#but that scene specifically unleashed something inside me

[clownishstarfish]

Watching Hellsing Ultimate AFTER watching the abridged is such an experience cuz I was so mad when I realized Bernadotte counting in French as he killed the policemen was only in the abridged

[simpforsolas]

A couple things to note.

First of all, when Rook pushes down the statue and Solas protects himself (and Varric) from the falling rock, he pushes AWAY from himself. He has the blade in hand, and Varric is standing right behind him. Rook is standing basically on the complete opposite side of Solas.

We see the rubble land near Rook, but then somehow in the next clip, Rook is BEHIND Solas on the stairs. Varric and the lyrium blade are nowhere to be seen. (The previous screenshot of Solas with the blade in hand is the last shot we see of him with the blade in this teaser. The next time we see him, which is the screenshot below, he doesn't have it.)

Something else I'll point out is the layout of this place. In the above screenshot, Rook is clearly at the base of the stairs. However, let's take a look at these two shots.

The one on the left is from earlier in the reveal, when Varric is talking to Solas. Pay specific attention to the Dread Wolf statue's placement here. In the second shot on the right, that same Dread Wolf statue is a landmark that gives us a clue to Rook's position. He's quite a ways off from the statue, and if you'll notice, there's a lot more wooden walkway and railings in front of him that we don't see in the first clip. He still has quite a ways to go before he can make it to the base of the stairs, where we see him in the screenshot of Solas looking down at him.

I think this is a clear enough indication that some clips from the cutscene were cut - most likely because they contain big spoilers. So that got me thinking. What are some spoilers big enough to warrant cutting? Here are some ideas I had:

Varric dying 😭 The death flags are everywhere people. Rook looks pissed off, and Solas looks... sad. When he looks up at the evanuris, he has a tear on his cheek (well, it could be a water droplet I guess but it's so perfectly placed to look like a teardrop that I don't think that's a mistake)

Solas turns to Varric for help. I think it would be too much in this little showcase to show more of Solas's moral ambiguity than we've already seen, so I could see them cutting a moment where Solas turns to Varric, gives him the lyrium blade, and tells him to KEEP IT SAFE.

The Inquisitor shows up?? I don't know how likely this is BUT it would make sense that if the inquisitor is there they wouldn't show it in the showcase. Because a) that's a HUGE moment you wouldn't want to experience without your own inquisitor and b) they'd have to pause and give a note like "this is a customizable inquisitor" which would slow down the action a lot lol.

Any other ideas of what could've happened in that cut? 👀

Second of all, at the very last second of the trailer, you can see Solas being propelled forward, into the fade through the tear he made.

If you notice in the first picture, his feet are firmly planted. If you watch the scene, the glow around the fade starts to speed up, like it's being pulled toward the rip, and then the last second you see Solas's feet lift slightly off the ground. Now I don't think he's charging or anything. He's already super close to these two so it's not like he's going to run towards them in order to attack. He's DEFINITELY going into the fade. There are two possibilities here.

Going into the fade against his will

Going into the fade on purpose

If he's going into the fade against his will, it could be that the gods who just showed up are dragging him in there, or perhaps because the ritual was disrupted it's gone wonky and is pulling him (or all three) in.

If he's going in on purpose, he could be dragging the gods into the fade with him in a last ditch effort to prevent them from being unleashed on the world, where he may try to fight them and defeat them inside the fade. IF this is the case, I could see the prediction of Solas giving Varric the lyrium blade working out quite nicely. He could realize the gods are going to be coming back, so he gives Varric the blade, tells him to keep it safe, and he's going to try to trap the returned gods inside the fade.

[ariasmontage]

Snowy Morning, March 18,2025

Woke up to the sound of snow shoveling. It's beautiful, isn't it? I love it when it falls off the trees.

Had some crazy dreams last night with spirits bringing eternal doom and the cast of The Vampire Diaries. Even in the dream, I said to myself, this much drama can only happen on TVD.

But there was this one specific scene that stands out. There's this person, walking towards what seems like an abandoned house. The windows are cracked, the air has a blue tint to it and there's a huge lawn separating the house from the main gates. The lawn was surprisingly well maintained. His friend is waiting for him in the car while he walks towards the house. He gets to the cracked window and sees a reflection. Only that it is of a woman. She's smiling at him, or rather, she is a reflection of whatever this boy is doing. In the dream, I think to myself, this is his mother. The moment is heartwarming to me. It has been a while since he lost his mother and this house is the grave. He's just visiting his mother's grave. Somehow, this house, enchanted, let's him see his mother's face through the cracked window. And in a split second, the mood shifts. He shouts something to his friend in the car. Meanwhile, the doors of the abandoned house fly open and there is a low hum of impending doom. That's when fear starts shimmering inside me too and as the boy runs, I can feel myself panting. Anyway then we, by we I mean some of the cast of TVD, end up in a crypt trying to protect ourselves from whatever horror has been unleashed.

[pulledpurplecurtains]

Your tags to the writing down tip made me curious about your writing process. How do you get ideas, and if so, what do you do with them?? (Immediately write, let it simmer, find more vibes etc) 🤔

boy oh boy okay

so i get ideas from anything and anywhere really - but that’s not specific enough nor is it exactly accurate. i don’t get ideas from music, or visual arts, but from written words and texts, whether shorter or longer and of whichever nature (tumblr posts, discord convos, literature, theoretical books etc) and also from real life situations or desires aka day dreams. that’s how the organic process goes, and another part of it is me just literally sitting and minding my own business while an idea just pops up into my head out of the literal ether of the universe or something, in which cases i also have the strongest desire out of all the above cases to actually put words on paper and make something out of my thoughts

that’s how a poem came to be last year, while i was just sitting on my couch drinking my morning coffee it just poured out of me so quickly and so suddenly i just had to use my phone’s notes (which i never do, i use hand written notes for my writing) and i quickly had a first draft of an entire poem - and i’m still baffled by the ferocity of that process

anyway, another way that works well is free writing and connotational exercises. i don’t use that method often just bc i’m not a professional writer so i don’t need to fulfil a quota of daily writing or idea generation in a set amount of time, however i did practise it last year for college and it was highly effective. so in case the terms are unfamiliar, free writing is you setting a set amount of time and literally just putting pen to paper and unleashing your genuine stream of consciousness without thinking of what you’re thinking at all. a slight variation is first selecting a theme and then recording your stream of thought regarding that. connotational writing starts with a word or idea, in brief wording, in a circle in the middle of your paper. you then follow your thought process in recording connected ideas (connotations) in adjacent circles that move outwards. once you seem to have exhausted the one particular path of connotations you return to your original thought and start another path of connected ideas, and so on.

what i usually do is much simpler: i don’t do anything 😂 i’m so bad with following through and actually writing stuff when i don’t have to or don’t have the luxury of time to. however when i do write, i usually will have jotted down my thoughts up to a point of the outline if the thoughts have come organically to me as above, and those thoughts will generate other thoughts and other thoughts, as i’m making the outline. and then eventually i’ll write it in a comprehensive continuous text i suppose lmao or i’ll start editing the poem draft that came out of that process (i only do drafts for poems, for prose i write completed texts that will only need minor edits because it’s impossible for my brain to have such an expansive “incomplete” work). fic writing has always been very different for me because i’d get a general idea and the desire to write and then extremely consciously i’d create a first draft inside my head/basic outline on paper. but then, with fic, the inspiration would come while writing and many times scenes have just completely taken a life of their own and turned out completely differently than i’d planned - or scenes have happened that i never planned at all. so fic writing is more organized and more chaotic at the same time but in different ways than original writing and poetry

i do also however have still fragments of ideas jotted down on papers on my desk that haven’t evolved into outlines of anything. and i think it’s important to consciously keep yourself in the mindset of thinking and recording your thoughts, because when i was in it i was more aware of recordable thoughts to jot down

[cara-delaney-author]

Blog post inside a blog post? It's more likely than you think!

Over on my website, I write monthly posts about the craft of writing, self-publishing, and sometimes tomatoes. For October, I've written up a little overview of my planning process - how do I go from idea to manuscript?

If you're curious, and maybe are getting a late start on your Preptober, go take a look!

Post pasted below the cut as well for your reading convience 👇

Plan a book with me!

Well. We’re here. Tomb of Heart and Shadow is finished, I’m just collection the last files I need to upload it to KDP and Ingram, and then off to the presses we go. This means that all the active parts are pretty much done, and it’s about time that I start a new project.

Plan a new project, I should say. Believe you me, I have learned my lesson, I’m not starting anything anymore without a solid plan. So why don’t you join me in my office, pour yourself a cup of tea, and let’s take a look at just how, exactly, I do all of that planning?

Step 1 – the notes That’s how every project starts – with some notes in my dump file that I keep on my desktop. At some point, when one random jumble of words stands out among the rest, I take that jumble and give it its own file. Everything goes in there. Every idea, character, setting, stuff I come up with during walks gets transferred from my notes app. I won’t use all of it, but it’s better to write something down and not need it than to wake up in the morning remembering that you had a brilliant idea at 4am but nothing else.

Step 2 – the elevator pitch This is about as classic as it gets. The dreaded two-sentence summary that distils the story down to its core concept. A mermaid and a pirate fall in love, and must work together to escape an angry ex-fiancé. A woman returns to her hometown and finds that everyone is behaving really strangely. When she starts snooping, she discovers a terrible secret. Two adventurer friends find a valuable relic, but when they take it, they accidentally unleash an ancient evil. They race against time to bottle it back up before one friend – and the entire world – becomes consumed by it. Now, this is not necessarily set in stone. If you’ve read my books, you’ll recognise the first two and notice that a lot is missing. That’s normal. This is just supposed to be a starting point. Since I’m not pitching to anyone at this stage, I don’t need it to be perfect, I just need it to be exciting to me.

Step 3 – the blurb Exactly what it says on the tin. For this step, I expand my elevator pitch into a proper blurb, like what you might find on the back of a book, or a store page. I give myself a little more space than what I would normally write as back copy, so roughly 250-300 words. Normally, I try to keep my back copy at around 150 words. This part is supposed to hit the big plot beats. That way, if I read it back and think “wow, there’s no way beat #6 would follow from beat #5”, I know that stretch of the story needs more work. But once I’ve got it all flowing smoothly and coherent, I move on to the next step.

