#clocksmithing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ktsumu · 11 months ago

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three ticks and i’m home.

pairing: dainsleif x fem!reader, 4.2k words

summary: gods are never innocent; neither are godless men.

(or: a timeline of dainsleif's grief through the life of his broken watch, one that ticks backwards and the one you fixed, first.)

note: someone tell me to stop reading his lore and i will. beware for plot holes because genshin is nuts. crossposted to ao3 also!

content: major character death, destruction, angst, talk of children, you're a clocksmith, angst with like a sprinkle of fluff in one scene, a lot of worldbuilding regarding khaenri'ah + the cataclysm

Five years before.

Dainsleif is a serious guy.

He needs to be — it’s a must-have quality for a Commander. He smiles at children that look up to him, doesn’t leave bars with women who want to. His schedule is so tight that some say it wears a corset, or at least his friends do. He takes his job with the pride of a boy who grew up watching the soldiers march, a boy who now leads them.

Dainsleif runs a tight schedule.

That is, until his watch breaks, and disorder comes soon after.

He complains in the bunks for twenty minutes that night about the chaos his time regulates until one of his friends recommends an old friend, a clocksmith in the heart of the city.

( “Get a digital one while you’re there. That thing’s ancient.”

“People are allowed to like old things, Halfdan.”

“Not things that break like that.” )

Dainsleif visits you the next day, setting the metal watch on your counter with his arms crossed. His brows tug together and his expression is more wary than it is expectant.

“Can you fix it?” he asks.

You look it over, rubbing your thumb over rust. “Who’s it from?”

“Can you fix it?”

You set the watch back down, looking back up at him with a little grin.

“For a price, Commander.”

Dainsleif swallows, rolling his shoulders back and digging out his wallet.

It takes you four hours to fix his ancient watch, and you even get the rust off of the band for him. You clasp it back around his wrist and tell him to get back to work when he tries to thank you, standing around for way too long. When he leaves, you set aside and refund his money.

15 years since the Cataclysm

“What do you mean you can’t fix it?”

“They call us horologists, sir. Not magicians.”

Dainsleif huffs, leaning on the counter and shaking his head. “My friend recommended you,” he says, pleads. “He said you can fix anything. Even this. Did you try?”

“I—”

“Try.”

The watchmaker tilts his head, an unsure look on his face. Dainslef’s shoulders fall. “Please,” he whispers. “Try.”

The man purses his lips, sighing, and extends a hand. His fingers wriggle.

“For a price.”

Dainsleif takes out his wallet and pays him double what he paid you — the watch takes four days to fix, and he doesn’t remove the rust. Dainsleif collects it with haste.

“Sorry, couldn’t change the time,” he tells his client. “That thing will always run backwards.”

Dainsleif nods. “Oh.”

Four.

Your favourite day is Sunday.

Dainsleif allows himself one day to relax, one day that he’s mandated, and what day other than a day reserved for a god you never had would be a better fit? On Sundays, you stay in bed, under your linen sheets and against his chest. Neither of you move until absolutely necessary; sometimes hours, sometimes less.

“Breakfast soon?” he asks.

“I thought maybe a little while longer.”

“That’s fine.”

“Ugh, I love it when you agree with me,” you tease, giggling when he scoffs. He agrees with you most of the time; you’re reasonable people.

Dainsleif sighs, humming when you curl further into his side. He's a serious guy, but that doesn’t count on Sundays. Not during your beautiful, godless mornings. He raises an eyebrow at the vase on your dresser, “Those are new.”

“Hm?”

“Inteyvats,” he comments, “the flowers.”

“Is it so wrong of me to show some nationalism, Dain?”

He grins, shaking his head as you laugh. You laugh and it shakes your shoulders. You laugh and it shakes his chest.

“I just didn’t know you liked them,” he says, “that’s all.”

You settle, humming against the cotton of his shirt. “I love them.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Maybe someday, we’ll have someone to use their name.”

He thinks for a moment, “A daughter?”

You tilt your head back so you can see him, to the point where it aches to hold yourself up like that. “Would that be so bad?”

Dainsleif thinks for a moment — you and a daughter. “No,” he says, “not at all.”

“That’s down the road, anyway,” you laugh. “You know what isn’t?”

“What?”

“Our anniversary,” you say, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “How do you want to celebrate it?”

Dainsleif thinks about your one year anniversary, lying in bed with you on a Sunday, talking about a family and the flower you’ll start it with. He thinks about how content he would be if you did nothing at all but this; lie against his side and kiss his jaw, talk about the daughter he hopes will look just like you. He doesn’t think he could ask for anything more.

“This is okay.”

“Mm, alright,” you say, your smile against his collarbone. “I love you.”

Dainsleif tilts his head so you can stay where you are. “I love you," he echoes, "I love how you speak our language.”

“Oh? What’s so special about it?”

He smiles to himself.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Fifty years since

The watch breaks again on what would’ve been your seventy-fifth birthday.

The smith Dainsleif found this time looks over the stuttering clock hands, the numbers written in something unintelligible to him. He tosses it in his hand, a curious look on his face. “Old watch, no?”

“Very. Could you restore it?”

“By ‘restore’ you mean…”

“Fix it to tell time,” he clarifies. “And to still tick backwards.”

The clocksmith looks up with curious eyes, one of his eyebrows quirking up. “You want me to fix it ... to be broken?”

“If you can.”

He hesitates. “I’ll do my best.”

Dainsleif lets him swivel around in his chair, flicking a light on over his desk as he hunches over. The shop he operates out of is personal, messy — never Dainsleif’s style, but he can admit it is quaint. Quilts and sewn tapestries line the walls, textbooks from the Akademiya line a bookcase filled with papers; a frame hangs on the wall.

A painting of a flower; inteyvat.

“Excuse me,” Dainsleif coughs, “I can’t help but notice your painting.”

“Hm? Oh, the flower.”

“Yes — you know where it’s from?”

The smith hums a laugh, nodding. “Khaenri’ah hasn’t been gone long enough to forget it.”

Dainsleif swallows. “I was just surprised to see it, is all.”

“Most are,” he replies, his eyes not leaving the watch he works on. He rummages through his drawer for tweezers. “It was a gift for my daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes,” he replies, happily. “We named her after them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath.

Three.

When Dainsleif comes home from his shift, you’re sitting at the table with your chin resting in your hands.

