phone call might just change the whole evening. 

Word Count: 2300

Warnings: Brief discussion of suicide attempt (not a main character), bad t-shirt puns, cat Rowena, useless fluff

*Reader gender/pronouns: any

A/N: Some silly apology fluff because I’ve been a useless rat about posting. 

The couch in your living room was an overstuffed monstrosity that liked to consume anyone that sat on it, slowly but surely. It had been a thrift-store purchase in college years ago that somehow left anyone who sat on it pulled so far into the cushions that there was almost no leverage to stand back up. Nevertheless, it made the perfect place to hide at the end of a long week. 

After the exhausting and entirely depressing shift you’d had at work, you wanted nothing more than to give in and let the couch eat you. You were wearing your favorite old, worn novelty t-shirt, the completely stupid one that read ‘SQUIRRELS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN’, and an equally embarrassing pair of shorts with tie-dyed handprints on your butt. Armed with a plate of haphazard snacks, you settled in on the hungry hippo couch, laying sprawled sideways and accepting your fate. You’d already taken a shower and jammed your hair behind a messy bandana, solidifying your look of “disaster got run over by a truck”. It was classy. 

You just wanted to get cozy, watch some TV that you knew well enough not to have to think about anymore, and try to forget the sounds of a hysterical ten year old in your headset, screaming that Mommy was killing herself. 

Working as a 911 dispatcher meant that you heard people in the worst moments of their lives all the time, and most of the time, they hung up without you ever hearing the ending. You were trained to talk down panicked callers, to get the most important information out of them in the quickest and safest way possible, to keep everyone calm and everyone alive until the first responders got there. And you were good at what you did, good at compartmentalizing what you listened to so that it didn’t follow you home, so that it didn’t distract you. And most of the time that worked. 

You blew out your breath and refocused on the TV, having put on one of your old favorite Supernatural episodes as a distraction. Your black cat was huddled up kneading her paws on your feet, the couch was slowly swallowing you between the cushions and the backrest, and the hollowness in your chest eased bit by bit as you listened to Sam and Dean bicker. 

On the coffee table in front of you, just past your snack plate and out of reach, your phone lit up, buzzing with a FaceTime call. You lifted your head halfheartedly to peer at the screen, unable to make out the caller at the angle you were at. It didn’t matter anyway; you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Besides, it wasn’t like you really had anyone in your contacts who would be especially put out if you waited until tomorrow to talk to them. Your friends were all very casual people. 

Stuffing a ranch-dipped cucumber slice into your mouth while you were sitting up, you proceeded to flop back down onto the couch, earning a death look from Rowena for moving your feet. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered to the cat. “You’re the one sitting on my feet, you know what you signed up for,”

And now you were talking to your cat. Great. This was probably the sort of thing that kept you perpetually single, you reflected absently. There weren’t a lot of people out there in the market for a put-crazy-cat-ladies-to-shame introvert who worked weird hours and was more awkward than entertaining. Not that it mattered, though. You weren’t really relationship material in general, you’d found, and after realizing how many boyfriends you just seemed to inevitably disappoint, you’d decided you were fine being single. 

Ten minutes later, just as Sam was losing his shoe down a storm drain, your phone buzzed again. There was no contact photo coming up, which probably meant it was a wrong number, and you ignored it once more. Until it rang again, and again, followed by a flurry of pinging text messages. 

Cursing to yourself as you fought your way upright (dislodging Rowena, who hissed at you), you flailed for the phone, not bothering to read the texts as you picked it up. If a wrong number was going to call you that many times, they either had an emergency or really needed to be set straight. Pushing your bandana higher off of your forehead carelessly, you swiped to answer the FaceTime call, setting it on the couch next to you without even looking at the video loading on the screen as you fumbled to pause the TV. “God, what!” you snapped in the vague direction of your phone. “Stop hissing at me, cat,” you added irritably for Rowena’s benefit. 

There was a long pause, and then a man’s voice. “Um,” he said inelegantly. “I’m sorry?”

Rowena prowled over to the phone, then, batting at it with one paw and nosing the screen inquisitively. “Rowena, you menace!” You reached over, trying to pry the phone out from where she was currently sitting on half of it, sighing heavily. 

“Hey, look, I think you called the wrong number, and I’m really sorry my cat’s sitting on you right now--” you started, just barely able to make out the bottom half of a man’s torso in a loose gray shirt from underneath Rowena’s black fur. 

A laugh, then, “No, it’s a cute cat. Well, as far as I can tell,” 

Your phone’s speaker was muffled by Rowena’s tail, but there was something about that voice that almost sounded familiar. “Jesus Christ, Ro, let me apologize to this guy properly,” you huffed, failing once more to pull your phone free when she batted her paws at you defensively, claws out. 

“Wait, your cat’s name is Rowena?”

“Uh, yeah,” you frowned, trying to figure out why hearing your cat’s name in a stranger’s voice bothered you so much. “Yeah, I--Rowena give me the phone!” you snapped suddenly, making a dive between her paws. Finally, your cat relinquished the phone, fixing you with an Oscar-worthy dramatic look of anger befitting her namesake before flouncing off the couch. “Damn cat,” you grumbled, finally lifting the phone to get a look at who’d been calling you. At least being virtually sat on by a cat meant he got a little payback for harassing you with calls for the past half hour. 

As soon as you brought the phone up to your face, you froze, your slow blinking the only proof that the screen hadn’t just frozen up on you. “Uh.”