Step 4 – the bullet point outline This is where the story really takes shape. I take the blurb, write down each beat as a bullet point, and then I start filling out the list around those beats. I don’t bother with details or any research that isn’t directly plot-relevant. For this part, I just need to get the story down on paper from start to finish. There will be lots of notes and comments here for later. If something needs foreshadowing, I will mark that. If a specific character development needs more setup, I will make sure to remind myself. If an aspect of the worldbuilding becomes relevant to the plot, I add a reminder to mention or explain that ahead of time, so as to not make it sound like I winged it in the scene. Since I write romance, I will also make sure to periodically note the relationship stage we’re in, just so I know that the progression makes sense.

Step 5 – the narrative summary This is the point at which I start writing the story. I’ll take that bullet point list and turn it into an extremely shortened version of the story. For reference, the narrative summary for my space horror is 3900 words long, the summary for my next romance project 3500. This summary allows me to get a better idea of the narrative flow and overall feel of the story. I can tinker with my bullet point outline, add and change as necessary, and incorporate all of those elements I put in the notes in step four. This process can take anywhere between a few days and a few weeks, depending on how much I’m changing, whether some aspects of the story need restructuring, and also what else I’m working on. But it’s important to me to get this right, because it will become the foundation upon which the story is built. If this is flawed, the entire construction will be lopsided. Right now, this is the step I’m at. I finished my narrative summary, and now I’ll give it a week or so to sit and simmer before I get back to it for the next step.

Step 6 – the actual outline Now this one, I’ll be experimenting with again. I do very much like chapter-by-chapter outlines, because there is something extremely satisfying about being able to see these self-contained little bits of story that I can start and finish in a day if I want to, and that look really neat when I’m done. But while this was fine with single-POV, or a dual-POV structured A-B-A-B, I’m not sure how well it works, really, for dual-POV where the chapters don’t neatly alternate. So I might shift this step from chapter-by-chapter to scene-by-scene. I don’t think it will make a huge difference in the end, but it will make it easier for me to shift scenes around, and see the overall balance of the different POVs (especially once I feed it into Atticus and start working on it in there).

And once this is done, there’s nothing left but Step 7 – writing the story.

So there it is, my current process as I go through a project from inception to writing “the end” underneath. Looks like a lot? It’s really not. Truth be told, without the majority of this prep work, the actual writing process would take so much longer. Having it all laid out and ready to go makes it so much easier not just to find flaws ahead of time (and thus avoid extensive rewrites), but to write the actual book day to day, without getting stuck in research, character development, and wondering if the entire thing hasn’t gone wildly off course forty pages ago, and I just didn’t notice yet. If you’ve never tried planning a long-form project, maybe give this method a go.

Now, if you’ve been reading this blog or following my socials for a bit, you might be wondering: It’s almost November, and she’s outlining a new manuscript, is she-

No. I’m not. There will be no NaNoWriMo for me this year, and this time, I mean it.

I haven’t missed a year since 2011. It’s time for a break. So this year, on October 31st, instead of counting down to November to get my first 1000 words in, I’ll be chilling on the couch, watching The Fall of the House of Usher, having a drink or two, and when the clock strikes midnight, I’ll think: “Maybe I should go to bed.”

And that will be all.

– Cara

[meiozis]

after having read this no less than 3 times. well, 4 now. i am finally here so let's get into it :o)

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move.

this whole passage is so beautiful and so dear to me, and i love to see the nuance of losing a loved one. the whole beginning is so beautifully written, the storm outside and the emptiness within, how there’s a certain type of guilt when something awful happens to you, and yet you don’t have the reaction that would be expected, and how the whole story stems from loss. and the entire time i’m reading it i feel like i’m sitting in the last row and watching y/n both from afar and right through a magnifying glass and i’m also her… and it seems so obvious that things are multifaceted, but it takes such skill to make it feel so real and so seamless, and to convey these complex emotions so well and in a relatively short scene too… i am witnessing something so great

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight?

absolutely gorgeous imagery, and i loooove how the rain connects the past and the present, and how that empty sadness follows through. this continuing imagery of negative emotions like sadness and anger coming to reality via rains and storms is so effective and delicious, and it also gives everything this grey gloomy aura and also this very specific scent of when it rains in the city…

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought.

it’s probably not, but to me… i want it to be a watermelon. and i want it to be red inside and i want it to mean the contained rage that she’s keeping locked inside, and i want her to get a melon and cut it in half and the juices to spill out

She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren’t alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice.

and

Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate.

it might just be how expressions work, but still, i very much enjoy the parallels of fate and rage both being red – along with the mistress’ lipstick, but that just ties it all together even more, when everything is cloaked in grey it stands out so beautifully

“I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words.

i don’t even have anything to add, i just truly felt the specific type of white hot anxious rage this sentence would unleash on me

Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to?

constantly being haunted and hounded by a promised love for people who don’t return it, and you learn to take it early on from childhood because of your mother, and you transfer that empty longing into a marriage… the ever delicious concept of grieving each moment as it passes, and if something goes wrong? it’s always on you. MAN im literally floored like genuinely. when the love that goes into creating something is so clear and evident!! 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie.

that tie is a noose to me, that’s all

well, actually. the shift in tone now that she Knows… and he finally has to face that he’s a stranger in his own home, and it’s not his playground anymore… i need him to be knocked over like a chess piece

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you.  Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world.

gnawing on concrete. this ever looming motherly inheritance of “you should’ve known better” is absolutely destroying me

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on you throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else’s dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12.

OOOOOOOH……… oooooooh i need to. something something about i am my mother i am my child i am myself but i don’t know who that actually is. audible crack where my heart breaks in two… you know when you’re reading something so good that you’re trying to read so fast to get to the end faster… yeah

You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom.

this is an ode to blue, the mood of all time

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough.

close enough, welcome back keira knightley’s green dress from atonement

The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen.

hot and sour soup enjoyers rise up!!!!!

You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications.

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply.

she is me and i am her, and i am sitting in another corner silently and hoping that she knows she’s not alone. oh y/n we're really in it now

no specific comment i just felt the weight of this moment and wanted it here

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must.

HE MUST…….. gripping my phone. 

i cannot believe it took me this long as an avid divorce enjoyer to finally get around to leaving proper comments on this..... this was such a joy to read, which i understand is a weird thing to say about something like this, but it was! it's so delightful to read complex emotions described in such careful detail without being overbearing, and the whole thing has this perfect pendulum of weird glimmers of hope and all encompassing all-is-lost mentality

i love the way you write prose so so much, and like i said before it's so clear how much time and energy and craft and love went into all this!!! every detail feels so natural but so important at the same time, it's just so evident when someone's well read and just like. understands what makes something good and worth reading. like the way you create atmosphere and include so many details and yet they all feel so natural and like they're exactly where they're supposed to be. the entire story feels so organic and picturesque. it's also Crazy to me how you've got the range to write light-hearted romcom-esque fics and also the most grotesquely beautiful love letter to this genre. to be fair in the mood for live is one of my all time fav movies so im like literally thee target audience for this, but still!!!

this was all so beautiful and i just keep repeating myself, but i've read this 4 times now and each time i notice new things and it's just soooo... we get this for free? on tumbler dot com? insane!!! i feel like i should have this on my bookshelf and leaving annotations on every single margin, truly an obligatory read for everyone who enjoys when things are blue <333 thank you mads for blessing us with your writing

THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows. 

It never worked, and you never believed her. 

It was raining, too,  on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you. 

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move. 

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom. 

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat. 

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone. 

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say. 

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side. 

When had he stopped? 

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that? 

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight? 

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain. 

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message. 

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again. 

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9. 

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin. 

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath. 

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster. 

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child. 

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that  it was him.  It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection. 

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact. 

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it. 

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice? 

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could. 

Maybe. 

Or maybe she was just a whore. 

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red  in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh. 

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he  walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards. 

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes. 

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it. 

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months. 

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now? 

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli,  and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables. 

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop. 

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice. 

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing. 

Does she  know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo? 

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate. 

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as  she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it? 

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent. 

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22. 

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?” 

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know. 

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.” 

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.” 

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here. 

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you. 

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it. 

 “I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words. 

Does he know? 

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that? 

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole. 

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to. 

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought. 

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.  

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end. 

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching? 

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to? 

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own. 

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired. 

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it. 

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?” 

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all. 

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.” 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie. 

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.” 

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side. 

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

 You never wanted a traditional wedding. 

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him. 

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership. 

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. 

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you. 

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world. 

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness. 

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you. 

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12. 

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter? 

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion. 

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself  ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time? 

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her? 

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom. 

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime. 

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday. 

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips. 

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section. 

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time. 

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend. 

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought? 

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her. 

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this? 

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags. 

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua. 

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him. 

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning. 

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone. 

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and  a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer. 

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night. 

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own. 

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits. 

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night. 

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen. 

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door. 

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night. 

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress. 

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon. 

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back. 

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman. 

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen. 

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her. 

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.  

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway? 

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front. 

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike. 

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment. 

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?” 

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.” 

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind. 

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice  trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?” 

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh. 

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?” 

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply. 

Why didn’t you? 

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.” 

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.” 

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you. 

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well. 

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides. 

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing. 

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly. 

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering. 

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve. 

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.” 

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?” 

“Most nights, these days,” you reply. 

“Does your husband not mind?” 

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you. 

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must. 

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.” 

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.” 

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was. 

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level. 

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true. 

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

[hersheysmcboom]

Okay, here's a dialogue scene based on your specifications, focusing on Gambit's internal and external struggles as he remains isolated in his room:

Setting: Gambit's dimly lit room. Weights are scattered on the floor, alongside playing cards. The air is thick with the scent of exertion and a hint of ozone.

(Jubilee's voice, muffled, from behind the door)

Jubilee: Gambit? Hi, it’s me. You missed dinner again, so we saved you some. You can have it if you just come out! We really miss your cooking. Jean’s been trying to fill in, but... well, it's not good.

(Remy stands motionless, back to the door. He closes his eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He remembers Jubilee, her bright, bubbly laughter, the way she'd always try to sneak extra candied pecans from his jambalaya.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) Little dragon... always lookin' out for ol' Remy. But she don't understand... no one does.

(Jubilee, a slight crack in her voice)

Jubilee: Come on, Gambit. Don't be like this. We're worried about you.

(Rogue's voice follows, softer, more pleading)

Rogue: Remy? Darlin', it's Rogue. Remember that time we snuck off to New Orleans? The beignets, the music… You even tried to teach me how to play poker...