“Good evening,” he greets, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his boots. He doesn’t seem to notice that you don’t reply in the twenty or so seconds it takes to writhe out of his uniform, or that you don’t bother to even look in his direction at all. The only time he realizes that something in the room has shifted is when you move away from his kiss. “Hello?”

You grit your teeth.

Dainsleif crosses his arms, slowly rounding the table to face you from across it. “What is it?”

You look up at him, finally. “Where’s my blueprint, Dain?”

He blinks. “I — your what?”

“Don’t act dumb,” you say with a pointed finger, your head shaking. Your body might as well be, too. “My analog blueprints, digital ones — they’re all gone and guess who is the only one I trusted enough to tell?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. “It wasn’t me,”

“Who else was it, then?” you shout, standing up to try and match his height. “Who? Tell me, Dainsleif, who else could it have been?”

He swallows, pulling one of your dining table chairs out. It squeals against the floor like it hates him just as much as you do. “Sit, please.”

“You know what I think, Dain?”

“Sit down, please.”

“I think you stole them for the factories you Guards don’t tell anyone about,” you whisper, “the metal soldiers you make.”

“They’re field tillers,”

“Field tillers don’t have missiles in their chest,” you spit. The air thickens as you shake your head.

He gestures to the seat you once sat in, but you don’t bite. Not that easily, not ever.

“Lie to me again and I’m gone for good.”

Dainsleif swallows again, folding his hands and looking down at them. You’re scorned and he’s holding the heat; there is no explanation he can offer that makes this look any bit okay to either of you. He’s dug his grave — now, he lies in it, shovel at his side.

“Tell me,” you plead, “tell me what you’re making an army for.”

Dainsleif shakes his head.

“Gods don’t like godless men,” he says, so low you hardly hear him. So simple, like he's being reasonable.

You shake your own. “Godless men don’t even like themselves.”

His eyes meet yours.

“I want my designs back,” you tell him, more desperate than you let on. “Every page, every scribble, everything. And I don’t want anything made with them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath, his eyes averting themselves back down to the table. He doesn’t need to see your face anymore — not when he knows you’ll hate him once he tells you.

“You can’t.”

“You—”

“I can’t,” he says. “It’s too late.”

150 years since

“Wow, this watch is beat.”

“It is — can you fix it?”

This one is in Fontaine, the clocksmith is — she’s eclectic, a little disorganized like you were, with a scary love for crushed velvet by the look of her shop. There’s metal dust everywhere and things that don’t belong to clocks or watches, but someone swore up and down she knows her stuff. Knows it well, too.

She looks back up at Dainsleif with a wink. “Got Mora?”

He tosses a pouch on the counter. “Anything you need.”

He doesn’t bother watching what she takes from it, instead opting to turn and watch the bustling streets outside. He’s fond of Fontaine, it’s full of life and running water — every shop is full from wall to wall.

The girl he’s trusting to fix his watch is trying to speak to him, but he’s not listening; all he can see is the eye of a Ruin Guard that hangs in the window of a pawn shop across the street; marked down to half value, less if you trade-in for credit. Dainsleif thinks about the lives those parts were worth almost two centuries ago.

No one in Khaenri’ah was ever worth just a couple hundred coins.

Two.

Taverns in Khaenri’ah have so many songs that they fill walls with the lyrics.

They are loud and they are lively — you know something’s wrong when you catch one quiet and half-empty. The windows all made of stained glass, rustic to contrast the world around them; taverns in Khaenri’ah are like a world of their own. In them, people dance like such.

You dance that way, yourself. Not with him, but it’s nice to watch you spin again.

Dainsleif watches you clutch someone’s shoulder; he doesn’t know who he is but he’s wearing his uniform, someone he leads. He thinks he remembers you saying that you made an exception for him — you don’t date ‘snobs from the Royal Guard.’

(Dainsleif has hope that, maybe, you still remember your pact and, maybe, you try to keep it now.)

The wooden floors groan beneath stomping feet and gliding boots, the room a whirlwind of exhausted workers and the select few from the Guard that deem little places like this worthy of their presence.

He catches your eye for a second, only one, but your smile fades quick enough for your dancing partner to whisk you around again. A blur of your dress, and then, you’re grinning again.

Halfdan sets a drink down on the bar in front of him, kicking out the stool beside Dainsleif and sitting down. He follows his commander’s eyes and they land on you; they typically do on Friday nights.

“It’s alright,” Halfdan says, with a heavy-handed pat on his back. “Everyone has the one that got away.”

Dainsleif shakes his head, you laugh against his knight’s chest. “It’s different.”

“How so?”

“It does not matter, now, does it?”

“Mm, and yet, you’re still watching her.”

Dainsleif sips on the drink that was brought to him, turning to face the bar instead. Halfdan purses his lips, drumming his fingers on the table.

“You know,” Halfdan says, “I worry about the … field tillers.”

Dainsleif nods. “They’ll work.”

“Godless doesn’t mean we need to create our own, Captain,”

“You don’t know the things that I do,” Dainsleif cuts, harsh but not mean. “All of this has been discussed before. Let us make the orders, Halfdan, let yourself follow them.”

Halfdan hesitates.

“Captain Dainsleif,”

“Halfdan.”

“I apologize for overstepping,” he says, “but I’m just afraid of what will happen to us.”

Dainsleif rolls his shoulders back, nodding subtly. He clinks the bottom of his glass against the table.

“I am too,” he replies, tilting his head back and his glass up.

When he sets his glass back down, swallowing with a wince, he turns around. You’re the only one still on the floor, and you’re looking right at him.

500 years since

Dainsleif has spent his life figuring out where to drink. He finds that Mondstadt is the best place to.

The taverns there are quiet enough, and he isn’t bothered by anyone — they’re less lively than the ones way back when. It's a blessing that he isn’t haunted by the laughter, and a curse that he forgets what it sounds like. The tap beer is good, too. Mondstadt only serves you in bottles or chilled glasses.

But Dainsleif knows that no good comes after two in the morning, and nothing good comes from watching the Knights of Favonius pour in.

(It’s a little too familiar; he’s watching his bloodied soldiers laugh and topple to the bar.)

Dainsleif leaves enough Mora to cover his tab and tip, and bolts for the door.

He makes a beeline through the center, cutting the body of the bar in two as these faces he recognizes comment on his attire. He knows he looks like a fish out of water, he feels like a fish out of water. Five hundred years spent in this place and he still feels hated — he’s sure the next five centuries won’t change.

He knocks shoulders with someone near the door: “Woah there, pretty small hallway this must be, huh?”

