𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖘 / she / 9teen. 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ nanami’s minx . sukuna’s little one . caramel lover . irl rapunzel . big sister . horror enthusiast . self-proclaimed sicko . psychology student .
must be 18+ to follow ! minors, ageless and blank blogs will be blocked. jjk-based blog that includes sfw, [n]sfw and dark content. not spoiler free. requests and thirst prompts are encouraged !
I don’t know why I’m so scared. The feeling of my fingertips against this keyboard is repulsive. I’m not a writer. Perhaps in the past, I earned that title. But not now. Every word I type seems offensive to the page—an offense to writing and the English language itself. My words no longer flow but instead are a jumbled-up awkward array of words in an attempt to communicate something utterly incommunicable, at least to me. Though how egotistical of me to expect my writing to be anything of substance, toe to toe with Shakespeare himself, when I have not written in a year. Well, that’s a lie. I have technically ”written,” put pen to paper, typed the occasional notes app poem or rant amid my weekly existential crisis. But that’s not writing. At least not in the way I consider it. And perhaps that is egotistical of me, constituting what is and isn’t writing. But I don’t consider any of that representative of me. Sure, a me in the midst of mental anguish, psychosis, and desperation. But it’s not art. It isn’t what I strive to create. I will do anything but write. I spin in my chair for hours, maladaptive daydreaming to the same 10 songs on repeat, or maybe I’ll passively watch the same YouTube videos until they become my second language and I’m finishing the script on their behalf; well, what I catch in passing amongst my doom-scrolling.
I will do everything but what I so-called “love” to do. What I’m $6,000 in debt for. The answer to the dreaded question everyone asks young 20-somethings —“So…what are you doing?” — the “doing” being mildly vague and weighted with potential judgment. As always, I respond in a cautious and faux-confident voice, “English!” and the responses range from a half-assed attempt to care, as I didn’t say anything related to STEM, and curiosity that typically leads to the follow-up question of “So you want to be a teacher?” I say no; interest dwindles from there. I can’t say what I really want to do because I do everything but that. And if I do, I must lead with what I want my “real” job to be because writing can’t possibly be my primary source of income. But back to what I was saying, I don’t write. Instead, showers after work have become a ritual of sorts for me—a white-hot cleansing from the day. And I can’t help but peek out my window one, two, three, four times, as if I can somehow control the incessant noise from upstairs if I could just see their faces. And I didn’t start writing until maybe 15 minutes before Matt came home. A pattern I keep repeating. I’ve been working on this for over a week, excitedly telling my coworker I am finally writing again. I am “writing” again; just garbage—nothing of substance, nothing meaningful, self-pitying and hollow at worst, elementary and mediocre at best. And perhaps I’m being too harsh on myself. I’m not the worst writer in the world; Colleen Hoover exists. But still, she writes. She has completed the process of brainstorming, writing, editing, and publishing repeatedly, no matter how horrific and questionable it may be. She is a writer; I’m not.
If I can bear a sentence and be honest with myself, I don’t take writing seriously. I don’t take myself seriously. I don’t consider any of this a possible career choice. If I did, I would do it. Consistently. Earnestly. I wouldn’t talk about it, but have something to show for it. But instead, I have, whatever this is. A confession? A journal entry? Possible inspiration for a fellow tortured artist, minus the art - that’s always a work in progress of course. And if I am to treat “this” as something sacred and stop writing for an imaginary audience and instead for myself, maybe I'd admit that I’ve lost my passion. My spark. I’ve forgotten the feeling of strained fingers typing against my laptop or the evading grip of my pen as my palms begin to sweat from the fervent swaying motion, a welcomed trade-off for finally getting into a rhythm. When suddenly, the words start flowing, and in those moments, writing isn’t something that I do, it’s what I am. The reason I’m alive. But that feeling is long gone. Instead, it’s morphed into something shapeless, constantly running from me, or maybe the other way around. In moments where I think I’ve finally found it again, I’m left nauseous, always half-full, never satisfied. And if I am to put my heart on this digital white screen, then maybe I’d say I don’t know how to write, no–exist without academic validation; an authority figure telling me what’s right and wrong, deserving of praise, admiration, care. How can this, my writing, mean something? Be anything but a waste of time? I’m not saving lives, creating the next new technological advancements, or whatever the hell else this capitalistic hellscape has deemed meaningful (profitable). I can’t write without the looming thought that there is always something else I could be doing: worth my time, a monetary or educational gain. There’s someone or something better than what I create. If there is no praise, no underlying envy at my so “obvious” genius and innate talent, and no immediate external voice to fill the void, then why write?
