#kerry isn't in this one enough

[the-archangel]

Johnny's Guitar

“It’s too damn hot,” complains Kerry as he dangles his feet in the pool and begins his second strawberry daquiri of the morning, “we’d be better off inside, I reckon with the blinds down and the air-con on it prolly isn’t more than 80 or 85 in there.” He has a point, the sun in the City has been relentless for weeks, creeping up to the low hundreds with people advised to stay in their homes, but Kerry has never been one to follow instructions, however sensible they may be.

Johnny has been keeping out of his way for most of the morning, he knows how pissed Kerry gets when he wakes up to him instead of V, it’s not like he does it on purpose, though it is nice to be able to stretch V’s ‘ganic legs every now and again. They’d come back from a job late last night after two straight days of recon, V was just exhausted. Johnny can feel him at the back of his head, awake but unresponsive, he’s not too worried just yet, but will go over to see Vik if the situation hasn’t improved later.

“Since I’m here,” Johnny offers, “we could crack open the guitars, have a jam?”

Kerry pauses mid-sip, how many years had he waited to play with Johnny again, just wished that they could jam together and recreate that magic? He slides his shades down his nose to look the other man in the eye, “Nah, don’t think so, thirty years ago maybe but not now.” Johnny shrugs like as if it meant nothing to him anyway, “Your old guitar’s still here somewhere,” Kerry reminds him, “not gonna stop you if you want to give it an outing.”

Grunting non-comittally, Johnny stalks back inside, he remembers giving the guitar to Kerry after that gig at the Red Dirt, but it was way before he and V were together so he’s got no idea what Kerry did with it afterwards and the idea of sorting through the detritus all over the villa to look for it isn’t particularly appealing. Johnny stands in the doorway, fists resting on V’s hips and surveys the room.

“What’ya looking for?” V appears next to Johnny, sitting on the arm of the nearest couch.

“My guitar, the one we gave to Kerry. Any ideas?”

“Na, not seen it. Nance is still pissed with me for giving it away though, I know that.”

Technically, the guitar hadn’t been theirs to give. Nancy had had it in storage for all these years along with most of the Samurai stuff and it would have gone straight back there if it hadn’t been passed to Kerry.

“She’ll get over it, but where the fuck is it?”

They begin to semi-methodically search the villa, starting upstairs through the lounge, bar and bedroom, then down again until they were back where they started. “We could just ask him?” V suggests.

“You ask him since you’re up and annoying again.” Johnny tells the merc, taking a seat to allow him back into his body without it falling over.

It takes just a moment to readjust, V makes his way back out to the pool, Kerry looking warily over from his position on a lounger, but soon brightening as he recognises his input’s walk and cheeky grin. “Thank fuck V, you feelin better?”

“Yeah, all good. Listen Ker, we’ve looked everywhere for that guitar, can’t find it. Can you remember where you put it?”

“Hmm,” Kerry puts down his empty glass and leans forward, brow wrinkling in concentration, “nope, no idea. I was so hyper after the gig, plus I’d taken all kinds of shady shit to get me through it, don’t remember much about it if I’m honest. Must be around somewhere though.” Shrugging he sits back and holds his hand out for V to sit next to him. They pass the afternoon sipping various cocktails and lounging in the shaded end of the pool, the guitar all but forgotten.

-

The weather has finally broken, thunderstorms have been lashing the City for two days, it’s been especially bad up here in the hills with no shelter from the worst of the rain and hail. This sort of weather brings out the worst in people, as well as a spate of other thefts, Kerry’s precious Aerondight has been stolen and despite it being found within a couple of hours of it going missing, Kerry is still mad as hell and V is on the warpath.

“Those fucking fuckers!!” Kerry has been stomping around his scratched and dented car since it was returned nearly an hour ago, “I’m gonna rip their fucking shitty heads off of their pathetic shoulders when I get my hands on them.”

“I told you I’d deal with it Ker, I’ve got a lead I’m gonna follow up but you’ve gotta promise to calm down and not do anything dumb.”

Kerry’s head whips up to look the merc in the eye, “You bring them here when you find them, I want to deal with them personally!”

“Not sure that’s a good idea, but I’ll let you know what I find. Gotta delta but I’ll be back later, don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.”

Rogue’s got some info for him so V heads off to the Afterlife, not a lot goes on without her knowing about it and the low lives who klepped the car had been on her radar for a couple of months now, it’s just fortunate that she’s got a merc itching to bring them in without her needing to lay out any eddies for it. Mercs working without a fixer walk a dangerous path in the city, all too easy to tread on someone’s toes and for these guys their time was up. V heads straight to her booth and she waves him inside.

“V, I’m glad you called. Had a report that these two gonks were trying to sell a million eddie car for ennies and figured they must be who you were looking for.”

The car had been recovered because of its state-of-the-art tracking device, how the thieves didn’t realise it had one was beyond V, they must be the dumbest of the dumb, but for once the NCPD had done their job and tracked the car to a back street in Arroyo where the perps were attempting to sell it to a Tyger Claws gang boss. As soon as the police entered the scene the street emptied of all but the car, which was recovered and returned to Kerry, the Tyger Claw was pissed at being taken for a ride and had gone to Rogue to request vengeance, it was rare a day fell so fortuitously for anyone in this City.

“I’ll pass you the deets of the last place they were holed up, I doubt that they’re still there but it may give you some clues as to where they are now.” A glow of her irises and the details land on V’s holo.

“I’m on it, I’ll keep you posted.” He says, already half-way to the exit.

-

V sits with his engine idling outside a warehouse in Little China. When he got the address he couldn’t help but smile, he knew this area like the back of his hand and could feel that the goons were nearby. He wipes the thin trail of blood coming from his nose away with the back of his hand, shit, not now. “Johnny?” he shouts hoping to shock the Rockerboy into making an early appearance.

“You look like shit, we need to deal with this situation before worrying about a pair of unhinged gangoons.”

“Na, promised Kerry. You need to find them, I’m….I’m not…”

Johnny feels the Porsche around him, solid and purring. V would be mad as hell if he didn’t follow the job through, so against his better judgement he turns off the engine, pulls up the deets and heads into the warehouse.

It’s empty as they expected it would be, fast food receipts litter the floor and there’s no shortage of potential clues, but where to start? Johnny picks through some of the paper on the floor, he can feel an itch at the back of his head, V is getting impatient, but he just doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He wanders into the back room, an old laptop lies abandoned on the desk, surely they can’t be that dumb? Johnny’s netrunning skills are non-existent, but enough of V is awake to give him an in to the computer, messages going back days scroll up the screen, they really are that dumb, muses Johnny.

 Ten minutes later, Johnny is watching from behind a wall as various dubious-looking individuals come and go from a house in Kabuki, he reckons he’s seen seven go in and maybe three come out, he’s pretty happy with those odds. The messages pointed to this being a hot drop point for klepped goods, looks like they were right on the money. Staying low, Johnny makes his way to the back of the building, he’d spotted a ledge that he can probably climb up and launch a surprise attack on the inhabitants, he’s more than ready for a scrap, but before he can pull himself up to the second storey, a familiar sound stops him in his tracks.

The DeLuze Orphean is one of the rarest and highly sought after guitars in the world, especially if it has the pedigree of having belonged to a bone fide Rockerboy like Johnny Silverhand, but these bozos seriously have no idea of what they’ve gotten their hands on. Johnny’s eyebrows knit together in disgust as he hears his beloved guitar being subjected to what sounds like an horrific murder before the opening bars of Pon Pon Shit are tortured out of its strings. He is going to go absolutely ape on their asses when he gets in there, no mercy.

Johnny had bought the guitar with the first Samurai pay check he ever received, sure Kerry had largely written ‘Bleed the Beat’, but back then they shared everything, credits included, and both were more than happy with their pay day after years of living off klepped booze and cigarettes. He’d kept it with him all through his career playing it on his solo work way after Samurai disbanded. Before the Red Dirt gig, the last time he’d seen it had been at Nancy’s apartment the day before the tower fell, he'd can’t even remember now why he’d gone there with it, maybe to say goodbye, but he left it there and walked away. Now he very much wanted it back.

