#even their training sequences have tension like

[soobiesworld]

johnny and daniel sharing their food in season 4 ep 3 is so cute and daniel’s slightly disgusted face when he takes a piece of johnny’s sandwich always makes me cackle and then offering johnny chopsticks cause he saw him eyeing his food they’re so domestic

[fireya-x]

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]

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.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hey! Hope you're having a fab day <3 I came across your lil Daemon/Matt 'crackfic' and it gave me such a giggle...plus also got me thinking about a similar scene with Aemond/Ewan..! Obviously no pressure to write this, but what about a sorta Aemond x reader scene where they're maybe filming a sparring scene? Fight training/flirting vibes? Doesn't have to be anything spicy, maybe just fluffy flirty good times but also realistically aemond x reader sparring = *sexual tension* so lol, take from it what you will. As I say, no pressure at all to write this. I love your blog so much and am such a fan of your work! Wishing you a wonderful weekend xoxo

Choke 'Em

Ewan Mitchell x Actress!Reader (low key Aemond x Reader)

Summary: You and Tom were very much convinced that Ewan is good at everything, so you had a bet that even if you took Ewan surprise in one of your sparring takes, he could 100% overpower you. Things don't necessarily go as planned.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: fem!reader, drama instigator!tom glynn-carney, puppy!ewan, idk how to choreograph action 😞, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: YES IN A MILLLION LANGUAGEs, i watched like this one of 3 actors from the last kingdom saying they think ewan is good at everything or something along the lines, and then theres this gif set of tom glynn-carney saying that he was going to bite ewan and ewan was basically "aw yeah!" and ASFHLASHFHASFHFHA PUPPY im love him, anyway, i had those stuff in mind when i wrote this i hope you like it my love floofdeloop. i did an express pass on your req cos i have been writing rpfs lol also this gif T_T HES SO ??????????? HOT ????? HELP ME WHY DO I THINK THIS OF HIM ???? HWELP? Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

"No!" I exclaim, shoving Tom from the floor we were sat on. He nearly chokes on his salad as he falls to his side and laughs. His hand darts out to keep him upright, his laughter dies down when he turns to me.

I continue, "I can't attack him outside of the choreography we practiced!"

"I'm not telling you to do that!" Tom says, raising his voice in amusement, "I'm saying maybe just-" he breathes out through his nose, "go a bit harder than normal? Or-or add a few licks to-"

"Tom," I deadpan.

"Oh, please," he blows a raspberry, "against him? You're dead meat."

"He's not immune to accidents, lame brain," I take the final bites of my sandwich.

"All I'm saying is, Ewan is probably, like, secretly a swordsman."

"Dude," I point, "there's nothing secret about that."

I look out to the set, watching as Ewan, who quickly finished his lunch to rebuff on our choreography, twist the prop sword in his hands with much ease and mastery.

I chew slowly, "maybe I could tell him I'm doing extra attacks beforehand."

Tom, who stuffed some salad into his face as he too watched Ewan from afar, turns to me, perking up in intrigue. He speaks with a mouthful quite excitedly, "yes, yes, yeth, weth!"

I give him a look then purse my lips as I shove a tissue to his mouth

When we got to filming the dialogue part of our scene, we already set a pretty high bar for our consequential fight sequence, and so when I offered the idea of adding an extra few jabs in my sword fighting, not just to Ewan, but to our fight choreographer and director, they were all on board with it.

"I was thinking I could," I start, raising my imaginary weapon up, pointing at Ewan, "try to jab at you by your throat, then," I slowly step forward, twirling the way we did in practice, "once you evade me, I could elbow you," I bring my arm by his chest and slowly push him back, "and shove you against the wall."

Ewan, following my train of thought and movements, steps back and leans back on the wall. He nods, looking down at me with a soft smile, "I like it," he turns to the choreographer, "I think it adds to their tension."

I turn to our choreographer and director, nodding, "then we could add the dialogue we scraped off cause there was no room for it."

The director claps his hands, "I love it," he motions to us, "then you can grab her, and try to make her confess."

I turn to Ewan, leaning back into him a bit so that he could bring his arms around me. I turn front then look down at his arms that were coming around me. I pull him tightly around me like a jacket.

Ewan has no choice but to lean into me; my back was against his chest and I could hear his breathing. He was a welcome presence in all honesty. Quickly, I relax against him and he seemingly does the same against me.

"Well obviously not like that," the director calls, "you look like a married couple if you do that."

We break into a laugh. I lean against him, "it's not too late to change the script. She and Aemond could away together."

Ewan hums, as though he was in character, "I think he would like that."

I snort, turning to Ewan and his eyepatch, "I would like that."

Ewan's eye darts down to me quickly. He purses his lips, holding back a chuckle. I pull away from him when I see the pink in his skin, laughing a bit louder.

"Shall we give it a go?" the director asks.

One nod later, and were back in our marks, ready to tryout our added choreo.

"You lied to me," I heave, "you told me you would release my father if I gave you the information you needed.