As I edit and reflect on what I’ve written, I’m left feeling both dumbfounded and confused about how to conclude this. I’ve forgotten what drove me to wipe the dust off my laptop and face the boundless void of an empty page in the first place. Where any of this came from. And maybe that’s okay. I am sure of one thing: I will always find myself on these pages.
Chapter 1 of Cain: a TWDG fanfiction cross-posted on AO3 (see link at end).
Summary: When estranged siblings are plunged into an apocalypse, odds are a lot of people will die along the way. Or; why stop at Cain and Abel?
This isn’t the first time she’s been held at gunpoint.
Clementine shivers. Blood thrums in her ears. Her knees hit the floor, bruising. The cold threat of a bullet keeps her still, her pupils shrunken to dots.
This isn’t the first time. She’s survived this before.
Calm. She needs to stay calm.
Someone kneels behind her. Bright orange hair—like her old neighbor’s cat. They bind her hands. The zip tie bites at her skin.
Everything had happened so fast.
One second, she had been decking out the Christmas tree with fat gleaming ornaments and ribbons of tinsel. Sarah griped that her arms were too short to reach the middle. Clementine devoured her first hot meal in months, her tongue thumping in the aftermath, tastebuds thanking her. The ski lodge was a hearth. A warm, zealous embrace. Kenny had been there. They’d even hugged.
And now she is one wrong move away from certain death.
While her group was distracted by an onslaught of walkers, they had emerged from the forest. Swarming like flies to a mulching corpse as panic ensued. Barking orders. Shots. Everyone scattered.
Then came the name.
Carver. Fucking Carver. That name. She’d heard it over and over again. No one ever told her why. And now she’s face-to-face with him; the one they talk about like he’s the devil incarnate.
Her ears ring with noise. A bluster of sound, or silence–she can’t tell.
The whole house balks: Sarita. Nick. Alvin. Carlos. Sarah. Walter.
He touches Rebecca. Her face scruples like it burns, wrath simmering in the curve of her brow as more soldiers filter in, collapsing the illusion of safety Clementine is sure she will never hold in her hands.
Boots thump against the ground. A girl walks in, her chin caked with blood and no wound site. Not hers. A rifle hangs comfortably across her body, like a satchel. Clementine’s skin erupts in goosebumps.
There is nothing in her face. No anger, no drive. No malice. She’s all paved over.
Dragging Luke.
Carver huffs out a laugh, making way for her.
She shoves him hard into the pit of hostages. He lands face-first. Winded, Luke wheezes, his ribs battered by the floorboards.
Adrenaline gets him back up on his knees, bloodied, at this girl’s mercy, the first tendrils of a bruise curling around his eye. There’s a hauntingly furious gleam in her eye as she stalks towards him, the rest of her face inhumanely vapid.
Clementine’s heart beats so fast she thinks she might puke. That feeling—rage—sucks the air from the room. She’s going to kill him.
Luke scrambles, recognition bursting out from him.
“June—”
The back end of the shotgun comes down before he can finish. Hard. His body collapses at Clementine’s feet.
Mortified and convinced she’s next, Sarah gags with the effort of a sob, nearly sending her face first into the ground. Carlos hushes her gently, though his head lolls from the pain, his mangled fingers twitching behind his back. The house gyres–a fucked-up ferris wheel, heaving and sputtering with the effort of staying upright.
The girl stares down at him, an errant twitch in her lip. “I should kill you.”
Carver appears behind her, patting her back. He chuckles. “Easy, tiger.”
Clementine stares at Luke’s crumpled body until her eyes sting, vision blurring. Everything sounds underwater, conversation swishing and slurrying together. At the right angle, gunshots look like bubbles popping. She likes aquariums. Mom used to take her to the pet shop on weekends. She could stare at the fish all day long. They swam so fast. Blinked at her through the glass. Why can’t I open my eyes like that underwater, Mom? It was fun. She likes water creatures. She wants to go again one day. Can we, Mom? Can we look at the fish together?
