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SEVERANCE 2.03 ✄ Who Is Alive?

“Yeah. Because you get the feeling from that hug that there's a little bit of spark of something, which in a normal world would be like, oh, this is actually could be good, but they are two separate entities. And I don't know, that's just for me, what's so fun about the show is to be able to explore premises like that.”

— executive producer Ben Stiller The Severance Podcast with Ben Stiller & Adam Scott: S2E3: Who Is Alive? (with Gwendoline Christie)

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maybe love transcends severance

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lol i just realized i don’t have enough money for this week wow. wow.

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Feb 4, 2025 - Thousands of Los Angeles high school students walked out of class and marched on the city capitol in third straight day of Anti-ICE protests. (Source)

PROTESTS ARE HAPPENING. THEY ARE JUST NOT BEING COVERED OUTSIDE OF LOCAL MEDIA OUTLETS. DO NOT RELY ON MAINSTREAM MEDIA.

There was a huge Trans-rights demonstration last night in New York outside of NYU Langone hospital in protest of their decision to halt gender-affirming care under Trump's order. (Source)

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Kielbasa bean soup w/ fresh baked no knead bread (♡)

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hi! I'm currently facing an emergency in funds and need help for some upcoming medical expenses. if you're willing and can, it would help if you could chip-in to my ko-fi. I'm open to write as a commission for it, and the details for that are here. In case you want to check out my previous writing, my ao3 is suitofhumour. thanks for any help!

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I spread pro glasses propaganda. Glasses are hot. Glasses are cool. Glasses will help you see boobs.

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King Invictis takes Keeva up on her offer to cook together. It turns out cutting fruit is harder than he'd assumed, but thankfully Keeva is there to help.

(Accompanying writing under the cut!)

CW: Small injury

"Oh, oh wait a moment!”

Invictis immediately stops in place, rather caught off guard by Keeva’s sudden exclamation, knife in hand frozen in the middle of a cutting motion. He tilts his head to look at her with curious eyes. “Hm?”

Suddenly at his side, so sudden it’s a wonder she didn’t crash into him, she points to his left hand, the one holding down the fruit he had just been about to cut. “You need to move your fingers or else you'll hurt yourself, especially with something small and slippery like this. Here."

The drakon allows his hand to be guided into place by Keeva. Her touch is very soft, almost feeling like a light breeze against the top of his hand, but it feels more substantial the longer it remains as she gently moves his clawed fingers so they curl into his palm slightly, no longer in the way of the knife his right hand holds. His eyes trail from Keeva's hand up to her face, which was currently furrowed slightly in concentration, but her expression changes to something softer as she pulls her hand back, her own gaze meeting his expectantly.

“So… like this?” he asks, attempting once again to cut a slice from the small, round Tír na nÓg fruit, fingers no longer in danger of being included.

Keeva smiles with a satisfied nod. “Exactly!” she confirms. “Just keep doing that and you’ll be great.”

As she quickly flies back to the stove to continue cooking the crepe batter they had made earlier, Invictis turns back to the fruit and slowly, carefully tries to cut them into more slices, taking his time to ensure each one was the same size as the last. His movements are clearly stiff and lack confidence despite his best efforts, but still he continues with conviction.

With all the chaos that existed in the world, having a small moment like this without worrying about meetings or the never-ending problems was a necessity to stay sane. That’s what Keeva had said, at least, or something close to that. She’d initially seemed a little surprised when Invictis had shown up at the Avalon once again with the intention of taking her up on the offer she’d made to cook with him, but surprise quickly gave way to excitement and before he knew it, he’d found himself in the Avalon’s kitchen with Keeva teaching him everything he needed to know to make crepes himself. She would always make time, she’d said.

Learning how to measure the ingredients for the batter had been the first step, and one that went relatively quickly; once he knew what everything was, and how much of each ingredient the batter needed, it was easy. Cutting the fruit for the filling, however, was proving to be significantly more challenging. Keeva had made it seem so much easier when she’d shown him how to do it, breezing through each slice quickly to leave the fruit a pretty little pile of relatively even slices. He could only do his best to match what she had shown, but it felt like he was taking a century to cut through just half of this single fruit.

“Are you sure we’re using the same knife?” he asks, leaning down slightly to stare in utter disbelief at how little progress he’s made.