Aemond walks over to me, hands behind his back, "I said I would think about releasing your father."

My expression drops, my nostrils flare, "liar."

He hums.

"Craven!"

He chuckles.

"MONSTER!" I lunge towards him and the next second, Aemond has his sword unsheathed. We go against each other, weapon against weapon, then he overpowers me, sending me reeling back. I push against the crates behind me, as the prince calls out, "let me offer you another deal you surely cannot refuse."

I fume, groaning, "I think we're past deals, oh prince."

"Oh, but I-"

Aemond's eye widens as I press forward a few lines too early. Like clockwork, I attack him just like we practiced earlier, except, he was clearly taken off guard and reacts a bit too late.

Once I have him pressed against he wall, he looks down at me, shocked, heaving.

He's forgotten his line.

I make up for his silence, "perhaps you are prettier up close."

"CUT!"

I pull away from Ewan, turning to him, dropping my prop. I reach out to his cheeks, giving him a worried look, "are you okay? I didn't injure you, did I?"

"I-" his hands come up to my wrists, "no, no," he chuckles under his breath, "I was just a bit floored by how fearsome my lady is."

My face contorts into a smile, "my lady, am I?"

"I-" he opens his mouth, "well, I mean... yes."

We both break into a chuckle. It seems we both had blood rising up our necks now.

"That was amazing!" the director calls, walking up to us, making us pull away, "I like these turn of events more than what we had planned."

"What if they have more contact?" Ewan pipes up, coming in front of me, "in this part, instead of being turned back," he looks at me intently, "you can lift your sword to my neck then choke me."

I gasp when he takes my hand and places it by the base of his throat. It was quite softly spoken, but it seems it was not soft enough, "damn, that's kinky."

Ewan's jaw slacks.

I break into a chuckle, playing it off, just as the director laughs, proceeding to say, "I like it! The more sexual tension the better." He turns to me, "choke him real good."

Ewan begins to stutter. My own jaw slacks as I feel my face heat up. I awkwardly nod and salute, "will do."

[alexanderwales]

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.)

[vechter]

can you believe how fawking insane infinite crisis #6 is (in many ways but specifically) for tim in terms of kon intervening when superboy prime tried to off nightwing. like two of the people he loves most stuck together trying to save their corner of the world and one of them indirectly sorta dying in trying to save the other. what the hell. we should've seen nightwing angst about it more too actually because it's """his fault""" tim's best friend is dead. like obviously it's not i mean kon had his own reasons for being so adamant about defeating superboy and he was, yknow, saving the entire world from one of its biggest threats BUT wouldn't dick kinda maybe see it that way a little bit. dark 2009 DC show me the forbidden post-resurrection kon + retired!tim + dickbats interactions

RIGHT!!! like it's why i have so many problems with the one year later arc... bc we get glimpses of the dynamic between tim and dick. just look at the flashback sequence in robin #175 or 52 #30:

there's an implied sense of them focusing single mindedly on these missions— where dick is imparting wisdom and a type of training, and tim is taking it all as it comes. it's supposed to be restorative because of the losses he, bruce and dick have faced and i can get behind that...

but i wish we could've gotten some build up on the tension from the events that just took place during the crisis. bc despite the healing and time off, there is a sense of everything not being as hunky-dory as it should/could be. just look at robin #148 (directly coming off of the one year break they took):

there is something off!!! and a tangible portion of it is from tim's end. we see even dick being surprised by how shaken tim is in the resurrection of ra's al ghul aka nightwing #139 (to be fair, the stuff below is the culmination of another shitshow of a year for tim— pretty sure this is after he has tried cloning kon and after bruce adopted him):

but i digress. dick's entire arc right after blüdhaven being blown up has always been a point of contention for me bc i disagree with a lot of the editorial choices... i've alluded to how deeply blüdhaven should've affected him several times. not to mention, the first real storyline after that year long break is brothers in blood... which is enjoyably whacky but supremely out of character

all this to say, i wish we had gotten good old-fashioned angst between dick and tim because:

i would have loved to see dick blaming himself for kon's death... he was at at ground zero, he was the one who was leading kon and like, we already know how deeply personal every death is to dick. but the added devastation of it being his little brother's best friend... yeah that would've been amazing esp because we know dick thinks the world of tim and he would push himself away bc how can tim even stand to look at him after "he got kon killed" (dickie g you are my fav ever unreliable narrator)

look at these panels from infinite crisis #7, esp side by side...

like i need tim to feel some type of way about seeing both their bodies beaten and destroyed like that... except kon never got back up. and dick did! i want tim riddled with guilt about this... maybe even a bit of awful resentment towards dick bc ofc he's beyond grateful that dick survived... but why couldn't kon have too? and tim beating himself up over it too bc how can he ever resent dick being alive?

this would also be such a good starting point to their period of estrangement in red robin... sth about stress fractures that can't take the weight until they're healed right— but because tim and dick are always being pulled in a 100 different directions, esp now that bruce is 'dead'— they don't get the opportunity to heal properly until there's a snap and break to allow for healing from scratch

[gamesception]

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.

