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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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caught in the undertow

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John made the right call that day. It could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. He made the right decision. …did he? ✦ 7k words ✦ tags/cw: injury, angst, feels, medical and military inaccuracies, guilt, trauma/ptsd, piv sex, …did i mention angst?

“Captain Price,” Kate Laswell stated in her usual cool, precise and professional manner. She was called forward to speak last, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke. “Undoubtedly saved multiple lives. I was in communication with him the entire time, and the situation was dire. The moment the Sergeant moved to shield the mother and her child, the hostile shifted, presenting immediate danger and forced Captain Price to take the shot. His team's confirmations came almost immediately. Threat neutralized, Sergeant down, requesting immediate medevac. The sequence of events is clear. The timings, irrefutable. It was the only choice to prevent a larger loss of life.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the jury, then to John. And finally, her eyes met yours, a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of the burden of impossible choices, passing between you.

When you took your seat in the witness stand what felt like hours before, the air in the courtroom was thick, feeling more suffocating than the humid summer air outside. You felt the seams of your dress digging into your skin like a thousand tiny needles, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. The injury hidden beneath that fabric pulsed with a dull ache, a rhythm that echoed the beat of your heart, a constant reminder of why you were there in the first place.

Across from you, John shifted in his seat. Captain John Price. Your Captain. Your leader. The love of your life. Accused and tried for the choice he made that day. He held his composure with the effortless grace of a man who’d stared down far worse fates than a panel of judges, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the courtroom walls, as if searching for an escape. But you, who knew him better than anyone, saw the subtle signs of the storm raging beneath – the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

It had been weeks since the operation, since the bullet meant for a terrorist found its path through your shoulder, but the memory was still vivid, a cruel film reel playing on a loop in his mind.

The mission had been textbook, up until the point it wasn’t. The intel, as so often happened in this line of work, had unraveled, leaving you and Gaz staring down the barrel of a hostage situation gone sideways. A dozen innocent lives held captive by a man desperate for freedom, his finger itching on the trigger of his AK. A man whose eyes held the cold glint of a cornered animal, ready to unleash a violence that could silence a room within seconds.

You aimed at him, your finger tightening on the trigger of your own weapon, but you couldn't fire.

A mother and her child were singled out from the rest of the group of hostages. He used them as leverage, as a shield, their bodies a barrier that prevented both you and Gaz from taking the shot. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, you moved. Instinct and years of training taking over, your body reacting before your mind could even process the risk, you stepped forward, ushering the mother and child behind you, shielding them with your own flesh and bone.

You’d made a choice.

And just as you made that conscious choice that second, so had John. It all happened in a blink of an eye. The radio comms were a mess, you heard your name, a strangled cry from John booming in your ear as he yelled for you to stand down, a mixture of desperate shouts that nobody had a clear shot – and then the unmistakable twitch of the finger on the enemy's AK –

The prosecutor, a man whose weapon was his voice, spoke up, his words cutting through the tense silence, slicing through your thoughts. “Captain Jonathan Price,” he began, walking slowly towards where John was sitting, “Let’s revisit the moments that led up to the point where you decided to fire upon the hostile. Was there any point during the hostage negotiation that didn’t involve engaging an armed man directly?”

John’s gaze shifted to the man standing before him, the predator circling its prey, seeking a weakness, an admission of guilt, that would seal his fate. “The situation was volatile,” he stated, his voice low, controlled. “The suspect had already demonstrated he was willing to use lethal force.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor agreed, his tone laced with a false sympathy that made your stomach churn. “One civilian had been shot, tragically. But tell me, Captain, were the remaining hostages in imminent danger at the precise moment you fired your – ” He paused, his gaze dropping to his notes, then snapping back to John. “...sniper rifle, an MCPR-300, I believe? With a compromised line of sight? Don’t you think that was reckless? Negligent, even?”

John didn’t answer at first, his eyes focused back onto a distant horizon beyond the room. He was taken back to that warehouse, the scene he had witnessed through his scope, the twitch of the finger of the man who was about to decide about the fate of innocent people, who was about to punish you for stepping in front of his only leverage, who —

“Captain,” the prosecutor repeated, “perhaps you haven’t been paying attention. I asked you a question.”

John took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to surface. “I heard the question," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous, almost sounding like a threat. “There wasn’t a second to spare. I had to take the shot. The second those hostages were moved, the hostile was enraged. He was about to shoot them all, and the Sergeant stepped into my line of fire. I knew that the shot wasn’t impossible. It was flesh and bone, no vital organ. I had to… I had to risk it.”

“So you risked the life of one of your own?” The prosecutor's voice dripped with disdain, a subtle emphasis on the word risked that twisted like a knife in John's gut.

“It was that,” John stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, a soldier reciting a mission report, the only way he knew how to survive this interrogation. “Or a far worse outcome. I made the choice that saved the most lives. It was the only choice.”

He refused to look at you, couldn't bear the sight of your bandaged shoulder, the visible reminder of his decision, his guilt. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, as if he could will away the memories that haunted him.

The prosecutor, frustrated by John's stoicism, turned his attention to you.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice taking on a deceptive gentleness designed to lull you into a false sense of security, to draw out the accusation he so desperately sought. “Perhaps you can help us understand what happened that day. Can you walk us through the events leading up to… the incident? In your own words.”

“Of course.” You stood, your back straight, your gaze meeting the prosecutor’s, your injured arm held slightly stiffly at your side – a consistent, throbbing reminder of the choice, the bullet, your pain.

You described how you and Gaz had entered the warehouse in hopes to clear the situation, how Price was in communication with Laswell about this unexpected turn of events, watching every movement through his scope; how Soap and Ghost were circling the perimeter outside to find any possible way to secure the situation from a different angle. You described the hostages huddled to the side of the room, their faces full of terror. You told them about the mother and her child, no more than five years old, singled out, terrorized by a man with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us,” the prosecutor interrupted, sharp and accusing, “why didn’t you fire on the man? You were closer. Why did you rely on someone outside to have a clear shot? Were you not confident in your own abilities, Sergeant?"

“Because, like I said, there was a mother and her child right in front of him,” you repeated, “and I knew he was going to shoot at them if one of us just lifted a finger.”

“But surely, a trained soldier -” The prosecutor began, his voice dripping with disdain, but you cut him off.

“There wasn't time, sir,” you shot back, “I didn't have time to think, to calculate, to consider my options. I acted on instinct. I reacted. And I did what I had to do to protect those innocent lives. Captain Price knew that, and he acted accordingly.”

“And by doing so,” the prosecutor pressed, “you put yourself directly in the path of Captain Price’s bullet. A bullet fired from a high-powered sniper rifle. A weapon designed to kill.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tightening. “Yes, sir,” you stated. “But if I hadn’t moved, that mother and child would be dead.”

You described the way you’d ushered the hostages behind you, ignoring John's desperate pleas for you to get down, knowing you had only seconds, maybe less, to act. “His finger was already on the trigger,” you continued. “He was unhinged. He wouldn't have hesitated. I did what I had to do.”

You looked at John, your heart twisting as you saw the agony in his eyes, the guilt he carried, the self-loathing that radiated off him in waves.

“And then?” the prosecutor pressed, his voice sharp, intent on dissecting this moment, this choice, until he’d found the weakness, the fault, that would bring John Price down.

“And then, everything happened very quickly. I saw the gunman fall, his weapon clattering to the floor.” You swallowed hard, forcing the memory down, the sight of the blood, his blood and yours, mingling on the concrete floor. “Then the pain hit. I fell… and then… everything went black.”

John’s shot, impossibly precise, impossibly fast, had found its mark, silencing a threat before it could unleash hell.

“Captain Price’s shot,” you continued, “saved lives that day. He stopped a terrorist before he could execute any of those innocent men, women, and children. Before he could shoot Sergeant Garrick or me. It was the only shot, and it was the right choice.”

One by one, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were questioned, their testimonies echoing your account – a chaotic situation, a volatile enemy, a split-second judgment call that had saved lives.

Laswell’s testimony was calm, factual, and her words were carefully chosen. She offered no justification, no defense, only the cold, hard facts that painted a clear picture – there had been no other option, no other choice.

But his team’s words, their support, did nothing to soothe the guilt that burned in John’s gut.

He’d fired the shot. He’d made the choice. And you, the woman he loved, the soldier who’d placed her life in his hands, carried the scar, the physical reminder, of that impossible decision.

Not guilty on all charges.

John shook his lawyer’s hand, accepting congratulations with a curt nod, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away. And as you watched him walk out of the courtroom, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy, you knew, that the real battle had just begun.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by doctor’s visits, physical therapy, and the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming the strength and mobility you’d temporarily lost. Soap, Gaz, and even Ghost, took turns checking in, bringing you takeout, offering their clumsy attempts at comfort and companionship. It felt like you saw more of them during those weeks of recovery than you did John.

But he was meticulous about your care, driven by a desperate need to somehow atone, to mend the damage he’d caused. He drove you to every doctor’s appointment, sat silently beside you in the waiting rooms. He made sure you had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. You’d find fresh ice packs in the freezer, pain medication neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, a schedule for your meds taped to the fridge with military precision.

He brought home flowers, he found that rare book you’d mentioned, the one you thought was lost forever, and placed it on your bedside table. A desperate attempt to bring back a sliver of the normalcy you’d lost.

He'd do it all to soothe his mind, to right the wrongs just a little bit. But it didn't help.

Just like that verdict hadn’t brought him any solace. He was a prisoner of his own self, the bars constructed from the barbed wire of guilt and self-accusation. He’d fired the bullet. With the knowledge that it would tear through your flesh, hurt you, make you bleed –

Not guilty.

The words churned in his mind like a dark undercurrent, dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his self-inflicted torment. They echoed through the empty spaces of his days, a mocking chorus that followed him everywhere, laughing at him from the shadows.

Not guilty.

As the image of you being rushed into surgery repeated in his mind. His heart beating a million times a minute, replaying how your eyes rolled back into your head from the pain as soon as the adrenaline faded, how he had begged Laswell to send medical faster, how he watched his team tend to you because he was frozen in place, letting realization hit him of what he had just done with the force of a tidal wave.

Not guilty.

As he remembered pacing the waiting room like a caged animal, every thought about you a self-inflicting wound to his soul, every passing second an eternity. He saw your face everywhere, in the worried expressions of his team, on Laswell, as she relayed the surgeon’s updates on your condition. “It was a clean shot, John. Just like you knew it was. She will be okay.” But even those words – words of reassurance, of hope – couldn’t calm the storm raging within him, couldn’t drown out the relentless echo of that damning verdict.

Not guilty.

One centimeter. The surgeon talked to John personally, and it felt like a cruel joke when he praised the precision of the shot – painting him as the incredible soldier who’d done the unthinkable, the hero who saved the day – one fucking centimeter. A haunting reminder of your fragility, just how close he’d missed the subclavian artery, walking a thin line between duty and devastation, between love and loss.

Not guilty.

As he threw himself into his work, disappearing to the base for days, trying to outrun his own mind by getting lost in familiar routines – trainings, missions, briefings – a desperate attempt to swim against the current of guilt, but it was relentless, pulling him back into the depths of despair over and over again.

He’d stand in the training room, the heavy bag swaying before him, a silent opponent that couldn't judge him, couldn't accuse him. He’d pummel it, again and again, the satisfying thud of leather against his knuckles a fleeting release.

Not guilty.

As he felt the sting of his knuckles split open, the blood a welcome distraction, a pain that grounded him in the present, momentarily pushing back the memories. He didn't stop, didn't flinch. He just kept hitting the bag, the rhythm of his blows a mantra, a futile attempt to atone for a sin he couldn’t wash away.

Not guilty.

As even his sleep was haunted by the echoes of that day. It was always the same - the screams of the hostages, the metallic clang of the terrorist's weapon hitting the concrete floor, your muffled gasps as the bullet ripped through you. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to relive the moment over and over - his love for you against the lives of those hostages - the terror that seized him as his finger squeezed the trigger, the sickening thud of the bullet finding its mark, the knowledge that it was his skill, his precision, that had brought you so close to death.

Not guilty.