He was several years older than the one currently paused on your TV, wearing a black beanie and looking mostly ready for bed, but no, that was definitely Jared freaking Padalecki staring back at you. And you were wearing a squirrel shirt and had a rat’s nest for hair. Clearly, the universe had just built this entire day to laugh at you, because what the fuck. 

He was smiling at you, eyes crinkled up at the corners and looking unfairly put together compared to your gremlin-impersonation in the corner screen. “So, are the squirrels having fun?”

“What--oh!” you looked down at your shirt, embarrassment flooding through you, and decided on the spot to go with it. It wasn’t like this could get any weirder. “They were,” you returned, “until somebody called them six times in twenty minutes,”

Jared’s expression turned sheepish. “Yeah...sorry about that. My buddy got a new phone number and I obviously saved it wrong. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I didn’t think it was just Jensen ignoring me,”

A slightly incredulous sounding laugh burst from your lips, and you shifted on the couch, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were casually carrying on a conversation with Jared Padalecki. After your cat had sat on him. “You didn’t bother me that much,” you conceded. “Sorry I snapped at you. Rough day.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jared tucked one arm behind his head, shifting around but never taking his eyes away from your face. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Um,” you faltered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t need to spill your guts to a random wrong number who also happened to be one of your favorite actors. What you did need to do was get out of this with some decency, hang up the phone, and forget about it.

“You don’t have to,” Jared was saying softly, his forehead pinched like he was concerned about you. (Which was laughable).

“No…” you shook your head, wrinkling your nose. “I don’t know, I just...isn’t this weird?”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, talking to a stranger because of a misdial?”

Jared pouted, his eyes turning dangerously puppy-looking. “And here I thought you liked me,” 

“Wishful thinking, Padalecki,” you shot back without thinking, only realizing after the words were already out that you’d just confirmed that you knew who he was. 

Meanwhile, Jared’s eyes had lit up triumphantly. “If you know who I am, then you’re not talking to a total stranger,” he pointed out, smiling easily at you. 

He didn’t seem like he minded, but that did little to put you at ease. Pinching the bridge of your nose to stave off a stress headache, you sighed. “I’m sorry, that’s got to be so awkward, I--”

“What? No,” Jared just looked genuinely confused. “You’ve got a cat named Rowena, I kind of figured you’d know who I was,” 

You groaned, covering your entire face with your hand now as embarrassment burned through your cheeks. “You probably think I’m some crazed wild fan, naming my cat after a character,”

“I don’t,” Jared reassured you firmly. “I think you’re funny, and I like the squirrel shirt,”

You peeked out from between your fingers. Jared Padalecki liked your dumb squirrel shirt. “You’re just saying that,”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, I’m not! This is the best thing to happen to me all week,”

“You must have had a pretty lame week,” you observed sarcastically, leaning toward your phone to better examine your own image in the corner. “I look like a gremlin,”

“You do not!” Jared was laughing at you now, shaking his head emphatically. “You look cute,”

“I look--and feel--like I crawled out of a trash can, but thank you,” you deadpanned, a yawn distracting you from Jared’s further counterargument. You heard the smile in his voice before you opened your eyes to see it, and something caught in your chest at his soft expression. 

“Tired?” he asked gently, shifting onto his stomach on the screen, face propped up on a pillow to look at you. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, that surrealness of being on a FaceTime call with Jared Padalecki was still there, but mostly, it just felt unbelievably normal. 

“Twelve hour shift,” you confirmed with a nod, one hand moving beside you to lazily pet Rowena, who had apparently decided to forgive you. At the look of puzzlement on Jared’s face, you elaborated, “I’m a 911 dispatcher,”

“So when you say you had a rough day…” Jared’s face cleared in understanding, his expression patient. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want,” he reminded you softly, falling silent after that as if just content to watch your gremlin face on his screen. (Which would be ridiculous).

Your mind flickered back to the sound of the panicked girl on your headset, and you sighed. “No, it’s fine. I, uh, picked up a call from a girl today. Moriah. She was ten. She, uh, she found her mom in the bathtub with a knife,”

Jared sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry you had to listen to that. Did she...uh, is she okay?”

Your mouth twisted wryly. “That’s the thing. Everybody hangs up as soon as the ambulance gets there. I hope so, though. Kid said she had vitals,”

Jared was shaking his head at you. “And you do that every day,”

“I mean, not every day, it depends on shifts. But yeah.” you shrugged. “I try to help,”

“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.” he murmured softly. 

Squirming at the praise, you scowled playfully at him. “You don’t even know me,”

“I’m not taking it back,”

“Yeah, okay,” you feigned annoyance like there wasn’t a blush all over your face. Then you winced, suddenly noting the little red battery symbol on top of your screen. “Crap, my phone’s gonna die,”

That seemed to shake Jared out of just staring vaguely at the phone screen, and you watched him sit up cross legged on his bed, still with that same heart-stopping smile. “Yeah, we should both probably go to bed anyway,”

You sighed with a nod, strangely reluctant to hang up. “I’m still sorry Rowena sat on you,”

Jared laughed, throwing back his head. “I’m not,” he told you brightly. “You probably woulda hung up on me if she hadn’t. Tell her she’s a good cat,”

“I will not, it’ll make her head bigger,” you retorted easily. “Goodnight, Jared,”

Jared touched his fingers briefly to his lips, covering the camera with them a second later. “Goodnight,” he whispered, ending the call before you had any time to process what that meant. 

It only took a few minutes for your phone to buzz with a new text, and you opened it with a laugh, scrolling briefly back through Jared’s pestering of “Jensen” before focusing on what he’d sent you this time. 

So since you turned out not to be Jensen, I need a name for my contacts

Are you sure you’re keeping my contact? You shot back, smirking at your phone screen.

