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almostfancywombat · 1 year ago

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Psyche-Knot Swan

Kyveli wilts in her seat, limbs draped with the kind of ennui only a lecture hall can inspire. Through the pane that separates her from the world, she observes a murder. Crows, black as midnight, dance a macabre ballet, picking at the remnants of a discarded lunch. Beaks rip at a brown bag while their wings furiously beat.

A student passing by hugs the wall enclosing the bridge, evading their fury. When she steps too close, the scuffle continues across her shoes. The girl opens her mouth in a silent cry and spurs into a run that continues well after she dashes from sight. Pressing her mouth into her palm, Kyveli suppresses a laugh.

Her nails nick her skin. Her gaze bounces from hand to hand as she studies the keratin. Meticulously cleared of dirt, they are neat, pale crescents. It’s almost a meditation, observing the precision of her constant preening. Her chin rests on the heels of her hands while her fingers flutter across her cheeks in an anxious dance.

How she longs to sprout wings of her own, to join them on coasting on the crisp autumn air. She could venture to any corner of the globe, seeking a home of everywhere, or nowhere. She would love to live in the middle of an ocean on a buoy. But to be a bird… She is flighty but lacks the intelligence. Perhaps someone like her is not so much a boundless migrant, but more of a pupa still shrouded in its cocoon.

Echoing through the cavernous hall, Professor Jens announces the lecture’s end. With a mind as fleeting as hers, she has long since conditioned herself into snapping out of her reveries upon hearing that word.

As students gather their belongings and shuffle out, the murmur of pointless conversation fills the air. Who is having what for lunch, who is doing this during the weekend. And what she loathes hearing the most—who is doing who.

Kyveli lingers at her desk, fingers dancing across the page as she scribbles in her ugly, distinctive scrawl. Glancing at the board, she sighs. She is eager to leave, yet for the trouble she causes Professor Jens, compelled to at least pretend she cares about his obsession with 18th-century Romantic literature. Not only a movement, but a poetic revolution, as he claims.

If Kyveli and her peers are rebels, unwitting warriors of the pen, then she will be first in line to meet Professor Jens at the guillotine. Words—those have never been her specialty. Neither analyzing nor utilizing, save for when they are impressed upon a page. Otherwise, she is utterly tone-deaf. Ironic, for a budding linguist. She adores these languages, their microcosms, yet cannot comprehend the people who define them.

With a final flourish, she snaps her notebook shut and stands, preparing to leave. A heavy gaze falls upon her.

“Miss Szabó, a moment if you will?” The request anchors her to the spot just as she poises to drift through the door. She can’t help but tense up at the sound of her surname. It is a reminder she does not need.

“Of course, Professor,” Kyveli acquiesces, turning to face him. She cannot meet his bright blue eyes, so she stares at his greying hair, the wrinkles on his forehead. She tries to be attentive, but she is already pondering the crisp air outside, how it promises a taste of the winter the city has yet to receive. Those bloody Dutchmen must but stealing all the snow to ship to Scandanavia.

“Before you go, Miss Szabó, your recent research paper,” Professor Jens interjects, realigning her focus. “The one analyzing Stesichorus, along with determinism and relativity?”

She winces, recalling little of the thesis, only the fervent haze that produced it. “Ah, that one. What about it?”

It’s well-received and making rounds among the faculty. He even sent a copy to a few professor friends eager to hear a requiem of the acclaimed Szabó Voice. Most papers are and do, unless they’re written by complete idiots, that is. Enough people have told her she reminds them of her father.

She has an exceptional grasp of language, both ancient and living, but so does everyone else. English is hardly any of her peers’ first language, so her mastery hardly deserves praise. And the classics? She had a premature start.

Of course, her sources would be well-cited. She fought to earn a place at this school and would rather commit seppuku than risk being accused of plagiarism, and any solid argument needs bedrock foundations. The barrage of baseless praise doesn’t seem to have an end. Nor does the patronizing tone as he babbles. She hears the drone, only jolting once her name sneaks into the conversation.

“I trust you are eager to pursue further research?”

A subtle tension creases Kyveli’s brow. After nearly three years of dealing with Belgian bureaucracy, she does not harbor any fervor in submitting any additional paperwork. However, it isn’t a simple paper he’s discussing. The dreaded Future Talk. The dreaded discussions about whether she will continue to trudge forth in academia or finally relent to the urge that tells her to abandon her life in Leuven and flee to Hungary to search for yet another precious artifact lost to time.

Professor Jens views her beneath silver-streaked eyebrows. “You wish to seek an internship this summer, correct?”

This holiday is looking to be uneventful. She is considering applying to a research project for one of her father’s former colleagues, but it’s primarily at the behest of a friend, so she shouldn’t hinge her expectations on it. Kyveli is already on her way to achieving education at the country’s top university. Once complete with this degree, she could pursue another, delve into media or work at a museum or small press. Even if it means she’ll eat cabbage soup the rest of her, anything with the capacity to engage with languages or history will suffice.

She won’t be miffed if these past three years were for naught, if she winds up working the counter at a resort somewhere. Sure, she adores the classics, the languages that shaped their policies and interactions, but she isn’t particularly motivated to work. But it isn’t very forward-thinking of her to abandon it all and become a housewife, so she must reluctantly make a name for herself, and when she fails, find a cave to hide and lick her wounds.

Glancing at Professor Jens, she realizes he’s quietly awaiting her return. Still, his next question startles her.

“Have you made any friends here? How are you finding your classes?”

“Classes are interesting,” Kyveli offers, her gaze drifting towards the now empty seats. Acquaintances aplenty, enough for her to not struggle finding partners for research products. If there is anything she is known for, it is her dedication. As for friends, she thinks of Nikolos, but something holds her back from sharing him. “Social life is adequate. I remain cordial with my peers.”

“I see,” he nods, his eyes searching hers for a moment before continuing. “And what about your family? Your father? Any plans to visit during break?”

Kyveli’s breath catches in her throat. She looks away. Always prattling on about her father, the man whose legacy casts a looming shadow.

“No. Busy. Not this season,” she manages to say. “Traveling doesn’t seem plausible this year.” Money and such. Resigning from her position at that printing company, then scores of job interviews so she can fulfill her role as a decent housemate and not remain perpetually broke. “Perhaps another time, when the circumstances are more ideal.”

He seems to sense her discomfort and quickly changes the subject. “Your performance in class is impeccable,” Professor Jens continues. “I’ve never seen anyone write a paper as excellent as you do, and so consistently. But tell me, Miss Szabó, are you content?”

“Content?” she echoes, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. Is she content? She certainly isn’t discontented, only bored. There are plenty things to mull over with a mind chaste as snow. “I apologize, sir, but you aren’t a philosophy lecturer, and it’s showing. I don’t know what you mean by that, but I am content. Have I done anything to make you believe otherwise? I apologize for always spacing out, if that’s what brought this about. I’ve found that my mind is restless when it’s cold but not snowing.”

“Nothing of the sorts. Simply, your work is exceptional, but I worry about your well-being outside of academics,” he explains, his voice gentle but insistent. “Your father was a dear colleague of mine, and I can’t help but notice you share some traits. Like him, I rarely see you engage with your peers, and with the summer holidays approaching, I cannot help but wonder if you have plans.”

“I…” she begins but falters, the truth difficult to verbalize. Instead, she opts for quiet defiance. “My personal life is of no concern, Professor. Besides school, I am trying to focus on my personal research.”

“And how is that going?” He inquires, not unkindly, but she can’t resist the bitterness the question inspires.

It’s going about as well as a madman’s pursuit can. She’s desperate to track down the documents, but no one in her father’s sphere of influence recalls where he hid his life’s greatest obsession. For now, she’ll have to be content brushing up on his languages in preparation.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not share that.”

“Of course,” he concedes, understanding lacing his tone.

Kyveli nods in thanks, unsure of what else to say, though she doesn’t feel as if the simple gesture conveys her true feelings. Grateful yet irked, she is unable to balance these two sentiments, so she finds it best to remain bland.

Suddenly, her phone blares. With a subtle tremor, she fishes her phone from her pocket and allows the screen to illuminate her face. A sensation like an electric current courses through her veins, igniting her nerves with equal parts elation and disbelief. She hesitates for a moment before declining the call.

Excusing herself, Kyveli finally finishes packing away her things. “Thank you for the concern, Professor,” she murmurs, clutching the straps of her bag, “but I’m not like my father. Excuse me. I’ll get going now.”

“Good day, Miss Szabó. Keep your sights high.”

Warm and genuine, he bids her farewell. She keeps her head down and stalks out, emerging from the lecture hall, relishing the cool anonymity of the corridor, how with each footfall, she feels the loosening of invisible shackles. The weight of expectations dissipates like mist. The doors slam shut behind her as she tears out of the building. A thud punctuates her liberation as the building spits her out.

The breeze is a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the indoor amphitheater. Kyveli tilts her face skyward. Above, the sky is a canvas of gray. The clouds overwhelmed by withheld flurries, mottled with distant specs of black. The crows have finished their meal and are in flight. They perch on the edge of the bridge, then relaunch into the sky, disappearing over rooftops, into the sun. She cannot view its glory, so she stares at its ivory halo. For a fleeting moment, she yearns for the embrace of snowflakes.

Lost in thought, her mind barely gives rise to the incredible feat unfurling around her feet. Brittle with the onset of autumn, swirling around her boots. Her gaze follows the erratic waltz of leaves caught in a capricious dance. They rise around her, enveloping her in a whirlwind of russet, ochre, and amber.

A solitary yellow leaf, its edges tinged with decay, sweeps along on a gale. Then meets its demise beneath an excited, purposeful stride.

“Kyveli!” A familiar voice calls out, and she looks up to see Nikolos rushing towards her, his expression expectant. The leaves scatter like sinful rooks.

He says her name as it should be spoken—after all, his native language is Greek. She doesn’t know what to expect. Slovak is hers, so Dutch and English are the lingua franca, used interchangeably to seamlessly communicate. Occasionally, they dabble in French, but Kyveli finds that Belgian Francophones to be more judgmental than Parisians. Neither of them will dare to touch the third official language, German. Moin, auf Wiedersehen. She prays she never has to speak it.

“Done with classes for the day?” Nikolos asks, falling into step with her.

“Just finished,” she says, tone flat as the pavement underfoot. Even if she has only mentioned it in passing, she expects him to know precisely what she means. “And now we wait.”

“Wait? For what?” Head tilting, curiosity alights on his features.

“For me to not regret this,” she divulges without inflection, as if discussing the weather or some other triviality. “I’m considering an application for that summer research internship you—and now Jens—have recommended. Now we await my final evaluation.”

“That’s fantastic!” His enthusiasm bubbles over like uncorked champagne. “Soon enough, we’ll be celebrating your acceptance. If you go through with it, you’ll sail right past all the other applicants!”

“You act like it’s obtaining a degree.”

“Anything we do now is a step toward that, isn’t it?”

First step in a thousand-kilometer journey, she supposes, except she wishes to find somewhere to rot. But Nikolos—he hails from the western psyche’s cradle. He longs to achieve what no one in his family has and become an esteemed PhD. This is not a novel aspiration to Kyveli, so she does not. To be involved in society is to be aware, and she is painfully aware of how she cannot outshine people with enough passion to dwarf her innate research capabilities. If it comes down to interviews, leaving an impression, and enduring the scrutiny of her every thought, knowledge is all she has, and she cannot wield it.

Kyveli sighs. She wishes she was like Nikolos. She can’t get excited over promises that aren’t etched in stone. Show her a tablet from Apollo’s oracle, and maybe she’ll consider placing a wager.

“It might be,” she sighs. “I have to finish that stupid paper on suffering in the ancient world before that, and every moment I spend away from my computer, my desire to drop out increases.”

“After you worked so hard to get here?”

Right, she would be stupid to squander the opportunity of a lifetime. People would kill to be in her position, a student at an internationally renowned university, pursuing a program of a similar caliber. Discounting the opinions of the native existential nihilists—metrics don’t mean anything when it can always be better—the quality of life is unparalleled. The culinary scene is as lively as a graveyard, but at the very least, Kyveli isn’t entirely socially incompetent, so she has a friend to complain and strive with.

“So maybe I’d like to stay in Belgium,” she stubbornly admits, “but I might leave after my studies. This place isn’t like I imagined. Good, but not what I want.”

Calm, complacent, certainly not content. Kyveli knows the script well—the feigned anticipation, the carefully curated surprise for her decision—but her heart isn’t in the performance today. She’ll leave the theatrics to Nikolos.

“If you don’t,” says Nikolos, “we could be housemates. I’ve always wanted to live in Charleroi, though.”

“Live with you?”

Evaluating the sentiment, she experiences a dizzy spell. No, they cannot. He is far too eager to socialize and invite people into his personal bubble. She has witnessed his state of existence and is convinced she would combust if they cohabited any space. His front door is constantly revolving. Someone is never not lounging on his couch. Although his fridge is never fully stocked, he is persistently bringing random backpackers he picks up from who-knows-where.

While Kyveli would personally never consider adopting this habit, she also would not endanger his lifestyle. Someone like Nikolos has a spirit far too vibrant for her to dream of dampening.

Live with him? She can barely tolerate his presence. He, the sun, will outshine the moon. It will implode and take the universe with it.

“Anyway, enough about the still-distant future,” he says, filling the silence left by her musing. They must have very different concepts of time, because five months may as well be tomorrow. “Have you thought about the summer? We should go somewhere, do something memorable. Anywhere you want to go?”

Nikolos seeks conversation like a bloodhound, so she must placate him. “I’ve been terribly bored of missing the snow,” says Kyveli. Her mind doesn’t linger on destinations, but on the escape. She wants to go wherever there’s enough of it to bury herself in, refusing to rise until the final vestiges of winter thaw in spring. “Maybe I can hibernate. But somewhere with sun would be nice too, I think.”

“Then we’ll plan something amazing,” Nikolos declares. His dreams paint vibrant strokes across the dull canvas of her apathy, but she rolls the sentiment around in her mouth, unsure whether it holds meaning or if it’s just another string of syllables in the language of platitudes and gentle deferments. Promise tomorrow, and she won’t have to hold any expectations for today. Nikolos’ spirit is bright, but his mind can be incredibly dull.

Amazing. She tastes its exotic flavor, but without a hint of sweetness. This conversation is weighing on her like lead.

“Where to, then?”

“That summer research internship in Rome, first.” Nikolos has stars in his eyes. “Imagine it, Kyveli. Me, you, exploring the eternal city. The professor guiding it is well-respected in the field. Jens recommended it, and it’s perfect for us.”

When she inquiries about the host university, she’s pleasantly surprised to hear her father’s alma matter. Perhaps not perfect, but perfectly coincidental. She knows several of his colleagues, has even met a few during travels abroad, but never on their home turf. Perhaps these experts can assist her with chasing her father’s elusive dream. She’ll pierce its thorax and trap its wings. There is a stratosphere out there; it cannot escape her for infinity.

Despite herself, Kyveli dares to ask, “There are still opening, right?”

Pulling out his phone, Nikolos taps away. Moments later, Kyveli’s own device pings. Inbox accessed, she finds an email complete with packing lists and a spreadsheet of contacts. He has already informed Professor Jens, who preemptively wrote a stellar recommendation letter.

“There’s also leisure extension if you want to help excavate some Roman ruins in Sofia,” he helpfully adds. “Or you can go to Lyon to assist the professor in some meeting there. I don’t know the details, but wouldn’t you like to know?”

Kyveli sighs and clicks her phone off, resigning to her fate. “Bastard. You had this all planned out, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he confirms, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s like I always dreamed. We’re finally going to go on a trip together.”

Kyveli wishes she felt sorry for ignoring his advances for so long, but when they first met, he was a muscle head with slick hair, yelling at her to purchase ice cream from his stall. She only permitted him upon reuniting in Belgium, and with the conditions that he wear proper shirts and stop calling gel an investment.

Sarcastic, she says, “Sorry I’m so inclined to being a homebody.”

“No problem. I just don’t want to see you sad.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” She uncomfortably squirms. “Do you know if anyone else intends to come?”

Frankly, she doesn’t enjoy seeing people outside of their enclosures. Nikolos alone is already enough. In class, around campus, then outside of academia. On one horrid occasion, they went day drinking to protest the elections and passed out in a park, warranting a weekend period of recuperation. She can go days in his company without experiencing the urge to drown herself in the pond at Vogelkijkhut, but with anyone else, she’ll require a week shut in her room to recharge.

She’s glad to hear that only a few others from their department find the program of interest. There’s Margaux, a girl they know peripherally, then another guy neither of them remembers, but he participates in the university’s Aikido club. The group chat all interest parties joined whispers with news of a few Americans. Not the cool kind from further south, but the loud, packs-too-many-bags, only likes alfredo type.

“If we get selected, we’ll meet the others in Rome. But, by the way,” Nikolos says, suddenly stalling to cast a sidelong glance at her attire. “Before we leave, I’m taking you shopping. We need to do something about your wardrobe.”

“You shouldn’t be so confident. You’ll be sad if we’re not picked.”

“Let’s pretend you didn’t say that,” he sighs. “Ask me about something else.”

She searches for threads. Bulgaria? Ruins? Shopping? Kyveli’s brows furrow with confusion. She picks the most conventional topic to argue over.

“What’s wrong with how I dress?” Her clothes are the same ones she’s worn for years, the ones she’s owned since her fifteenth birthday. If he has an issue with them, then, rather than sparing her feelings, he should’ve spoken sooner.

“Your sense of fashion is…” Nikolos chews his lip. “How can I put this gently? Atrocious.” He declares, his tone teasing but firm. “I think it’s been out of fashion since before our time. We can’t have you representing our university looking like… Well, like that. What if they see you and are led to believe the Belgians are frumpy? Or worse? What if they think you’re American? You’ll be a target for pick pockets.”

“I’m not Belgian, and any tourist is a target. I’ll be fine if I watch my bag and don’t pack one intended for hikes.”

Kyveli huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. As badly as she wants to, she prefers facts to opinions and cannot argue with his assessment. Her clothing is functional and comfortable, yet in the pursuit of such, it loses any sense of aesthetics and becomes an eyesore. For how pretentious she can be, she lacks any semblance of style or sophistication. Perhaps she is long overdue for change.

And staring at him now, as he laments the dandelion leaf he crushed, she thinks perhaps so is Nikolos. She can’t believe he has stuck around for so long.

“Fine,” she concedes for his sake, feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and gratitude. “But only if you promise not to make me wear anything ridiculous. You know I have a hard time telling whether something is fashionable or gaudy.”

“Deal,” Nikolos agrees, though a hint of mischief still dances in his eyes.

Kyveli envisions herself donning Gucci dupes with a pair of those witchy, pointed shoes. She’ll accessorize with a useless, chunky belt and sunglasses. Laughing, she stifles it when he notices, passing it off as a cough.

