#and obviously i really fucking hate my company like. i'm still looking elsewhere.

[baishouqijia]

ooc. just a lil life update cause i despawned despite having 3 weeks free. i still have my job, and will probably return next week. i know i didn't write anything that i wanted to but i actually really needed the break. it's the longest i've had off work in the past 5 years so i spent the entire time decompressing and just loafing. it was great, genuinely.

#✧ : filed. admin. #i'm trying to not sound 'ungrateful' cause a lot of people still lost their jobs and my department went from like. 70 to 20. #and obviously i really fucking hate my company like. i'm still looking elsewhere. #but going back is going to really fucking suck because it's just. completely different and everyone is pissed off (understandably) #but yeah i rewatched stra.nger thi.ngs (vec.na my beloved) and caught up on commissions and then loafed. like i did fucking nothing! #it was so fucking good ! #AQ was orite. didnt get rizzley (as much as i want him) and i dont wanna keep ''building pity'' bc i want moar baizhu in 4.2 #i've learned about how i need long decompression time and that means doing NOTHING for me. and i also learned about investments ! #i cashed out my shares so i can LARP panta.lone and invest. it's kinda fun. i see why you'd become a harbinger + go against gods for moneyy #anyway that's kinda it. soft apology and explanation. but not really because i feel so much better mentally. #hope you're all keeping well. its tough out there rn

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Nearly a year and a half ago now, I was able to watch the John Oliver's New York Stand-Up Show (terribly clunky title, it acronyms into JONYSUS and that's not much better, really annoying thing to have to look up if you happen to be spending ages trying find download links for it) with the use of a VPN and another person's Paramount Plus login, because I gave up on finding the files anywhere. But since then, every couple or months ago I've tried again to find them, because I fucking hate having things restricted to streaming services. Not just for the anti-corporate reasons or whatever (though those are important, I strongly object to the fact that people pay for media but all they get to do is rent temporary access to it that lasts as long as they keep paying and as long as the company decides to keep the media on its platform, and you have to watch it on their shitty video player that makes you turn off your adblocker and stalls all the time and that can't be enough value for money, even though to be fair I don't personally pay for it, just occasionally use the login of a generous friend for stuff I can't find elsewhere), but because I like being able to watch shows in a way that lets me cut out screenshots and clips so I can save and organize those into my own folders.

This week, I was finally able to find a form of the show that lets me do that. And I'm finally able to say: Remember that time when Andy Zaltzman spent years making fun of John Oliver for occasionally saying “gotten" because he was living in the United States, and then Andy got on American TV one time - they mentioned on The Bugle that this was his American TV debut - and immediately said "sports"? It's adorable, he hits the S just a touch too hard like he's trying to remind himself to say it.

(Annoyingly, Tumblr is still being difficult about letting me embed videos, so I'm just using Google Drive links instead.)

There's nothing in that short set that I haven't heard Andy do in other contexts (except, obviously, when he does that line in Britain he says "I prefer sport", not sports), but it is interesting to me to see which bits he picked out for an American showcase. Presumably his favourite bits, and what he thought was most marketable.

I wrote a post recently in which I wondered what material early OOs- era John Oliver might have picked out for a crowd that might not be in the mood for annoyingly clever and/or political material. Because I've heard most of the bits that John was doing then, spread across various contexts in little pieces, and I think he probably had just about enough to string together a relatively accessible and apolitical set for an audience that wanted it. Andy Zaltzman, however, did not. The range is one difference between Zaltzman and Oliver.

I've watched this whole 26-episode show, it's mainly American comics doing jokes about sex and drugs. And Andy decided the best he could possibly do when trying to fit in there was the child labour material. Never ever change, Andy.

This seems like a worthwhile time to issue a reminder that this isn't the first time I've been able to save and post a bit of that show. A very helpful friend (@lastweeksshirttonight) was able to grab this clip for me when I first watch it, which of course now has a treasured spot in my definitely-non-Beautiful-Mind-like Chocolate Milk Gang folder.

I thought of that clip recently when I heard this on the Elis James and John Robins radio show:

, just because I find it funny that Daniel Kitson has a lot of friends who make jokes about how much he looks like a serial killer, especially for a man who does not look all that much like a serial killer. He just has a beard. John Oliver at least would have been talking about Kitson circa 2006, when he had long-ish hair, and Daniel Kitson was probably at peak serial appearance before he cut his hair off. But still, even then, in the mid-00s when they were writing all those articles about how weird it was that this scary-looking serial killer man wrote such beautiful comedy - he was just a guy with a beard and long-ish hair. Come on, does this guy guy look like he'd hurt anyone?