Yes??? Jared sent back carefully, and you could almost imagine his hesitantly sheepish expression. 

Jensen 2. Not-Jensen. Crazy cat lady. 

He sent back a sad emoji. C’mon. 

Y/N L/N

Goodnight, Y/N. 

You tossed your phone back onto the coffee table, falling back into the couch with what was probably a vaguely stunned expression on your face. Jared freaking Padalecki. You fell asleep with a little smile still playing on your lips. 

We Only Want To Have A Good Time (1/?)

Chapter 1 | 2

Pairing: Jeremy Heere/Michael Mell

Words: 1.871

Summary: “You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m amazing.” Michael said, promptly.

This startled laughter out of Jeremy. “And so humble.”

(Jeremy asks Michael on a date to the Relay For Life)

Read on AO3 or under the cut

Jeremy ran a hand through his hair and frowned at himself in the mirror. He was nervous. “You can do this. It’s just Michael.” he told himself.

The butterflies in his stomach disagreed.

“It’s just Michael. Michael who plays video games. Michael who likes 90’s soft drinks. Michael who forgave you when you were a massive dick to him. Michael who’s loyal and awesome and really fucking cute. Why is he so cute?”

His reflection did not provide him any answers.

“What’s the worst that’ll happen?” he asked himself. “He’ll just say no… and that he hates me and that I’ve ruined our friendship forever- oh god I can’t do this.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him that he had received an email.

“Oh! I could text it to him instead!” He pulled out his phone and opened a new message to Michael.

There was a solid three minutes that he stared at his phone, trying to type out the words.

“This was a stupid idea.” He muttered as he locked his phone and stuck it back in his pocket. “Plus, I’m already here, I might as well ruin everything ever in person.” He ran a hand through his hair one more time before exiting the bathroom.

The door to Michael’s bedroom was mostly plain and unassuming except for one thing- it had a poster for Jeepers Creepers on it.

Jeremy stared at the eye in the poster.

The eye stared back, judging him silently.

He considered going back to the bathroom.

The sound of footsteps approaching drove him to open the door and enter Michael’s room; he didn’t want one of Michael’s parents to catch him loitering indecisively in the hall and, god forbid, ask him why.

As he made his way down the stairs, he caught sight of Michael lounging sideways on a beanbag, playing some video game.

He got so distracted he missed the last step and tripped.

Luckily, he managed to regain his balance after wobbling a little and windmilling his arms.

“Watch out, we just put that step there.” Michael remarked, laughing a little.

“I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did. Actually, look.” He pointed at his tv screen where his Animal Crossing character was pushing a gorilla villager into a pitfall trap.

The gorilla wiggled around in the pit for a few seconds then flipped back out.

“See that? You looked just like Peewee. Less buff, though. You should really work on that.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.” Jeremy said, dryly. “Is his name really Peewee?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yup.” Michael popped the p loudly. “So what can I do you for?”

“Well I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

“Pew pew.” Michael mimed shooting him with a gun.

Jeremy mimed getting shot and collapsed against the wall.

“I see… I see a light.” he said, stretching his arm out towards the imaginary light.

“And it’s like the fog has lifted.” Michael sang, watching as Jeremy pretended to die. “Well, shit. I gotta hide a dead body. Better call my best friend for help- oh wait.”

“Aw, you’d call me to help you hide a body? I’m touched.” Jeremy picked himself off the floor and went to perch himself on Michael’s desk chair.

“Wait!”

Jeremy froze, halfway to sitting on the chair.

Michael leaned forward off the beanbag and tapped Jeremy’s hand. “Boop.” He sat back. “Now you’re touched. As you were.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes and sat down.

“If you want, we can play a game together. You just gotta wait for me to put in a code with Nook and save.”

“A code?”

“Project Hyrule, man!”

“What, like Zelda in Animal Crossing?”

“Not really. It was a forum or something a long ass time ago- like in the early two thousands- that posted universal codes for items in the game if your town was named Hyrule. I’ve been using it to get thirty thousand bells so I can pay off my mortgage.”

Jeremy watched as Michael’s character initiated a conversation with Nook.

“WB2…” Michael muttered as he input the code from memory.

“Why do you know this?” Jeremy asked, incredulous.

“Internet.”

“Ok, obviously. But how did you get from regular internet browsing to memorizing secret codes for a fifteen year old game?”

“I don’t know. I was up late the other night and found it. That’s why I broke out the gamecube, to be honest. It’s actually pretty fun, if a little bit isolated. Kinda reminds me of playing the early Sims games.”

“Gotta get your massaging heart bed on.”

“Speaking of babies in the Sims. Did you know you can have a child live by themself in Bustin’ Out if you kill off the parents? If you get good grades you get a hundred dollars from your grandparents and can then buy pizza or eat snacks instead of cooking food.”

“Bustin’ Out?”

“It’s one of the gamecube Sims games.”

“Did you have to look up the child thing, too?”

“No, that was an accident. I set off a firework too close to a carpet and… well. Fire.” He imitated a large flame with his hands.

“Amazing.”

“I know I am.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Jeremy scoffed. “Of what?”

“I got the brains, the looks, and the skillz- with a ‘z’. I’m the whole package.” Michael boasted.

Jeremy agreed. But he would never let Michael know that. “You certainly are a whole lot of something.”

“Like I said- you’re just jealous.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“I will.”

Jeremy watched as Michael steered his character up to the gyroid outside his house and saved the game. “Sooo…. Michael.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Are. Um.” Jeremy picked at the chair. “Do you… er. Are you... busy… on. Uh...”

