#though I think that the revelations throughout trespasser will change her mind

[zahra-hydris]

I was kind of thinking previously that the ameridan revelation would knock daewen out of her (unfortunately naive) belief that her position as inquisitor and her actions would genuinely improve the position of elves across southern thedas.

but now i'm thinking that - after her initial shock and grief at how ameridan, his friends, and his love ended up (both in terms of their actual fates and their bleaching from history) - it ultimately leads her to double down.

she cannot let that happen again. she won't.

she's gotta ensure that her legacy remains intact.

ameridan was right. they've taken so much from her. she can never go home. she's changed. her clan has changed. she's still playing the game and while she was so proud of how she'd mastered it, she feels increasingly like she's just dancing to the chantry's tune. and she's so alone. she finds comfort in briala's arms now, as well as others when she can, but she still feels... isolated, especially as her companions slowly leave.

so she actually goes into the exalted council intending to fight for the inquisition. it all has to be worth something. if she lets go now, who takes care of her legacy? what she's built for the marginalised across southern thedas, for her people? for herself? she can't trust anyone with that.

[snowbellewells]

“For Once, Don’t Let Go”

Okay, so I failed at posting this by early evening, and am instead squeaking it in just under the wire. All the same, I hope you will enjoy my little attempt at a ghost story for the @cssns​2020.  Thank you so much for the breathtakingly lovely and perfect story art by @hollyethecurious​!  Thanks to her for forgiving me getting my posting date mixed up, and to Krystal for keeping me on track and calming me down when I started to stress.

Summary: In some ways, Emma Swan has always been a ghost - alone and floating through life without much to tie her to anyone or any place. However, when she wakes up in an unfamiliar old house and realizes she is stuck haunting the last place she went while alive, it takes a while to reconcile the fact that she is a ghost and that there must be something keeping her in the world after all. Then she learns she isn’t the only lost soul in the house. And that changes everything.

Also on AO3

Without further explanations and apologies, here’s the fic!

“For Once, Don’t Let Go”

By: @snowbellewells​

In some ways, she has always been a ghost. Never fitting in, never belonging anywhere. Abandoned, and so closing her heart on the need to be accepted before she could be denied. It was for that reason, on the first morning of her afterlife, as she blinked awake in a chilled grey dawn that seemed just like any other, Emma Swan did not at first realize she was no longer part of the living world.

There was a strange quiet surrounding her, as she sat up from the bed, which strangely felt much softer, plusher than hers usually did at the end of an exhausting day or the morning after when her bones still ached and her mind never felt quite rested. It was those two things combined - the unaccustomed silence and depth and comfort of the sleep she’d emerged from - that put Emma off balance. It was never that still in the heart of the city, no matter how early in the morning. There was a constant humming undercurrent, a long-accepted background noise accompanying her life in Boston: sirens, horns, the grating and beeping of constant construction, the hubbub of voices, sounds unending. If she were deeply honest with herself (which she didn’t often allow) it was part of what she loved most about the large city on the eastern seaboard; there was so much noise that she could ignore her own thoughts. She didn’t like to dwell on or analyze her motivations for choosing a job where she tracked and found deadbeats who skipped out on those they should have stayed to support. She didn’t acknowledge - not even to herself - that each skip she hauled into the nearest precinct and collected her reward for gave her a sense of satisfaction that almost dulled her unanswered questions about the runners she hadn’t ever found - the parents who left her just after she was born.

So, she was already on edge as she found her feet and moved through the room she was increasingly aware did not look at all like the one in the loft apartment she currently rented, nor were any of her things scattered around as she usually left them. Moving from the room into the hall beyond, and then down a staircase into an entry hall that she knew her small apartment didn’t possess, Emma’s mind struggled to fully wake and understand where she was and how she came to be there.

It wasn’t until she reached the front door - tall, solid wood, but nondescript and standard, nothing too out-of-the-ordinary - that two more revelations struck her almost at once. Reaching out her hand to turn the doorknob, step outside and see if the outside of the house or its surroundings jogged her memory, Emma was shocked to find that her hand wouldn’t grip the metal knob at all, instead passing straight through both doorknob and door itself, sending her sprawling forward with a yelp of startled disbelief. No matter how impossible it seemed, the rest of her followed her outstretched hand, passing through the wooden door as if it simply didn’t exist.