[strawberrywinter4]

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)

[purplemoonabove]

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.

[marshmellowrio]

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

[bestworstcase]

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.

[phantomrose96]

Okay since I'm waiting for laundry, I'm gonna write up some fuller thoughts on the new Spider-verse. Spoilers abound beneath the readmore!

So I'm gonna start with the good, because it really WAS a good movie. The main thing working against it is that it's the successor to the original Spider-verse, which was such a master-class in style and storytelling.

Things I loved:

I'll shout out the animation to start, because how can you not. Absolutely lives up to the original Spider-verse and more with "oh this is giving me chills" style and animation. The whole sequence of Gwen saving people at the Gugenheim absolutely awed me.

Speaking of Gwen, Gwen. That whole first half-hour-ish of Gwen-focused screentime was so, so good... Loved her character-development. Loved her banter. Loved all the jokes and goofs and punch-out back and forth during the Gugenheim fight against... villain whose name I'm forgetting. Miguel showing up was great. Jess showing up was even better.

Gwen unmasking herself to her father was so so good... That was the precise moment I went "oh, yeah, I want to come see this again." This then rolled into Miles's part of the story, and his whole sequence with fighting Spot while trying to get to the parent-teacher conference *chef's kiss*. Amazing animation. Amazing goofs. Amazing humor.

Then... hmm, I have some critiques about much of the middle of the movie... I'll get back to that in the next section. But it still had its highlights: Spider-punk and Pavitr were fantastic, and I feel they were used just the right amount. The gags at Spider H.Q. were excellent. Spiderman-pointing-meme my beloved.

Then when the twist hit... my jaw was on the floor. I'd noticed Rio's eyes were green instead of brown, and just chalked it up to maybe a small production error or an effect of the lighting. Even the "Who's Spiderman?" I was willing to count as just the most hilarious possible identity reveal, to a mom who's just not really paying attention to the street vigilante scene. Then it hit... and the fact that Gwen and Miles were not experiencing the same reality just ah... AH!!!

Things I felt kinda so-so about:

The middle part of the movie felt a bit... lacking in tightness? The tension with his parents felt a bit meandering, seeming to wrap up and then come back, and I feel Rio's attitude toward Miles changed without much reason to have caused it to change.

There was a discomfort to the scene with Miles and Gwen spidering around the city... which I know was largely intentional due to the romantic tension and the "Gwen lying to Miles", but I just Do Not Like romantic tension between characters that did so well as friends. I really didn't care for Miles's jealousy over Hobie.

The Spider H.Q. stuff... I really WANTED to like... but I always feel a sort of perhaps second-hand embarrassment for the kind of stories that are like "yeah there's literally thousands of us in on this, but we didn't invite you because ummmmm 😬".

In addition to that, I also have a distaste for the trope that's like "Every single rational and highly-qualified individual knows that 'X' is a terrible and destructive idea that can get people killed. However our naive and head-strong main character thinks we should do 'X'! So he fights off literally everyone else (and wins, for no reason, considering any one of the highly qualified individuals should out-class him) because he's the main character, and it'll work out okay just because." Like.. personally I had a very hard time rooting for Miles in all that.

Additionally... why did Miguel even tell him that they were all just gonna sit back and let Miles's dad die? Like I get it was necessary for the plot, but it was done with this expectation that Miles would just be like "oh okay I guess :(".

What I would have liked way more would be this: After Miles saves the (should have died) Police Chief from Pavitr's world, Miguel says Miles has "proven himself" and can come to Spider H.Q. to come be trained. (Really, Miguel has recognized Miles is an active threat as a canon-breaker, and he needs to keep Miles distracted for a few days while the canon event of Miles's dad dying takes place in his own dimension.) Gwen and Peter B. understand what's happening, but are forced to go along with it, behaving strangely the whole time. Then when Miles catches them in a lie and the truth comes out, THAT'S when Miles rebels and tries to fight against everyone to get home...

I also would have liked it if maybe there was like... more of a hint of hope for canon-broken universes to be saved. Like if Miguel's policy was "a universe can be saved after canon-breaking, however it's too risky for all the people in that universe to it's Spider Law that we must let our canon events occur. We all make this sacrifice for everyone's mutual protection." then I'd see Miles's defiance as more of a "well I'm breaking from you and will succeed at the risky thing of saving my universe and my dad". They did a little bit hint at this possibility with the fact that Pavitr's dimension is not necessarily doomed, but like if they made this clearer I'd feel better about Miles's defiance being not doomed to kill his entire dimension.

Hmm, I also wanted more out of Peter B. I know this wasn't his movie, but I didn't totally love that so much of his role in this movie was being against Miles. (Next movie, I guess).