Finally departing from the university grounds, they emerge onto picturesque streets, shoes scuffing against the cobblestones. She basks in the sounds and sights, how the sun dips low in the sky, casting shadows on the ancient buildings, how the air carries hints of petrichor and is dampened by pedestrians and birdsong.

This city has its charms. The historic architecture, the lively student culture, the cozy cafes. On several occasions, Kyveli has found herself believing that she could make a home of this place someday. There isn’t love, but such a superficial thing can always be manufactured under the correct conditions.

“Imagine the weather in Rome right now,” she muses, hoping to engage Nikolos’ enthusiasm even if she cannot dream of matching it.

Instead of a mindless, cordial response, he goes for her jugular. “The Italian sun will do wonders for your damp spirit. It needs time to sun-dry and soak up light. Like tomatoes.”

Perplexed, Kyveli says nothing. Instead, she focuses on the feeling of her boots against the uneven cobblestones. She counts each step. How much is a ticket? Can she afford to travel?

“Maybe if I sell my liver…” she murmurs.

“If you need money, you don’t need to prostitute yourself,” says Nikolos, devoid of emotion. “I can loan you anything you need.”

She shivers at the prospect. The last thing she wants is hands roaming across her body. “I meant that I’d sell my liver and a part of my spleen. If I do that, I could likely afford to take a leisurely summer holiday instead of working. But if my hunch is correct, I think my father knew the program head. I’ll see if I can resort to nepotism. Maybe it will help you, too.”

Nikolos laughs. Ever the optimist, he asks, “Really, Kyveli. Do you actually need money? I know you won’t ask your family, so just tell me. I may not be rich but I can help work something out.”

Her cheeks burn. Kyveli will never accept handouts from anyone. “Of course not. I won’t ask anything of anyone.” She can only depend on herself.

Frowning, he nevertheless permits the matter to drop. “I can’t wait to try some authentic Italian cuisine. I’ve heard the pasta is life changing.”

“Pasta? Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

“Sometimes, clichés exist for a reason,” he argues. “Besides, I’m determined to find the best carbonara in the city. It’s my mission.”

His mission? How can something so stupid be a mission? Oh, well. I’m pursuing far less fruitful things.

She glances at Nikolos, taking in his animated gestures and enthusiastic grin. He’s thrilled at the prospect of exploring somewhere new together. While she is grateful to have a loyal friend by her side, a small, secret part of her also relishes the idea of separating from him in the sprawling city. Of getting lost and finding her own way, without him as her constant companion.

Despite herself, Kyveli allows herself a private smile. The future shimmers with promise and she can hardly wait to carpe diem.

“Let’s go to that restaurant by the park,” Nikolos suggests, already pivoting the other way. “It’ll be the perfect place to celebrate our upcoming adventure. We can drink the imported stuff and compare it to the real thing.”

“Do you want me to drown myself?” she says, dismal.

“What?”

“Nothing. Yes, we should go.”

Sure, why not? It isn’t as if she has anywhere else to be. She’d rather be anywhere except here during summer. The weather is a temperate bore. Pausing, she takes in the familiar surroundings—the ornate carvings adorning the doorway of an old church, the ivy creeping up the side of a crumbling stone wall—and feels a strange sense of detachment. She won’t feel sad if she never returns, she realizes. This life here has served her well.

“Have you visited Italy?” Nikolos inquires, sensing a disturbance in her psyche.

Kyveli’s answer is breezy, if not, overly informative. She hasn’t, but her father often visited associates or conducted research at other institutions, so a miniscule part of her has always wanted to go. She has longed to see the world he did. On a few occasions, she visited him in Greece, where he lived near the sea, but snapshots were never enough.

Meanwhile, her mother kept their travels confined to the Balkans, and in doing so, burned the image of red tile roofs and socialist monuments into Kyveli’s brain. Sofia, Varna, Plovdiv: one can only visit the same cities so many times before they blur into the same swatches of color. Then, when her eye for pretty things left, every country became the same. Slovenia’s Ljubljana, her favorite by far, was only memorable when she rode a glass-enclosed boat through the waterways.

But with her friend, anywhere was fine. She enjoyed it when she’d beg his parents to drag her along for observation days at his academy. One year, it was in Bratislava, then his native Hungary. She only lasted one day in Paris before having a breakdown, incapable of tolerating its odor, its pulse.

Through her travels, Kyveli has discovered that her most profound admiration is for the sea. Those turbulent, pitch-black depths, teeming with life unknown to man. The placid surfaces, which will readily become a tsunami.

And despite the coastlines, Italy is the antithesis of her interest. It is cradles and stones and legacies imprinted into the ground. She may be pursuing an anthropology major, but her patience for that land wanes outside of the myths. She will not deign to view the Colosseum, the Pantheon, all those other tourist-infested locations. Perhaps a visit will be worthwhile if she can join the hunt, if she can uncover the mysterious voice that led her father astray with its siren song.

Realizing she has forgotten the question, Kyveli quiets down, forcing her gloom to simmer, allowing space for his gleeful delusions.

“Personally, I’m looking forward to finding an Italian lover. Imagine the drama. We’ll have a romantic encounter, long for each other, and write letters. When years come and pass and we’re fat and old, we’ll look back and realize we wasted our precious youth for a pipe dream, but it will be such a delicious regret.”

Because of course, he is. Kyveli rolls her eyes. Predictably hedonistic.

She side-eyes him. “That’s impractical. You should write emails. Nowadays, there are plenty ways to stay in contact.”

“Where is the romanticism in that? I want to live my life like a Ghibli film.”

“What’s that?”

Nikolos gasps, and she speeds ahead, forcing him to pick up the pace. Finally, they reach the quaint cafe, nestled among towering trees adorned with fiery leaves. Slotting herself at a table beneath the awning, Kyveli watches the city unfurl in all its splendor; gabled rooftops etched against a dimming sky, gothic spires reaching for the heavens. Leuven might be a giant cafe, but everywhere is dotted with splotches of greenery. Bleeding through it are glimpses of glass and steel. Kyveli feels an ache like a thorn in her side, begging her to escape its maws.

While she enjoys the evening al fresco, Nikolos ventures inside to conduct the daunting task of ordering their beverages. She views him through the window, inspecting the interaction, hoping to discover the secret ingredient that makes his process so seamless.

He leans over the counter. Casually conversing. The barista is exhausted by the Mediterranean buoyancy, but Nikolos is undaunted. However, he isn’t entirely blind; once content, he returns with two steaming cups of coffee topped with foam.

“Tonight, a toast to our future success,” he declares, raising his cup. Simultaneously, his slides one across the table and into her palms. She brings her lips to the rim, savoring the smell, inhaling the vapor.

“Cheers,” Kyveli murmurs, teeth clinking against the cup. She blows on the scalding liquid and inhales its aromatic fumes.

“Promise me one thing, though,” Nikolos suddenly says, his eyes narrowing with earnest intensity. “Promise me that regardless of what you do, you’ll at least try and make the most of it. That you won’t be scared and let fear get in the way.”

She shrivels beneath his surgical gaze. Though she tries to maintain an air of indifference, a spark of excitement ignites within her. For the first time since middle school, she has arranged for summer plans with a friend. Granted, they’ll likely spend their days hunched over a computer, inputting values, but each moment with Nikolos evokes the feeling of sitting lakeside beneath leafy tresses.

“Promise,” she replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

As they sit there, engulfed in the fading warmth of the sun, Kyveli listens to Nikolos, his voice. It sounds distant, muffled as though she is underwater. She can’t focus on him, so she enjoys the dull pain throbbing through her fingers and palms, the heat emitting through the ceramic as she finally takes a sip.

She recoils and splutters. Strong and bitter, the coffee scorches her lips. Gross. It tastes like water.

I was sick and had an extended break, so I decided to create a new story. I've already written 12 chapters, but I expect it to be at least 100k words. No one really reads these, but because I've yet to publish outside of two short stories, I still like keeping track of my story progress here.

#writers on tumblr #writeblr

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no-droids · 4 years ago

Text

Kar’taylir

gif credit @sersi

Part Thirteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.8K

Warnings: language, angst and fluff, descriptions of a dead body, no real smut in this one but there is some nudity and touching, uhhh i think thats it tbh

A/N: Omg hi hi hello this was written in a week and a half so please be gentle, also I’m back on my linguistics bullshit and I can absolutely guarantee a vast majority of it is inaccurate

***

Everybody is asleep and you’re just a complete mess.

Truly. And it fucking sucks, because this should be enjoyable. This is home. You’re in hyperspace, the hull is pitch black, the baby is asleep, and Din’s breathing is slow and quiet through the darkness. Your cheek presses to his chest as it rises and falls hypnotically, you’re comfortable and safe and this would normally be a dream. But your eyes are wide open right now and you are just going through it. Spiraling in the midst of the most stable surroundings you could possibly conceive.

You suppose that this is partially your fault. You don’t know why literally any part of you expected Din would explain himself without prompting from you, but you still couldn’t work up nearly the nerve necessary to ask. Every potential question you came up with contradicted your intent, every way you tried to mentally phrase it gave off the wrong impression. How do you ask somebody if they were being serious about something without revealing anything about your own intentions? You can’t—that’s a downside of staying silent.

Din hasn’t said a single word since he urged you to leave the shooting range earlier, and he didn’t really seem like the quiet didn’t suit him, if that makes sense. Yours was awkward, it fit you wrong. You struggled for words while he easily ignored their existence altogether, able to navigate the Crest into hyperspace and exist comfortably around you without ever addressing the giant bantha in the room. Maybe that’s part of the reason you floundered so hard—he didn’t avoid you, he held the kid while you took a shower in the small fresher, and even though he was quieter around you than he’d been in awhile, he gave no indication that anything was wrong at all.

You spent that time getting clean but also formulating some sort of plan. As you bathed in actual water for the first time in a week and scrubbed your body clean, you tried to figure out at least why you were having so much trouble coming up with something to say, but even then, words evaded you. You spent the entire time staring blankly at the metal wall, at a complete fucking loss.

When you came out of the fresher with wet hair and comfortable clothing to sleep in, Din was armorless and resting in your makeshift bed on the floor, the baby tucked soundly in his crib next to him. You turned off the lights and carefully found your way under the blankets next to him in the pitch blackness, feeling him lazily reach around you and pull you to rest against his chest. His fingers gently drew circles along your arm for maybe the first few minutes while you worked up the nerve to speak. You needed to say something, this was your chance—

But then his hand soon fell to rest in one place on your shoulder and he passed out. Helmet on, not even a few minutes of your quiet breathing next to him.

So now, you’re here, just… a little ball of stress in the middle of paradise. Hours have passed, you need sleep after such a physically exhausting week but it’s like you haven’t even processed the fucking proposition he presented to you yet. You’re having trouble even thinking the words, that’s how much he’s got you fucked up.

He said… hit the target and I’ll ma…. hit the target and I’ll marrrrr…

Fuck. You stay on that loop for ages until your eyes begin to grow heavy, until you just settle on thinking about it with them closed. Slow breaths from Din under one ear, the silence of hyperspace all around you—how are you supposed to contemplate when his body is so warm? No, you can ask tomorrow, you’ll ask him tomorrow.

Eventually, you’re able to drift off into a troubled slumber, dreaming of bells made of beskar that deafen anyone who rings them.

***

You wake up what feels like two minutes later.

It’s not, but you don’t know that. You’re so warm and the second your eyes open, they start stinging and burning and tearing up like your body just wants to cry for even being awake right now. You finally got to sleep—you moan pitifully and start to turn your head further into the warm blankets, but then a gloved hand smooths your hair back and a voice whispers quiet through the darkness.

“I have to go.”

And oh, his touch is just the gentlest thing, but what he says makes your already fragile mental state want to shatter. The first words he gives you in hours and they’re the ones you loathe to hear the most.

“W-Wha? No,” you whimper and automatically reach for him, your throat starting to close up. Maker, you’re so tired, you’re so tired, you feel so fucking emotional and vulnerable right now and you’re not even awake enough to realize it. “Why?”

Din just catches your hands and brings both of them together in front of him, slowly pressing your knuckles to the cold beskar on the face of his helmet.

“I meet with Karga in three days,” he murmurs back, voice pillow-soft and barely loud enough to come through the steel under your fingers. It’s gentle and lulling and it makes you want to sleep again, but you can’t and you feel like you could burst into tears for that reason alone. “He gave me four pucks, I need four bodies.”

You can’t argue with it, the logic is perfectly sound. But you still want to, and everything inside you revolts at the thought of allowing him leave like this without fighting for more. Which means you have absolutely nothing reasonable or compelling to say to appeal to him; all you’re left with the glaring truth.

“But I don’t want you to leave,” you whisper, tightening your fingers.

And, perhaps if you were even half-conscious, you’d wince. You’d cringe at the shake in your voice, you’d remind yourself that he has to make a living, he’s said it over and over again. If you were completely awake, you’d scold yourself for being such a needy mess, but right now, all you can think about is how much you want him to stay, just this once.

After a moment, you feel the gloves carefully collect both of your hands into just one of his, and then he slowly reaches out with his free hand to cradle your jaw.

“I won’t be gone long,” Din murmurs. “I can’t be.”

Your head turns slowly in his palm, and you’re just so, so sleepy. Your voice is small and your words slur. “Stay with me.”

Quiet, and though you can’t see him, the leather continues to press so warm to your cheek. Your eyes slowly drift shut, needing him to stay exactly like this, stay right here just like this. Karga can wait, the quarry can wait, the galaxy can wait—everything else can wait when things are like this, when he’s looking down at you breathing slow into his palm.

You’re almost asleep again when you hear him say something.

But… you have no idea what he says. You hear it. You hear his voice come through the pitch black, quiet enough to sit just on top of the silence and let the mysterious words simply become a part of it, but it’s strange. Like his cadence lilts in a different way, the vowels are longer than what you’re used to, and your comprehension abruptly falters like it would if he was speaking another language altogether.

Maybe it’s just because it’s the first thing to pull you back from the edges of sleep, that has to be right. It doesn’t sound like Basic because your mind is stupid and slow right now. You need to ask him to repeat himself, but all that you can muster is the soft sound of confusion, not even able to open your eyes anymore.

His hands pull away from you and once again, you suddenly can’t decide between sleep and crying, quickly lifting and trying to reach out for him in the darkness. You can’t feel anything, it’s like he’s completely disappeared from where you assumed he’d be, except then something tiny is placed into your hands instead and it makes an unhappy little sound at being disturbed. You automatically hold the baby close to your chest and strong hands touch your shoulders, urging you to lay back down again.

“Leave the engine running, you’ll freeze if you don’t,” he mutters, quickly tucking the blankets up under your body while you close your eyes and feel the tears wet your lashes. Fuck, you’re so exhausted, you just need to sleep. “If I’m not back in sixteen hours, I’ll use my e-comm and you’ll have to fly out to me.”

He steps away from you, walks quickly and with purpose to the side of the hull, and a blast of frigid air fills the room before the door is slammed shut behind him.

***

Your head hurts.

Sparks and wires give your fingers mean, zapping reminders to pay attention every time your focus slips, but you still feel like you’re in a daze.

“Come on,” you drone, trying to use your voice to snap yourself back into the present, but the sound of it isn’t even interesting enough to pull you away. “Come on.”

Maker, you’re going fucking crazy. Is this just all an elaborate scheme to make you experience the same kind of insanity he told you he struggles with in your absence? Because you don’t like this—you hate feeling like this, you can’t concentrate on anything and even if he hadn’t instructed you to do so, you’d likely still be counting the hours of his absence.

Fourteen have passed so far, not the sixteen you’re waiting for but getting close. It’s one thing you’ve been able to accomplish. Counting. You can still count right now, so at least there’s that.

Oh, and another hoop you’ve jumped through. Understanding words. You can listen and repeat, even if you still can’t fully comprehend, but you’re getting there.

Din said… hit the target and I’ll marry you.

He said that. Yep. You’ve accepted it, you’ve accepted the words that were said. Indeed.

Okay, but now… like…

What did he mean by that? Why did he say that?

No matter how much you tell yourself he was just messing around—no matter how many times you offer up that perfectly logical answer to the burning question you’ve been sitting on, you still aren’t satisfied with it. Something keeps tugging your mind back to it, a tether constantly pulling you away from the work that’s designed to be your distraction.

You frown down at the box of machinery. Whelp, if he was serious, he’d probably immediately take the offer back after witnessing your behavior this morning. You embarrassed yourself terribly, you acted like a clingy baby in the looming shadow of unconsciousness and what’s worse, you can’t even remember what he said after you begged him to stay. It could’ve been a quiet, “Stars, pull yourself together,” for all you know.

And honestly, just… fuck these electronics. You’re at the point where you’d probably cheer on whatever brutal impact damaged them so atrociously if you weren’t also well aware that this box was very likely attached to Din’s chest when it was crushed. The magnetics are a complete mess, and you’re mostly just attempting to see how the individual components of each piece are supposed to communicate. Turning the switch on doesn’t do much at all besides make the capacitors put out heat. Not enough to shut it down or be a hazard to the housing when you close it, but enough to know that it’s going to present a problem for you at some point.

What’s more, you’re so lost in your own thoughts and busywork that you don’t see two green ears poking out over the top of the pile of armor on your temporary workstation (literally just the floor) until one of the thigh braces comes clattering down and the whole thing collapses with a ruckus.

You suddenly shove the metal box away from you in frustration and you reach for the little troublemaker with a sigh, scooping him up and getting to your feet.

“This isn’t going to work,” you grunt to him, hearing your words better for some reason when you direct them at the baby instead of talking to yourself, and his eh? allows the thoughts to come clearer and easier. No, you can’t be distracted when your distraction is just another part of your status quo, you can’t use fixing mechanics to occupy yourself because it’s what you’ve done to occupy yourself your entire life, it’s worn off at this point. You need something newer. Something that takes your entire focus to do.

Eventually, your eyes drift over to the one metal panel on the wall that you’ve rarely ever opened. One that takes up a comparatively enormous amount of space in the hull considering what you know it holds. You eye the kid in your arm, who suddenly has sneaky painted all over his expression. “You thinking what I’m thinking, demon?”

He squeaks his affirmative and you move over to the armory, pressing a few buttons before the doors slide open by themselves. Because of course Mando invested in hydraulics for the gun closet but not for the hidden cot he used to sleep on, of course.

“Maker above,” you groan as the metal slides open, needing to lift your chin to eye the enormous collection. How many fucking…? All this for just one person? What does that big one in the middle do that the others stacked strategically around it don’t? They all kill whatever you point and shoot at, you’re assuming? Are you missing something?

The baby makes a tiny sound of awe as you carefully look over your choices, not expecting nearly this many to be offered, before settling on one that looks the simplest. A sleek silver one that’s still too big for your hand but smaller than anything else on the rack.

Grabby fingers reach out for the shiny metal as soon as you remove it from the shelf and you very purposefully set it down out of his pitiful wingspan. “Nope. Now come on, gotta bundle up.”

