#how does time just keep happening?

[my-wife-doesnt-approve]

You come into my fucking house....

ADHD time blindness be like "oh, today is the 30th? that's fine, December is still next month, that's forever away!

...what do you mean tommorrow?"

[watchingwisteria]

listen there really was just something about how in the book, snow’s 3-page descent from hesitant lover boy to deluded mfer happens entirely in his mind. lucy gray gives him no indication whatsoever that she suspects him, that she’s going to leave or betray him. he’s just sitting quietly in the cabin waiting for her to return when that seed of calculated suspicion, which he has needed to survive the capitol, takes a hold of him and chokes the life out of any goodness left inside him. it really drives home your terror as a reader that “oh my god did he kill her? did she escape? what happened to her? why would he even think that?” in a way that when the movie had to adjust for visualization it lost some of that holy shit this guy has lost it emphasis.

[scriblesandbits]

So god created us in his image, right? And that’s cool and all but what if it turns out god, like, hates his own image??? What then????

[casualavocados]

You should stay away from me. I'm no longer with the gang. I didn't agree. Our boss already agreed four years ago. Pull over and let me out of the car. I'm your boss!

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 01 / Ep. 09

[here-comes-the-moose]

Crosshair would def be someone who, despite being lactose intolerant, would order a cheese pizza and then have ice cream for dessert.

[suntails]

totals ur drama

[unnonexistence]

hermann thoughts: if i discredit newton and his approach enough, the martial won't give him the equipment for his kaiju drift, and i can protect him from himself. if he despises me for it, so be it. there is little i wouldn't sacrifice to see him safe.

newt thoughts: this is a Best Science competition and i have to Win

[moeblob]

North chanting into the comm link: kill kill homicide kill

[scificrows]

Okay, my brain refuses to think about anything other than Murderbot, so I looked at every use of the word "friend[s]" in TMBD and... created some pie charts. Normal human activities.

Some Thoughts™ I had while putting this together (under the cut):

In All Systems Red, Murderbot notes that the PresAux crew are all close friends (twice! and goes on to explain their internal relationships which I think is very cute). This is pretty much the only use of 'friends' in ASR, except for when Murderbot says that SecUnits can't be friends with each other.

It seems that this may be one of the first times Murderbot has ever really been around a group of friends before? Murderbot notes that this is not the norm for its contracts and admits that the fact that they are all friends and the way they interact with each other make it actually enjoy that contract (before!!!! the hostile attack, so it already enjoys this contract before they start seeing it as a person etc ghghhhh). [Inference: Friendship seems enjoyable.]

The first character that calls Murderbot its friend is ART in Artificial Condition. Murderbot immediately refutes this (and then goes on to call ART its friend to its clients for the rest of the book). [Inference: Maybe ART is Murderbot's friend. And maybe that is... agreeable]

Rogue Protocol has more than twice as many instances of the word 'friend' as any of the other novellas. Why? Miki. Friendship and its implications for non-humans are a central theme because Miki is friends with everyone. Murderbot initially scoffs at the notion that Miki and Miki's humans are friends. At the end of the book, after witnessing how desperately Don Abene tried to stop Miki from trying to save them, and her grief after its death, Murderbot has to admit that she had in fact been Miki's friend. [Inference: Humans can be friends with bots and can sincerely care about them]

In Exit Strategy, Murderbot tentatively uses the word "friends" for its humans for the first time (several times actually). It questions whether it can actually call them its friends or not and later realizes that it had been afraid what admitting that the humans are its friends would do to it. At the end of the book, Mensah tells Murderbot the PresAux crew are its friends, which is the first time a human has directly said that to it (at least on-page). [Inference: Humans can and want to be Murderbot's friends]

In Network Effect, Murderbot seems to be more habituated to the word 'friend', confidently calling ART and Ratthi its friends, like it is no longer just trying the concept on unsure if it fits. There are many instances in which other characters refer to MB as ART's friend or the other way around and Murderbot's humans refer to Murderbot as their friend several times. Generally, there seems to be less hesitancy, because yes, all of them are Murderbot's friends, why wouldn't they be. [Inference: SecUnits can have friends. This SecUnit has friends. They care about it a lot.]