He’s about to apologize, too, maybe count it as his crooked form of atonement, until he looks the guy he hit in the eye. Yes, eye — there's only one showing. The other hides beneath an eye patch.

He’s looking at him, but somehow, he’s now looking at you.

He’s lost in them, his eyes, and this new guy seems to notice — judging by the way he’s dressed, Dain guesses he’s a captain. He clears his throat.

“I know you’re heading out, but maybe another drink wouldn’t hurt?”

Dainsleif panics, because now he’s trapped. He doesn’t see you until he sleeps — not until he’s locked in bed somewhere, until it doesn’t matter what he says because no one else is there to listen but you and him. He can’t see you here, and he can’t see him.

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that I'm in a rush. I apologize for hitting you.”

(He doesn’t get very far.)

The man takes his wrist, making him turn around.

“Please?” he asks, but it’s not really begging. More like a proposition, probably. “I’m not sure how to say that in Khaenri’ahn.”

Dainsleif lets out a breath.

One.

It is your old day, Sunday , when Dainsleif enters your shop again, the broken watch on his wrist thrumming against his pulse point with every jerk of its hands.

The bell rings above your door and he’s almost surprised the door isn’t locked — he remembers unlocking it for you after he had to go, way back when. Kissing you goodbye, apologizing for holding up your business. You aren’t far, either; you come out with a smile that fades quicker than he likes to admit.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” he says, all too formal. He winces, almost. “Uh, it's broken again.”

“Of course it did. It’s ancient.”

He just sighs a laugh, nodding, undoing it from his wrist, from beneath his sleeve. “Yes, it is. Do you think you can fix it again?”

You glance between him and the watch. Him, and the watch. “Let me see it.”

“Of course,”

“Okay.”

You examine it with delicate fingers, screwing off the back of the body with a small driver, squinting at its insides. Dainsleif watches you.

“Dain, this thing isn’t gonna last long.”

“I don’t mind. I can pay double.”

“Why do you like this watch so much?” you laugh, dropping it on the counter and crossing your arms. “I mean, they don’t pay you enough for a digital?”

Dainsleif shakes his head. “I like this one.” He coughs. “You fixed it, first.”

“Yeah, and I’m shocked it still works.”

“You craft well.”

The two of you don’t speak for a moment; you dwell on the watch, its body pulled apart on the table. Your fingers pull at your threading jeans, and Dainsleif must see you mutilating your pants because he leans on the counter, lowers himself to you.

He lets you look at him for a moment. “What is it?”

“Nothing,”

“What is it?” he asks again, like it isn’t the second time.

You take a deep breath, tilting your head up.

“I’m sorry about your designs. Every day.” He shakes his head, looking in behind you. Your desk is still full of paper. “I will reap what I sow, and that’s the only comfort I can give you.”

“I know.” “I’m sorry. Endlessly, I am.”

You huff. “I’ve had better things since. It’s not what bugs me, Dain.”

“What is it, then, my dear?”

Your tongue pushes against your cheek, regretful hands reaching out to grip his own. It’s like you know you’re doing yourself no favours, but you’ve always been a masochist.

“Are we going to be okay?” you ask. “Not us. This place.”

He can tell you’ve been sitting with this thought alone, he’s just not sure how long. Since you brought up the field tillers? Since his last expedition? When was he last here, he’s not entirely sure.

His thumb wipes over your knuckles. He doesn’t tell you whether you’re going to be okay.

“I will protect you,” he whispers, “even in my dying breath.”

The second time he meets the Traveller is when they ask him.

“What happened to Khaenri’ah?”

ZERO.

There is little you can see in smoke and ash. What Dainsleif can see, it is blurry and most likely dead.

(He doesn’t want to think about what happens to those who live — simply surviving is not enough, they’ll seek retribution in the living, too.)

He feels guilty for saying it, but he was glad when the castle fell — relinquished of his sworn duty, free to run to where your shop lives. It came down in a blow of fire, the castle did; more than just four mighty walls, built of minerals made to last. He’s afraid to think of what happens to simpler stones.

(He runs like you stand a chance.)

He’s running in the opposite direction of other people — hell, he’s directing them out of there. Whatever is behind them is a lost cause, for him it’s a little hope. The havoc being brought down on this place is proof that they’re not allowed to have hope, but he promises it’ll be his last bit. He’s assuming they can hear him when he prays for it.

The windows of your shop are blown out. He ignores the sound of crunching glass because you’re screaming his name.

(You stop when you see him, swallowing it. He drops to his knees and says you’re allowed to yell, even when he’s there.)

“Dain,”

“Just breathe, hold on,” he breathes, chest pumping as he starts to heave the rubble off of you, the thick pillars that bar you from moving. He lifts one, another falls down. He lifts that one, and another, and another.

“Dainsleif.”

He’s still heaving, grunting now. Sweat lines his forehead and he’s coughing up soot he smelt ages ago.

“Dain,”

He’s crying.

“Dainsleif,” you spit, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head. “You’re hurting me.”

“I have to get you out,”

“To where?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Where are we going to go?”

Dainsleif doesn’t cry intentionally. His eyes are so wet that he can’t see clearly and they’re cleaning off his cheeks, but if tears were invisible you would never be able to tell.

You shake your head. “I’m not going to die in the street.”

“Don’t be so blunt, dear, please.”

“There is no other way to p-put it,” you say with a shiver, swallowing the hurt that threatens to spill out between your teeth; you smile instead. You feel weak already, even weaker in front of a commander. “Don’t cry about it,"

“I can’t stop it,” he chokes out, shaking his head. He cradles your head in his lap, brushes back your hair until his fingers get caught in knots. “There is nothing I can do.”

The weight of your life, his world, is in his lap, and he thinks about tomorrow. One, or both of you, will be dead, and yet that weight will still be there.

“There’s no one but the gods that could stop this, Dain,”

“I—”

“I love you,” you gasp, “I forgive you. I love you.”

“No.”

“Say it back, you stubborn, stubborn man,” you grit.

(Dainsleif keels over you, and he says it back. He repeats it until he feels your grip on him loosen, until your head lulls the other way. He repeats it until he feels sick and out of breath, because he knows he will never say it again. He repeats it until he's about to gag.)

He remains in your shop for the next few hours, unmoving, leaned up against the front desk that amazingly still stands. He’s holding your hand.