Anyway, I'd better wrap up; I'm afraid, like a badly managed French restaurant, I'm running out of thyme.

[jaskiersvalley]

I'm loving all of your fics

Hearing that makes me super happy, Nonnie! Thank you! Have a little ficlet as thanks for being so sweet!

Word had come in advance that Geralt was returning for the winter. Not only that, he was bringing someone with him. It wasn’t just anyone, it was his bard. The bard. The one who had sung songs about witchers to turned the tide in their favour. The one who followed Geralt on his path without fear or prejudice. For the first time in decades, there was an air of excitement in Kaer Morhen. It was prepared with as much care as three witchers could muster up. They wanted Jaskier to feel welcome, wanted the bard to like them.

By the time the two were spotted on the last stretch to the keep, Lambert was almost vibrating with excitement. A human who liked a witcher, Geralt at that! It could mean someone who might extend that friendliness to other witchers too. Next to him, Eskel was only a little more sedate in his anticipation, more shy and self conscious than Lambert. Even Vesemir looked like he’d brushed his hair and made a bit of an effort.

One final sweep of the living areas of the keep and they were satisfied. The pantry was better stocked than it had been in decades, a couple of treats on the shelves for their visitor. Cobwebs had been blasted from the corners and fires set to keep the rooms warm. There was the telltale clang of the door and the sound of voices.

“You really grew up in such a dusty old keep? It’s so drafty, not even spiders want to live in the corners.” An unfamiliar voice drifted through the halls and Eskel slowed a little, uncertain all of a sudden. It wasn’t the warm excitement he had imagined, of a bard with a love of everything, finding beauty and poetry in his surroundings. Lambert looked to him similarly discouraged for a moment.

Meeting Jaskier was underwhelming. His eyes lingered on their scars, even if he didn’t say anything, there was still a silent judgement in his gaze. Self conscious, Eskel turned a little and Lambert began hassling Geralt to hide his disappointment.

Dinner wasn’t much better. They’d tried to outdo themselves for a first shared meal, Vesemir had even brought out a jar of preserved cherries, one of their most treasured and rarest of treats.

“I was at the court of Countess de Stael last winter, she had managed to import the most exquisite of fruits.” Jaskier sighed and looked at the cherries in  small bowl in front of him.

“Maybe you should have spent winter with her again then,” Lambert spat. It had only been half a day with Jaskier but all his hopes had already been dashed. Someone kicked him under the table and he looked down, a little sheepish. “Did I tell you about the selkimore I encountered back in the summer?”

That had Jaskier perking up. “Geralt took a contract for one a few months back. Only, there were two! I wrote a great ballad about it.” And he was off, recounting the most embellished tale of Geralt’s heroics. All the witchers around the table knew it was utter bullshit, half the things Jaskier was spouting, even Geralt looked a little uncomfortable. As soon as the story ended, Eskel excused himself from the table, telling himself Jaskier was just tired from travelling.

Not that the next day was much different. If anything, it was worse. Trying to impress Jaskier and show that Geralt wasn’t the only competent witcher, Eskel decided to train with Geralt. It was going so well too, he’d managed to land a blow to the back of Geralt’s knee and twist the blade from his grip. Eskel’s blade tipped Geralt’s chin up and he looked to Jaskier for approval. He didn’t expect the glare, or Jaskier stomping over to fuss over Geralt. For a few seconds Eskel stood to the side before beating a hasty retreat, knowing he hadn’t impressed Jaskier at all. In fact, he’d managed to become the least favourite witcher in one fell swoop.

That wasn’t to say that Lambert was faring a lot better. After training, he had walked wanted to go get a snack. From the distance he could hear Jaskier’s bright laugh and Geralt’s soft rumbles. Yet it all came to a stop as soon as he stepped through the door. Frustrated, Lambert grabbed the nearest edible thing and stomped out the room. He made a beeline for Vesemir’s room like a wounded pup and knocked impatiently before barging in. It wasn’t even a surprise to find Eskel there too, looking suitably miserable.

From an outside perspective, there was probably something funny about the fact that at over 100, Lambert was the youngest one there and yet he and Eskel were still like sad little children when the new kid didn’t want to play with them.