(Remy's hand clenches into a fist. He can almost feel her gloved hand in his, the sparks that would fly even with the barrier. He remembers the way she’d look at him, full of hope and love. He sees, in his mind's eye, the horror in her eyes as he, twisted by Apocalypse, unleashed a wave of raw power that nearly ripped her apart.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) Don't remind me, cherie. Don't remind me of what I almost took from you. What I did take... the peace of mind. The trust.

(A deeper voice, Ororo (Storm), follows. There's a quiet strength in her tone.)

Storm: Remy, it is Ororo. I recall when I was a child once more,stripped of my memory, you never faltered in your care for me. You protected me, even when I was but a vulnerable girl with no memory of her former self. I will never forget that. What has happened is in the past, but so too is the time when you cared for me back then. I trust that the man who cared for her still there.

(Remy leans against the wall, his head bowed. He remembers wrapping a young Ororo in his coat, the way she'd instinctively clung to him for warmth.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) She sees the good in everyone. Even me. But she's wrong. Always been wrong about me. I'm a weapon, Ororo. Always have been.

(Scott Summers' voice, firm and unwavering)

Cyclops: Gambit, it's Scott. Look, we're not going to pretend this is easy. What happened… it was Apocalypse. He twisted you, used you. It wasn't you, Remy. We know that. We're X-Men. We fight for each other. We don't leave our own behind.

(Remy's jaw tightens. He pictures Cyclops standing tall, unwavering, the leader. He remembers the searing blast of optic energy he'd unleashed, aimed directly at Scott. He sees the Captain America shield shimmering just in time to block it.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) Easy for you to say, Cyclops. You weren't the one standing in the smoldering remains. You weren't the one who almost ended it all. You didn't feel his darkness inside you, corrupting, demanding.

(Jean Grey's voice, gentle and empathetic)

Jean Grey: Remy, this is Jean. We know you're hurting. We know the burden you're carrying. I understand what it's like to lose control, to be overtaken by something dark. I felt the Phoenix, Remy. I know what it's like to almost destroy everything you love. You are not alone. We are here.

(Remy flinches as if struck. He remembers the psychic assault, the invasion of his mind, the dark tendrils of the Phoenix force trying to bind him. Even now, he felt the phantom echoes of it.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) Don't... don't compare yourself to me, cherie. You fought it. You found a way back. I… I just broke.

(Silence hangs in the air for a long moment. Remy closes his eyes, the weight of his self-imposed prison pressing down on him. He pictures Apocalypse, that smug, ancient face, and the cold, calculating eyes.)

(Gambit, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible through the door, speaking to himself) Gotta end it. Gotta stop him. Gotta stop me.

(He opens his eyes, his gaze hard and resolute. He walks to the corner of the room, where his bo staff leans against the wall. He picks it up, the familiar weight grounding him.)

(Internally, Gambit thinks) No more hiding. No more runnin'. Time to face the music… even if it's the last thing I do.

[whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst]

The Artist and the Fan: Further Meta of Tiny Moments in Oh No! Here Comes Trouble

So it’s possible I did a third rewatch just because I’m convinced my favorite character is queer-coded. And that’s fine. I’ve written about Guangyan as queer-coded before. But what if it’s not just him?

Behold the first scene where Guangyan gets hit by a ball during gym class:

Before the first hit, the camera focuses on him subtly watching something as he runs around the track. What is to his left? The field where Yiyong is. Guangyan is surreptitiously eyeing Yiyong as he runs.

Right after Yiyong smacks the ball at him, the camera chooses to focus on Yiyong’s face. No comment on the expression here...EXCEPT we know later in the series that Yiyong didn’t push him down the stairs, is very gentle inside and wasn’t actually sure whether it had been Guangyan scoffing about his dreams the first time they met, so this is probably not revenge. When some kid brushes past Guangyan in the hall, he automatically thinks it’s Yiyong, meaning Yiyong pushes past him a lot. So given the comedic twists of this show, my queer little brain jumped to, eithrr he has the worst pattern of aim and walking in history, OR he is trying to get Guangyan’s attention in the dumbest “doesn’t know his own strength but maybe third times the charm” kind of way. Think about the dumb shit kids do on the playground to get someone’s attention. We’ve talked about Guangyan nursing a quintessential “of course I don’t like him, I absolutely hate him and his beautiful eyes” crush on Yiyong since high school, but a specific aspect of the rewatch made me think…maybe Yiyong, master of hiding his feelings and desires, master of expressing himself in writing and drawing, wasn’t entirely immune to Guangyan in high school either.

AND I HAVE EVIDENCE *jams tin hat on head* (although I respect that this could also just be a really solid non-romantic bond, see my note at the bottom)

Yiyong’s comic:

Literally two seconds after Yiyong (post coma 1) shuts down his comic, Guangyan (who is, as we later discover, the only reader of the comic) is frantically trying to get him to continue it.

Because it’s a cute little subplot that we know Guangyan is a fan, I got curious about what Yiyong’s art is all about, so I paused on his comic when he clicked on it shortly after waking up from coma 1; we surmise that the last time he worked on it was back when he was in high school, right before the accident.

A thank you to a translation by @betty5271 for explaining what Yiyong’s comic is supposedly about, according to the title and summary he has written for it on his page. The title is King of Flashfire, with the summary “What kind of bloody storm will a gifted high school student unleash on the campus?"

(Genres listed are battle, school life, and comedy)

Hmmmmmm. So it’s a story Yiyong wrote as a student…about a gifted student who gets into “battles”….

Now look at his two characters that are the figures from his comic. Remind you of any two people’s hairstyles and clothes?

*adjusts tin hat*

Guangyan is the only reader of the comic Yiyong has written about a stormy bond between two high school boys. A comic Yiyong wrote before ever having an actual conversation with Guangyan.

It makes this moment even more precious:

Now, to be clear: I do see this as a coded pre-romantic relationship, BUT this could also be an incredibly sweet friendship, too. Just as amazing. I would love a second season where they get their shit together, if that’s where the story is meant to go. Even if it never heads in that direction, I would still love this show so much and I can’t wait for their relationship to grow as they do. Our boys are soulmates, this comic subplot shows their coming together on the monster squad was meant to be.

(Chuying’s main meta is next if anyone has requests or thoughts on areas to cover with her)

[seekerpsycho]

The ACME Special

Do you enjoy derailing your DnD campaign with bonkers overpowered combos? Well let me tell you about a maneuver I created called The ACME Special, and how it worked a little TOO well in my campaign. STRAP IN! So, you’re going to need four items to pull this off: 1. A Bag of Holding 2. A heavy object no more than 500lbs which can fit in the Bag of Holding, such as a safe filled with cannonballs. 3. An intelligent creature which obeys your commands and can fly (a Homunculus is ideal. Mine is a steampunk spider-robot named Bobbert. [art pending. Bobbert substitute from “Meet The Robinsons” below])

4. A Ring of Spell Storing or lesser-powered equivalent.

Now, if you’re an Artificer, you can instantly build your own Bag of Holding and the Homunculus yourself at level 2. Getting an object of nearly 500lbs is easy enough; find a rock, or chunk of a pillar (though a safe is the best option, for comedic value). Ring of Spell Storing is trickier, but you might persuade your DM to give you the opportunity to buy one from a magic vendor or such. You don’t even need a fully functional Ring of Spell Storing as written: you just need something that can store and release a level 2 spell (specifically, Enlarge, which an Artificer can learn at level 5) (Also, the Artificer can build an equivalent Ring at level 11, but the earlier you pull this off, the more epic). Now, how do you unleash the ACME Special? 1. Put heavy thing in Bag. Heavy thing is light while in Bag. 2. Charge Ring with a casting of Enlarge. 3. Give Bag and Ring to Homunculus. 4. Instruct Homunculus to fly 200ft above target you wish to absolutely obliterate. 5. Instruct Homunculus to flip Bag inside out, ejecting the safe, 6. and as it’s falling, have the Homunculus use the Ring to cast Enlarge on the safe, doubling its size in every dimension, and more importantly OCTUPLING ITS WEIGHT, to 4000lbs! 7. Argue with the DM that as per falling damage rules, a falling hero takes 1d6 damage for every 10ft they fall, to a max of 20d6 (which I interpret as terminal velocity after falling 200ft), and surely whatever the hero hits will take equal damage, so off the bat, the falling safe will deal 20d6. BUT, I argue that heavier objects should naturally deal more damage, surely that makes sense? So let’s assume that the 5e falling damage rules were built around the “average” hero weight of, oh, let’s say, 300lbs. Given our Enlarged safe weighs 4000lbs, it should deal (rounding down) 13 times the normal damage a falling hero would, meaning that The ACME Special should deal 260d6 falling damage to whatever player, monster, or other poor unfortunate soul it lands on!!! 8. Watch target magically lose its 3rd dimension. Now, have I unleashed The ACME Special in game? Yes I have. Did the DM let it play out as I designed it? Yes, but no. So, the scene: I’m a level 7 goblin Artificer working with a band of stoned misfits on a mission to assassinate a king to stop a war. Along the way we manage to charm a giant sea serpent, which we later cast Enlarge on to basically turn it into a kaiju.

We attack the capital city, leading with the kaiju. I instruct my Homunculus Bobbert thusly: “Bobbert! Guard dog mode! Follow kaiju! If encounter Omega-level-threat, deploy... The ACME Special.” Bobbert flies off with the Ring and the Bag and hovers a comfortable 200ft above our kaiju, ready to obliterate anything that might threaten our beastie.

The kaiju wrecks merry havoc, distracting the king’s army and citizens, and we break into the castle and begin searching for the king. We run into two boss monsters, but they would quickly become irrelevant.

Outside the castle, very much in a Godzilla vs Kong type encounter, a second kaiju has emerged from the sea to challenge our kaiju. The enemy kaiju is a beast we had encountered previously, and was well established as this universe’s version of Godzilla, and this is a territory / alpha male dispute type thing. The kaiju immediately clash, with the poor city citizens caught in the crossfire. The battle is fierce and epic, so huge that it’s changing weather patterns. In any case, this definitely qualifies as an Omega-level-threat, and so Bobbert diligently unleashes The ACME Special, which I’m confident will one-shot the enemy kaiju.

As I explained the mechanics of The ACME Special to our DM, there were a couple things I did not factor in, all stemming from our DM liking my clever idea a little TOO much. I failed to factor in: 1. The DM decided the “max of 200ft” rule of terminal velocity was silly. The higher the fall, the more damage, period. 2. Unbeknownst to me (that is, my goblin, currently in the castle), Bobbert had been swept up by a tornado and lifted to the whopping height of LOW ORBIT.