Dainsleif waits for something. Probably a sentence, to death or otherwise. He waits here for a chance for the roof to cave in, or to be struck down by someone that finds him. He hopes the gods get to him. He hopes this shop still stands if they pry him out of it. He hopes they call him Atlas and tell him to hold it up.

“This watch is never gonna work.”

Dainsleif blinks at the man across the counter, who looks at him with raised eyebrows — probably in shock that he even thought it was fixable — and a condescending frown. “You are sure?”

“Dude, this wasn’t supposed to work the last time you had it fixed. This looks like it’s centuries old.”

“It…”

Is. He doesn’t finish that.

“It’s an heirloom,” he says instead. “It's impossible, then?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty good at what I do, but this is … miracle talk. This should have been up-cycled three hundred years ago.”

“I see.”

The two men stand in silence for a moment, and the clocksmith brings a hand down on the watch.

When he strikes it, he knocks the last bits of air out of its lungs; the watch ticks a final one, two, three times, and Dainsleif hears laughter to his left.

He turns, and there you are.

You’re sitting on a bench, alive, breathing. You’re holding a popsicle and leaning back like you don’t have a care in the world.

Dainsleif thinks of all the things you can say to him. That you blame him, that you love him, that you hate what he did. That you wish he could save everyone, that you wish he could’ve maybe saved you. That you’re thankful you died and never had to live as a curse. That you think of him, too.

(You don’t do any of that.)

Instead, you smile, close-lipped and gentle. And you wave.

The watch stops after the third tick. He loses you in a blink for one second, and you’re gone.

“Can you hit it again?”

“When I tell you that was its last life, I really mean it. I’d guess it had ten of them.”

He swallows, nodding, staring down at his broken watch. He’ll never see you again, hear it tick three times and go back to your bed on Sunday, hear it tick three times and listen to you say you love him in his native tongue. He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw you one more time.

He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw it one more time.

“So? You gonna try and bargain, or…?”

Dainsleif is staring at the bench you were just in; his fingers itch for it. If he has to spend the next lifetime looking at that bench, he’s going to do it alone, and he’s going to learn how to do it without you.

You deserve to rest — he was the one cursed to live forever, not you. You did not die in vain.

He turns back to the clocksmith, who honestly looks pretty bored of him by now.

“Can I sell the parts?”

#a product of my intense and unwavering genshin phase #dainsleif x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #dainsleif x you #genshin impact angst #kit writes

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plasticfossil · 4 months ago

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THORNTON GREY, 2.5K TRIS & 256x TEX

Worldbuilding and cg autism under the cut

This is Thornton Grey, a character of mine I've had for around 15 years now. He's from a more or less retired worldbuilding universe of mine, waiting to be either recycled or refactored. Thornton is one of the dearest characters from that setting (and in all honesty, one of my dearest characters in general) and I tend to keep him in my current brain palette of little men to doodle in various formats.

I've been doing these early cd-3d (aka psx /ps1 etc) styled models for some of my OCs with hopes of eventually ?? learning godot. I guess. I need to get my worldbuilding out to the world so it become property of the grand creative consciousness, aka to affect people with my art the same way people affected me.

The tri count is higher than many people tend to target for this style and i'll probably improve that over time as I make various kinds of assets related to my worldbuilding, but eh who cares lol. The textures are photobashed stock images with details painted over and posterized in photoshop.

Here's some bonus 'march of progress' of my art of him over time.

Lore? Well, many of my characters start out with me being bored or annoyed by a specific trope in media, and he is no exception. He's a few things, but primarily he's my take on the 'little pinocchio robot boy/man who wishes he was a Real human'. Thornton's character addresses more so the preoccupations we as humans have to classify and categories types of people or non-people.

The universe, with the codename Redverse, is set approximately 1920s/1930s alt-earth america. He was child to a pair of grandmaster clocksmiths in the early 1800s whom could not have children of their own, and spent decades producing an analog AI composed of millions of intricate gears assembled with a small cube which composes his brain. He has a small boiler in his trunk that provides power for the various hydraulic systems within his limbs and keeps his brain's clockwork properly wound.

After caring for his elderly parents until their deaths, he took his father's trenchcoat and gun and traveled the country. (why is his gun a german luger? i don't know, i was like 17. it looks cool.)

Computers, robots, ai, etc, are not really a thing in this universe, granted the targeted vague time period. So he's generally regarded by others as an advanced automaton (he basically is.) and as a curiosity. He however has no qualms about being artificial in nature, as he sees it, he has all the makings of the average man -- has parents, has to eat (hard coal for his boiler), and can love. To view him as nonhuman baffles him, and his matter of fact attitude about the issue tends to win over many people he gets to know. Regarded mostly with respect for his kind and empathetic nature within the communities he spends any amount of time in, he's eventually pulled into the underworld of armed resistance forming against the increasing power of a fascist authoritarian regime that has quickly possessed control of the tumultuous american politics.

A tl;dr of this universe is "but what if AMERICA was the nazis". Very clever 17yo me. I'm sure you had a shock of your life when you grew up and learned about america's rancid role in world politics. Thus the retirement and possible refactoring -- I think it can be a compelling alt history universe if I actually learn more about how do to it properly, if i ever revive it. I'm not the first person to do it but maybe I can offer something interesting if at least for the setting of a noir style vibe game.

Anyway, Thornton becomes very involved. So involved, in fact, he becomes essentially the poster child of the resistance movement. And is targeted for it.

Widely hailed as a martyr for his subsequent demise, the resistance movement gets his hands on his thankfully intact head and revive him the best they can. He is unfortunately damaged, and upon revival, starts channeling visions from beyond.

And that is about as far as I got with his story. Perhaps you will see more of him in the future.

