#will never get over it until it's resolved

[psin314]

some dead and missing characters from murat's backstory. translated bio is under the cut.

his toyhouse page At the age of 6, Murat was given to the Crows. He was taken under the care of a young but skilled master assassin, Esteban. Murat has no memory of his childhood until he was 12, and his mentor never said anything useful about it. He only said that Murat was an unbearable crybaby. Esteban taught Murat everything he knew. He taught strictly, punished him for any mistakes, but Murat still enjoyed being around him, because Esteban was funny and caring. When Murat was 20, Esteban was brutally murdered while on a contract. The next 10 years of his life were not particularly interesting. He carried out contracts flawlessly, and spent the money he received on carousing. He spent everything on expensive aged booze and gifts for girls with whom he could not build long-term relationships, although he truly fell in love with each one. So once he fell in love with a girl from his own house, Layla, who was not interested in him. He did not lose hope and continued to try to win her over. One day, she finally reciprocated. It was strange, but Murat, in love, did not notice the trick. Murat's 30th birthday was approaching, but he was not destined to celebrate it in a warm place. Murat, for no apparent reason, was grabbed by what he thought were his friends, and they threw him at the feet of the de Riva house talon. As it turned out, Murat is a traitor who has been sabotaging his own house for years, and there is irrefutable evidence of this, which Layla provided them with a heavy heart. Murat did not understand what was happening, he was definitely slandered and was not guilty of anything. No one listened to him, even Layla stood in tears. Murat should have been killed right here, but Layla stood up for him. She explained that Murat had done all this only because of his own stupidity. He was a good liar, but an incompetent crow. All this time, she had been correcting his mistakes for years, but she had failed to keep track of them all, and this is what it had led to. She was ashamed that she had covered for him for so long, but death for him was too much. As a result, Murat was kicked out into the street and ordered not to approach the faction again. Murat tried to get through to them, but no one listened. He didn’t know what to do now. The Antivan Crows were everything to him. So he simply decided to get drunk on cheap beer in a tavern. For the next 10 years, he did nothing but that. For the first few months, other crows were watching Murat, but nothing suspicious was noticed, only his binge-drinking. A couple of years later, one of Murat's old friends came to him with good news - Murat was not guilty, everything was actually set up by Layla, who had currently run away and was hiding. That is, he can return. Murat attacked his old friend and sent him far far away. Nobody visited Murat again. Until he was almost 40, Murat lived in a vicious circle of "no money - work - get money - drink." There were attempts to break it, but he always returned to the beginning. He made friends in the port with a fisherwoman, Paula, who helped him find a job. She sincerely wanted to help Murat with his problem, since he reminded her of her lost son. She was rude to him, but tried to help anyway. Paula had health problems, and one day her heart just stopped beating. Murat could have gone on a bender again, but he decided to try to change his life. By the age of 40, Murat finally stopped drinking and returned to the Crows. Here, it was as if everyone had forgotten him. And his old friends no longer trusted him as much as before, although that situation was resolved long ago. Murat is passionate about the idea of ​​at least partially solve the problem of betrayal among the Crows. How - he has no idea, but he will definitely come up with something. The rest of the story is familiar.

[dreamdragonkadia]

A/n; I want Xaden kisses. This man is just so so fine

The "You're Mine" Kiss

It’s not subtle. Never with Xaden. He doesn’t ask; he declares. These kisses usually come when someone’s pushed his buttons, stirring that fierce, protective side of him—or when he’s feeling the slightest flicker of jealousy. Whether it’s a lingering glance from someone else, a whispered comment he doesn’t like, or your casual flirtation with danger, his reaction is immediate.

Xaden’s hand curls around the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair, while his thumb presses lightly against your pulse. It’s deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way your heartbeat quickens under his touch. His other hand finds your waist, holding you firm, anchoring you to him.

When his lips crash against yours, it’s not a question—it’s an answer. There’s nothing tentative about the way he kisses you. It’s fierce, unapologetic, and possessive, the kind of kiss that takes and keeps, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very soul. His tongue brushes against yours in a commanding and relentless way, until the world fades into the heat of his touch and the fire of his kiss.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen, your breath uneven, and yet he still doesn’t move back, his forehead resting against yours. His dark eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, roughened by the kiss, as he mutters against your lips, "Don’t forget it."

The Silent Apology Kiss

Xaden doesn’t stumble over apologies. He is honest—sometimes brutally so—and he rarely sugarcoats his words. It’s just who he is. But that honesty cuts both ways, and when his temper gets the better of him, the feeling of his regret is visible in the aftermath.

He doesn’t apologize right away. Instead, he clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white, jaw set in frustration, and leaves the room to cool off. It’s not anger at you—it’s at himself.

Later, when the quiet stretches too long and the sharp edges of the fight haven’t dulled, he finds you. You’re sitting alone, arms wrapped around yourself, the anger still coiled between you like a living thing. Xaden pauses in the doorway for a moment, as though gathering the resolve to step closer.

When he does, he doesn’t say a word. He crosses the room with quiet stubbornness, his shadow stretching long across the floor. Without hesitation, he kneels in front of you, his dark eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded, willing you to see his apology. His hand moves to your chin, tilting your face toward him with a touch so gentle it almost breaks you.

Then his lips press to your forehead—warm, steady, and conscious. The kiss lingers, longer than normal, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words. You feel his breath against your skin, the slight tremor in his exhale, and the unspoken apology that hums in the quiet between you.

When he pulls back, staring into your eyes, his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw. “I shouldn’t have snapped,” he finally mutters.

But you both know the words aren’t necessary. The kiss already said it all.

The Teasing Peck

These are the kisses that catch you off guard, the ones that leave your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. It’s usually when you’re rambling, your mind spiraling in a dozen directions while you pace the room, oblivious to his gaze. Xaden leans lazily against a doorframe, arms crossed, his infuriatingly smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

He doesn’t interrupt—yet. He’s watching you, his eyes following the gestures of your hands as you emphasize your points, but you’re too focused to notice the way his thoughts wander. He’s imagining you in ways he probably shouldn’t: sprawled beneath him, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed as you—

“Xaden, are you even listening to me?” you snap, finally noticing the far-off gleam in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward, closing the space between you with ease. His hand grabs yours, the roughness of his fingers distracting you for a split second before he dips down and presses the quickest of kisses to your lips.