Walter lies limp on the floor by Carver’s feet.
Where his forehead was, a hole has been dug out into his brain. A piggish, meaty color.
Her eyes burn. Her nose runs. There’s no space for grief—just the next trigger. The next life. For them, it’s all routine.
Clementine pales, her throat squeezing.
Alvin is next to be gathered up off the floor.
His captor presses the cold metal of his gun into the side of his head–she feels the imprint on her own skin. Knows it, like an old friend.
Rebecca objects through tears, choking on protests. “Bill, please don’t do this!”
She knows she has to think fast. Do something, she has to do something.
“Kenny! Don’t shoot!”
Her voice cracks, betraying something fatal.
A pause.
Then, in a manner fit for a music box, Carver’s head turns, his eyes wild, defiant.
Clementine shudders as he takes her in. She knows he sees something valuable. Something worth exploiting.
Alvin is useless to him. Discarded. Instead, Carver withdraws to grab up the little girl. The one he recalls so vividly from that little house. The one he invaded, parasitic from the moment he pushed through the door.
Clementine resists like a cat—wriggling, kicking at everything she can. It’s pointless. He overpowers her tenfold.
Dragging her to the window, Carver manages to present her like a shield.
Amidst the snow, Kenny crouches, Rifle frozen in his grip. His body nearly blurs, but the way he wavers is hardly lost on Clementine. Nor is it lost on Carver, who makes a damn good show of the circumstances, dragging his weapon along her face.
Kenny falters, like someone kicked out one of his legs from under him. Every brutal instinct he clings to subsides, takes a backseat, giving way to something more lucid as his gun slides from his palms and thuds against the white terrain.
He steps into the lodge, hands raised. Another for the lineup; fresh, dangling meat.
The room stoops, the air too thick to swallow. There’s no one left to save them. All that remains are short, panicked breaths, darting eyes, and wrists chafing from restraints.
With all the sheep rounded up, Carver draws a breath before launching into a sermon. It’s less a speech and more a punishment, each word loaded with false nostalgia.
“Why am I not surprised?” He paces around, sudden gesticulations setting everyone on edge. “I warned you. I warned you not to follow him. And look where he’s led you.”
Luke splinters with the force of a kick to his gut, grunting. Alive. Conscious.
Dazed with relief, Clementine blurts out his name.
Luke barely moves but to roll onto his back, his breath whistling, likely from pain.
He’s okay, and yet—
Clementine stops. She feels the pricking of eyes on her neck, craning her head.
Behind her, it’s the girl–the one who carries a gun like she was born with it in her hands.
She just stares. Not curious. Not angry. Just blank. Like Clementine’s not even there.
Like she’s already gone.
It ruffles the kid enough that she lowers her head again, ducking beneath the rim of her cap.
Carver’s smile sticks to his lips like syrup, slimy, sickly, churning Rebecca’s stomach as he makes promises of playing house, his hand lingering too long on her belly.
“We’re going home,” he says, “Me, you, and our baby.”
That word sticks out to Clementine. Our. Our baby. Carver’s.
She feels sick. Somewhere beside her, Sarah’s cries mellow out into wet, bleating hiccups. Carlos nearly dies with the urge to coddle her. Eyes. Eyes on her neck, nettling under her skin. She can’t shake them.
“Alright, round ‘em up. We’re heading back to camp,” Carver announces. A picture of self-satisfaction, chin raised as he turns and waves at his troops to take it from here.
One by one, her friends are plucked from the floor. Pulpy red berries, ripe for the picking. Some fight, some don’t.
Clementine feels a fracture in her psyche. It’s as though she’s wandered somewhere far away. Somewhere distinctly outside of her own body, watching it star in something her mind doesn’t agree to.
“–up, or so help me God I will throw you over my fuckin’ shoulder!”
The soldier’s voice rings painfully in her ears, his large, armed frame swallowing hers whole. He waves his rifle in her face. Clementine stares, unblinking.
“Troy.”
Cold fingers grasp at the back of her collar. Clementine’s jerked onto her feet as her head whips around, the threat of hands summoning a knee-jerk vitality.
A thick swoop of ponytail perches on hard shoulders, her body set in a line–a thin, withering command. That clinical distance unsettles Clementine in a way she can’t explain.
“Start up the truck.”
