"I like yaoi because it's free of heterosexual dating mechanics" ppl when the larger more masculine boy takes care of and protects the smaller feminine one.
iâm gonna use this diarrhea lettuce fiasco to remind people that if it is an option for you (and i know it isnât for many â food deserts and access inequality are real) please try and source your produce from local farmers versus industrialized mega operations. workerâs rights and corners being cut in favor of profit (particularly re: irrigation water becoming contaminated or improperly treated greywater being used, which is more than likely what occurred with the cyclospora outbreak imo) are very real issues and corporations like taylor farms do not care as long as theyâre seeing profits.
Made some OCs with this Winx Club meiker! I loved this show as a kid and it was really fun to make up what their transformations would look like.
Tagging some friends for fun, no pressure! @captastra @imogenkol @statichvm @incognito-insomniac @taciturntraveller @tommyarashikage @uptownlowdown @full---ofstarlight and anyone else who wants to make their own post.
look ma iâm doing it twice in a row! i was tagged by my beloved @imogenkol to share what iâm working on and i fear all i have for you this week is more far cry 5 slop because i am still there. iâm sorry.
tag list: @statichvm @moonflowcr @kyberinfinitygems @d-esmond @risingsh0t @chyrstis @galfrey @tadej-pogacar
i said it was only fc5 slop but actually hereâs an isabel from the punisher s2
âHi,â 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. Isabelâs thumb drifts down to his wrist, presses just above his pulse point to feel the unrelenting thump of his heart.
and you know what. itâs only one paragraph but welcome to my in process riley piece ft. @statichvmâs lily (sheâs the freckled shoulders.)
âWhenâs the last time you slept in a twin bed?â he muses quietly, fingers tracing warm shapes over her freckled shoulders.
and now the shame. ignore the random paragraph marker where i havenât had the brain cells to connect my two disjointed scenes.
âYou shouldnât have come for me,â Pratt says, tightening the straps on her wrists. âYou shouldâve run.â
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.
âPratt?â she manages. His name feels thick and fuzzy in her mouth.
Thereâs 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 Prattâs face in heavy shadows.
An emaciated deer appears on the wall in front of her.
âThe world is weak. Soft.â
The blood freezes in Lucyâs veins. Itâs different from what she remembers â harder, a little raspy, filled with contempt â but she knows that voice.
âWe have forgotten what it means to be strong.â
In her peripheral vision, all she can see are faded blue jeans, the camouflage pattern of a jacket. Red hair.
<*>
âNow, the Collapse is upon us.â
She doesnât 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 theyâre there.
âAnd this time,â Jacob says, a foot away from her, his breath ghosting across her face as he speaks, âthe lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many.â
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 thatâs 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 Lucyâs eyes flit over the letters engraved in the stainless steel.
Heâs close enough to touch, but she doesnât think she can look into his eyes. She doesnât want to.
She doesnât want to meet his gaze, because the moment she does this becomes real. The moment she does, sheâll 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 â recognition, shock, sadness, anger, something.
Instead, she sees indifference.
âAnd when a nation thatâs never known hunger or desperation descends into madness,â Jacob murmurs, his voice a low, deadly rasp, âweâll be ready.â
The projector goes black as the slide changes again, and Jacobâs 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 heâll react. If heâll 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.
âWe will cull the herd,â Jacob says, and Lucy thinks he may be talking to himself more than anyone else. âWe will do what needs to be done.â
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.
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