Could he have waited another second for a clear shot?

No. He remembered it all too vividly; the frantic whispers in his earpiece -

No clear shot, Captain.

Civilians blocking the path.

He’s moving. He’s gonna shoot.

The terrorist’s finger tightening on the trigger, the manic gleam in his eye. He was a cornered animal, desperate, ready to take everyone down with him.

The way you had moved, instinctively, selflessly, pushing the woman and child behind you, placing yourself in the path of the bullet he was about to unleash.

He’d made the only call he could, he knew that. But logic didn’t seem to matter against the gnawing guilt that had become his constant companion. The weight of it, the burden of that impossible choice, had him retreating further into himself, desperately seeking refuge from the truth he couldn't escape – he’d chosen to save those lives, and in doing so, had almost sacrificed yours.

Not guilty.

As he’d scrub his hands raw, the water running red in his mind, as if trying to wash away the phantom stain of your blood. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his reflection - the hard lines of his face, the haunted eyes - a constant accusation.

Not guilty.

As he’d walk through the door, late and weary, the aroma of his favorite meal would hit him, the familiar scent a painful reminder of the normalcy he craved, the domesticity he felt he no longer deserved. He’d find a bottle of his favorite whiskey already poured, two glasses waiting on the table, and you, in that soft, worn sweater he loved, would greet him with a smile that made his heart ache with a love he felt was both undeserved and unbearable.

Not guilty.

As he watched the aftermath of his choice everywhere. The way you winced when you tried to do mundane everyday tasks, reaching for the coffee on the cupboard, brushing your hair, finding a comfortable position to sleep. A reminder, constant and always present, of his choice, his bullet.

And yet, when you caught him looking at you, you’d still offer him the brightest and reassuring smile. You smiled at him. You seemed to be so full of life, so full of love – something he felt he could no longer accept after what he had done.

Not guilty.

It kept mocking him, over and over and over again – and the amber liquid in his glass did nothing to drown the demons that were laughing at him, their voices echoing the verdict, the words that condemned him more surely than any court of law ever could.

“Can’t sleep?” You’d ask, your voice soft and sleepy, as you approached him standing by the moonlit window, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

He’d flinch away from your touch, the reaction so instinctive, so painful, that it felt like a knife stabbed right through your heart.

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, and was followed by a silence that felt deafening, pushing the chasm that had been broken open between you even further.

“Talk to me, John.” Your voice trembled, a mixture of frustration and sadness, a desperate plea for the man you loved to emerge from the shadows of his own making. You’d let him have his space, but you felt like you were losing him. You respected he would need time, but it was increasingly frightening to see him retreat further and further into this self-imposed exile.

“There’s nothing to say.” He set the glass down, the crystal clinking against the wood, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room. He turned to walk away, as if your presence was a physical burden.

You knew what he did wasn’t a rejection, but a shield, a desperate attempt to protect you from the shattered pieces of himself. He thought he was sparing you, keeping you from the darkness that threatened to drown him.

You longed for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his embrace, for the warmth of his laughter, the way he’d make you forget the world with a single glance. You longed for the man who laughed with his men, who stole kisses in the dead of night, whose touch had once been your sanctuary.

One evening, you stood in the bathroom to take a shower, as you desperately tried to reach for the clasp of your strapless bra. You hated that thing already, but you didn't have a choice, as straps would hurt your shoulder.

You couldn’t reach around, your shoulder throbbing with each awkward movement. The frustration of this simple task, the feeling of helplessness, amplified the deeper ache in your heart, the loneliness that had become your constant companion. You had enough.

“John!” It was both a cry for help as it was a plea for reconnection.

He was by your side in an instant, crossing your shared space to the bathroom in three quick strides, alert by the sound of your voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice, the raw concern he couldn’t mask, a contrast to the coldness that had settled between you in the weeks since the trial, and it had tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

The sight of you, usually so strong, so capable, brought low by something as simple as a stubborn clasp, tore through his gut like a burning blade.

He'd put that look on your face.

He did.

“This damned thing…” you gestured to the bra clasp, your throat constricting as the emotions that had been suppressed for so long threatened to finally spill over.

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.” He said, moving behind you, his touch gentle as he brushed your hair aside and his fingers undid the clasp. Something he had done a million times before, but not with a touch that felt like you were made out of porcelain, about to shatter under the weight of his guilt.

“The doctor said I can change the bandages myself now,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant, “Can you… can you help me?”

He turned away, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his movements stiff, controlled, a familiar mask slipping back into place. But as you watched him lay out the gauze, the antiseptic, the scissors, you saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenched.

You knew, he was afraid of you. Or rather, he was afraid of himself, afraid of the damage he’d inflicted, the hurt he’d caused. He was afraid of hurting you again.

“Turn around, love,” he murmured, his voice husky, a rough caress against your ear. “May I?”

“You know you may.”

You turned, and you could feel the heat of his gaze, which burned into your back as if he could see right through you. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held his breath, as his fingers brushed against your skin, gently peeling away the old bandage.

Then you heard him inhale sharply, a sound that spoke volumes. He'd seen the bruise.

“It’s…” His voice hitched, the word catching in his throat, the sight of that bruise, a grotesque masterpiece of purple and yellow blooming across your shoulder blade, a brutal reminder of the force of his impact, his choice, his guilt.

You didn't need to see his face to know the expression that twisted his features. You felt it, the self-loathing, the way it had poisoned him and had turned his love into a weapon turned against himself.

You tried to meet his gaze. “It's just a bruise, John,” you said, your voice softer now, a plea for him to see you, the woman who loved him, not the casualty he'd created in his own mind.

He worked silently to fixate the new bandage, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Then he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but you stopped him, your hand reaching out, your fingers closing around his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your touch a desperate attempt to anchor him to the present, to remind him that he hadn't destroyed you, that you were still here, still his.

He looked at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher - guilt, fear, longing, and a deep, abiding love that he'd tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull away, to tell you that you deserved better, that he was no good for you, a danger, a threat.

“I should…” he began, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “I have reports…”

But you weren't letting him escape. Not this time. You stepped closer, pressing your naked body against his, ignoring the ache in your shoulder, the protest of your wounded flesh, because the ache in your heart, the yearning for his touch, was a far more powerful force.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin, igniting a fire that threatened to burn away the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself. “Don't push me away, John. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, your scent filling his senses, something he’d craved, longed for, but felt he no longer had the right to claim.

“I don’t –” he started to protest, the denial on his lips, but you silenced him with a kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. He hesitated, a battle raging within him, then, with a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he gave in. His hands, as if with a will of their own, found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your curves against the hard lines of his body, seeking solace in the familiar feel of you, the warmth, the softness.

You moaned against his lips, a sound of pure need that seemed to break the last vestiges of his control. The weight of his guilt, the burden he’d carried for weeks, seemed to dissipate under the heat of your kiss, replaced by a more primal need; a raw, desperate hunger.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, to look into his eyes, the stormy blue depths you’d thought you’d lost forever, now blazing with a rekindled fire that sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.

He kissed you again with a ferocity that had your knees going weak, his tongue a weapon claiming every inch of your mouth, his hands a possessive force on your hips, as if he could physically merge your bodies, your souls, erasing the distance, the doubt, that had haunted you for far too long.

He lifted you then, without breaking the kiss, carrying you towards the bedroom, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He laid you down on the bed, his weight settling over you, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached behind you, tucking a pillow beneath your injured shoulder.

He loomed over you, his body a welcome weight against your own. “This okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his, needing more, needing everything he’d held back for far too long. “God, yes, John… Just… touch me.”

His touch was no longer hesitant, no longer laced with guilt or apprehension. This was the John you knew. His hands, large and calloused, yet infinitely gentle, roamed your body with a familiarity like it was a map he had studied for years.

“Like this?” he rasped, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver with anticipation.

“Yes!” You moaned, arching into his touch, needing more, needing all of him.

“Tell me when it’s too much, yeah?”

You wanted to tell him that nothing he could ever do would be too much, that the thought of him hesitating, of holding back any part of himself from you, was more unbearable than any pain he could inflict. But the words wouldn’t come, caught in the swell of need that tightened your throat, that turned your insides to molten gold under his hungry gaze.

He’d shed his clothes in a heartbeat, and then he was pushing your thighs apart. His knee settled between your legs, and the heat of him, the solid evidence of his desire, his erection standing full and proud, made you ache with a need you hadn't thought possible.

This was him, offering up his vulnerability alongside his desire, reminding himself, reminding you, that he was still the man you’d fallen in love with somewhere between the training ground and the front lines.

“John,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock, slick and hot against your aching core, a sensation both familiar and intensely, unbearably, arousing.

He entered you with a force that stole your breath, the feeling both familiar and overwhelming after weeks of forced abstinence.

He was fucking you. Hard, fast, with a ferocity he hadn't unleashed in weeks. Every thrust a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted him, to rewrite the narrative of his actions, to find solace, oblivion, in the heat of your body and the taste of your skin.

For a stolen moment, it almost worked. He lost himself in the feel of you, tight and hot around him; the scent of you, the taste of you on his lips, a drug that dulled the edges of his pain, offering a fleeting escape from the torment.

But the past had a way of catching up, even in this vulnerable, shared haven of yours.

You arched into him, your head thrown back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he pushed deeper. Your face distorted, your features twisted in the throes of passion, and something within him snapped.

His vision blurred, the lines of your face dissolving –

Your eyes, rolled back, your brows furrowed –

From pleasure. Not pain.

Your breath hitched as he moved – as the bullet hit your shoulder.

Pleasure. Not pain.

He repeated those words over and over like a frantic litany in his mind, trying to erase the image that superimposed itself onto you —

He saw it again, your face, contorted in agony, not ecstasy, as he ran towards you in the warehouse, your body a broken doll sprawled on the blood-soaked concrete, a testament to his choice, his aim, his failure.

Pain.

The warehouse lights glared in his memory, harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the pool of blood that seemed to expand, to swallow him whole. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils, choking him. He felt the phantom weight of the rifle against his shoulder, heard the echo of the gunshot, the sickening thud as his bullet found its mark.

His stomach churned, the pleasure, so intense moments before, turning bitter in his mouth, a sour, acidic taste that had bile rising in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to spin, your body suddenly a stranger, a fragile thing he needed to put at a distance before he destroyed you all over again.

“No…” The denial escaped his lips, a strangled whisper. His body shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling over him, forcing him to pull back, breaking the contact, leaving him stranded on a shore of his own making again, the waves of his guilt crashing over him again, threatening to drag him under again.

“John?” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist, concern furrowing your brow as you watched him recoil from you, his face distorted with an anguish you couldn’t decipher. You reached for him, your hand hovering hesitantly above his arm, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, this retreat back into the darkness he'd been fighting for weeks.

He shook his head, unable to speak, unable to face you. The shame, the self-loathing, was a physical weight that had him collapsing back onto the bed, his back to you, his body curled in on itself, seeking a refuge he knew didn't exist. It was as if he were trying to fold himself into the smallest possible space, disappear into the shadows, become as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him.

“John, what's wrong?” You whispered, your hand still hovering above him, wanting to touch him, to offer comfort, but afraid of intruding, of shattering the fragile shell he seemed to have retreated into.

He shook his head again, the gesture frantic, a silent denial of your offer. He couldn't look at you, couldn't bear the judgment, the accusation, he knew he deserved. The guilt, the remorse, the images that replayed in his mind – they were a relentless tide, an undertow dragging him down into a darkness he wasn’t sure he could escape.

“God, I don’t…” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt crushing him, squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath. “I don't deserve you… I don’t deserve… any of this.”

He finally turned to you then, and you flinched involuntarily. The pain in your shoulder was nothing compared to the agony etched on his face, the raw, unfiltered torment in his eyes, a reflection of the hell he was living in.

“I look at you…” He choked out, the confession a jagged piece of shrapnel piercing his heart. “And all I see is... the blood. Your blood. Everywhere…” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the strong soldier you'd always known, the man who had built his life on control, on burying his emotions beneath layers of duty and discipline.