#worldbuilding #psx #low poly #3d art #3d artwork #3d model #blender #original character #artists on tumblr #robot #steampunk #noir #ps1 aesthetic #my work

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vivi-miya · 6 months ago

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i’m only human can’t you see?

summary: because you’re the chosen to the chosen one, with voice so powerful it made his cock stand.

never be like you - flume

tags: enemies to lovers, academic rivals, college/university au, office au, mommy kink undertones, breeding kink, office sex, spanking, nipple play, sexual tension, gojo’s naughty imagination p in v, fem! reader, no beta we die like jjk men

gojo satoru shaked the world with his birth that his whole clan celebrated the emergence of the next head possessing the favor of gods with his ocean blue eyes and snow mane.

being the moisture to their drought became the answer to their declining power in the corporate world that everyone tried to rival for the last decades. so every vassals—board of directors—are immensed in joy for their future leader that is not even ripe yet to be in position of pulling their descending morals.

naturally, it's only just to have everything what he requests because he's a miracle baby to a couple who keeps on trying to conceive. especially since he's a boy and the sole heir to own it all. from the constant pressure that the media named them in tabloids after tabloids, they want nothing but to catch their child's indifferent tastes and appear perfect in the eyes of the public.

with the boy in present, of course everyone tried to appease his tantrums and respond to his whims just to be graced with his good side. going as far as to act all mutt-like running at his beck and call twenty four-seven. it's kind of exhilarating, he can say.

at first, gojo satoru likes that. he lives off with the idea that he holds so much power with just his appearance alone. he doesn't speak yet, but everyone wants their name to be uttered at least once in the gojo family dinner.

he can't even hold a pencil properly and everyone expects their name to be written in their company records. so the fun slowly turns into disdain that quickly turned into disgust.

how appalling.

it's shifting into something mad, it's making his head burn in fury. with the constant urge to attend this martial arts school, violin practice this, calligraphy that, horse riding, and some uptight nouveau shits to attend to with sticks far up their asses, just being an elementary made it easier for gojo satoru to realize that the world is a clock.

it's constantly running and everyone plays the role of a cog, or at least the hands and number in display. as for him? he'll never be the same. he refused to be the subject of anyone's expectations to their fast-paced attitude.

he's born to be a clocksmith, why would he succumb to the likes of someone miniscule to bring him down? because of that, gojo satoru in elementary silently starts a rebellion inside his heart.

years passed, his highschool days came. it become a little better, a little endurable for him. because he have suguru and shoko now. the pillar to his strongest, the support to the chosen one.

he never felt like spending his days contemplating his purpose inside a huge stuffy room. he don't entertain himself with every tabloid that speaks badly about him anymore. he finally have the memories he desperately dream of from all of the movies he binge watched alone.

he may not entirely free but at least he could roam the streets a little frequent, a little late. went inside a convenience store just to buy all of the sweets his handmaids hid from him and ignore the lessons his parents kept on pushing him into.

gojo satoru could finally laugh and break free from his self-sabotaging rebellion, even for a moment.

at least that's what he thinks because he may went a little overboard. and he knows he went a little off the road but will he fix his attitude? nope. will he make everyone adjust to him like the spoiled manchild that he is? yes.

gojo satoru at twenty is a business management major with a sexy body and a face you wanna sit on—everybody is dying to get inside his pants or marry him. who wouldn't? a newly appointed ceo with genes to make you a fucking hotshot? of course everybody wants him. it's high, it's a compliment. there's everything in him that the world has to offer, it's a big win.

and he thinks that too, until he tried to run for the school president with the opponent being you.

gojo satoru is high up on his horse that his parents refused to climb and knock some sense into their only child, too scared to lose all favor from their moron of a son. perhaps a form of his upbringing or solely based on his narcissistic attitude, he don't know you exists and neither do you to him.

yet the idea of anyone not knowing who is the strongest infuriates him more than being an election rival does. you're not even required to memorize all of the names of every wannabe famous and real populars, so what got his panties in a twist? why do you get into his nerves?

with that, he set his very own goal—to remove you from the position's sight and ingrain his name into your dna. so that you won't be all silly smiles pretending that you're sorry for bumping into him when the school committee just announced him as your rival. if he successfully made you lose your position, then maybe, maybe he'll have the answer his heart seeks.

you may be acting dumb or genuinely have no idea who he is made it clear that it's the first sense swipe from his foggy brain in years. no one dared to cross his crown when they're usually busy kissing his ass, men and women alike.

finally, someone who refused to acknowledge the presence of the chosen one. suguru teased his friend.

maybe in that predicament you're the chosen one for the chosen one and he doesn't like that. he's petty and he wants to start a one-sided beef that his friend knows it's useless because you have the crowd's good graces on your side. he's not only just the apple of the eye of the gods, you are many. and many is you.

his plan commenced with a little digging first, he doesn't care if it's undermine or not. he's like a crazy stalker trying to breath your air with the exasperating information about your background. you didn't even came from a good family, your surname's not sublime. your mom's dead and your father is a deadbeat. you have little siblings to support and an eldest sister at that.

beauty with an attitude. the smart cookie with a spanky demeanor he desperately wanna break whenever he sees your sarcastic smirk from a mile away.

how come you have the time to maintain that straight a's after mothering your younger siblings? do you even work or is there someone supporting you financially? maybe you're a hoe? nah, he bet you're a virgin with how uptight you are.

what's your secret? what makes you higher than him? what makes you more favourable? what makes you the number one to his two in tests and first to every events you participate in? where do you get the time to burn and support everyone?

the more gojo satoru thinks, the more he observes you, and the more he realizes a lot of things that he's glad he only knows about.

he's elated to know your nape is ticklish, to know that you're a great cook and someone who has a very hot commanding voice. his heart is pumping at the fact that you're stricter that he thought.

maybe he's crazy? did he finally lose all his marbles? why is his pants tightening at the sight of your sweaty appearance? seriously, you're giving concrete demands to your org members and he's nothing but a dead weight to his own, star-strucked gazing at you.

his change bothered everyone, thinking you'll finally lose your cool. he's extra annoying to you, double the attention seeking tendencies. he wanna rise a reaction, he wants something. and you know about that, yet you're not giving it to him. what's even the purpose of annoying in the first place? 'cause he completely forgot about it.

he's a slave to technology and to his libido. that his search engine consists of porn commanding women ordering him to obey.

ah, what did you do to him?

why is he fucking his fist at the picture of you in a polo shirt full of mud and sweat from the intramural race? why is he moaning your name when you just got into his nerve? he don't even know what's hotter! the idea of obeying your orders or you, obeying his.

he desperately wants control, he desperately needs his title of the chosen one back. the name became dull after he realize that there's a few that managed to shake his carefree attitude and give him the ick just by defying his nature.

fine, if he can't control you in college then he'll gladly do that now.

how the odds still favors him even after during your prime in college. how the universe shifted you both as the secretary to his ceo. how he'll finally able to shoot his shot after letting you get away because he let his pride win.

but he'll accept you as you are, he'll gladly accept how you act all bossy when he's higher by order. he'll let you run your smart mouth again and again and again to scold him like you always does.

because this blue-eyed king missed you.