You make your way back over to the bed and pull one of the thickest blankets up, settling it over the open shield and then situating your partner in crime in his usual spot inside. You strategically stuff and stack the fabric around him to make sure he’ll be warm enough in what you know has to be far below freezing temperatures, lifting it up over his ears and wrapping it around his neck in a loose hood. He blinks up at you with gigantic eyes and an open mouth, clearly thrilled about your willingness to go on an adventure with him this time instead of being the tall nuisance that consistently holds him back from one, and you scoff down at him as you partially close the lid on his levitating nest of blankets for extra protection. He should be warm enough, you’re not going to be outside long.

And then you pull out nearly half the amount of clothes you own and suit up in what feels like ten layers before grabbing the blaster. The swirling wind nearly shoves the heavy hull door into you as soon as you open it and—Maker.

You look back at the kid behind you for a second, wondering if it’s too late to change your mind. His expression narrows and he makes a triumphant ha! while pointing three fingers at the grey blizzard through the small open space in his crib. Try as you might, you can’t ignore a call to arms when delivered with such ferocity.

Both of you step outside and take in the view after you wrestle with the door to haul it shut. You don’t know the name of this planet but from what you can see, it’s one giant ice ball, mountainous and cold as fuck. Though, to be honest, your only indication that it’s truly cold as fuck is the continuously accumulating snow blanketing the landscape and the flurries dancing in the whipping wind. You’re too warm-blooded for climates like these—anything below room temperature and you’re freezing, you have absolutely no tolerance for cold whatsoever.

Keeping that in mind, you don’t travel far at all. Just a few steps beyond the entrance to your shelter before eyeing what appears to be a large white boulder in the distance. There’s a solid target, you figure—you’ll be able to see chunks splintering off when you hit it and the ice isn’t strong enough to bounce plasma back, you won’t have any ricochets.

Okay. Okay—safety, where’s the safety on this one? Ah, yes, okay—safety, off. Stance, find your stance. There it is. Alright, now lift. Lift, get that stupid frozen ball right in your sights, line it up. Hold. Hold. Hold.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale—

Fire.

You watch with bated breath as the bright red bolt launches from the end of the barrel and travels across the distance before melting a hole in the snow just to the right of your target.

“Mother fucker!” You yell into the frigid landscape without warning, suddenly infuriated. What’s the point of even having a sight if every gun is just gonna say fuck you no matter what? Could there be some sort of mathematical reason why you seem to be fucking atrocious at this, you wonder? Are you fucking up the angle somehow while trying to read the scope? Should you just ignore it and try to aim without thinking too hard?

Admittedly, you spend the next five minutes shooting at that stupid fucking thing, not making a single shot. It’s not been long at all, but your entire body is already trembling uncontrollably and it is just too fucking cold out here. Freezing your fucking ass off isn’t going to help your aim of course, but it’s almost just tragic at this point. Either you’ve got to accept that you’re just absolutely hopeless at this, or you’ve got to… blame the little womprat behind you for messing up your shots, yeah. It wouldn't surprise you.

As a last ditch effort, you consider trying something a bit ridiculous to see if he really is fucking with you.

“I’m firing one last shot,” you call out loudly over the sound of the bristling wind and flurries, making sure he can hear your narration from his little blanket cave behind you. “If I hit the target… I will present our demon overlord with a chunk of raw meat later for dinner.”

You give the offer a moment to sink in before raising the blaster, and then you jerk it up at the very last second while pulling the trigger. The arc of plasma quickly disappears into the gloomy skies over the top of the ice boulder, completely straight.

You switch the safety on and turn around to say something smart to him, but… well. Uh. That’s an empty crib.

Sudden panic rips through you at the sight of the wide open shield, the blanket left abandoned inside. Your head whips around in horror, wondering where the fuck he could’ve gone—but then you’re able to spot tiny footprints in the snow. Your eyes quickly follow them up and see the baby wading his way up a large hill, slow against the terrain and trying in vain to get to something at the very top.

You drop the blaster and bolt through the blizzard to get to him while calling out through the freezing air and wishing, not for the first time, that you had a name to roar and strike fear into his tiny little heart. In this case, you prefer a middle name as well.

Finally reaching him and yanking him up from the snow, you tuck him under the warmest part of your arm and open your mouth to start venting the terror from your body, but he makes a distressed noise and starts climbing. You fumble with him on your way back down, not expecting that response, but he’s so distraught and preoccupied that he’s unable to stay still, trying to find different ways of escaping your grasp and making more and more sounds to indicate something is wrong.

“What the fuck are you—” you stuff him into the shield and at least get the blankets wrapped around him before looking back and trying to spot whatever he’s still wiggling and attempting to get to. Frustrated cries start filling the icy air and… okay. “Okay,” you tell him, your breath puffing like smoke in front of you, “okay okay, we can go look, but you need to stay warm.”

You clutch the edge of his metal shield and urge it to follow you back up the snowy hill, feeling the crunch of your feet disappear further and further into it as you climb. Your outer two layers are probably soaked by now—stars, it’s so fucking cold. You know you’re not exactly the best judge, but you’ve been outside less than five minutes and you’re already worried about getting sick or frostbite, already jumpy and wanting to go back to the warmth of the hull.

But as you reach the top and look out in the distance, you can just barely make out a familiar metallic glint on the horizon.

Your heart picks up, but the baby makes another distressed sound. Not… happy, not thrilled that his dad is coming back. Some strange sort of dread begins to fill you, carefully holding the kid in his shield with one hand and looking at the bright reflection of light a little ways away just to make sure it’s…

No, it’s not moving. Not disappearing and reappearing, not catching the sunlight differently. Completely stationary in this absolutely horrendous weather.

You immediately make your way in that direction, your body deciding to outright abandon its trembling in the wake of this newfound worry. You’re suddenly sweating, way too warm. That’s Din, you recognize the glint of his armor anywhere, but why isn’t he moving?

The closer you get, the faster you move and the more you’re able to see. He’s laying facedown in the snow. There’s quite a bit of it covering the back of his cape, maybe a few inches, and… there’s also someone laying equally as lifeless behind him. Your heart is slamming now, you’re doing your best to run in the unforgiving terrain, and you finally see that it’s… a corpse, a frozen corpse is behind him with a rope tied around its ankles, clutched tight in Din’s unmoving fist as it lays against the pure white backdrop.

“Mando?” You call out, dropping to your knees as soon as you reach him. “Hey—hey, can you hear me?”

The beskar strapped to him is frozen over and feels colder than ice when you try to shake him. He doesn’t respond. He’s dead weight; you do your best to turn him over on his back, but you still get nothing from him. You shove your trembling fingers up under the helmet, and the only reassurance you have that he’s even alive comes from the petrifyingly slow pulse beating underneath. His skin is ice cold.

Shit, he’s still breathing but he’s hypothermic, you have to get him back to the Crest right fucking now.

You fumble to get in position above his head while hooking both your arms under his, before leaning everything you have into it—but fuck, he’s so heavy. You can barely lift him even just a few inches off the ground—the snow is deep, his armor makes him weigh a ton and the fabric wrapped around him is sopping wet. You try again, making a tight sound in your throat while you haul, but it’s no use.

“Fuck,” you curse, starting to panic even fucking harder. You’re gasping and breathless and getting dizzy and scared, continuing to try and find different angles to heave—

—until suddenly the burden is lifted.

You nearly fall backwards on your ass at the abrupt removal of tension, playing tug-of-war with a team that decided to give up with no warning. But it’s like it almost doesn’t even phase you; you don’t even look behind you to see the baby’s eyes closed tight in concentration, you just recover and pull with both arms, feeling Din’s body gliding easily along the snow now and leading him all the way back down the hill.

Once you get inside the Crest and shut the door to the raging blizzard behind the three of you, there’s an extended moment where you just… you don’t know what to do. You know all about how to deal with heatstroke, but this is the opposite—he either spent too long in the cold, or he exhausted himself trying to get back too quickly and then spent too long in the cold. He said he’d use his e-comm if he wasn’t back in sixteen hours—was that the cutoff? The point where the temperature outside would shut his body down and he’d need you to come get him?

Regardless, you need to warm him up. Yes, that’s your priority, and you figure the quickest and safest way to accomplish it has to be the shower in slow increments. The kid helps you move Din into the tiny fresher in the hull and then you sit on the floor with him, holding his limp body to your chest while reaching up to turn the faucet on.

Cold water sprays down and then suddenly—oof, he’s heavier than fuck again. Air leaves your lungs and your neck cranes back under the unexpected increase in pressure on top of you to see the kid climbing down from his shield, no longer focused on mentally bearing most of his father’s weight or directing his own hovering form of transportation along behind you. The baby disappears out of sight and you huff, completely trapped under Din as freezing water rains down on you.

Fuck, it’s so cold. It’s way too fucking cold for you, but your core body temperature is also mostly normal right now. Din’s isn’t, you’ll probably shock his system if you try to warm him up too quickly. So you reach up and twist the knob, keeping it at a temperature he’d probably find just the slightest bit warm while inspiring violent shudders from you.

“H-Hey, I’m gonna t-t-take this off, o-okay—” you stutter down at him, knowing damn well he isn’t conscious to hear you but giving him that reassurance on the small chance he is, and then reach with trembling fingers to work at his armor. You worry that the beskar is keeping the cold trapped the same way his clothes are, like having solid pieces of ice strapped to his body and nothing to protect him besides a few layers of soaking wet fabric.

The chestpiece comes off and you throw it blindly over your shoulder into the hull with a clang—admittedly, without thinking about where the baby is at all anymore. The pauldrons come off next, but not before you reach up and turn the heat up just the slightest bit. Your jerky limbs just want to blast it and remove the rest of his clothes in steamy hot water, but you can’t. Even though your mind is hurtling at a thousand lightyears an hour, whatever reason you have left reminds you that you have to be patient or risk losing him entirely.

Eventually you’re able to get all the armor off but you hate the way he’s breathing right now. Slow and shallow, like he just doesn’t really need the air at all but his body is still fighting for it on instinct. His chest barely moves with it even when it’s got nothing weighing it down.

“You’ll b-be okay,” you say aloud, talking to the both of you even though only one is capable of responding. “Y-Y-You’ll be o-okay—”

You reach up to inch the temperature a little higher, shivering terribly now. His body feels slightly warmer under the shower than it did with the beskar, but you know you need to keep going and take the fabric off now. Maker, it’s nearly impossible—the black clothing clings to his skin and its such a small space to maneuver, but it gives your mind and hands a clear goal to focus on while the water incrementally heats up.

Strangely, your adrenaline has been rocketing for so long that you almost lose track of time. You just keep deadly focused on your task of undressing him and slowly heating the shower, trying not to think, trying not to get in your head and bring about disaster in such a crucial set of moments.

At some point, the water is warm. Comfortably warm, and Din’s body isn’t ice cold anymore. It’s warm, too, laying back into your chest and naked besides the helmet, but he’s still not moving. No response, no matter how much mindless drabble you supply, no matter how steamy and hot the shower has become, no matter how much your own body has heated up. Your fingers have found their home under his jaw, pressed right to his pulse point and feeling it continue to beat slow and faint, but you’re starting to feel the terror set in. Real terror, the kind that makes you stupid and emotional, the kind that turns you back into a child again.

“I don’t know if it’s working,” you suddenly choke out, close to tears. He’s warm, what else can you do for him? Why is he not waking up? “I-I don’t know what to do, Din, I…”

No—no, you cannot lose your shit, not yet. You will exhaust every fucking option before you let that fear set in. He’s not waking up because he needs to recover, his body needs time to work things out in a warm, comfortable environment. He’s breathing, his heart is beating, he’s warm, and he’s still with you, so… you need to still be with him.

You turn the water off and clumsily get up, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him back into the hull. He’s still heavy but it’s so much easier than before to move him; there’s no armor weighing him down anymore besides the helmet, no cape or snow or friction to catch him, no cold to lock your muscles up. It’s slow going but you’re finally able to settle him in the warmth of your shared bed and then cover his body in the collection of blankets you’ve amassed. You stand up and peel off all your wet layers of clothing, letting them plop to the metal floor while glancing around for the kid—

—who is currently swinging from the ladder to the cockpit with one hand.

It startles you for just a moment, just long enough for you to wonder what the fuck he thinks he’s doing up there, but then you figure that if he found some way to get up there then he can surely find his way back down again.

As you quickly drop to the bed and scoot up next to Din’s limp body under the blankets, the Crest’s engine suddenly gives a low rumble below the floor and heat starts blowing through the hull vents. Again, you’re too preoccupied to even notice the gift much. You’re tugging and tucking blankets around him and up under the metallic edge of his helmet when...

Maker, you need to take this off. If the inside is wet, it’s probably keeping his head cold while the rest of him is warm from the shower. You know it’s not a light thing—you know… you know at least a fraction of what this means. You won’t look, you won’t look unless something absolutely drastic happens and it’s completely unavoidable, but you need to take his helmet off.

You catch the shoulder furthest from you and tug at his heavy body until he’s on his side, facing you on the bed.

“Din, I have to take your helmet off,” you warn him, saying it slowly and clearly. Again, just in case. “I’m not gonna look. Nobody is gonna look—” your gaze flicks behind him to eye the baby, who is now somehow on the metal ground and waddling up to you both. He blinks enormous black eyes at you, looking between you and his father huddled together under the blankets.

“Close your eyes,” you tell him very seriously, no room for negotiating. “I know you understand me.”

It takes just a few seconds before he lifts his hands up and does exactly what you say, placing his fingers over his closed eyelids and then even so much as toddling around to face the wall. You gasp in relief, clenching your eyes firmly shut and then pulling the helmet up, making sure you catch his head before it falls with one hand while tossing the beskar somewhere in the hull with the other.

Cold. His hair is soaking wet and so cold, and his head rolls slightly as you guide it to rest in the warmest part of your neck. Your hand stays attached to the back of it, wanting to transfer every single bit of warmth from your palm to him, and your eyes open to the kid’s back as your other arm wraps around Din’s bare spine.

And then all at once, you just feel… helpless. He’s in your arms but Maker, you don’t know what else you can do. The heat is blasting, you’re warm and pressed against him under multiple blankets, the engine is slowly heating the metal floor, but his breathing. Slow. Shallow. Barely able to be felt against your neck. He’s here but he’s not. And you have no way of knowing if he’s getting closer or further away from you.

Tears start coming before you even realize. But you have nothing to say. After spending the entire time talking out loud, providing reassurances, narrating, distracting yourself—you don’t have anything anymore. The silence twists you tighter, the nothing becomes inescapable, and the sudden sob that leaves you echoes hauntingly throughout the hull. You pull his limp body as close to you as possible for comfort. Wake up. Wake up.

Your vision is watery—you don’t see it. You don’t see the kid slowly turn around and take a few steps forward. You only notice he’s there when green catches in the abstract blur, but you sniff and blink quickly to clear it. It only takes a second to see the baby’s hand, extending and pressing against the blanket covering Din’s back, and you watch with wide eyes as he closes his.

And then there’s a second. A second where you dare to hope. Where you wonder if it’s even something that can be done.

The kid lowers his hand just a moment later and stumbles back a few steps, before plopping down on the ground and slowly falling backwards. You have just enough time to see his little body inhale and exhale a few times as he sleeps, and then—

—and then Din suddenly jolts in your arms, bursting with too much life after spending too many heart wrenching moments without it.

“Shhh,” you breathe, instantly tightening your grip on the back of his head so he doesn’t pull away from you in a panic and keeping it tucked into the warmest part of your neck, right where your pulse thrums fast and present. Your eyes clench tightly shut just in case and your heart bursts with pure, blinding, heavenly relief. “Shhh sh sh, stay right here, just stay right here…”

As soon as he seems to recognize your voice and figure out that he’s not dead, his body immediately starts wreaking with shivers. You squeeze him tight to you, feeling his large, quaking frame curl inwards into you for warmth, burying his own face into your neck even further and breathing shallow but quickly now, like his body actually wants the air again. You do your best to will your blood to pump faster and provide him that relief, stretching and opening your body as much as possible to give him warmth.

And then you spend the next few hours like that. Holding him, murmuring gently to him, providing him with your body heat and stars, he fucking clings to you. He presses tight to you and trembles, and you don’t even know if he’s listening, but you keep talking. Finding words for hours, and while some of them are just different ways of saying the same thing, you say them anyway.

He’s okay. The kid is okay. Everyone is okay.

Eventually, the shivering dies down until it stops altogether. Din stays in one place and goes completely limp again, but this time he continues to breathe you in, slow and deep into the crook of your neck. Fast asleep in your arms, and you thank the good fucking Maker above for the little angel passed out on the floor behind him.

***

He has to meet with Karga in two days.

After a few more hours of holding him and making absolutely sure he’s going to be alright, that’s all you can stupidly think about.

A deadline. A very quickly approaching one.

You don’t know why. But it might have something to do with the fact that you want nothing more than to climb up into the cockpit and navigate the ship off this horrid planet, and you can’t. You’re confident that the hull and blankets are warm enough by themselves to keep Din comfortable as he recovers, and you’ve also had quite a while to regroup and get your mind thinking logically again, so you’re not worried about getting up and leaving him right now, no. That’s not the problem.

The problem is that there’s a corpse outside. You know this. You know it’s there, and you know he needs it. Nobody’s gonna take his word for just saying they’re dead, much less pay him for his services; no body, no bounty. You also know it’s probably being covered with fresh snow right now, or maybe some sort of wild animal has already gotten their teeth into it, if anything can even survive out there. And you’re the only one awake. The only one capable of going to get it.

You’ve been arguing with yourself. For about an hour, you’ve been struggling with the thought. Din is soft and warm and every breath makes you focus less on the terrifying moments that occurred and more on the need to step up once again.

In the end, it’s the kid who gives you the final push. You’re not going to leave him laying on the floor like that for any longer. Not after what he did.

You take a second, grabbing the blanket and pulling it up all the way over Din’s head as it rests warm and comfortable in your neck. You’re incredibly careful to cover his face, and even while climbing out of the warm cocoon of the bed, you keep your eyes firmly shut and continue to pull the fabric even higher, making absolutely sure you’re not going to see his face on accident. You shouldn’t, you don’t think, as long as he doesn’t jerk awake and pull it down himself, but you want to take extra precaution regardless.

After quickly yanking on some clothes, you immediately make your way over to the kid and pick him up, seeing his little mouth open as he snores—and oh, you just have to. You pull him to your chest and give him the most heartfelt, thankful embrace you can while not squishing him, before setting him down in his much more comfortable hovering blanket palace and closing the lid on it.

You know you have a very clear task now, but for just a few moments longer, you do your best to stall despite the ticking clock. You start to pick up the mess in the hull—you close the fresher door, pick up Din’s discarded armor and set it in a neat pile close to the bed, place the helmet under the vent to encourage the padding inside to dry faster, and then you collect his old armor and stuff it back into one of the storage cubbies with your toolbox.