It’s fleeting—barely more than a brush—but the warmth lingers, and before you can even process it, he’s pulling back. You’re frozen mid-sentence, the words catching in your throat as you gape at him, completely derailed.

His smirk deepens, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. His eyes glitter with amusement as he says, “I am now.”

Then he steps back, leaving you standing there while he saunters away like he hasn’t just turned your entire train of thought into a pile of rubble.

The "I’m Proud of You" Kiss

Xaden’s praise is rare, which makes these moments all the more significant. He’s not the type to toss around compliments lightly—they’re earned, and when he gives them, you know they’re sincere. It’s after you’ve done something he didn’t expect—holding your ground in a heated argument, outmaneuvering him in a sparring match, or catching him off guard by being a step ahead of his usually unshakable intuition.

He won’t show his admiration immediately when there are other eyes watching or more pressing matters at hand. That’s not his style, particularly when serious things are going down. But once the adrenaline fades and it’s just the two of you, that’s when you see it.

The moment comes quietly. His hands finding your waist with a confidence that feels like second nature. His touch is familiar yet tender, like all he wants in that moment is to hold you, to ground himself in you. His gaze softens, the hard edges of his usual intensity melting into something gentler, more vulnerable.

“You amaze me, you know that?” he says, his voice intimate, meant only for you.

There’s no smirk this time, no teasing gleam in his eyes—just quiet reverence as his lips find yours. The kiss is slow, unhurried, and meaningful, carrying none of the urgency or fire you might expect from him after a meeting. Instead, it’s full of something deeper, something that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, as though to keep you in the moment. It’s not about heat or desire; it’s about acknowledgment, admiration, and the way he sees you as someone who continually surprises him, challenges him, and is there for him.

When he pulls back, he lets out a soft exhale, as though saying the words aloud was as much for him as it was for you. The corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, his thumb brushing over your side as he adds, “I love you.”

The Protective Kiss

These kisses come when fear shadows his features—something you rarely see. Xaden seems unshakable, the rock in any storm, but when it’s you, when it’s your life that’s been on the line, that unyielding façade cracks.

It might be after a battle, when the adrenaline is still coursing through his veins and the memory of you being too close to danger burns fresh in his mind. Or maybe it’s in the quiet aftermath of a dangerous mission, when the reality of what could have happened finally catches up with him.

His hands are on you before you can even speak, his grip hard, almost bruising, as they settle on your arms. His dark eyes sweep over you, searching for any sign of injury, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re really here, whole and unbroken, standing in front of him.

He doesn’t say a word—he can’t, not yet. Instead, he leans in, his lips finding yours with a desperation that borders on frantic. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you against him. There’s nothing soft or measured about it; it’s raw, primal, and filled with the kind of fear that only comes from almost losing the one thing that matters most.

His hands slide down to your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

His voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, laced with an edge of anger that’s born entirely of fear. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, the words both a command and a plea.

You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens even further as he pulls you into his chest, holding you close like he needs to feel your heartbeat to steady his own. And in that moment, you realize just how much power you hold over him—and how much he’d risk to keep you safe.

The Slow-Burn Kiss

This kiss doesn’t start with lips; it starts with a look. A glance that’s lingered far too long, one of those smoldering gazes that sets your pulse racing and makes the room feel suddenly too warm. Xaden’s been giving you that look all day—subtle, deliberate, the kind that curls low in your stomach and leaves you wondering if he’s toying with you or if he’s just biding his time.

It’s not just the look, either. It’s the small touches: his hand brushing yours as he hands you something, his fingertips ghosting over your lower back as he passes by, the way his thumb lingers a fraction too long when he presses it to your cheek. And yet, somehow, he’s avoided your lips. He’s kissed your forehead in the early morning light, his lips soft and fleeting, and later, he brought your hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. But your lips? Not once.

It’s a game, you realize—a maddeningly obvious one. He’s drawing it out, savoring your growing impatience with the kind of quiet control that only makes you want him more.

When he finally moves, it’s with an intended slowness that feels like it’s meant to unnerve you. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, and the space between you vanishes until he’s right there. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, his touch impossibly soft.

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But his lips brush against yours so lightly it feels more like a question than an answer, a whisper of what’s to come. It’s intentional—teasing, torturous—like he’s testing your patience, drawing out the moment until it stretches impossibly thin.

And then, finally, when you tilt your head and close the gap, he lets you have it. His lips press to yours, a kiss that’s all-consuming without ever feeling rushed. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the world around you fades until there’s nothing left but him—the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken promise that this moment is entirely yours.

It’s not just a kiss; it’s a claiming, a vow in its own right. And you can’t help but wonder how you ever managed to breathe without him.

[miaountainmama]

sharp

characters: boothill, gn!reader contains: little angst that's resolved by the end. boothill is terrified of love

wc: 1148

a/n: i love boothill so much that i needed to write something with thought and emotion and not just smut. i have 3 other boothill fics in the works because i keep getting ideas. girl help

You have always loved softly. You know this, have embraced it, giving your soft touches and quiet words freely. Boothill has forgotten how to love. It has been so long since he loved that his love has turned sharp, pierces through his heart and wounds him so deeply he can’t stand it. He cannot recall how to love like you do anymore— he can only scream the depths of his affection from the rooftops, harsh and loud, and hold you so tightly he swears you’ll break. He has become so sharp he’s afraid, afraid he’ll puncture your soft skin, afraid the razor edge of his smile will leave you bleeding.

Fear doesn’t suit Boothill, but you see it in every glance he gives you. It drives you insane, the way his expression sobers when he’s around you. That near-constant smile of his drops clean from his face, turning into the gentle slope of a frown that just doesn’t look right on him. Existing in the same room as him has become suffocating, the sheer longing in his being crashing from his body in waves so strong they’re capable of sending you to your knees. Still, he withdraws-- his touches have become few and far between, and when you tell him you love him, that look of anguish he gives you nearly breaks you.

“I’m not fragile, you know. You’re not going to snap me in half,” you tell him, stepping closer to him, and it doesn’t escape you the way that he leans back slightly, that all familiar expression bubbling up in his eyes.