Troy hardens before he relents, scoffing redundantly before backing out of what was starting to feel like a standoff. As he trudges outside, Clementine feels white lights popping all over her body, like an entire town blinking in the aftershocks of a sudden loss of power.
Glass from windows shattered in gunfire glistens like sugar on the floorboards. Through them, the wind howls, perverse, determined. A resounding promise.
Despite the way her body trembles, Clementine finds it within herself to look again at the woman. June stares back, hollowed-out. Rigor-mortis. A moment passes, protests burbling outside. Yelling, bodies thrashing, the morbid pop of skin as someone's hit. Then, without any further comment, she’s shoved outside.
June glances at the snow, quick and strange, like she expected something to be there. Then she moves on.
Her hands find Clementine’s collar again. She pages the hearse.
The truck rocks with the force of metal doors slamming shut, locking the group inside. Reality sets in. The mental fog departs, airing out new wounds. Aside from Sarah’s soft crying, silence hangs heavy between them, nestling under their skin.
Her knees hurt. Clementine looks around, unsure what she’s even searching for. The restraints gnaw at her wrists, demanding she keep still.
Everyone is quiet.
No arguing, no protests–just, quiet.
Sarah flinches when the vehicle rolls over a bump, a wet squelch pervading the air. The soft, pulpy mashing of flesh. Clementine finds Luke, but he hasn’t reacted.
Instead, he’s keeled over. Elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. He thumbs the bruise on his chin.
The gleam of a tear undoes her. Her brow knits. Lips part.
“Luke?”
No response.
She scans the rest of the space for help. A look, a nod, any scrap of sense she can wrestle into an answer. All she’s afforded are stooped heads and grating abstinence as the truck rumbles over gravel. It’s like they’re avoiding it–still lit up by the warm fire and tranquility of the lodge. Something white-hot scrabbles up her chest–panic, or anger, or both.
“Who was that?”
Luke doesn’t lift his gaze. Something moves across his face—shame or heat or memory. It knots him up.
“His sister.”
Rebecca’s voice is cut, but tender. She shakes her head at Clementine—an instinctive hush, a quiet warning not to ask more.
But Clemetine isn’t done.
“Why did she hit him?”
No one leaps to answer that one. She thinks it might be left to dangle in the air, until Sarah warbles.
“June gets mad sometimes. That’s… that’s why she left,” she says, her throat bobbing. Her eyes flick over to her dad.
That’s when Carlos steps in, gentle but firm. “That’s enough, Sarah.”
Luke still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t looked up. His silence says everything.
She wants to ask more. Doesn’t.
Instead, Clementine tucks her feet close, allowing silence to dawn once again. Closes her eyes. And, if she focuses hard enough, finds that there is peace, somewhere inside her. Somewhere dark. Somewhere quiet.
Chapter 1 of Cain: a TWDG fanfiction cross-posted on AO3 (see link at end).
Summary: When estranged siblings are plunged into an apocalypse, odds are a lot of people will die along the way. Or; why stop at Cain and Abel?
This isn’t the first time she’s been held at gunpoint.
Clementine shivers. Blood thrums in her ears. Her knees hit the floor, bruising. The cold threat of a bullet keeps her still, her pupils shrunken to dots.
This isn’t the first time. She’s survived this before.
Calm. She needs to stay calm.
Someone kneels behind her. Bright orange hair—like her old neighbor’s cat. They bind her hands. The zip tie bites at her skin.
Everything had happened so fast.
One second, she had been decking out the Christmas tree with fat gleaming ornaments and ribbons of tinsel. Sarah griped that her arms were too short to reach the middle. Clementine devoured her first hot meal in months, her tongue thumping in the aftermath, tastebuds thanking her. The ski lodge was a hearth. A warm, zealous embrace. Kenny had been there. They’d even hugged.
And now she is one wrong move away from certain death.
While her group was distracted by an onslaught of walkers, they had emerged from the forest. Swarming like flies to a mulching corpse as panic ensued. Barking orders. Shots. Everyone scattered.
Then came the name.
Carver. Fucking Carver. That name. She’d heard it over and over again. No one ever told her why. And now she’s face-to-face with him; the one they talk about like he’s the devil incarnate.
Her ears ring with noise. A bluster of sound, or silence–she can’t tell.