he missed your frown, your sardonic smile. the comebacks he thinks you practice because it burns like hell everytime. the food he tried when he once visited your home, witnessing your first cry because your father embarrassed you in front of your classmates, including him. he missed your uptightness, the curve of your ass, your subtle scent, and your hot palm that once tried to tease his dick.

if you even as went far as to rub his rod, you're probably the next mrs. gojo, carrying his babe. thank yourself for not letting your attitude win and palm him further during that one night in a college party suguru threw. thank him that he still has an ounce of respect to your begging body that he stopped himself from bending you over and fucking you full of his cum.

thank the universe for letting your forget what you fucking did. if you ever make him remember any of that, he'll do all of things he's been imagining since day one. because he doesn't forget and he find it a little bad that he didn't push his luck with persuasion.

your crying face is a beauty he'll never have the guts to erase in his mind that makes him feel bad that he's not sorry for having the thoughts.

carry on with nagging, ms. smart mouth. you'll never know that you're moaning his name as your skirt bunches around you waist, buttons undone and pussy wetter than ever.

did you see it coming as you always does with your data? do you have any of the idea how his fist fucking made him spent so much that he tried to look for where you are after graduation? the ladies are never you, the body is never yours. so once he feel your pussy, there's no going back.

because you're the chosen to the chosen one, with voice so powerful it made his cock stand. he have to let your pussy know that the next shape it will take is the curve of his dick. so he inserted three, bringing you to the seventh heaven with every prod of his fingers on your g-spot.

yes, moan his name! call him sir and submit yourself to him. there's nothing more hotter than having your tongue out, completely fucked out of your mind.

that night inside his office changed everything. you'll never gonna able to look at him the same way after his long and deft fingers went inside your slit without remembering how he fingered you facing the floor to ceiling glass of the high rise building, risking an audience to look your way.

how his fingers played with your nipples and breast it became too sore to wear a bra. how he'll always let you remember what you do to him by his finger of a come hit her motion.

and he'll never make you forget how hard he became after pretending to kneel infront of him, arching your back for his eyes to feast, teasing him with that smile that got him hook, line and sinker just to pull out a pen that rolled under his desk. you're always a tease and thinks you'll not gonna change anytime soon.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

at least let him have a good night's sleep and don't go ringing his apartment on a friday night, wearing nothing but a see-through lingerie under that coat.

don't push his button when he's respectfully asking you to leave. because once his temper snap, you'll never leave his apartment until you're sore and aching for his whole.

don't pretend and act you're tipsy when he knows you're not one to drink. all this mixed signals is sending his mind to overdrive.

fuck consequences, you're an adult. you know what you're going through when you signed up to show in his apartment, seducing the blue-eyed young man. you know his sanity is barely hanging by a thread when you unwrapped yourself to him like present his parents won't be able to give him.

so when he snapped and claim your lips, kiss him back with the same fervor. show him that you're craving him the way he does. don't make it one sided and hurt his feelings because it's you who he's been dreaming of. it's you. not the company, nor the other beautiful ladies or the world who loves to kiss his ass.

it's you. his own mind machine who fucks him up everytime in office. you, his school rival who won every single thing he's second to. it's you, the overachieving eldest daughter that catered your sibling's needs. you, the strength to his strongest.

and he's not gonna able to see the other end of the red string when it's tied to your pinky. his destined, his beloved. accept his flaws as he is, and he'll worship you the way you deserve.

so when you went down on your knees, brought his hand to guide your hair in a pony, he finally lose the control his libido is fighting with. you suck so fucking good, your mouth is so warm. it's heaven and hell in one body. he like you better when you're this silent, taking all of his inside your mouth than running them, making his ears bleed.

he moans when you snaked your hands, massaging his balls. god, fuck. you're a good giver and good givers deserves a prize.

after stilling your head, releasing all of his cum in your mouth, you swallowed it, letting him know that you're his good girl.

he's glad you're still the same responsive woman he likes to tease in college. other people might think you're unbothered by his antics, but in every behind the libraries scenario, there you are, trying to resist his rippling muscles and whispers on your nape.

he knows your shudders and sensitive spot. how your body writhe while he licks a stripe from your ears to your bare shoulder. how you trash under him when he started to suck on your nipple. you're a moaner. he's glad that it's not happening inside his office like before. because now, he doesn't have to hold your sultry moans back. you are loud and that's a music to his ears as he nibble on your breast alternately.

“damn, you're all over me,”

he teases as he propped you against his chest, fucking your slit with three of his fingers. his other one is busy twisting pulling your nipples. he'll never get tired of giving you service if it's a key to the gates of your orgasm and submission.

but all fun has come to an end when he sheathed his cock inside your pussy while you're about come down from your high, prompting another strong orgasm from you. ah, just when he thinks nothing catches you off guard, he's wrong. his cock is answer to your wetness—the place where you're weak at.

“what? i can't hear you, baby? you need to be louder hahaha.”

still going with his ministrations, he's been edging you after fucking your pussy full force and toying your clit. you can't take it anymore. fuck pride, you need to fucking come on his dick.

so when he felt you squirt on him, his cum followed suit, plugging you full and round for months to come. he'll make sure this will not be the last time as he imagine how white suits you the best.

“can't wait for our little ones.”

#x-(jjk)#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader

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yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt · 1 year ago

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hiiii i love your writing! can you write anything with ambrosius being protective over ballister (movie versions)? thank you for reading this either way!

That's so sweet! I'm so glad you enjoy it :) I've got just the thing!! Important context/summary for this piece: Ballister was an orphan, he was adopted at one point and then returned for being too rowdy as a little child. His "parents" show up. Ambrosius is Big Mad

Ballister chopped vegetables while Ambrosius flipped channels on the other side of the floor. It would be dinner time soon. He hummed and swayed to the music coming from his phone while he cooked. He disliked cleaning and he loved cooking, so this arrangement was an easy sell.

Since announcing their engagement, tabloids were, of course, annoying, so it was nicer to just spend their days off in their house, cooking, dancing, planning their wedding. It would be perfect. Neither of them wanted a big one, but it was going to be so beautiful.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He turned the skillet off and wiped his hands before proceeding over there. He was ready to turn away over-ambitious fans, or welcome in friends, or see whatever Nimona dragged back from her adventures. He was not ready for what was on the other side of that door.

When he opened the door, he saw an older couple and a young woman, smiling at him. He didn't recognize them, but there was something familiar, uneasy, that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Can I help you?"