Conclusion: The Murderbot Diaries tell the story of a construct that does not seem to consider the possibility of friendship for itself and is fine with that - until it accidentally starts caring a little too much and suddenly more and more people annex it as a friend (ew) to the point where it can no longer deny that this is happening and has to begrudgingly admit that yes, it has friends now and maybe that is actually not a bad thing.

[mamawasatesttube]

coming out as boring or whatever but i must admit. i don't actually find boomer-sitcom-esque "i hate my wife"/"my partner is annoying and naggy"/"its cute and quirky to shit on my partner" jokes funny even if you make them gay. sorry. but its my truth.

[kitnita]

jason robertson postgame   —   DAL vs CHI   —  12.29.24

[how do you feel about your individual game lately? seems like you might’ve been trending in the right direction — how do you feel like you’ve been playing recently?] yeah, i think, um … i mean, i think december’s been trending in the right way. um, definitely feeling better, feeling better. um — thirty-five games in … you wanna try to get on a roll here. and what’s exciting is we have a whole new year coming soon, so. um, yeah, i can move on and try to build off of it and get excited for the new year.  [what’s the process been like coming back from the surgery? it’s something you’ve never had to do before, right?] yeah, i mean (brief unintelligible mumble) it’s been, you know, five — i don’t know, five months since the surgery, so, it’s been a long time, but, i mean (shrugs) still, without an off-season it’s definitely (laughs) definitely — still, you still don’t feel great without an off-season, and trying to adapt, and then you’re trying to play catch-up, and then you’re trying to forget about the catching up, and try to focus on a new page, so — i’m happy that december’s been trending in the right direction, and i’ll try to turn the page going into the new year.

[silverhalla]

Back at it again with another theory: What if Lucanis’ betrayal wasn’t a betrayal at all?

(obviously, spoilers below the cut)

During The Wigmaker Job, we have some dialogue between Illario and Lucanis about their position within both the Crows and the Dellamorte family. Illario wants Caterina to step down so he can take the coveted First Talon spot. Lucanis reassures him that his time is coming, to which Illario makes a snide comment about whether his cousin would ever go against their grandmother’s wishes. When they continue the conversation after the job, Illario states that Lucanis is the potential heir, that he’s her favorite, and that he’s unlikely to say no to her. Lucanis doesn’t argue, only insists that he doesn’t want to be First Talon, and that he hopes she’ll see reason before that. It’s mentioned again in Eight Little Talons - Caterina favors Lucanis. It’s well-known enough among the Crows that Viago and Teia discuss it in front of her (not on purpose, but she doesn’t deny it). He’s her prodigy through and through.

In the opening scene for the Lucanis quest in Veilguard, Caterina is poised, as you’d expect of the First Talon. She’s certain that the body they buried wasn’t her grandson, that it had been altered with blood magic. She doesn’t pose it as a theory, though: she poses it as a fact. It could, of course, merely be her confidence, but there’s another very unusual aspect to the scene – everyone else discusses how Lucanis was clearly betrayed, that someone must have sold him out in order for the Venatori to capture him. Caterina is the only one in that room who never speaks on it. She doesn’t ask for justice, doesn’t mention vengeance, never acknowledges that her grandson was sold out by someone he trusted – perhaps because he wasn’t. 

What if, when Caterina comes to him with a plan, with an impossible request, he’s still her favorite prodigal grandchild, and he still does whatever she asks? She’s had him tortured before as a child, has tortured and starved and beaten him herself before, because it makes him stronger and more resistant to it in the future. He says in The Wigmaker Job that he used to hate her for it, but now he understands. He justifies it. All Crows justify it, because they have to - if they don’t, then the cruelty wasn’t for survival’s sake, and their suffering meant nothing. Perhaps he doesn’t even question it. When Caterina tells him that she has a job for him, he takes it. 