He feels for his gun in the back of his pants, taking comfort in the weight of it, and pulls himself up easily onto the ledge outside the upper-storey window. There’s no-one in the room on the other side and the fucking amateurs have left the window wide open, an open invitation for anyone to step inside, so Johnny does, landing with a thump which surely would have alerted anyone downstairs, but no, his luck is holding and with revolver in hand he makes his way cautiously down the stairs.

V is beginning to come around, but he’s aware enough to know that taking over now would be a gonk move and Johnny seems to be doing OK anyway, but he can feel the merc in his head, tense and increasingly alert. “Too bad we can’t see ‘round corners.” Johnny thinks, V hums in agreement. Shreds of conversation make their way up the stairwell,

“C’mon Louis, four fifty’s a decent price,”

“I dunno, looks pretty old and beat up, I’ll give you two hundred.”

Johnny winces, brand new it cost over twenty thousand eddies, with its history it’s worth many times that now, to him though of course, it’s priceless. “We’ll see who looks ‘beat up’,” he mutters under his breath rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Two of the goons are sat on a tired looking couch, the Orphean on the floor between them, if V were here they could take them down silently, but Johnny’s never been shy of making a noisy entrance. Two heads turn towards the doorway at the sound of the Malorian’s hammer being cocked, two faces are forever caught in a rictus of surprise as Johnny’s bullets find their brains.

The other problems at hand are momentarily forgotten as Johnny makes a bee-line for his instrument, he frowns at the blood-spattered paint-work before deciding it actually looks kinda cool and carefully places it back in its case.

“You did good Johnny,” V appears beside him, arms crossed and nodding as he looks at the stunned looking bodies, “but they’re not the ones who klepped Kerry’s car, reckon they must be cowering in the kitchen somewhere, sit down I’m coming in.”

Sighing Johnny perches on the arm of the couch, only someone who knows them really well would notice the transition, but it’s V that now stalks into the other room, gun in one hand, knife in the other. He was quite right, the two remaining goons have their backs up against the counter, arms raised, and are already stringing jibberish together in what V presumes is a plea for their lives. Whilst the gun holds one paralysed and sobbing, the other decides that sprinting for the backdoor would be a nova idea, until a knife pins his arm to it that is.

Mercs are not famed for their forgiving nature, especially when they’re working on their own time recovering (or avenging) the klepped goods of their friends. “We didn’t klep the guitar,” the pinned goon wails, “it was in the trunk of a car we found, just wanted to make some easy eddies.”

“This car,” V growls, keeping his voice as even as he can, “where exactly did you ‘find’ it?”

“Arroyo,” the sobbing goon at the point of V’s gun blurts out, “left behind after a NCPD bust.”

V kinda admires the quick thinking but doesn’t believe a word of it. “And before that?”

A look passes between the two men, the door-guy licks his lips and gulps nervously, “You’re the merc ain’t ya? That old Rockerboy’s input? I’ve seen you in the screamsheets. Look, maybe we could come to some kinda deal?”

“Yeah, maybe,” agrees V shooting him cleanly through the heart and causing the man crouched in front of him to soil himself, “but I guess we’ll never know.” He looks down at the pathetic sight at his feet weighing up his options, these guys were clearly a shit tonne out of their depth, but Night City is the wrong place to look for sympathy or forgiveness. “You’re going to tell your chooms what happened here, ALL of it, if I don’t hear a rumour about a dickhead merc left crying in his own shit for messing with Kerry Eurodyne sometime in the next 24 hours then I will hunt you down. Understand?”

Driving home with the guitar in the back and Johnny in the passenger seat V taps his thumb on the steering wheel along with the crappy music on the radio, Johnny sees V’s taste in most things as a project for him to work on, musical taste most of all. “I can’t believe that Kerry left my fucking guitar in his trunk all this time, anything coulda happened to it.”

V smirks, “We did good there, made a solid team.” he offers to the flickering image beside him, Johnny nods pensively,

“Yeah, too bad it can’t last.”

They pass the rest of the journey in a thoughtful silence.

-

Having very slightly calmed down since V left hours earlier, Kerry stares at the blood-stained knife that V has dropped onto the bar in front of him, “Ha, fuckers! You messed em up first, right? Course you did. They won’t be messing with us again in a hurry.” He doesn’t notice the flush of V’s cheek when he refers to them both as ‘us’.

“Nah, think we’ll be good,” he replies, grinning at the gossip on the feed from the Afterlife, “Don’t think anyone will mess with us for a good, long time.”

[lilithfairen]

Don't normally bother doing this, but...

...no, you fucking idiot, that's exactly what you and your circlejerk are doing with literally anyone who isn't an animator. You are absolutely saying that every other aspect of creating an animated series, from audio to storytelling to everything behind the scenes, is completely irrelevant and that the only quality anyone should possess to deserve the rights to a property they have almost nothing to do with, very little involvement in reality*, is "makes cute girls go brr".

You know who understood differently? The animator who knew his talents alone weren't enough to bring his vision to life, so he sought out people with the talents necessary to make a show like RWBY.

(And I feel like highlighting this point, because it really deserves to be highlighted: Dillon Gu worked on one volume of RWBY. Volume 3. Y'know, supposedly when the EVIL Miles and Kerry proceeded to ruin Monty's vision? Not only do they not give or know jack about Monty Oum himself, but they clearly know nothing about the wannabe trying to get attention off of other people losing their jobs.)

[xamiipholia]

Carolyn Petit killing it as always. If you're not familiar with her work, I strongly recommend it! She's a wonderful writer and from one highly opinionated trans woman to another I always find her work insightful and deeply resonant even if I don't always agree. I think her post-game essay on The Last of Us Part 2 is essential reading on the game.

Anyway.

I'm wary of the word 'representation' but this- this is why we *do* need it. We need havens. We need art that reaches out and lets us know we are seen and loved - that we have a place in the world that in many ways feels increasingly hostile towards us.

We need stories like Baulder's Gate 3 and Mass Effect that let us carve our own paths and find connections that feel true. We need stories like Hades and Life is Strange: True Colors with strongly and lovingly defined bi characters with resonant arcs. We need stories like The Last of Us Part II that are about queer and trans becoming, finding refuge in each other and holding on to that as long as we can - unshakable bonds of love in a world that is collapsing at the seams and ready to pull us apart without mercy. We need lesbian women like Judy Alvarez who are painted with such crystal clarity and compassion while also being an absolute dumpster fire like so many of us are. We need stories like Horizon Burning Shores that arrive as politicians are trying to excise us from public life and dare to show us finding each other in a beautiful, reborn future and parting with the hope of what we could be someday.

We need all of this. We need more of this - stories that let us find our own way and bespoke, curated narratives. Stories that let us know we have a place in the world.

We don't get enough. We need more. And - I don't have the experience to speak on this with authority as it is not my lived experience but please feel free to reblog and add on - our mlm bros ABSOLUTELY do not get enough representation. Judy's story in Cyberpunk is, in my opinion, one of the best wlw romances in gaming but male V's romance with Kerry can't even be unlocked until a hidden 4th act of the game that isn't even available until you have the point of no return available to you. THAT - that's not cool. We need to do better. Our boys deserve better. We need rep that isn't lopsided.

Anyway thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

[visceravalentines]

a goddamn break

that's right boys it's a saw fic from me, the clown

2.5k words. neat n tidy little character study of my favorite guys in loathe with each other. no content warnings. not explicitly coffinshipping but anything's coffinshipping if you glare at it long enough. I fucked with the timeline of saw iv to make this make sense but literally time isn't real especially in these movies. hope you like it!!

Peter Strahm tells his doctor he doesn’t smoke, and if he were hooked up to a polygraph, it would read as true.

That’s because he knows how to lie in a way that makes the words fact, at least in that moment and the one that comes after. It’s because he quit in college, cold turkey, the day after he got his diploma, and the doc doesn’t ask if he used to smoke.