Bobbert unleashes The ACME Special.

A 4000lb safe, the likes of which would make The Looney Toons themselves weep at its beauty, plummets from the sky, catching fire and melting into a molten ball of slag and kinetic death as it does so.

The DM has me roll my original damage calculation, from which he would multiply his own numbers.

834 damage.

This number is meaningless.

The safe lands; it misses both kaiju but strikes the ground between them. The shockwave manifests as both a kinetic blast and heat, knocking behemoths across the city. Buildings are obliterated. Streets buckle, shatter, and are blown away. Once nigh insurmountable defensive walls are reduced to so much gravel. The king’s castle is blasted apart as if it were made of glass.

Through a combination of accidentally taking shelter in the castle basement and plot armor, my goblin and the rest of the team survive by the skin of our teeth.

One-point-five million civilians are not so lucky. There are zero other survivors within the city limits (other than the boss monsters, who wisely surrender immediately).

Bobbert hath become death, destroyer of worlds.

My character is now a mostly-accidental terrorist who has committed a war crime of magnitude never before seen in this universe. He is trying to keep this under wraps, which is thankfully possible due to the very limited pool of surviving witnesses.

But hey! The king (and the rest of his bloodline) is dead! Mission accomplished! I guess!

So,

take with you this forbidden knowledge, the DnD blueprints for a tungsten-rod-drop. Use it wisely.

The wisest move might be to never use it at all.

[l0stinadaydream]

IWBYS music video | interpretation - pt7      ↳ cinematography

                     «Everyone takes the limits of his own vision for the limits of the world.»― A. Schopenhauer

First of all, this is my personal interpretation. I’m not in the director/band minds so these are just the associations I made while watching the video. Secondly, English is not my native language so... sorry for any mistakes.

______________

« Sex in every form and from every angle[..]» This is what the band wrote when they presented IWBYS and they seems to have used the freedom ( from a technical POV ) music videos allow to visually translate the message, playing with ...

➤ CAMERA ANGLES :

the close ups help creating a connection with the viewers, while the choice to film almost everything at eye level conveys the feeling of being ‘within the scene'.

The glass floor shots,on the other end, create the illusion of being beneath them, as if they 'looking down at us'.

➤ SETS :

the black background makes the subjects stand out, putting the focus on them while also giving the impression of an indefinite space, as being in a limbo ; the light background in the glass floor scenes gives the opposite feeling - they seems to be in an open space with nothing but air all around them. Free. [1]

➤ LIGHTINING :

chiaroscuro, neon lightining in various combinations (including complementary colors) = different kind of 'contrasts'.

➤ COLORS : 

vibrant tones, pastels, bold pairings ( ie pink and black) and a lot of red ( as little details or props, to illuminate their faces, as a set backdrop...) - the color of love and burning desire but also anger and danger.

➤ EFFECTS :

- the night vision camera gives the scenes a 'nightmarish' vibe that goes well with the growing sense of ‘urgency’ expressed in the song.[2]

- the fish lenses are used to play with POVs - one moment we are the ones looking, in the other it seems they are watching us. And then, for a brief moment, there is not us or them anymore because, using the double lenses, they make us look through "Damiano’s eyes".

- the rewind underlines the concept of a repeating cycle, a loop they’re trapped in.[3]

_____________

[1.] The only limit is an ‘invisible’ one and they start pressing against it, hitting it. An invite, maybe, to “break the glass ceiling”- nothing but our mind can stop us to be up there with them.

[2.] It’s like we are seeing what's deep down and how these mounting emotions linger there in the dark until we stop being scared/fighting and unleash them (= them playing with total abandon). We can see it as ‘liberation’ or as 'falling’… or both.

[3.] The band inside the lens, illuminated in red, reminded me of those led lights on cameras (think HAL 9000 from ‘2001:A Space Odissey’). They could be the ones on the opposite end of the ‘eye’ that the same band, while lying on the floor all ‘innocent’ looking, notice at the beginning of the video. As if they are watching themselves - in a loop inside the loop.

[4.]  little tidbits about the 'making of':

-- they had two versions of the video ready in case Youtube decided to censor the one they published. The ‘clean’ one was called the "disney version".

-- the idea behind the video was to use a series of images to represent the variety of sex. The director had a group chat with the band (and the team) where they shared ideas to add to a general ‘moodboard’ and, according to him, the more active and propositive was Victoria.

-- the director said that he didn’t  give specific instructions to Damiano while filming and so, what we see, is all him following his instinct. Also he revealed that, during the editing, everytime he had doubts of what to add, he looked into his scenes knowing he’d find  something interesting.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

I teased this in a previous post and people asked me to expand so...here’s my controversial take that Rhysand and Nesta are actually parallel characters in many ways and that they both hate each other so much because they ultimately hate themselves.

Alright ladies and gentleman, anti’s and stans, buckle your fucking seatbelts or hope off the roller coaster here because I’m about to learn you a thing or two about the most divisive characters in the ACOTAR world. 

Starting out very broadly- both characters are introduced as sort of confusing villains (Rhys is “evil” but he’s also helping Feyre. Nesta is an “awful sister”, but she also is protective of Elain and tells Feyre essentially to go and be happy), both have faced significant trauma and grapple with self-loathing and feelings of not being good enough, and both ultimately find redemption and healing with their mates who love them. They also both currently exist in a strange parallel coming out of ACOSF where Rhys is supposedly “chosen by the Cauldron” and Nesta is “blessed by the Mother”- the two sacred entities of Prythian.

Intrigued? More specifics and text analysis under the cut

Mommy (and Daddy) Issues:

Both characters were basically raised by their mother’s alone and then lost them at a young age and that had a deep impact on them. Rhysand had a far more positive experience of being raised by his mother HOWEVER I would argue that it was still “grooming” of a type since she took him away to train in Illyria specifically so that he wouldn’t be influenced by his father.

Rhys’ mother did this out of love and Nesta’s mother groomed her out of a social climbing agenda, but it had the same effect- they both lost the parent who was their primary caregiver at a young age and they were both not close with their father’s because of their mother’s actions  (again this was a good thing for Rhys, not as much for Nesta).

Parents Death: Rhys and Nesta both blame themselves for one of their parent’s death and are deeply affected by feeling like they failed someone important to them.

Rhys thinks that he is responsible for his mother and sister’s death because he gave Tamlin info

Rhys even says after this “It should have been me.”

Nesta feels that she was unable to save her father and she hates herself for it.

Rocky sibling relationship and Separation:

Rhysand and Cassian are obviously a lot further along in their sibling journey, but it’s stated that he and Cassian HATED each other and fought constantly essentially until Azriel arrived and then they decided to be “allies”.

Nesta and Feyre are also at each others throats but seem to put their differences aside in order to not upset Elain. (Even when Feyre first goes back to the human lands Nesta says NOPE NO FAE! But as soon as Elain asks her to do as Feyre says she agrees) and then Nesta states in ACOSF that she and Feyre were brought together by Elain to be allies in the war.

Rhysand and Cassian obviously grew into true brothers despite their adversarial, insulting, bitter beginning... and Nesta and Feyre after ACOSF have done the same. Obviously there’s still a lot of work to be done in that relationship, but the parallel stands (and is just strengthened by the fact that in both cases it’s the character with more power in the relationship- Nesta for being the oldest and Rhys for being the one whose family took Cassian in is then mated to the opposite sibling!)

Both have a parent who essentially separated them from their ‘siblings’ for their own benefit. Nesta’s mom isolated her as a child so that she could groom her and tell her how to maneuver her sisters when the time was right while Rhys’ father- afraid of his, Cassian, and Azriel’s combined power- separated them for 7 years through the first war to ensure they wouldn’t ally against him. Nesta was also separated from Feyre by Tamlin and tried to go to the wall to get her back but couldn’t get through- which is very reminiscent to me of the scene at the beginning of ACOWAR from the first war where Rhys is searching desperately but without hope for Cassian.

Shared Trauma and Learning to be “Evil” to protect their family:

both characters are sexual assault survivors who spend a chunk of their book (I’m counting ACOMAF as essentially Rhys’ book since that’s when we learn more about him as a character) grappling with that, coming to terms with it, and moving forward with a general attitude of “Never Again.” I would also argue that even their abusers are parallels as Rhysand was only ‘with’ Amarantha because he was trying to protect his family and Nesta was only ‘with’ Tomas because she thought his family might be able to take in and feed Elain (she says in ACOSF that she would give him whatever he wanted- her body meant nothing to her and Elain meant everything, which is essentially Rhys’ UTM mindset). In addition, both characters are able to escape their abusers out of love for Feyre. Rhys does so when Amarantha is about to kill Feyre, and Nesta does so because she realizes that Tomas would never go to the wall with her to save Feyre.

 Beyond this, both characters express that it is the lack of control over their own lives that truly haunts them. Rhys when he felt like he had no choice but to be Amarantha’s puppet and Nesta with a lot of her life, but especially when she is forced into the cauldron. Both of these are things that make them feel like failures for not protecting others. Rhys is haunted that he couldn’t protect Feyre under the mountain and Nesta is haunted that she couldn’t protect Elain from the cauldron.

This leads both characters to have a terrifying power-surge nightmare brought on by their trauma (Rhys from Amarantha; Nesta from the Cauldron) that terrifies those around them and can only be stopped by their mate.

In addition to this, they both have a “persona” that they put on and sometimes feel like they can’t shake off, a face that they made to protect themselves and their family. Rhys with his “Court of Nightmares” persona that he uses UTM, in the Hewn City, and with the other High Lords until the war. Part of his growth is letting people see beyond that ‘most powerful high lord of darkness’ mask.

For Nesta this is expressed by her “wolves” that she uses to put up a wall between her and the people who mocked her and her family, and especially Elain. And her learning to open up with Cassian and her found family was really important for her growth

HOWEVER, they both also keep that persona. Rhys has his mask polished for when anyone might threaten the people he loves and so does Nesta. Neither of them truly gave up that side of themselves, the darkness, they simply learned to stop it from consuming them. 

They also both LIKE doing this to their enemies. Rhys likes to toy with his enemies and torture those who would harm his family or betray him and so does Nesta- she revels in cutting down anyone who insults Elain and says in ACOSF that she’s felt the urge to do the same for Cassian. They both wield words like weapons and use their intelligence to ensure they are always one quip ahead of their enemies. Something that both Feyre and Cassian admire in their mates and try to emulate to a degree.

(Bonus points for the fact that in both cases their families did not ASK to be protected/sacrificed for.)