What if the contract has a caveat? Sure, Calivan must die by his hand by the end of it, a little treat for a job well done, but what if his primary mission is reconnaissance, is discovery? The Venatori are using blood magic to torture and corrupt prisoners. It would behoove the Crows to find out what it entails and how to resist it, before it’s turned back on them. It would have to be someone so deeply, unabashedly loyal to her that when she asked them to infiltrate a Venatori prison, expecting torture at best, their own death at worst, they’d take the job anyway, no questions asked - someone Caterina can trust, certainly, but also someone who has never once said no to her.

And Lucanis has always been a loyal grandson. 

[toxintouch]

yk how in veres likes on his character sheet it says he like cooking (badly)…… WHY HAS NO ONE DONE A FIC ABOUT THAT YET‼️⁉️⁉️ THAT SHOULD NOTTT BE A WASTED OPPORTUNITY. i’m not even joking im ab to send this to so many people because i can’t let this go to waste 😞

Here u are anon!  For the record, you are completely free to send this prompt around wherever you’d like!  It was such a fun idea, I’d love to see more takes on it. ^^

Warnings: Vere talking Innuendos? Innuendos.  So many, and I don’t guarantee that they are funny lol.  Just a general silly vibe and imo: absolutely  tooth rotting fluff.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅SOUS CHEF ‧₊˚♡₊˚

You find yourself wandering through Lowtown during the lunch hour, trying to decide what sounds like a good meal.

Your mouth waters at the scents being carried on the breeze, a plethora of pleasant aromas wafting out of the eateries nestled inside the Amaryllis District, so fragrant that you can smell them all the way down on the bustling streets of Lowtown as long as you stay downwind.

However, if there’s one nice thing about knowing Leander it's that you also know you don’t have to go that far (or spend that much) for a delicious lunch. 

Near enough to the Wet Wick, there’s a series of side streets that make up an eclectic amalgamation of Lowtown and the Amaryllis District, and in it: a small and inconspicuous eatery.  The menu changes often, though you aren’t sure if that’s out of innovation or necessity, but the food is always filling and reasonably priced.

You follow the winding streets, getting lost for a brief moment before correcting your course, traveling until you see colorful chipped girih tiles and wide, clean windows.  You let yourself into the shop, the now familiar sound of hinges in need of an oiling welcoming you.  

There’s an assortment of goods on display–jars of honey and spiced fruit and loaves of braided bread with seeds–all kept safely locked away beneath an enchanted pane of glass.

Looking around, though, you don’t see anyone selling said fantastic wares.

You call out, expecting the shop keep or her wife to come running but instead you hear…silence.

Followed by a loud metallic clatter.

You freeze, unsure what to do, what the threat is–if there’s even a threat?–but before you can make up your mind, you’re greeted by a most unexpected sight.

Vere comes out of the kitchen area, his hair swept into an artfully stunning up-do that reveals the long line of his neck and clavicle, blemished only by the heavy collar locked around his throat. 

He’s wearing a weighty linen apron over his clothing, presumably to protect his outfit, though–his long gossamer sleeves are completely discordant with the notion, making you think that maybe the apron is more of an aesthetic choice.

“What’s this–?  A mouse?  In my kitchen?” Vere asks playfully as you continue to stare, dumbfounded.  He wields a spatula in his hand like a weapon–swatching it into his off-hand like a riding crop with a decisive snap.

“Where is–?”

“–The shop keep?  Wherever she pleases–the shop’s closed on Mondays.”

(You really don’t like the way he’s watching you…  Or the way he keeps inching closer…)

You take a step backwards, your eyes never leaving his.  “Oh,” you say, bandaged hands reaching blindly behind you.  “I didn’t realize.  The door was unlocked, so…”  You trail off.

You find the doorknob at last.  You attempt to turn it only to find that it won’t budge.

“Was it?”

Vere saunters up to you, tail swaying behind him.  You manage to tear your eyes away from his predator stare to search for possible exits, though you know for a fact you won’t be fast enough.   You look back and he’s already in your space, crowding you against the entryway.