It’s also because the battered pack of Camels he keeps in the pocket of his suit jacket doesn’t count. That’s for emergencies only.

Today constitutes an emergency. The last two weeks have been a goddamn emergency. Every waking moment since he set foot in the Metropolitan Police Department has been nothing but dead ends and incompetence. Today is one of a long string of days he’d rather fast-forward through to get to the good part, the part where he wins.

He’s never had a liaison turn casualty before. Detective Kerry had a good head on her shoulders, knew which way was up. She’d reached out to the FBI for help on the Jigsaw case, not the other way around. That was the mark of a good cop. One who knew when they were out of their element.

Strahm isn’t ready to admit he’s out of his element. Not yet. Because he isn’t.

He just needs a smoke.

His jacket is slumped over the back of his garbage office chair in the shitty little temporary office he shares with Perez. She clocks him rifling through the pockets, raises a sympathetic eyebrow.

“Don’t,” he warns before she can open her mouth.

She puts her hands up like she’s negotiating with a terrorist. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” she concedes.

“Understatement.” Strahm shoves a sigh out through his nose. “I wanna talk to Jill Tuck again.”

“I know you do.”

Her tone borders on consolation. Strahm shoots her a look. “She’s the key, Perez.”

“She’s a big shiny window and you’re a bird flying at top speed,” she replies. “There are other avenues.”

Strahm shakes his head, taps the pack of Camels against his palm. “I wanna talk to her again.”

Perez rolls her eyes, mutters a curse, and he feels a surge of pride. He's rubbing off on her. “I’ll bring her in.”

“Has forensics pulled their heads out of their collective asses yet, or is that too much to ask for in this shithole precinct?”

Perez smiles beatifically. “I’d rather not answer that.”

Strahm makes a sound like a shoe in a dryer. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Take fifteen.”

He grumbles something unintelligible even to himself and stalks out.

There’s a door to the alleyway near the men’s room. Strahm knows this because the two aren’t clearly labeled and he’s gone through the wrong one twice. As he turns down the hall he sees that someone has propped open the external door with a rock to keep it from locking behind them, probably some other idiot chipping away at their respiratory health.

He almost reconsiders, almost turns around to find his way to the front of the building. But that’s stupid. He can stomach five minutes five feet away from another person.

Strahm pushes his way through the door, descends the stairs to his left, rounds the banister to the right, and stops cold.

Hoffman turns that dead-eyed stare on him, blows a lungful of smoke through those Hollywood housewife lips. “Agent Strahm,” he says in a monotone that conveys the most mild surprise conceivable.

Strahm considers walking back in the building for five whole seconds. He has no qualms with casual incivility. But he sees Hoffman doing the same math, catches the twitch of a smirk that may as well be a gauntlet thrown at his feet.

Peter Strahm is many things, but never a coward.

He slouches over begrudgingly, finds a section of wall, gives Hoffman a noncommittal grimace and dares to hope, just for a moment. It would be possible for this interaction to pass in silence, incredibly possible. Painless, even.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Hoffman remarks, and Strahm grinds his teeth.

“I don’t.” He digs in his pocket for his ancient Bic lighter. He picked it up at a gas station in St. Louis years ago, never saw the need for an upgrade. Bic makes quality products.

Hoffman takes a drag, watches him pull a cigarette from the pack. “My mistake,” he says in the back of his throat. Smoke wafts loose from his mouth.

Strahm strikes the lighter once, twice, thrice. It sparks, but no flame except a flash of white-hot irritation.

He pictures Perez telling him to picture a beach.

He strikes it six more times even though he knows it’s not going to work, tries to count to ten in his head and fizzles out around four, remembers now the last time he lit up in Baltimore and thought to himself I better fill ‘er up.

He did not, of course, do that. Unfortunately.

Strahm straightens his head and looks hard at the brick wall across the alley and waits for it. He can feel Hoffman savoring the moment, knows exactly the sanctimonious look that’s plastered on the detective’s smug fucking face.

If he makes him ask for it, on his sainted mother’s grave, Strahm will shoot him.

Hoffman exhales serenely. “Need a light?”

Somehow that is worse.

Strahm keeps the cigarette pressed between his lips and his eyes straight ahead and holds out his hand to the right. He’ll be goddamned if he lets Hoffman light it for him. He feels the brush of the detective’s fingers on his palm and the familiar weight of a Zippo, uncomfortably warm from Hoffman's pocket.

When he flips it open he sees an engraving, worn down by what appears to be the frequent back-and-forth rub of a thumb across the letters. Saint Mark. He doesn't want to know.

Strahm lights up and hands the Zippo back to Hoffman like it might carry some disease. He fills his lungs with a bittersweet buzz and lets his head drop back, blows smoke to the sky. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Anything to help the FBI,” Hoffman replies, and Strahm really can’t tell whether or not he’s trying to be more punchable than he already is.

He inhales again and holds it as long as he can. Enough time has passed since the last time he smoked that it goes right to his head, makes his brain hum behind his eyes. He feels better immediately. The smell always whisks him back to his undergrad days, to the stairwell outside the campus library where he used to take study breaks. Cold night, dark clouds, sodium street lamps. A certainty about himself and the future. A support structure. Simpler times.

“Made any progress with Jill Tuck?”

His pleasant memory gets shredded like paper through Hoffman's weird little teeth and he’s back in an alleyway that reeks of trash and vice, stomach acid creeping up his esophagus. Strahm taps his finger, watches flecks of ash spiral down and disappear near his shoe. “What do you think?”

Hoffman takes a thoughtful drag like he’s never heard of a rhetorical question. “She's a deeply troubled woman.”

“Great insight,” Strahm snaps, “really valuable stuff there, detective. Why am I even here?”

“I just figured with your expertise, you might be more successful than me.” Hoffman wears a look of such mock deference Strahm wants to gag. “I'm sure whatever training you get at the FBI is unmatched.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Strahm doesn't want to play this game, not in this city, not this time. “Look, I know you don't want me here. I know I stepped on your toes at Detective Kerry’s crime scene. That's my job. I come in and stomp around until something shakes loose.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Please don't mistake me for someone who intends to make your role in this harder than it needs to be.”

There's something besides cigarette smoke behind the words, something weighty. Something that gets Strahm to look directly at the detective for the first time.

Hoffman looks back, unblinking, and Strahm thinks of a shark behind glass. He thinks about perspective and how an object seems motionless when it's coming straight at you. He thinks all this too fast to parse meaning, but his instincts are good, have always been good, and the hair on the back of his neck wants to stand up.

“I think you’re a good cop, Hoffman,” he says carefully. He’s swimming slow back to shore. “I think your department has been sacrificed on the altar of obsession one by one and you’re still here.” No splash, no wake. “Whatever else that means, it means you’re smart.”

Hoffman blows smoke and gives Strahm a look of gratitude so patronizing it makes his skin crawl. “I appreciate that, Agent Strahm. The past several months have been…taxing.”

The past several minutes have been taxing, but Strahm keeps that to himself. He can't shake the feeling that something big just passed him beneath the surface, barely missed him.

“What’s your instinct?” Hoffman asks. “How much do you think Jill knows?”

Strahm scoffs. “Plenty. Enough to write a trashy memoir and disappear from the public eye if she really wanted to. But she hasn't. Why?”

“Because she's involved. Anything she says could incriminate her.”

“No shit.” Strahm sucks on smoke. “And no offense, detective, but I've seen those interrogation tapes. You're too fucking soft on her. You want juice, you gotta squeeze.”

“With all due respect, I'd like to see you try.”

Strahm bristles, shoots him a glare. “Is that a fucking challenge? You think I'm gonna meet my match in Jill fucking Tuck?”

“You misunderstand me, Agent Strahm.” Those eyes glitter with something like mirth. “I mean I truly would like to see you try. Jill Tuck has been a hurdle since the start of all this. Like it or not, we're all players in this game. It's about time she gets pulled off the sidelines.”