And all of this felt just, way less tight than the OG Spider-verse. The OG hit all its marks like a perfect run of Guitar Hero and exploded into an amazing finale. This one... just meandered a bit. In the OG, Miles's leap of faith hit so perfectly. That was THE moment he could make that leap. Vs in this one when he tells his mom ("mom", lol) that he finally faced everyone and won and whatever... it just didn't really hit right.

BUT, I don't wanna end this on a negative note, so actually I wanna talk about the twist again.

Actually before I talk about the twist again, I wanna talk about the scene with Gwen and her dad. The "I quit being a cop halfway through your speech" (and the fact that this may present the loophole that saves her father now). The unspoken fact that Gwen was maybe avoiding coming back because she knew her dad was doomed and didn't want to deal with it. Her dad choosing her over everything. It just. It's good...

BACK to the twist. I am NOT a "talks in the movie theater" person but I couldn't help going "OH his dad is dead in THIS universe :000000" once the reveal hit. And that reveal was like 10 reveals all at once that had me just :0000000

Aaron walking in. The reveal that the whole city is aflame because, as Miguel had called out earlier, this universe doesn't have its Spiderman. The "what did you do to your hair". The mural for Jeff instead. The reveal that Gwen and Miles are nowhere near each other. The overlap of Jeff returning him in the universe Gwen is in with Aaron returning him in the universe Miles is in. Miles getting knocked out and I instantly knew it was Dimension42!Miles that did it to him. The Prowler is thriving and it's Miles this time.

[exo-raskreia]

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... 😩

[sunskate]

A/V are carried by her extensive training in Vaganova ballet. Teams can get away with murder below the knees with judges and audiences alike if the girl has perfect carriage and gorgeous arms and hands and carries no tension in her neck and shoulders so it always looks effortless even if everything is going horribly wrong (Madi Chock is one of the most decorated ice dancers of all time through this avenue). Ontario needs to find a serious ballet teacher if London has one because their most promising team V/B have everything going for them except for that and they’ll lose to less skilled skaters who do have it as a result.

oof. it’s true there seems to be a bonus for beautiful dance carriage ... for some teams lol - is it bc judges differ on what they value in skating skills but extensive ballet training sets a few skaters apart?

but if a skater has beautiful ballet carriage and gorgeous arms, then reflect that in Presentation and the 'multidimensional movements and use of space' criteria of the Composition score, don't give them blanket higher PCS for it? flow, power, speed, and glide are part of the Skating Skills score, and it doesn't always feel like those are adequately rewarded. like if there's a beautiful dancer bonus, then there should be a long glide, filling the rink with your power and speed bonus too

this is not a criticism of Aboian/Veselukhin - they're doing amazing straight out of the gate, have beautiful qualities and have been executing their programs well. i notice that seeing them on video magnifies what they do well, and that it's much less noticeable they're skating small etc than in person

but the judges are there in the arena, so idgi. W/T had a twizzle mistake in the RD, and i didn't love their FD program, but i don't understand how the judges gave them lower PCS for their skating skills than A/V in the FD or how they were down a point each in GOE on their lifts and step sequence by comparison

W/T's scores felt low for what they put on the ice. and i'm simultaneously puzzled about these programs and packaging. they can still make JGPF and the Junior Worlds podium, but thinking back the last couple seasons to the Mrazeks, B/B, N/M, L/Q and more - their Jr Worlds programs had stakes - you can see it when a coaching/choreo team is swinging for the podium, and i don't get that vibe here. which is odd, since they have the potential

[whovianwatchingstartrek]

A Whovian Watches Star Trek for the First Time: Part 114 - Spock is on the Run

Star Trek: Discovery - Season 2 Episode 3 - Point of Light

With Christmas over, I can get back to doing this properly.

This time, we're still on the lookout for Red Angel Signals and for any clues about Spock's situation. Sylvia Tilly is still seeing the ghost of her childhood friend May. Discovery stumbles across Sarek's ship, who requests to transport someone over. Everyone expects it to be Sarek, but it turns out to actually be his wife.

After the Intro we cut to the Klingon Empire, and things seem to be going well under L'Rell's rule. The Klingon houses are all together, even if there it a bit of tension about Tyler/Voq's presence.

Back on Discovery, we find out that Amanda tried to visit Spock in his psychiatric ward, but they wouldn't let her see him, and apparently any info about his situation is being kept secret, even from Family. So, she stole his medical file, and hands it off to Michael who in turn takes it to Captain Pike.

After a bit of Convincing, Pike calls up the Facility, but tactfully doesn't mention Amanda or the Stolen File, he simply words his request as a simple check from a captain, and we find out that apparently Spock escaped and is wanted for murder. This call convinces Pike to allow Michael to crack open the medical file.