(He smells really good, actually.  Like leather and spice and the subtle cling of perfume and incense.  And beneath that, something–earthy–animalistic, but in a way that’s intoxicating as opposed to unpleasant.)

“I was just about to make myself a snack–how nice that a snack came to me.”

“Stop playing around.” You try to steel yourself and inject the perfect amount of scolding into your voice while combating his heated stare.  “I know you’re just fucking with me to try and get a reaction; you and I both know you’re not going to eat me.” 

If he was, he would have done it by now.  Sometime within the weeks you’ve known him.  …Probably. 

Unless he just likes to play with his food.

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well,”  he says, looking amused.  “Perhaps I didn’t plan to, but now I simply can’t resist.  You look so absolutely delectable, how could I possibly contain myself?”

You don’t get the chance to reply.  Vere’s countenance changes suddenly–you watch his ears flatten a second before you hear the screaming whistle of a teapot.  His ears twitch in annoyance at the sound, his perfectly sculpted face showing a sour sneer.  He gives you a sideways glance, calculating.

“Then again.  I find myself in need of a sous chef.  Congratulations on your promotion.  Come along now.”  He hooks a finger into your cloak and pulls you easily into the kitchen.  (To be fair, you don’t struggle.  Anyone would want to see where this is going, right?)

He releases you once you’ve crossed over the threshold, waving his fingers uncaringly towards a second apron affixed to a hook on the wall as he beelines to remove a glass teapot from the stove and stifle the noise.  He moves quickly as you watch, casually throwing aside the spatula in his hand in favor of an ornate silver teaspoon.  He measures a vibrantly colored tea into the inlaid steeping container of the equally ornate teapot and takes a pleased inhale as the tea’s fragrance blooms, humming as he flips over a delicate hourglass to keep track of the steeping time.

There’s silence for a moment–

Him watching the teapot and you watching him.

“Well?”  He asks, without looking up.  You’ve seen this look before, you think – this pensive, almost lonesome look that makes your heart ache against all better judgment.  “Staying or going?”

He grins when you put on the apron.  You search his face for some sincerity, but he’s all sharp teeth and tall ears, covering any glimpses of deeper emotion with a sheen of smugness.  He circles you once you have the apron on, taking in the image.

“Mm, don’t you just look adorable.  Very domesticated.”

You’re pretty sure that the word he’s looking for is domestic. But of course, he knows what he said and he meant to say it.  You decide that he’s probably betting on your correction, already armed with a witty retort.  You smooth the apron down while pointedly looking away, deciding that you won’t give him the satisfaction.  You hear him chuckle.

Since you’re avoiding looking at Vere, you look around the kitchen for the first time.

It’s a spacious workspace–moreso than the storefront, even.  There’s a large iron stove unlike anything you’ve ever seen, covered with magical runes and dials, with a large hearth built into the belly of it.  A plethora of pots and pans have been placed on the burners, left to sizzle and pop in the red hot heat.  

Oil is singing from the heated, shallow basins but you don’t see anything cooking inside.  

There’s a slab of meat diced into neat squares and a heaping bowl of lumpy batter set to the side of the stove top.

“What are you making?”  You ask, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Panko crusted fish filet.  And there’s a pasta in the oven.  For dessert, I was thinking–” he gives you a sly look, one that makes your ears feel warm, “hmm, well.  I just had a much better idea in regards to dessert.”  He makes a show of licking his fangs, the movements of his tongue slow and sensual.

You think you tied your apron too tight; your airway is feeling a little constricted.  It seems to be getting worse the longer you watch.

You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away.  More ingredients, most partially prepared, and a host of dirtied pots and pans greet you.  You turn your back to him as you explore, fully engrossed in all of the views that the mess of a kitchen has to offer.  You’re almost afraid to ask: “So, what am I here to help with?”

“Oh?”  You don’t hear Vere come up next to you, but you feel him brushing up against you.  “Does my darling sous chef require…instruction?  A guiding hand, so to speak?”  You freeze, feeling his breath against your ear, shivers running down your spine at his light and teasing chuckle.