“I… I can’t, darlin’,” he says in return, voice laced with yearning that he refuses to address, and your own eyes turn desperate, though you know you can’t force anything. You want to reach out and grab him so badly, to press yourself against him and thread your hands through his hair and tell him it’s okay, that you know he would never hurt you on purpose, that anything he does you can take-- but you know it’ll make it worse. You know it’ll drive the knife in his heart a thousand times deeper.

Instead, you reach out your hand.

He looks at it questioningly, lips slightly parted in a question, and you just gesture until he gets the memo-- you would almost think his mechanics were malfunctioning, the way his hand stutters on the way to yours, and when his fingers brush against yours ever so lightly you smile at him, a smile so soft and patient he feels like a wounded animal before you. Gently, you lead him to the couch, sitting down and motioning for him to sit beside you. He does, taking a seat right in the middle of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, and it lights his hair up golden.

“Do you love me, Boothill?” you start simply, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this man was head over heels for you. He nods, not a sliver of hesitation running through his veins.

“More than life itself,” he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. You run your thumb over his knuckles, and that everlasting ache in his eyes intensifies.

“Then what’s stopping you?” you ask, and he goes silent. His head dips, and you can feel him struggle, at war with his own thoughts.

“I ain’t too good with words, darlin’,”, he admits, and you don’t miss that little undercurrent of shame in his tone. You tilt your head slightly, leaning back slightly to make yourself just a bit more comfortable in the cushions.

“Think about it. I can wait as long as you need,” you say, and his gaze flickers up to meet yours for a moment before it goes back to your hands resting softly on each other. He takes a minute or so, refusing to make eye contact for its entirety and then some.

“You don’t deserve a man like me,” he starts, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Of course he would land on a reason so basic and absurd. No, you needed him to unpack that a little more, dive a bit deeper.

“Why?” you probe further, and he takes another pause.

“I ain’t fit for much but shootin’ these days, darlin’. Haven’t loved anything in so long I think I’ve forgotten how.” He’s still looking at anything but your face, and it’s almost boyish, the way he’s near hiding. You reply as easily as breathing.

“You can always relearn,” you say, and his eyes finally snap to yours.

“What if I mess up? What if I hurt you?” he says, urgent, and your voice is ever calm in contrast. You send him another small smile.

“Oh, you will,” you say with finality, and his face scrunches up-- he moves to pull away his hand, but you’ve suddenly tightened your grip, and he gives up and leaves it there without too much resistance. You’re too calm about this, too willing.

“Then why would I-”

“Boothill,” you interrupt, and he shuts up the moment the words leave your mouth. “Did you make mistakes when you became a parent?”

Understanding the point you’re getting at, he frowns. “Of course I did, but-”

“Do you regret it then? Being her dad?”

That stops him in his tracks.

“Of course not. I… she was my little girl, darlin’, my pride and joy,” he says, and you can hear the hurt in his voice, the wistfulness as he’s taken many years into the past. Part of you regrets bringing her up, but you know he needs a personal analogy to get out of the headspace he’s in and she’s the only example you can think of.

“Then do you regret loving me?” you ask quietly.

“There is not a single damn reality where I regret loving you, darlin’,” he answers you, face dead serious, and it soothes your heart. That’s all the answer you need from him and he knows it-- you just look at him, face softening as you wait for him to connect the dots and piece together what you’re implying.

That it’s worth it. That a life in which you have loved and experienced pain is worth more than a thousand lifetimes without loving. That mistakes are inevitable and a part of anything. That you know all this and have accepted it wholly-- have accepted him wholly, him in all his imperfections. 

He looks back at you. He looks back at you and swears he sees the whole world-- you in the sunlight, infinitely forgiving and merciful, and he nearly renounces his faith then and there. Forget the Hunt-- forget Lan, forget any Aeon and the paths they have built. Compared to the divinity before him, they are nothing, and he knows his heart must answer in kind.

He reaches out tentatively to touch your face, and you swear you melt.

[mychlapci]

Ooooh, Pharma suffering through one too many unsatisfied heats alone on Delphi, all cold and swollen. Sure he can deal with it manually but it’s never quite as satisfying as a person. 

He can’t ask First Aid or Ambulon either. He is not going to be that kind of creepy surgeon who pressures his staff. Though the thought of it may lead to some fantasies about Ratchet walking in on him and pressuring him into it and Pharma may get a little lost in the sauce at the thought of Ratchet bending him over and assisting poor little nurse Pharma with it. He is pining and shaking through overload any time he plays old recordings of Ratchet’s voice, but even that stops being satisfying the longer time passes with no call or even email from him.

This eventually evolves into him just ignoring it by force stopping the cycle as long as possible, especially when the added stress of Tarn’s deal happens. All this escalates into Pharma being stuck on Luna-1 post-being tortured for months with experiments, having just rebuilt himself from scratch after being disintegrated on and off until Tyrest got it right. Now he’s playing up his mad doctor side which gets him left pretty much alone by everyone. 

So he’s alone in his lab when his heat protocols start activating and he can’t stop it so he’s shaky collapsed gasping next to his notes, trying to think through the fever on how he can force stop with tools and force himself to crawl over. His panel snaps open because he’s so swollen and exhausted and he starts giggle-crying because of course this happens too. What’s next the Cons walking in on it? Clearly the universe hates him.

Then, to his horror, the door does open but it’s Star Saber which is a relief because he’s basically sexless and so repressed he’ll be too put off to try anything. Obviously. Pharma dealt with plenty of people like that before. They loved making comments at him after all for being a jet in medicine. He snarls at him trying to pull as much dignity as possible to help him up so he could resolve the issue and get back to the work.

Star Saber is strangely quiet and obedient, easily picking Pharma up and carrying him to his bed without any hesitation, grabbing some coolant, and only stopping when ordered to bring him a box and he looks inside it to see the contents.

Instead of bringing Pharma his toys though, he settles on the bed between Pharma’s legs and grabs them both in his hands, saying that imitations are not needed and are against Primus’s vision. Pharma starts giggling again because of course, why wouldn’t this happen now right when he thought he was going to get off easy. Star Saber’s face mask retracts and he goes face first into the valve before Pharma can react. Pharma didn’t realize that the Circle of Light worships the fighter-creator aspect of Primus and is, in fact, a sex cult. And Star Saber is a very devoted worshiper. 