Strahm examines him with interest. “You make it sound personal.”

Hoffman breaks eye contact, settles his gaze on some invisible point down the alley. A look of remorse slides over his face like a shadow over the sun. “At this point, how could it not be?”

Whatever else might be going on here, even Strahm has to concede that’s a reasonable response. His mind conjures up memories of closed-casket funerals past and he thinks of his colleagues back at the home office. He thinks of Perez. He clenches his jaw, remembers he’s supposed to be relaxing, takes a hard drag and is rewarded with a wave of nausea.

Hoffman is talking again. “Have you had a chance to look through the case files for the last three Jigsaw games? I think there were ten victims total. If you're right and John Kramer's health has kept him from hands-on involvement, maybe there might be something we missed, something–”

Strahm holds up a hand and exhales around his teeth. “Can we not do this? I just–I need a break from this Jigsaw bullshit. For like thirty seconds.”

“Sure thing,” Hoffman says amicably. He stubs his cigarette out on the wall, leans back against the brick, purses his lips. For a few blessed seconds Strahm thinks he might let the silence stand, or even better–leave. But then: “Got any plans this weekend?”

Strahm pounds his closed fist back against the wall with a little more force than he means to, closes his eyes, chews on a sigh. “No,” he says loudly with what he hopes is sufficient finality.

“Do you fish?”

“Do I what?”

“Fish. Go fishing?”

Strahm groans. “No, detective, no, I don’t fish. I spend enough time sitting waiting for lower life forms to take the bait in my professional life, thank you very much.”

Hoffman lets out what might be a laugh. “Fair enough. You strike me as more of a hunter anyway.”

“Never been,” Strahm says dismissively. This is a lie. He knows the woods of rural Vermont blind. The first time he shot a gun he was seven and the kick knocked him flat on his ass.

“I like to fish. Head down south when I can find the time. You ever been to Bass River?”

Strahm grunts, gives up, slumps against the wall mirroring Hoffman’s posture. “No.”

“Beautiful country. When this is all over, you and Special Agent Perez oughta make the drive down. Worth the detour.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Where are you and Perez staying in town? Maybe I can make some local recommendations, help you make the best of your time here.”

Alarm bells again. Something in the water. Something coming at him. “I don’t know,” Strahm deflects, “some place downtown. Old as fuck. No water pressure.”

Hoffman chuckles. “Sounds like my last apartment.”

“Yeah, you guys have a real issue with property values up here.” Strahm examines his cigarette, figures he can get one more pull off it. “Have you considered razing all the abandoned buildings so Jigsaw runs out of chessboards?”

Something like a smile twists Hoffman’s lips. “Arson, special agent?”

Strahm flicks his filter across the alley. “Whatever works.”

“Litter, too,” Hoffman observes.

Strahm rolls his eyes so hard his neck kinks. “This has been fun, but I’d better start combing through the four thousand page report your medical examiner handed me this morning. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He stands up straight, winces at the tweak in his back, stretches his arms behind him.

“See you around,” Hoffman says.

Strahm makes it halfway up the stairs to the landing before Hoffman calls after him. He almost ignores him, thinks better of it. Gritting his teeth, he leans over the railing. “Yes, detective?”

Hoffman regards him coolly, his gaze like a blunt steel blade. “I'm sure it goes without saying, but…be careful who you trust. If there is an accomplice, we ought to proceed with caution.”

Strahm resists the urge to sneer. “No disrespect to your department, but I’m here because I’m competent. Some chemo-addled freak and his band of misfit toys? I’m not exactly shaking in my boots.”

He could swear Hoffman smiles, just for a second. A flash of teeth that doesn’t reach the eyes. “I understand. It’s just I would hate to see you…how did you say it?” He bites his lip thoughtfully. “Sacrificed.”

Strahm decides, once and for all, that Mark Hoffman is spooky.

“I appreciate your concern.”

He flings the door open and ducks inside without waiting for a reply.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Strahm submerges himself in the cold, clinical mire of half a dozen autopsy reports. In the back of his mind, behind the descriptions of catastrophic injury inflicted on the human body, he is elbow-deep in a dissection of his own.

He replays the conversation in his head again and again like a microcassette tape, trying to pinpoint the moment when Hoffman shifted in his estimation. He tries to reconcile fact and gut feeling and is left wanting from every angle. The thing about fishing–you only ever see what takes the bait. What passes it by lives on unknown.

All the while, from the time he shuts himself in his office to the moment his head hits the hotel pillow, Strahm tries to shake the feeling he's being watched.

He doesn't succeed.

[marzipanandminutiae]

so wait

Feudal Handmaid OctoberTM knows the terms "jerk," "gross," "freak out," "okay," and "yeah" in the modern senses, but not "lawn," which has been a word in the landscaping/gardening world since the mid-18th century (first recorded in its current usage in 1733)?

I can understand if her knowledge of modern human speech is distorted through the lens of which terms Kerry and less sheltered changelings bring home, but you'd think "lawn" would be commonly used by like...the gardeners at Shadowed Hills or something.

of course one could argue that her vocab ignorance is just an illusion and Titania's control isn't strong enough to enforce it more than sporadically...?

[cephaloheath]

I'm gonna level with ya here:

Is RWBY a perfect series? No, not really. Some of the writing choices could be a little better (Why does everyone get a backstory except for Jaune?), and sometimes the pacing can be a bit weird (V9 was AMAZING, but it felt like it was jumping from one place to another, especially towards the end). It has some issues—I admit that.

But do I think RWBY is a bad series? Oh, ABSOLUTELY not.

I genuinely feel that the good of RWBY outweighs the bad by a METRIC ton. It's gorgeously animated, has an absolutely STELLAR soundtrack, the story is spectacular (despite some hiccups here and there), the characters are amazing, and all in all, it's been an absolute HELL of a ride. I've been following the series since 2016, and I do not regret the time I've spent watching it at ALL. No other series has made me feel as emotionally attached to its world and characters as RWBY has. It has been the absolute best emotional rollercoaster ride of my life, and I wouldn't trade it away for the world. RWBY is, and always will be, my favorite series of all time.

And it truly DEVASTATES me that it may never get the conclusion it deserves.

I admire Kerry's determination to see this story get finished, but I won't deny that hope is not looking very bright. It truly breaks my heart to see this series in the state that it is. While it isn't flawless, it does NOT deserve to have all of this baggage attached to it. I sincerely hope from the bottom of my heart that Kerry and Miles find a new partner that is eager to work with them and finish the story they've written for us. These two have bent over backwards to bring us this series, and I can't thank them enough. And I especially can't thank the late Monty enough for bringing this series to life in the first place.

Thank you to EVERYONE in CRWBY. You gave me something that I truly love and adore. You gave me something that is irreplaceable to me. Wherever you guys end up next, I wish you the best of luck, and I thank you once again for creating this incredible series.

And a big FUCK YOU to David Zaslav and Warner Bros for potentially killing this passionate series, and for having the GALL to shut these people down without even bothering to inform them first. GO TO HELL.

[irenespring]

Rewatching both House and ER and I have been thinking about why I find House to be a far more sympathetic character than Robert Romano.

To be clear: I know House's behavior is horrible. He should have been fired. There is no moral justification for his actions. However, as my favorite history professor constantly says: "context is not justification."

Words vs. deeds: House says a lot of terrible things, but his actions paint a different picture. He says antisemitic nonsense, but it never alters his attitudes towards Taub, Wilson, and Cuddy. He says he will sexually harass Cameron and Chase, and definitely does sexually harass Cuddy--but he never touches them without permission, and doesn't want to date an employee even when Cameron really wants to date him. Romano, on the hand, engages in verbal sexual harassment, and then does act on it. He tries to get Elizabeth deported because she won't sleep with him. He tries to get any out lesbian fired.