Michael looked up at him, curiously. “Are you ok?”

Jeremy could feel his face turning red as he struggled to get the words out. “Whatareyoudoingonsaturday?” He rushed out. He fidgeted awkwardly as Michael processed his words.

“Saturday? Uhhh… Probably playing video games? Why?”

“Do you- I mean, only if you want to- d’you wanna go to… um… the Relay for Life? With me?”

“Relay for… Life? What’s that?”

“Oh! It’s. Um. A fundraiser. For cancer research. A-and like all of the clubs at school participate. It’s kinda like a festival? I- I think it goes until, um, six in the morning?” He ran a hand through his hair again. “That’s- actually really late.” He stared down at his hands as he wrung his fingers together. “You don’t want to do that. You’re right, it was a silly idea. I’m sorry I brought it up. Forget-”

“Sure. I’ll go with you.”

Jeremy looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah! It sounds fun. It’s a date!” He joked.

Jeremy felt relief course through him. He couldn’t fight down the pleased smile that broke over his face. “It- it is!” He nodded.

Michael tilted his head. “Wait- is it?”

“What?”

“Is- are you asking me on a date?”

“Y-yes? ”

“Jeremy!” Michael exclaimed, sitting up excitedly.

Jeremy startled a little.

“I’m so proud of you!” Michael pulled himself up onto his knees and half collapsed onto Jeremy to hug him around his middle.

Jeremy blinked in confusion even as he automatically patted Michael’s back. “What?”

“I know how hard it is for you to express yourself when it comes to liking someone. Usually you run away or- wait.” He pulled away slightly to look up at Jeremy. “This isn’t a joke is it? Cuz that’s really mean and I will get you back.”

“Wh- No it’s not a joke. I. Uhm. Ireallylikeyou.” If he wasn’t red before, he certainly was now.

Michael eyed him, suspiciously. “You aren’t making fun of me, right?”

“What would I be making fun of?”

He gave him an incredulous look. “I’ve had a crush on you? For, like, forever?”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“How?” Michael poked him in the stomach. “Like, are you serious? Are you fucking oblivious? I wasn’t even being subtle after we hit ninth grade.”

“I don’t know! You know I’m really bad at feelings.” Jeremy defended himself, catching Michael’s hand so he’d stop poking him.

Michael looked at Jeremy’s hand holding his and hooked his pinkie over his fingers. “You’re really asking me out?” he asked quietly.

Jeremy’s heart hurt at how vulnerable Michael sounded in that moment. “Yes.”

Michael gave him a lopsided smile. “Cool.”

They smiled at each other for a few seconds.

Jeremy fidgeted, breaking the eye contact and releasing Michael’s hand. “Well... This is awkward. I- I should go.” He made to swivel the chair so he could get up.

Michael grabbed the back of the chair to prevent him from moving. “No! Don’t go. You just got here.”

“But…”

“Please stay.” He made puppy eyes at him.

Jeremy’s stomach rumbled.

“See! Now you have to stay! I’ll feed you!”

“Okay, okay. How can I pass up free food?” Jeremy asked, a little sarcastic.

Michael slapped his hands down on Jeremy’s knees and hauled himself up to standing. “Don’t you worry. I will provide for my man.” He winked and offered a hand to him.

“Your man?” Jeremy laughed a little as he let Michael pull him up.

Michael furrowed his eyebrows. “We’re- but we’re going on a date? So that means we’re dating? Right? Did I get that wrong? I’m sorry! I just thought-”

Jeremy put his hands up in a placating motion. “I didn’t, uh, think about it. Before.” He waved his hand vaguely. “B-but if you want to be, um, b-boyfriends, I… I’d like that.”

“YEAH!” Michael shouted, excited. “Uh. I mean yes. Yes, I want that. Of course I want that.”

Jeremy looked down. “I’ve never had a b-boyfriend before.”

“I’ve never had an anything before.” Michael pointed out.

“I just mean. I don’t know how good I’ll be. At this.”

“Jeremy-”

“And like what if I do something stupid or wrong?”

“Jer-”

“What if someone tries to hurt us because we’re together and-”

“Jeremy!” Michael clapped his hand over Jeremy’s mouth. “I’m gonna stop you right there. We haven’t even gone on our first date and you’re already worrying. Stop it.”

Jeremy’s reply was too muffled to make out. He reached up and tugged Michael’s hand off. “You know I can’t help it…”

Michael sighed. “I know. But you know I’ll always be here for you.”

“Yeah…”

“You’ll be fine. If you do something stupid or wrong, I’ll tell you and we can fix it. If someone tries to hurt us I’ll kick their ass. Plus, we don’t have to tell anyone we’re together. And whatever happens- we can deal with it. Together. Because that’s what we do.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m amazing.” Michael said, promptly.

This startled laughter out of Jeremy. “And so humble.”

“If you got it, flaunt it.” He shrugged. “Anyways- let’s go get some food in you before you shrivel out of existence.”

“Ok.” Jeremy followed him up the stairs.

“And if you’re good, I’ll feed you by hand. It’ll be gay! I mean great.” He paused for a second to contemplate it. “No. I meant gay.”

title: yesterday’s just a memory, tomorrow is never what it’s supposed to be

rating: t

word count: 2k1

summary: It’s not every day someone you know gets kicked in the head and forgets a couple of years of their life or modern AU amnesia fic.

a/n: I was checking my dash the other day and @hurricanedancer​ reblogged  this amazing post and mentioned in the tags wanting a fic. I was already planning to write something for Cassian Andor Appreciation Week (Favourite Relationship(s)) and this inspired me so I combined both. No such thing as too many RebelCaptain fics, right? Anyway hope you enjoy it :)

(I wrote the fic, but Bob Dylan wrote the title.)