We get this really good scene with Amanda opening up about how she regrets raising Spock in the way she did, and wishing he would have been allowed to express his emotion more, but this is interrupted by drawings of the Red Angel flickering through in the medical file, and then further interrupted by a call from Ash Tyler, which Michael needs to take. Michael's call with Ash is just a general catch up, and a nice heart to heart, but nothing immediately pressing. Later, we do find out that L'Rell and Voq had a child together, a complete surprise to Ash. L'Rell didn't tell Ash because she wanted him to be able to return to a human life without any need to return to Chronos. L'Rell knows that Ash called Michael and basically has seen the writing on the wall from Day 1. The way she wants to protect Ash/Voq's happiness is really sweet. Ash says he wishes to remain committed to staying on Klingon though, and agrees to raise the child. As to go to meet him however, they find the child has been kidnapped by one of rogue noble houses. We get a pretty good action scene out of it, although I wish it was a lit a bit better, it fell into the trap of thinking Visually Dark = Good. L'Rell and Ash lose their fight however, but are rescued by none other than Georgiou, who for some reason has a vested interest in L'Rell remaining the Chancellor of the Klingon empire

On Discovery's Bridge, where the Command Training Program people are beginning their "Shadow Exercises" which is a lot less badass than it sounds. Basically, they're studying directly under another officer. Sylvia, still her ghost, is studying under Captain Pike himself, which is definitely a golden opportunity. They have built him to be considered one of the best captains in the fleet, after all.

Apparently May's ghost is urgent to talk to a Captain, but not Pike, and not Saru because what she described sounds Human. I really wonder where this ghost falls on the Malice vs Incompetence Spectrum, throughout this sequence it does seem like she's pushing to block Sylvia from command. Pike notices something is up, but it's too late because May pushes Sylvia into an open outburst, which, because only she can see may, everyone on bridge thinks is directed towards Pike. I really like the idea of this ghost as kind of a metaphor stress or pushing yourself too hard or something, she did first appear in a scene where Saru gave her a little pep-talk about that.

Elsewhere, Michael's conversation with Amanda continues, and we learn a bit more about the Red Angel. Apparently the first time it appeared for Spock was during an incident where Michael ran away from home, and it told Spock exactly where she was. Additionally, we find out a bit more about what happened to damage Spock and Michael's relationship so much. Apparently, Michael Traumatised him to protect him from the logic extremists, because he kept following her around everywhere. We don't find out exactly what.

After both Michael and Sylvia's emotional moments, they both meet up in their bunks, and Sylvia finally opens up about how she's seeing a ghost. Michael manages to build Sylvia up a bit, which was really nice to see. And also, she manages to throw down a bit of logic about her situation: May isn't a hallucination, and whatever she is, she isn't the real Ghost of May. Additionally, because Michael has held a rock from the Asteroid and not suffered this effect, it must be connected to the Spores, and they agree to visit Paul Stamets.

Paul and Saru, now informed on Sylvia's situation get work and find out that May is a spore from the Terran Universe, but they make quick work of Extracting her. The fungal organism is huge however, and ends up contained.

I enjoyed this episode, especially Sylvia and May stuff, although I do wish we could have got a few more episodes of weird ghost stuff before it was resolved, I guess. The Klingon stuff was also great here. Apparently Georgiou is part of a black-ops unit called Section 31, I'm really interested to see where that goes now that she's back in play. Overall a pretty good episode.

[tactical-mode]

Here we are, take-off! So, this episode is kind of a cheat, haha, as the first three minutes are just letting the fireworks do their thing. That said, I’m still going to blog about each scene as various mods and things are introduced.

[Chapter 01] Scene 01: Opening

An FMV. The SFX and Music are baked together in Remake’s FMVs, which means that I could not feasibly remove the Carmina Burana lyrics nor the shot of Cloud riding the train. Purists are already pissed at me, I’m sure. I did omit 7R’s opening few minutes, and I was even able to remove Remake’s credits due to the modding efforts of TeamYuffieCloudVincent, a team you’ll see that I use a LOT. Shout out to them.

The 1:47 mark is where I cheekily make my entrance with our shiny new (old) logo replacing Remake’s title image. This show is an adaptation of Final Fantasy VII, it is decidedly NOT a remake. Otherwise, this is a simple re-recording of the source scene.

Scene 02:  EXT. Train Platform - Night

This was another scene I basically didn’t touch, although here is where I began hacking the game and filming from multiple angles - I just didn’t use any of the shots in the final cut haha. While I’m here, though, the Universal Unreal Unlocker by Otis_Inf is what makes this project possible. You also get to see Barret with slightly scruffier eyebrows courtesy of Gojeeb.

Other than the mods on display, this is Remake’s version of the arrival. Not much different from OG, except that Barret and Cloud arrive to different musical cues. In OG, Uematsu’s score introduces Barret with a marching timpani, and Cloud leaps onto the platform accompanying two hits of the orchestra.

In Remake, the timpanis introduce Wedge, Barret arrives to the two hits of the orchestra (almost as a jump-scare) and then the music is re-orchestrated to make Cloud’s entrance a huge buildup of tension and release upon his landing. It’s a nice thesis statement for 7R - this is going to be Final Fantasy VII on steroids. Every gun is going off, and we brought extra guns.