Something he is happily demonstrating by pressing himself as close as he can and licking and sucking and lathing every swollen nod he can touch. Pharma whites out through the first of many overloads. Two more riding Star Saber’s face, the last of which had Pharma’s legs wrapped so tightly around his helm he thought he heard something crack while he rocked into Star Saber’s tongue grinding his outside node on the other’s nose. Then he got flipped over and wings nibbled and worshiped as fingers as large as some spikes dove inside him and found his lubrication glands to milk them so thoroughly the pleasure went into pain only to circle back. Only when Star Saber had managed to get the worst of the edge off leaving Pharma pliant, plush, and them both soaked did his spike come into play delightfully stretching with ridges and biolight that were designed to press against inside nodes and line up charge outputs.

They both don’t leave until the swelling has gone down enough for the entrance of the gestation tank to become visible again and Pharma is very thoroughly satisfied in every way possible. Including ones he didn’t think of resulting directly in two little carry ons now that Star Saber is smug in a very self-righteous way about.

Pharma finally gets a satisfied heat but the pay off is Star Saber basically attached to him and more than willing to “top him off” any time the bump stops being visible despite Pharma’s repeated corrections that no sex throughout carrying is not actually required for health. But at least this crazy mech he’s stuck with this time mainly wants to give him the best overloads he’s ever had, tell him what a gift he is, and is willing to listen to him ramble happily about the miracle cures he’s making. No torture this time. Unless you count the occasional edging. 

(Pharma can have a “nice” thing for once.)

AEHRGG... Pharma pussy indulgence...

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 6

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.5k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

chapter summary: You can't avoid it any longer -- it's time for you and Din to talk.

a/n: I feel like this is the moment many of you have been waiting for, lol. I'm very excited to see your reactions! See my notes at the end and on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions and videos), a bit more angst (sorry), but they are going to talk!

Chapter 6

You thought about your conversation with Kuiil as you walked to your rehearsal with Adrian, as you stretched and practiced in your morning classes, and as you took the stage over the weekend in Vince’s piece in the mixed program. You thought about it as you watched Din and Yuna in the Balanchine ballet and as you did your PT for your ankles and as you talked with Talia about your role in Midsummer. You thought about it as you sat on the bus home at night, so tired and achy that you needed something to think about to keep you awake.

You thought about it so much you barely had time to think about anything else.

Was Kuiil right? Was Din more uncertain than frustrated? Was he finding it difficult to communicate and connect in a way he hadn’t before, at CBC? You thought about seeing him on stage with Yuna, and how effortless that had seemed. But Balanchine’s choreography, more than so many others, was so technical, so focused on precision. There was so much less room for the dancer in a ballet where all of the space was taken up by striving for technical perfection. 

In class, you let your eyes stray to Din for the first time in two weeks. You watched as he stretched and jumped and wondered if perhaps you had just been talking past each other.

What if he’s trying, and you simply haven’t realized it? What if he just doesn’t know how?

He’s never done this before, you reminded yourself. 

Your mind was swimming as you stepped into the studio for your fourth rehearsal with Kuiil. You found Din was already there, as usual, and tried not to stare as you worried over your questions. You resolved to be more observant, this time.

And this time, because you were looking for it, you finally saw what Kuiil was talking about.

More than once, as you danced, Din reached for you, literally and figuratively. You leapt past and he oriented his body towards yours, echoing your movement. He turned, but kept his eyes on you as he did. You could see him trying in the ways he knew, to shape his movements around yours, to showcase his partner on stage, but his discomfort with improvisation shone through. The problem was that all of his movements were so stylistically different from yours, that there was little for you to hold on to. And so the two of you struggled to react to each other, as Kuiil had asked.

You tried. You tried to respond to him, to react, but it threw both of you off. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to improvise so drastically. Suddenly the dance was disjointed, and you fell so badly out of step in trying to turn towards him when he moved away from you that you stumbled. 

The music stopped.

Din turned to look at Kuiil and you spun around to do the same. 

Kuiil simply looked at you both for a moment, and then sighed. “I have pushed you too much, I think, and forgotten the basics of partnership. And you will need to work together, to connect more deeply, as we begin the second movement.” You started to shake your head, but Kuiil held up his hand. “No. Here is what we will do, as you prepare for Midsummer and Swan Lake.”

And then he gave you homework.

…

“So, what, is Kuiil going to lock you in a room until you talk to each other?” Adrian’s voice was teasing, but you could tell he meant it.

“Not quite,” you said. “But instead of rehearsal next week we’re supposed to try to get to know each other. To talk.”

He smirked at you. “Ooooh, to talk.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yes?” You poked him in the side and he yelped. “Stop teasing me and help me figure out what to talk to him about.”

He laughed. “I think you know what to talk about. You just have to figure out how to get him to talk at all.”

You shook your head. “He’s talked to me. Just not about… this.” You waved your arm at all of the problems you’d been having in rehearsal.

Adrian seemed to consider that for a moment. “You know, you’re right. He does talk to you, in a way he doesn’t talk to anyone else.” He furrowed his brow. “Maybe all you need to do is ask.”

…

You followed Adrian’s advice and started with simply asking Din to meet you at the rehearsal studio, without Kuiil, to talk. He agreed readily and you decided to take that as a good sign.

It was the week of Midsummer’s debut, and you were focused to the point of distraction on your role as Hermia. You appreciated it for taking your mind off of the disaster that was the pas de deux, though, and by the time you found yourself outside of the studio where you’d meet Din you realized you’d barely thought about the meeting at all.

(Well, not much. Not as much as the week before, at least.)

He was, as usual, already inside.

You closed the door behind you and dropped your bag and shoes before moving to join him where he sat with his back to the mirror. As you slid down beside him, he nodded in greeting. 

“So,” you said, when it became obvious Din wasn’t going to jump in first. “I think we both know what the problem is, but where do we start?”

You looked at Din and took a moment to observe him up close. He was staring straight ahead, but you didn’t think he was looking at anything in particular. He seemed too inside his own mind for that.

Just when you began to worry that you’d have to push him, that this wasn’t going to work because he wasn’t going to meet you halfway, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.” 

You blinked, startled — you weren’t sure what he was apologizing for. Did he think you meant he was the problem?