This wasn't the John you knew, the man who faced every challenge head-on, who commanded a room with his presence. This was a man undone, a warrior stripped of his armor, reduced to tears by the torment of his guilt, the terror of his own actions and his love for you. Vulnerable and exposed.

And as he sat there, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the dam finally broke completely. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, the waves of his guilt crashing over him, the mast of his resolve snapping, the sails of his self-control ripped to shreds. His sobs, raw and guttural, filled the room, a lament that echoed the turmoil in his soul, a sound that had your heart shattering into a million pieces.

“It’s… it’s everywhere. On my hands... On the walls… In my dreams… God, I can't… I can't escape it.”

You reached out, your hand settling gently on his arm, but you didn't speak. You could offer no words, no reassurances, that could alleviate this pain. You could only offer him your presence, your touch; show him that he did still deserved you and your love.

“Those nights… Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The warehouse, the hostages, the look on your face, the blood…” He shuddered, his voice breaking as he continued, “It's like… I’m back there, in that moment, but this time… this time you don’t get up.”

His gaze, filled with a desolate pain you'd never witnessed before, settled on the bandage on your shoulder.

“One centimeter,” he whispered then, “one fucking centimeter... and it was my choice, my bullet… ” He trailed off, the realization of it all, the weight of his actions, crashing over him all over again. “God, I’ve seen men die… good men, the best… I've held them as they bled out, watched the light fade from their eyes… But this…” He shook his head, the words choking him. “This is different. I… I can't…”

He shifted slightly, his gaze still settled on your shoulder. “You’ve been injured before,” he choked out, “hell, I've been shot, stabbed, blown up…” He laughed, a harsh, brittle sound – he’d survived a hundred battles, a thousand close calls, only to be brought down by his own hand, his own love. “But this… this time, it was me. I was the one who…”

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dissolving into another sob that racked his body. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could physically erase the images that haunted him, but the memories were too vivid, too deeply ingrained - your startled gasp, the sickening thud of the bullet, the blood, your blood, blossoming against your skin. He saw it everywhere: on his hands, on his uniform, on the sheets of your shared bed. A stain he couldn't wash away, a mark of Cain branded onto his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, the words a strangled cry, a confession ripped from the very core of his being, a truth he'd been running from since the moment he'd pulled the trigger. “Don’t you see? I could have killed you... I almost killed you…”

You could see that he was losing the battle against himself, the fight for control he’d waged for weeks finally slipping through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice cracking again, the words an admission of his vulnerability, his need for you, the one person he felt he'd failed. “Please… forgive me.”

“John, stop.” You finally whispered as he seemed to have paused his emotional confession. You shifted closer to him, gently placing your hands on his ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not a monster. The hostages, they’re alive because of you. You saved Gaz. You saved my life. And you were the only one who could make that shot. You know that.”

Your hands found their way around him, to lift his head, so that he would look at you, so you could see him, the man you loved, lost in the depths of his own despair. You gently cupped his cheeks, your fingers wiping away the trails of tears that were rolling down, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, and a silent plea for him to believe in your love, in the truth that transcended his self-inflicted judgment. “Listen to me.” You said, louder now, your voice a lifeline thrown out to pull a man drowning back to the surface. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I –” He started to argue, to protest, but the words caught in his throat, his breath hitched as he surrendered to the grief, the remorse, that had been bottled up inside him for so long.

"Shh," you soothed, leaning in, your forehead resting against his.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t blame you for this, John. Not one bit. Not a single, tiny bit."

His eyes, shadowed with doubt, searched yours, as if looking for the lie, the accusation he was convinced he deserved instead.

“Yes, it sucks. Yes, it hurts.” You continued, your voice soft but firm, “but you know what would have hurt more? Dead parents and their children, and me… maybe not even here to hurt at all. He was about to fire, John. You know it. I know it.”

You held his gaze, your thumbs stroking the lines of pain etched around his eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights. “You may not want to be called a hero, John,” you whispered, leaning forward, resting your forehead against his again, offering him the comfort, the understanding, the love he so desperately needed. “But you are my hero. You did the right thing. If there's anyone on this earth who could make that shot, that impossible shot, who could put a bullet through my shoulder and stop a terrorist’s heart in the same breath… it’s you. It’s always been you.”

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze softening as he listened to your words, the frantic beating of his heart gradually slowing, the storm within him beginning to calm.

“I just…” The confession escaped his lips on a shuddering breath. “I almost lost you. The thought of it…” He trailed off, unable to voice the terror that haunted him, the vision of your lifeless body, his bullet the cause, a constant nightmare from which there seemed no escape.

“I’m here,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could descend back into the abyss of his own making. “I’m alive.”

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pressure of your touch, your warmth seeping into his skin. He let himself get pulled against your chest, his head resting so he could hear your heartbeat steadily in his ear. A reassuring lullaby to soothe him, a reminder that you were still here, with him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words broken, a confession wrenched from his soul. “God, I love you so much… I almost… I’m so sorry…”

“I know, John.”

His breathing slowed as the tension ebbed from his body. He realized then, in the quiet aftermath, that pulling away, retreating into the silence of his own guilt, had only deepened the cut, amplified his pain. The distance had been a lie, a shield he'd put up to protect you from him, but now he knew: you didn’t need protection. You needed him, just as he needed you. The only force strong enough to pull him back from the abyss, the only remedy to heal those self-inflicted wounds, was you.

“I know.”

His tears continued to fall, but they were different now – not the hot, frantic tears of a man drowning in guilt, but softer, almost silent tears, born of exhaustion and a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself.

You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face finally peaceful. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares and tremors. He was exhausted – emotionally, physically drained – the weight of his guilt temporarily lifted by the power of your presence, your touch, your love.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his hair, your lips lingering, as you rested your head above his.

“I love you, too, John. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

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lyss-sketchbox · 27 days ago

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With Natlan's AQ coming to a close and I had time to really think about it and see other's perspective of it. I have some thoughts. And its gonna discuss the entire AQ as a whole and not just Act 5.

In short

More consistent action and flare than Fontaine

Way too much 'waiting for the right moment' and no other preparations are shown because of it.

The blind trust to said moment. Noone vetoed this, noone was worried about this, noone doubted this. So everything felt weightless.

Mavuika is a mary sue. Her hardheaded and blind trust to an event that may or may not happen just so happens to go right. She's so confident it'll work out she spent the days leading up to the final battle painting. So everything she does has no weight to it when it's blatantly obvious they're gonna win and ruined anything hoyo tried to do to create any tension.

Capitano is the goat and it's a shame he had a fraction of the screen time but alot more impact.

I have to say the level of action and flare they used in the entire AQ is alot more consistent than Fontaine.

We all should admit that we came into an AQ expecting interaction and action from playable characters and not NPCs unless they built them up enough to care for. Fontaine's evidence searching and crime solving part is understandably slow for some people and it can really hinder the pace, especially Meropide's part where it fully focuses on NPC's instead of actually figuring out Wrio's and Lyney's plans (which is sidelined until the very end)

The action scenes and AQ specific domains are great. I like that they aren't making us watch still images or summaries of events and actually let's us play through certain scenes, especially the Act 4 war and Act 5 making our way to the eye of the Abyss part. I love that it gives us choices and consequences based on our choices and ACTUALLY shows that consequence instead of telling us. Makes it feel like they're putting effort into the story telling.

The actual weight of the plot...? Not so much. I think it is very cliche with not alot of active impact from playable characters. The ending falls flat compared to what was set up.

In Act 1-2, it felt cliché for Paimon to point out 'oh look it's time for us to solve this nation's crisis', pointing it out doesn't make it any better but this is just a pet peeve and pretty neglegible.

I was sceptical about Natlan from the start, I admit that, but I like how the characters had an active choice and struggle during these acts. Kachina chose to stay in the tourney and train, Mualani chose to switch teams, they didn't wait for a thing to happen to do thing, they initiated it first.

Mavuika and Capitano fight still doesn't make sense to me. It's alot of needless flare with no substance to me. It feels like Capitano just waltzed in there with no other plan than to fight Mavuika for the gnosis. Like he didn't even plan his escape, he just so happened to be saved by Ororon.

Act 3-4 while had character interaction, feels tonally wrong. Like are Mavuika and co. NOT doing anything else but to wait for the 6 heroes to show up? Mavuika FOUGHT against Capitano's methods because she believes her way is better but it feels so... shallow? She just trusts that the 6 heroes will show up on time without any doubts or Plan B's at all...? Also in the beginning Mavuika told us to be careful when sharing the news that a war might break out but the first thing we do is... tell people...? Out right...? Sure.

The war was done well, I like that we have choices and consequences. The end sequence literally is a My Little Pony clone but it does fit with the consistent theme of solidarity in war and nationalism. Still felt cheesy to me.

Act 5. ACT 5 is the worst tonal shift of all time to me. So we spent the first half celebrating when we know something else is there, no preparation or doubts. Even Mavuika is like 'ah yes let me paint to pass the time :)', it feels... arrogant, it feels as if it's absolutely undisputed that we are gonna win. So there's no tension at all even when they finally try to make the final battle feels important. Even the stadium bit feels off, there's literally NO signs that we are losing but for some reason the Sacred Flame goes out...?

While I like that they brought out memorable NPCs from world quests, the part about the 6 heroes feels so extremely tacked on. Like wow the 6 first heroes gave us blessings randomly in the middle of the sequence even though the actual power up sequence to get pyro traveller is still... way after that so it felt... useless? The entire boss battle even feels so weightless because yeah, you're gonna win, what is there to root for lmao.

Don't get me started on the celebration afterwards, the long awkward section where you allegedly spend a while giving out autographs and taking pictures. It feels like Hoyo is popping a party popper in our face and going CONGRATS YOU DID IT! CELEBRATE NOW! THIS IS A CELEBRATION. If they were trying to divert our attention from Mavuika's death then it's a shit attempt. Because the final battle didn't feel like it had weight, so it feels not worth celebrating.

Capitano is the only saving grace of this AQ and even then he's been sidelined for the entire act so while the logic for his sacrifice to Ronova was great (hell even more hyped about this than the entire final battle), it didn't have the impact it probably should've had. It felt like he had an entire side quest that we didn't get to see or hint at unless you count the very first dream opening Act 5.

Now my biggest issue with this nation is WHY IS THERE SO MUCH WAITING FOR THE RIGHT MOMENT????

Kachina deserved to be one of the 6 heroes instead of Xilonen. We literally don't know what Xilonen and Iansan even do to earn that title but they just... are??? We atleast see Kachina fighting for a spot in the Night Wars and we hear about Mualani and Kinich's wins but Xilonen and Iansan???

Mavuika vetoed Capitano's plans that actually had substance and logic behind it because she just.... trusts that it'll happen. Does she not worry they won't show up?? Does she not have Plan B's?? She had absolutely 0 worries at all so she just... feels so flat. Then in the final battle she just... doesn't worry at all, like I understand as an archon and a leader it's best that you act like it, but there's like... absolutely zero signs that she's worried. Even when she's talking to her LONG LOST SISTER SHE'S JUST... FINE??? MOVES ON??? ARE YOU NOT GONNA TELL YOUR WORRIES TO YOUR SISTER??? OR DO YOU JUST NOT HAVE WORRIES AT ALL????

Man idk, the ending flops for me. Rip capitano one of the only good thing about this nation and he isnt even from it. But we SEE HIS STRUGGLE, HIS DOUBTS, HIS FAILURES, AND HIS SACRIFICE AND SUCCESS WHILE WE GET SHIT ALL FROM MAVUIKA SO LIKE????? WHAT WE'RE THEY DOING???????

#head in hands #idk what to feel anymore #im so willing to forgive the shonen anime cliche because natlan is all about solidarity #but literally what the fuck were they doing for that ending #lyssten to my rambles

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alexanderwales · 5 months ago

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I watched the Netflix documentary about the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, and kept being more interested in the financial and logistical aspects of it, which of course they don't go into. The cheerleaders make very very little money, and they obviously have expenses, and it's essentially a part-time job that they have on top of whatever else is going on in their life, like having a job that actually allows them to pay bills.

It's pretty obviously a case of people wanting a job for non-money reasons, which means that the organization can pay them less. This is incredibly common in the creative and performing arts, as well as sports, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I had not previously given much thought to cheerleading though.