But then he’s breezing past you, making a wide dramatic gesture toward the large tome perched surreptitiously on the counter.  “Lucky for you, I’ve a recipe.”  His tail wags swishes elegantly behind him as he beams with pride.

His tail knocks the whisk out of the mystery batter beside the fish filet but he takes no notice.

Vere hops gracefully up onto the counter, reaching for the batter.  He does an impressive twist in order to grab hold of another whisk and you take the time to appreciate that.  Then, with Vere occupied and seemingly ignoring you, you take a look at the recipe book.  

The text is old and withered with the occasional dash of sprawling spidery script painting the margins.  (Said writing is utterly illegible–you’re actually not sure if it’s in a language you can read, though if you squint you think you can see something that looks like the word ‘cake’.)  The page it’s opened to is ripped in half, rendering precious steps of the recipe lost to time.  You spot a mysterious bite mark piercing through the corner of the leather cover.

And can’t stop yourself from surreptitiously glancing over at Vere.  He’s moved on from the batter (which looks as lumpy as it did a minute ago) and is now eating skewers of raw fish with his nails.

“You’re not supposed to eat while you cook,” you say, the time worn words out of your mouth before you can examine your personal stance on them.

“Says who?  Some limp dick?  No shame in indulging, pet.”

“You’re not even gonna have anything left to cook,” you warn.

“Hum, sounds like my sous chef should get to work covering them in batter instead of just standing there before I eat them all.”

You roll your eyes, but follow through with instructions.  The space is unfamiliar and your movements are slow and unsure with Vere looming over you from his perch on high, watching.

One of the pans of oil gives an ominous pop.  “Hmm, sounds like it’s hot enough,” says Vere.  “Move over.”

“Is that safe?”

“For me,” Vere says simply.  “And it’s faster.  Now stand further back or you'll get splattered–and not in the fun way.”  Idly, he tosses a batter covered filet into the shallow pan.  The resulting hiss makes you both cringe.

As if on queue, the hourglass for the tea gives a gentle chime, lighting up with a golden glow.  (You’re beginning to wonder how this humble shop can afford all these magical items, but then again this is the city of secrets.  You’re probably better off not knowing.)  Vere’s ears perk up, pleased.  He tosses the remaining fillets in the pan without a fuss, setting lids on top of each to contain the oil, acting as if doing so is going to stop any potential disaster.

Main course forgotten, he moves on to digging something out from inside one of the many cupboards.  “Be a dear and cut this for me, will you?”  He hands you a delicate peach before heading to the tea pot, stirring the contents and adding what must be a priceless amount of honey.

The peach in your hand is overripe but still vibrant–amazing, as you haven’t seen fresh fruit at all since you came to Eridia.  Your mouth waters anew as you remember what led you here in the first place–your quest for a meal–and you’re almost tempted to take a bite, follow Vere’s advice and sink your teeth in.

“My, my.  I’m almost jealous.  I thought you only looked at me like that.”

Vere shushes the denial from your lips, bossing you around regarding how he wants the peach sliced before shooing you out of his way and finishing his remaining tea preparations,with the look of an artist at work.  The tea is a warm oolong color, made only more alluring once the infusion of peach is complete.

It’s refreshing, too, once Vere serves it to you over ice.

You can almost ignore the great plumes of smoke coming from the oven.

Vere cooks how others might enjoy a leisurely stroll. 

Which is to say, he seems to be having fun, but you’re not convinced he intends on really going anywhere.  Still, there’s a rhythm to it–a dance, though he leads you in expected loops and turns, changes the tune at a moment's notice.  He’ll get bored of the task at hand and find some new spice to peruse, demand you taste test an ingredient or give your opinion on a dizzying new flavor he’s concocted.

(He manages to convince you to sample a bit of cucumber soup from the cold box.  You retch, proclaiming it salty, downing another glass of delicious peach oolong–

“I can still taste it in the back of my throat…!”–and he cackles wildly.)