“I handed it to you myself, so… yes?” she replies with a slight laugh, throwing a sympathetic smile over her shoulder. “No need to rush, and I can help you finish those if I get done first. Okay?”

As kind as that was, it was simply unacceptable for her to need to finish this for him. He just needed to go a little faster, that was all. Easy enough. The growing aroma of freshly cooked crepes in the air only furthered his resolve to do this well. He’d conquered more dangerous foes than a little piece of fruit, after all.

“Oh no, it’s quite alright,” he says determinedly, giving the fruit one faster chop, then another. Easy. This was easy. He hardly notices that he’d gone right back to holding the fruit the wrong way again. “Right.” Another chop, a little too close to his fingers. “I think I’ve got it n– ow.”

Okay, perhaps it was not so easy after all.

Before he could even lift his hand to assess the damage, Keeva was already back at his side with obvious concern.

“What happened? Are you– oh,” she says, pausing only for a moment as she spots the obvious victim to his speedier knifework, frowning in further concern as she grabs his hand to get a better look.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! My own mistake,” he reassures, but Keeva doesn’t budge.

“No, you’re hurt!” she argues, raising his hand a little higher as if to show him exactly how not fine it is.

It’s not a large cut, thankfully the knife had only grazed one of his fingers, but it was deep enough to bleed. Although she didn’t say anything, It was also very clear she knew exactly what had happened, her eyes darting from the cut across his finger to the knife he still held.

“Um… Here, take this. Hold it in place,” she says firmly, grabbing a small towel from the edge of the table and pressing it lightly against the wound, flashing him a sympathetic look when he winces. “Sorry.”

Invictis sets the knife down and complies with her demand. “It’s fine,” he repeats, offering a soft smile, trying his best not to grimace or wince at the sharp pain shooting through his hand.

Still not convinced, she gives him a slight shake of her head, but doesn’t argue further. She instead looks around the room, clearly looking for something else that would help, but sighs when she spots nothing. “I wish I could heal people like… hm. Wait!”

While curious, Invictis says nothing and waits. He watches as she hunts for something in a small bag at her side, then catches a glint of something small and green in her hand of what he can only assume is the item she’d been searching for.

“I’m going to try something,” she says absently, her focus clearly elsewhere as she then quietly speaks the words of a spell. When she’s done a few seconds later, nothing seems to have happened from Invictis’ perspective, but there seems to be a boost of confidence that’s sparked within her. She begins uttering another spell, this time taking his injured hand within one of her own, the other moving the towel out of the way before ghosting her fingers against the wound. It briefly glows with a soft light that blooms like a flower before fading into specks of light, and all at once the cut seems to close on its own and disappears as if it were never there to begin with.

“Oh, good! It did work!” She relaxes in visible relief before pulling the hand a little closer to get a better look at where the cut had been, then nods, satisfied to see it had in fact been healed.

"Ah! I didn't know you had the ability to heal?” he remarks, leaning in to see for himself. “That is truly impressive."

“No no, normally I don’t,” she replies with a dismissive wave before taking the towel back from him, frowning a bit at the blood staining it. How could one cut bleed so much? “That was… um, Iris’ thing. And Tara. I can just… Well, um, it’s a little complicated, but I can give Lan extra power for a little while. Like the ability to heal, just a small cure wounds spell. So I thought that maybe it would work for myself too. And it did, thankfully.”

Invictis gives a slight nod in gratitude, moved by her kind gesture. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says with a cheerful smile, then pauses, and sheepishly adds, “Okay, well, not anytime. Okay, well, I do mean that! But uh, I don’t think I can do that again today. The healing? But I am happy to help! Just, um… be careful.”

It’s endearing seeing her try to get the words right, and he can’t help but smile a bit, though it quickly gives way to a hint of his own embarrassment. After all, she wouldn’t have had to heal him if he’d paid a little more attention.

“I’ll do my best,” he says with another slight nod, but frowns as almost at the same time, the two of them realize something smells off, like something was burning.

“The crepes!” Keeva exclaims, and it’s only now that Invictis realizes she had still been holding his hand as she finally releases it to fly back to the stove, pulling the pan off the heat to dump a very sad, very burnt crepe onto the plate with the rest of the cooked ones. She feigns a heavy sigh. “Fae-shit.”

“I… take it that it’s not supposed to be that color?”