I didn't come into it with a lot of respect for cheerleading, and didn't leave with a lot of respect for cheerleading either. I think it's difficult, and visually interesting, but there's very little room for creative expression since it's tightly choreographed, and the body-destroying nature of the moves makes me a little queasy, as does some of the objectification.

I feel the nugget of some story in there, something that calls to me, tensions that the documentarians couldn't drill deep on because they're filming people with media training and no particular desire to air their interior experiences for the public. Maybe they don't even have the interior experiences that I would want them to have, for story purposes. It's an intense performance of femininity, weaponized legacy for cheap labor, briefly burning fame that can only rise so far until the clock ticks long enough and they age out or their bodies break or both.

(The obvious pitch is a magical girl story. The transformation sequence is two hours long. You're constantly scrutinized for conformity. You fight monsters with your magic powers, but you also work a day job, and you're telling yourself that you're upholding a longstanding tradition, that this is the best most important thing you'll ever do with your life, but it really would be nice to be paid more given everything you're doing.)

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purplemoonabove · 2 months ago

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The sword is flying under his hold. The blocks are up at each incoming. The slices are too easy from one’s perspective, but Keith always makes it seem so.

His young age of seventeen is nothing to hold back on. Thirty years of existence can hold the same as he is now, taking on robotic enemies as his use of training at every opportunity until dealing with the real deal. His blood will continue to boil by the rising heat. His focus will continue to be dead center at every turn, spotting, and target to take down. His actions will continue to be his greatest tools, the sword being an addition to what he can already accomplish. And his dedication will continue to stay and rise at every improvement he will experience within this space adventure.

“End of training sequence!”

His mind should also follow, continuing his training until reaching a point of total exhaustion and close passing out if doing one more, five by force.

Instead he lasts thirty levels before giving up on his mind’s choice of focus. Admitting defeat when heading over to the bench against the wall, gulping down on the sweating water pouch as the cold temperature is decreasing. While the water is refreshing, it only gives a cooling to his body – and clearance to his mind’s taunting.

It was an accident.

He knows that. They know that. It shouldn’t cause any chance, but he knows different.

They hardly look at each other eye to eye, glancing away when passing in halls. Only when in missions will their focus on each other was there. Once completed, excuses will rise to get away from the other.

It’s considered a normal reaction, really. At least, at first. But doing it for over two weeks now is a difficulty to hide, even when the rest of the team is starting to pick up on their tension. Hardly were the fights present, petty arguments that would have the room annoyed while expecting. A common sense of existence that is now hiding away, and gets silence to be its replacement. And a bad one at that.

Sighing, the dampness at the top of his head now lays upon the wall, his face opposite to the pearl ceiling and its many insert lights. Getting along is already hard as it is, and Keith didn’t mind the silence – or is used to it within the years. But this silence… It is too much for him. Silence is to be like a library to him, not a trapped box with no entry or thin spots to break through.

Why is this a big deal? It didn’t mean anything!

The clench in his chest says another, a sign with a groan following in escape.

I have to talk to Lance, his mind voices. This will affect everything in future missions if we don’t work this out. God, I sound like Shiro…

With a push back to standing, Keith then brings up the small towel he placed earlier. He needs a shower first before speaking. He wouldn’t give a damn about it if done months ago, but now he really needs one when heading towards them. It can make a bad impression if he doesn’t.

He wishes it was longer, though. Fully cleansed with a fresh set of exact clothing in black, dread is making his skin urging to sweat when standing opposite to the door. One belonging to the former Blue Paladin, now taking his Red, bearing a silence inside that can mean anything: skin care treatment, early slumber, just in thought as he was.

He knows earlier that spending time with Hunk and Pidge isn’t done. The duo are consistent on whatever technical issues and solutions to give Lance a moment in time. At least in speaking with them; he didn’t miss Hunk’s glance that led to a private talk in the kitchen after dinner.

“I think you two need to talk,” Hunk confessed. “The last I spent time with Lance, he was quiet as he was every meal. And I noticed the glances he passes at you sometimes.”

Keith grimaced, his arms crossing at his chest tightening a bit. “What can I do? I don’t know how to talk to him. For all I know, another argument can come up.”

“It’s better than this silence, Keith. Everyone is noticing, and you’re lucky you’re getting this out of me than from Shiro.”

He still is lucky on that. Older brother figure giving advice is handling a boulder you are requested to hold, also know that responsibility is one hundred percent yours.

“Just try, Keith. We’re all worried about you guys. It really isn’t like you two…”

And it never would have if it didn’t happen.

He sighs, taking for once acknowledging at the weight than treating as a nuisance throughout the days. With a gloved hand in a fist, he knocks three times on the metal door.

“Lance? It’s me.”

It takes seconds while feeling like hours before the metal slides open. That mocking joy his blue eyes would hold are gone. Only a spot of shame as if caused a mistake that is taking a toll on him.

Discomfort gets the same hand holding his bicep.

“What’s up?” Not even the casual greeting holds any positive emotion. Just the shame, as if it’s the only one to keep him going.

“Can we talk, please?” Keith asks. “About… what happened?”

Eye contact breaks by Lance’s discomfort, turning away with his eyes close. But just as Keith was ready to push further into it, Lance then steps aside for given access.

“Okay.”

Stepping in a space bedroom shouldn’t give the feeling of stepping on ground where the enemies were close and bound to attack on sight. But once the doors shut behind him, sealing the boys in, Keith is willing to go into battle instantly than to be inside here.

Only the sight of Lance’s visible discomfort to small himself away from sight is the force in keeping him in place.

Part 2

#voltron #klance #little fanfic #tumblr fanfic #keith kogane #lance mcclain #to be continued #who knows what can happen #third person #present tense #writer on tumblr #creative writing #done in two days

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gamesception · 3 months ago

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Sception Reads Cass Cain #42

Batgirl (2000) #21 - December 2001 Writer: Kelley Puckett……….Pencils: Damion Scott Inks: Robert Campanella…..Colors: Gregory Wright

My short break turned into a 6 month hiatus, but the first issue of the new Cass Batgirl run releasing tomorrow (at time of writing this) has finally given me the push to start this project up again. While this isn't the most consequential issue to come back to, it is a good one, and it has Stephanie in it, and references og Cass's initial dynamic with Shiva, which is topical since the new book will at least start with a focus on modern Cass's relationship with her mother.

Most of the usual team here this time, only we have a different Wright on the colors than usual. Which did give me a brief moment of panic that I'd been attributing colors to the wrong person, but no, most of the previous issues specifically credit Jason Wright, but this one specifically credits Gregory.

The issue opens with Cass preparing for a training routine, and I have to point out that the evolution of Damion Scott's art style that I brought up in a reply to a post that was going around recently (link) regarding inconsistency in Cass's appearance was already well underway by issue 21 of her ongoing.

The training sequence itself is pretty extreme as Cassandra demolishes dozens of dummies and a few (potentially load bearing?) stone columns in her cave...

Before nearly taking Spoiler's head off and making herself sick with the effort of stopping her own punch and/or the realization of what almost just happened. It's a cool-then-funny sequence which also reinforces how Cassandra is capable of absolutely destroying people, but that she very much doesn't want to actually hurt anyone, traits that will of course be key to events later in the issue because Kelley Puckett is just good like that.

Anyway, Steph is here because Babs sent her to get Cass and bring her to the Clock Tower, since Cass wasn't responding to calls while engrossed in her hours-long training regimen.

*I wish I didn't have to, Mirthful Mike.

But yeah, this issue is a sort of tie in to Joker: Last Laugh, a miniseries / crossover event from 2001 that frankly I didn't much care for. Unfortunately we'll have to look at an issue from the main miniseries run next time, but for the moment Bab's summary is all that needs to be relevant for the current issue.

The more interesting thing going on in the same panel is the little exchange between Babs and Cass about whether Cass has been studying her super villain files. With Cass answering 'no' in a kind of embarrassed way, which Barbara reads as Cass being embarrassed about not doing her homework, something Babs obviously things Cass ~should~ be doing but that she's kind of given up on Cass ever caring enough ~to~ do, with Cass just not caring about the part of the job that she's not good at / the part of the job that Barbara does. It's a whole thing., and a point of tension that at this point in the comic is slowly building and then later will be forgotten about and unmentioned for a huge run of issues and then even later than that will explode out of nowhere. Again with my recurring comment about this book being fantastic on the build up of character arcs and not as great on the follow through.

BUT ANYWAY, Babs is completely misreading this situation, because Cass isn't embarrassed because she think she's been caught not doing something she should, she's visibly embarrassed (love the art from Scott here, again with managing a very expressive Cass despite being in the full face covering mask) because she thinks she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.

One of the first rules Bruce gave her was 'no costumed criminals'. She's not supposed to be fighting supervillains or metahumans or any other weirdos with special abilities or gimmicks that might invalidate her body-reading ability, which we've already established is her primary and near only defensive skill. At least, that's the in universe justification for why this book mostly avoids big scenery chewing bad guys who would otherwise distract from the intended tone and core themes.

Now, Bruce would have intended that as "don't fight them, but absolutely study them so you know what you're dealing with if you have do", but Cass is very much the sort of kid who would have heard that as 'supervillains are entirely off limits, I don't want you to fight them, or look at them, or even think about them', like the whole subject is a taboo - one she'll absolutely break, but that she'll feel guilty about breaking and try to hide from authority figures, because that's how she deals with guilt in general, lying (poorly) about it, trying to hide it. Because she doesn't think she deserves to be Batgirl, so she's completely insecure about it and sure she's going to be fired the moment anyone sees through her.

And that's especially the case given the reason she's been so carefully studying the particular supervillains she has - super powered martial artists. The same reason she's been training so hard that she's destroying her cave, missing calls from Barbara, and nearly killing unexpected guests who wander into her sessions, but that's a subject the comic comes back to later.

This habit / character flaw / broken coping mechanism of lying to hide guilt (misplaced or otherwise) is just so compelling to me. The way the lies taint every relationship, distancing the character from anyone they should be able to rely on, the way the they inevitably build up as the character feels guilty about the lies themselves and makes up more lies to hide that, like a matryoshka doll, or a tower of cards waiting to fall, the way that by the time other characters start pulling on the strings thinking they know what's going on there's a usually a cascade of revelations each more shocking than the last. Alphys in Undertale is a prime example of this.

The disaster when everything falls apart is usually the best part of this dynamic, and sadly Batgirl (2000) will choose to subvert that part (again, fantastic set up, but never quite following through), but we aren't there yet.

Anyway, it's just a couple short lines of dialog across as many panels sharing space with a blunt info-dump, but it's a really good character beat speaking to both Cass's flaws - the whole lying and hiding anything she feels guilty about - and Barbara's - assuming she already knows what's going on and not digging any further or following up (which only enables Cass's lying and hiding) because the reason she assumes makes her annoyed and angry (which Cass of course picks up on, reinforcing her feelings of guilt and insecurity).

It's a complicated and unhealthy dynamic between two people that otherwise genuinely love each other, and the tension and angst that comes from that is also fantastic.

The original Cass Cain Batgirl run was full of this drama that comes from making these variously maladjusted characters care about each other and exploring the fraught relationship dynamics that result. That more than anything else is what made Batgirl (2000) great and that post-flashpoint Cass has been lacking (the parts I've read anyway, still need to get around to that Outsiders run). Even my constant complaints about the flanderization of latter day David Cain basically boil down to this, because original Cass's relationship with Cain was overflowing with this sort of tension.

Anyway, that's a ton of talk about two panels, lets see if I can rush through the rest of the issue a bit more quickly...

...

So Babs gives a reason why Cass and Steph aren't wanted in this otherwise all-hands-on-deck emergency situation, a reason that's a little bit dumb, but way less dumb than the reason we'll get next time, and Cass says she's fine with it, which takes Babs by surprise. You can see the fight she was ready to have about it, you can see how confused she is when Cass just says OK, because again Scott is just so good at these facial expressions. Babs, or at least this version of her, is susceptible to making inaccurate assumptions about people, about Cass in particular, but she's a smart enough cookie to notice when Cass acts outside of those assumptions and start questioning whether something else is going on.