Found family and sacrifice:

Rhys calls Cassian and Azriel his “brothers” after becoming close while training and they conquer the blood rite together. Nesta calls Emerie and Gwyn her “sisters” after becoming close while training and they conquer the blood rite together. Rhys sacrifices himself to Amarantha in order to protect Cassian and Azriel (and Velaris). Nesta sacrifices herself to hold the path of Enalius to protect Emerie and Gwyn. There’s also a line in ACOMAF and a parallel line in ACOSF essentially about Nesta being willing to do anything- including “whore” herself- to protect Elain, and in order to protect his brother’s that’s exactly what Rhys did- “whore” himself to Amarantha.

Both are ‘saved by’ and feel not good enough for their mate:

I hesitate to use the word “saved by” because ultimately both characters have more agency than that, HOWEVER, both characters rely on their mate to a degree to pull them out of a very dark time and place. Feyre helps Rhys remember who he is and forgive himself for under the mountain and he even specifically calls her his “salvation.”

I don’t think I need to even say the Nesta part here, all of ACOSF is essentially Cassian helping Nesta climb out of a dark period so that they can heal together.

(Both also start connecting with their mates on a “just sex” situation.)

Both characters think that because of the things they’ve done and the darkness inside of them that they don’t deserve the people they have been mated to.

Obviously there are many differences, but the characters are similar in a lot of ways and what I think this really highlights is just how true that line is in ACOSF about Nesta being a wolf that was never allowed to learn how to be a wolf. Meanwhile Rhys is 500 years older and has always had power and agency of some kind even at his lowest point. Nesta didn’t have that power and wasn’t allowed to really unleash herself so she armed herself with a steel exterior to make up for that lack of power and control. Which is very similar to what Rhysand did when he felt he didn’t have power under the mountain- put on a cold face, not let anyone in, and act cruel in order to get through it.

Overall it’s an interesting character study because in a lot of ways these are very similar characters, but there is such a MASSIVE divide among the fandom of liking and hating one or both of them. Ultimately, I do think that a lot of the hate Nesta gets is because she’s a woman and female characters simply aren’t allowed to have the same flaws as male ones- which is kind of Nesta’s whole life story. BUT I think that Rhysand actually gets unintentionally screwed over by the narrative in one big way. Becuase my final paralell is that I think a lot of people came around on Nesta when they saw in her perspective that she knows she has problems and how much she was struggling… and I also think that Rhysand is so hated by those who dislike him because of Feyre’s ‘he can do no wrong’ perspective. I think if we saw more of Rhysand internally struggling and knowing that he made the wrong call sometimes and second guessing himself he’d be a lot more likeable character. We know he’s capable of this because when Cassian calls him out on the training roof for always thinking the worst of Nesta he just says “you’re right. I’m sorry” and he even *kinda* admits some wrong when he’s so shocked by how deep Nesta’s trauma is. Feyre and the rest of the IC constantly exalting Rhys as perfect when he so clearly isn’t and in fact has a lot of the same “flaws” as Nesta is probably the most frustrating thing about the character, which ultimately I think is kind of unfair because we know from his few perspectives that he doesn’t see himself that way.

[icharchivist]

i love Sariel's complexity and it kinda bums me out how a lot of the time when people acknowledge him they like. kind of infantilize him and remove his agency? like acting like he's only loyal to Belial because he doesn't know any better. there are definitely things he doesn't understand to some extent but also one of his defining characteristics is pretty much that he doesn't really back down from doing what he feels like he should (which he only does because he learned from Belial!) and there's literally an entire scene where he is outright told that Belial is manipulating him and his response is "I don't care!", like this is a character who's defined by having agency when he was basically made and set up from the start not to, acting like he only ever does things because he doesn't know any better just because the decisions he makes are technically not very good is kind of missing the point i think

AGREED.

tbh i don't really dip much into the fanbase and the angel fanbase can be. a lot to take in, so i don't really read up this type of opinions, but *sighs* unfortunately i see exactly how they came to be and it doesn't surprise me.

I couldn't imagine thinking it's just that he doesn't know any better. Belial is just. literally the only positive figure in his life??? Like, nowadays he might grow out of that, he's getting new friends, Mole Troupe ftw, but genuinely it's not ignorance to just want to seek the one person who didn't want to hurt you??? who's kind to you when no one else is even paying attention to you??

(which is why he was so shocked when Belial attacked him in 000, and even more so upon realizing Belial did that and made himself look like the villain specifically to save Sariel's life. Like. Truly.)

Like blaming it all on Sariel's ignorance is taking the situation backward imo. It's not about Sariel being ignorant when he shows deep trust into Belial. It tells us, instead, of a side of Belial we have decided to not look at because we decided to focus fully on his bastard self and we can't comprehend that yeah characters who are rotten to the core and do everything wrong perhaps have a bit of good in them, somewhere, that has just as much value.

And it ends up being infuriating for how people even see Sariel himself on that regard.

Sariel is stubborn, but that's so interesting?? he was a primal beast forced into doing a repetitive job he hated, he was basically on autopilot doing the executions while coming back home crying just wanting to be an ant just so he could actually do repetitive things without actually having to think how much it was killing him inside, he had no drive nor passion. If Anything, Belial being so kind to him, and serving as an example (for better or for worse) was a way for Sariel to reclaim this passion, in some way.

Sariel is ignorant of a lot of things yeah, because of all the Horrors, but when it comes to Belial especially, it's not that simple. Like you said, Sariel just focus on something else completely.

I think even if Sariel knew all of the horrors Belial unleashed, absolutely all of them, and understood the weight of Belial's crimes, he still would side with Belial and support him, because Belial was kind to him and it's the only ever positive emotions Sariel was ever allowed to feel. And he's going to stubborningly cling to it.

Like, Sariel is kind of a victim of all of those schemes and everything and i think people want to also make it a shortcut in making him a victim of Belial's schemes in particular and i think that's completely missing the point of their dynamic and the fact this is, on the contrary, the one part of his life Sariel started to reclaim agency and free will for.

It's just sad man.

[euovennia]

Mate

Summary: In which Carlisle finds his mate with the subtle guidance of Alice.

Pairing: fem!reader x Carlisle Cullen

Word Count: 1,860

"Slow down, Alice! There's no need to be this excited, it's just skating." Rosalie remarked with a bored expression as she and the rest of the Cullen family struggled to keep up with the tiny woman.

"Maybe it is just skating, but we haven't had a family outing like this in forever, Rose! Trust me when I say this is good for us, it'll be unforgettable." Alice spoke, a mix of mischief and excitement glimmering in her golden eyes. Jasper came towering beside her and wrapped an arm around her small frame, "Just what are you planning, darlin'?" Alice only smiled before quickly escaping his grasp and continuing bouncing her way toward the entrance of the skating rink as the small group attempted to rid themselves of the uncomfortable nagging feeling in the back of their minds.

Something was going to happen, but no one knew what.

With the door held open by Alice, the family quickly filed into the building before being dragged over to the check-out counter where an older man stood hunched over the counter as he kept his eyes trained on a small TV in the corner of the counter. His calm exterior fumbled momentarily as the sound of the entrance door slamming shut behind the rather large group snapped him out of his focus. He quickly straightened himself out as he painted a warm smile onto his face, "Well hello there folks, what can I do for you?"

At this, Alice quickly pushed a surprised Carlisle to the front of the group. Feeling awkward, he quickly clasped his hands in front of him as he looked directly at the man who was patiently awaiting a response, "Hello. My family and I were interested in doing some skating. Perhaps for an hour or two."

The man turned to look down at his wristwatch before changing his attention to Carlisle once again, "Of course, but I have to say that there's gonna be about a ten-minute wait. I can get you all situated with your skates and take you down to the observation room while you wait. If that's alright, of course."

Carlisle glanced back at his family and upon receiving one enthusiastic reply from Alice and a shrug from Edward before he turned to the man, "Yes, that'll work out fine."

With their skates in hand, the Cullen clan followed the man down a long, brightly lit hallway before reaching a set of worn-in blue metal doors. The doors let out a loud creak as they were pushed open by the man. As the group filed inside the cold room, they were met with an intensely fast-paced tune composed of numerous cellos. They glanced at one another, the uncomfortable feeling slowly beginning to blossom in their bodies further with the exception of Alice who stood there with a large, expectant grin on her pale face. Realization dawned on Rosalie as she caught sight of her sister's face and she harshly grabbed her wrist as she spoke in a low tone, "What the hell are we doing here, Alice?" Ignoring her harsh, venom-filled tone Alice only shrugged. Huffing, Rosalie returned to Emmett's side as she crossed her arms. Sensing the tension that was growing between his adoptive children, Carlisle turned to the old man who was looking out a window that was faced outward toward the skating rink. "Is there a specific reason for the music?"

The man looked back at Carlisle and wordlessly motioned him to stand by his side. Carlisle furrowed his brows together in slight confusion but walked over by the man as requested. Eyes focused on the glass window in front of him, Carlisle watched as a woman feverishly skated around the rink with a heightened sense of grace and elegance that could rival that of his own family. He found himself enthralled with the precise and quick movements coming from the mysterious woman and found himself letting out an unnecessary breath as he asked, "Who is that?"

The old man kept his eyes trained on the woman's skating figure as he answered, "I don't know much about her if I'm being honest. All I know is that she's a pro skater and that her coach is pretty strict." Carlisle reluctantly tore his gaze away from the woman and glued them to the man beside him, "Coach?" The man nodded as he turned to face Carlisle fully, "Yeah. That guy over there." He spoke as he lamely motioned to the left side of the rather large rink. Carlisle's gaze settled on a well-built man with medium brown hair that was immaculately styled with calculating and judgmental eyes that seemed to rake over every movement of the female skater.

As Carlisle's gaze went to settle on the woman once again, he was pulled from his thoughts as his adoptive children had grown an apparent interest in Carlisle's overly observant attitude. "What're you looking at, pops?" Emmett spoke loudly causing Carlisle to cringe at both the nickname and volume of his voice. "Nothing, Emmett. Just looking around the rink is all." Rosalie scoffed, "Seems to me like you were checking out something special," Her gaze quickly turned to the woman who was effortlessly gliding across the ice, "Or someone." It was at this moment where Carlisle knew that if he was still capable of blushing, his face would be on fire. "She seems to be very talented, it's eye-catching." Esme gently defended. "Well, the music is a bit obnoxious." Rosalie muttered. "A flair for the dramatics never hurt anyone." Edward mused. "Oh please, all you know how to do is be dramatic." Rosalie fired back, her annoyance growing with each passing second.