Blinking and stunned from where she had landed on the top step up to the porch outside the strange house she’d woken up in, it was more than a bit hard for Emma to put together what had just happened. She knew her mouth was hanging open, “catching flies” as one of her more affectionate foster moms along the way had playfully called it, but somehow her surprise only increased when she took in the place’s exterior. She did know where she was, despite being at a loss for why she would have woken up there. This was the place where she had tracked her most recent skip last night.

Furrowing her brow in concentration - and admittedly trying not to consider how she had just slipped past a solid barrier and what that might mean - Emma attempted to pull up more from her memory than that. This newest skip had proven pretty slippery; both Ruby and her seductive honey trap skills which Emma didn’t even try to match, and Mulan with her fighting ability and clever moves worthy of her Disney namesake, had failed in previous attempts to bring the guy in and moved on to more productive marks before Emma took on the case. However, she was just stubborn and competitive enough to have wanted to bring in the skip who had become a thorn in the agency’s side; plus, as he kept evading them and the court date grew closer, the price for bringing him in kept climbing. Emma had been thinking just how she might enjoy the whole week off she could afford to take once she caught this scumbag as she’d sidled up next to him at the seedy bar’s pool table and batted her eyes. She’d still been thinking it even as the jerk brushed her off and left soon after, and so she’d followed him - quite stealthily, she believed - to this place later that night. Fine, if he wanted to play hard to get, she wouldn’t play gently either. She welcomed a challenge, and this avoided the awkwardness she had to extricate herself from once honey traps were sprung anyway.

Emma was realizing now, however, that maybe she had been a little too obvious, a little too preoccupied to see that her skip might have been onto her. Had he been suspicious of her from the start, and that was why he didn’t take the bait? Or, had he known what she was truly after the whole time?

The evening dark had been falling in that strange hour where one could still see outside but surroundings were obscured, shadows lengthened and a person sometimes had to squint to find her goal. She had almost hung back, after watching her mark slip in through the unmarked door of the abandoned house at the end of a rather quiet and rundown street in an outskirt suburb. But she’d spent too long tracking the loser - and she wasn’t about to admit any hesitance or unease. Clearly the guy now had either breaking and entering or squatting in his extensive repertoire, and he needed bringing in before he expanded to something more dangerous.

That was what she was telling herself after waiting an interminable twenty minutes and then climbing the rickety steps as she’d watched her perp do. She wasn’t trespassing anymore than he was, the house wasn’t in his name, and if anyone asked… here she tried the door to find it unlocked and opening as she quietly tried it - yep, she could say it was open.

Emma had just taken a steadying breath and inched the door open enough to enter, when she caught movement in her periphery. She tried to duck, wondering wildly if the culprit had been lurking behind the door, when something long and solid swung towards her head too fast for her to avoid. It felt as though the air cracked, then crumbled around her, and everything went black…

That was all she could bring up, no matter how doggedly she tried to remember what came next. After that shattering impact was simply… nothing. And with that sickening fact, Emma knew. She was dead. Some lowlife bail jumper killed her to keep himself from getting caught. Whatever she was hit with, it was done viciously enough to mean her end.

Feeling a tremble begin throughout her legs and arms, up into all her extremities, Emma tried to fight back the swell of emotion - anger, injustice, hurt, loss that clamored to the surface. If there were any justice at all, she ought to at least be free of feeling all the painful emotion she had spent her entire adult life roughly tamping down. But really, she shouldn’t even be surprised. This wasn’t the first time she’d paid the price for someone else’s wrongs - though apparently it would be the last. The blank unfairness of it was what truly got under her skin. Was she always doomed to end up this way? Sprawled out with a cracked skull in the entryway of some old, empty house, punished just for trying to make a living and her own way in the world while exacting a little much-needed justice? No one would even miss her or know she was gone until she didn’t show up to work Monday morning, ready to gloat and collect congratulatory muffins for bringing in the mark her colleagues lost.