So Cass goes to train in Bab's star trek holodeck (I admit that thing was a bit too sci fi for a gotham book for my tastes), and refuses to let Steph sit in, which calls back the scene earlier to reinforce it in the readers memory before what happens later.

The power goes out, and Cass comes out sheepishly, this miserable look on her face (again! So good!), because she thinks she broke the holo room, and there's no way to hide & lie her way around that, but the problem isn't Cass...

It's this guy, Shadow Thief (jokerized), a villain I know nothing about and have never seen or read outside of this comic. He's got some weird tech that, I think, drains electricity from nearby devices to make himself (but not his weapons) intangible?

Scott draws him in an extra exaggerated, cartoony, and rubbery style, which works here to emphasize his weird powers and/or jokerization, but does kind of foreshadow how all of his comic art starts to look more like that over time - which again isn't bad (as you can see in the panel here it actually looks pretty cool), but I still prefer the earlier style.

Anyway, Shadow Thief also a notable supervillain martial artist, so Cass actually has been studying his files, and knows exactly how to deal with him -

Catching the throwing stars he throws at them with her fingers (look at her smile! She's loving this!)

Throwing out some cocky banter to play on his ego

Grabbing his very tangible sword to draw him to the roof so Babs and Steph aren't caught in their fight.

All great stuff.

And yeah, Barbara has absolutely picked up that somethings going on with Cass. Eventually it will be revealed that she just already knows about the fight with Shiva, and I don't think we ever see how she found out, but this is pretty clearly where she started to suspect something and it's not too much of a stretch to jump from that initial suspicion to just knowing everything, at least not with this character.

Even without his sword, Shadow Thief has special martial arts techniques that somehow let him sort of hit things despite his Shadow Field making him intangible....

And now Cass does, too.

One of the usual principles of early Batgirl (2000) - no supervillains - serves to keep the focus tight on the more emotional themes of the book. Cass is so far out of the league of any of the typical criminals she runs up against that fights are always over in a flash, keeping action scenes short and punchy and leaving more space in the book for other things. But it is nice, every once in a while, to make an exception for a more drawn out and elaborate fight scene like this, where Cass can really show her skills.

But the real drama of this issue happens when Babs finds a way to remotely deactivate Shadow Thief's intangibility field mid battle. That 'oh, shit' face is so good.

All Cass's joy gone in an instant. She was having so much fun. She was so happy to have a real opponent she could cut loose on instead of inanimate dummies or holograms. Someone good enough to keep up with her, and with a defensive ability effective enough that she could put her full skills to use without having to worry about actually hurting them. Yeah, Shadow Thief's a villain, but they were playing with each other, trading banter. Having fun. Despite Shadow Thief's murderous intent, this was almost more of a friendly sparring match than a real fight.

But once again she gets a stark reminder of what her skills were originally meant for, what she was originally meant for. Earlier in the issue Cass was throwing up at the thought that she even could have hurt Stephanie, and now she probably killed this guy. And there won't be any hiding this - forget what might happen if Bruce finds out about the guy she murdered as a child, he 100% is going to find out about this man that she murdered, on the roof of Barbara's safe house, while wearing his symbol. Her entire life is falling apart, here.

But Stephanie is here. And helps Cass save him. Helps her save herself.

And of course Cass wants to hide what happened from Barbara. And of course Stephanie, being a good friend, keeps her secret, even if it probably would have been better to talk to Barbara about what happened and what Cass is feeling about it. Then again, if Babs knew it might have gotten back around to Bruce, and that ~wouldn't~ have been a healing conversation.

And the issue ends with a Flashback to Cass agreeing to fight Shiva, a real fight, to the death, using all of their killing skills. An bargain struck many issues back, so this is the reminder to readers that the fight is coming up soon, only a few issues away now. The final page is this panel of Cass back in her cave, with Shiva's file open, a video recording of her fighting on loop, as Cass sits with her face in shadow. She isn't going to fight to kill Shiva. She can't. So Shiva is absolutely going to kill her.

So yeah, a strong issue to come back to, catching us up on the overal serial plot of the book at the time, but also strongly grounded in original Cass's core emotional themes and the intricate dynamics of some of her core relationships, including now to Stephanie, with this being a huge early moment of vulnerability from Cass and support from Steph pushing them from like work friends who pal around some times to real friends who rely on each other.

And despite making exceptions to include a super villain and extended fight scene and callback to an ongoing serial narrative arc, this issue still mostly adheres to the core early Batgirl (2000) playbook.

It tells a complete story in a single issue; tightly focused on Cass's core character themes, motivations, and frought, layered relationships; expressed mostly through the artwork with relatively minimal reliance on dialog and even less on narration, with an overall sombre or even tragic tone punctuated with moments of levity or heartfelt human connection.

I'm writing this before having a chance to read the first issue of Cass's new ongoing, but more than anything else, more than reverting her canon to the pre-flashpoint history (which I don't even want, post-flashpoint Cass is a new character and I'm sure she has fans who care about her as much as I cared about original Cass), even more than restoring the original version of David Cain, what I hope for most from the new book is a return to this kind of storytelling.

#batgirl #cassandra cain #sception reads cassandra cain #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #shadow thief

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strawberrywinter4 · 9 months ago

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So. This is part of two things.

May 15 Prompt: Nightmare, from @calaisreno’s prompt list. Check out their wonderful prompts!

AND

It’s a sneak peak for my current WIP: A Gentleman’s Shrine. You can find the post of what this fic is going to be about here.

Warnings: PTSD and Violence

A little context: This story takes place after WWI in England. John is on his way to the Noble Legacy Gala (explained in the post that I linked), and he catches himself in a nightmare.

•*•*•*•

It’s constant. Redundant. Persistent. Ceaseless.

Never-ending.

John only hears his panicked breaths, higher than normal. Dust is caught in his throat, gunfire is ringing in his ears. His sweaty hands are clinging to his rifle like it’s his one and only. Both German and English intertwine and he’s not sure which one he’s supposed to speak. He doesn’t believe he can speak.

Before John knows it, he catches a soldier’s head being pierced by a bullet, another taking the wrong step and his body detonates, blood splattering everywhere. He can’t move, or more like he doesn’t want to move because what the fuck is this?

This isn’t what he signed up for, it’s not. This doesn’t feel prosperous or close to honor. This doesn’t feel like he’s fighting for anything, let alone his country.

No, he is in the presence of hell. The Western Front is where men turn into something equivalent to animals, fighting for land they will never step foot on. It is where intelligent minds turn into a sequence of survival instincts. It is where all humanity comes to an end.

“Get up, Watson!” John barely registers a strong hand pull on his arm, hoisting him up and out of the mud mixed with blood. “You’re gonna die if you don’t–”

Whoever was speaking to him is shot to the floor, his limp body hitting the mud John was just near unconscious on. Limping away, John stumbles through the trench, looking for…something. Or was it someone? Was he even looking for anything in the first place? What was he searching for? What was he after? What is the point?

Someone charges after him with a close—combat knife, and John holds his rifle up and shoots. He shoots the man. He’s dead. He’s–

No. No, no, no. What has he done? What has he–

John kneels down next to the man, checking vital signs, as if that will accomplish anything. He hears him mutter something in German, but John doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand anything. Realizing he’s doing everything in the wrong order, John tries to press down on the wound and attempts to stop the flow, but it's no use. When a river begins, it doesn’t cease.

John sobs, repeating an apology that won’t do any good. He’s a doctor, he’s trained for this, he can help. He can help, he can sort this out and get this man to safety because he has a family at home and they’re waiting for him. They’re waiting for him and John’s made their wait worth nothing.

This is wrong, this is all wrong. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to Mum and Harry. He doesn’t want to forget the feeling of sitting at the dinner table and eating his mum’s soup.

Keep the pressure, keep the pressure. Don’t let this man die.

He doesn’t want to forget the voice of his sister, cracking jokes and hearing his mum scold her for the inappropriate ones.

The man is dead, but John doesn’t stop the pressure. He will never stop. He will never stop apologizing, and he will never forget the man muttering in German, “Please, God, let me live.”

——

John screams as he wakes, jolting up in his seat. He takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, return to a leveled mindset that he didn’t have during the war.

“Sir?” a man’s voice asks. “Sir, are you well?” He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and John flinches away. Realizing his rude behavior, John forces himself to lose the tension in his body, shifting in his seat. He swallows.

“Uh–yes. Yes, I apologize. I…” John looks around the train, seeing the other participants staring at him with horrified expressions. Mothers hold their children tightly and fathers grace him with disturbed looks. John forces his eyes to the crew member, who seems unsure of what to do in this position. “Only a nightmare,” John dismisses, clearing his throat.

“Should…we move you to another cart?” the man asks, eyes flickering to the other people seated.

John’s jaw clicks. “No, this isn’t to happen again, I assure you. I’ll be fine here.”

With hesitance, the man nods. “Alright, then. Would you care for any refreshments?”

“No,” John says. “Thank you.” The man leaves and John’s face burns. He’s made a fool of himself, he never should have fallen asleep, no matter how long the journey is.

Everyone in the cart begins to forget about the outburst, going back to their conversations or finishing their small meals. John rests his head on the back of his seat and stares out the window, watching plains of grass pass by and sheep being heard.

John should soon be arriving at the next train station soon enough. He closes his eyes, wondering what his life has become.

*•*•*•*

I hope you all enjoyed this little sneak peak! I saw the prompt for today and thought it was perfect for this. This fic is currently in the works and I promise that it includes a lot of research, not just assumptions or blind facts, haha. So I’m certainly trying my best ❤️

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @thegildedbee @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina @kettykika78 @johnlockbbc

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future)

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exo-raskreia · 4 months ago

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Do you think anime would add some utahime scenes through out the arcs? in general the anime do add some scenes from the manga to add more oomf like they did with shibuya and junpei and they did that to her in the anime in ep 1.

I always wondered about her canon thought process including towards gojo a person whom she dislikes after the whole ordeal but i donot think its possible we would see that unfortunately in the anime. Have to use our imagination. However i know for sure her dance is gonna get elevated.

Never saw a character as unique as utahime. This is a curse of liking a minor side character. Someone as beautiful as her deserves alot. oh gege you one eyed cat why you created such elegance only not to be utilized well. One of the most 3rd popular female character more then shoko and she's underutilized.

I totally agree, anon! She's the third most popular female character in JJK after Nobara & Maki despite her minimal screentime. She has a beautiful design & so much potential yet she was severely underutilized. What the heck was Gege thinking? He left so many plot holes in his wake with that ending & her character's journey is one of them. Some ppl even wonder if Gege originally intended to do more with her but didn't (or couldn't) because of time constraints, his editors, or his own potential burnout. Wonder if we'll ever know...

It would be great if Mappa added more scenes with Utahime, especially what she was doing during the Culling Games. Her thought process on her students dying, the CG themselves, Gojo's sealing? What she did during the one-month timeskip after Gojo got unsealed? Will we get a glimpse of her training with Gojo? Her thought process on The Horrible Plan?

I don't know if we'll get any of this 😮‍💨. But if there were missing scenes due to time constraints (Gege's writing is still questionable), then maybe they could add some scenes to flesh everything out. We never got that GojoHime flashback & I wonder if Mappa will minimum give us this... It was the least I was expecting from Gege... 🥺

(Some of us think that their flashback would've been so full of emotional & sexual tension that Gege or his editors chose not to include it cuz it'd be too obvious they were meant to be... 🤪😫)

I hope Mappa will give us a beautiful sequence of Utahime dancing to buff Gojo... Maybe finally show her singing... Maybe even include an instrumental cover of her CT song Kinku to solidify it's about Gojo... 😩

#gojohime #iori utahime #gojo and utahime #anonymous #ask #reiapost

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casualprincessbarbie · 15 days ago

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Spreadsheet, More Like Spread Legs - Julian (Trailer Park Boys) X Fem!Reader

Summary: Julian meets the reader in an accounting class and very quickly sexual tension is rising. They get to know each other but he just hopes that Sunnyvale won’t humiliate him in front of her.