Thick locks of hair are falling out of his up-do by the time he’s satisfied, framing his face and bringing your attention, again to the inviting line of his clavicle.  He tosses his loose hair over his shoulder, preening.

The recipe book is basically ruined, and the pasta is null and void, but some of the fillets look mildly edible.  The artful garnish is beautiful, at least.  The kale and orange slices really bring out the crispy burnt bits.  Vere seems to enjoy plating the food a great deal, humming and rearranging and circling the display until he deems it arranged to perfection.

He’s elegant when he takes a bite, biting down with a crunch.  His tail goes very still for a moment, then shivers microscopically as he chews.  He swallows in a manner that you can only describe as dignified, dabbing his lips with a napkin.  You wait in anticipation, but Vere says nothing for a long time.  Then, he quietly takes the old recipe book and throws it away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t insist on you trying it too.

You end up snacking on some of the pre-made goods, drinking the remaining tea and lounging at one of the shop’s cozy little tables.  The mood is light and easy, and the view is magnificent.  Outside, there’s nothing but trash littered streets and urchins, but inside…the afternoon glow coming from the window illuminates Vere like a sunset, painting him in dazzling shades of gold and red and bronze.

Vere hums, peering at you pointedly through his sooty lashes.  “So, dessert?”

You can’t imagine the look that comes across your face–whatever it is, it makes Vere laugh.

“What are you giving me that look for?  My intentions are pure.” His voice is a masterclass in syrupy false-innocence.  “As clean as Leander’s bed sheets after–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence and give me any mental images,” you beg.  “I have to sleep there tonight, I’d rather not know.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”  Vere agrees, closing his eyes and appearing to bask in the sun for a moment.  His face does something that you don’t quite catch–some hidden expression–but then, he’s smiling easily.  He must really be relaxed if he can still smile seconds after thinking about Leander.  You’re still admiring him when the shadows against the walls flicker, and suddenly he isn’t sitting next to you any more.

Instead, he’s returning from the kitchen, a tray in hand.

He sets it down in front of you, revealing an assortment of strawberries and an ornate silver porringer of what appears to be melted chocolate.  Vere sets it down on the table, plucking the small dessert spoon from the chocolate once he’s seated across from you again.

“Occasionally, life does offer up something sweet to savor–only for those willing to go out and take it.”  His tongue darts out to lick the chocolate off the spoon in his hand.  He maintains eye contact as his tongue laves across the basin and–embarrassingly–you think you get a little lightheaded from the intensity with which your blood rushes to your face.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you that he know exactly where your mind has gone.

Setting the spoon down, Vere instead picks up a bare strawberry, leaning in closer to press it gently to your mouth.

The chocolate is overly bitter–a little burnt, perhaps, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you’re tasting the remnants of it on Vere’s lips.

(Before leaving, you plop a few coins down on the counter as payment.  You brought enough to cover your food…but definitely not enough to cover the mess in the kitchen.  There’s really nothing you can do about that.  

You hope you don’t get blacklisted.  You’d like to come back next Monday.)

Hope you enjoyed if you made it this far! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[wtftaylr]

I'm having so much fun with Sadie's save that I completely restarted bc I missed like 2 unique weapons and generally wanted to start over lol but im over the moon bc i got to replay Old World Blues! It's my favorite DLC no doubt there.

I got new dialogue bc of... high barter i think? and Klein calls u a "Loboto-Bear" and im mad bc that has no right to be as cute as it is /lh

[fineapplequeen]

Brrrainrot

[skunkes]

talon's abuse coming from looking very cherubic and childlike -> being treated like a child, with no autonomy to the point where even he himself sometimes mistakenly refers to these events transpiring when he was a child even though he wasn't -> all this leading to his emotions and mental state being very unmanageable, unregulated and fraught in the aftermath, once he's found himself back to al and isn't in survival mode anymore -> the gentle care, love, and support he needs to heal feeling very much like he's a child being taken care of, stirring up conflict within him....yup mhm