As she passed back through the door (and no, that weird sensation of sliding without feeling past a solid barrier did not become any less upsetting or disconcerting) Emma saw the rough wooden board on the floor where her killer must have tossed it afterward and the dried blood - her own, she recognized with a shiver - that she had missed before. She didn’t want to stay there, but she felt pulled back to the upper floor where she had awakened. As if she was not meant to leave yet. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she just had nowhere else to go…

Head bowed in resignation, she mounted the stairs, but instead of going back into what had seemed a nondescript bedroom on her first glance, she moved on to the end of the hall. She seemed to have all the time in the world to rattle around this place, reflect on her loneliness and why she was still there. It couldn’t hurt to put off that depressing train of thought and find out what else was there.

Bypassing the room she’d exited earlier that morning, Emma moved toward the end of the second floor hall. Clearly the place had been empty awhile, dust tickled her nose more the more she moved throughout the house, but the color of the rich, deep wood floors, the tall ceilings and eye-catching nautical knick-knacks and framed pictures on the walls showed her the place was once well-loved and lived in with care and pride. By the time she reached the furthest door on the left, almost tucked into a corner of the house, Emma was curious in sprite of her strange situation and uncertainty.

Upon stepping in the room, Emma felt her mouth drop open once again, immediately captured by the sight of four walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, interrupted only by the large, cushioned windowseat under a huge picture window in the wall facing the door. There were books piled on the floor near the windowseat as well, as if to be in easy reach of whomever had sat there to read. Heavy, larger leatherbound tomes that appeared to be atlases or maps also rested on the impressive cherry wood desk in the room’s center. While all of this was stunning, with an air of warm invitation that had Emma blindly inching forward, none of the furnishings were what truly stunned her one more time in a past hour full of riveting surprises. Standing behind the desk, with back turned to the door and studying the wall of books with concentration was a tall, quite formally dressed, man. 

At Emma’s rather stunned noise, the figure turned to look over his shoulder, looking at her with dark arched brow. The gasp that had just escaped her was sucked rather inelegantly back up her throat. The man - well, fellow ghost apparently, as she could hazily see the spines of books lined up through his broad-shouldered form - was the most handsome specimen she had ever seen. His stunning bright blue eyes threatened to again steal the breath the she supposed she shouldn’t possess to begin with.

Wow, that changed things.

~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~

Surprised in the large library that had stood silent and empty for so many long, uncounted days, Killian Jones couldn’t help scrutinizing the fair haired lass standing on his carpet. The strange haze around her let him know she was a spirit, much as he had been forced to accept he was himself. Still, some nearly forgotten and rusty echo of his former flirtatious nature rose to the surface and her surprised gaze clearly studied him up and down.

“Well, hello there, beautiful,” he murmured, a crooked smile crossing his face as he drank in her blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and generous curves in equal measure. “You aren’t some marvelous hallucination are you?”

Those sharp eyes rolled in exasperation, the stunned look finally leaving them as she shook her head and shrugged off the compliment. “Hardly,” she snorted, taking a few steps closer to him. “Apparently, I’m a ghost.”

Her words startled a huff of laughter from him with their droll humor. Reaching up to scratch behind his ear, he managed, “Not quite what you’d pictured, I wager?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she allowed, seeming to understand her welcome and meandering over to sit facing him on the cluttered windowseat’s edge.

Killian allowed a wry grin of his own and nod of agreement. There wasn’t much else to say, but he did understand where she was coming from. It had been rightfully upsetting, earth-shattering, and confusing when he realized he was no longer living and breathing but still wandering the rooms of his house. He was sure there had been a lot of ranting, questioning, and items thrown against the walls before he had accepted his new reality. By that measure, this lovely woman before him was handling her sudden entrance to the afterlife quite well in comparison.