Cassian wakes up to the blinding lights and whispers that are way too loud for his pounding headache. He vaguely identifies the place as a hospital but he’s not sure how he got here.

“Welcome back,” he hears a woman’s voice tell him in a British accent and his confusion deepens. Must be one of Kay’s relatives, he decides.

And then there’s a flurry of movement around him, people asking him questions, calling a doctor, squeezing his hand. It’s exhausting so he closes his eyes and lets himself fall asleep again.

The next time he wakes up the room is significantly darker and emptier. He notices a sole figure half sitting, half leaning on a chair next to his bed.

“What happened?” he asks, his hoarse voice slightly breaking over the last word.

“You don’t remember?” the young woman looks at him with a clear concern when he shakes his head no.

“You tried to be a hero, stopping a bunch of guys from stealing a car.”

“They clearly won,” he states, hesitantly smiling at her.

“Yep, you got your ass kicked,” she openly smirks back. She fluffs an extra pillow that doesn’t look hospital issued before helping him to lean back comfortably. She’s cute. Whoever she is, he thinks.

“So what’s your name?”

Her hands start shaking and he figures this was a wrong question to ask.

Amnesia sounds too much like something out of Mexican soap operas he used to watch with his grandmother. The neurologist tries to be optimistic but there are too many we don’t know and we can’t predict that for Cassian to share her positive attitude. His room is crowded again but he can’t really blame anyone. It’s not every day someone you know gets kicked in the head and forgets a couple of years of their life. Still he averts his eyes refusing to witness their pity. The problem is that except for feeling a bit weak, he is fine. The headache is gone, he can stomach solid food again and frankly all he wants to do is go home. Unless...

“Do I still live where I lived back then?” he interrupts impatiently. How much could his life have changed in two years anyway? A new girlfriend does not define his entire existence.

He doesn’t like the anxious looks they all share.

“More or less,” Bodhi finally informs him without actually replying to his question.

He lives with Jyn now. That’s the news everyone, Jyn herself included, was gently trying to break to him. Honestly he would’ve guessed the minute he stepped into his (their?) apartment. Hot pink bunny slippers weren’t exactly his style.

“It was an inside joke,” Jyn mutters defensively when she follows his gaze to the offending items, carelessly thrown near the living room couch. She picks the slippers up and stuffs them into the small closet in the hallway.

It’s the oddest thing in the world. This virtual stranger who has her things all over Cassian’s living space and sometimes watches him with fondness and love he doesn’t understand.

The uncomfortable silence stretches a bit too long for his liking. He did suggest crashing at Kay’s but they all thought he should re-familiarise himself with his usual surroundings. Plus Jyn seemed determined in showing how much this doesn’t bother her.

“You have an unusual name,” he points out, slightly cringing at how terrible he is at small talk.

“Like gin and tonic, right?” she laughs and he joins her.

“Please tell me men don’t use that as a pick-up line!” he jokes with more ease. He plops on the couch now covered with a soft, grey blanket and stretches languidly. Jyn doesn’t say anything for a moment, just plays with the sleeve of her shirt.

“That’s actually what you said when we first met.”

Trying to trigger lost memories is a perfectly acceptable treatment for amnesiacs and Cassian doesn’t mind it at first. That changes by the 10th minute of a powerpoint presentation fully prepared and presented by Kay.

“Halloween party last year. Picture taken at approximately 2 am as judged by your frankly obvious intoxication,” Kay comments the current slide with his usual mixture of amazing detachment and complete disgust. “Is your memory back now?”

“No,” Cassian groans miserably. “Could you please speed this up?”

Kay straightens in his seat, towering over the desk even more.

“I was preparing a shortened version if you wish.”

“How long is that one?”

“47 pages but it’s not proofread yet.”

***

“3 hours, Leia! 3 fucking hours!” he complains later over a cup of coffee. “He even gave me a bound copy!”

“I know you forgot some stuff,” she comments with a grin that was clearly supposed to look innocent but comes out more like a devious smirk. “but I thought you remembered Kay was more like a robot than an actual human.”

He sighs and stirs in a spoonful of sugar. You drink more tea now, Jyn informed him one morning over the breakfast. He knows they have silly matching mugs and one cupboard is full of a specific earl grey blend she apparently can’t function without.

“How are things with Jyn?” Leia asks nonchalantly as if she could read Cassian’s thoughts.

He shrugs because he’s honestly at a loss for words. How to explain to his old friends that it’s like living with a roommate that you never asked for? Except that there used to be an us with that roommate and the more he thinks he can fall for her, the more she probably falls out of love?

“I sleep on the couch in my own apartment and I’m pretty sure my mere presence makes her want to cry,” he admits in the end. “She’s erm... she’s something else though.”

Leia nods and smiles encouragingly at him.

“But I think I get it. I get why he fell in love with her,” he concludes quietly. He never planned on confessing this much especially since he’s pretty sure Leia will blabber it all to Han and one way or another it’ll reach Jyn.

“You talk about yourself in third person,” she settles for a joke instead and he’s immensely grateful for it. “They did recommend you a shrink, right?”

***

“How about you scroll through my instagram and ask me questions if you want?” Bodhi suggests during their lunch the next day.

Cassian agrees more out of politeness than an actual wish to go through yet another “let’s make Cassian remember things” session. He checks one post after another. Birthday parties, a trip to the beach, Christmas drinks at a pub nearby. They all have one thing in common. If Jyn’s present, Cassian looks like a complete dork in every single one of them.