The whole house balks: Sarita. Nick. Alvin. Carlos. Sarah. Walter.
He touches Rebecca. Her face scruples like it burns, wrath simmering in the curve of her brow as more soldiers filter in, collapsing the illusion of safety Clementine is sure she will never hold in her hands.
Boots thump against the ground. A girl walks in, her chin caked with blood and no wound site. Not hers. A rifle hangs comfortably across her body, like a satchel. Clementine’s skin erupts in goosebumps.
There is nothing in her face. No anger, no drive. No malice. She’s all paved over.
Dragging Luke.
Carver huffs out a laugh, making way for her.
She shoves him hard into the pit of hostages. He lands face-first. Winded, Luke wheezes, his ribs battered by the floorboards.
Adrenaline gets him back up on his knees, bloodied, at this girl’s mercy, the first tendrils of a bruise curling around his eye. There’s a hauntingly furious gleam in her eye as she stalks towards him, the rest of her face inhumanely vapid.
Clementine’s heart beats so fast she thinks she might puke. That feeling—rage—sucks the air from the room. She’s going to kill him.
Luke scrambles, recognition bursting out from him.
“June—”
The back end of the shotgun comes down before he can finish. Hard. His body collapses at Clementine’s feet.
Mortified and convinced she’s next, Sarah gags with the effort of a sob, nearly sending her face first into the ground. Carlos hushes her gently, though his head lolls from the pain, his mangled fingers twitching behind his back. The house gyres–a fucked-up ferris wheel, heaving and sputtering with the effort of staying upright.
The girl stares down at him, an errant twitch in her lip. “I should kill you.”
Carver appears behind her, patting her back. He chuckles. “Easy, tiger.”
Clementine stares at Luke’s crumpled body until her eyes sting, vision blurring. Everything sounds underwater, conversation swishing and slurrying together. At the right angle, gunshots look like bubbles popping. She likes aquariums. Mom used to take her to the pet shop on weekends. She could stare at the fish all day long. They swam so fast. Blinked at her through the glass. Why can’t I open my eyes like that underwater, Mom? It was fun. She likes water creatures. She wants to go again one day. Can we, Mom? Can we look at the fish together?
Walter lies limp on the floor by Carver’s feet.
Where his forehead was, a hole has been dug out into his brain. A piggish, meaty color.
Her eyes burn. Her nose runs. There’s no space for grief—just the next trigger. The next life. For them, it’s all routine.
Clementine pales, her throat squeezing.
Alvin is next to be gathered up off the floor.
His captor presses the cold metal of his gun into the side of his head–she feels the imprint on her own skin. Knows it, like an old friend.
Rebecca objects through tears, choking on protests. “Bill, please don’t do this!”
She knows she has to think fast. Do something, she has to do something.
“Kenny! Don’t shoot!”
Her voice cracks, betraying something fatal.
A pause.
Then, in a manner fit for a music box, Carver’s head turns, his eyes wild, defiant.
Clementine shudders as he takes her in. She knows he sees something valuable. Something worth exploiting.
Alvin is useless to him. Discarded. Instead, Carver withdraws to grab up the little girl. The one he recalls so vividly from that little house. The one he invaded, parasitic from the moment he pushed through the door.
Clementine resists like a cat—wriggling, kicking at everything she can. It’s pointless. He overpowers her tenfold.
Dragging her to the window, Carver manages to present her like a shield.
Amidst the snow, Kenny crouches, Rifle frozen in his grip. His body nearly blurs, but the way he wavers is hardly lost on Clementine. Nor is it lost on Carver, who makes a damn good show of the circumstances, dragging his weapon along her face.
Kenny falters, like someone kicked out one of his legs from under him. Every brutal instinct he clings to subsides, takes a backseat, giving way to something more lucid as his gun slides from his palms and thuds against the white terrain.
He steps into the lodge, hands raised. Another for the lineup; fresh, dangling meat.
The room stoops, the air too thick to swallow. There’s no one left to save them. All that remains are short, panicked breaths, darting eyes, and wrists chafing from restraints.
With all the sheep rounded up, Carver draws a breath before launching into a sermon. It’s less a speech and more a punishment, each word loaded with false nostalgia.
“Why am I not surprised?” He paces around, sudden gesticulations setting everyone on edge. “I warned you. I warned you not to follow him. And look where he’s led you.”