“What? Din, no—”

He shook his head and finally turned to look at you. His expression was as closed to you as always. “No, I want to say this. Let me… let me say this. I should have told you this weeks ago, but I can’t…” he trailed off, but this time you didn’t interrupt. You turned slightly towards him on the floor, extending your left leg and drawing your right knee to your chest. You gave him your full attention. He looked down at his hands and continued, softly. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve been so worried that I won’t be able to… to let go of my training. To dance in any other way. To do anything else.” 

You wanted to reach out to him, but you were worried he would startle if you did. You laced your own fingers together and squeezed your hands around your knee.

“I can see the problems, but I don’t know how to fix them. I don’t know how to move like you do. I don’t know how to do anything but what I’ve always done. I don’t know…” Suddenly he looked up at you, and you sucked in a sharp breath at the sheer emotion in his eyes. “I want to dance this with you. I want to partner with you. But I can’t seem to figure out how — not because of you. Because of me.”

You were reaching before you could stop yourself and lightly rested your hand on his forearm. He didn’t startle, but he did look down at it, brow furrowed. You forced yourself to leave it there and squeezed his arm lightly. 

“Din, I…” you weren’t sure how to reassure him. You’d seen his discomfort in rehearsals and you knew this was new to him, even if he hadn’t told you so before. You decided to share your own worries instead, since he had just been so open with his own. “This is the biggest role I’ve ever gotten. I mean, you know I’ve got Hermia, and then the spring fairy in Cinderella… but I’ve never been chosen for something like this before. I’ve never had a chance like this.” He lifted his head and met your eyes again, and this time his eyes were soft. It encouraged you to continue. “And you’re so good, I’ve been so worried that I’m not…” you bit your lip and squeezed his arm again when he opened his mouth. You shook your head and he nodded, letting you continue. “That I’m not good enough. I’ve had bad reviews before and I’m not even a principal and I know there are people out there who think I’m not good enough to be one. I—”

This time, Din cut you off. “That’s absurd.” His tone was flat, like his point was so obvious he couldn’t believe he had to say it.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, his gaze dancing over your face. He covered your hand on his left arm with his right and squeezed. “Of course you deserve to be a principal. They should have already promoted you. Karga clearly wants to, anyway. You’re a beautiful dancer.”

Your mouth dropped open. “What?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that barely-there smile and you felt your cheeks start to heat as his praise continued. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice me watching you. It wasn’t just for our homework. You’re… amazing. I don’t know how you put so much emotion into your dancing at the same time as so much such skill and technique. Like in Midsummer, everything you bring to Hermia, it’s…” His eyes scanned your face again, and you wondered if you were gaping at him. It felt like it. “It’s so real. And connected. I feel like a robot, compared to you. I’ve been trying to find that connection for myself, but…” he trailed off again and let his hand slip from where it covered your own. You took your hand back, too.

A connection, he said. “Um, thank you. Maybe…” you started, hesitant. He looked at you again. “Maybe we can help each other. Practice together, outside of our rehearsals.”

He nodded. You nodded back, and then you both laughed, a little. You’d never seen him laugh before and couldn’t help but stare.

You felt a bit shaky after all of that honesty and decided to lighten the air a little. “Ok, well, one thing we definitely need to do is get to know each other, right? So we’re comfortable together.” He nodded, and his expression was so open you had to force yourself to keep going, rather than to simply marvel at the fact that he’d dropped his mask. For you. “So. How about we each get 10 questions, but we can pass if we need to. Ok?”

One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

You shrugged. “It’s a good way to get to know someone, especially when you have to dance with someone new.”

Din nodded. “Alright. You go first.”

Over the next half hour you learned that Din’s favorite color was black (“come on, really?” “Fine, my second favorite is green.”), he hated smart technology (“I don’t want my fridge to talk to me. I want it to be a fridge.”), and his favorite ballet he’d ever been in was, surprisingly, Giselle (“it’s not in the normal repertoire there, and they didn’t like how I danced it. But I did. It was the most free I’ve ever felt on stage.”).

You wanted to ask more about why he’d left CBC, but that felt like too much for your first real conversation. You did learn, though, that he had a son.

“Grogu,” he said, “that’s his name. He’s five. He loves watching ballet.” Din smiled a little, looking off into the distance. “I don’t know if he’ll want to dance, but at least he likes watching me do it.”

You smiled. He was more open when he talked about his son, who must have been the little boy you saw him with, back in December. “Sounds like he sits through it better than my family.”

Din laughed, and shook his head. “We’ll see if it changes as he gets older.”

“Is that why you’re always in such a hurry?”

He nodded. “My friend takes care of him during the day, but I hate leaving him for so long. She lives close by so I try to go home for lunch, on the weekends, or to pick him up from school.”

That made sense. A new understanding of Din was forming in your mind — not an avoidant, aloof principal dancer, but a father who wanted to spend time with his son as much as he wanted to dance. Someone with more on his mind than fitting into this new company — you imagined the move must have been difficult on Grogu, too. 

“How’s he settling in here?”

Din looked at you, that little half smile back on his lips. “Just fine. He likes his new kindergarten, he’s made some friends. Better than I even hoped, really.”

You nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad he’s liking it. I bet that was a difficult transition for him. And you.”

Din sighed. “A bit. But it was necessary.”

Before you could even consider asking what he meant by that, you both heard commotion in the hall. You checked the time and realized you needed to get to your next rehearsal. Din stood first and offered you his hand.

You slid your hand into his, and he squeezed it as he pulled you up. 

“This was a good idea,” he said, squeezing your hand again. “Do you think next week will go better?”

You nodded. “I think so. But do you want to meet beforehand, to talk about the choreography? Maybe figure out where we can find each other instead of missing each other.”

He nodded. “I’d like that.”

…

You felt lighter after your conversation with Din. You hadn’t solved the problem, of course, but you’d at least talked to each other. It felt like the air was clearer, now that you both knew the other was struggling in some way. Neither of you was alone in it.

Over the weekend you focused on Midsummer — it was a big deal for you, getting cast as Hermia. You were excited to dance through her turmoil. She was so torn, as a character, and you wanted to portray that on stage. 