“Why doesn’t he like us?” Lambert asked, feeling far too lost all of a sudden. “I thought he’d be different. He seems to like Geralt, why not us?”

There was no answer that Vesemir could give. He was just as clueless and disappointed as the other two, the only difference was that he could hide it a bit better.

The biggest issue was that it was obviously having an impact on Geralt. He seemed to realise something was wrong, even started trying to shield Jaskier from the others. He was irritable during training, spent less time with the others in favour of keeping Jaskier company. The one time Eskel made a jibe about getting some fresh air, Geralt had snapped in a way that was usually reserved for Lambert. Usually, Geralt was much more even with Eskel, not because Eskel couldn’t take it but because there was a mutual respect between them.

In short, things were tense and getting worse. Dinners weren’t filled with laughter and song like they’d imagined. In fact, they barely heard Jaskier sing and if they crossed paths in the keep, there wasn’t even a fabled sunny smile sent their way. Because they’d all heard about the bard that travelled with a witcher. More often than not, people were disappointed to find that the witcher coming to answer their call for help wasn’t the famous White Wolf.

“Is he disappointed in us?” Eskel asked, staring morosely into his mug one evening. He and Lambert were huddled away in a dark corner of the cellar, absolutely hiding from the world at large. “Are we more hideous than even he can tolerate?”

“Fuck him,” Lambert spat. “You’re gorgeous just the way you are.”

“I just hoped-” Eskel cut himself off with a wave that encompassed everything he felt. It was something Lambert understood all too well. He pressed his shoulder against Eskel’s in support.

“I know. I hoped too.” Sighing, Lambert emptied his tankard.

There was the sound of the cellar door being pushed open and footsteps approaching. The two of them stayed silent, waiting for the trespasser to leave. It definitely wasn’t Jaskier as there wasn’t any fumbling or the light of a lantern to illuminate the way. Which meant either Vesemir or Geralt.

“Why are you hiding down here?” That was Geralt, perching himself on a crate of potatoes next to them. Before he could be told to fuck off, Geralt headed that delight off with a “Vesemir told me to come here.”

Meddling old man, Lambert was not best impressed with being ratted out like that. Especially not when Geralt said “I thought you two had been sneaking off to fuck.”

At least that got the two spluttering. Truthfully, neither of them had been in the mood since Jaskier had shown up with Geralt. In the end, Eskel was the one to try and delicately raise the issue.

“We know Jaskier is your companion, bard, whatever you call him.”

“My fiance.” Stunned silence settled in the cellar. “And I don’t know why you hate him so much. After this winter, I don’t think we’ll be returning to Kaer Morhen though.”

“We don’t hate him.” Eskel replied, only to be drowned out by Lambert’s indignant “He hates us!”

The problem with three emotionally compromised idiots trying to talk about feelings was that it was never going to end well. Even in the dark, they stared at each other, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

“But you hate him.” Geralt scratched the back of his neck. “You didn’t smile at him when he arrived, Lambert you told him he should have spent winter elsewhere that first night. Eskel, you glared at him and waved your sword menacingly after besting me in training. Vesemir told him to shut up when he was composing a new song. You don’t want him here and we’ll leave as soon as it’s safe.”

“That’s not what happened!” Lambert was adamant. “He thinks we spend winter in a crumbling piece of shit not even spiders want. Then food wasn’t good enough for him.”

“He hated me for winning that bout,” Eskel cut in.

“And when I interrupted him and you, he stopped singing and laughing.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told him the place was unusually clean and tidy. And that he had been offered the best food we could provide. He was trying to find a moment to apologise and make amends. The singing only stopped because he was trying to write a drinking song about my dick.”

The three of them stared at each other, trying to make sense of how they could have all gotten the wrong end of the stick.

“He looked disgusted by my scars,” Eskel mumbled, finally airing his biggest hurt.

“You should have heard him in the evening when we retired for the night,” Geralt snorted. “Trust me, he was captivated by your-” he obviously steeled himself for saying it “-natural, rugged beauty enhanced by the bravery you wear on your skin.”

There was a small titter and Eskel smacked Lambert in the shoulder.

“Could we try again?” Geralt asked quietly. “I don’t want to lose my family.”

That sobered things up quickly and they all took a moment to look each other over before Eskel nodded. He stood up and offered Lambert a hand. The quiet “thank you” from Geralt was so out of character, Lambert had half a mind to press a silver dagger to his neck.