Luke splinters with the force of a kick to his gut, grunting. Alive. Conscious.
Dazed with relief, Clementine blurts out his name.
Luke barely moves but to roll onto his back, his breath whistling, likely from pain.
He’s okay, and yet—
Clementine stops. She feels the pricking of eyes on her neck, craning her head.
Behind her, it’s the girl–the one who carries a gun like she was born with it in her hands.
She just stares. Not curious. Not angry. Just blank. Like Clementine’s not even there.
Like she’s already gone.
It ruffles the kid enough that she lowers her head again, ducking beneath the rim of her cap.
Carver’s smile sticks to his lips like syrup, slimy, sickly, churning Rebecca’s stomach as he makes promises of playing house, his hand lingering too long on her belly.
“We’re going home,” he says, “Me, you, and our baby.”
That word sticks out to Clementine. Our. Our baby. Carver’s.
She feels sick. Somewhere beside her, Sarah’s cries mellow out into wet, bleating hiccups. Carlos nearly dies with the urge to coddle her. Eyes. Eyes on her neck, nettling under her skin. She can’t shake them.
“Alright, round ‘em up. We’re heading back to camp,” Carver announces. A picture of self-satisfaction, chin raised as he turns and waves at his troops to take it from here.
One by one, her friends are plucked from the floor. Pulpy red berries, ripe for the picking. Some fight, some don’t.
Clementine feels a fracture in her psyche. It’s as though she’s wandered somewhere far away. Somewhere distinctly outside of her own body, watching it star in something her mind doesn’t agree to.
“–up, or so help me God I will throw you over my fuckin’ shoulder!”
The soldier’s voice rings painfully in her ears, his large, armed frame swallowing hers whole. He waves his rifle in her face. Clementine stares, unblinking.
“Troy.”
Cold fingers grasp at the back of her collar. Clementine’s jerked onto her feet as her head whips around, the threat of hands summoning a knee-jerk vitality.
A thick swoop of ponytail perches on hard shoulders, her body set in a line–a thin, withering command. That clinical distance unsettles Clementine in a way she can’t explain.
“Start up the truck.”
Troy hardens before he relents, scoffing redundantly before backing out of what was starting to feel like a standoff. As he trudges outside, Clementine feels white lights popping all over her body, like an entire town blinking in the aftershocks of a sudden loss of power.
Glass from windows shattered in gunfire glistens like sugar on the floorboards. Through them, the wind howls, perverse, determined. A resounding promise.
Despite the way her body trembles, Clementine finds it within herself to look again at the woman. June stares back, hollowed-out. Rigor-mortis. A moment passes, protests burbling outside. Yelling, bodies thrashing, the morbid pop of skin as someone's hit. Then, without any further comment, she’s shoved outside.
June glances at the snow, quick and strange, like she expected something to be there. Then she moves on.
Her hands find Clementine’s collar again. She pages the hearse.
The truck rocks with the force of metal doors slamming shut, locking the group inside. Reality sets in. The mental fog departs, airing out new wounds. Aside from Sarah’s soft crying, silence hangs heavy between them, nestling under their skin.
Her knees hurt. Clementine looks around, unsure what she’s even searching for. The restraints gnaw at her wrists, demanding she keep still.
Everyone is quiet.
No arguing, no protests–just, quiet.
Sarah flinches when the vehicle rolls over a bump, a wet squelch pervading the air. The soft, pulpy mashing of flesh. Clementine finds Luke, but he hasn’t reacted.
Instead, he’s keeled over. Elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. He thumbs the bruise on his chin.
The gleam of a tear undoes her. Her brow knits. Lips part.
“Luke?”
No response.
She scans the rest of the space for help. A look, a nod, any scrap of sense she can wrestle into an answer. All she’s afforded are stooped heads and grating abstinence as the truck rumbles over gravel. It’s like they’re avoiding it–still lit up by the warm fire and tranquility of the lodge. Something white-hot scrabbles up her chest–panic, or anger, or both.
“Who was that?”
Luke doesn’t lift his gaze. Something moves across his face—shame or heat or memory. It knots him up.
“His sister.”
Rebecca’s voice is cut, but tender. She shakes her head at Clementine—an instinctive hush, a quiet warning not to ask more.
But Clemetine isn’t done.