I wouldn’t have bothered filming it at all, except a) just to see if I could and b) my great esteem for Uematsu’s original score. While I adore Remake’s soundtrack, particularly the orchestrations by Shotaro Shima, they riff on Uematsu, as you will see more in Episode 2. Anyway, I did spend about 12 hours re-filming and re-cutting this scene to try to get the exact tempo of the OG. At this time, I don’t know how to turn off the depth of field (DOF) so these shots went to the cutting room floor, aka the ancillary hard drive. Here’s a still from one shot that I quite liked.

All the clips in scene were actually re-shot once I was able to outfit Cloud with two materia (as in OG) rather than just the one that he has in 7R. In the next few episodes, see if you can spot any shots of Cloud’s sword with a missing materia, that would be from my first pass through!

Scene 03:  “Follow Me.”

Wait, isn’t this the same scene? Let me explain: I have over 150 clips for the scenes in this episode, pared down from dozens of hours of filming. Every change-of-state in the game is thus marked with a scene change, simply so that I can find clips with greater ease. 

Moreover, I organize my scenes by the Remake’s “chapter” system, which organizes the opening act of FF7’s story into 18 different environments and world states. That’s why scene numbers won’t necessarily correspond to the traditional episode script.

This sequence is triggered by player input, it draws two MPs onto the train platform. This is where my work truly starts, as I have to somehow convince an audience that this is a film instead of a gameplay clip. This is also the scene where I have to grapple with dialogue for the first time.

On the lack of voice acting:

As is, there’s no voice acting. Each episode comes with closed-captioning, and teams around the world should be encouraged to dub and re-release this series in the language of their choice. I didn’t want to steal/hack up the stellar voice performances of John Eric Bentley and the rest of 7R’s cast. Besides, in many cases they don’t have the dialogue I need them to say. This show’s script more closely matches “Echo-S” - another fan project - so if I were to use voice actors, I’d sooner collaborate with them than steal voice performances from 7R. The scenes are timed to match the length of time it would take to deliver the OG’s lines, and the closed-captioning presents my suggested english phrasing.

On the script (for closed-captions):

FF7 has been translated into english twice officially, twice by fans, and there are video essays and huge spreadsheets delving into the subject. I'm a native english speaker, so I'm taking all the available transcripts I can find and picking which exact phrase to use on a line-by-line basis.

I will try to add as few words or "battle shouts" as possible, unless I absolutely cannot get the information across any other way. My goal here is to adapt, not to embellish.

So what does this mean? Here was my process on how I chose Barret’s line:

“Ikuzo shin’iri! Ore ni tsudzuke!” (JP)

“C’mon newcomer, follow me!” (PS1/PC/Beacause)

“Get down here merc! You’re up!” (7R/Echo-S)

“Come on, new blood! Don’t fall behind!” (SAC)

“C’mon new guy! Follow me!” (A suggested alternative from the Tim Rogers series Found in Translation)

“Let’s go, recruit!” (A trailer for Remake from 2015)

"Get down here, merc! This way, merc!" (EC)

In this instance, I’ve gone with 7R, and for a similar reason to the musical cues I described in Scene 2. There are worse corners that 7R will back me into. So I’m not going to tear my hair out about this line.

Scene 04:  Combat: Cloud vs. 2 MPs

This is where the fun begins. Cloud quickly dispatches two MPs with his giant sword in a luscious, slow-motion phantasmagoria.

Through an unnatural hybrid of science and nature, I have manipulated a digital creature into serving my every whim! The camera on display here is being directly flown about by me. I cannot control both the camera and the game at the same time. Sometimes this means that I am switching back and forth between takes, inputting commands and then lettin’ er fly. Sometimes this means setting up the game on auto and hoping for the best, flying around and catching lucky shots.

The goal with this combat was to display the kind of flow that encounters in this show will have. L-a-n-g-o-u-r-o-u-s, slow-mo affairs with Matrix-esque sensibilities and a variety of cuts to match the music.

I can only tell so much of a story using a semi-improvised video game combat, but while things are simple (one player character, two enemies) I manage to display the battle “in order.” The round-by-round breakdown:

Cloud unsheathes his sword while two MPs approach him

Barret slips past the MPs and runs towards the station house

Cloud dashes forward and cuts down one MP with a single stroke

Cloud brings his sword up in a defensive stance over the MPs dead body

The other MP attempts to shoot Cloud

Cloud blocks the bullets with his sword

Cloud surges forward, killing the second MP with another series of strikes

I filmed this encounter for a few hours, getting 62 usable clips, of which are included in the final episode. Some of the best clips are on the cutting room floor as they were too awesome to tell the story properly. 

Final Thoughts

And that’s it! Episode 1 is in the bag. 

It may seem like it ends abruptly, but this is on purpose: in this series, the important story moments will happen at the beginning of episodes, and if a combat breaks out, you can trust that the next major scene will be at the start of the next episode. This is to keep episodes short, and to set up an expectation for viewers that once the slow-motion joyride starts, they are free to zone out or skip to the next episode for the next story beat, only missing combat and environment shots.