“Seriously you’d think I’d stop with those ridiculous starry eyes!” he exclaims while practically shoving the phone into Bodhi’s face. “Just look at that one, for example! We get it, Cassian, you’re happily in love!”

“Actually that was taken right before you officially met,” Bodhi explains slightly embarrassed and Cassian goes completely red in the face. 

He tries to find a specific document on his laptop when he stumbles upon a folder simply named “porn”. Judging by the creation date this was done by Jyn’s Cassian (as he secretly calls himself) and frankly he’s slightly worried about its content. He knows it’s a bad idea idea to go through it now, especially with Jyn sitting a few feet away from him furiously scribbling something on her work papers, but the curiosity wins. He clicks on one of the files at random and gets a cheesy selfie of both of them outside his apartment. He clicks another. This one has Jyn cooking and frankly looking beyond annoyed. There are hundreds of pics in the folder and Cassian has a feeling they all have a similar subject. He finally clicks on one of the few videos. It’s a terribly cliché shot of a beach sunset that moves slowly to Jyn sitting close to the camera, a cocktail in one hand, her shoulders a bit reddish from the sun. Mi amor, she calls to him laughingly and it suddenly reverberates around the silent room. Cassian desperately shuts his laptop but one glance in Jyn’s direction confirms she’s heard it loud and clear. She stays silent for a few seconds, biting her lip in an obvious attempt to keep a straight face.

“Are you watching porn, Cass?” she asks before finally bursting into laughter.

He realizes he enjoys his new life about 5 weeks after the incident. Sure it’s still awkward when he bumps into Jyn freshly out of shower and he’s still confused by a lot of stories he hears about himself but his new (old) friends turn out to be great and it’s nice not to be so lonely in life. 

Chirrut and Baze, the married couple who lives 2 floors above him, come over with a pizza one evening. Jyn’s working late again and the apartment is a mess but Cassian finds himself liking them a lot more than he thought he would.

“We’d bring Chinese but we don’t like to add to stereotypes,” Chirrut informs him when Baze drops the pizza boxes on the table, shoving aside what looks like Jyn’s white scarf and a brown shoelace.

“Sorry about the mess,” Cassian apologizes, helplessly looking around what used to be his pristine, minimalistic apartment. “Jyn tends to just leave her stuff everywhere.”

Like her toothbrush inexplicably abandoned on the coffee table at least three times this week. Or one of her boots on the kitchen floor. Or her bra casually hanging from the living room chair.

“We know,” Baze chuckles and hands him a slice of pizza. “You mentioned this when she moved in.”

“But things are good between you two?” Chirrut asks shamelessly and Baze just rolls his eyes.

“Yes, all’s good. She’s good. I’m good. It’s all... you know... good.”

Cassian is sure he can’t sink any lower than that. He chews his pizza for a moment before deciding that yes, of course he can: “Do you happen to have any stories about me and Jyn where I’m not making a fool out of myself?”

“Not really,” Baze answers very frankly and Chirrut chuckles at that. “You did learn all the British monarchs in chronological order just to impress her with your knowledge on all things UK.”

“And I suppose she was-”

“Very much not impressed,” Chirrut finishes triumphantly and Cassian just sighs in resignation.

He’s cooking dinner one night when he hears the front door open. Jyn drags herself in, kicking off her shoes and shrugging off her coat  and before he can ask about her zombie-like state she wraps her arms around him and buries her nose between his shoulder blades. He can’t help it - he freezes, his whole body suddenly tense which in turn makes her freeze, her lethargy instantly gone.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” she mumbles and Cassian grabs her wrists before she can fully pull away. Neither of them dares to move until he can feel her slightly relax, taking a tentative step closer. He lets go of her hands and smiles.

“Any plans for Saturday?” he casually asks her.

She moves then and leans on the kitchen counter, looking at him with suspicion.

“No. Why?”

“I thought we could go out,” he says softly, trying to sound as reassuring as he can. “Dinner, movies. What do you say?”

“Like a date?” There’s still a trace of doubt in her voice. Like it’s a trap or a cruel joke. It hurts him more than he thought it would.

“Yeah, like a date,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and their eyes lock.

“Cassian,” she whispers, the tension suddenly overwhelming and he can’t help but wonder if this is it. The perfect moment for a kiss.

It’s not.

“Are you trying to be suave now?” She manages to utter between uncontrollable giggles.

“Laugh all you want,” he declares grumpily, “but one thing that I’ve learned these past weeks is how much of a lovesick fool I was around you.”

She laughs even harder at that.

“No, please, mock me some more,” he continues, turning back to the now slightly burned dinner. “I was like a mix of a total dork, a schoolboy with a crush and a fucking stalker.”

He hears her still howling with laughter and he’s genuinely unsure if he’s more embarrassed by Jyn’s Cassian or the current Cassian. But when she puts her hand on his arm and tenderly kisses his cheek it stops mattering.

He gets his memory back two days after their second first date.