They made their was back to the small hall where Jaskier was sitting, poring over a book with Vesemir. He looked up, eyes darting from Geralt to the other witchers, guarded and worried.

“Jaskier,” Geralt approached. “These idiots are my fellow wolves, Lambert and Eskel.”

Instantly there was a marked change, Jaskier was getting up from the bench and bounding over with a wide smile. “It’s a delight to properly meet you both.”

There was a moment of awkwardness where he stood opposite them, bouncing on his toes. Eskel made the executive decision to pull him in for a hug which was instantly returned.

After a rocky start, Lambert and Eskel were delighted to discover that actually, Jaskier was nothing like they had imagined. He was so much better.

#geraskier #minor eskel/lambert #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #tldr: misunderstandings almost tear the wolf family apart

[suney]

Ripules n 12 cuz shy losers?

12 - things you said when you thought i was asleep [1/5]   next →

Amanda is standing at her workbench heaving on the end of a crowbar the first time it happens.

“Just give me a second! I’m nearly- there!” 

“What the hell are you going on about now?” A barrister pokes her nose into the workshop, observing the unfolding events from over her glasses. “I know you like your own company and tend to have these ‘stern’ discussions with yourself, but yelling at no one is actually pretty fucking weird, Amy.”

“Don’t call me that.” Ripley fires at her with a dangerous glance, wiping away horrific spatters of tin scented fluid, it’s tang reminiscent of aluminum on fillings. “Also, I was yelling at you for being an impatient ass on my comms.” 

“Mm, no, I wasn’t.” 

“Who else could it have been, Nina?” 

She hums, squinting down at the screen, an insistent banner flashing white and grey along the top.

Eat… 18:30.

“My God you’re an idiot, Ripley. That’s not a message, it’s an alarm.”

“What? I don’t have any alarms, not for this time of day.” Amanda brushes the device off the table and into her bag on the floor. “And name calling, really?”

“I was joking.” She holds her shoulder, crossing her ankles to lean fully on the other woman. “But since you’re already distracted, come and sit down. I bought lunch.” She gently touches the cold wrist of a synthetic, laying motionless on the table. “If that’s alright by you, Samuels? Because I swear, even you won’t be able to make me give her mouth to mouth if she faints again.”

“He won’t be able to make you do anything until he’s fixed, Taylor.” The engineer rolls her eyes and follows the heavenly smell of curry wafting from the crib room.

“You really think you can?”

“I have to…”

The next time it happens she had fallen asleep using a bicep of the deactivated- the temporarily dead- android as a pillow. Her chair up as high as it will go and his hand in her own.

Sleep… 23:59.

“W’the fuck is going on?” Amanda mumbles into the synthetic’s side, lazing her arms over his chest to look at the screen. She wonders if she had installed a dodgy app, or if there had been a bug in the last batch of updates. 

She yawns, swipes at the alert, and decides it probably had the right idea anyway. 

Goodnight.

“Goodnight… I guess.”

Over time, the alarms had become progressively more specific. Mentioning conversations she’d had in private, even alone. Offering her advice, greeting her, wishing she had a fabulous day or night. Shockingly even to her, she never thought it was creepy, going back through her downloads to determine they had in fact been from the phone, to the phone. It was sweet. Familiar in the way it was worded like an old friend. 

“Hey.” Taylor, as had become routine, appears at her door for visit one out of three today. “I bought coffee.”

“Oh my God, you read my mind.” 

“I do, everyday, at exactly seven in the morning.”

“Yeah and what time do you call this?” Amanda gratefully trades the cup for a pair of soggy tin-snips and takes a drink, her fluid covered hands sticking to the paper as they swap back. Her friend holding it by the lid at an arms length.

“Late. Late is what I make of it. I’ve been at work since five absolutely snowed in with paperwork. So, fend for yourself for lunch? And don’t stay up all night, I know you’re excited, but get some rest and do it properly. Please. You only get-”

“One shot.” Amanda nods, pulling at a creamy tube full of metallics. “I know.” 

Her phone blares once, and then again. 

“Are you still getting those?” Nina asks indifferently, unable to counteract the hand over her upper stomach attempting to hold her bagel down as out of the chest comes what looks like an organ, attached at the base by colour coded wires.

“Yah." 

“Aren’t you going to check it?”

It rings one more time in a different tone and Amanda supposes she should. The advice it offered had sometimes been handy, telling her the microwave had gone off, or the ice had melted in her bourbon and coke. This, however, was eerie.