As you prepared and stretched on Friday night, you thought about what Din had said — that he couldn’t figure out how to dance in a new way, and that he felt like a robot. You shook your head. A robot? You weren’t sure what he was feeling while he danced, but Din never looked like a robot when he was performing. He’d said, too, that he loved being in Giselle, an overall more emotional performance than much of CBC’s usual repertoire. That he’d felt free. 

You thought about his face, every time you’d seen behind the mask, and you knew he could do it. You just had to help him figure out how to find that connection again, and how to lower the mask more while he was performing.

As you stepped out on stage that night, you let that certainty ground you. As you performed your variation, you’d never felt more like you were floating.

...

Prev | Next

a/n: they talked!!! what do we think?

Pas de deux & partnering -- Partnering in ballet is hard! There has to be a lot of trust and communication between partners, even though you don't necessarily need to be like best friends. These two are so advanced and have been in companies for so long that they are able to jump into something like this, but they still have to establish a partnering relationship, which is tough! To give you an idea of just some of what goes into partnering, here's a video of "beginning tips" (skip to around ~12:00 for some interesting stuff on balance). Din is used to verrrrry formal partnering, and that is some of the reason for their communication issues.

Midsummer - reader is dancing the role of Hermia in A Midsummer's Night Dream, which can go to either a principal or a soloist, just depending on the company. Here's a nice overview of the two acts and the ballet from the San Francisco Ballet. Here's a video of a dancer breaking down the role. Here's a couple examples of Hermia's famous variation (solo): one, two. Hermia has other big moments in the ballet but I've mostly been mentioning reader prepping for the solo. Companies might also spread out the roles over different nights or weekends -- in this case reader has Hermia for one weekend, like Adrian has Puck for one weekend (which isn't really mentioned in the fic because I didn't think it was relevant). (Is it a little unbelievable that reader is so unsure about her possible promotion if she got this role? Maybe. Soloists could get this role, especially a first soloist!)

Spring fairy - reader is dancing the role of the spring fairy in Cinderella, too. This and Midsummer are big story ballets that would draw an audience. Here's another two performances of the spring fairy variation and all of the fairies in one video from a 2003 Royal Ballet production. Spring starts ~2:30. The wiki page has a nice overview of the numbers in each act, so you can see where the fairies come in. The wiki lists 4 acts, though, and most companies do it like ABT I think -- with 2 acts. And here's a full length recording.

Giselle - Din mentions this briefly and we'll learn more later, but here's an overview of the ballet. (it's one of my favs)

tag list coming in a reblog!

[maladaptiveobsession]

*pokes* oh my god! i really love all of your dol headcanons, the suicidal one admitedly made me cry, it's just that good! :'D not sure if you take request or not, you can ignore this if you aren't, but i'd absolutely would love something related to bailey taking reader's virginity...? his dialogue in canon (before it was removed rip) when he took pc's virginity drive me fucking crazy :)

“Your body was always mine.”

Synopsis: You owe Bailey, but are short on cash. He takes your virginity as payment.

Contains: afab!gn!reader, anal mention, biting, cervix kiss, deflowering, fingering, masturbation, noncon, oral mention, overstimulation, scratching, purity/virginity kink

Words: 2,159

A/N: Sorry this took so long. It’s been a rough month or so. I wish they would have left us the ability to fuck Bailey at least until they had more lewd content to replace it with. I refuse to acknowledge his canon disinterest in the player.

In a town such as this, where temptations festered in the shadow, it was a miracle you’d preserved your purity for as long as you had. He can’t imagine how you managed, though he supposes your affiliation with the church must have contributed. Fat load of good that did against him, though, didn’t it? It hadn’t been intentional, but he’d gradually accrued your virginities, unraveling your innocence thread by thread.

Once in a moment of weakness, driven by frustration. You’d pestered him all that morning with dumb shit, and in a haze of anger and desire, he overwhelmed you, his hands gripping your body as he bent you over his desk and roughly violated your ass. You fought valiantly, but you were just no match.

"You should be putting out more if you're this tight. What do you think you're good for?"

Once with the intentions to torment that insufferable prick, Avery. You may have been that bastard’s date for the evening, but he was your guardian, and it was about damn time he reminded you both who actually owned you. With the right encouragement—threats against that other brat, Robin—he hadn’t needed to lift a finger for your mouth to get to work. The look on that man’s face as you choked on him was the highlight of his evening, though your inexperienced tongue running alongside his shaft was a contender to be sure.

"Don't get any funny ideas. Just take it."

Once more that same evening without thinking. With all the adrenaline coursing through his body, he hadn’t considered the significance before grabbing your hand and thoughtlessly dragging you off to his car. He hadn’t registered the way your hand tensed against his own until long after he’d dumped you off at the orphanage.

Lastly, by your discretion, too drunk for you to realize the “handsome stranger with kissable lips” was in fact your caretaker coming to collect your dumbass after you’d gone and got yourself roofied. You were lucky it was the day before collection; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. For reasons unknown to even himself, his resolve to remain indifferent crumbled under your clumsy lips, pulling you close to dress your lips with his and turning that chaste brush of lips into a ferocious battle with his tongue. You probably still think it was that haunting freak you barely tolerate who took your first kiss, but he hasn’t forgotten.

"Surprised are you? You'll learn to kiss better soon."

Now, behind the locked door of his office, he finds himself clawing at the remnants of his self-control, trying desperately to ignore the desire that began to bloom since he first pinned you against his desk. He palms at the ache pressing against his trousers, shame creeping along his spine. He should never have let things get as far as they did. There were lines he had resolved not to cross, and yet here he was, hips jerking to the thought of your warm tongue, soft lips, and tight ass.

The thought that you’ve been sauntering around town with that virgin cunt of yours unprotected, purity vulnerable to any prowling perverts, evokes a possessive rage that has no place invading his thoughts.

He sure as fuck shouldn’t be entertaining the thought that you’re only some doors down, just out of reach. The desire to own you in full has him in a chokehold. Growling, he reclines deeper into his swivel chair, impatiently fishing his cock out from his trousers, leaking pre-cum down over angry veins.

Fuck it, just this once.

With a sense of urgency, he gathers himself in his hand, tightening his hold damn near enough to strangle, and begins furiously pumping his hand. It doesn't take too long before he reaches that precipice, jaw and core tightening as he inhales sharply. Warmth spreads over his hand, pace and grip relaxing as he eases himself down from his high.