"Ballister, son!" The man said with a grin. "It's so good to see you again. You remember us, don't you?"

Ballister furrowed his brow. The woman spoke, "It's us, sweetie. Your mom and dad."

Suddenly it all came back. Sitting in the adoption interview, sweating, doing his best to look like a perfect child, being so so so happy when he was told they'd chosen him, going to his new house, sleeping in a proper bed, wearing clean clothes and getting affection and attention as he needed it. Then the accident, running around with his little sister, bumping into the TV, getting cuts on her arm and his eye. The hospital. Stitches. Being dragged back to the orphanage. How he screamed and cried and begged his mommy and daddy not to return him. How they didn't listen. Getting dumped back like a defective toy. Getting bullied for being returned. Nobody wanting to adopt him again. How he missed his toys and warm bed and clothes and hadn't been allowed to keep even a single thing. How he firmly believed after that, for years, that nobody would ever love him.

"Don't – don't call yourselves that. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"We wanted to congratulate you on your engagement!" The woman, he remembered their last name was Clocksmith, said with a smile.

He blinked. "My engagement?" He was engaged to Ambrosius Goldenloin. A member, albeit unwillingly, of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the Kingdom without royal blood. If these people were his family, they would be a part of that family too.

Too bad they never signed the papers.

"Of course, son. What wonderful news! You must be so happy. We've missed you so much. When is the wedding?" Mr. Clocksmith asked, with a forced nicety about him that made Ballister's skin crawl.

"You're not coming to my wedding. The date isn't public."

Mrs. Clocksmith stepped forward, "Ballister, sweetie, I'm sure you're still hurt, and we're so sorry, but don't family bonds run deeper than–"

"You're not my family. You never signed the paperwork. You didn't raise me. You spent two months giving me some fun house mirror reflection of a family just so you could take it all away!" He looked at their faces and saw the cold, apathetic expressions as he screamed and cried, dragged back into the orphanage. "What kind of a family does that!?"

Ambrosius, who had heard the yelling, quickly appeared by his side. "Woah, woah, hey, Bal, what's going on? Who are these people?" His warm hand slid onto the small of Ballister's back and his kind, worried eyes tore down the rest of Ballister's walls as if they were made of paper mache.

"We're his parents, it's such a pleasure to meet you, Sir Goldenloin!" Mr. Clocksmith offered his hand.

Ambrosius's eyes widened and tears slid out of Ballister's eyes. Ambrosius immediately pulled Ballister away and slammed the door.

Ballister leaned against it and slid to the floor sobbing. He felt like that scared lonely rejected little kid again. Ambrosius knelt in front of him and held him tightly, rocking gently. "I know, Bal. My poor baby. I'm so sorry. I'm going to get them away from our home, okay? I'm gonna get them to leave and never ever bother you again." He helped Ballister to his feet and led him by the hand to the sofa. "You just relax here, and I will come back. I love you so much."

Ambrosius turned on his heels and marched back towards the door. His blood boiled. How dare those people abandon Ballister like that? To return him like an object? It had destroyed Ballister. Given him problems with intimacy that didn't break down until Ambrosius chipped away bit by bit at his walls for nearly a decade.

Now they were back. Ambrosius knew why. And he hated that in some way it was his fault. If he were a regular person, they wouldn't use Bal to get to his family. The fact that they had the audacity to show up now, so flagrantly to use and discard Ballister again was sickening. He equipped his sword belt to his side and threw open the door. The people startled.

"How dare you." He growled, stepping out and slamming it behind him. "How dare you show your faces here! How dare you so flagrantly try to use him! He's not a toy or a tool! He's a person! A very sweet, lovely, kind, angel of a person! You would have been so lucky to be his parents. You treated him worse than I could ever imagine anyone treating anyone!" He seethed. "I hate that I'm the reason you came here. No, you are not his parents. You will never be a part of my family, and in fact, with one call to my parents I could probably get all of you cast out to the street!" He hated playing this card, and he was probably lying, but people like this only cared about things like that.

The father tried defending them, "Sir Goldenloin, you weren't a parent, you don't understand –"

"But YOU were! And a horrible one at that! I hope your daughter is okay because even if you loved her a million times more than you did Bal, a million times zero is still zero!" He drew his sword and pointed it down the street. "Now get the fuck away from my house or I will place both of you under arrest for harassment."

He didn't wait for an answer before slamming the door and bolting in shut. He quickly returned to Ballister, who was biting his nails, curled up on the couch. Nail biting had been an awful habit for him as a child, and Ambrosius could remember his little hands with their dirty nails beds, bitten down past the quick and caked with dried blood. The therapist said something about him not having any comfort items to hold or other stress-reducing repetitive stimuli causing him to do it. He only did it rarely as an adult. "Are you okay, Rose?"

"Of course I'm okay, are you okay?" He sat beside Bal and took his hands, gently removing them from his mouth. Ballister nodded and shuffled closer, leaning against him.

"Thank you for making them leave. I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, I-- I just shut down. It was embarrassing."

"Please don't ever worry about anything like that. I know how brave you are. I know how much shit you've been able to put up with. You don't have to put up with that too."

Ballister hummed softly and admired his engagement ring before closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter. You and Nimona are the only family I'll ever need."

Ambrosius smiled and kissed his forehead, snuggling in closer.

In a wisp of pink, Nimona appeared in the room behind them with some groceries, apparently having flown through a window. "Hey guys, what did I miss?"

#nimona #ambrosius goldenloin #goldenheart #ballister boldheart #ballister x ambrosius #nimona 2023 #nimona fanfic #fic request #I dont think he actually got his scar that way but i felt like it worked for the fic yk #cw adoption trauma

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little-lionkin · 6 months ago

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ok so. what if pathologic was set in france and the plot was just the count of mount cristo book from 1846. TUMBLR DO YOU SEE MY VISION? I hope so, I might make other characters. I also felt like grief fit well for Edmond Dantès, but that's just because my brain told me to so I obliged.

He was a clocksmith before being framed.

I'm still working the story out but it'll have some elements from Sweeny Todd as well, I think it's cool they have some similarities in the plots.

I'm unsure if the trio who framed him will either be the apple basket gang (and I'll craft a whole plot as to why they're not friends if so) or if It'll be Andrey, Saburov and some other character (Maybe an Aged up Notkin) since they like grief the least (from what I gathered in classic/patho2. Technically Andrey doesn't hate him much but there's that rivalry.

