look ma i’m doing it twice in a row! i was tagged by my beloved @imogenkol to share what i’m working on and i fear all i have for you this week is more far cry 5 slop because i am still there. i’m sorry.
tag list: @statichvm @moonflowcr @kyberinfinitygems @d-esmond @risingsh0t @chyrstis @galfrey @tadej-pogacar
i said it was only fc5 slop but actually here’s an isabel from the punisher s2
“Hi,” she murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek.
The skin is warm, rough, familiar, and Isabel closes her eyes against the rising onslaught of anxiety and relief. Absently, she turns her head, lips brushing his scuffed and scabbed knuckles.
The moment, punctuated only by their quiet breathing and the steady beeping of machines, feels sickeningly reverent. Isabel’s thumb drifts down to his wrist, presses just above his pulse point to feel the unrelenting thump of his heart.
and you know what. it’s only one paragraph but welcome to my in process riley piece ft. @statichvm’s lily (she’s the freckled shoulders.)
“When’s the last time you slept in a twin bed?” he muses quietly, fingers tracing warm shapes over her freckled shoulders.
and now the shame. ignore the random paragraph marker where i haven’t had the brain cells to connect my two disjointed scenes.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” Pratt says, tightening the straps on her wrists. “You should’ve run.”
Her vision swims and doubles, one Pratt becoming two. Lucy tries to focus on his battered face, the stubble on his jaw, something to ground herself. It feels like the haze in her head is going to swallow her.
“Pratt?” she manages. His name feels thick and fuzzy in her mouth.
There’s a rustling noise behind her, then heavy footsteps. Pratt blanches. Lucy watches him scurry away from her, over to the front of the room where the other two captives are bound to their chairs. From somewhere in the room, a projector flickers to life. The light casts Pratt’s face in heavy shadows.
An emaciated deer appears on the wall in front of her.
“The world is weak. Soft.”
The blood freezes in Lucy’s veins. It’s different from what she remembers — harder, a little raspy, filled with contempt — but she knows that voice.
“We have forgotten what it means to be strong.”
In her peripheral vision, all she can see are faded blue jeans, the camouflage pattern of a jacket. Red hair.
<*>
“Now, the Collapse is upon us.”
She doesn’t flinch when Jacob leans down, grabs the arms of the chair, and pulls her closer to him. There are patches of dried blood marring the grey of his shirt, she notices idly. Part of her would rather not think about why they’re there.
“And this time,” Jacob says, a foot away from her, his breath ghosting across her face as he speaks, “the lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many.”
The collar of his shirt has dipped down, and Lucy can see the pale, undamaged skin of his neck, his throat. How far does the scarring travel? How badly has his life ruined his body? Is this all that’s been left untouched? It makes her heart ache in a way she wishes she could ignore. His dog tags sway where they hang from his neck, and Lucy’s eyes flit over the letters engraved in the stainless steel.
He’s close enough to touch, but she doesn’t think she can look into his eyes. She doesn’t want to.
She doesn’t want to meet his gaze, because the moment she does this becomes real. The moment she does, she’ll have to acknowledge that this is the same Jacob Seed she remembers, that this is not a sick joke.
The breath hitches in her chest when she finally makes herself look up. She expects to see something in his eyes — recognition, shock, sadness, anger, something.
Instead, she sees indifference.
“And when a nation that’s never known hunger or desperation descends into madness,” Jacob murmurs, his voice a low, deadly rasp, “we’ll be ready.”
The projector goes black as the slide changes again, and Jacob’s face is bathed in shadows. His stare is burning, heavy, and it lingers on her for a few seconds too long. Lucy wants to break her bonds and reach out, wants to touch the side of his face, just to see how he’ll react. If he’ll react.
And then he stands, an unkind half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and reaches for a small box. A music box, she realizes, as she watches him twist the brass key.
“We will cull the herd,” Jacob says, and Lucy thinks he may be talking to himself more than anyone else. “We will do what needs to be done.”
His fingers rest atop of the music box for a moment, and he stares her, watching. Then, slowly, he lifts the lid and lets the sound warble out.
it's been approximately 100 years since i put one of these together and while i cannot promise i will actually put out anything creative or interesting...
please interact with this post in some way if you want to be tagged in edits, tag games, or whatever other meager content offerings i rarely occasionally provide!
it's been approximately 100 years since i put one of these together and while i cannot promise i will actually put out anything creative or interesting...
please interact with this post in some way if you want to be tagged in edits, tag games, or whatever other meager content offerings i rarely occasionally provide!
it's been approximately 100 years since i put one of these together and while i cannot promise i will actually put out anything creative or interesting...
please interact with this post in some way if you want to be tagged in edits, tag games, or whatever other meager content offerings i rarely occasionally provide!
just found out about charlize theron in apex (2026) and i really am starting to think that the universe is conspiring to make me write the lucy 100k epic
i was tagged by my beloved @imogenkol and i know this is going to shock you all to shit but i actually have…written…words? and things? waow…
i still haven’t put together a new tag list post and also quite frankly i’m too mortified with myself to broadcast my goings on directly into your notifications so if you see this consider yourself one of the lucky few. and if you want to share, consider yourself tagged.
okay friends. go on. do your worst.