Releasing a sigh, he reaches across his desk for a tissue. After cleaning himself off and resituating himself into his pants, he glances down at his wristwatch.

12:30 AM

Right, there was still the matter of your debt. Before he could erase you from his thoughts, he had to collect your payment for this week. It was admittedly early, but the day of collection nonetheless, and he could swing by damn well any time he pleased. He steels himself before pushing the door open and striding up the stairs towards your room. The sound of your laughter mingling with that of another orphan—Robin, his mind supplies to his distaste—pulls at his insides like a vice.

The door swings open violently, the force startling the both of you into silence. The sight before him reignits that possessive rage; your hips straddling his with only a pair of panties protecting you from his exposed length. Underneath you, the boy cringes as Bailey's attention rests on him, eyes widening in bewilderment and terror. The air was thick with tension.

“Get out.” He bites out as calmly as he could manage, nails digging into his palms.

Robin casts a rueful glance between the both of you, torn between the desire to shield you and fear. You assure him that you’ll be fine, gesturing towards the door with your chin.

“But—” Robin begins, but is interrupted by Bailey.

“Did I fucking stutter?” he snarls, the animosity seemingly making the air colder and heavier. Quickly worming back into his night shorts, Robin slinks by Bailey while sending one last remorseful glance your way before vanishing down the corridor.

Silence punctuates his departure. Rage simmers below the surface of his skin, threatening to burn him. The sound of shuffling sheets punctures the quiet, instinctually causing him to look your way. Breath catches in his throat, soaking in the sight of your exposed thighs. As you reach for your bottoms, awkwardly twisting your body, he sees what he believes must be that brat's fluids discoloring your underwear. Lips twitching, he’s overcome with the desire to tear it from your body and have it burned.

Had he arrived even an hour later, you’d have surrendered your virginity to that urchin. Struck with violent impulse, he feels the final strand of resolve disintegrate. He stalks forward, his presence overwhelming as he closes the distance between you.

Scrambling back until your back is pressed against the headboard, you glare daggers, demanding to know why he’s here. The slight tremble of your voice reveals the fear underlining that false bravado you’ve taken to wearing. He makes note of your shifting eyes, frantically searching for an escape, and snorts in amusement. There would be no trouble subduing you, especially at this distance. Perhaps you came to this realization yourself, your eyes snapping back to him with a trace of defeat settling onto your features.

“You owe me.” A grimace overtakes your expression. Ah, now this was a first. Of all his orphans, you were one of the few that were consistently prompt with their payments. No wonder you were offering yourself to that brat. Now, no guilt would weigh on his conscience; you owed him and he intended to collect. You had only yourself to blame for whatever happened next.

Gathering your voice, you stamper out a retort, voice raising as you speak. “I-I’m a little short, but I ha-have enough to cover Robin! Do whatever to me; just leave him out of it!"

You nervously extend the bills out, and he snatches them, flicking through the stack to tally the sum. Satisfied with the amount, he stuffs the wad of cash into his pocket before glancing back up to you.

“I know just what to do with you. Don’t worry, I have no interest in that brat joining.” Closing the distance between you, he snatches your ankle and drags you towards him before you can resist.

You yelp as he pounces, quickly pinning your arms above your head and adjusting his grip so he can hold them down with just one hand. He doesn’t give you a moment to react before he snatches your lips with his own, silencing any potential objections. His tongue swipes across your lips, thrusting down your throat—domineering, rough, and speaking of suppressed desire. Pulling back, a string of saliva connects your lips.

“Wh-What was that about...?” You gasp out, greedily sucking in air, nearly suffocated by his intensity.

“You owe me.” He begins, hand drifting down to cup your sex. “And you have something I want.”

Tears gather at the revelation, struggling against his hold. “N-no way! Haven’t you stolen enough from me?”

Snatching your cheeks in his fingers, he clenches as a warning and sneers. “You fucking owe me, so unless you want me knocking on that brat’s door for payment, you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you.”

You sniffle and sob, but otherwise settle down, realizing you have no other choice but to comply. Watching your eyes for any signs of rebellion, he feels assured you won’t try anything and releases your face and arms. You go limp, defeated. He hooks his finger in your panties, impatiently pulling them off your body before tossing them to the floor. He doesn’t bother to take off your shirt.

Though having seen you exposed before, he can’t help but stare in appreciation at your glistening lips. Swiping his middle and ring finger between your folds, he wastes no time before sinking knuckle deep, aided by your slick.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. That brat do this to you?” He begins pumping his fingers and circling your clit with his thumb, enjoying the crinkle of your nose and eyes as you try to maintain composure. “Or do you actually want this?”

You shake your head and try to say no, but your voice breaks into a whine as he curls his fingers against a sensitive spot. He takes the initiative to attack that spot, pressing a hand against your chest to hold you down when you begin to squirm.

"Just relax. I'll handle everything like always."

Feeling your chest rise faster and walls clenching tighter, he pulls away just as you’re about to reach your high. A whine leaves your throat against your will, feeling betrayed at the loss of his fingers. Without warning, his hands grip your waist, pulling you into him and replacing his fingers with something much thicker. The sudden intrusion steals your breath away and sends you over the edge, vaguely registering the pain through your climax. Perhaps he was just impatient, or maybe he cares some semblance to distract you from the pain of being split open by something so large. Either way, he gives you no time to adjust to his size, fingers digging into your skin and leaving crescent-shaped marks.

His eyes and lips pressed tight, overwhelmed by your tight heat. He’s plucked plenty of virgins, but none had brought him such intense pleasure. Melting into you, he sinks his face into your neck, tongue gliding across your skin and savoring your taste. You shiver as his lips trace your collarbone, the nipping of his teeth forcing sharp breaths from your throat.

It’s subtle, but you can hear his muted groans as his hips snap against yours, hungry and desperate. The sounds of wet, heated sex penetrate the thin walls of your room, sure to be heard by all. He can’t find it in him to care when all he can focus on is how sweetly you massage him, bringing him closer to the precipice of pleasure with each thrust. The crown of his cock kisses your cervix, your back arching from the sensation as your hands and legs wrap around him. Your nails dig into his back as that coil in your stomach tightens, leaving deep scratches in their path.