Only, an idea suddenly occurs to you as you’re putting away the chestpiece. When you open the door to the hull, you know that a blast of cold air is going to flood the ship. The engine is still heating everything inside and making sure you don’t get trapped in the snow by continuously melting it on the outside, but you don’t want Din to start shivering again.

So you grab the dented piece of electronics you were working on and flip the power switch, feeling the capacitors slowly start to heat up inside the housing. You go back over and lift the blanket near his feet just enough to tuck the metal under it, close enough to Din that he’ll feel the same amount of warmth your body was providing him but not enough to overheat.

And then you make your way over to your bag and pull on the rest of your clothes, now exhausting almost every single clean thing you own just to make another trek through the snow. You’re in the middle of pulling on your fifth pair of pants when the thought truly sinks in.

A corpse. A dead body. That you’re actually considering going out into the worst fucking weather in the galaxy to search for, haul back to the ship, and put into carbonite. Because of a fucking deadline for an occupation very much not your own, very much not chosen by you.

You quickly walk over and leave through the door on the side of the hull before you can change your mind, slamming it shut behind you.

***

Well, it’s… It’s not too terrible, you guess.

It’s been frozen out here for hours, that’s why. It’s not bloody, not gory, not demented or malformed in any way. Tranquil almost, like the creature died in its sleep in this nightmarish landscape, perfectly at peace.

You still don’t want to get anywhere close to it, but you have to. You pull a face and slowly reach out, absolutely not thinking about the literal impossibility of it playing dead and just waiting for the moment to strike, but even still… Even if there was nothing more sinister hiding underneath the surface of this scene, it’s still… existentially fucked up. The last time you were confronted with a dead body, Din had to be the one to dispose of it—you couldn’t even think about it without threatening another wave of shock to your system.

And now you’re voluntarily grabbing the rope around one’s ankles and dragging it back down the pure white slope to the Razor Crest.

It doesn’t weigh that much and its icy exterior seems to work in your favor; it slides easily along the snow as soon as you get it moving. As the ship comes back into view, you hurry to the door and you’re just about to open it when you suddenly get the feeling that you’re forgetting something…

Oh—

It takes a few moments of searching around in the freshly fallen snow, but eventually your fingers brush metal underneath and you stand, reaching behind you to tuck the blaster into your waistband. When you’re positive you’re not going to accidentally shoot a chunk of your ass off on accident, you shove open the door and pull the body inside, before locking it tight behind you and keeping the frigid winter from touching this warm, quiet safe-haven.

There. Halfway done. You almost don’t want to look in case he wakes up unexpectedly, but then you find yourself peeking over your shoulder at the silhouette of Din’s body still passed out under the blankets and you’re thankful the squeaks and slams didn’t disturb him.

And then you take just a second to wonder if this is what it must be like for him. Minus your obvious discomfort and ickiness at beginning to haul the corpse over to the carbonite chamber, it seems like it’d be reminiscent of any other time he’s brought back a dead quarry while you and the baby slept soundly. Trying to be quiet, wanting it done and over with just to get back in bed that much faster, doing everything you can to prevent anything out there from so much as breathing on anything in here.

You do your best to hold on to the loveliness of the thought, because this part is the part you’re most anxious about.

The body needs to go into this slanted upright space so you can freeze it in carbonite. And in order to do that, you have to grab it and put it there. With your hands, you have to grab it. With your hands.

You look down at its face, calm and at peace, frozen and forever etched into that expression, and something twists in your heart. If it weren’t for the kid, that could’ve been Din. If it weren’t for the kid walking barefoot through snow, fighting an uphill battle to make sure you get to him, helping you drag him back here and then overexerting himself to make sure he’d be okay, that could’ve been Din. He drives you crazy on a consistent basis, but he came through today.

Know what? If that little squirt can save a grown man’s life twice in a few hours, then the least you can do is finish this job for all three of you and fly your asses out of here.

Weirdly enough, being frozen solid allows for way better handling than the alternative. It means you don’t actually have to touch it too much; you don’t have to deal with the limpness of death, it doesn’t seem as much like a person as it does a rigid board you’re simply moving from one place to another. You can just grab the shoulders and yank and the entire fucking thing goes with it, solid and upright, naturally wanting to lean back into the chamber so you don’t even have to hold it in place. The perfect quarry for you basically, day one stuff, as easy as it could get.

Almost done, almost done—you study the key panel on the upper-right frame before eventually pressing a few buttons, and then you step back as gas freezes and solidifies the corpse in its carbonite prison.

Yes. You’re done. You already want to take another shower just from touching it for a few seconds, but that can wait. Quickly making your way up the ladder and into the cockpit, you fire up the thrusters and then navigate the ship through and beyond the swirling white atmosphere of this dreadful fucking planet, before punching in familiar coordinates to Nevarro.

***

“Din,” you murmur, making sure you have your eyes completely covered with one hand before gently easing the blanket down from his face with the other. “Din, I want you to drink some wat—”

He jerks awake so suddenly that you hear the metal canteen fall over on the floor next to you, thank the Maker its lid is on tight. You automatically reach out to steady him, pressing your free hand to his bare chest and continuing to speak calmly and gently to reassure him, but he still scrambles to take in his surroundings after sleeping longer than he probably has in weeks.

You know what he’s seeing, even though you’re blind right now. You took time to make sure everything was settled before waking him. The hull is clean with only a single light to illuminate it, the baby is still snoozing in his closed crib, his armor is stacked in a neat pile, the blaster is put away, and you retired your makeshift blanket heater box so the only thing left is you. Freshly showered, hair dripping, offering him water, and dressed in just a thin shirt with nothing else (you ran out of things to wear).

“Wh-Where’s my h-h-helmet—” is the first thing he asks, voice broken and raspy. Stars, he needs water.

“The padding inside is wet,” you quickly supply, keeping your hand tight over the bridge of your eyes to make sure his freshly conscious mind immediately understands that you have no bad intentions. “I swear I didn’t look, and I made sure the kid didn’t either. He’s sleeping now, it’s just me—I swear nobody looked, I swear.”

You might just be saying the exact same thing over and over again and admittedly, that might be putting some weird kind of suspicion on you, but you just want to make sure he knows. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. It’s important that he knows he’s safe and that everything is okay now, even if he collapsed and spent an unknown amount of time in a purgatory where nothing was.

His body trembles under your palm, waves of shudders attacking him even after hours of keeping him as warm as possible. “Are—Are we st-still on H-Ho—H-Hoth—”

“No,” you answer. “We’re in hyperspace. Everything’s okay now, I took care of it. We’ll get to Nevarro on time.”

It’s like he takes just a few extra moments, as if he’s trying extra hard to remember before responding. “But—I d-didn’t—”

“You have four bodies for Karga,” you tell him, not letting him get too lost trying to recall something that no longer poses an issue. “I took care of it. You need rest, I only woke you up to make sure you drink some water, so please—” you blindly reach your hand out for the canteen you know has to be around here somewhere, but all you feel is…

His. Catching yours.

“Y-You took c-c-care of…” His hands are trembling harder than his voice. “Sh-shit, I’m freezing, I—”

“Drink some water,” you tell him, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll go turn off the light so you can sleep more, but you need water.”

His hand feels like it doesn’t quite want to let go of yours yet, but eventually it does and you hear the sloshing of water as the metal flask is picked up with an unsteady grip. Purposefully turning your back to him and making sure he’s not in your line of sight whatsoever, you finally let your hand drop and blink your eyes open at the wall across the hull. You hear Din shakily unscrew the lid while you stand up and find the light switch, before turning around in the pitch blackness and using his loud gulps as your guide back.

Your hands and knees are barely on the blanket when you hear him toss the empty canteen to the side and grab you, pulling you down to him.

Fuck, you’re not expecting it. You fumble in the dark but he doesn’t really give your clumsiness much of a choice—Din pulls you under the blankets like he needs you, his body craving that warmth even though his skin doesn’t feel cold at all. He hooks a strong forearm around your tummy, keeping your back pressed tight to his chest while the rest of him curls to fit every part of you, and you have to adjust the blankets yourself.

It’s not even a few seconds after you settle into position when his trembling hands jerk down to grab your shirt and yank it up. You quickly scramble to help him get you as naked as he is, feeling his palms drag greedily across the heat of your tummy and breasts before you’ve even finished wiggling the fabric over your head. The shirt lands somewhere in the darkness and you’re squeezed back against him, your hands landing on his forearms as they wrap around your waist and he clings shamelessly to you.

“You…” Din’s body still shivers every once in a while but the heat and closeness allows his voice to even out just a bit. He clears his throat and swallows, tucking his head and burying his face in your hair before trying again. “You brought back the qu-quarry?”

“Yes,” you confirm, confident in your reassurance but gentle at the same time. “It’s in carbonite.”

All you can feel or hear in response is his breathing. His heart beating steady and strong against your back.

And then Din’s arms suddenly squeeze you tight—tight. He lets out a low shaky exhale against the back of your shoulder and presses his lips to your skin. “Sweet girl.”

And he says just… so much with those two words. Slow and purposeful, the steadiest thing you’ve heard from him in hours. But the two biggest competing emotions you hear tugging at his vocal cords are gratitude and apprehension. Like he already knows that it couldn’t have been easy for you. Like he’s not taking it lightly.

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about anything that happened in the past few hours, not right now. “It’s okay. Please.”

This time his silence seems to be on the brink, as if he wants to say more but the extra plea you put on the end makes him hold onto his words, at least for now.

“How d-did you find me?” He asks instead, scooting his legs up enough that yours actually go with him. Cradled in his naked body, radiating heat so he can recover, pressed so close to him that you feel like gravity itself would be pushing you into his lap if the world weren’t sideways.

“The kid,” you tell him. “We were goofing around outside and he dragged me ov—”

It’s like he’s still so cold that even just the surprise of hearing you say that makes his whole body lock down and convulse a few times against your back. “You were wh-what?”

“I was practicing,” you openly admit to him, feeling like the earlier events already occurred a lifetime ago and you have no reason for being shy about it anymore. In fact, you’re glad you were there, being terrible at shooting. The alternative is unthinkable. Though, something tells you also improbable, having a little supernatural sidekick who cares so deeply for him. “I raided your armory. We weren’t outside for more than five minutes before I wanted to go back in, but then he found you.”

And you think he’s going to get after you, for some reason. Seems about on par, you figure—going outside for even just a few minutes on a planet whose name you now remember is colloquial slang for hell, even if it’s the only reason he’s not an icicle right now.

But he’s just quiet. Breathing. So you just relax into him, thinking that’s the end of it. You take a few deep breaths in through your nose and just… rest. In the near perfect silence of hyperspace you used to find haunting, but now only find comfort in. It reminds you of him.

“Did you hit the target?” He asks you quietly, and at first you scoff, about to ask if he’s kidding. No, of course you didn’t hit the…

Only, after a remarkable delay, hearing him phrase it that way suddenly makes your stomach decide to drop and do a fucking somersault on the ground out of absolutely nowhere.

Everything comes flooding back. The conflict you used to think was the most pressing thing, the one that kept you awake and your thoughts scrambled for hours. It feels like it was ages ago. An entire lifetime has passed since that happened, you might’ve forgotten it altogether if he didn’t decide to ask that very simple question in a very specific way.

“I…” you mumble in response, your heart suddenly pounding. “Not… not yet.”

Okay, that’s a good answer. It’s the truth and you’re giving nothing away by saying that. So now what is he going to say? What is he going to say? You spoke your piece, it’s his turn now, that’s how conversations work. Well typically, that’s how conversations work—but with Din… you probably should’ve known.

He falls back into silence almost immediately, appearing to accept your answer just the way it is without anything else to add. You feel his heart continue to beat strong against your back, but there’s something too tense about his stillness that doesn’t imply he’s relaxing anymore. His body goes slightly taut, but not from the lingering chill in his bones.

He’s going to make you ask him, you realize. He’s waiting until you confront him about his choice in words at the shooting range. Which means he wasn’t just joking around. He wasn’t just messing with you.

“Din…” you whisper uncertainly, and his face suddenly finds its way into the crook of your neck as soon as the word leaves your mouth, arms tightening up around you. You spent forever trying to find the words to even bring this up, and here he is, already knowing exactly what you’re asking just by the tone of your voice. Still, you ask anyway, sounding small and so unsure of yourself in the darkness. “Why did you say that? On Tatooine, why did you…”

Din’s chest expands against your back with a long, slow breath, and then he lets it out against your neck, hot enough to raise goosebumps all over your body.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, voice muffled and quiet, but it’s not… casual. Not like he’s brushing you off or indicating he doesn’t want to talk about it, but like it’s actually a complete fucking mystery to him, just as much as it is to you. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know…” you repeat slowly.

“You had said something,” he mutters, shifting just a bit behind you. His palm slides up your bare tummy, stopping in the warm spot just under the swell of your breast. “Earlier that day. I thought about it, and then I just… s-said it.”

You? Said something that made him ask that?

“What?” You blurt out, genuinely startled and having no fucking clue. “What did I say?”

“Something about…” He gives the smallest shudder from behind you, and you don’t actually know if this one is from the cold. “Not wanting anyone else to know me the way you do.”

Your heart rapidly kicks up and you flush, hating how unbelievably possessive your own words sound coming out of his mouth. “Oh shit, I… I didn’t mean for that to be… that sounds so bad, Din, I swear I didn’t mean for it to—”

He cuts you off by clutching you tighter, burying his face deeper into your neck and breathing out shakily. “Tell me you meant every word.”

You blink a couple of times in the pitch black before sighing, letting go of any charade or front you think about putting up for him to save some dignity. “I meant it.”

Because it’s the truth. You said it when you were caught off guard, throwing it out to him along with other mindless drabble that came from a place that was very real. You don’t like the way you phrased it, but you meant it. You do mean it. Every word.

If there weren't so many things still left unsaid right now, you might actually worry he fell asleep on you. Din loosens up considerably after you admit it, letting go of more tightness you didn’t even know was inside him. His head slowly drops from the crook of your neck to the back of it and he breathes hot air on your nape, quiet for a long time.

And, you suppose you’d actually be okay with it if that was the end of the conversation. There are, of course, millions of things left to ask. But he doesn’t know the answers, just as much as you’re left clueless about the questions. You’re not expecting him to elaborate anymore, and if he’s waiting for you to ask, he’ll be waiting a long time. Soon your eyes close and you almost feel yourself beginning to drift. It’s been such a rough day today and to just be here in his arms, it’s more than enough for you.

But then his low baritone comes through the darkness.

“In Mando’a,” Din’s voice suddenly whispers against your skin, “the verb, kar’taylir… it means to know. Su kar’tayli, you know, kaysh kar’tayli, they know. Ni ke kar’tayl nu… I don’t know.”

Your eyes pop open and you immediately forget all about sleep, wide awake and suddenly hanging onto every word as it rolls so gently off his tongue. You’ve never heard the language spoken aloud, you’ve never heard anything about the Mandalorians directly from one before. All of the stories seem sensationalized, passed down by word of mouth and chipping away at the kernel of truth until it disappears completely.

“The language is dying,” Din continues, murmuring soft and gentle along your nape. “By the time I learned it, too many words had been lost. The ones left were the ones that were needed.”

“What do you mean?” You whisper, almost afraid of breaking the quiet. Not wanting him to feel distracted or pressed, but needing to express your curiosity lest you somehow overflow with it.

“There are only three pronouns,” he answers slowly, and you’re already fucking fascinated. “Ni, for I or we. Su is you or you all, and kaysh is third person. Subjective, objective, possessive, singular, plural—doesn’t matter. Three words, for every individual or collective in the entire galaxy.”

You blink in the darkness, your logic telling you that it sounds so simple it’d become confusing and then your logic also telling you that doesn’t actually make any fucking sense at all. If that’s true, it’s unbelievable. How do they differentiate? Just context?

“How do you distinguish?” You ask him. Admittedly, you don’t know much about linguistics—not anywhere near the extent he does, but it seems so counterintuitive. I can’t be the same word for we, the amount of misunderstandings would be a nightmare.

“We… don’t need to,” he explains to you, slowly, like nobody has ever asked him these things before and so he’s unsure how to phrase it. “Individuality isn’t valued, it’s not a concept.”

And… you almost can’t wrap your head around it. “What do you mean?” You ask again, knowing you’re sounding like a broken record without specifying more, but trying with your whole heart to understand.

“I mean… we swear oaths to never reveal our faces,” Din tells you, something you shouldn’t need to be reminded of. “We abandon our names. We become… whispers, of the same voice. There’s not many words in Mando’a with a unique meaning, almost all of them are homonyms. Interchangeable. Transient.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, suddenly blown away by the implication. Almost all of them are homonyms? How in Maker’s name are you even supposed to communicate at that point? That’s… unthinkable.

“Most words have two meanings?” You clarify, wanting to be absolutely sure you’re getting it right.

“Most have five or six,” he returns, and you’re downright shocked now. “Everything just depends.”

“Stars…” You breathe, moving a palm up the length of his forearm and holding the back of his hand with it. Fuck, you hope this is the direction he’s intending instead of veering him off course, but you’re incredibly invested. “What else does, uh… kay—er, kar… kar’taylir mean?”

Din lets out a slow breath from behind you, and you can… you can feel his own heart beating faster when it presses up against your spine at the apex of his inhale. “It’s… a rare word, it only has two meanings.”

You bite your lip and start to feel butterflies in your stomach for some reason. Slowly, his hand begins to travel up your breast and then to your sternum before heading just the slightest bit left, and your own hand moves with him.

“To know,” Din says quietly, “but also… to care very deeply for.” He doesn’t stop until his palm presses right above the rapidly pounding organ in your chest. “To hold in the heart.”

“To know,” you swallow thickly, curling your fingers around his hand and praying he’s saying what you think he is, “or… to love?”

“When Mandalorian’s take vows, there’s no ceremony,” he whispers into the back of your neck. “No witnesses, no celebrations. We just take our helmets off in front of the other and look. It doesn’t sound like much, but… our secrecy is our survival. Letting someone see our face and swearing lifelong devotion to them, it’s the same thing. To know is to love.”

Your eyes close tight and your lungs empty themselves, too full of emotion to even fit oxygen inside you anymore. Din’s lips press feather soft behind your neck, and now you’re the one shivering uncontrollably. The move up and trail along your neck in the darkness.

“Ni kar'tayl su,” he murmurs, shifting back just slightly and pulling at your shoulder. “I know you.”

You go with him, facing the ceiling as he fits his head under your throat and places slow, open mouth kisses down the curve of it.

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” he goes on quietly, his voice starting to sound raspy again, dragging his hand down your torso while his lips brush your collarbone. “For an eternity, I’ll know you.”

Water wets the corners of your lashes and you inhale three or four times before exhaling, shallow hiccups and desperate for air.