Carlisle watched the scene unfold in front of him with weariness in his eyes as he gave a small nod toward Jasper who then unleashed a subtle calming effect on everyone present. Unable to fight back the sudden wave of calmness she felt, Rosalie let out a deep breath before walking away with Emmett trailing behind her, ready to calm her down further if needed. Relaxing his posture slightly, he turned to face the old man. "I apologize. My family, unfortunately, do not see eye to eye on everything." The man simply waved off his apology. "I used to be a family man myself. No worries. Anyhow, I best be getting back to the front desk. As soon as those two get out, feel free to hop on in." He said before giving the family a departing wave and walking away.

Carlisle watched him disappear behind the rusty blue doors before directing his attention back to the now-empty ice rink. He felt his undead heart fall to the pit of his stomach as one question raced through his mind: Where did she go?

His question was quickly answered as the doors leading to the rink opened and the man and woman walked in speaking in what Carlisle could make out to be French-based on his rather limited knowledge. He watched with great interest as the man and woman went back and forth with their conversation.

"Vous vous déplacez trop lentement dans certains domaines. Vous devez l'accélérer." (tr: You move too slow in some areas. You need to speed it up.) The man spoke, his tone a bit rough and body language that gave off the impression that he was annoyed. The woman seemed a bit exasperated as she responded, "Je sais que oui, mais je me sens épuisé. Donnez-moi juste un jour de repos, c'est tout ce dont j'ai besoin. Je serai mieux après, je te le promets!" (tr: I know I do, but I feel exhausted. Just give me one rest day, that's all I need. I'll be better after, I promise!) Once finished speaking, the man turned to her and shoved a finger in her face as he spoke quickly and sternly, an annoyed expression present on his face. "Non. Vous ne vous améliorez qu'avec une pratique constante. Pas de jours de repos pour vous. Arrête de demander." (tr: No. You only get better with consistent practice. No rest days for you. Stop asking.) The woman seemed disheartened by his attitude as she crossed her arms and simply nodded. The man let out a sigh as he ran a hand through his hair, "Pardon. Juste ... Habillez-vous. Nous devons partir." (tr: Sorry. Just...Get dressed. We need to leave.) The man tore his gaze from the woman in front of him and was surprised to see a large group of pale people awkwardly trying to pretend as though they weren't just eavesdropping. A light pink color dusted his cheeks as he pulled his jacket closer to his frame. "My apologies. Just a small disagreement. Have fun on the ice." He said, an awkward smile on his face as he walked out of the cold room.

With the door slamming shut behind him, the woman looked up at the family, her eyes quickly moving over the appearance of all of them, her gaze lingering on a certain blonde doctor for a second longer before speaking, "Sorry to take up all the ice. It's just that people normally don't come here." At the sound of her soft voice, Carlisle looked away from the door where the man had once gone through and fixed his eyes on the beauty in front of him.

She had dark brown hair that was thrown up to an elegantly messy bun with two fallen wisps of hair that worked to frame her face perfectly. Her eyes were a few shades lighter than her hair whereas her perfectly arched eyebrows matched her hair color perfectly. He found himself admiring her long eyelashes that beautifully fluttered with every blink and her long, slim nose that sat perfectly on her face. He admired the light pink color that stained her lips and cheeks, a glorious reminder for Carlisle of the humanity that remained within the woman before him.

"Dad!"

Carlisle looked over at Alice who had a knowing grin on her face as she motioned with her head toward the woman. He looked back at her, "I just wanted to know if you were alright. You seemed a little...Out of it."

At the sound of her melodic voice, Carlisle gave her a warm smile. "Yes. I do that sometimes. Sorry to concern you." The woman returned his smile as she spoke, "It's fine. We all have our moments." Carlisle nodded as his smile stayed painted on his face. After a few moments, the woman spoke again, "It was nice seeing you all, but I must get going. Have fun." Carlisle's face fell at her admission and he nearly reached out to stop her but restrained himself from doing so. "Of course. Have a wonderful day." With a final smile, she gave the group a nod of acknowledgment before taking her leave.

"What was that?" Jasper spoke once the doors shut behind the woman. Carlisle could feel his undead heart clench as he uttered the next two words,

"My mate."

[everybodylovesrand]

Rafe/Rosamund Q&A

Q: Will there be a second trailer?

Rafe: Yes! and longer! What’s the thing you’d like to see most in it?

--

Q: For both Rosamund and Rafe - How do the final visuals effects align with what you had in mind when reading the script/filming on location?

Rafe: Making a TV show at its best is about collaboration about seeing how your initial version for something is lifted and changed and made better by the people around you. So my favourite visuals in the show are the ones that are far better than I’d ever imagined writing the scripts.

Rosamund: It’s so important to have a living vivid world inside your imagination when you are shooting sequences that will be completed with CGI, and the production have always made sure that we had plenty of visual references for how things would look as we went along. We have never worked on a set on which at least part of the world is not built. We have always had elements of the texture and atmosphere of the finished world to work with.

--

Q: Can we get some information on the composer or the score for the show? SO excited for this! Thank you both so much for bringing this to life!

Rafe: If Amazon lets this answer go through, this is me proudly announcing that we have the most incredible composer working on the show by the name of Lorne Balfe. You’ve gotten a tiny hint of his music with the reveal of the Logo, and what he’s doing is really special.

--

Q: For Rosamund: how different is acting in a high-fantasy TV show from your previous work?

Rosamund: The biggest most important challenge with fantasy is making the stakes your own, making the concepts and ideas that are so outside our own experience feel real and immediate.

--

Q: How much of the myrddraal is practical effects?

Rafe: The Myddraal, like almost all elements in the show, is as much practical as we could manage, enhanced by VFX. I always think that gives a more disturbing and real-feeling quality than full VFX creatures.

--

Q: My question is – What do you think Moraine’s favourite food is? (2) Does she prefer coffee or tea?

Rosamund: I don’t think Moiraine cares too much about food. (Rafe thinks she likes buffalo wings). She eats to live. But don’t worry, you will only ever see her drink tea.

Rafe: Buffalo wings.

--

Q: For Rosamund: How did you feel seeing Moiraine’s powers visually for the 1st time?

Rosamund: I felt like a badass. I said to Rafe when I first saw it, “I need this video of me shooting fireballs to show to my sons again, and again.”

--

Q: What is the show going to be rated? Will people be able to watch it with their teenagers?

Rafe: People should certainly be able to watch with their teenagers.

--

Q: How have you kept this trailer under wraps so long? Omg – it is perfect.

Rosamund: Thank you. The only thing we wanted was that it made people feel.

--

Q: How were you able to come up with how the weaving of the One power looks?

Rafe:  All of the VFX teams looking at the One Power were going off documents of descriptions of it pulled straight from the books, and using that as jumping off points.

Rosamund: I needed to feel that you would believe Moiraine had this power if there were no visual effects- the most important thing for me, was that I felt connected to something greater than myself. Robert Jordan is so eloquent about what it feels like to channel, the feeling of the one power filling your veins, the risk of it, the risk of drawing too much and the necessity of respecting it and being trained to use it.

--

Q: For Rosamund: What’s your favourite Moiraine speech?

Rosamund: Moiraine can be very silent so when she speaks, we listen. In the books it’s the “Weep for Manetheren speech”. The idea that in the people of the Two Rivers, the “old blood runs deep”.

--

Q: Can you bring the release date back a bit to like tomorrow or something?

Rosamund: Ask Rafe.

Rafe: Ask Amazon.

--

Q: How excited are you to see your audience responses after such a long wait?

Rafe: This is a complicated thing, because as a fan of many epic book series, seeing them brought to life is simultaneously thrilling and a little bit sad, as it changes forever a world that you saw in your own head while reading.

Rosamund: I love how warm and welcoming the Wheel of Time fan base have been. I hope we offer escape, excitement, mystery and something to keep people inspired through the end of the year.

--

Q: Which location was your favourite to film at? Specifically, in the show and in real life!

Rosamund: The world inside the walls of Shadar Logoth is particularly affecting and eerier. our production designer created a powerful, sinister set for the abandoned city. But for me as an actor: the city of Tar Valon was so rich: it was built from the ground up with the most intricate detail. It is stunning.

--

Q: Is the scene with Egwene in the water about her One-Power / Wisdom testing?

Rafe: I can answer that question at the end of the Season.

--

Q: What’s your favourite aspect of the WoT series?

Rosamund: My Warder. (awww!)

--

Q: How much will Season 1 cover? Book 1 or spread accross several? Looks amazing!!!

Rafe: Season One will cover Book One, plus some of Book Two and even Book Three. But also not all of Book One, as some of it is in Season Two. Cryptic enough?

--

Q: How may nightmares did that flaming Fade give you?

Rafe: Not many, as I will always remember him as Dan, who was spinning in circles on his horse on a Slovenian mountain doubling the Westwood.

Rosamund: His very feminine lips, concealing rows and rows or teeth give me nightmares… And don’t get me started on the skeleton mask his horse wears.

--

Q: What excited you the most about this series?

Rosamund: The amazing cast and the bond we all have!

--

Q: For Rosamund: Is this your first time acting with CGI effects? Is it harder than expected?

Rosamund: It was great. I did a full body scan on day one and then I never had to show up!

--

Q: For Rosamund: What was it about this story that spoke to you and made you want to play such an amazing female?

Rosamund: The way women of the Aes Sedai harness the elements of the universe to unleash incredible power: that interested me a lot. Playing an amazing female is always better than playing a mediocre female.

--

Q: Which parts of the trailer are you most excited for the fans to see the full version of in the show and why?

Rafe: I’m really thrilled for fans to see more of Winternight.

Rosamund: Shadar Logoth, the city where you really feel how the dark is a material substance that chases and consumes. The visual effects and the extremity of this sequence haunts me.

--

Q: How do you expect us to work today?

Rafe: Don’t! If I’m your boss, you have the day off.

Rosamund: I expect you to focus, and do your best as always. Sincerely, headmistress.

[shadyteacup]

Helloooo, can you do headcanons on Dazai having a strong S/O (ability wise) like nearly as strong as Chuuya? Cause isn't he a literal God lol. Thank you :]

Hewo! I had a lot of fun writing this...it almost turned out to be a oneshot :p , but dw, I managed to turn it into hcs :D

Here u go~

Thunderstruck⚡

Dazai x gn!reader

Reader has a strong ability...like, rlly cool 😎 it's my dream ability

      This man is head over heels.

He loves how you scream over a cockroach but can rip people to shreds at the same time.