Backstory: House is the main character of the show titled House. As such, though we don't learn a lot about him, we are provided insights into his past. A big part of helping viewers empathize with a character is helping them understand why he is like this. You get a sense of House's tragic backstory, and how that backstory forged him into the kind of person he is. Romano, on the hand, is never fully expanded on. All we really know about him is that he has a good relationship with his mother. There isn't enough data to understand, and thus connect, with his overall character. He was intended to be a villain, rather than an anti-hero.

Self-reflection: House is a terrible person, and he knows it. He hates it. When he talks about the world with patients (I've noticed this particularly in season 1) he sounds really fucking sad. He wants the world to be better, he wants to be better, but this is how the world works and therefore he can only present himself one way and stay safe. This self-knowledge makes him a more conflicted character, and shows he has empathy. He wants to change, but doesn't think he can. On the other hand, Romano is deeply arrogant, not superficially arrogant. He thinks he's the shit. He truly believes he is the world's greatest man and entitled to act however he wants to the "little people" as he calls them. This removes a certain depth from his character.

Show tone: House is a show about terrible people. Everyone is crazy in their own unique ways. The show is about looking at the good in those terrible people. In order to enjoy the show, you have to stop yourself from analyzing the morality of the characters' actions. ER, on the other hand, is at least supposed to be about good people (don't get me started about how the protagonists treat Kerry, and whether that actually makes them good people). People are supposed to be heroic. The characters face deep ethical dilemmas the audience is supposed to consider. This makes Romano's heinous actions stand out and force the viewer to analyze them.

Pain: House is in pain. He is in pain all the fucking time. When people are in pain, they are less patient, more likely to snap. There's a standard view that when people are in a huge amount of pain, they say things they don't mean. They try to hit people where it hurts because of how much they hurt. This doesn't excuse his actions, but does create further separation between House's words and his innate character.

Anyway both ER and House are good shows, but suffer from being from the early 2000s (or mid-late 1990s in ER's case). You should watch them! But yeah, Romano bothers me way more than House, who I think would be an interesting foil for Kerry.

[soapofbar]

I said in my previous post related to RWBY that I stopped watching after Volume 8, because what happened to Penny and how she was treated throughout the volume was very, very distasteful to me. It's the biggest reason, although there are also a bunch of smaller reasons surrounding it. This is still true, I haven't watched V9 and I don't really plan to. I may, some day, out of curiosity/boredom, but I have somewhat been kept in the know even as I move onto other things due to still knowing people who are interested in RWBY, along with fandom talk and all that.

The main thing I want to talk about is the supposed message of V9, and how it relates back to Penny. More specifically, how it strikes as hypocritical and tone-deaf after everything that happened to her.

The core message of V9, as stated by Kerry on Twitter and pretty much blasted at the viewer in the volume's finale, is that you are enough, just the way you are. Ruby chooses to be herself rather than trying to emulate her mother/be the flawless leader/etc. and she's able to get back up and save the day. It's an alright message to send.

The problem: What about Penny?

Penny, in V2, expresses some self-doubt about an android. Feeling that she isn't as real as the actual flesh and blood humans around her, she's comforted by Ruby that she's just as much of a real girl as anyone else, and from then on she doesn't seem to express any discomfort about being a robot. She seems quite happy to be one, even, as she rebukes May for simply calling her "Robo-Girl" in V8E3

Then V8E12 comes around, and the text all but implies that Penny is a girl trapped in a robot body. Ambrosious expresses concern at what's left when he strips all the robot parts from her and Blake replies that there will be "Penny, the girl who's always been there underneath". Yang holds her metal arm and says that those pieces are just "extra". That being a robot doesn't define Penny and it's not who she is and the implication is that it's even holding her back. She's then turned into a real girl by Ambrosious. A thing, which, to my memory, she never asked to have happened to her.

Hell, the whole process is very similar to ascension in the Ever After, even. Penny's original body dies and in it's place is a new, "better" one.

The implication here is the opposite of what V9 is trying to say. That Penny isn't enough. That she's not "perfect just the way she is". The robot parts are just "extra" after all (they're not, and I will always hate that line with a fiery passion).

It's just...it feels so incredibly, incredibly jarring. Penny's arc in V8 was already incredibly bad, and full of ableism, and then we turn around and apply a message which COULD work for Penny and is probably even the one she should have had with her arc...and apply it to the conventionally-bodied protagonist who never had to struggle with her entire person-hood. Who never had to question if she was even a human being or not.

It's just all so frustrating. Penny deserved so much better.

[im-overstimulated-and-im-sad]

15 questions, 15 mutuals

Thanks for the tag, @rachelsversion1 and @reyestrandd 🫶 💝

Are you named after anyone? Possibly? Once when I was little, I swear I remember my mom saying there was a girl in her high school class who name Kerry was spelled like mine, in addition to it being the name of a county in Ireland. But in later years, she doesn't remember this and insists she chose the name off the county in Ireland.

When was the last time your cried? Ehh recently... either Monday night or the time before that when I closed at work- our team trainer wouldn't stop harping at me to vacuum the underside of the case (when we were already behind) and she kept saying our manager would be furious if we didn't, and I was just getting so upset going home cause like I have actually closed with our manager more than she has, and if we are behind like we were that night, he doesn't care about that. Also it's under a panel so no one would notice! (as you can see, I've let it go lol).

Do you have kids? Nope!

What sport do you play/have played? When I was in middle school, I played softball, and was mostly terrible (I think in three years, I literally hit the ball once lol). But for some reason I was able to tell if a pitch sucked and so I got on base quite a bit from getting a "walk" from not swinging at a bad pitch.

Do you use sarcasm? Sometimes, but I have a real trouble with understanding it in person, because I come from a very sarcastic family with someone who is sarcastic 90% of the time, but if you react to what she is saying like she is being sarcastic, then she will pretend to throw a huge fit, and if you act like the fit isn't genuine then boy are you in trouble... so I tend to be embarrassingly bad at understanding sarcasm.

What's the thing you first notice about people? What they're wearing almost always. Like if I see women walk by at work I always want to yell out, "that sweatshirt is so cute! Where did you get that!"

What's your eye color? Brown

Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings for sure; scary movies are for looking up the plot on wikipedia lol

Any talents? No but I wish... I walk very softly and people always think I'm sneaking up on them but that doesn't really seem to count lol

Where were you born? A city in Wisconsin, but different from the one where I live now

What are your hobbies? Writing is the biggest; writing and watching shows and thinking about what I want to write about lol.

Do you have any pets? Yes, my tortie kitty Pumpkin, or Punkin - she is a sass bucket 🥰

How tall are you? 5'2"

Favorite subject in school? English or History; anything reading or writing or non-math related.

Dream job? THE dream would be a murder she wrote type thing; living alone in a cottage and writing my silly stories and getting paid for it. But having a job where I could go in the morning, leave at a good time in the afternoon, be able to sit down during the work day and just complete a project and move on to the next one without having to talk to customers, and make enough money doing that; that honestly is a dream worth dreaming at this point. No pressure tagging: @dreamingofmickeywaffles @manicpixiedreamb0y @elevatehearts @ellena-asg @poppy-in-the-woods @baubeautyandthegeek @hydesjackiespuddinpop @paperstorm @tailoredshirt @draculakells @firstprince-history-huh @kiloskywalker @not-roman-and-not-a-god @carlos-in-glasses @love-ivygrace

[irish-dress-history]

I’m wondering if you have any examples of Irish clothing from the early 1600s (around 1610-1615)? I haven’t been able to find much from this era so I’d appreciate any sources or museum collections that you could recommend.

Starting this out with the caveat that if you're looking for the same level of detail and precision that we have for English dress history in this period, you are going to be disappointed. The types of English primary sources we have for this period (well-dated detailed paintings, well-preserved rich-people clothing, wills, printed books, etc) just don't exist for Ireland. There also seems to be much less research interest in 16th-17th c. Irish dress history, so there isn't nearly as much for secondary sources (books, articles etc.).