“Why did she hit him?”
No one leaps to answer that one. She thinks it might be left to dangle in the air, until Sarah warbles.
“June gets mad sometimes. That’s… that’s why she left,” she says, her throat bobbing. Her eyes flick over to her dad.
That’s when Carlos steps in, gentle but firm. “That’s enough, Sarah.”
Luke still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t looked up. His silence says everything.
She wants to ask more. Doesn’t.
Instead, Clementine tucks her feet close, allowing silence to dawn once again. Closes her eyes. And, if she focuses hard enough, finds that there is peace, somewhere inside her. Somewhere dark. Somewhere quiet.
i may or may not . have completely deviated from my old content and am possibly in the processs of writing a telltale twdg fic . w/ an original character insert . HI 💜
find me on ao3: @/sweatpea :33 i’ll be uploading it shortly . probs on here too !!!
i may or may not . have completely deviated from my old content and am possibly in the processs of writing a telltale twdg fic . w/ an original character insert . HI 💜
find me on ao3: @/sweatpea :33 i’ll be uploading it shortly . probs on here too !!!
Hello, I hope you're doing well. I was rereading your jjk fic, and your perspective on the characters seems to be intriguing and realistic to canon.Could you please express opinions on the characters of Gojo and Maki?
Hey there! @lolitamermaid123 !!
I do try to get into the character's heads when I write, to explore their underlying motivations and the way the past influences their behaviour and reactions to situations in the present.
For example, Gojo strikes me as someone who is entirely unapologetic for his existence and power, and uses his influence to maintain the tenuous power balance among the clans in the jujutsu world. I don't think that he is bogged down by labels of 'good' and 'bad', he simply determines who can cause the most harm to that delicate balance and does his job to eliminate that threat.
While that may sound clinical, the jujutsu world is so brutal, and sorcerers are always living within the constant confines of a war zone, always aware that their death could be just around the next corner. Gojo has, to my belief, found a way to process his role in this world, in a way that others may resent him for. He acknowledges that resentment, and accepts it, along with the burden of his own power.
So, in spite of how Gojo is perceived, even by those who inhabit the same world, his flippancy and easy-going nature is not a product of him not taking things seriously; on the contrary, he has taken everything into account, and made decisions based on his own painful history with Geto, the only person who had once allowed him to feel companionship.
As for Maki, she is a product of a very harsh upbringing, where the value of a person is determined by their power. In a way, this reflects dozens of existing power structures. Maki stands out to me as someone who has been forced to exhibit an extremely tough exterior, because she's always been perceived as weak and a 'useless' existence.
Her desire to break the cycle of such perception sets her apart. To leave her clan, which, in the jujutsu world, is a means by which others define themselves, shows a remarkable sense of self-worth and self-value, even with all she's been conditioned to believe. This, to me, is a primary reason that others (such as Mai) resent her; her freedom is a reality, and she brought it about with nobody's help.
Maki exhibits love and kindness through her strength, teaching those around her to stand up for themselves. She earns respect and affection, in the truest sense of the word. Like Gojo, she found her place in the jujutsu world, but she has had to fight tooth and nail for the life she currently has.
Hi lovey! Ive just read your latest SMAU for us big chested girls but I think you've put the wrong request on it! The request uou have written in the description is about them reacting to you looking a little too good on your insta! Just wanted to let you know
oh you have blessed us big titties girls. love it 'cause everytime someone comments on my shirt being too tight on my chest i say it's not my fault god decided to bless me this much
nah cuz fr !!! it’s not our fault most mainstream brands barely accommodate big boobs . like idk i just work here
big titties smau was in such high demand??🤧🤧 that rep was NEEDED . so sorry for the delay but i finally got round to it !! check it out on my page since i can’t paste the link 💗
hellooo, i saw you did an smau with small titty appreciation and i loooved it sm! (even as a girl w double Ds, it was so cute!!!)
is there any chance you could do one the other way around? i know many girls like me feel self-conscious ab how clothes fit, being sexualized for the teeniest things, and the struggle to find good bras is REAL and so frustrating 😭
totally get it if you can't do this! just thought it would be a sweet idea for us girls on the opposite end of things :))
DONE CUTIE !!! just posted . as a big tit girl myself i feel you , go us !! shit is not all flowers and rainbows . loveee 💗