Warnings: just typical swearing. There is no real serious smut. Age gap (Julian’s like 40 but the reader is early 20s)… You can pretend she’s more like 30 if you want. He’s just noticeably older.

Word Count: 2458

***

Julian had to complete an accounting course for community college. He thought Fuck I don’t know how to start with this excel shit. It was time to do one of his least favourite things. Asking for help.

“Hey, you got any idea how we’re supposed to separate these damn columns?” He asked to the guy beside him, to the left. You laughed at his simple question. Students were supposed to know the basics of the tool a while ago, the laugh was a bit louder than anticipated and people turned their heads for a brief moment.

Julian’s head turned too. It didn’t go back though, just stayed and his eyes glared at you for a moment. “What’s so funny?” His usual annoyed tone was present. “Hah, just the fact even a well trained toddler could do this work.” As someone used to spreadsheets, his struggle seemed hilarious. You only got him more angry.

You had been sitting in the row in front of him so he’d only seen the back of your head. Thankfully people started to get up and leave as the lecture had just ended. As you swing your bag over your shoulder —ready to go— Julian hopped the desk and got in your way. “Look, if you’re so confident a toddler could do this can you train me?” This was the first time you two saw each other’s face, but the voice was recognizable. He was better looking than expected. You thought it was the voice of a lazy frat boy who probably was too hungover to consider school most of the time. No, this man was older. Interesting. “If you pay me,” was your answer to his question.

Julians thoughts had gone in a sequence of shit she’s hot, she sounds smart, she could help me, to oh great she’s gonna think I’m so poor. That’s why a lot of the girls he had been with were from the park. Those girls wouldn’t be able to look down on him for his financial situation. You probably had a home a lot fancier than a trailer. “Uhm…” he was already embarrassed, “See I don’t have room to let cash go at the moment. School’s so expensive you know, I-.” You understood. Being a student was a shitty place to be for your wallet. Cash flowing out but never in. Stopping him in his tracks you interjected “Fine, just get me some snacks when I’m ‘training’ you big guy.”

That’s when you quickly shuffled past him. Red cheeks flaring up as you got shy. Fuck, he’s not even that big. He’s just definitely hitting chest day at the gym. Still, he had for sure heard you. You were worried that you weirded him out with that nickname. Whatever, hopefully he thought it was a diss.

Before you were out of earshot he called out “Hey little lady, we gotta set a time and place!” Ah he was right. “Okay, well does tonight work?” You asked, walking back over to him.

4 hours later

“JULIAN! TELL RICKY TO GIVE MY KITTY BACK! Please?” Bubbles was yelling at Ricky who was adamant about keeping one of Bubble’s cats. The argument was getting heated as Bubbles brought his fist up.

“Oh my god guys, settle down. You can’t be pulling this shit today. I got someone from the college coming to help me out with an assignment soon. So please, just shut the fuck up!” Julian shouted at them. You were coming over to his place because your roommate was having a party. He was extremely anxious about how Ricky was going to act. Hopefully he wouldn’t get smashed or too stoned. Julian separated the two men and told them to settle the cat issue tomorrow morning. For now, Ricky could watch it.

Ricky’s Confessional: Man I don’t know why Julians so uptight at the moment. It’s probably because he’s back in school, now he’s got this stick up his ass all the time. And whats the deal with some person from the college coming here?

1 Hour Later

You pulled up to the address Julian gave you earlier in the day. Not quite sure what to expect you were still slightly taken aback when you could tell it was definitely a trailer park. Eh, you’d probably never come back so it was sort of cool to see what one was like. It seemed surprisingly tame. The sign on the way in was super friendly with the baby blue background and a bright yellow sun.

The trailer number you were looking for finally appeared. Julian was sitting outside on the porch talking to some old guy with a fat shirtless man next to him. “Lahey, don’t fuck with me tonight. I’m serious, bother me any other day. You should be polite too,” Julian pointed out with his fingers jabbed into the old man’s chest. He wasn’t using much force but the staggering back from “Lahey” said otherwise. At least it looked like Julian wanted to make sure the two of you wouldn’t be disturbed.

Your feet hit the gravel ground and you got out of your car. “Hope I’m not interrupting something here,” you cautiously said. Julian’s expression shifted from rolling eyes to flustered as he rushed you inside. “Ah don’t worry, we were just finishing up. We better get started on the spreadsheets right?”

He quickly shut the door on Mr. Lahey and Randy. They were always trying to catch the boys for doing something devious. “Mr. Lahey, do you think Julian’s gonna finish community college?” Randy asked mindlessly. His boss/boyfriend stopped the direction of the conversation and refocused it on catching the criminals. “No, don’t you see it’s probably just code for something. The man has no classes, he has no ‘spreadsheets.” He’s up to something and that woman he just invited into his trailer is probably an accomplice.”

Back in Julians trailer you two were sat on his couch with computers on laps. You were always quickly on top of school stuff so the work was done for your part. Teaching Julian how and where to put information was the task. “No, the writing isn’t glitching, you don’t need to make the cell bigger. Just wrap the goddamn text!” You could be rude at times, but eh he’d learn his lesson quicker if you hammered it into his head. Luckily he received your feedback positively. “Oh wow that’s easier than I thought.”

As the night went on you two started just hanging out, the assignment in the past. Julian got most of it done but planned to finish it the next day. He knew how to do it now, and if he ran into a problem he could call you up later. You were tired of staring at the screens and so was he. A glass of Coke and rum sat in front of him. A Coke for you because you had to drive home. “That’s crazy I love Nickelback too! Oh yeah, what are you up to tomorrow?” He asked. The conversation was more personal now. “I have a class at 3, but maybe I’ll sleep in, then workout first.” At this point he was feeling like ending the conversation would hurt. Good things never seemed to last long with him. If you were willing to stay over though, then maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to let go in the morning.

“You know, it’s kind of late and dark out now. I don’t want you feeling unsafe, so if you wanna crash here you can. I know you like my couch haha.” He was right in the sense that your place was a bit of a drive back, plus you were getting sleepy. It was also nice that he offered the couch, not sharing the bed or something like that. “Mmm that sounds good Julian. I’d be kidding myself if I said I wasn’t starting to get drowsy.” The sound you made at the beginning of your statement was half innocent, half pleaseee make a move. Truthfully, it had been a while since you dated. Especially at the college. Those guys were either too boyish looking, or too boyish acting. The man in front of you was just so much cooler and masculine. The last guy you tried dating was hitting on a girl in front of you when you were both at a party. This experience was something you mentioned to Julian as he poured you guys Coke. You were just explaining how some people even as an adult could be insanely childish. He in a silly but half serious way agreed, “Oh trust me I deal with a lot of those types of people.”

Julian heard the slight moan you made, and then none of what you actually said. He nodded and tried to act as if he was paying better attention to your words. “Well, let me set you up with some better pillows,” he said getting up from his seat. However, you didn’t miss the way his hand squeezed your thigh first. It was like there was something restraining him, but not enough to fully stop him.

When he came back you were even more tired so you started absentmindedly leaning on Julian’s shoulder as he was starting to say goodnight. He was so thankful for the spreadsheet lessons, “I might be able to teach Ricky a thing or two now.” Next thing he knew you were fast asleep. Fuck she’s pretty he thought. For fear of being a creep he brought himself to look at his glass and l grab it before heading to his bed. Everything went so smooth tonight, he thought.

The Next Morning

“JULIAN! FUCK MAN, LAHEY IS GONNA CHECK MY PLACE FOR THE DOPE- AHHHH!” Ricky was shouting as he barged into the trailer only to be met with the sight of a random woman on his best friend’s couch. You were even more afraid than he was in that moment. “AHHHH,” you guys screamed at each other. The screams eventually stopped when Julian was stepping out of his room. “Ricky it’s too early in the morning for this crap,” he said. You were just curled up with a blanket, hugging a pillow to your chest as you watched them interact. “Nah Lahey said he’s getting a warrant so we gotta move this stuff as soon as possible. Also, what the fuck? Since when do you have a girlfriend? And who lets the chick their banging sleep on the couch?!” Ricky was now pointing his finger at you with disbelief written on his face.

Julian was face-palming with his other hand holding his glass. “Alright, I’ll help you move it, but let me get into my regular clothes and help Y/N get going.” He reasoned with Ricky but he kept talking. “Y/N, did Julian force you to sleep on the couch?” Ricky was so curious now. “Well if he did and you’re being nice, fuck him right. You are way too hot to be designated to the couch.” By now you were comfortable enough to speak up, “Julian and I just did homework last night and I didn’t want to drive that late at night.” Ricky was still not buying it.

“Uhmmm yeah I’m not stupid. Spreadsheet, more like spread legs. I know Julian would have tried to bang… so were you not feeling him or somethi-,” he was cut off by Bubbles entering the trailer. “Hey Julian we better move- oh gosh, did you get greasy last night?” Just as you thought it couldn’t get any more embarrassing the old man and the shirtless man stepped inside. “Woah, look what we have here, just a party of drug dealers right? Are you getting this young lady to sell it to her friends or something like that JULIAN?!” The old man was going into an interrogation. You were getting tired of the noisy assholes who were ruining your morning so you just broke.

“Hey! Ugly shirt and rodeo shirt, sit the fuck down and be quiet. You, with the naked scalp, and your lackey, get out right now. Just get out and fuck off. I know Julian from school and that’s it. I’m a student who bartends on weekends and nothing but. So stop pestering him with dumbass questions.” What you said was enough for Mr. Lahey and Randy to look shocked as they scurried outside. The three boys could talk shit, but when a put together looking woman calls them out it’s far more embarrassing.

After that, Ricky was impressed. He nodded his head with a subtle smile. “Wipe that stupid dopey smile off your dorky face. No fucking banging took place because we were doing work. Now, I’m going to say my goodbyes to you all, and then talk to Lahey.” At first Ricky was super confused on why someone would ever want to talk to Mr. Lahey, but then Julian pointed out how good of a distraction it would be while they haul away the weed.

You got Ricky and Bubbles to scram and wait outside. Julian stayed back with you for a few minutes. “You know you don’t have to help us. I don’t want you caught up in any of this at all.” He had this desperate look on his face but you weren’t sure what it was for exactly. “Shush, just let me handle your park supervisor. I’ve handled a lot of dummies like him. It’s fine, just get me a coffee or something.” You were annoyed by the start of your morning because of how sudden it was, but you could tell these men needed the money from the weed. Julian also seemed so sweet. He let you sleep at his place and didn’t demand anything in return. So this cover-up wasn’t so bad. “Fuck coffee, can I take you out for dinner?” “Deal.” You were ready to walk away when he caught your hand and spun you back to him. His chest felt the impact of your body slamming into his. “Can I give you a kiss too?” He softly spoke to you with his hands already on the sides of your face.

There was no verbal answer from you, but you swiftly brought your hands to his cheeks and dragged his face down to yours. “Go get your weed now big guy,” you said, pushing him out of the door.

Julian’s Confessional: I know I met her yesterday but I got a good feeling about her. She’s okay with me growing dope, and she helped us with Mr. Lahey. Fucking perfection.

Ricky’s Confessional: I’m pretty sure they’re banging.

Bubbles’ Confessional: Y/N seems nice. She sure can put a man in his place.

#julian x reader #tpb julian #tpb x reader #julian tpb #trailer park boys x reader #trailer park boys julian #tpb #trailer park boys fanfic #trailer park boys fanfiction #trailer park boys

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marshmellowrio · 11 months ago

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Flight of the Night | Chapter 6

Word count: 2.4K

“You were acting nice yesterday.” Cassian states in lieu of greeting me when I reach the training field on the House of Wind.

I hum as I walk towards the middle of the sparring ring, “Doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” he pauses his string of movements to look at me more properly. “Want to fight it out again?”

I take a deep breath, before forcing it out through my nose again. “He locked me out.” I start on my own warming up sequences, but Cassian keeps staring at me. I know I’ve said this hundreds of times since Rhys and I got back, but I don’t care. I’ll keep saying it until it stops hurting to say it, or to even think it.

Cassian keeps quiet for a while, debating whether a reply is in the best way to handle me. The past replies he’s given me, have all resulted in him getting a beating, verbal or physical.