You don't mention if you are interested in a specific region in Ireland. Ireland in the early 17th c. was a pretty heterogeneous place. People in Dublin and Waterford wore English-influenced styles. According to British-appointed solicitor-general Sir John Davies, by 1606 a few of the wealthier people in Connacht had started wearing English dress, but many others were still wearing Irish clothing. Ulster was a mix of Irish who were wearing Irish dress and incoming English and lowland Scots settlers.

All of the extant Irish clothing I know of from the early 17th c. comes from either bogs or archaeological excavations. It looks like you've already seen my post on extant garments at the NMI. The NMI also has a couple of felt hats that might be early 17th c. This one is from Knockfola, Co. Donegal. It originally had a decorative cord or band where the pale line is:

There are also another cóta mór and brat, found on a bog body from Leigh, Co. Tipperary, which I don't think the NMI has on display. I did not bother to include them in my post, because they are so similar to the ones from Killery, Co. Sligo, but the fact that these have been found in multiple places suggests that they were common, widely-used garments.

The other major garment-find from this period is the Dungiven outfit which is in the Ulster Museum. a short video The bright blue thread was added by a modern conservator; it's not original. (Side note: The identification of this outfit has gotten unfortunately politicized. Tartan trews were worn by both the Irish and the Scots during the 17th century (McClintock 1943, Dunlevy 1989). The presence of tartan should not be used to draw conclusions about the ethnicity of the wearer.) The primary publication for this outfit:

Henshall, Audrey, Seaby, Wilfred A., Lucas, A. T., Smith, A. G., and Connor, A. (1961). The Dungiven Costume. Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 24/25, 119-142. https://www.jstor.org/stable/20627382

The one other reasonably-well preserved outfit that has published on is from a child burial from Emlagh, Co. Kerry, now at University College Cork. Shee and O'Kelly give it a late 17th c date, but they largely base this date on the presence of a rather generic-looking comb. IMO the outfit could easily be early 17th c.

The Emlagh gown, photographed on a living 8-year-old child who was wearing a sweater and skirt underneath. (The 1960s was a different time.)

The bodice has a wrap-front closure with a back and button-up sleeves similar in cut to the Killery cóta mór. The skirt is a pleated rectangle with the pleats sewn in vertically, somewhat like the Shinrone gown. Publication:

Shee, E. and O'Kelly, M. (1966). A Clothed Burial from Emlagh, near Dingle. Journal of the Cork Historical and Archaeological Society, 71(213), 81-91.

There are also, frustratingly, a bunch of fragmentary clothing finds at the NMI which might be 17th c, but no one seems to care enough to do publications on them, and NMI Archaeology still does not have their collection on-line, so they are useless to us.

The typical Irish shoe for this period is known as a brogue (also called a Lucas type 5 by archaeologists). broguesandshoes.com has photos, a pattern, and construction information.

Unfortunately, the illustrations from Speed's map are the only images I know of from this specific period.

If you want details on what materials were used, I recommend Susan Flavin's dissertation. It's about the 16th c. economy, but things didn't change that much between 1599 and 1601. free download here

If you don't mind wading through early modern English and a bit of period-typical prejudice, I recommend reading A Discourse of Ireland, by Luke Gernon written in 1620. His description of Irish clothing starts halfway down p. 356.

Finally, if you can find them, Dress in Ireland by Mairead Dunlevy (1st ed. 1989) and Old Irish and Highland Dress by H. F. McClintock (1st ed. 1943, 2nd ed. 1950) are the best books I know of for this period.

[elvenbeard]

🏳️‍🌈 Vince (& Kerry) at Night City Pride (2/10) 🏳️‍⚧️

"A merc in fuckin' sequins" 🤘

Firstly, I told myself, I'm not gonna get too carried away with modding before I finish my second playthrough. But also, I had this vision of Vince in a sparkly sequin rainbow coat, and my hand slipped... and yeah, here we are, the "pride clothing for fucking posers" collection is steadily growing xD Nothing released into the wild as of now, and I won't manage that until the month is over most likely - but not like you can't wear pretty rainbow things all year round!

Secondly, the quote above always kinda stuck with me... It's from the Jinguji side-job. At the end during the convo with MaxTac, V can decline their offer of joining them with "nah, I'd feel like a merc in fuckin' sequins".

The thing is... Vince literally is that, a merc in fuckin' sequins. Not just literally, like in the sparkly clothes I have for him, but also figuratively. He never wanted to be a merc in the first place, not able to picture himself in that gritty world, no matter how much Jackie tried to convince him that it was good, easy money (both of them were still in their late teens/early twenties at that point and trying to make ends meet somehow). He had no interest in stealing and killing for a living. He loved his tech, he thought about becoming a netrunner maybe, but everything that went down the more physical lane, fighting and so on, was never his thing. Still isn't. He's short, was always kind of scrawny... he's more the "I'm gonna shit-talk myself out of this dangerous situation somehow". Not quite to, say, Saul Goodman levels, but definitely more like that than anything else.

Then he was recruited for Arasaka. He'd only just begun to get a bit more daring with his clothing choices, his hair, tattoos, and the recuiters immediately told him to "tone it down". At the time, still not nearly as confident as he is now, he did. He wanted that job, almost out of spite, but also morbid curiosity... and he could actually see himself being good at the kind of work he was offered to do for the corporation.

His time at Arasaka changed him, equipped him with many new skills (and many new issues). But he was so much more braver, a hell lot more confident and comfortable in his body, trusted in his skills. But he had also learned one fundamental thing: he didn't want to even try and fit in anywhere anymore, because that's not who he is, deep down, and trying to conform to Arasaka's standards made him absolutely miserable.

Sure, making a resolution is one thing and actually sticking to it another, but as he then became a merc after all, after Jackie's death, his own death looming on the horizon... he more and more began to embrace being the "merc in sequins", the solo that didn't want to fit in with the rest. And he actually turned out to be rolling extremely succesful with it, with staying true to himself, standing out, and doing things his way.

Sure, he can be subtle if he wants to. "You can never get the corp outta the rat," as Jackie said. He'll still rather raise no alarms, tries the stealthy approach whenever possible, and if things go wrong would rather talk himself out of the situation than kill. But he also relishes being an extravagant motherfucker when he gets the chance to. Those who don't take the "merc in sequins" seriously, the weird little misfit that weasled himself to the top from the very bottom, will learn the meaning of regret soon enough.

[blackjackkent]

OK, let's set fire to this portrait.

Whoosh.

I love that the Sage background basically means I get points for being Smart.

The lady that came out of the painting is NOT happy about the situation:

"Oskar! Where is he? WHERE IS HE?!"

She vanishes in a poof of smoke and the quest updates:

Great.

Back down to Jannath and unconscious Oskar, where things are going down:

OK, so this looks bad. The good news is Jannath is not dead (hooray!), but the bad news is that she is very unconscious and the ghost lady is stark raving mad.

"Who are you?" she screams as Hector enters the room. "Get out. GET OUT!!"

Oskar is conscious again and looks like absolute hells, pale and exhausted. "Please... Kerri, my darling, listen to me..."

She rounds on him and screams louder. "You brought me here. YOU DID THIS!" She stabs a finger in Hector's direction without looking at him. "Do not interfere. HE'S COMING HOME WITH ME!"

Hector's eyes flick rapidly around the room, taking in the situation, trying to parse it out, sifting through his memory for anything that might be helpful in talking this ghost down, anything from any book or bit of study back at the monastery. There were many discussions of possessions, certainly, and of the spirit plane in general - but that was a bailiwick more of the clerics than the monks.

Hector has academic knowledge of a cleric's role in such a situation, of course. But no practical experience. And in the end... what he turns to is no defined practice, but simple compassion.

[CLERIC OF SELUNE] "Listen," he says haltingly. "You're lost and in pain. This plane is not meant for spirits..."

"Another one who wants to control me!" she roars. "He called me here, trapped me! Pathetic little childish boy!"

"I only wished to *explain* myself," Oskar mumbles. "To make you see how--"

"No! Enough of your whining! ENOUGH!" the ghost snarls. "Selfish, arrogant bastard of an artist! I wanted to be left in peace!"