I wanted a happy ending but let's be honest, both The count of mount cristo and Sweeney Todd end in tragedy of some sort, I don't know whether or not I'll have him die, we'll see.

#pathologic 2 #pathologic #bad grief #grigory filin

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shmowder · 4 months ago

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okay man feel free to ignore this but it seems like you might find it fun: rank all seats. best to worst

I do find it fun, Thank you for sending it and thinking of what I'd enjoy! A million smooches meet me at the altar xoxoxo

NOW LET THE RANKING BEGIN

Seat 5

I'll bring my steamdeck and make Victor play Hades 2! I bet he'd actually be good at it, ngl. He's a clocksmith, after all, with a precise sense of timing.

He talks about missing Khan a lot, maybe we can have a short sweet bonding time together. I get to be childish and he gets the experience of playing videogames and trying to connect with the youth. Plus with Khan on the next seat over, maybe he'll be impressed by his dad being good at Hades 2 and the two of them actually have a sweet moment!

I'd love to eavesdrop on the Saburov drama too ngl. Especially with Clara in front of them, it's gotta get interesting.

He needs to keep face and stay nice. That's the Kains well maintained public image after all, so I'll bank on that fact. He'll try to be polite and accommodating, I'll take him up on the offers bc I have no shame or manners.

Seat 1

Let's be fr I do need medical attention– Especially on a moving train. I'd rather sit next to Rubin to make this whole process easier, I know he isn't the best but my condition isn't severe either, I just need someone to keep me from cracking my skull against the window glass if I do faint.

He'd be nice, polite. I don't think he'd enjoy my videogames or music taste. But I'll share my food and drink with him instead, I'll let him have his peace and keep mine.

I love Aspity but irl I'd be terrfied shitless of her so I'll pass on the Menkhu's seat. Plus, Rubin might actually get a confidence boost from a sick person picking him out of the Menkhu and Bachelor of Medicine.

Seat 3

Okay... the atmosphere is still chill, vibes immaculate, but your comfort will drastically decrease from this point on.

Rubin can apologise for his long legs accidently kicking your chair all he want, it won't change the fact he refuses to move to the empty window seat next to him. He'd rather kick you than an innocent child.

Murky is a delight, but gross as all kids are. I mean spitting in their drink and drinking it—saw my niece do it yesterday—She leaves crumbs everywhere and hates you attempting to clean her face. She keeps the window fully open at all times and stands on her chair attempting to get more of herself inside, you'll have to keep an eye on her so she doesn't stumble over.

Besides that she might actually be the most well behaved child on the train today? Sticky is nice but will annoy you endlessly about medical facts, minecraft youtubers drama. Khan is absolutely insufferable bc he has never been told no in his whole life, he will watch tiktok at full volume without headphones. Capella will get you depressed, Clara would try to trade you used syringes and stolen wedding rings.

Seat 7

You know sitting next to him isn't that bad really. I mean all the leaders are monsters deep inside, he is just more open about it.

I'd feel awkward and intimidated by him at first, but I think he's used to that reaction from people. Maybe he'll see me scrolling on my phone and say how a certain post or app looks like something Capella uses? And then I explain it to him.

I'd teach him how to make a Discord account and add his own daughter by the end of it. I'll also give him a ton of fashion advice, I'd make him a tiktok account and hook him up with a Firefox adblocker.

I think all the tech talk might interest Yulia in the next seat over. Especially since Big Vlad seems the type to keep using a very old slow phone and never sees a point in upgrading despite the fact he can afford it.

I want to see him and Yulia interact really. I know she works for him and all, but also, I feel like they have a peaceful acquaintance relationship.

He wouldn't be good at videogames, but we could watch a trash tv drama. I feel like Yulia would actually enjoy it, him too.

Plus it's safer to have Andrey in front of you rather than behind you-

Seat 8

Ah- The Mistresses circle. Maybe if I just play with Clara and put on my headphones I can pretend nothing is happening–oh nope she started insulting Maria out of nowhere okay I see where this is going.

The only reason I'm picking this seat over 6 is because I really, really don't want to deal with a spoiled kid. It's exhausting, you have to nice your way out of their tantrums bc you're not their parent and can't be strict.

I already hate my seat and think about disappearing into the bathroom. I will leave often under the guise of stretching my leg just to go and loiter around wherever I can.

Seat 6

Kill me god smite me please.

Maybe I can talk the judge into siting near his nephew instead-nope now he insists I endure this "test of character" and must overcome this trial of hardship by myself. Useless old fart.

I might start arguments with Georgiy out of boredom ngl bc I feel like Khan would break my steamdeck if I let him play on it in a gamer rage or something. I just decided to take sleeping pills and hope by the time I wake up, the fetus and carcass next to me have fallen into slumber so I can finally be myself.

Seat 4 and 2

They're the same to me because both of them mean sitting next to Aspity. LISTEN TO ME. Do not let your playthrough of P2 delude you into thinking she's harmless. Aspity is only nice to Artemy, and if you're not Artemy then you're fucked.

She is legit unhinged in my bachelor playthrough, which actually gave me shivers on certain occasions. She talks about keeping a terrified person running for their live imprisoned in her basement for entertainment bc she is just so bored.I can't imagine how more feral she gets on the Changeling route.

I don't want to end up cursed man. I don't want to know my death date either. She could read my deepest fears with one glance and I'll crumble like a cookie.

Seat 9 and 10

I've explained why before. I don't want to end up coerced into drinking and trying crack when the hardest thing I've ever had was non alcoholic strawberry beer.

The Stamatins see innocence and have this urge to tear it like paper. They'll see a blank canvas on me waiting to be ruined, and I'll scratch and bite my way out. It's not even sexual. It's this desire to corrupt a soul into sinning and get bring you down to the same level as them.

My mind is fragile man, I hit as hard as a wet noodle. It would barely take anything for me to fold like a deck of cards. I'm immediately running to the bathroom and locking myself inside.

10 is less severe than 9 but I don't trust that Eva will stand up for me if Andrey wants me to do a line or two. Hell, she'd probably enable him thinking it's a cute game. Daniil would say something but wouldn't do anything.

Andrey scares me, and Peter is unpredictably dangerous. Daniil rolls with the crowd when it comes to the utopian and turns a blind eye to their shenanigans. Eva is not an innocent fawn either, Yulia was terrified of loving her for a very good reason. She's a wolf in sheep clothing

Also, I'd feel very uncomfortable next to the bare coochie lady. Bathroom bunk it is!

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