[cloudynyxx]

"I want to depict the meaning of living." Interview with Death Parade Director, Yuzuru Tachikawa

[Part 1]

Continuing from the first part of the interview, the second part delves deeper into the making of Death Parade with director Yuzuru Tachikawa. We inquire about his staff and his technique as we explore his production process. The Visual Emphasis Was on Attention to Detail [Part 2 of 2] — In the second part of the interview, we will mainly discuss your role as a director.  Did you establish any guiding principles for direction while working on this project?

Tachikawa: We discussed not wanting to include too many unnecessary camera movements, so we planned the sequences around fixed shots. This was to ensure that the focus remained on the detailed craftsmanship of the visuals. If we weren't careful, we would end up with more than 300 cuts just within the bar (laughs). — Yes. that's right. Tachikawa: Since we have to stage the scenes in the same location most of the time, using the usual shot-reverse shot technique would make all the cuts look the same. So at the storyboard stage, I asked for the camera positions and pacing to reflect the characters' emotions. I wanted the structure of the composition to maintain a sense of tension throughout the scene.  

— The storyboard for Episode 2 was done by Satō Yūzō, the director of Tohai Densetu Akagi -Yamini Maiorita Tensai- and Kaiji: Ultimate Survivor. Was he chosen because you wanted to expose the tension of a psychological battle?

Tachikawa: Actually, the original concept for that episode revolved around mahjong (laughs). But that got scrapped, and Sato was assigned to Episode 2.

— If the mahjong story was done, that would have been interesting (laughs). Earlier, you mentioned that you wanted to emphasize the detailed craftsmanship of the visuals. I heard that you have incorporated 3D layouts this time. What is the reason behind that?

Tachikawa: To start, the room inside the bar is extremely difficult to animate. It’s deceptively wide and circular…drawing curves can be challenging. When we did Death Billiards, we aimed to train young animators, so everyone drew it by hand. But the struggle with layouts alone consumed half of the schedule. If we did the same thing in a TV series, the production would definitely collapse. So this time, we created the bar in 3D and asked the key animators to focus on drawing the characters’ performances. That's why we opted for 3D layouts.

— Was this approach something that you had experienced in previous projects you had participated in? Tachikawa: In the project Terror in Resonance, which I participated in just before this one, we also used 3D for locations like the hideout used in a prolonged scene.

― You were also an assistant director for Terror in Resonance, right? How did you use your experience during that production for this one?

Tachikawa: Yes, that's right, and the direction of both works is quite similar (laughs). Actually, even the direction plans felt close to Director Watanabe Shinichirō's. We had many discussions where I thought, "ah, yes, that's right." I wanted to see Director Watanabe's work up close, so I participated in Terror in Resonance, and I was glad that there were many aspects of it that intuitively made sense to me.

― When you say that the directing plans are similar to Director Watanabe's, what exactly do you mean?

Tachikawa: It’s regarding how we create the visuals and structure the cuts. Terror in Resonance also focuses on crafting the visuals based on a fixed camera, using angles that are more typical of film. The approach is closer to live-action, and in that sense, I think we are similar.

Staffing and Their Tasks

― In this work, there is a position for key animators, but what exactly are they responsible for?

 Tachikawa: The key animator is the person who is in charge of the most important part of the animation.

― Three main animators are credited. Could you tell us about their primary responsibilities?

 Tachikawa: Tokura-san is good at effects animation, so he does a lot of cuts like that. In each episode, he draws the smoke effects when the game machines come out. Besides effects, he also draws various other elements, but his main focus is on those parts. I asked Ishibashi Shōsuke-san to do the original drawings for the parts where the characters' emotions are running high and more sides of their personalities are exposed. He joined from Episode 4 onwards. For instance, he animated scenes like the one where Misaki was running while shouting “Stop messing with me!," and the scene later on where she was caught up in threads and crying out. Kojima-san similarly works on scenes where the characters' emotions explode. For example, in the latter half of Episode 1, where Takashi shouts while gesturing, "That’s not my child! It has to be someone else’s!." He tends to enjoy working on scenes that are not typically depicted in anime.

― Regarding the staffing, Director Shishido Jun from Hajime no Ippo: Rising is listed as the Chief Director. What exactly is his role?

Tachikawa: At first we thought about an assistant director position, but then it was decided that someone with a career as long as Shishido-san's would not fit well as an assistant director for a rookie director like myself. So, rather than focusing on assistant director duties, he mostly assists in directing aspects at key points, which led to the title of Chief Director.

― What specifically does Shishido-san do?

Tachikawa: He's responsible for requesting the storyboards and directors for each episode. He also assists in checking the work when I become busy with other tasks. Additionally, he occasionally takes on assistant director tasks as well.

― Similar to Death Billiards, the artistry in this work is also incredibly intricate.