Hector grimaces. The picture is starting to come together and he isn't sure he likes what he sees. Oskar, from love or pride, has made an incredibly foolish series of decisions, and this girl's spirit is being tormented as a result.

"Please," he says softly. "Tell us what happened to you."

"And how does that help me?" she sneers. "Or is it just to help HIM?!" Her voice lifts in a bellow that shakes the rafters. "Why does everything always have to revolve around OSKAR FEVRAS?"

"Oh, my sweet Kerri," Oskar whimpers, flinching back from her. "What did I do to you?"

"Save your tears for the Ethereal Plane," she hisses.

Hector considers his words carefully. This situation is hanging on a knife's edge; if he says the wrong thing, this ghost is clearly very capable of hauling Oskar off into the plane of spirits, never to be seen again. And yet... he suspects that this is some twisted, darker version of the soul Oskar wanted to reach, corrupted by its passage to this plane where it is not meant to live.

And some of that soul might still be reachable...

[MONK][PERSUASION] "Ask yourself," he says, still soft, soothing, "will killing this man make you happy? Give you purpose? Or are you better than this?"

The spirit's scowl flickers into an expression of puzzlement. "What are you saying?" she mutters. "You're trying to-- confuse me. It's so hard to think... I don't remember..." She trails off.

Oskar steps hastily into the silence. "Kerry... my sweetmeat..." he wheedles placatingly. "I just need to know that what you did... that it wasn't my fault..."

The girl's expression is growing agitated, fearful. "Why am I here?" she cries. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be!"

Narrator: The spirit's aura flickers, changes. She is confused, lost - dragged here unwillingly by a man who refused to let her leave.

Hector shoots Oskar a sudden tight scowl; the disapproval in his expression makes the artist flinch back again and think better of whatever he was going to say next. It's clear to him now that the spirit is trapped here by some bond with Oskar, and until the air is cleared between them, she will not be able to return to a peaceful sleep.

When he is certain Oskar isn't going to interrupt, Hector turns his attention back to the ghost, and speaks with a gentle tone, reaching out towards her with the tips of his fingers. [MONK][PERSUASION] "Oskar does not matter," he says firmly. "You do. Say what you need to say to him, no matter how difficult it is."

The girl's lip curls. Her voice is softer now, but colder too. "Fine. If Oskar wants the truth, he can have it." She turns, snarls in the artist's direction. "We were a FLING, nothing more! My decision had nothing to do with him! I did this because I was so FUCKING sad! All the time!"

Hector's eyes widen as he parses the meaning behind this, but she's still talking. "Oskar finds it easier to imagine a world where women kill themselves over him than one where they have their own bloody problems."

Gods. A chill runs through Hector again, this time mixed with deep grief on the girl's behalf. She killed herself, and Oskar has dragged her back from the grave to reassure him.

"I'm sorry, Kerri," Oskar whispers. "I had no idea..." A pause, then, hastily, hopefully, "But I-- I was truly not to blame?"

The look Hector gives him could melt glass. You selfish prick... he thinks fiercely. Do you not see the misery you've caused?!

The ghost speaks before Hector can. "No. You weren't. So you and your poxy paintings stay away from me. We're done, Oskar. Over. Now let me rest in bloody peace."

-----

She vanishes into the ether, leaving all of them rather shaken.

Lady Jannath is slowly coming back to consciousness on the floor. Normally Hector would go to help her up, but he is still seething over Oskar's behavior and selfishness.

"Gods, what a mess I've made of it all," Oskar says piteously as his wife reaches her feet. "My sweet Fireliia... I've been a rotten fool, haven't I? And yet you never left my side..."

Hector fully expects the lady to give him a chewing out, but she just smiles at him with visible relief. "It will take more than a ghost to scare me away," she says. "Though I wish you'd come to me sooner."

"That's it?" Hector says, baffled. "You're just going to forgive him?"

"I'm no fool," Jannath says, reaching out and taking the artist's hand. "I know Oskar loved another when we met. But when we made our vows, I meant them."

"Throughout my ordeal, I saw how tenderly you cared for me," Oskar says, his voice heavy with emotion - or perhaps with drama. "Even at my worst, you never left my side. Truly, you were the one who saved me. I'm so sorry, my darling."

Perhaps Hector has simply had a long day, or perhaps the string of terrible problems he's had to solve is starting to wear on him, but he finds he is having trouble stomaching this. Complete ignorance of the revelation about the girl and her suffering, the self-righteous falling into Jannath's arms, the brushing aside of Hector's own contribution...

"Jannath deserves more than an apology for what you put her through," he says tightly. And Kerri even more of one. My gods... she killed herself, and all you could think of was your own peace of mind...

"A debt I'll spend a lifetime repaying," Oskar says gravely. Perhaps registering Hector's disdain, he turns to the monk with a wide smile. "As for you, my noble friend," he says brightly. "Our account can be settled far more quickly. Come upstairs to my atelier. I promise you'll leave with something priceless. Immortality!"

------

Hector watches the artist trot out of the room, his wife behind him, and realizes that he is clenching his jaw tightly enough to ache.

"You all right, Hec?" Karlach asks with some concern. "I thought you were going to deck him for a moment there."

"I was considering it," Hector says bitterly. A slight pause. "I was just considering the utter unfairness of the world, that this blistering, selfish, egotistical prick will have a long life together with his beloved, and I--"

He cuts himself off sharply but not quite soon enough; Karlach's head snaps back as if dodging a physical blow. "Yeah," is all she says, quiet, weary, sad. "Yeah, I know."

Hector lets out a heavy breath, reaches out and takes her hand and squeezes it. "Let's go see what prize he thinks is worth our while..." he mutters.

[jaymber]

Second Conflict

Timeline 20151 - Protagonist : V Temarii

[ First | Previous | Next ]

V managed to pull Nancy out of the Maelstrom nest without much issue. If Johnny was delighted to see her again, V kept quiet. He felt still resentful at the way he had been treated before going to Kerry's mansion. A weird bitter knot was building in his stomach. He had been Johnny's only friend and confident for weeks now, suffering or enjoying the engram's company. Suddenly, old friends were showing up left and right, putting Johnny in a better mood than V ever could. It pissed him off, even more so when Johnny seemed completely clueless to the way he felt.

"Shame Henry blew it," the dead rockerboy kept rambling, "But man, this is preem. Samurai: back for one night, and one night only! Can't remember the last time I felt that excited. Eh, think I do, actually. 2007. One hell of a gig, and an even better afterparty, if you know what I mean." "Johnny, c'mon." "Man, you really are getting jealous," he teased, reappearing before his host, "You're lucky I find it cute. You're like a desperate little groupie. I missed this. Hey, V, wanna feel the real Samurai experience? I have the perfect idea on how to unwind until Nance-"

"I'm good, Johnny," V grumbled as he pushed him away, "Lil' groupie's done for the day."

V laid down in bed in silence after lighting a cigarette. It softened his mood a little, but Johnny didn't take kindly to being ignored.

"Fuck, what got your panties in a twist this time?" he mocked, "Gave me the green light on this idea, want to back off now? Or is this about Kerry? Mad I'm having fun with someone that isn't you, or disappointed I won't give him the Rogue treatment? Huh? Ignoring me, now? Fuck, V, we really back to that?" He simply wouldn't shut up, and V snapped.

"You're a fucking asshole, know that?" he yelled, "Still only fucking care about yourself. Rogue lead you on, and that sucks, but why you gotta make it my fault?" "V, what-" "You acted like I wasn't ever there! I tried talking to you, but you just ignored me! Closest friend? My ass! Only had Kerry on your mind!" "That has nothing to do with Rogue. Sreamsheets said-"

"What fucking screamsheets?" "Right, you weren't there." "Mean when you betrayed my trust?! So why did you wait to get into Rogue's panties first, if checking on your best friend was so important?! That's just another fucking excuse! You just wanted a distraction, and apparently, I wasn't enough." His voice suddenly broke as he swallowed back treacherous tears. He tried to hide his next words, but their minds was one, and they echoed in the tensed silence of the room. I'm nothing compared to them, am I? You're gonna leave me behind now that they're back in your life. "We both know that's not something I can do, V," Johnny said, and, feeling the wave of worry from his host, added, "And I wouldn't. Even if I could."