She looked up to capture his eyes with her own and he found he couldn’t look away again. Her face was open, searching, almost as though she were trying to take his measure and decide if he were trustworthy. When she seemed to make a decision and smile warmly at him, Killian found himself swaying closer to her almost unconsciously, rounding the desk to stand before her as though pulled by a magnet. Dipping his head in a sort of playful bow, he offered, “Forgive me, where are my manners? I’m Killian Jones. And you are?”

She reached out her hand to shake, unaccountably grateful that she was able to feel his larger fingers clasp hers without passing through, that she somehow still felt warmth and a zing of awareness at the contact, even if none of it made any sense. “Emma…” she replied, her voice going lighter and more thready than she’d like, “Emma Swan.”

“Hmm…” he murmured lowly, a rumbling hum that she felt along her arm as he brought her hand up to place a kiss on the back of it. “And just who are you, Swan?” he mused.

Swallowing hard, she dove in with the plain truth. “Just a stubborn bail bondswoman who went after the wrong skip this time,” she sighed.

His eyes registered the sadness, the disappointment and melancholy, the resignation to this fate slowly settling over her. He wanted to say it would get better with time, but time was now a funny, nonexistent sort of thing that was impossible to measure and not much help. Instead, he took in her features with understanding and tried to offer what comfort or cheer was possible against the self-doubt, blame, and ‘what-ifs’ beginning to hover. Not only that, they zeroed in on the broken skin, dried red and the purpled bruising at her temple, clearly the killing blow that had been dealt her. His hand reached up of its own volition to touch the soft hair above the wound, a tender brush of fingertips that Emma closed her eyes and leaned into with a relieved sigh. Almost as if he knew how very rare such concern had been in her life - maybe because it had been the same for him. Whatever the reason, they lingered there, two ghosts in the golden morning light through the picture window, drinking in the first real contact either had felt in far too long.

Something linked within them in that very moment - and everything changed again.

~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~

It would have been funny; in fact, Emma would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested - even a week before - that she would be killed on an assignment, end up a ghost, and then meet another ghost who would soon know her better than anyone had in life. And yet, within days she and Killian had shared more than she had ever allowed with co-workers, her handful of casual friends, even foster siblings when she’d still been a kid. Granted, she didn’t have much to lose, but it was more than that. She came to learn that Killian was more like her than she could have thought possible; orphaned as a child except for an adored older brother, that brother then killed in service of the British Navy just as Killian had been preparing to finish secondary school and join his elder sibling in service. Apparently the death had been some sort of accident during a routine exercise, and Killian had been awarded a healthy settlement as his brother’s only living relative, but naturally he hadn’t wanted the payout, just his only family back. Since that wasn’t the choice before him, he had taken the money, gotten out of England, and vowed to do something with it that would honor Liam and help someone else - even if it could do nothing for his own shattered heart.

That was how he’d come to befriend a frightened young mother and her infant son not long after he reached Boston. He’d been renting a motel room on a weekly basis until he figured out what he planned to do in the long run. He took a lot of long, aimless walks in the sharp, chill wind off the Atlantic, and one late afternoon he had stumbled into the public library, hoping to warm up, maybe distract himself a bit, and instead had found Belle sniffling as she attempted to read to a fussy Gideon where they were huddled in the children’s section. It hadn’t taken long for them to become friends; easily one of the best friendships he’d ever had. And in short order, Killian had known this was how he could use Liam’s money for good. He’d found a house, invited, then wheedled and cajoled, her to move them into one of the unoccupied wings and stay with him there. It was much too big for him alone he’d argued, and he needed the company, noise and bustle of even the smallest bit of family in his life. Belle had been hesitant, feeling it was too much, too good to be true, but trying to find a living and make a good, safe home for herself and her boy, while also staying unnoticed and under the radar of her wealthy and well-connected ex-husband was becoming more and more impossible. She’d assured Killian that the man had never been physically abusive, but emotionally and mentally he had left his mark. He had been a master of manipulation, had known the law and its loopholes, could afford the best attorneys money could buy and Kilian had not needed psychic abilities to see the woman was terrified he would come to haul her back - or at the very least take her little lad away from her.