— me? writing marvel shit in 2026? more likely than you think.
His grip on the phone tightens, his hand shaking almost imperceptibly as he stares down at the photograph.
Frank has always been like this, Isabel thinks: quietly aching, splintering, desperately plugging up the cracks with whatever broken pieces are left.
A year hasn’t changed him. Still, she doesn’t push.
“She’s perfect.”
“I know.”
— look. i’m disappointed in myself too. we don’t need to talk about it.
“You’re different than I remember.”
Absently, Lucy reaches into the tub, grasping at the submerged washcloth. She pulls it into the open air and wrings it out, the drip drip drip of water on water hypnotic in a way she can’t name.
“Yeah?”
Dirt has built up around her ankles, a ring of caked on sweat and grime circling each one that her hasty showers are never quite able to cut through. Lucy busies herself scrubbing at the filth, leaving patches of raw, red skin in her wake.
“How do you figure?” she says, finally, not entirely sure she wants to hear what Jacob has to say.
“Lucy I knew was soft.”
Irritation pricks at the back of her mind, an insidious little thing that winds around her brain stem and squeezes. The wound in her side aches fiercely, and she forces her attention there in a futile effort to tamp down on the frustration building in her bones.
Before she can tell him she’s not in the mood for another lecture on the dichotomy between weak and strong, he speaks again.
“You, though—you’re angry. You’re tired,” he continues, voice as quiet and raspy as ever. “Somewhere along the line, you got all rough around the edges. Sharp.”
“You’re a real Sherlock Holmes, you know that?”
“What happened to all that soft, huh? Someone take it from you?”
MAURA FOSTER 🌱 (tlou/original) | LUCY EVANS💥 (let’s not talk about it.)
tagged by the very lovely @lilywatt @imogenkol @d-esmond @loriane-elmuerto @queennymeria and @leviiackrman to make some kids in this fun picrew and i returned from the dead specifically for them so everyone say thank you…
not tagging anyone today because i think this has made the rounds and also i am fairly to pretty damn sure i have been missing for so long that no one remembers who i am which means i need a new taglist which is a project for a different day. but if you see this and want to do it, consider this your invitation!
2. How much time do they spend in front of the mirror?
Not freak level amounts, but definitely more than the average dude. He cares about his hair, but he also has your classic man “I wash my face with dish soap” skincare routine. He likes his facial hair a certain way, but he isn’t like…plucking his nose hairs or anything.
Lily says how can you spend thirty minutes in the bathroom after your shower and still come out looking like you’ve done absolutely nothing. He says I am an enigma and you don’t have to understand me.
7. How much do they curse?
It, uh. It really depends on who he’s around. He is a bit of a nightmare in the locker room with his pals. He tries to tone it down when he’s with the general public. He tries not to cuss at all when he’s around his poor, long-suffering mother.
It was a big adjustment leaving home and going out in the world surrounded by other men swearing like sailors. The first time he came home for an extended period after getting drafted, he definitely had a hard time adjusting his speech. There were many horrible slip ups in front of Mama Merritt.
He’s sorry. He just thinks ‘fuck’ really colors the English language in the best way possible, you know?
9. Their favorite color? Does it show?
Orange. He’s an orange boy. Reminds him of sunset. His very first NHL team’s colors are orange and blue and he is very pleased about this. It’s not so obvious it’s his favorite color as an adult, but you could pinpoint it immediately when he was a kid — his childhood bedroom is (still) a bright, cheery orange and his favorite shoes were those light up sneakers that glow bright orange.
17. Is their personality similar to their parents?
You can definitely see a bit of his parents in him. Riley’s a dork like his father — you see it in the inherited dad jokes and ‘I love my wife’ mentality — but he’s also got his mom’s resilience and warmth. He did not inherit any of their cooking skills.
He’s also unlike them in a lot of ways, too. Experiencing loss and trauma during his formative years and never really dealing with the hurricane of emotions that came with it sort of shaped the darker parts of his personality. His parents are kind, level-headed people, but Riley is reactionary and for a long time, very angry. They’re logical, and he’s impulsive and sometimes unpredictable.
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