As you push against his thrusts, his hand slips between your bodies, teasing your clit with fervor. You feel yourself slip over that edge, head snapping back against the bed and calling out his name with eyes twisted shut. Feeling you tighten, he loses composure and begins frantically chasing that high for himself. Sensitive, you whine from overstimulation, softly calling out his name to catch his attention. The sound of your soft voice helplessly calling for him and only him lights his nerves and leaves him helplessly gripping the sheets. He bites down on your shoulder to stiffle a moan, spilling into you. His hips grind into yours as he winds down, hands tenderly gliding across your body.

As he pulls back, hot white pools onto the sheets below. He admires the mess he’s made: your bruised skin, neck raw and glistening, and lips parted as you try to gather your breath. His thumb ghosts over your lips, amused by the dumb look settled on your face. Satisfaction thrums through him, having claimed the last of your purity.

"Your body was always mine. Like your first time."

[whyarewecalledtheshipname]

rambled this before but MAN that riku is paralleled to terra who's dad was so extremely aligned with Light that he basically nearly fell to darkness/evil out of his /extreme/ intolerance of it??? Eraqus who totally doesn't remind me of MoM??? GUH RRAHH

[noctlas332]

day three,,,, i would have had liked to work a bit more on this but alas, that did not happen,,

[s0fter-sin]

what up it's been 12 years and i'm still pissed there was no consequence to dean being in constant survival mode and fighting 24/7 in purgatory

what do you mean he didn't become a god at hand to hand combat? what do you mean he could still be jumped by random ass demons?

he was - at best - in a constant in-between state meaning he didn't get hungry or tired but that also means he didn’t sleep for a year and was constantly being hunted by hundreds of thousands of monsters that want to eat him specifically, while actively searching for cas

OR he was in a completely normal state meaning he was constantly fighting starvation and exhaustion while all of that was still happening!! it's not like there's much to scavenge in monster heaven!! he would’ve been on the verge of dying for a year!!!

then he comes back and he's just exactly the same? the same level of fighting skill he's always had? if not slightly worse for some reason?? what do you mean he couldn't kill anything he came across with his eyes closed when it's what he's been doing EVERY DAY FOR A YEAR???

it's always been one of the flaws of a show running for so long that after like s6 they never seemed to be getting better? they still got the shit kicked out of them by demons and ghosts and what have you and instead of finding obscure rituals they just got A Better Gun™️

both sam and dean are the peak of what hunters can be; they've been trained to hunt and kill things bigger and stronger than them since they were children, so what do you mean they still get the shit kicked out of them so often? was it just to show how strong monsters are? that even with their level of experience and skill, they're still outmatched?

(or do you just need a way to keep up the tension cough cough what who said that)

but you can't have dean who's been trained to be an elite soldier Since He Was Four Years Old go into a 360 combat scenario for an entire year - a good chunk of which he was completely by himself - then say he didn't improve his combat skills At All

and not even just combat, his senses would've been off the charts!! there was nothing but ambient forest noise and growling, his hearing would've gotten so sharp, it was darker so his night vision would ve been insane and he should've been able to feel a monster coming a mile away after constantly being on guard

post purgatory dean had the opportunity to be a completely different beast to anything we'd ever seen before, to be a completely different kind of traumatised from all of his other trauma

hell broke him but purgatory should've broken and rebuilt him into something Terrifying

[alaskan-wallflower]

how my parents feel after always reminding me how much better my older brother is than me

[dutybcrne]

Making myself sad by wondering if Kaeya had NEVER seen Diluc mad at him before that fateful confrontation

[icewindandboringhorror]

I’m always paranoid of my tumblr being deleted or malfunctioning or something like that someday, so here’s other places to find me/follow me, just in case lol

~ instagram - https://www.instagram.com/lucalicatte/

~ main youtube - https://www.youtube.com/c/LucaLiCatte

~ games/sims youtube - https://www.youtube.com/@cloudycatte

~ facebook page (I rarely use this because I hate facebook but.. it at least allows text posts better than instagram does, so idk maybe I’d use it more if tumblr went away? lol) - https://www.facebook.com/cloudycatteart/

~ Other Links (stuff I don’t use often/isn’t Main enough to list here, like twitter, neopets, other tumblr sideblogs, youtube channels, etc.) are here - http://icewindandboringhorror.tumblr.com/otherlinks )

[waheedawolf]

.

[chuuyasoup]

IT JUST FUCKS ME UP INSIDE OKAY like especially bc. theyre twins theyre inextricably linked theyre inseparable they love each other so much that they hate each other theyre ready to kill each other to save each other and none of it makes any logical sense aughhhhhhhh but u still Know. u still understand

[reesestshirt]

When I was in middle school, I tried to learn how to crochet. I knew how to knit already, so I figured ‘how hard could it be’ and used my Christmas money on a brand new set of aluminum hooks and a how-to book.

To say it was difficult was an understatement. I spent hours pouring over my book, begging to gain some inkling of understanding from what felt like incomprehensible runes. My reward? One lopsided trapezoid of lumpy fabric and a resolve to never pick up a crochet hook again.

And so life went on, I finished middle school and high school without giving crochet so much as a second glance. In college, I read about how crochet couldn’t be replicated by a machine, it was unique in a way that knitting and many other fiber arts weren’t.

For Christmas last year, my girlfriend gave me what I now consider to be my most prized possession: a crocheted plush of my favorite pokemon. I raved over her skills and, since she never learned how to knit, we decided to have a yarn date at some point and teach each other our respective skills.

We never did get around to that yarn date. She passed a few months after our declaration, leaving me to inherit what was left of her yarn.

Nearly a decade after my initial attempt, I got ready for the toughest battle of my life. My weapons? One skein of yarn, a YouTube video, and a crochet hook that I had somehow never gotten rid of.

I slowly made my way through the video, redoing my work a couple times until I was satisfied with my product: a small, slightly misshapen rectangle.

I looked at my pristinely-made pokemon plush with hope for the first time in months and thought to myself, ‘maybe crocheting isn’t the hardest thing in the world, maybe you were just 12.’

Maybe this isn’t the hardest thing in the world. Maybe I’m just 21.

[dutybcrne]

I love the idea of both Kaeya and Diluc being like. Constantly freaking ppl out back in their knight days bc they’d climb fucken anywhere and everywhere unprompted, no matter how dangerous or impossible it seemed