"Bullshit." "V, it's just old habits. Went to Rogue when I fucked up with Alt, went to Kerry when I fucked up with Rogue. Not used to putting you into that equation just yet. Was in my own head - forgot you were here." "But, I called you. Reach out for you." "Gonna have to listen harder, I guess. And you need to speak louder," he added, "Still need some getting used to - our situation. Usually, I’d just fuck off. Find a quiet place. Cenzon in one hand, Black Lace in the other. Get skizzed out of my mind, and find some easy groupie to bring home.” “Lucky for you: easy groupie's right here.” “You? With your constant whining and ball-busting? You make me work hard to get to you, V.” “And I should apologize for that?” he retorted, still feeling hurt.

“Nah. Thing is: I can’t do that anymore. Can’t wallow on my own. That, I’m still getting used to.” “Do you miss it? That method of yours?” “Why? Up to give me the reins once more?” he hoped. “Nah, but you got the company already. I can provide the buzz. Interested?” he proposed, clinging to the idea he could cheer Johnny up despite his doubts. He needed to feel useful. “See, V?" Johnny said, too distracted by his promise to worry about the knot in their stomach, "Thinking like a real rockerboy.”

[mermaidsirennikita]

So The Kingdom of the wicked and princes of sin by kerry maniscalco are books with explicit sex? I want to get into that World she's building

Oh, yes. I would recommend reading them in order, so you'd read the Kingdom of the Wicked trilogy, which is about one couple (Wrath and Emilia) and then Throne of the Fallen, which is technically a standalone. However, my friend read these books before me, and she read Throne of the Fallen first--and based on what she said, reading them in order would be more cohesive. Everything in Throne is its own thing but it does happen after the original trilogy.

Re: the sex. In the first Kingdom of the Wicked book, there's just a (really good, really hot) kiss and a FUCKTON of sexual tension. But personally, I would regard those three books as one long slow burn. And it's not even really a slow burn, because things get CONSIDERABLY more sexual early in book two. I'm talking fingering, handjobs, full orgasms, eating out, etc. There isn't p in v sex in that book. But by MY measure, they are having sex in book 2, and it's explicit. And then they escalate to P in V early in book 3 and there is a ton of explicit penetrative sex in that one. Like. There is more sex in book 2 and 3 of that trilogy than I read in a lot of other romance novels. Wrath beats it up, to put it frankly.

And Throne of the Fallen has had some really intense sex scenes so far, lol. He's oiled this girl's ass up (frankly we don't have enough "let me oil your ass up in a sensual massage" scenes in romance, I can think of one other I've read and remember lol), he's fingered her from behind (which shockingly DOES NOT HAPPEN as much as you'd think in romance??? This in at 10, I think a lot of authors have lowkey issues with certain sex acts from behind because they think it's unromantic and I'm like okay but sometimes I just wanna see someone get laid out they can kiss later), he's slapped her pussy, it's HAPPENING.

For comparison, I've read ACOTAR. I consider the ACOTAR sex scenes cringe at worst and subpar/not as explicit as everyone tells you at best. The sex scenes in these books are HOT and I love both of the couples a LOT. Wrath and Emilia are very... He's seemingly cold but actually BURNING with passion for her, she's kind of in a rueful partnership with him until she actually catches feelings, and Camilla and Envy are basically two black cats spitting at each other. When they aren't like. Humping in a corner.

[waters-and-the-wilde]

get in losers i'm yelling about Vanishing Act

CASSANDRA

god at some point please let her find out that the one trend she well and truly actually started was 'heckling Juno Steel and that dorky tall bastard about making big dorky smitten eyes at each other' and that he's still hung up on the guy

(I am not. entirely sold on the idea of them getting actual married as endgame for a variety of reasons but I do think about stuff like. Cassandra getting a wedding invite and showing up and going WAIT. HIM? FUCKING REALLY STEEL?? while Nureyev does a saucy little gay wave)

PETRUSHKA AURINKOVICH NUREYEV OF COURSE YOU FUCKIGN. RECREATIONAL LOCKPICKING STIMS.

FUCK. I LOVE HIM. GODDAMMIT. I NEED. TO. PUT HIM IN THE FLOWER PRESS BOOK. GET FLATTENED YOU FUCKING NERD.

tbh i love it when kabert will just. Go Off about the entertainment industry and capitalist executive meddling in art, is it heavy-handed? slightly. do i enjoy it every time? yeahhhhhhh

god this episode was just so fucking FUN and I think it's like 85% because Juno's in a good place and enjoying himself, like the atmosphere has a lot of what S1-2 had but extra rewarding bc of the skill and spirit with which he has clawed himself out of that which resembles the grave but isn't

OKAY THE PLAY THOUGH. YOU CAN'T TELL ME IT'S NOT FORESHADOWING FOR WHAT THE EXECUTIVES ARE DOING/GOING TO DO TO NUREYEV. STRINGING HIM ALONG AND MAKING HIM WORK UNTIL HE BREAKS. THE WAY HE'LL KEEP DOING EVERYTHING THEY ASK ONLY TO FIND OUT THAT IT WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH AND THEY WILL NEVER KEEP THEIR WORD.

WAIT HOLD UP SONOFABITCH I BET YOU THE FORTISIMO LOCK IS A FUCKING METAPHOR TOO

IT SCARMBLES THE TUMBLERS IT RESETS THE CONDITIONS AS YOU TRY TO UNDO IT

'Carrie Gold' CARRIE GOLD?? okay like with 'Rex Glass' I did not actually track the pun until someone pointed it out but this time it was because i was too hung up on the fact that this lady is a BRAND OF BUTTER. KERRY GOLD. I FUCKINH ASK YOU

I never actually listened to Shaken in S1 but I accidentally traumatized my friend whomst i was trying to get to listen to the show and forgot to warn them about the horror episodes so they told me about what happens in that one and did not end up listening past it. in any case i see what they did there.

okay the bit with the Ruby and the feeling it's following to track Nureyev down and the bit from the Q and A about yearning. like tell me it's yearning without telling me it's yearning. i don't entirely understand what's happening here but it compels me.

GOD JUNO AND RITA WORKING TOGETHER AS MATCHED SET DO NOT SEPARATE PI BUDDIES YOUR HONOR I CARE THEM

[axeattitude]

@grayboxed : you can relax. tell me what happened. / life for sale.

it is both disconcertingly easy and remarkably difficult to conceal things from caine. easier still is finding a not-altogether witting accomplice in elliot; it's as simple as not telling him he hasn't said anything to his husband yet. not that he thinks elliot would ask. or care, for that matter.

harder is concealing the nervousness of his energy. he paces as if kept on a very short run, quick steps that can't be passed off as much else well. he might be embarrassed about it if he didn't think the nervousness at least semi-appropriate. kerry doesn't relax. elliot's urge isn't enough reason to, even if that's why he's here - to help, so that maybe he can relax.

"okay, so-" kerry stops on a dime, draws in a quick breath, and rubs at his jaw as he gathers his thoughts. "i think something's fucking with the cameras. the ones we got inside are fine, nothin' wrong there. but outside, the feed for some keeps cutting. couple minutes here and there. black screens before they're back up. it's happened daily the past couple days. gate cameras, couple aimed at the edges of the yard." he glances around here, as if looking for someone when there is only one other person here. "and i mean, it could be me imaginin' shit, just some error you can take care of easy, but... i don't know. seems sus. i couldn't keep putting off callin' you."

it might be nothing, but it could be something. and he can only divert caine and falsely blame his tense energy on some piece he's working on that supposedly isn't cooperating so many more times. "you've heard about some of the fans i have. never know what some of 'em might try to pull. rather be safe than sorry."