She turns and gives him a very awkward smile, but laughs a little despite herself. “Ah, well, I clearly make my mistakes too. Getting you patched up was more important, though. Oh well, maybe the… the plants will like that one.” She picks up the blackened disc and grimaces. Being able to taste through one’s hands felt like a curse at this moment. “Ugh… No, absolutely not. No one deserves that.”

With the sad crepe quickly discarded and the smell of burnt food being replaced by the sweeter scent of newly made crepes, the both of them settle back into comfortable silence as they resume their individual tasks. As he finishes slicing yet another fruit, thankfully without injuring himself this time now that he was going at a more careful pace, he pauses to look at his freshly healed hand, and can’t help but smile softly.

[dudebe-nice]

The first episode of Hannibal be like:

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My housemate reminded me of a flashbulb memory I have that I really wish I had a photograph of because it would be a magnificent image to inflict on the internet at large with Zero Context, but I'll try to describe it here, and then draw it after dinner.

Image Description:

As seen from about three feet off the ground: Interior, the den of an american suburban house built at the height of the atomic age and still decorated like it years later. There's dark wood paneling about halfway up the walls that offsets the almost neon pink-orange light of late sunset visible through the large window. Every object in the room is highlighted by the last of the sunlight. The only other light in the room is a TV set that was manufactured the same year Howdy Doody debuted on air, now broadcasting PBS Newshour in black and white.

Closest to the viewer, there is a small end table with a Nearly Full Martini glass, and a Half-empty glass Martini Pitcher, indicating that two of the five martinis it holds have been poured out.

Just behind it, an old man sits in a chair that was bright green and yellow when it was new but is now more Grellow. The man is in his mid-sixites, somewhat heavyset, with a full head of snow-white hair and thick glasses. He's wearing a dark brown tweed suit with leather elbow patches, and a white cotton button-up. He's watching the news with a calm and dispassionate demeanor. Tired, but still engrossed with the world's events. He's wearing dark brown penny loafers and garish argyle socks.

Behind him is a couch that is a matched set with the armchair, with the same Grellow chevron pattern, but there is a very large crochet afghan that has been spread out over the back to be decorative and maybe protect the couch from it's current occupant: a 120lb Wolf Hybrid.

She's seated lengthwise on the couch, like she had also been watching PBS Newshour, posed like a sphynx. She's close in wieght to the man, and definitely taller than him if she stands up, with a dark gray agouti coat and a bit of white countershading from the trace of domestic dog in her. She's turned her head to the viewer, bright yellow eyes focused on them, and the fur of her head and neck haloed with the sunset. She is pleased to see the veiwer, which means most of the teeth in her lower jaw are visible in her canine grin. The effect is very menacing if you don't know her.

Clutched rather neatly between her front paws is a second, identical martini glass, only not nearly quite so full as the old man's.

Title: "Oh, I didn't think you'd be back for another hour/GODDAMIT EDWIN"

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Valentine's/Romance YCH Commissions open! :D Hope you all like these poses! The sketches are super rough bc I will be fully redrawing the poses for each comm, so all body types welcome!

I can't fully assure to have them all done by the 14th, but I added a part on the form to lmk if you need it by then! ^^

To get one fill out this form: https://forms.gle/3i9oQvqfaCkzouSu7

Thank you all for reading - reblogging/sharing is very much appreciated <33

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but now my love is gone

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i blog from here

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ms paint study from 2021

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From Anthony Bourdain:

Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal, and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—we sure employ a lot of them.

Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, and look after our children.

As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs.”

But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as a prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, probably, simply won’t do.

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires.

Whether it’s dress up like fools and get passed-out drunk and sunburned on spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs—while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us.

The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in L.A., burned out neighborhoods in Detroit—it’s there to see.

What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead in Mexico, just in the past few years—mostly innocent victims. Eighty thousand families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.

Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace.

Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness.

It's archeological sites—the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it, we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over tortilla chips. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply “bro food” at halftime.

It is in fact, old—older even than the great cuisines of Europe, and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet, if we paid attention.

The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation—many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe—have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling heights.

It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, and was there—and on the case—when the cooks like me, with backgrounds like mine, ran away to go skiing or surfing or simply flaked. I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them.

To small towns populated mostly by women—where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North.

I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand from their hands to mine.

In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather around a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious salsas, drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, and listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.

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