Pay attention. 

Please don’t cut the red wire.

Do not cut the red wire.

It vibrates a final time. 

S-Exec Repair Manual, p 138: preventative measures for fuel cell ignition.

“Holy fuck.” Amanda flips a page on the next table over, quoting from it. “‘Disconnect from power source before removing fuel cell… red wire last… prone to violent combustion…’ Holy fuck." 

“Someone’s definitely watching over you.” Nina breathes a sigh of relief. 

“I might- yeah, I might sit down for my coffee today.” 

“Good idea. I’ll leave you to it.” 

Amanda nods her goodbye with a quick hug and regards the synthetic at a safe distance. It isn’t until hours later that she moves, or even speaks again, shocked into silence by the fact she could have killed her friend and less importantly, lost an arm in doing so. 

Your drink is definitely cold. It has been for six hours.

She glances at the screen as it wobbles on her jogging knee. “So, I’ve been thinking,” she starts out of nowhere, “if I didn’t know any better, which I do, I’d agree with Nina and say you’re looking out for me. Which is ridiculous because all the evidence points to you just being a device, but I think somebody is behind this. Whatever this is." 

I am here. 

“Yeah, I feel that. Maybe I’m going insane, because that’s kinda likely… but I think you want something from me too.” 

What might that be?

“I don’t know. I don’t even know who you are, let alone what you could possibly be after.”

It would be nice if you stayed intact.

Amanda huffs her way over to disconnect the trickle charger from the terminals in Samuels’ chest. “A real Samaritan.”

I am being honest. I want you safe. I… 

“You what?" 

Nothing.

“Okay buddy, maybe it’s best to pump the breaks before you freak me out. Don’t get me wrong, you’re cool, whoever you are, and if you ever show yourself we can go for a beer or something. But I’m kind of… committed elsewhere.” 

Committed?

“Yeah.”

Oh.

“Problem?”

Not at all. I'm… happy. For you. Pause. Anyone I might know of?

“Probably not, we haven’t been on-site very long.”

Nina? A familiar sass bleeds through this notification that Amanda can almost hear. 

“What? Fuck no. I care about her too, but it’s definitely someone else.” She wipes hydraulic fluid from her hands on an old rag. An old rag that happened to be a shred of Samuels’ favourite semi-melted shirt. He looks disgusted by her actions even in his sleep. “Do- do you really think I’d be investing so much time and effort into fixing this synthetic if I didn’t- care about him? A lot?” 

Yes, you would. Because you are kind.

Amanda fights to urge to inform the stranger that she’d had to kill people before. Murder at point blank range. Leave some to die. Use human life as distraction. Instead, she turns up the radio.

“Blue Öyster Cult. Burning for you. What a solid song.” She looks over the slightly charred synthetic before her. “I’m not being at all ironic.” 

Home in the valley, home in the city;

Home isn’t pretty, ain’t no home for me;

“You know it?”

Obviously. The text is no different than usual but rings like a pompous English accent. It is a classic, I rather like it. And Bat Out Of Hell.

“Oh, my friend. You are after my heart.” 

I hope so…

“Keep hoping.” She laughs to the ceiling, tapping a hex key to the palm of her hand. “When I finally get this guy up we’re going to Earth and we’re just- just fucking hitting the road. Getting outta Dodge, or y’know. Luna. We can sleep in shitty motels and in the back of the car and I can pick up work in garages as we go. And I know I’m going to absolutely torture him with this kinda music, he’ll hate it, but I’ll find ways to make it up to him.”

I do not think he’d hate that at all. I think he’d love it, actually. 

“I don’t think he loves anything. I don’t know if he can. But here’s hoping he’ll be fond enough of me to stick around after he’s back in one piece, and out of The Company’s grubby little hands.” She realizes the irony of her words, hesitating to brush his hair back with grease stained nails. “If he doesn’t it’ll be enough knowing he’s out there somewhere. Alive, even though I miss him. Fuck, I miss him.”

The device falls silent as she presses her lips to his forehead. 

“Goodnight, Samuels. Keep ‘em crossed for tomorrow. It’s the big day.”

Her comms device vibrates in her pocket as she flops down onto the cribroom couch. Her eyelids droop, brain shutting down for the day. She decides she might just check it in the morning. 

(Goodnight, Amy. I miss you too.)

#ripuels ask fic