“I know.”

With my back to him, I still. A frown forming on my face.

Acknowledgement.

I grit my teeth, not turning, but I know I have his attention. I smell the apprehension. “It was hard.”

I hear him breathe out softly, “Tell me.”

My eyes close and my nostrils flare, before I turn to face him. To hell with this training session.

“Tell me what happened when he dropped those wards around Velaris.” Cassian’s face is anything but soft, except for his eyes. The harsh look because we were separated for 49 years, the softness because I’m finally talking.

“I wish I could just show you.” Although I don’t want to relive those years by remembering in a shared vision, it would be over as soon as the memory is over. Talking requires more time, it requires me to say it.

His face softens when he hears me say it, concern flooding his features.

I walk closer to edge of the mountain and sit down, dangling my feet of the ledge. Cassian takes a seat beside me.

“You know I was in Windhaven that day.” Cassian barely nods in reply. “I heard Rhys’s command to stay in Velaris and flew. I raced to the border, I knew he would seal it off. When I got to the border—” I suck in a breath at the feeling I so vividly remember. “It felt foreign, not home like it used to.”

The city beyond isn’t awake yet and I stare out at it. Letting the feeling of home consume me.

“When I got closer to that border, I felt the force of that shield driving me back. Telling me I didn’t belong there.” I swallow, before I choke on the words, on the memories. “So I went back.”

I don’t tell him that when I flattened my hand against that shield, I cried and screamed. I don’t tell him that I banged my fist against the shield. Again. And again. And again. I don’t tell him I collapsed, tears streaming down my face. I don’t tell him I stayed, for weeks.

Cassian bumps his arm into my shoulder and I lean against him as I close my eyes, relishing in the feeling of my best friend next to me.

❧ ⸻ ☙

Rhys and Feyre try talking to the Bone Carver again the next day, after not even entering the previous one.

Cassian drags me along after training to wait for them at the townhouse, I tell him they’re not going to be back until after noon, but he insists. Azriel and Mor turn up a couple hours later, joining us in the sitting room.

They indeed only return a couple hours after noon and Cassian is bursting at the seams with tension.

“Amren’s right,” Rhys drawls, leaning against the threshold of the sitting room.” You are like dogs, waiting for me to come home. Maybe I should buy treats.”

Cassian gives him a vulgar gesture from where he lounges on the couch before the hearth, an arm slung over the back behind Mor.

I know Azriel lingers somewhere by the window, behind my spot on one of the armchairs across from the couch. Feyre strides for the other one, claiming it as she stretches her limbs towards the fire.

“How’d it go?” Mor says, straightening.

“The Bone Carver,�� Rhys says, “is a busybody gossip who likes to pry into other people’s business far too much.”

My eyebrows raise, I don’t know why he’s surprised, this is common knowledge.

“But?” Cassian braces his arms on his knees, demanding more information.

“But,” Rhys continues, “he can also be helpful, when he chooses. And it seems we need to start doing what we do best.”

I watch Feyre as Rhys tells us all about the Cauldron and the reason behind the temple pillagings. The more information Rhys offers, the more I start to wonder what the young female offered the Bone Carver in return.

Halfway through Rhys’s explanation, I feel Azriel’s looming presence take up the space behind my armchair. His questioning growing slightly tense. I keep quiet but store all the information, knowing every piece is important.

“I’ll contact my sources in the Summer Court about where the half of the Book of Breathing is hidden.” Azriel speaks when Rhys is done, placing one of his hands on the back of the armchair. I take a quick glance as I see it in my peripheral vision. “I can fly into the human world myself to figure out where they’re keeping their part of the Book before we ask them for it.”

“No need,” Rhys says. “And I don’t trust this information, even with your sources, with anyone outside of this room. Save for Amren.”

Azriel withdraws his hand and I turn in my seat, taking him in. “They can be trusted,” he says, steeling his voice and clenching his hands at his sides.

Struck a nerve there. My eyes go back to Rhys at the other side of the room.

“We’re not taking any risks where this is concerned,” he merely replies. I watch both males keep the stare, my eyes flicking back and forth until Azriel nods.

I settle in my seat again, bringing my knees up on the armchair, leaning against the armrest closest to the shadowsinger.

“So what do you have planned?” Mor continues the initial conversation.

We all watch Rhys as he picks at his fighting leathers and I frown at the action. “The King of Hybern sacked one of our temples to get a missing piece of the Cauldron. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an act of war—an indication that His Majesty has no interest in wooing me.”

My jaw clenches when I hear him say it. War, again.

“He likely remembers our allegiance to the humans in the War, anyway,” Cassian says. “He wouldn’t jeopardize revealing his plans while trying to sway you, and I bet some of Amarantha’s cronies reported to him about Under the Mountain. About how it all ended, I mean.” He’s cautious in his wording, not only for Rhys but also for Feyre.

Rhys says, “Indeed. But this means Hybern’s forces have already successfully infiltrated our lands—without detection. I plan to return the favour.”

I swallow and roll my eyes when I catch sight of Cassian and Mor’s mirroring grins.

“How?” Mor asks.

Rhys crosses his arms. “It will require careful planning. But if the Cauldron is in Hybern, then to Hybern we must go. Either to take it back…or use the Book to nullify it.”

“Hybern like—”

“Who says—” I start at the same time as Azriel. I look at him and give him an encouraging smile, when he hesitates to continue.

He nods before countering Rhys’s statement, “Hybern likely has as many wards and shields around it as we have here,” Exactly what I was going to point out. “We’d need to find a way to get through them undetected first.” I nod in confirmation.

“Which is why we start now. While we hunt for the Book. So when we have both halves, we can move swiftly—before word can spread that we even possess it.”

Cassian nods, buts asks, “How are you going to retrieve the Book, then?”

“Since these objects are spelled to the individual High Lords, and can only be found by them—through their power… Then, in addition to her uses regarding the handling of the Book of Breathings itself, it seems we possibly have our own detector.” Rhys says.

I look at Feyre, seeing her cringe at the attention. “Perhaps was what the Bone Carver said in regard to me being able to track things. You don’t know…” She trails off as she looks at Rhys smirking.

“You have a kernel of all our power—like having seven thumbprints. If we’ve hidden something, if we’ve made or protected it with our power, no matter where it has been concealed, you will be able to track it through that very magic.”

I do have to admit, that is pretty cool. What else is she capable of if she hones her power?

“You can’t know that for sure,” Feyre tries again.

“No—but there is a way to test it.” Rhys is smiling.

I groan, “Rhys.”

“Here we go,” comes from a grumbling Cassian. Mor gives Azriel a warning glare, to which he just gives an incredulous look. As if he isn’t the one constantly putting himself in harm’s way.

Rhys says, as if we haven’t even said anything, “With your abilities Feyre, you might be able to find the half of the Book at the Summer Court—and break the wards around it. But I’m not going to take the Carver’s word for it, or bring you there without testing you first. To make sure that when it counts, when we need to get that book, you—we do not fail. So we’re going on another little trip. To see if you can find a valuable object of mine that I’ve been missing for a considerably long time.”

“Shit,” Mor says.

“Where?” Feyre says after a second of watching Mor.

Azriel answers from beside me. “To the Weaver.”

Rhys holds up his hand to keep Cassian from objecting. “The test will be to see if Feyre can identify the object of mine in the Weaver’s trove. When we get to the Summer Court, Tarquin might have spelled his half of the Book to look different, feel different.”

He has got an odd way of loving his mate. First the Bone Carver, now the Weaver. He’s only letting her meet the horrid creatures in Prythian. No matter that that ring will be her future.

“By the Cauldron, Rhys,” Mor snaps, setting her feet on the carpet. “Are you out of your—”

Feyre is quick to push in, “Who is the Weaver?”

“An ancient, wicked creature,” Azriel says.

I pitch in, “Who should remain unbothered. Find another way to test her abilities.”

Rhys merely shrugs and looks at Feyre, he’ll let her choose. Like he does with all of us, he gives us the choice to walk away, always.

We wait for Feyre to make her decision, gnawing on her lip. “The Bone Carver, the Weaver… Can’t you ever just call someone by a given name?”

Cassian chuckles, and Mor settles back in the sofa, while I lean back against the headrest in amusement.

Rhys says to Feyre, “ What about adding one more name to that list?”

I cock my head in interest, what does he mean by that?

“Emissary,” Rhys says, ignoring Mor’s noise of dislike. “Emissary to the Night Court—for the human realm.”

Azriel says, “There hasn’t been one for five hundred years, Rhys.”

“There also hasn’t been a human-turned-immortal since then, either.” Rhys turns his gaze to Feyre again. “The human world must be as prepared as we are—especially if the King of Hybern plans to shatter the wall and unleash his forces upon them. We need the other half of the Book from those mortal queens—and if we can’t use magic to influence them, then they’re going to have to bring it to us.”

The silence that follows his statement is palpable, each one of us letting the truth sink in. My lips purse in thought.

Rhys jerks his chin at Feyre. “You are an immortal faerie—with a human heart. Even as such, you might very well set foot on the continent and be…hunted for it. So we set up a base in neutral territory. In a place where humans trust us—trust you, Feyre. And where other humans might risk going to meet with you. To hear the voice of Prythian after five centuries.”

“My family’s estate,” Feyre is quick to answer.

“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cuts in. I shake my head right when he flares his wings, almost knocking over the ceramic vase on the side table. “You think we can just take over her family’s house, demand that of them.”

“The land,” Mor says, reaching over to return the vase to its place, “will run red with blood, Cassian, regardless of what we do with her family. It is now a matter of where that blood will flow—and how much will spill. How much human blood we can save.” She reasons.

“The Spring Court borders the wall—” The fright is clear in Feyre’s voice.

“The wall stretches across the sea. We’ll fly in offshore,” Rhys says without blinking. “I won’t risk discovery from any court, though word might spread quickly enough once we’re there. I know it won’t be easy, Feyre, but if there’s any way you could convince those queens—”

“I’ll do it.” She says. “They might not be happy about it, but I’ll make Elain and Nesta do it.”

A sigh leaves my lips, this family is going to go through a lot. I just hope Feyre knows what she might be putting on the line.

“Then it’s settled. Once Feyre darling returns from the Weaver, we’ll bring Hybern to its knees.”

A/N: Hope you like it!

Taglist: @inloveallthetime @mybestfriendmademe @blackgirlmagicforever @dreammoutlouddd

#acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acotar imagine #acotar x oc #acotar x reader #flight of the night #acomaf #azriel #cassian acotar #cassian #azriel acotar #acotar series #azriel shadowsinger #general cassian #rhysand #rhys acotar

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bestworstcase · 1 year ago

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This is probably outside of your purview, but do you think the fights in RWBY have gotten worse, or just different from what came before?

i think there has been a shift away from tightly-choreographed showcase fights toward a more naturalistic approach prioritizing setting and character over rhythm and composition. whether or not this is aesthetically preferable is a matter of taste, but it is absolutely to the benefit of the narrative as a whole.

there’s this beat during the group fight vs tyrian in volume four where tyrian kicks ruby and her aura ripples out from the point of impact in such a way to create the illusion of deeper motion: it looks like her ribs buckling as that force moves through her body, it feels like we’re seeing this formidable new adversary break her fucking ribs after throwing JNR around like ragdolls. it isn’t shot with any particular artistry or stylistic finesse; the shot is instead lined up to emphasize the violence.

that serves a more important narrative purpose than aesthetics: it makes it believable that ruby just cowers in dread after taking this hit, it viscerally drives home how dangerous tyrian is, building tension, setting the stakes for the upcoming fight with qrow, and thus it also underscores the contrast between tyrian’s wild brutality and qrow’s discipline when they fight and qrow tips the scales not because he’s stronger but because he doesn’t let tyrian rattle him… it’s doing quite a lot of work for a mere handful of frames.

compare, say, the nevermore fight, which is beautifully shot and choreographed but doesn’t have a lot to say: ruby can plan elaborate tactics on the fly and communicate them to her team well enough to execute the whole thing flawlessly, and… that’s kind of it. RLR2 does all the narrative heavy lifting. and that’s fine, to be clear, because this is a point where the story is still setting up the board and introducing us to these characters.

but the nature of rwby as a story is that the fight scenes cannot stay that way. and this isn’t even a “monty/not monty” thing, you can see the experimentation with using fights as a medium to develop character and theme starting early in volume two: ruby calling out team attacks and narrating yang’s semblance during the mech fight, splitting up the team on the train so wby can each duel an opponent who represents their personal struggle*, doing the battle in breach as a sequence of character moments, etc.