“Ni ke vaabi nu kaysh ke kar’taylir su te ni kar’tayl su.” Din says, slowly moving his mouth back up when your fingers tangle in his hair and beg him to come that way. The words dance along your skin as he whispers them, forever searing themselves into your memory. You can’t see them, you’ll never have a visual to reminisce upon, but you’ll know how they felt. Right under your ear, brimming with quiet devotion. “I don’t want anyone else to know you… the way I know you.”

Your face goes blazing hot at the sound of him translating your own rushed and half-assed sentence into something gorgeous and flowing, something that sounds so much more beautiful than when you blurted it out earlier. You told him you loved him in that hangar, right to his face. Unashamed and stupid about it, but meaning it with every part of your body.

“I knew you’d say no,” he finally admits, staying in this one spot. Unmoving. Telling you the truth, allowing you to know it. “I just wanted to… say it.”

That… that makes sense to you. The last part does, at least, it makes so much sense to you. The first time you said you loved him, you said it just to say it. You wanted to feel the words, sound them out even if neither one of you could hear them. It felt freeing, like coming to accept a universal truth.

The first part, though. You’re still behind. “You knew I’d say no?” You ask him, feeling him ease back just slightly. Staring down at you through the pitch black, even if he can’t see either. Keeping his palm over your heart as the ship hurdles through nowhere and everywhere at once.

“You wouldn’t take my first name without convincing,” he reasons quietly, and then moves back to lay in the blankets once more, leaving the rest unspoken.

But he’s… oh stars, he’s so right. If he’s going to take his helmet off and let you see his face—if he’s going to commit to you that way, it is not going to be because you shoot a blaster correctly. Not after today, not after what he’s told you.

So you move up to your elbow and turn to face him, trying to let him know why even if he’s already guessed the what correctly.

“I want it to mean something,” you say after a moment. “I want it to… have the meaning it’s supposed to have.”

Your palm finds its way to his chest in the silence following. Right over the beating of his heart, feeling it thrum hard and rhythmic while he considers his response.

“This is The Way,” Din finally murmurs, settling his hand over yours, and you repeat the words back to him. Respecting them. Feeling like, for the very first time, they now apply to you in some way instead of belonging to some mysterious creed you’ll never know anything about.

But when a shudder subtly rockets up and down his body, you realize the blankets have been pulled down with the changing positions and his whole torso is bare and exposed to the hull. So you pull them up until you’re both covered again, before you lean down and press a soft kiss to his shoulder.

Din shudders again when your mouth opens and the hot glide of your tongue catches his skin, but you know it’s not from the cold this time. His breathing deepens while you slowly move over him. You ease him further on his back and let him keep feeling the warmth of your mouth on his body, alleviate the lingering chill by sucking gentle hickeys into his skin and feeling the goosebumps raise under your tongue. He moves with you; he stretches his neck when you want to nibble his collarbone, arches when you mouth down his chest, shifts his elbow to let you drag your tongue along his ribcage.

And… and it’s as if all the stars and systems hold even more still for you than the relative physics of faster-than-light travel can explain away by themselves. You’ve always felt timeless in here, living from one fleeting eternity to the next, suspended in perpetuity while the rest of the galaxy ages without you. But when you’re with him and it’s pitch black and there’s no light to streak across your vision, no evidence that time and space have all but disconnected from each other just to let your insignificant little bodies through… it’s like you’re meant to be here. In some strange, unexplainable way, you feel like you could’ve died out there with him in the frozen wasteland today and this is exactly where you’d still end up, no matter what.

To know is to love.

“Do you have brown eyes?” You hear yourself whisper under his jaw, and you feel Din’s fingers thread in your hair and ease you up enough to brush his lips against your chin.

“Yes,” he whispers back, and then his mouth is on yours.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #fanfic #star wars fanfic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #no-droids #reader insert

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

It Is Knowing*

HI THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. It’s been a wonderful ride. Here’s the last part of Bag of Tricks. It’s tender and smutty and stupid. All mistakes are my own.

Please stop reading if you are not over 18!

Bag of Tricks Masterlist

He’s terrified.

Suddenly he’s looking at you one way, and then in a flash, the same dumb grin you always give him— the crooked one on the cusp of an ill joke— turns bright white.

It goes brilliant like star fire and during a storm inside a standard-issued cabin hideout, Bucky thinks he must be losing his mind.

And maybe he’s been losing it for a few weeks now, but he’s done a great job dodging the reality of your confession so far. Doesn’t matter what you mumbled—cracked out on exhaustion and sleep-talking—because in the end, you’re his friend and you love him the same way you love everyone else: annoyingly. Nothing’s changed about that.

He hazards another glimpse.

“Help?” You ask from the table, angrily scratching out blocks of an attempted crossword puzzle.

Do it in pencil, he tried to warn earlier, but you only called him chickenshit because you’re—yep—annoying.

“Foudre,” Bucky says carefully and you perk up at the sound of his voice. “It’s a… six-letter French word for thunder.” He clears his throat, gesturing toward the window splattered with rain.

“Oh-ho-ho,” you snort, “Smart boy, aren’t ya? FOO-DRUH.” An incredible bastardization of the term, and you sing around a chewed-up pen cap between your teeth. “My name’s Smart-Boy-Bucky and I know French, Russian, and Updog.”

“What the hell is Updog?”

Your face steels.

“Nothing much, how ‘bout you?”

And instead of going over there to kick your ass, all he can do is stare wordlessly as you break into a laugh—his entire body electric like a live wire.

He keeps telling himself there are only a few days before someone drops in to collect. He just needs a little bit of distance, some time alone to clear his head and get over this—thing.

But his brain feels like it’s melting while he waits, his stomach is probably developing an ulcer, and his heart is so fast and fierce that he can almost see the pulse in his sternum throbbing errantly.

Too many things are wrong. You’re his friend— and Bucky wants to throttle himself a little bit for ever letting you be his friend. You’re an unfiltered, oblivious dumbass and he doesn’t like that at all. You cry over animals and when he gets hurt because you’re an insufferable drama queen, too. He hates that. He does.

The sound of something enormous slamming on the ground makes him dash into the shared bedroom and—oh god, Bucky thinks he’s going to throw up.

First, the mattresses are on the floor.

Second, you’re. wearing. that. stupid. shirt.

The blue one. The one he used to love, hated for a bit, came back around to wearing, and now—yep, he officially hates it again.

“I think you’re too tall for the bunk.” You’re pushing the beds together, unaware of his clenched fists. “So if we sleep diagonally your feet won’t hang off—and can you believe it—” you point to the hem of cerulean brushing against your skin, “I packed three raincoats and no pajamas.”

At the sight of your creeping smile, Bucky loses it.

“Why are you going through my stuff?!” He shouts, gripping the doorframe with enough force to take the molding clear off. “Why are you touching my shit!?” And he probably sounds insane, flying off the handle like this, but he’s got a million grievances against you and this is just the tip of the iceberg.

“Mind your own fucking business!” He’s still unloading, unreasonably frantic at the sight of that terrible color hanging from your shoulders.

Bewildered, you plop down clumsily on your knees, gawking like a deer in the headlights.

Your bare legs, your fingertips on your thighs, the thin sleeves oversized and loose on your forearms, that smear of toothpaste on the collar, the hollow of your throat taut from holding your breath—it makes him want to grab you by the shoulders and shake you dizzy.

It makes him want to touch you. It makes him want you.

He’s sick. He’s dying. He’s so, so fucked.

“What…” Bucky quietly trails off, gasping helplessly as realization sinks in, “…what the hell is wrong with you...”

“Me?!” You shriek back, “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m over here worried about your crusty feet hanging off at night and you just swing in and take a dump on me?”

Bucky groans, miserable and guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “Shit. I’m—I don’t know.”

“Eat my ass, dude!” you sneer, already tucked under the blankets. “I’m going to sleep. Turn off the fucking light you’re going to stand there looking like a dumbass.”

A feeble sigh as Bucky pushes his hands into his face, gripping his hair, pulling his own head back until he’s glaring at the ceiling, listening to the patter on the roof.

“You’re the dumbass,” he whispers.

You’re the dumbass with the emotional regulation problem. The idiot with the temper. The head full of sawdust. But, if it only took three careless words from your blundering mouth to make Bucky fall entirely apart, you must be right after all. He is the dumbass.

He feels split open like the sky—torn up completely, unable to make out anything in his own turbulence.

Fuck.

The sheets shift until he hears them slide off. Then, a pattern of bare feet across hardwood. He must look disastrous in the doorway, bent out of shape in uncharacteristic disarray.

“What is going on with you?” You find his arm, fingers wrapping around his wrists, tugging until they peel off his wretched face. “Why are you so upset? I wear your clothes all the time; I’m always in your stuff.”

He chuckles defeatedly because you really are always in his space. Throwing yourself into in his room. Eating chips in his bed. Squirreling away in his brain. Everywhere. Always.

Bucky presses his lips into a thin line, grimacing as he looks at you. Wordless and vulnerable, he can feel his brow sinking lower, throat narrowing around a swallow as he attempts to fix himself. A stutter falls out, then another, crackling syllables like surfacing thunder but never quite forming a sentence.

The earth groans, shaking the cabin and his precarious soul.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like—”

And then, under a streak of lightning, recognition splits across your face.

“Don’t,” he pleads to the silence, “Don’t say it.”

The seconds stretch into horrible eons of slow passing time. You tilt your head this way and that, eyes going from his face to his hands, limp at his side with your own fingers still grasping on.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you say gently, “You’re—my best friend.”

Bucky shuts his eyes. “I know. I’m not trying—"

“Bucky,” you interrupt, faster now. “Bucky,” suddenly elated and laughing. “Bucky—shut up.”

And then the entire room bursts into flames. Your lips are searing hot against his— plump and eager, leaving scorching trails everywhere they touch, and Bucky burns up like a solar flare trying to catch his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, kissing him again. His cheeks, his jaw, his chin. “A real idiot.”

He’s terrified and dizzy, fumbling with a million possible outcomes and failing painfully each time. Relationships never quite work out for him; he’s dated a few girls and liked them a lot, too, but they’ve never turned out how he wanted them to. And this one—this one, he really can’t fuck up.

He’s got a bad track record, and with you, never knowing is much better than losing.

“Hey, you’re going crazy in there. I can hear it.” A sweet smile as your lips hover over his. The sweetest your face as ever looked. “Stop thinking, Bucky. Kiss me.”

Your lashes are so long and pretty. The dip of your cupid’s bow, a shape he adores. Even the tiny scar on your neck and the way your hair moves— wispy strands framing your face. Sounds of happiness tumbling out, hand firmly inside of his.

“It’s just me.” Joyful. Comfortable. “You know me.”

Your eyes glimmer—a familiar color calling him home.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “Yeah, I do.”

Steve was the more competent linguist in their old days. Rolling French r’s, dropping ending consonants, silky smooth in pronunciation. Bucky’s tongue had always been more supplant to the Eastern European languages but, he knows enough of French—remembers enough from the war to recognize this:

Coup de foudre.

It’s the thing romantics exalt, the thing that half-strikes him now. The thunderbolt.

Love at first sight, even though it’s not quite first sight at all.

It’s not infatuated or starry-eyed. Not blind. Not feeling.

It is knowing.

And yeah, Bucky watches the way you pull him to the floor, euphoric and aglow, Jesus H. Christ, he knows.

This is it for him: your chaos, your entropy, your impulse. Your lack of personal space and foresight and good fucking sense. But—your kindness, too. Your care. Your heart.

Calm and patient as you settle down into his lap, the warm weight of you seems to be the only thing keeping him on earth.

“Can I touch you?” You ask shyly.

His voice is barely audible, hands unsure of where to rest, heart swollen in his throat.

Bucky flushes, and in the split second of your tongue sweeping over your bottom lip, he tells himself do it, you coward, just fucking do it—and god help him, he does.

He presses his face into your neck, kissing hungrily, anywhere he can, down to your collar and chest and then he’s lifting you up by the thighs and instinctively pulling everything off.

You’re both surprised and excited, blinking at his urgency, and then you start scrambling, too.

His shirt gets flung behind your back. Both pants disappear somewhere else. One hand goes into his hair, other guiding him between your legs where you smear all over his fingers.

Bucky stutters breathlessly like he might go into shock. “You’re all fucking— oh fuckin’ hell.”

You only arch into it, holding his chin between your thumb and forefinger, kissing the bristles of his jaw. You’re soft and warm and he’s utterly overcome. Little noises fall from one mouth to another. An awkward shift and your thighs slip off his, head knocking into him, but neither of you are bothered.

He feels perfect in your hands. A silly grin blooms on your lips before you tip forward and glide yourself over his length, rubbing back and forth, hips moving easily.

His abs clench in time with his fists, wet fingers digging into his palms, bit-back groans barely contained. You keep going, marveling at the way he’s sensitive, kissing his neck, letting him feel good. Bucky begins to protest, embarrassed at the way you’re moving, at how he’s unquestionably powerless.

“S-slow—hold on—“

“Let me do it, Buck.” He’s so hard it hurts. “I wanna learn everything you like.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Bucky holds himself to calm down, other hand steadying your teasing. Nothing’s happened yet and he might already blow his whole fucking load.

“Okay—just—will you give me a second--"

Using the position you’re already in, he lifts you up and brings you back down, a bit at a time until you’re landing on his hand with a gasp. He uses his fist as a stopper, letting you have it slow, feeling you shudder from inside your goddamn bones with every further inch until he takes it away and you shimmy down to the hilt.

Your eyes roll back. And you look perfect.

“Was it good?” He blurts, “With Thor?”

He doesn’t know why it slips out; he never thinks about it, honest. It was a hook up. One time—and he’s not jealous like that because you’re all adults, and it’s not like he’s a virgin or an ascetic, either. You freeze, but he really is an idiot because instead of apologizing or rectifying that outburst, he cuts you off.

“I can give it to you better.”

Because Bucky wants to. He really does.

He presses onward before you can respond, taking hold of what little courage he has, making you whimper, feeling prouder as he goes. Another one and you’re meeting him with a roll of your own hips. Another one, harder now, and you’re shaking on top, tipping him backward into the cushions, grinding recklessly with that exhilaration he adores.

“Bucky, you feel amazing.” Tongue-tied like a schoolboy, he’s keening after your words. “Can I have you all the time?” And Jesus wept who knew you could talk so sweet and filthy.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Bucky promises, his jaw hanging open in awe, “I’m yours. You can have me as much as you want— anytime.”

You bite your lip, skin of it pulled taut and snapping back bruised, light-headed and reeling. Glistening across your collarbones with his spit, body trembling like a high note. He feels it— just a little more— god, you look incredible— he’s gotta hold out for this— and then—fuck.

It’s wet and divine when you come. Slick and tight, dragging him under as you ride out your orgasm, pulling him in like he belongs in you forever.

And he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Bucky could die happy seeing your face like this every day.

It’s rougher in the morning. In the shower, soaking together. Faster.

On the couch, next. With him asking you to put your hand here, move your leg there.

He wants to learn everything you like, too.

You eagerly change positions, giggling when your knee slips and you pitch forward onto his chest. The two of you take a moment to compose yourselves, pinching each other, kissing in-between. He commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you. The way everything moves easy and wonderful, sometimes lazy, sometimes harried, but always fun.

Yelping when you bite too hard. Biting you back even harder. Positions neither of you have surprisingly tried before, but why not start?

Cursing. So much cursing. A lot of it good—fuck me, yes, more, don’t stop—but truthfully, most of it stays about the same.

Barnes, you got a juicy ass.

Will you shut up!

And he never thought a person was supposed to laugh so hard during sex, or if maybe that’s just your own brand of love, but he doesn’t want to find out with anyone else.

It’s the fifth time, and Bucky’s dick is about to fall off—how are you still doing this—just a few thrusts in when the banging on the front door frightens the both of you into your clothes.

Sam swings it open and Bucky is desperately tucking himself into his pants before—please, no.

“It smells like ass in here!” Sam hollers, “The hell have you two been—oh my god.”

“Shut up, Sam!” You respond from the corner of the room, head ripping through the neck hole of a sweater, legs wiggling into a pair shorts. Bucky is still shirtless, hoping he might spontaneously combust.

“Oh my god,” Sam whispers again, “Oh… my god.” He sputters on the verge of either eruption or death.

“You freaky little—” he hisses, before screaming, “Oh hell no! I’m here picking y’all asses up. Landed the damn jet like two miles away, walked my happy ass through the rain— you butt-ass-naked in here—” He stands ram-rod straight, hands on his hips angrily. “I’m tellin’ on y’all.”

“Telling on?! What are you, five!? You’re so annoying, Sam!”

“Annoying? What’s annoying is—I’m wet! And well— you wet too, huh?”

“I hate you.”

Sam snickers, high-fiving himself before crossing his arms, “Really though, believe me when I say this for everybody who’s ever met you two: finally. Now get y’all freaky asses outside so I can go home and drink myself into forgetting I ever saw Barnes’ dick.”

You pat him on the shoulder, “It’s nice, huh?”

Sam dry-heaves, “Uh-uh. That’s enough. Go wash your damn hands.”

A few minutes later, Bucky locks the door to a now silent cabin, damp with sweat and the smell of earth. It’s torrential still, two days bucketing and the ground is so wet mud goes up to his ankles. Luckily, and he wants to laugh at that, you packed two extra raincoats.

Thunderclaps shake the very ground he stands on. Bucky turns to look at you, marveling when electricity bounces off your eyes, lighting up your face. He reaches over.

A squeeze to your hand that says I’m yours.

One more, tighter. I love you.

You slot your fingers between his. I know.

You smile at the next streak in the sky. Me too.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction #mcu

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nishigo · 4 years ago

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growing. // razor headcanons & writing. // chapter three.

a book titled “growing.”

[ c h a p t e r 3 : simple love. ]

the synopsis reads: razor and the dear reader have gotten themselves into quite the mess. miscommunications and raised voices lead to an argument that was more heated than a flaming flower. although healing takes time, could a wound this large be repaired?

authors note: tada! welcome to the last chapter of this short and sweet book that has been created. this one is more stuffed with more fluff than the last and lots of smooches. razor deserves the best, after all. after you finish, put the book back properly on the shelf, okay, traveler? that way it’s easier for people to find it. (or yourself, if you desire.) i, hao, the librarian and timekeeper, thank you in advance. now, have fun with this last chapter of the book. ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

word count: 1,564 words.

tw: lots of fluff. so much so it could give you a toothache. and kisses as well. a bit of crying in the beginning, but that is all.

request status at time of posting: open.

[ chapter one. ] [ chapter two. ] [ chapter three. ]

in which there is reconciliation and a bright future planned out underneath a doorway, the moon and stars being the only witness.

would you like to read?