Tachikawa: Art Director Hirayanagi Satoru also worked on Death Billiards. For the previous work, we commissioned Studio Easter for background art, but now he has established his own art team called Heikuro. In this series, we show places like behind the bar, which wasn't shown in Death Billiards. When creating such things, we would submit new images, and after discussing them with him and his team, they would put them together into something that would suit this universe.

 ― How do you balance the art and 3D layout?

Tachikawa: For Quindecim's bar, we model it in 3D and apply textures. By creating it in 3D, we can freely move the camera inside the room. So, for Quindecim's layouts, the art department adds retouches to the still images created from 3D data. As for other settings, they are drawn from scratch.

― In Death Billiards, Murakami Izumi, who was a young key animator, is now in charge of prop design.

Tachikawa: Murakami-san has always had an original sense of creativity. She's responsible for designing small items and the design of Ginti's bar, and we ask her to come up with unconventional ideas.

― Ginti's bar filled with kokeshi dolls was quite amusing.

Tachikawa: In Ginti's bar, there's a large hand statue, and that idea also came from her. She's also involved in key animation, and she draws intricate movements as well.

― How do you delegate tasks between her and Akishino Denforword Hiyori, who also works on prop design?

Tachikawa: Akishino-san mainly works on designing the games featured in the story. Murakami-san is based in the studio, so we can discuss and work together easily. Akishino-san works from home, so we asked for things that are easier to explain, like dartboards.

― The music is handled by Hayashi Yuuki, right?

Tachikawa: Yes, I specifically requested Hayashi-san. I really liked the music he created for the TV drama Strawberry Night. I had the sound director create a music menu, and I communicated my vision and the kind of image I wanted for the music. Opening and Ending

— Please tell us about the much-discussed opening. What was the reason for making the opening more upbeat, contrasting from the main story?

Tachikawa: We had always discussed making the opening bright and enjoyable, especially since the main story tends to be rather dark.

— I think it was a great success, betraying the audience's expectations in a good way.

Tachikawa: Thank you (laughs). If we were to add an opening to the previous work Death Billiards, I think it would have had darker imagery, but I wanted to dispel that image.

— I see. So you wanted to separate it from the image of the work.

 Tachikawa: That's right. I hoped that if you feel down after watching the film, the opening will cheer you up.

― (laughs). Was the music the starting point for this, and then you developed the imagery?

Tachikawa: We had the image of how we wanted it to be first. The music we received afterward matched that image quite closely, so it expanded from there.

— It is interesting that the characters are dancing so seriously.

Tachikawa: Throughout the sequence, the arbiters are actually listening to that song. That's why everyone is dedicated to it. Some of the characters are more reluctant, but that too is incorporated into the way each of them dances according to their personality. ― Please tell us about the ending as well. Director Shinichiro Watanabe, mentioned earlier from Terror in Resonance, handled the storyboards and direction, right?

Tachikawa: Because of how tight the schedule for Terror in Resonance, Watanabe-san told me, "If you ever need any help, let me know." Since the main story has a heavy workload and Watanabe-san has another job lined up, we decided he could handle the ending. We conveyed the essence of this work and asked him to create the visuals by summarizing the concept.

― Just like the opening, the show proper seems to have a sharp sense of humor. Episode 6, Cross Heart Attack, which is a gag episode, was also very entertaining. What are your thoughts on humor in this series, Director Tachikawa?

Tachikawa: Rather than consciously thinking, "Let's make people laugh like this," I just did what I liked, so it came out organically. Someone told me that my comedy tends to be surreal. I like when jokes come at unexpected times. In Death Billiards, for example, there was a scene where an old man's dentures flew out after he hit the glass. In the sixth episode of this series, there's a moment when Mayu is about to fall and get pierced by a needle, which then becomes a gag. I think I enjoy the contrast between seriousness and comedy. If it's comedy all the time, it becomes monotonous, right? Before doing comedy, I intentionally insert tense elements and create a contrast, so that's where I aim for laughter.

― Decim also has quite a mischievous side. Is that also aimed at creating contrast?

Tachikawa: Yes, that's right. And Decim has a cute side too, so I thought I'd stretch that a bit.

 — (laughs). (Laughs.) Is the change in Decim a key point in this story?

 Tachikawa: Yes. I think that will be an important part.

― As the show is enters its final stages, could you tell us about the highlights of the second half?

Tachikawa: In Death Parade, we are trying to depict the essence of human "life." To that end, we need to define what it means to be "alive" within the story. I personally believe that the purpose of living lies in facing and embracing everyone’s individual qualities and destinies, while actively making choices that shape our own paths. This aspect might be related to the core of this work.

― It seems to have philosophical themes. Do you often think about human life and death?

Tachikawa: No, not often (laughs). ━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━ NOTE: I am not fluent in Japanese! I translated this with the help of a language partner. However, as neither of us are fluent in one another’s native tongue, there may be errors in the translation. I typically don’t share things I translate in my free time, but since no one has tackled these interviews in nearly 10 years, I figured it was nice to put these out there for folks who may be interested.