(*weiss feels disgusted by what the SDC has become and wants to reclaim the schnee name -> she faces a white fang officer who loathes her for being a schnee; blake is torn up about not knowing how to solve all these big social problems and reeling with the emotional fallout of leaving adam’s white fang -> torchwick tries to push those buttons; yang feels rootless and hollow and worried her current outlook is unsustainable -> she has to fight somebody she literally cannot touch and her increasingly frustrated attempts to punch through get turned against her the instant she overextends.)

in early volume two it all feels a bit clunky and uncoordinated in part because the mech fight is still so stylized. the fights on the train and the battle in vale are less so; you still get those tightly-choreographed sequences, but balanced out with moments that are more raw and real—the fake-out “slow-motion killshot” that turns out to be just weiss’s time dilation catching up, followed by the lieutenant grabbing her face and yanking her out of the air, is a particularly effective example with the grapple being shot with the same intention as tyrian kicking ruby in the chest—and also just more grounded in who the characters are (weiss gets in trouble trying to be fancy, yang’s frustrated determination is both a strength and a weakness, blake takes torchwick down with brutal efficiency because she’s used to fighting people but she also lets him say his piece before knocking him out because that matters to her).

so like—waves hands—volume two sets the course that is followed in the latter volumes where the fights become increasingly less about style and more about substance. the style is very much still there, it’s just not The Main Event anymore. it’s garnish on fight scenes you can write robust character analysis about.

#it’s also like #rwby is not a story about how fighting is awesome #rwby is a story about increasingly traumatized teenagers fighting an apocalyptic war that got dumped in their laps #so there is a fine line here that has to be walked #between the style and spectacle of the fight scenes #and the story being told. i think they’re handling that remarkably well esp in V7-9 #and they manage it chiefly by sacrificing style when it’s inappropriate to the tone #which is a good thing. that is good writing 101.

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strawberry-halla · 2 months ago

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dragon age: the veilguard - a review: part two - the storyline: act one

hello everyone! this is the first act of the second part of a multi-part review of dragon age: the veilguard.

disclaimer! i am not a professional reviewer, i am just another fan that thoroughly enjoys the dragon age series. my opinion is not at all the pen-ultimate truth, i'm just here to share my thoughts!

criticism and comments are welcome! i appreciate any and all discussions about dragon age! feel free to dm or send an ask if you'd like to share your own thoughts!

if you would like to read part one, it is linked here for your convenience! https://www.tumblr.com/strawberry-halla/767272818181390336/dragon-age-the-veilguard-a-review-part-one

[this post contains spoilers for the entirety of dragon age: the veilguard, please do not click the 'read more' if you do not want to be spoiled! you have been warned!]

hokay so this part is the hardest thing i have ever written...and there are two more acts to write about...woo! i had to replay act one of the veilguard to fully understand the beginnings of the game, since at the time of writing my first draft (when part two was just one post), i kept feeling like i was missing pieces of what i recalled. so! as we speak, i am replaying the veilguard and have just finished act one. but enough about that, let's just get into it.

act one is meant to serve as an introduction (or re-introduction) to the player of the world of thedas. it has been eight years since trespasser, the final dragon age: inquisition dlc, and right off the bat there are major changes in how the story operates.

the prologue of veilguard itself is well executed, i was thoroughly invested in the race against the clock to stop solas, this beginning sequence was executed very well. there are so many emotions in such a short amount of time, and it had my heart racing on my first playthrough that there would be many more moments such as these.

unfortunately, there are few and far between in act one. these first chapters stumble a bit in execution, especially when it came to recruiting the members of the veilguard. some companions wove themselves well into the narrative with their introduction.

for example, lace harding being introduced so early into the game really helped establish a stable footing for returning players such as myself. an old friend to welcome us back alongside varric, and a 'nice character' companion to boot so the new player doesn't feel any awkward tension or disconnection.

the same cannot be said for bellara. i enjoy her A LOT, but her introduction was forgettable. she's the 'quirky girl' of the group, and it took me a bit to actually warm up to her as a character because i was a little off-put by her dialogue. her introduction felt too quick and to-the-point, like the game itself was trying to rush us past this area so we could keep the recruitment train going. i originally forgot in my first draft how bellara even joined the veilguard. nothing interesting happens during this quest. the nadas dirthalen does not seem as important as it really is here because the dialogue skips around so quickly. which leads me to a sort of a side tangent:

i miss the optional dialogue in origins and inquisition when we could ask characters multiple questions to better understand them or things they know about. it certainly helped me understand lore and it also helped me understand the character's motives more. i don't get that in veilguard at all. there are very few instances when you can ask maybe three questions MAX and i cannot even recall it being relevant in act one very much. and it was always during quest dialogue, we could never just go talk to our companions and other npcs and ask them questions. a huge wasted opportunity.

the highlights of act one's main quests are d'meta's crossing, meeting the inquisitor, talking to solas, and weisshaupt fortress. everything in-between felt very surface level. lore, history, and recent events are glossed over so quickly that it almost makes my head spin. solas casually dropping that the black city was the ancient prison the evanuris were trapped in, and the magisters that pierced the veil to get there unleashed the blight is fucking unbelievable. he's like "yeah the magisters breached my prison trying to reach the golden city and were stupid enough to let some of the blight out" like WHAT THE FUCK? and rook does not even seem to care! what is this dialogue???

is this not the same series that carefully built up lore over three games that the evanuris were actually evil mages that oppressed the elves and abused their powers? is this not the same universe where solas was set up to be the antagonist of veilguard, 'the villain was actually next to you the whole time' trope, in inquisition? this same character who carefully and gently guided the inquisitor to the truth is just freely slinging it 'no big deal' into our laps and never again after that? im sorry but holy shit. the way veilguard treats its own lore sometimes is baffling! it doesn't help that everything else important characters can't mention in dialogue is shoved into codices!

there was SO much potential to carefully maneuver the reveals of these lore bombs into more lasting impacts. the game itself has plenty of time for it. i have dropped over 100 hours total at the time of writing this (which is one and a quarter playthroughs for me) and i still don't think the original 70 hours i sunk into my first playthrough was enough. i wanted more. veilguard NEEDED more time to explain itself.

i cannot help but be so upset how surface level the majority of the writing in veilguard is. and i love this game still despite this glaring problem! thankfully, act one is the worst offender. acts 2 and 3 are so much easier to digest, but veilguard's most glaring problems are in act one.

and do not get me started on the minrathous/treviso decision. this choice irks me. it COULD have been impactful. making rook doubt themself, their leadership, and their ability to make decisions. but it doesn't even matter? or at least it FEELS like it doesn't. because everything characters talk about regarding this decision is the same. "oh it sucks here now! why did this happen? here's a quest where you try to salvage something of this tragedy and someone unimportant dies! oh no! you should feel bad this happened because it was your fault!" uhm okay?

there were no significant cutscenes or cinematic moments with this decision that made me feel anything. and also, this came so out of left field. i searched for any sort of foreshadowing that this was about to happen and there wasn't. there were no notes, no codices, no dialogue from the venatori or antaam that hinted that something of this magnitude was about to occur. it just happens.

at least with inquisition, for example, the decision between choosing the templars or mages to ally with there is a sense of foreboding. that something is wrong with both factions. it's up to the player to decide where to go from there and the consequences of not choosing the latter feel REAL. you see the actions of your consequences before your very eyes when corypheus attacks haven and even after!

there doesn't feel like there was any consequence to the minrathous/treviso choice because later down the line, the storyline converges and there are no alternate paths. you can still talk to the major faction characters from both sides. they end up being okay in the end anyways.

i want raw consequences to my actions, bioware. i want to feel the turmoil of my choice and be excited to try the other option in another playthrough to see what could have been.

to set aside the negativity for now, i will praise veilguard's execution of the relationship in act one between solas and rook. rook is wary of solas and his intentions to help them. solas is very different here from his humble beginnings in inquisition. he's not even solas. he's the dread wolf, fen'harel, general and cunning trickster. this side of him was so jaw-dropping to see, a complete 180. i loved every second of it and i loved having my rook disagree with him at every turn. it was incredible. i was eager to speak with him at every opportunity.

i was also thoroughly impressed with the pieces we got of elgar'nan and ghilan'nain, more so the latter. ghilan'nain is an abomination. she is driven mad with blight and uncaring to the core. she is willing to do anything it takes to win, even at the cost of many lives. she takes those lives and twists them into something truly monstrous. and she thinks this is saving them. making them better. ghilan'nain is so blind to her horrible experimentation that even elgar'nan is wary. elgar'nan is hardly seen in act one, since he is presumably working to create the red lyrium dagger, commanding the venatori and antaam to do his bidding, and working on reviving lusacan. it's a little disappointing we don't see fractions of his power throughout, but we truly feel his threat in later acts.

another worthy note of act one is the handling of d'meta's crossing and weisshaupt fortress respectfully. the former, we are introduced to the blight and boy do we know something is definitely wrong with it. the portrayal of the blight in previous entries has always been unnerving and creepy, very gross and skin-crawling. veilguard takes this notion and cranks it up by ten. i didn't even want to walk near the blight boils because of how ominously gross they were. i was afraid something was going to burst out of the blight boils and grab me. so cool.

and the fact this blight swallowed up an entire village and its population in a matter of days is insane. in origins, when we were dealing with the blight, the spread felt much slower and looming. in veilguard, the blight is unstoppable. unyielding and horrifying. it took over the minds of the few surviviors of the village and turned them into thralls. it consumed the dead and grew more blight in its wake in a matter of moments. nothing could have stopped it. not even the grey wardens. this is when you start to feel the evanuris's power is truly otherworldly.

in weisshaupt, this notion was taken to the extreme. there is no timeframe of how long it took for ghilan'nain to gather her darkspawn army, blight two dragons, and experiment on her archdemon, but it feels like no time at all. she has an unstoppable force of blight, she is its commander and nurturer. and in a matter of minutes, in the first time since before the first blight a thousand years ago, the grey wardens almost fail in their oath. they lost the fortress that was meant to withstand the blight in all its glory. the only reason they survive is with rook and the veilguard's help.

the first warden's ego almost destroys the entire order because he thinks the grey wardens know all the answers. it drives home the fact that the grey wardens are not heroes. they were merely the best answer to the blight. they are not perfect. they are corrupted by their own power, the very notion that only they can defeat the blight. i love how veilguard drives this idea so far home. inquisition set up the pieces with 'here lies the abyss', 'the siege of weisshaupt' just allowed for everything to fall into place. a wonderful execution, truly. sadly the stumbling we had to do to get here almost outweighs this incredible end to the first act. and like many others, i almost let the glaring flaws blind me.

i do not hate dragon age: the veilguard. i actually love it a lot. i just have a lot of criticisms on how easily and quickly things are glossed over to keep the story moving. i want to sit and chew on my food, damn it.

again, act one was the most difficult for me to write about because it has the most problems. veilguard's act one missed so many opportunities in the first part of the game to be better. i know this is in-part an issue with the executives and leaders at EA. in addition, all its development woes. i still have great respect for the writers, developers, artists, graphic designers, animators, programmers, and the many other people that made veilguard happen. i believe veilguard is a good game. it has its flaws like its predecessors and i have accepted them. i hope many people who have written off veilguard as a failure give it another chance.

thank you for those who have read this far. i truly love the dragon age series and what it has meant to me will forever be impossible to describe. this review is not over, i will be tackling act 2 next once i finish replaying it. thank you again for reading!

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard review #man am i glad i went back and replayed #i had answered a lot of my own questions #and i saw things in a much better light now that i wasn't focusing on the problems #i didn't talk about the dialogue much here because it really doesn't bother me that much and i will go into further depth later

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