＞　行｡ ( y e s )

＞　不行。( n o )

------

it would be about three days before you happened to enter mondstadt again.

frankly, you were only in the area because you were passing by, and you were trying to do it as quickly as possible.

after lisa would get her plants and such, you were off again to the inn and then to take up another mission granted to you in the morning.

though, despite the mission you ended up taking solo, you couldn’t stop thinking about that terrible night with razor.

you couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him again, knowing that most likely, you’d end up in tears again.

you couldn’t have waterfalls pouring out of your eyes in front of someone that meant so much to you.

but fate seemed to be pushing its luck, and the stars were aligning just for the two of you.

you and razor stared at each other for a moment, as if the other was an apparition and they were dreaming. his rough, calloused hands took a hold of one of your own gentle ones.

no, this was real alright.

the two of you were both afraid to make the first move, but once more, razor used his instinct to initiate what he thought was needed.

his strong arms wrapped around your neck, nuzzling into the soft skin.

you felt so warm.

you felt cozy.

you felt like home.

course, you were caught off guard, and as much as your brain told you to pull away, you heard him whisper into your ear.

“i missed you.”

and then the walls came tumbling down.

your previous attitude towards him was diminished, and you were back to where you started.

you were still in love. and now, he knew he was as well.

Razor pulled away, and for the first time, you were able to take in much more detail than what you had initially seen. There were tired bags under his eyes, his face worn out, as if he had not been able to sleep for weeks. His silver hair was a mess under his hood and his voice was much quieter, as if he was stepping on eggshells while determining how to make his next move. You gently reached out, cupping his cheek with that gentle, comforting smile you always wore.

His body shook as he suddenly felt as if his insides were collapsing. He felt his face grow hot with tears that ran down his pale skin, over his scar, and down onto the tiled floor. He felt so guilty for what he had done to you that he was terrified that you would seek vengeance. Or that you would leave. The latter was much more terrifying, as he hated when you were gone for a few days, how could he handle not seeing you for the rest of his life? Seeing your hands raise up, he braced for impact of a harsh hit to the face with his eyes squeezing shut.

“Shhh, Razor...it’s okay.” You murmured softly as he felt two soft hands delicately cup his face. Your thumbs would run along his smooth skin, wiping away the tears that continued to flow down. Your own eyes would water, but by the grace of the stars, you were able to keep somewhat of a composure. He opened his eyes just barely, enough to see you again at least. Confused by the look he was giving you, you began to carefully let go and put your hands down before he grabbed your wrists in a swift motion. Back they went to his face, and back you went to wiping his tears and simply holding his head in the doorway.

“Y/-Y/N. I am s-sorry. I h-hurt you. Didn’t m-mean to, just n-no know what l-love was.” Razor managed to choke out through staggered breaths and hiccups. You kept up your affection, smiling gently as you let one hand go of his cheek.

“Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have run off so fast and had more patience with you. I’m sorry myself.`` To calm him down further, you hesitantly lifted a hand and ran it through his silver locks. Razor froze for a moment, but he relaxed further into your touch as he tilted his head more towards the hand, similar to that of what a cat would do. Silence ran its course as you two slowly began to heal from the wounds of that night.

“I love you.” He stated simply. It almost slipped your mind as you continued to play with his hair and cup his cheek, but you did a double take as you stared at him.

“You...you what?”

“I love you.” Razor repeated again, a bit louder this time in case you couldn’t hear him or something of the sort. You were about to ask him if he was joking, but his face held a serious look to them as it dawned on you. He really meant it. Granted, it was the most simple, basic way to confess feelings back towards a person, but you didn’t mind. It was what made him charming and attractive to you anyways.

“Why do you love me?” Razor paused to think about it, deep in thought as he did his best to string the words Lisa recently taught him together into something worth remembering.

“Simple, love. Love is a person, like how mate is a being. Therefore, you are love. Warm, safe, kind. Easy to be vulnerable and be...Razor. Guard down.” He explained to you with a sweet look on his features. Despite his limited vocabulary, you were deeply touched. He took the time to think and make sure his point was clearly mentioned. Razor grinned happily as he tilted his head at you. The air was light again, the heavy feeling replaced with his heart being ecstatic as he didn’t have to even say anything else. He could feel how happy you became from hearing what he said. It was good he could sense your happiness, because you were left speechless.

“Be my love? Please?” Razor asked quietly as you continued your silent streak. Since you were at a loss for words, and because you knew his love language was physical touch, you decided to show rather than tell. Your hand that was on his cheek trailed down his face and found its place wrapped around his hips. Then, with one swoop, you pulled him in closer to you and gently collided your lips with his.

It was if a supernova had exploded inside of his chest. The feeling was forgein, unfamiliar. Perhaps this technique of two lips put together was a human tradition he had yet to learn. He didn’t know what to do, so he mimicked you a bit. He opened his eyes slightly and then watched as you leaned in. He would then mirror the action for a few seconds before you pulled away. He knew that whatever you had just done to him was a way of saying yes. He just knew, and he loved it. The affection and having your full attention was all he could ever ask for. In fact, Razor found himself wanting more as he cutely pouted.

“More please?” You laughed, covering your mouth a bit as you nodded your head and cupped his cheeks again. You peppered your kisses all over his face: on his forehead, nose, temple, chin, the corners of his lips. Razor huffed adorably as he shook his head, pointing at his lips.

“You miss! I want here, love!” Razor whined, though, his complaining was stopped as you kissed his lips again. He melted in your hold, and there was no better feeling in the whole world. The boy would pull away this time, panting softly as he curiously touched his lips with his hands. It was amazing every time he received them, and he knew that he would never grow tired of them. Perhaps you could give him lessons, he thought. Then he would become an expert! Yes, that sounded like a plan. But that would come at a later date.

For now, he wanted to spend the night with you in his arms again.

------

some extra things i’ve thought of:

he would have totally dragged you into the guest bedroom where he was staying and given you a bunch of grass and flowers he had arranged.

(“give her a gift she will appreciate, something from nature!” was what lisa suggested.)

the roots were still there, along with heaps of dirt, but you found it endearing nonetheless as you laughed and accepted them.

he also got you chocolate covered strawberries! he had made them with klee (a mistake on lisa’s part, she will never let those two in the same room unsupervised again, especially not a kitchen.)

he would make it up to you by practicing how to formulate sentences under the bright sun in wolvendom.

you would reward him with kisses or headpats, so he worked extra hard in order to improve his linguistic skills.

because of being a bit traumatized from being seperated from you for so long, he gets a bit of separation anxiety when you leave him for too long. he’ll do missions or even go shopping with you just to ease himself down.

also hold his hand :(((

or any words of affirmation will do , he loves both when they come from you :))

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #razor #razor genshin impact #razor genshin #razor headcanons #razor genshin headcanons #razor genshin impact headcanons #razor x reader #razor x reader genshin #genshin impact razor x reader #tada! it has been done!#i hope you liked the story traveler ;;#and i hope you’ll give the boy the lessons he wants!#he wants to be the best for you ;^;

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firespirited · 3 years ago

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Took me all day to word a thank you email. Part of me wanted to send that 'I'm so used to giving and now i get to receive' crying meme because that's basically what happened (with a bit of shock and panic first) but she's french. I sat and stared at a blank page several times but had so much to do (Mondays is grocery delivery day so it's also fresh food to freezer prep, raw food to process and emergency contingencies for stuff that wasn't in stock) getting the printer to cooperate with cn23 customs forms and a long hot bath for pain relief.

Then my night meds kicked in and I just blurted out an email and have to hope it holds up tomorrow in the waking light.

Opening with "Aaaaaaaaaah!" was probably not the correct register* for a professional relationship turned somewhat friendly but as sis puts it I'm nothing if not transparent if... uh a little much.

*french exists in 3 or 4 registers using both grammar, tu/vous and a whole different vocab and vibe for familiar (which can cross into vulgaire with close friends), courant which is general and soutenu which is not just formal but *very* formal (intro and sign offs are wildly florid and kinda meaningless) which is expected from all professional and institutional correspondence even if it's riddled with spelling mistakes (even the local MP has a secretary who can't spell, i once got a tax letter with errors!!!) . Ebay france sellers and buyers are still struggling to find the linguistic balance. Gen Y and Z tend to be familiar: ie "Bonjour, tu as d'autres Bratz à vendre?? -name" Not even a 'cordialement' or 'merçi d'avance '. Others use the very stiff soutenu for all contact.

I've gradually moved from vous/soutenu to vous/courant with precise 'high' language for describing her art and my craft so the drop to a 'familiar' start might go ok, it's in context to surprise and awe. Oh dear, I'm rationalising.

Language and culture gaffes are so much easier to smooth over when you have a face to read.

#saf #French #Language registers #Cultural differences

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birds-and-boys · 4 years ago

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Adolescent Identity in Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

The Young Adult genre of literature has witnessed quite the popularity boom since the turn of the 21st century. As more teenagers find themselves fascinated with reading about characters that share similarities to them, more authors are finding ways to create accurate representation of diverse communities (Warrior Cats is a whole different story). Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe is a novel centered around two queer Mexican American teenagers navigating the world around them while simultaneously trying to understand who they are. The story highlights the significance of identity in the psychological development of adolescents, illustrated through nationality, sexual orientation, and gender roles.

The top row of photos follows the idea of adolescent development. The photo in the top left shows a starry night in the desert, a picturesque scene that Ari enjoyed viewing quite often. Anytime he wanted to clear his mind, the stars would provide an escape. This represents Ari’s psychological development of his independence. He goes out of his way to ensure his autonomy, often jokingly referring to his mother as a fascist. Driving out to the desert and staring at the sky was method of self-reliance he could always depend on. As Laurence Steinberg and Susan B. Silverberg found in their study, The Vicissitudes of Autonomy in Early Adolescence, “Studies in the development of self-reliance… indicate that this aspect of autonomy increases steadily as youngsters move from the preadolescent to the late adolescent years” (p. 843). Saenz wrote Ari as a young boy fascinated with having a life that was his own to live, which is a very common pattern of thinking and behaving for teenagers. The picture in the top right is indicative of this development too, representing Ari’s use of silence as a coping mechanism. In one of his first conversations with Dante after the surgery, Ari says “Rule number one: We won’t talk about the accident. Not Ever” (p. 128). Ari chose to let the traumatic car accident live and fester inside him, reverting to silence in order to get by. Later in the story, we see a continuation of his development as he begins to open up more, eventually coming to terms with his identity and love for Dante. The center photo in the first row illustrates Ari’s constant questioning of masculinity and what ‘makes’ a man. This is evident in one of the earlier scenes in the story, when Ari overhears boys at the public pool make misogynistic comments about a woman lifeguard on duty. Gee, Allen, and Clinton found in their study, Language, Class, and Identity: Teenager Fashioning Themselves Through Language, that not only is language incredibly significant for adolescent development, but the language certain teens use is associated with the ‘type’ of person they are, much like how Ari feels as though the boys at the pool are a different ‘type’ of masculine.

The second row of photos revolves around Ari’s identity-forming through the people around him. The first photo in particular represents Ari and Dante’s Mexican American nationality. Ari seems to rarely question ‘how Mexican he is’, while Dante, on the other hand, actively tries to distance himself from his heritage. His fluency in Spanish and his understanding of Mexican culture is limited compared to Ari’s. Adolescent development does not only consist of forming an identity we like, but it also includes pushing out the parts of us we are unfamiliar or uncomfortable with. This conclusion is also reached in the third photo. This represents Ari’s imprisoned older brother who he knows little about for most his adolescence. While Ari wishes that he had been a more present figure in his life, he also knows that he does not want to go down the same path. His own identity conflicts for a moment: his love for Dante versus his brother’s crime against a transgender woman. The center photo depicts the activities that Ari and Dante’s parents – or more specifically, fathers – partake in together. It symbolizes the differences between the two. Ari’s father is reserved and stoic, while Dante’s is talkative and doting. Ari constantly compares the two as he tries to navigate the choppy waters of masculinity. Saenz writes, “I wondered what that would be like, to walk into a room and kiss my father” (p. 26). Ari is confronted with two contrasting versions of fatherly love and affection, and throughout the story we see him figure out his tolerated level of affection and silence from father figures.

The third row of photos highlights the part of Ari’s identity that focuses on sexual orientation and softness. The first photo represents his mother, who kept in constant communication with her sister, even after the rest of the family shunned her for being lesbian. The audience can tell that finding out about this has a significant impact on Ari. It simultaneously encourages and discourages him to come out. While he can be comforted with the notion that his parents would accept him, he was reminded of the way queer people were treated, not just by strangers, but also by family. The second photo represents one of the largest plot points of the story: Ari and Dante falling in love, or rather, falling in love and coming to terms with it. While Ari’s affection is obvious for the audience, it isn’t until the final pages when he himself understands that he likes Dante. Dante himself isn’t without his own struggles, he admits to Ari that he’s worried his parents won’t be happy about his identity because he wouldn’t be able to give them biological grandchildren. Angel Daniel Matos describes this phenomenon is his article, “A Narrative of a Future Past”, pointing out that “Because of this blame placed on queer people and communities, the engagement in practices that pressure reproductive logics is framed as non-normative…” (p. 35). Dante is not alone in his feelings of guilt, as Saenz likely understood from being gay himself. The last photo represents Ari’s initial uneasiness with crying and emotion. While he chalks it up to feeling emasculating, it seems to stem deeper than that. He likely associates a lack of masculinity with being queer and is in denial of both things. Dante, on the other hand, cries often and a lot. He is unashamed about showing emotion and it sometimes proved to be unnerving for Ari.

This novel contains healthy representation for queer and Latinx teenagers, while also accurately following the psychological development of identities amongst adolescents. This book was released around the time that most of my peers were coming to terms with their sexualities. I’ve had multiple conversations with Latinx queer friends, with some telling me that this story helped them accept their identity. This narrative is important, it provides young teenagers the reminder that growing up isn’t easy and self-discovery won’t be as magical as people say it will be, but when you allow yourself to love wholeheartedly, you become free. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe shows that there’s a lot more to the identity-forming of teenagers that can conflict and tangle together but gives hope that it can all come together in the end.

________________________________________________________________

References

Gee, James Paul, et al. “Language, Class, and Identity: Teenagers Fashioning Themselves Through Language.” Linguistics and Education, vol. 12, no. 2, 2001, pp. 175–194., doi:10.1016/s0898-5898(00)00045-0.

Matos, Angel Daniel. “A Narrative of a Future Past: Historical Authenticity, Ethics, and Queer Latinx Futurity in Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.” Children's Literature, vol. 47, no. 1, 2019, pp. 30–56., doi:10.1353/chl.2019.0003.

Sáenz Benjamin Alire. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Simon & Schuster BFYR, 2012.

Steinberg, Laurence, and Susan B. Silverberg. “The Vicissitudes of Autonomy in Early Adolescence.” Child Development, vol. 57, no. 4, 1986, p. 841., doi:10.2307/1130361.

#ari and dante #adolescense #lgbtplus #literally the best book in the entire universe methinks #ya #queermedia #aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe

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hotchley · 4 years ago

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because no is a complete sentence.

hi! so @m0rcia is amazing and has been talking about a spencer hotchner au, which sounds like a really cool thing. it also sounds very chaotic given that diana is still his mother, which would lead to a lot of different parenting techniques. however, she was an absolute angel that answered my asks, which kinda? maybe? hopefuly got me out of my writer’s block. so even though the spencer hotchner au isn’t a complete fic yet, i wrote a really short drabble about it. because it’s amazing. like seriously, you need to see the posts about it.

@m0rcia: thank you. i hope this is okay- i wanted to surprise you because i only followed you recently but your blog always makes me laugh and it’s just really nice okay? and you’re also really nice. right i’ll stop ranting.

this is basically spencer learning that he never needs to justify himself after saying the word no. to anyone. regardless of who they are.

trigger warnings: references to child abuse

Spencer Hotchner is four years and three months old when he first learns that the word “no” is a full sentence.

His mother had often taught him about linguistics, and the way that sentences were formed in different languages. She taught him lots of different words- some of them his dad thought were not appropriate for him to be saying. Why, he didn’t know, because adults said those words all the time with no repercussions.

His dad struggled with the explanation. Spencer still doesn’t understand, but what he does know is that when he goes to stay with his mom, he can say what he wants, so long as he isn’t rude or disrespectful to anyone else around. Dad is more traditional- something to do with his southern upbringing- and he seems a bit different when he uses the so-called bad words. Sometimes they slip out.

But his dad doesn’t shout at him when he uses them. He just takes a deep breath and explains why he doesn’t like Spencer using them. Spencer starts to understand that his dad doesn’t like hearing them, but his mother thinks it’s okay. It’s still a bit confusing for him, but he thinks he grasps it.

Mom doesn’t have a lot of friends that want to touch him. He likes that, because there are only some people who he doesn’t mind touching him. Mom is the first person on that list. She always avoids the places that make him feel weird- his stomach and the back of his neck. Dad is also allowed to hug him. Most nights, he can’t sleep without his dad holding him close. He knows that the two of them are safe people, that’s why he likes them. And Dad is always gentle with him, never holding him too tightly.

Well, he did one time. They were in the shop and it was busy and all the people were so much bigger than Spencer. He found it overwhelming and started crying. Dad dropped the shopping right there in the aisle and took him to the toilets until he was able to explain through their hand signals what it was upsetting him: the lights, the tightness of Hotch’s touch and all the people.

After that, his Dad started taking one day a week as a work from home day. On those days, they would do their grocery shopping in the morning, when it was quiet and less colourful, and then Spencer would spend the afternoon with his Mom whilst Hotch did his work.

So Spencer had never really felt uncomfortable with touch. There were certain fabrics that he hated, but neither parent ever made him wear them. Mom let him wear whatever he wanted. Dad wanted him to change out of his pyjamas in the mornings when it was a weekday, but on weekends, they both spent their time in their pyjamas. It was really nice.

Dad’s family were less so. His dad didn’t have a dad anymore, nor did he like talking about him. Mom said that Dad’s dad was dead, which meant he no longer existed on this planet. Mom told him all sorts of theories about what happened to people after they died, but Dad said the conversation made him feel “icky” so they didn’t speak about it much.

But Dad took him to meet his family one weekend. Or the family he had left. Spencer knew all of their names. There was his Uncle Sean, his grandmother, two grand-aunts and three granduncles. One of his cousins was going to be there too, but they were much older than him.

When Dad rang the doorbell, he was doing the thing with his hand. Spencer had learnt he did that when he had sick feeling in his stomach that people described as butterflies.

“Why are you nervous?” he asked, staring up with wide eyes.

“I don’t really get on with most of my family. But you might like them, and you have a right to know who they are, which is why we’re here,” Dad answered.

“If it makes you feel icky then why did you do it?”

Dad did not answer. Spencer wondered if it was an impolite question. In reality, Aaron was trying to find the words. No had never been a good word in his house. At best, it meant he was being a difficult child, refusing to eat their vegetables. But most of the time it meant his father was refusing to have mercy or listen to him.

The door was opened before he could formulate an answer that wouldn’t terrify his son.

“Aaron! I was wondering when you would get here!” his mother said, kissing him on the forehead. Aaron didn’t let go of Spencer as he entered, remembering to slip his shoes off and put them to one side.

“Well, I’m here now, so,” he said.