Since you didn’t mention any specific ability, I have gone ahead and given you a lightning ability.

Arahabaki is the god of calamity, that combined with Chuuya.

Raijin is the God of lightening. Your ability is pretty similar to His powers.

You can control the place, time and method of a lightning strike. You can also produce it on the spot and shoot it from your hands...kinda like Palpatine.

Your eyes turn arctic blue, with your hair flowing around you. You look like a literal Goddess/God.

He was mesmerised when he witnessed it in action for the first time.

You and Dazai were walking through Yokohama, observing the internal beauty of the city via small lanes and random alleyways.

Hand-in-hand, you two were chatting about how Dazai hadn’t tried the Napolitana pasta yet, despite living in a city that was rumoured to have invented the dish.

That’s when Dazai pulled you around a random corner and shielded you from the view of the road you two were originally walking on.

You knew better than to speak at such a moment and decided to observe and try to pick any signs of being followed.

Sure enough, you could hear faint footsteps come to a stop right at the corner, you two still being shielded by the corner. You both waited with bated breath, and after a while, the person went away.

Relieved, you were about to walk out of your hiding place, when a barrel placed itself on your head from behind. Your eyes widened and you froze in place. Dazai noticed the unknown presence and looked behind only to find you being held a hostage.

“Long time, Mr. Executive!”, the man holding you hostage said as he grinned at Dazai.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison, Ito san?”, Dazai said, offering him his own smile.

You could easily read through his façade. The smile was only a mask, covering his panic and fear. You had no experience in fighting, and Dazai was no match for this man. He had fought him earlier, but that was when he had Chuuya by his side. Dazai can come up with a spectacular and manipulative plan, and Chuuya, or his current ada partner, Kunikida, can execute it, considering their brawn. He was the brains, and his partners had always been the brawn. He can fight the occasional criminal, but Ito was a feared enemy of the mafia, who was both mentally and physically strong. He had always assumed that the mafia had caught him, and sent him to jail, thanks to the mafias feared double black, but apparently, he had gotten away, or had found a way to break out of prison.

“prison isn’t a place for a man like me; you of all people know that. So, I left! Decided to say hello to an old friend, now that I’m back.”

He moved his gun from your head, dragging it down to your chin.

“Turns out, my visit might actually kill two birds with one stone.”

Understanding the hidden meaning behind his words, Dazai tensed up. He couldn’t let him hurt you. He had to get you out f here. But how is he going to do that? There is no way out of this without either of you getting hurt. He must protect you, but what must he do?

You chuckled.

“Something funny, pretty thing?”

“Actually, yes.”, you say, “Do you know who you’re threatening?”, you smirk, your tone dangerously low and intimidating.

“You’re playing a dangerous game; Ito-san, wasn’t it?”

The man grabbed your chin, turning you to face him.

“I was going to let you go, but I suppose your naivety deserves a bullet to the head!”

You smiled, activating your ability.

A sudden jolt of electricity travelled into his body. Yelping, he let go of you. Using this window of opportunity, you kicked the gun out of his hand and pushed yourself away from him. Dazai quickly grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the man, and out of the alley. His main intention was to get you away from here. Away from danger. He hadn’t understood what had just happened, but he decided that right now, running was the best course of action.

You two turned multiple corners, crossed many junctions, and ended up at an open field. Beyond the field, a few blocks away, was a metro station. You two could head to safety from there. All you had to do was cross this abandoned field and get in the metro.

Multiple men, clad in a uniform of sorts, emerged from the shadows, circling you both.

“Thought you could run away, did you?”, Ito stepped into the circle, a proud smirk on his face.

“You will face the consequences for destroying my gang. We never broke apart, you see. All of us are back. And we will take over the mafia, defeat the ada, and control this city.”

“Good luck with that.”, you say as you let go of Dazai’s hand, ignoring his warnings to stay back. Kinda like that scene with odasaku :')

You spread your arms wide, activating your ability. Bolts of lightning shot out from your fingers, hitting a few of the men, dropping them to the ground.

The men had no time to react as you swiftly raised yourself off the ground, hovering over them, and unleashed your signature move, striking them with a large bolt of lightning from the sky.

The head of the group, Ito, activated his own ability, the ability to control metal. Multiple guns aimed themselves at you and began shooting.

You created a shield around yourself, effectively blocking the hundreds of bullets.

Meanwhile, Dazai sneaked behind the others, incapacitating them.

You continued to fight Ito, blocking his attacks, and sending a couple bolts his way, while simultaneously attacking the others. The field was a mix of bullets, sharp scraps of metal, and bolts of electricity.

At the end, Dazai sneaked up behind Ito, nullifying his ability, and knocking him out.

To say that he was surprised would be an understatement.

He had heard of an ability that controlled lightning, but this was his first time witnessing it in action.

'Heaven's Fury' was the name of your dangerous ability.

He thought it suited you very well..

You are calm and composed, but when angered, you can unleash madness upon your enemies.

You were always so elegant, and seeing you like this, using your powers and fighting atleast 20 people at once, he couldn't help but admire your majestic beauty.

Your ability gives me 'They tell me I'm a God, I'm lost in the façade, Six feet off the ground' vibes.

Dazai agrees with my opinion.

You look like a deity.

He liked the idea of protecting you, yes, but he found it so hot that you could protect yourself.

Hell, he now knows that you can not only protect yourself, but also take out an entire city on your own.

He would be much at peace now, knowing that he doesn’t quite have to worry so much about any past enemy of his taking revenge. You were stronger than almost all his enemies.

Will praise you, 24/7. He wouldn’t stop talking about it.

He wonders why you didn’t tell him, and you merely shrugged saying that he never asked.

He would brag about you to all his friends(ada members)

He would never tell anyone other than the ada members, though, as he doesn’t want anybody to do some research and find out a way to defeat you.

He prefers it to be an element of surprise and catch the enemies off-guard.

Loves watching the shocked and scared faces of those that decide to wrong you, leading to you using your formidable ability on them.

If you aren’t a part of the ada, he would definitely think that you’d be a great addition to the organization.

He would never ask you join, though. He wants you to be as safe as possible. It doesn’t matter whether or not you have a strong ability, he just wants you out of harm’s way.

Besides, using your ability can take a toll on your health too.

He just wants to see you happy and safe.

If you decide to join the ada, he will try to talk you out of it.

If you’re absolutely sure of your decision, he wouldn’t stop you.

Instead, he will accompany you on all your missions, and will ask Atsushi to come along too.

He is aware that you are extremely strong and don’t need anyone, but he will constantly worry about you, which is why he accompanies you.

Don’t get him wrong, he really loves you and trusts you, but he is just so worried.

So, don’t oppose him when he joins you, please. Poor baby is just really concerned for your health.

Will call up Chuuya and brag about you to him.

“My Belladonna is much stronger than you, chibi-kun ;p”

If you’re taller than Chuuya, Dazai will tease the hell out of poor hat man.

He'll be like,"LOL shorty XD. My s/o is both taller and stronger than you!!"

If you're not taller, it will still be hell for poor wine boy.

"I can't believe that you're weaker than my s/o! They're so much better than you, LOL"

"Shut up, bastard!"

"Pathetic chuuya.. You literally have a God inside you, and you're still weaker! LMAO"

I feel bad for chu chu :(

But, oh well, that's just them, ig :)

[gffa]

THE JEDI AS NATURAL, INSTINCTIVE TEACHERS IS A FUNDAMENTAL TO WHO THEY ARE AT THE CORE.  For @jedijune​‘s theme for Saturday, June 13th: Teaching/Learning

Taking a Closer Look at the Jedi Order in Star Wars Canon [Meta/Reference Guide]: Chapter 3: Teaching Is A Central Theme To The Jedi

Teaching is a central theme to the Jedi:     Obi-Wan:  “You’d make a good teacher.”     Anakin: “No thanks.”     Obi-Wan: “Anakin, teaching is a privilege. And it’s part of a Jedi’s responsibility to help train the next generation.” [Star Wars: The Clone Wars movie]

“Master Yoda said we never stop learning.  Perhaps the Master is meant to be as much a student as the Padawan.  I may not be the teacher that Qui-Gon was.  But I am the one that Anakin has.”  (–Obi-Wan Kenobi, Age of the Republic: Obi-Wan Kenobi #1)

Henry Gilroy and Dave Filoni on establishing Yoda as a teacher early on:      Gilroy:  "There were elements that we really wanted to explore, and that was things that were classic to Yoda, as a teacher.  We thought this was a great opportunity to show how the Jedi interact with the clones.  Specifically Yoda in a teaching role, of the clones, who were socially new, who were created to fight, and he really broadened their horizons, and helped them realize there was a great big universe out there that was bigger than just fighting and killing.“      Filoni:  "You see Yoda teaching the clones, much like he taught Luke, ‘cause that was kind of natural for them, a natural instinct to take these clones like their students. And it really allowed Yoda to have a scene that was reminiscent of a scene we both liked growing up, when he was teaching Luke.”       (Star Wars: The Clone Wars, “Ambush” commentary)

George Lucas on education (who believes it is the most fundamental issue):      “Plato didn’t teach [in the sense of drilling answers into them] people anything. All he did was ask questions.  The process was asking questions–'Why is the sky blue?’  It was purely a reverse of us feeding you all the information and [instead] teaching the kids how to learn.”       I find this is often the answer for why Yoda or the other Jedi don’t just lecture on the answers re: Force theology, because the narrative believe/creator’s belief is that it’s more important to teach how to ask a question than to drill in an answer.  A direct example is Yoda’s teachings to Ahsoka in “Teach You, I Will” getting her to think for herself and how George Lucas talks in an Empire Strikes Back documentary about Yoda’s bizarre speech patterns being about getting the audience to really stop and think about what the weird little frog man is saying.

JEDI PHILOSOPHY + TEACHINGS:

The Jedi did not see themselves as infallible or that failure was something any of them could avoid, even for their most esteemed Council members:     Depa Billaba:  "We cannot deny, Masters, that I failed you.  Failed you on a massive scale.“     Obi-Wan Kenobi:  "A lack of failure has never been a prerequisite to service, else none of us would be here.  Welcome back to the Council, Master Billaba.”  [Kanan: The Last Padawan]

The Jedi do not see themselves as a source of the light side of the Force, but rather the other way around.  In Darth Vader: Dark Lord of the Sith, Jocasta faces off against Vader and says:     “You are [Palpatine’s] tool.  Little better than a droid, set to stamp out the light side of the Force.  But this is impossible.  The Force is eternal.  It cannot be ended, it cannot be stopped, not so long as life exists.“ showing that, even if all the Jedi were dead, they knew that the light would still find its way in the galaxy, because the Force is eternal, the Force is in all life, the light is in all life, so long as that life exists.