Last year's post is here.  Last year, I wrote about how VBall had continued to not be an event where I really catch up with many friends and acquaintances from the dance world, pushing myself every year in dance, how I put a lot into the contests and how they were exhausting. This year I feel like I have a lot to talk about.  Let's see if I can get to it all.  I'll warn you -- it's a bunch. I realize that I don't really know how many of these things I've been to.  This kind of thing is where blog entries really come in handy -- a quick search reveals that it was 2011 when I first attended, so I guess that would make this my 10th VBall.  Yeah, a lot has changed, since then. Like the trend in years past, I did not find this year's Viennese Ball to be a place for me to catch up with a bunch of people.  That didn't really surprise me though -- I think because that's just not something I was particularly looking for.  I think that is perhaps because I realize that the people who I only see at this event are people with whom I only have surface level relations, and that wasn't something I cared to spend a lot of time and energy seeking out here. The beginning of the ball was a bit of an odd experience for me as I got caught in an instance of line con waiting to get in.  It was somewhat of a a humorous experience, holding my Journey cosplay and bag, waiting in a long snaking line -- I felt much like I was at some Anime convention waiting in line for registration (though that tends to happen a bit less nowadays due to a number of improvements in streamlining the process).  I don't normally run into this, but nevertheless, I came prepared -- I plugged in my earbuds and started jammin out to some tunes while playing Puyo Puyo.  Like I said, very very much like I was in line at a con... By the time I got in it was pretty clear that there was little to no hope of really catching much of the opening ceremony and even if there was, it would involve dealing with crowds (mye myeh myeh), so instead I scurried away into a different room.  I am sure it went just fine, as always.  I'd be lying if I said that any of the previous N years of watching opening performances really stuck out in my mind as opposed to just becoming another hazy memory of yet another year.  But I have long since ceased to be the target audience for these kinds of things.  I'll hang onto my memory of Decadance performing "Numb" in 2012 instead, thank you very much. I spent a good deal of my time this year in the contemporary room, not because it was the "cool" thing to do [insert jaded/dogmatic muttering here], but because Lillian Zhu's music selection was simply awesome.  Maybe it helped that I recognized so many of the songs, but even the ones that I didn't, I enjoyed dancing, feeling, and moving to.  I honestly can't remember the last time I ever enjoyed the music at an event this much.  The floor in that room was pretty well filled with people dancing as well, which was a great energy to have.  There is something about having good music and a good energy that really allows for a certain flow state of movement.  I guess I'm just glad I was in the right mood to appreciate it.  I realize that half the time I was just being the weird antisocial weird guy glowsticking off in the corner, but honestly I had so much fun doing that that I didn't really care.  I cracked two pairs of 5-min ultras over the course of the night, and had some really good songs using them. So yeah, it wasn't that hard to choose that earlier in the night over the live orchestral music playing in the waltz room.  Don't get me wrong, the classical pieces are always very pleasant to dance to, and (as always?) I felt bad for the musicians, who certainly deserved some more respectful applause from the dancers. =(  That is something I will have to try and encourage a little more proactively next time.  I do wonder, whether the Don Neely Swingtet had a more respectful reception over in the Swing room, than the Saratoga Symphony did.  I've always been of the impression that swing dancers are generally better with this sort of thing.  A cultural difference, perhaps? But anyhow, the feelings in these songs, while being perfectly suited for this event, are not the feelings that I strive to express with my dance.  I guess it goes back a little more to what I said about opening performances -- everyone's got their own passions, their own aesthetics.  We're all different.  But this event still manages to bring together so many of these different people.  Older dancers who don't even really bother to social dance much anymore.  Fresh faces who have no idea what the ball is like.  Swing dancers, waltz dancers, latin dancers.  I tend to dislike seeing dance events and communities become increasingly insular and catered towards specific groups at the expense of others, so it is nice to know that this event seems to draw out groups of all sorts, though of course not everyone. (though it certainly seemed so at times -- there were more people than ever before packed into the main ballroom, which was part of the reason I ran away to the Contemporary room) I missed Swingtime's performance AGAIN this year -- I seem to just have terrible luck with that.  I peeked into the room, saw that they were already dancing the Shim Sham in there, and said to myself "oh drat, I guess I missed Swingtime's performance, which was before the Shim Sham."  Of course, 40 minutes later as I checked the schedule I realized that Swingtime was performing AFTER the Shim Sham........derp. I entered the Cross-Step Waltz contest together with Talia this year.  My feelings on dancing in the contest this year were overwhelmingly positive, but......complicated to explain.  I guess I can try? Ok, so some background.  There have been a number of issues in past years about a very vague "rule" (if it could even be called that) of past contest winners not being allowed to proceed to the final rounds of the competitions.  I could not tell you what the exact criteria for this was because it was simply not known.  Besides feeling very unclear, it was also an inconsistent thing -- I've placed 1st in the Cross-step contest in 2014, but even then it felt a bit..."off" since I knew for a fact that the most skilled dancers were not in the final rounds of that competition.  In 2016 (?) I chose to "abstain" from entering any competitions at all because I figured if I did that I would maybe be "allowed" to compete normally again??  And indeed, in 2017 I placed 1st in the Rotary Waltz contest.  However, later in 2019 me and my partner would go on to be tapped out early from the Cross-Step Waltz contest because we had previously won a contest....yet, somehow, we were still allowed to place in the Rotary Waltz competition again?? And no, before you ask -- I'm not just being full of myself and thinking that I "deserved" to advanced to the finals...One of the contest judges in 2019 later told me in person that they as a group had decided that me and my partner had to be eliminated because of past results. Anyways, as you can imagine, this all felt very unclear and arbitrary and if I had to guess I don't really think the judges were always all on the same page in terms of knowing what "the rule" was, leading to some....weird situations.  (Judging is an entirely stressful and time-pressured job, so I don't really blame them if that was the case)  I really didn't think it was my place to argue though, and besides, it's just a dumb contest, who the hell even CARES -_-  However, the 2019 instance felt especially....off, especially given the number of strangers who came up to me and my partner afterwards and told us that we should have won.  To make matters worse, a member of the opening committee told me "what was that?  That was messed up." and one of the finalists themselves came up to me personally to tell me (and I quote) "I'm so sorry.  You should have been there instead of me." This was all very....uncomfortable feeling, and I had basically stopped thinking like any of these results meant anything at all besides whether an arbitrary an inconsistent rule had been chosen to apply to me or not.  Dancing in a contest was no longer a question of "will I dance well enough?" or "will I be appreciated enough?", it was a question of "who will randomly be decided to be eligible?"  I had stopped trying to win these competitions because it was simply out of my control. Fortunately, Emily Hu is an amazing Steering Chair and despite having =countless= other more important things to do, she took the time to both solidify a transparent and fair ruling on the matter as well as make a clear and well-written posting regarding the updated restrictions. (which left me and Talia eligible to compete and/or place this year)  THANK YOU EMILY! Which meant I no longer had to worry about whether or not I would be arbitrarily disqualified before I had even done anything.  So did I try my best to win the competition together with my partner this year?  Well................uh......no.  You see, for all the silly paragraphs I've written about this thing, I...kind of hate competing.  I really dislike it.  Truly, the only reason I've still kept doing it for this long is because many people have approached me since our performance in 2017 and told me that it inspired them.  People STILL tell me that today -- even at this very event, someone came up to me and told me that they wanted to dance like I did.  And if my dancing can inspire someone and make them feel like Waltz is the next cool thing a dance they really want to do, then isn't that reason enough? The thing is, though, all of this thinking about "showing the world what waltz can be", trying to be inspiring for others, the pressure to perform well, all of the silliness with the eligibility rules....all of it was really, really, really quite draining.  As I thought about things more and more over the past week, I started to feel like I was doing this for all of the wrong reasons.  I was really just tired of thinking about everyone else except myself. And at some point I realized that I needed to just let it all go and dance for =me=.  Because that is something that I was simply forgetting how to do.  No showing off, no worrying about the audience, no worrying about the judges, no worrying about technique, no worrying about anything except for the one and only thing that has ever truly mattered to me -- the music.  To me, this "contest" was a means of soul-searching, a means of regaining my own agency in something that felt so muddled with external pressures that I had lost sight of myself. Talia was gracious enough to offer her full support and wonderful partnering in my admittedly somewhat selfish pursuit and we danced together -- a dance where we did not strive to push ourselves higher than ever before, but rather sought to be one with the spirit of each of the three songs that were played.  I blocked everything else out and focused on my breathing, and the music.  And I remembered again, why the hell I have been doing this thing for 10 years.  It was a wonderful feeling. And when we were politely told that we were being eliminated, I accepted it with peace, knowing that it was not due to some arbitrary rule that I did not understand, and knowing, that I had proved something to myself.  This silly meaningless contest that I hate how much it bothered me (so stupid!!), finally I could simply look back on it as something that I felt positively about. I chose not to enter the rotary waltz contest this year, because -- looking back on my notes from last year, I had written that it was =damn tiring= to enter to.  I definitely don't regret that decision, lol. Speaking of getting tired, though I had felt a bit tired over the first hour at the ball (it didn't help that that was when it felt the most crowded....soooo many students and people that I didn't know, arghh), the great energy in the contemporary room seemed to carry me through and over to the cross-step waltz dancing and then through the rest of the night. I did however get mighty hungry around 11:30 or so and for ONCE I happened to actually be out wandering about in the lobby when some food was brought out.  I think this is literally the first (or possibly second) time I have ever had a chance to have some of the food at VBall (mostly because I never wanted to bother waiting in line before....)...hey, 10 years in and I can still appreciate something new for the first time, eh?  (that food hit the spot btw, yessshh) Viennese Ball is, like Fanime, one of those events that happens every year, yet still manages to be a little bit different each year.  Perhaps part of that is because of the different organizers that cycle through and work so hard to put on the event itself, but I am sure that a large part of that is also due to the changes in the people attending, as well as ourselves.  Overall I have to say that this was one of the best times I've ever had at a Viennese Ball event.  It makes sense when I think about it, because when I think back to the night, the two things I remember are great dances (shoutouts to all of the wonderful friends I had the pleasure of sharing a dance with), really feeling the music, and pleasantly interacting with a few people one on one.  What more could I really ask for? ... I wrote on Saturday night that in addition to having proved some things to myself that night, I had also learned some new things.  Sometimes, ....sometimes, being my quiet and supportive self is not enough.  I have said again and again that growth must come from a place of comfort, and I will be the first to tell you that there are many days when I simply need to take care of myself, and that to do so I must find inner peace in a type of "tranquil complacency", as it were.  Being approachable takes effort.  Interacting with people is tiring.  After 10 years of dancing, even the simple act of asking a friend to dance somehow devolves into some sort of herculean effort.  But do you know what else takes a lot of effort?  Doing the right thing.  Being supportive of others.  Striving to be inclusive of people from all walks of life.  Making a newcomer feel comfortable.  Calling someone out when they are behaving inappropriately.  It's easy to be a bystander, and there is nothing wrong with that.  Some days I really need nothing more than to bystand to my heart's content.  But on the days when I have the strength, I've learned that I sometimes need to take a step out into the light.  For the sake of all of the other people...some who, like me, hide in the gentle darkness, and others who dare to stand in the warm heat of the sun. For I know, that the one who lives inside of me, is not simply quiet and shy, but also compassionate and supportive. .... Thank you to Emily, Filip, and the countless others who made my 10th Viennese Ball stand out a little more amongst all the others.  This is one for the books...