Spencer shifted so he was slightly hidden.

“Is this Spencer? Hello, I’m your dad’s mommy, but you can call me whatever you’re most comfortable with. I prefer Nanny, it makes me feel less old and more loved. I have no idea what it is about it, it just does.”

“Mom, we talked about this. Please don’t overwhelm him,” Aaron said, already exasperated.

“Oh I am so sorry. Sean! Your brother is here!” she yelled.

Sean came rushing down the stairs. “Hey Aaron. Hi Spencer, I’m Sean, Aaron’s brother.”

Spencer gave him a shy wave. He wasn’t sure he wanted any of these people hugging him. But it was okay, because his dad understood that and kept them distracted to the point that they didn’t even realise.

The problem came when they were leaving. His dad had gone to get both of their coats, and Spencer was alone in the living room. Dad’s relatives were looking at him strangely as he was mesmerised by the art on the walls. He wondered if his Mom knew where it came from, and what it meant. The colours were muted, but pretty to look at.

“We’ll be off then,” Aaron said, once Spencer was all zipped up.

One of the grand aunts held her arms out. Spencer looked at his dad, who was engaged in conversation with his brother. He didn’t know what the woman expected her to do, so he stood there, watching her. Her face had an expression that he didn’t recognise on it.

Before he could register what she was doing her arms were wrapped around him, in a hug, that he did not want.

He let out a shout and Dad turned around.

“Spencer?” he said, trying to work out what was going on.

Spencer was squirming, trying to get away, but the woman just tightened her grip as he frantically shook his head, not knowing what he was supposed to say. He didn’t like the smell of her perfume, or the scratchy material of her dress. He wasn’t a baby anymore, but he could feel tears forming in his eyes.

And then suddenly he could breathe again. Dad had pulled him away. He buried his head in the soft material of his coat. It was nice and familiar and safe.

“Did he say you could hug him?” Aaron asked, his voice cold.

“I’m his family member, he should just do it,” she snapped.

Aaron swallowed. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes his own family had. He couldn’t. “No, he shouldn’t. If he doesn’t want you hugging him, then you don’t. Understood? Mother, I’ll see you soon, hopefully. Spencer, we’re going home.”

Spencer nodded. He didn’t speak the whole journey home.

“How are you feeling now?” Dad asked, when they returned.

Spencer shrugged. “I didn’t like her hugging me.”

“That’s okay. When you don’t want somebody doing something, you say no. Okay? That’s all you have to say. No is a complete sentence. You don’t need to explain yourself. Ever. To anyone. Even to me. If you don’t want me to hug you, I won’t. And if that person makes you feel bad then they’re silly. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Dad.”

“And if they don’t stop, you hit them as hard as you can, and then you tell me. Or your Mom. Whichever one of us you see first.”

Spencer nodded. No was an interesting sentence. He’d have to ask his Mom about it. She then said it was one of the most important words a child could learn, and she was glad that his dad had taught him how to use it. They even practiced using it. It was much more fun to say: no I do not want to hear your opinions on Moby Dick again than it was to say: no I do not want a lollipop- which is what dad had made him say.

He was six years old when his dad first saw him use it.

They were in the playground. Dad was talking to Haley Brooks, who was there for her nephew. His Dad was not very good at disguising his attraction to her. Spencer thought it was a bit silly that he didn’t just say he was interested in her. He’d told his mom about what he thought was going to happen. She’d listened attentively and eventually deemed this Haley a good person.

Spencer had gotten bored and wondered over to some of the other kids, who were also waiting for their parents to finish their conversations. He was actually taller than one of them, but the rest were slightly bigger than him. They were playing a more gentle game of tag. Although he’d never met any of them, they quickly let him join the game.

When it was over, because one of them had to go, they asked to hug everyone. All the other children agreed like it was nothing.

Spencer didn’t want to hug him. But he didn’t want it to be like the other time, with Dad’s aunt. He hesitated and tried to see where his dad was. Dad had one eye on him and the other on Haley, ready to step in if he was needed.

No was a complete sentence. It always had been, and it always would be.

So when the little boy turned to him and asked if he could hug him, Spencer knew what to say.

“No,” he said.

The boy looked a little saddened, but shrugged and said bye to him anyways, before going over to his mom and leaving. Spencer used that moment to go back to his dad, who was done talking to Miss Brooks and smiled at him.

“Hey buddy. How was your little game?”

“It was nice. The boy wanted to hug me, but I didn’t want that to happen, so I told him no. And he just said okay and goodbye.”

Aaron smiled, holding his hand out in case his son wanted to hold it during their walk home. “Well done buddy. I know it can be a bit difficult to say it sometimes, but you did good. Shall we go home now?”

Spencer nodded. “Goodbye Miss Brooks.”

“Goodbye Spencer. See you soon Aaron.”

Aaron blushed and turned away, leading his son out of the school. His son that had no problem taking control of his own body or making his needs and wants known. He smiled to himself. Him and Diana may have not agreed on a lot of things, but this? This he was going to tell her all about. Because this was both of them.

Aaron Hotchner may not have grown up knowing that no was okay.

But Spencer Hotchner never had any problems using the word. Because in the Hotchner household, and everywhere else they went, regardless of who or where it was, no was a complete sentence. As it should be everywhere.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer hotchner #au #diana reid #spencer reid #reid #kid!spencer #kid!reid #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotch hotchner #tw child abuse #i don't really know if this is any good #however #it is something #which is more than i've done recently #also it's almost 11:25 so i haven't proofread it at all

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champion-leon-imagines · 4 years ago

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Chronicles of Galar - Prologue 1: Taiko Hirebayashi

Some Info beforehand. This is going a pretty long fic with several chapters. But the chapters are somewhat different than normal fanfictions. Because they are just in chronological order but some of them are not actually connected to each other and some may have a greater timeskip than others. Imagine it like a readable diary of your adventures with just the mention worthy adventures added. But be careful, because this story is like a HELL OF A TOOTHROTTING-FLUFF fic. The main pairing is of course You x Leon. A side Pairing is Taiko(OC) x Raihan and a mentioned Pairing is Leiko(OC) x Piers Although, you won’t have to deal much with Leiko. But Taiko will get a bigger role since she becomes your best friend. Oh and if you wanna look for the Fic and it’s parts, make sure to follow the tag: Chronicles of Galar. Now enough Chatting, here is the introduction of the first character: My lovely tsun Taiko! And don’t forget: This is NOT proof read. English is NOT my first language. So please be gentle with mistakes.

[Prologue: Taiko Hirebayashi]

[9 years before the timeline in sword / shield]

“Taiko, honey. Don't run too far away from the camp. The wild area is teeming with Pokemon. ”, a woman, around her late 20s to early 30s with purple hair that was tied in a pigtail, spoke in a warning tone. She wore glasses and petted a Flareon, her loyal partner Pokemon. "Yes, mommy.", a 9-year old girl with fiery red hair replied cheekily. "And stop using this word, please. Did you learn that here in Galar? Please just call me mother. ”, she corrected her daughter. Ever since the holiday in Galar began, the child seemed to have increasingly adopted the linguistic peculiarities of the inhabitants of this region. "Okay, mother.", Taiko muttered and rolled her eyes in slight annoyance. She didn't thought it was that bad, because she loved everything in Galar. Much more than at her home in Ecruteak City, in Johto. Her mother was one of the dancing geishas at Ho-Oh's temple, which was why Taiko was promised an Eevee for her 10th birthday as a starter Pokemon. Like all geishas, she should learn the art of meditation dance one day, in order to command the awe of the holy phoenix pokemon. But now they were here, in Galar, enjoying a few days of vacation.

Taiko quickly got bored, however. In her tent, she started to felt shut in. Her toys were only entertaining for a short period of time. She wanted to explore the wild area and see Pokemon! No matter how much her mother told her not to.

The young redhead sneaked out of the tent, while her parents were talking to an employee of the Pokemon Rangers, because a wild Dynamax Pokemon attacked the Lake of outrage nearby. Therefore, a warning was issued to all traveling coaches and tourists to stay away from this lake in any case.

If that didn't sound like an adventure ..

Without even thinking about it, the girl simply ran through the wild area. Lake of outrage was relatively in the middle of the area and her parents' camp was quite far to the south, at a popular campground for out-of-towners. Because there were only weak Pokemon running around, which did not pose any danger to hikers.

So Taiko just had to walk south, right? ... But she didn't knew where the south was.

The extroverted redhead remembered her days in the scouts camp, which had taken place near Cianwood City. She remembered that moss grows on the northern side of trees because they are often in the shade due to the rays of the sun on the other side and the moss can spread there. So Taiko examined the surrounding trees and based on the position of the moss, she quickly knew where north was. She nodded proudly and then strutted north, full of energy.

Meanwhile in another part of the wild area.

“Pokeball, go!” an 11 year old boy with dark skin, casual clothes and a red headband that hid most of his hair, shouted. The pokeball hit a small, white spherical pokemon, which was vaguely reminiscent of a slug. The dragon pokemon Goomy. The ball wobbled three times before stopping and trapping the Pokemon. "YES!" the boy smirked and put himself in a victory pose, which, of course, nobody could see because he was alone. Shortly afterwards, he took his Rotom smartphone out of his pocket and took a picture of himself and his latest catch. Then he opened a social media page that was similar to Facebook.

'Look, I caught a Goomy! The dragon tamer Raihan has struck again! : D Soon nobody can stop me, so take a good look @Leon! I will be champion before you!'

With a grin, Raihan tapped 'Publish' and waited for the many likes from his friends and “fans”, as he liked to call his followers. It took less than 5 minutes before his best friend and rival had already made a like and comment.

'Wow, congratulations @Raihan! This Pokemon is totally rare! Unfortunately I haven't seen one yet. But don't be too early! Who will be champion first is still to be decided! '

Raihan grinned and replied, in his cheeky way. 'You have to find the stadium for our decisive fight first! XD I have enough time to train my Pokemon. '

The young man put his smartphone back in his pocket, he knew that Leon never accepted his provocations and therefore it was a waste of time to wait for an answer. “Come on, Vibrava. Let's see if we can find more cool Pokemon! ”He said to his partner Pokemon. The green, dragonfly-like Pokemon nodded eagerly and flew over the area, while Raihan grinned and followed his companion. He just loved looking for Pokemon in the wild area.

Back to Taiko. The young redhead was already regretting her spontaneous ideas and had to admit: she was lost.

This part of the wild area was so heavily overgrown by dense forest that hardly any sunlight penetrated through the thicket and consequently the moss grew on all sides of the trees. So it was impossible for her to determine in which direction she had to go.

"...MUM? DAD? DO YOU HEAR ME? ”And then she gave up and called desperately for her parents. Why the hell was she always so .. stubborn and had to give in to her curiosity?

The girl fell on her knees and began to cry. She was just too spontaneous and didn't think about the consequences. Now she was here in an unknown area, far away from her parents and who knows what else was lurking in the dark thicket?

A bush near her began to jiggle and that frightened the little girl. She stopped her emotional outburst and looked frightened at the bush. She crawled a few feet back from her almost sitting position and shivered as the rustling increased. Taiko swallowed lightly, trying not to make a sound to attract the attention of this unknown creature in the bush.

Suddenly a small, white rabbit pokemon rolled out with some somersaults. It had a kind of red fur in the shape of a plaster on its nose and its long ears wiggled and twitched as it straightened up and looked around. Taiko looked at the little Pokemon, which noticed her now too. It looked back. Neither of them moved for a few moments until Taiko blinked several times.

"How cute ..", she beamed and crawled forward on all fours. The little Pokemon stopped and tilted its head slightly as it watched the humans movements. "Scor? Scorbunny!" the little creature said. Taiko knew that Pokemon could only say their name, so now she knew the species. So that was a Scorbunny! She had never seen it before. Was it a regional Pokemon from Galar?

"Mmm, I think I have some candy somewhere …" the redhead mumbled. At least the situation calmed her down enough to forget about her outbreak minutes before ... She searched her pockets and actually found some fruit gums made from red haban berries. A very sweet type of berry that was perfect for sweets. Taiko smiled and offered the Pokemon some fruit gums. "Little one? You're are hungry, aren't you? ”She asked.

Scorbunny bounced closer and sniffed the girl's hand. Probably a first approach as to whether it could trust the person. As it took a fruit gum on its paws, it sniffed the gelatine again and stuffed it into its mouth. Taiko giggled as the Scorbunny gleefully chewed the fruit gum and then happily hopped up. "Scor! Scor Scor Bun?"

Taiko didn't knew what the Pokemon was trying to tell her, but from it's hopping around and staring at the fruit gums, it was obvious. It wanted more candy. The redhead smiled and gave Scorbunny a few more fruit gums. This time the Pokemon was braver and patted Taiko's hand with its paws before pounding on the fruit gums. Taiko had to laugh gently when Scorbunny let 5 fruit gums disappear into it's mouth at once and chewed contentedly. "You remind me of me." Taiko giggled.

Scorbunny finished snacking and as a token of gratitude, leaned it with its head on her arm and cuddled up to her. Taiko blinked slightly in surprise. Who could have guessed that wild Pokémon would approach humans so quickly? So obviously love goes through the stomach. Taiko smiled again and ruffled Scorbunnys fur behind it's ears. The Pokemon let out a satisfied purr and closed its eyes.

After a while, the Pokemon hopped onto her lap. This action surprised Taiko and she put both hands around the Pokemon. "It's so trusting .. it definitely belongs to someone ..", the redhead sighed, disappointed. She would have liked to keep the Scorbunny to herself. The two lingered like this for a few minutes until Taiko noticed that she was still in a quandary. She still didn't know how to get back to her parents. And the Pokemon was certainly not a sign back.

Slowly, the girl got up and let Scorbunny on the floor. “Go, your trainer is probably already worried about you.“ Taiko smiled and gave it a few last fruit gums before she continued on her way.

For the next 10 minutes she already missed Scorbunny .. She sighed softly to herself and stopped to lean against a tree. "Scorbunny ..." Taiko's eyes widened when she heard the Pokemon's call and turned around. Scorbunny was a few meters away from her. Taiko didn't even think for a second that it might be another Pokemon. It MUST be the same ..

When the Pokemon saw the girl kneel down, it ran into her arms and snuggled against the redhead's chest. Taiko straightened up and hugged the Pokemon. "You probably missed me too ..?", She asked and as if Scorbunny wanted to answer, it's nose nudged her fist when she raised her hand in front of it. Taiko smiled. "Then let's find a way back together." Scorbunny nodded and climbed onto her shoulder, where it made itself comfortable.

Taiko went on for a while, she didn't know how long, but it was already getting dark. Her parents were probably worried ... Then suddenly a huge lake was before her. Scorbunny sniffed the new surroundings and then tensed up with a menacing growl. The redhead swallowed at this cautious behavior. "The Lake of Outrage ...", she realized then. She wanted to run in the other direction when suddenly a giant Pangoro blocked her way. Apparently she had invaded it's territory because it looked angry. And aggressive.

The redhead stepped back, startled, and tripped over a thick branch. She fell on her bum and held her aching foot after she fell on it with her weight and cried out in pain. Pangoro seemed angry at the noise and stepped closer. It's dangerous threatening gesture made the girl's blood run cold. Scorbunny growled loudly and jumped in front of the girl as if it wanted to fight Pangoro.

"No..! This is an evolved Pokemon ...! It's too strong .. ” Taiko warned, but Scorbunny tried to attack with a double kick and jumped on the evolved Panda Pokemon. Pangoro held up Scorbunnys leg with one paw and tossed it back so that it landed in the mud next to the girl. "Scorbunny!" Taiko shouted distraught and took Scorbunny in her arms when Pangoro came closer and raised his paw for a blow. The redhead closed her eyes tightly and tears ran down her cheeks. "I don't want to die yet ..."

"Vibrava, dragon rush!", a boy's voice penetrated her ears and Taiko looked up when something enveloped in a blue aura slammed into the menacing Panda Pokemon from above in full speed. Pangoro was staggered by the recoil and Raihan jumped in front of Taiko, ordering his Vibrava to make further attacks. "Super power, now!"Raihan ordered, causing Vibrava to launch a wave of attacks on the Pangoro. The fighting Pokemon appeared to be extremely robust and put up with all attacks. "Damn it, well then we have no other choice. Vibrava, use sandstorm! "Raihan shouted. Then he turned to the girl behind him. "Cover your mouth and nose!"

Taiko nodded and pushed the scarf, that her mother had given her over, half over her face. Vibrava created a dense sandstorm that made the entire area so opaque that you couldn't see anything. It was only when Taiko felt someone put a hand on her shoulder that she recognized the outlines of the boy, who helped her. "Let's get out of here before the storm subsides," he said. Taiko tried to get up, but a strong pain in her leg made her fall back to the ground.

"Ouch .."

"Hey, are you okay?" Raihan asked, holding her to keep her from falling again.

"I must have broken my leg when I tripped earlier .. I can't step .." the redhead sighed in frustration. Raihan blinked for a moment and saw his Vibrava land on his shoulder. He knew the sandstorm wouldn't hold up the enemy Pokemon much longer. An idea occurred to him without further ado and he turned his back on the girl while he knelt down. “Climb on my back. I'll carry you. ", He said.

"T-I can't ask that of you ..", Taiko mumbled and shook her head vigorously.

“Come on, my tent is not far from here and the storm won't hold back Pangogo for long. We have to get out of here. ”, the young trainer explained and Taiko probably had no other choice. She sighed and climbed onto his back, the Scorbunny clinging on her shirt and holding onto her as the boy carried her away from the lake.

It really didn't take long, a maximum of 10 minutes, until the boy reached his tent and gently laid the young girl on his sleeping bag.

"Here we are. Uhm. What's your name anyway? ”The boy then asked with a smile.

"T-Taiko and what's your name?"

"Raihan. Are you a Gym Challenger too? " Raihan asked and saw how the Scorbunny had snuggled up with her and was sleeping. The redhead shook her head. “I'm not from here and I'm only 9 .. My parents and I are only here for vacation. I live in Johto. “, She then explained.

“Then why were you alone at Lake of outrage? It's not an approved campsite at all. On the contrary, it is strictly forbidden for travelers to enter here.“

"Uhm .. well .. I was curious because I was bored in the tent and .. then I somehow got lost ..", the redhead explained, embarrassed, and tugged on a strand of red hair. Raihan just looked at her before he laughed. This reaction offended Taiko now that she thought he was making fun of her situation.

"Hey, that's not funny, I was really scared!" She said with a pout and turned away with slightly flushed cheeks. Raihan wiped a tear of laughter from his face and grinned slightly before winking at her. "Sorry, I didn't laugh at you. Just .. I've done so much nonsense too. When I was 5, my father was camping here with me too and I saw a Trapinch and followed it to Lake of outrage too. My father had to save me from a wild Gyarados in the water. And I was just thinking that I was having a deja vu when I saved you, ”he admitted with a laugh.

Taiko blinked slightly.