“The Jedi can guide.  We can teach.  We can help people to help themselves.  But we are not an army.  If a people are truly determined to write themselves out of existence, there is little we can do.” [Obi-Wan & Anakin]

Questions are shown as natural and a good thing:     “A child, Anakin remains.  His path before coming to us, difficult.  His questions, natural.”  [–Yoda, Obi-Wan & Anakin]     "I have no issues with Anakin.  He is asking questions, as he should be at his age.“ [–Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan & Anakin]

It’s not just younglings that should be asking questions, but everyone:     "Answers, did you find?”     "I did.  And as often is with the Force, more questions.“     "Mmmm.  Good, questions are.  Ask them we must.  Certainty in our understanding, to arrogance it leads.  To the dark side.” [–Yoda, Qui-Gon, Age of the Republic - Qui-Gon Jinn #1]

Questions and determining your own path tend to be a big theme with the Jedi, that everyone must determine what they want for themselves, what they understand the Force has laid out their path to be and whether they want that, like with the above, and when it’s woven into the very decision that Ezra has to make, that Kanan can’t just tell him what to do on this:     “Which way is the right way?     “The wrong question, that is.”     “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. To be honest, I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”     “A better question, that is.”     “Kanan said I was gonna be tested, but he never said what for or why.”     “And your Master tell you everything, must he?”     “Well– No.”     “Your path you must decide.”  [–Ezra and Yoda, Star Wars Rebels, “Path of the Jedi”]

Obi-Wan taught Anakin that things should not be trampled just for acting according to their nature, instead (when they can) use the Force to move them along:       "These beasts are nearly mindless, Anakin.  I can feel it.  They are merely following their nature, they should not die simply because they crossed our path.  Use the Force to send them on their way.”  [Obi-Wan & Anakin]

Henry Gilroy says a similar thing with:     "Obi-Wan truly is a Jedi in that he’s like, ‘Okay, I’m not going to murder these creatures [in the Ryloth arc of The Clone Wars].  They’re starving to death.  They’ve basically been unleashed against these people as a weapon, but it’s not their fault. They’re just doing what they do.  They’re just animals who wanna eat.’  [Aggressive Negotiations Interview]

Ezra says he saw his parents and Kanan tells him what the Jedi teach:      "I saw them, Kanan. My parents. I-- I can't explain how."      "The Jedi teach that life doesn't cease at death, merely changes form in the Force. Your parents are alive inside you, Ezra. They will be. Always."  [Star Wars Rebels, "Legacy"]

JEDI AND THEIR STUDENTS:

A great emphasis is placed on teachers and students working together:  “Yoda cocked his head. ‘Adapt he must as well. Cooperation is learned not through individual effort. Only together can you progress.’” [Master and Apprentice] Yoda also says the bond between a Master and a Padawan is sacred.  [Dooku: Jedi Lost]

Jedi are never really done being students/being tested, even when they become teachers and Masters themselves, that students teach Masters just as Masters teach students, and their tests reflect this:   "But surely I should have been informed if you were testing my Padawan?“     "Who says the lesson was for him?” Bant said, smiling at her old friend.     Obi-Wan’s jaw dropped.  "You were testing me?“     "For both of you, the test was,” Yoda told him.     Mace nodded.  "A reminder that while Padawans must listen to their masters…“   "Teachers must also listen to their pupils,” Bant concluded.  [Choose Your Destiny:  Obi-Wan & Anakin]

“This is why we study.  Why we learn.  Skill is the child of patience.“  [Obi-Wan & Anakin]

"Your mission was never about [bringing back] the book.  It was about everything you did to find it.  All the challenges you had to face along the way.  And you overcame them all.”  "It was a test.“  "It was a journey, the next step in your training, and you succeeded in every way that mattered.” (–Luminara Unduli, Barriss Offee, Star Wars Adventures #20)

EARLY JEDI TEACHINGS/JEDI PHILOSOPHY 101:

As an overview of what Jedi teach as the early and foundational lessons, across multiple media, we see that meditation and self-reflection are just as important as bonding with their sacred crystal and practicing with their lightsaber, which then also connects with how so much of the early teachings Kanan gives Ezra when they're just starting are just as much/more focused on connection and understanding of self.  (As detailed below this!)  [Age of the Republic: Obi-Wan Kenobi + Kanan: The Last Padawan + Obi-Wan & Anakin]

One of the very first training sessions we see Kanan giving to Ezra–and thus informing our understanding of the foundations of Jedi teachings–is to have Ezra doing a handstand and tells him to, “Focus.  Focus on letting go.”  Eventually, trying to toss objects at him to get him into letting the Force move through him, hear its whispers instead of shouting at it.  Before Kanan brings out his lightsaber to practice with, he wants Ezra to first mentally focus.  [Star Wars Rebels, “Rise of the Old Masters”]

Another one of the earliest lessons Kanan teaches Ezra, putting it as one of the foundations of Jedi teachings is how they're connected to other beings:     “Step outside of yourself. Make a connection with another being.” as he teaches Ezra to connect with a loth-cat.       “I just don’t see the point of this.”     “The point is that you’re not alone. You’re connected to every living thing in the universe.”  [Star Wars Rebels, “Empire Day”]

When Kanan first starts training Ezra, he repeats Yoda’s saying of, “Do or do not.  There is no try.”  When Ezra questions it, Kanan says that he really doesn’t understand it, either.  By the end of the episode, after Kanan realizes Luminara can’t train Ezra, that he has to commit to Ezra instead of half-assing this, he says:     "I– Ezra. I’m not gonna try to teach you anymore. If all I do is try, that means I don’t truly believe I can succeed. So from now on, I will teach you.“  [Star Wars Rebels, “Rise of the Old Masters”]

Another early lesson is that Ezra must be honest with himself to advance as a Jedi:     “Ezra, you’ll never advance as a Jedi if you can’t be honest with yourself, at least.”     “What’s that supposed to mean?”     “It means Tseebo matters to you. You do care what happens to him.” [Star Wars Rebels, “Gathering Forces”]

Which is then reaffirmed later in that same episode:     “I got news for you, kid. Everyone’s afraid, but admitting it as you just did makes you braver than most, and it’s a step forward.” [–Kanan Jarrus, Star Wars Rebels, “Gathering Forces”]

Ezra has trouble moving forward in the first season because discipline and focus are fundamental to being a Jedi:     “But you said I was a Jedi. Why else would you be training me?”     “I never said you were a Jedi. I said you had the potential to become one. But you lack discipline, focus.” [Star Wars Rebels, “Path of the Jedi”]

JEDI CULTURE:

Jedi younglings (at least the diurnal ones) wake at dawn to meditate on the three pillars–the Force, Knowledge, and Self-Discipline.  Then they go to the refectory for lunch, where Dooku always likes to sit next to Sifo-Dyas. [Dooku: Jedi Lost]

The Jedi have a strong aesthetic that echoes the deepest parts of the Force–all circles and lines.  Time and the Force and the Jedi are all connected circles and arcing lines.

“You must not grow too attached, too fond, too in love with life as it is now.  The emotions are valuable and should not be suppressed… but you must learn to rule them, Padawan, lest they rule you.“  (Kanan: The Last Padawan)

“This man is perverting our sacred teachings to prey upon a vulnerable people.  I can think of little my tongue could say better than my saber in this instance.”      “Dissolve your hostility, Padawan.  Channel your frustrations into an appropriate emotion.  Violence, as always, is a last resort.”      “Of course.  Apologies, Master.”      “A fire burns inside of you, Padawn.  That, in itself, is not inherently wrong.  It is my job to help you temper it.” [Jedi of the Republic - Mace Windu]

JEDI AND FACING THE DARK SIDE:

“The fact that everything must change and that things come and go through [Anakin’s] life and that he can’t hold onto things, which is a basic Jedi philosophy that he isn’t willing to accept emotionally.”  (George Lucas, Attack of the Clones commentary)

The Jedi test from the Rebels episode “Path of the Jedi” novelization on facing their fears/the dark side within them:      "This test was not designed solely for the apprentice.  It was also a test for the master, for facing one’s fears was a lifelong struggle.” (Ezra’s Duel with Danger)

The test is specifically designed by the Jedi–as is the same test on Ilum for the Jedi younglings that they all had to face–to face their fears, because it didn’t just happen one time, it was something they faced all their lives, younglings and Knights and Masters, all of them.  This is why Ezra has to face it in Rebels, why Luke has to face it on Dagobah, why Rey has to face it on Ahch-To, the Jedi have always had to face the darkness within themselves and work beyond it.

Kanan also says it plainly as they enter the Temple:        “In here, you’ll have to face your worst fears and overcome them.” It’s pretty obvious that’s what happening when the Temple shows him a vision of the Grand Inquisitor killing Kanan and Ezra has to pick himself back up, admit what he’s feeling so he can face the fears again, and understand that he has to let them go and then it cannot hurt him here, the Grand Inquisitor’s blade passes right through him.  It’s then Yoda’s voice calls to him and we see that Ezra letting go of those fears allow him to move forward:      “Big fears have you faced, young one.”      “Yes.”      “Hmm. For what lies ahead, ready are you?”      “I am.”      “Come. See more clearly what you could not see before.” [Star Wars Rebels, “Path of the Jedi”]

When Cal is struggling with facing his fears and needs to create a new lightsaber, Cere gives him a pep talk and they head off to Ilum, where she tells him:  “You will be tested.  I don’t mean just here [on Ilum].  Every Jedi faces the dark side.  And it’s very easy to fail.  We will always struggle.  But that is the test.  It’s the choice to keep fighting that makes us who we are."  [–Cere Junda, Jedi: Fallen Order]

THE THEME OF GEORGE LUCAS’ MOVIES:

George Lucas says, “All of my movies are about one thing.  Which is the fact that the only prison you’re in is the prison of your mind.  And if you decide to open the door and get out, you can.  There’s nothing stopping you.“ –George Lucas (American Voices, 2015)

Which is reflected in the teachings of the Jedi, which further shows they’re in line with the narrative intentions of Star Wars:   Petro:  “You-you said we would be trapped.”   Yoda:  “Not by the cave you were but by your mind. Lessons, you have learned. Find courage, you did. Hope, patience Trust, confidence, and selflessness.” (The Clone Wars, “The Gathering”)