"Uhm ..", she just wasn't quite sure what to say to that. "Thank you for the rescue ..", she said quietly, but still slightly offended, and turned her head away from him.

"You are welcome. But let's take care of your leg first. ", Raihan said and got a first aid kit from the corner of his stuff. Taiko lingered as quiet as a mouse, a rarity with her otherwise extroverted personality, when Raihan exposed the leg by lifting her pants up the affected leg and pulling down her socks to inspect the damage. “That looks bad. No wonder you can't walk. ", He said and took a rag that he moistened with a kind of disinfectant spray. "That could burn a bit now," he warned her.

The redhead bit her lip and squeaked softly as he placed the rag on the wound on her leg. Raihan smiled and praised her for how bravely she got through this action. She even had to laugh a little when he confessed that he had screamed like crazy when he was injured and his father wanted to treat him with the stuff too. She didn't know why, but somehow Taiko didn't feel so helpless anymore.

She watched spellbound as he expertly cleaned the wound and treated it with a bandage. "You don't seem to be doing this for the first time," she said then. Raihan blinked and then looked up at her as he kneeled in front of her to put his foot on his lap.

"Yeah. I have a clumsy best friend. His injury rate is pretty high when he's got lost. I don't even know how often I've been bandaged his falls and grazes. ", Raihan said thoughtfully and Taiko giggled. “Sounds like me. I am also at risk of injury. A miracle it was only the leg. ", She sighed. Raihan smiled and put her leg down again.

“You would certainly get along well. He exudes the same positive energy as you. ", Raihan said, whereupon Taiko went a little red in the face. However, she didn't know why. "I exude positive energy?" She asked.

"Sure, of course. You can see that just by how Scorbunny has taken you to its heart! I thought to myself that it wasn't yours when you said you were only 9 and not from here. So it's a wild Pokemon, but it behaves like you've been training it for years. ", The boy remarked, whereupon the girl's cheeks turned even darker. "Uhm .. I'll take that as a compliment .." she whispered, slightly embarrassed. "It was one." Raihan winked and was amused by the shy behavior of the girl. At the lake she had behaved differently. Then there was a short silence between the two of them until Raihan reached for his smartphone. For once, he wasn't interested in his social media activities. “Which campsite are you at? In the east or in the south? ”He asked.

"Uhm .. south?"

"All right." Raihan smiled and started dialing a number.

"Who are you calling?"

“Mr. Pascal. He is practically the lessor of the campsite. Your parents surely miss you. So I'll give him our coordinates so that someone can come and pick you up. Because I can't carry you the way to the campsite. ”At this comment the redhead blushed again and turned away slightly. “Your last name would still be helpful to find your parents more easily. "..Hirabayashi."

Raihan called and talked to Pascal for a few minutes until he had passed on all the informations. About the aggressiveness of the Pokemon at Lake of outrage, about the injured girl and also their whereabouts. Then he thanked him and hung up. “They can't send a rescue team out until tomorrow morning because they'd have problems finding us and transporting you. I told them that you can spend the night with me in the tent and that you are safe. ", Raihan said. "Uhm .. but you only have one sleeping bag." Taiko spoke. "But that doesn't matter .. I can sleep on the floor."

Raihan sighed.

“There is no way of letting a girl sleep on the floor. You sleep in my sleeping bag, I sleep on the floor. " He said.

"Never."

"Well, then we'll both sleep on the floor if you don't give in." Raihan shrugged his shoulders, whereupon Taiko rolled his eyes. "Then give in.", She said and shrugged her shoulders. Raihan grinned slightly and folded his arms behind his neck.

"Only if you sleep in my sleeping bag." Was the devious answer. "To what extent is that giving in for YOU?" Taiko asked now and crossed her arms in front of her chest. The two just looked at each other for a few moments before Raihan sighed in defeat. "Well, let's make a compromise.", He said, which made Taiko sit up and take notice. “It gets darn cold here at night anyway. If we cuddle up a little ... together, we can both sleep in the sleeping bag and the body heat prevents us from half-freezing to death. "

His suggestion made Taiko look shocked. He wasn't really serious, was it? She didn't know this boy at all. But now that he said it, it was actually quite fresh. "..."

"You can of course also become a living Vanillite if you prefer that.", Raihan said and spread out the sleeping bag. "Okay, okay. It's only for one night. ", She gave in, whereupon Raihan had to laugh again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning, Taiko's parents and some of the wild area staff members went to the location of forest that Raihan had described for them. It wasn't long before they found the tent, which was guarded by a Duraludon. “This is Raihan’s tent. It has to be. " Pascal remaked, before Taikos parents ran to the tent. "Taiko ?!"

Taiko blinked, she was still half asleep when she yawned and snuggled into something warm. This warmth moved slightly, from which the redhead woke up. She wiped away the sleep on her eyes and then saw how she was snuggled up against Raihan, her legs tangled and his arms pressed her to his chest.

The girl quickly broke away from him and Raihan woke up too. "Woah?"

The redhead ignored him and let her mother hug her tightly.

"What kind of things are you doing?" Her mother scolded her. "I'm sorry .. really .." the girl apologized and was then pulled into a hug by her father. "Never do that again," he said then. "You're hurt, aren't you? I'll carry you back. ", He said then and wanted to pick her up. "Wait, dad ..!" Taiko stopped him and then turned to Raihan. She made a beckoning hand gesture that signaled him to come closer. "Thanks again for everything, Raihan. I hope to see you again. ", She smiled and hugged him goodbye. Raihan smiled and hugged back. “Well, if you ever want to visit Galar again, you are always welcome. Until then, I'm champion and you can visit me in my palace. ”He laughed. "The champion lives in a palace?" Taiko asked and her eyes widened greatly.

"I dunno, but definitely!", Raihan laughed then, whereupon Taiko had to laugh too. "Well, see you at some point, hopefully. And take care of yourself, you risk-of-injury. ", He said teasingly.

Taiko was then carried back to the campsite and was even allowed to keep Scorbunny.

And what should she say?

5 years later, she set foot in Galar again after her divorced mother wanted to start a new life over there and Taiko seized the opportunity and followed her to see the cute boy from back then again.

#Chronicles of Galar #Leon #leon pokemon #pokemon leon #pkmn leon #champion leon #raihan #pokemon raihan #gym leader raihan #raihan pokemon #Leon x Reader #Pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon shsw

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seostudios · 5 years ago

Text

happy without me: all about luv - h.rj

ALL ABOUT LUV ‣ HAPPY WITHOUT ME

just face it, she’s happy without you. but i don’t believe it, is she really?

paring: huang renjun x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 2.5k

info: exes to lovers!au, non-idol!au, college!au, cousin!jaemin

warnings: sensitive themes, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, toxic relationship, mention of rape and sexual assault, sexual assault, explicit/vulgar language

tag list: @jenotation @luvlyjaemin @woofie-nctzen-fanarts-320 @tzuqui @sunnyrenjunnie @nino7011 @thatanonymousgirl-as14 @minhehe @chrspychan @jimelonji @mykokorobeats4u @aminihhj @jeonjungkat @wishfulldreamss @ilymarkchan @ja3hy4n @beautifulbakerycookiegiant @jisungiepwark52 @sharamanne @commentgirl @littlefluu @chicksung @lixseu @jenosgirlllll

a/n: i’m sorry this is so short i did renjun dirty :( i got writers block writing it but it’s ok! ill do better on the next one which is chenle or jeno (prolly jeno) i gotta chekc but yay finally part 2 to all about luv

APRIL IN JEJU

It's been 7 months since you've parted ways with your first love. You two were the supposed high school sweethearts of your year so it confused most of the other students when they found out. Renjun and you were meant for one another but the fact he decided on attending SKKU since had received a scholarship for his outstanding academic records, he couldn't turn down the offer and was determined on enrolling however you were attending Cheju Halla University which was all the way in Jeju City. That was a 55-minute plane ride away from Renjun! Avoiding the future relationship problems to come from long-distance you two would most likely face, the breakup was mutual and you two parted ways at the airport indulging in a rather pitiful hug.

Here you were, walking through the Department of Equine Science, trailing behind your friends Soomin and Mina. It was the first time you decided to skip class and it was thrilling in your opinion, "Come on, they're waiting!" Soomin whisper-yelled. They?

You make sure to ask her who 'they' were since you and Mina weren't standing dumbfounded and possibly in trouble. "The volleyball team dummy," Soomin says skipping to past the classrooms into Gym A. It brought you back to the old times, visiting Renjun during Soccer practice, making sure he's well-fed and not overworked. Quickly snapping out of it you join the girls on the bleachers to cheer on the boys. Although you are able to tell people you've moved on from your first love, you've spent restless nights looking back at your messages, pictures just reminiscing the past.

The butterflies he's caused you still flutter every now and then hoping their commotion was heard and you've finally made the big move back to Seoul but sadly you haven't gotten up and gone yet.

Tonight you were preparing for a mini-quiz, it so happened that Mina shared the class with you. Scheduling a sleepover at Soomin's place here you all are sitting in her living room stuffing your faces with whatever salty and sweet treats her mom had bought. "Oh. My. God." Mina tells you after reading your DM request on Instagram, "What?" you ask confused over what she thought was so extraordinary. She motions Soomin to look at your earning a surprised what the fuck from the girl. "Min-fucking-Ho wants to DM you... He's like one of the hottest guys in our division and has never been seen with a girl so wanting to text you definitely a what the fuck moment. You shake your head before opening the DM request..."He's asking me out for dinner?" You say which Soomin demands you to accept the offer before he moves on. "You've gotta move on from Renjun you know? He won't come by swooping you by the legs asking you for his hand in marriage. He's all the way in Seoul Y/n, I'm pretty sure he's moved on by now with someone else it's time you do too. Now hand e your phone so I can tell him you want to go on that date." Mina tells you after you attempt to reject Minho. She gave you the truth even if it hurt (a lot), you sigh in defeat handing over your phone.

"Can't believe you're going on a date with Minho," Soomin says watching Mina type away. "I know right, lucky girl" Mina replies as you nod.

APRIL IN SEOUL

Meanwhile, at SKKU Renjun's majoring in Arts & humanities. Languages, Literature & Linguistics which has been taking up most of his time keeping his mind off his recent split. He was devastated the first week but had to obviously push it aside if he wanted extraordinary marks just like in high school, even if he wanted his thoughts to be occupied with your figure in his head he simply couldn't know his classes were paying attention to him along with the other honor students that attended on a scholarship.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Jeno, Renjun's only friend at Sungkyunkwan asked. He's got to know Renjun for who he was today but he's never really opened up about his life before University. Jeno noticed Renjun staring at your recent Instagram post for a little too long to not think you were at least flirting in direct messages. "No," He said quick and panicky before shoving his phone back into his pocket, after relaxing he turns to Jeno. "She's my ex, we broke up 7 months ago." Jeno's mouth goes agape momentarily in realization, "Why? If you don't mind me asking..." He asked the smaller boy beside him. "She went to Jeju for University when SKKU was just a 20-minute train ride from our neighborhood," Renjun replied with a scoff recollecting the memory of the day you told him you got accepted into Cheju Halla. Jeno nods understandingly deciding to continue studying instead of riling him up.

JULY IN JEJU

A full three months have passed and you were still in the first place you were in back in April, heartbroken. Although a lot of things have drastically changed since April it had only made you feel worse about yourself. For starters, you've been 'dating' Minho since April even if you realized on the first date he had only wanted you to fulfil his sexual desires. He's strung his act long enough and you've tried breaking up with the boy for a month now but he won't let you, he's always threatening you "I'll tell the school what type of whore you are." or something about inflicting pain on someone close to you like Soomin or Mina, which is why you've kept quiet for about the last three weeks.

You were in pulled harshly by the arm by Minho as he pulled you into the supply closet of the Gymnasium, “Minho, I don’t want you to touch me there,” You politely ask the boy who’s currently taking advantage of his supposed spouse. “I don’t even want to date you! Why do you keep acting like this- Let go!” You whisper-yell to Minho who’s trailing his hands up and in between your thighs. "Shut up," He simply tells you before snaking his hand to your mouth shutting you up as you let out a choked cry.

JULY IN SEOUL

"She looks so happy with that Minho, right?” Renjun asked Jeno, scrolling through your tagged post. “I mean from what we know yeah,” He tells him. Renjun sighs, he knew he would genuinely be happy for you if you moved on but it had seemed rather quick. "It's almost been a year, she's moved on. Why don't you?" Jeno asked innocently. Renjun had a gut feeling of some sort; telling him not to move on and instead of ignoring it like you (which brought you nowhere since you're still deeply in love with him) did he's just kept a close eye on you. Shaking his head no he tells Jeno, "Something isn't right about.." He lifts the phone to the photo of you and Minho, Mina had tagged you in, "That."

DECEMBER IN JEJU

"I promise I'll text you, I just need to get off this freaking island for winter break at least." You tell Mina and Soomin on Face-time, "Okay we will miss you! How did Minho take this? It's your first Christmas together and you leave?" She asked worriedly. You mumble a fuck before looking at the camera. "I didn't tell him," You say earning gasps from the two. "He's your boyfriend though.." Soomin said; "Who doesn't treat me like a fucking human being." Your words were strong, rippling a wave of awkwardness, "I'm fine by the way I’m staying with my cousin Jaemin, but if I don't come back it’s cause he spoilt me into staying."

DECEMBER IN SEOUL

"Merry Almost Christmas!" Renjun screeches before entering his shared apart with his new friend group, Jeno had introduced Renjun to his best pal, Jaemin and Renjun had taken in a very lonely Haechan later introducing him to the two. Today they were all celebrating their first Christmas together with a classic holiday film and cupcakes every day until Christmas.

"Guys we have a guest today!" Jaemin sings opening the door widely to show a shorter girl beside the boy with a suitcase in hand.

"What are you doing here?" Renjun and you said simultaneously as you locked eye contact. "I'm visiting Jaemin, my cousin." You tell him hands moving into the air to point towards the boy, "I am Jaemin's roommate." He responded before getting up from the couch brushing off the crumbs off his lap before walking towards the door to stand in front of you. He hadn't grown any taller still rocking his tiny 5'7 figure, but tall enough to tower over you, who hadn't grown since freshman year.

"She's here." Jeno tells Renjun who's head is under the pillow, "She's here." Jeno repeats, "She's here, She's here," Renjun whispered to himself taking it all in. He always wished for you to get off the fucking island go back into his arms, transferring to SKKU, knowing you had the skill to land a spot without hesitation, but finally seeing you after 10 months of no contact was frightening to him. Why did you seem so brittle? You looked pained, it wasn't his job to care about you anymore, but he couldn't help himself. He loved you more than himself and there's a (humongous) chunk of him that still did. Renjun gets up and sits crisscrossed on the single bed across from Jeno's bed where he was idling on his phone laying down "She's here but she's not here." He said which caught Jeno's attention, his face wrinkling in confusion. "She's not okay, something's wrong. I know it," He finishes getting up to walk out to you- who's catching up with Jaemin in the kitchen while preparing for dinner, stopping immediately as a rush of nerves came over him telling him to stop.

"Hope you boys like Hotteok!" You said facing Jeno and Haechan who were smiling in awe of your cooking skills, "I know Injun and Jaems like it so I made it tonight." You cheerfully smile towards the other two boys. “Glad to see you remembered,” It took a lot for Renjun to even say a sentence to you without having a gaze on you for a little too long afterwards.

It was his chance, he walked out of the bedroom the moment he saw you walk by his door towards the guest room. "Can I come in?" He asked. "Of course Injun," You couldn't believe yourself, being so calm and comfortable with all the tension. Had it really been ten months? He thought to himself as he sat beside you on the bed. "So," He rubbed his thighs nervously "How've you been?" Horrible. You stare down at the carpet admiring it while you figure a way to lie to the boy who knew you better than you knew yourself. "Fine, I've been..." You sigh avoiding eye contact, "Fine." He looks at you concerned, "You can't lie to me Y/n." Grabbing your hand caressing it for a second knowing it relaxed you a bit in tough scenarios. Suddenly your phone began to ring, grabbing to read the caller id. "Oh, should I go?" Renjun asked after reading the contact name 'Minho' "No!" You shouted quickly grabbed his wrist pulling him back down before he walked out. Declining the call you spoke, "I'd talk to you over anyone any day." Damn, when did I get so smooth You mentally note that smirking to yourself slightly watching as Renjun bursted into a frenzy of laughter, "Smooth," He comments.

"So, was that Minho guy...your boyfriend?" He asked in which you replied with a strong No. "Well," You started "A boyfriend is someone who listens to me someone who values my opinions and beliefs. Someone who is truly interested in what you enjoy doing, or what you like most in life and interested in who I am as a person." You pause to see him grab you hand intertwining your hand, quickly signalling you to continue. "Someone who makes me laugh, or trusts me. But more importantly, disrespect me and force me into," Tears collected in your eyes threatening to fall, "Things." Renjun knows what to do to comfort you quickly pulling you into his embrace, melting when you wrap around him, head in the crook of his neck sobbing quietly. "He made me do things Renjun-ah. Horrible things. I hate him so much, I can't break up with him. Figured running away would've been a better option." He strokes your hair telling you it's okay and to relax. He couldn't help but smile though; he was right. He knew, he knew something was off and made it his number one priority to find out what it was, who would've known you would open up and make your first actual conversation with your ex- whom you dated for a nearly all of senior year about the toxic relationship you found yourself in after him.

JANUARY IN SEOUL

"I got to leave tomorrow." You told Renjun, whom you rekindled an old flame with over your stay. C

"Do you think about me sometimes? 'Cause I think about you sometimes" You asked Renjun looking at him from the mirror, as he watched you do your hair for an outing with your cousin. After that night in your bedroom, you decided on hanging out more and became close friends once more. But the butterflies in your stomach didn't leave, instead, they emitted flying more enthusiastically near him, with him. "I don't think about you sometimes 'Cause I think about you all the time," He said, which made you look down to the floor before turning around to face him. "It made me so jealous knowing you were so far away with that disgusting bastard happy without me" He grabs your hand; which you intertwine your fingers with happily a smile dancing upon your lips watching him reciprocate it.

"Stay." He tells you. You cuddle into his embrace as he caressed the top of your head. The two of your legs entangled under the sheets having one of your midnight talks. "You know I can't," You start quickly zipping your mouth not wanting to go any further, "Students who have outstanding academic records, or who have financial difficulties, who have submitted a complete scholarship application," Renjun said, which just made your jaw drop. Did he do his research? "You can still enroll for the second semester which starts in two weeks. Have your friends send your belongings." He finished watching as you lifted yourself up resting your head in your palm. "Really?" You asked, breath taken away to say more. Could you really live here in Seoul? With Renjun? "Yes, I can kick Jeno into the guest room while we can have this room all to ourselves." He kissed the top of your hand watching the cheeky smile erupt from you with giggles. "We can be together." You said- asked to yourself, "We can be together" Renjun tells you before pulling you back.

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