That last admission had been uttered some weeks on in their acquaintance - or at least Emma thought it had been weeks, time was hard to measure when one was no longer on a clock and the days flowed from one to another in a similar stream - one night as they sat by a crackling fire in the hearth of the long unused den. Emma had shared a fair amount of her own scars by then. She had been curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, thinking that this would be the perfect occasion for a hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon, what had been her favorite way to unwind in the evening, and marveling at the good heart this man before her possessed, be it beating still or no. Not just anyone would have done so much, given so much of himself, to help a person he barely knew. Nor kindly helped a complete stranger like her adjust to her new reality beyond the pale either.

Suddenly it seemed like there was nothing else to do but to scoot across the sofa to the other end where Killian Jones sat still as a statue. The pain in his eyes, and blame she could see that he carried, broadcast over every line and shifting shadow of his face. Emma couldn’t help but bring her hand up to touch his cheek, to trace along his tightly clenched jaw as his eyes slowly dropped to follow the path of her fingertips, watching her intently as they continued to brush softly over his skin. Emma had wondered numerous times why she couldn’t physically make contact or grasp other objects but she could touch him. Why could they feel each other so strongly? Was it because they were both ghosts? On some other plane together? Or was it something else, something a less jaded person might call Fate or magic?

Whatever the reason, she was grateful for it as she held her breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth awaiting Killian’s reaction. She found every nerve alive and anxious as she watched him, caring more than she ever had about what someone else thought. Was that the key? For so many years in group homes, with foster families, even for a time homeless on the city streets, Emma had shut the world out. She had been born and grown up without the unconditional love and care all people should know, and the natural childish illusions about people’s selfishness or the world’s indifference had been stripped away far too early. Life had turned its back on her, and she had done the same in return. She had closed herself off from emotion and learned all too well that putting her trust in others made it easy to get hurt.

But now, in this old house, with this wonderful, vulnerable spirit before her - all the feelings she had shut off for so long were breaking free. She couldn’t hold them back, and she didn’t want to. She couldn’t really be harmed, wasn’t hustling to get by, and maybe that allowed the fear to recede enough to peak over the top of her walls. Maybe it was just that - despite only knowing him for a short time - she had never met anyone like Killian Jones when she was living. If only she had, she wouldn’t have been lost for so long.

He was blinking away a tear when her focus turned back to his face in that moment. Smiling back with a tiny, empathetic quirk to her lips, Emma brushed the escaped droplet from his skin, whispering, “He found them, didn’t he? Her ex?  Even though you tried to keep them hidden…”

Killian’s head of thick, dark hair bowed, his eyes falling to their laps instead of holding hers. Running her fingers through the coarse strands, Emma ached to comfort him, to somehow lessen the weight he had lost hope of lightening. Whatever had occurred, it couldn’t have been his fault. He had only tried to give them shelter.

His voice was muffled when his forehead had come to rest on her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him, cradling him closer in an embrace more binding and intimate than any she had ever experienced. “I don’t know for certain, Swan,” he sighed, his words rough and coming forth in choppy fragments. “It has always seemed so…  Both being expats, Belle and I came to enjoy tea… in the afternoons… I had come home early that day...had a new toy for her Gideon...and I - I couldn’t wait to show it to him. ...When I walked through the front door… I knew immediately….something was wrong… too quiet.. I walked into the kitchen… and the table was all set for tea.  But the plate of biscuits was… strewn across the table… broken crumbs everywhere… and her - her favorite teacup was shattered on the floor…”

Emma tried to take in the devastation he must have felt, the panic and helplessness, all while making soothing noises, almost sorry she’d asked him as the story was wrung from his lips bit by bit. She kept holding him, hoping that her hand stroking over his back and her fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck could give some solace. She had never longed to fix someone else’s hurt more than her own. It was frightening in the desire’s intensity, but all she could do was hang on.

“I failed them both…” Killian husked, his voice even more soft and ragged than before. “Of course… I reported them missing… but the case came to nothing… no leads turned up.  He got to them… just as she feared... “

She wished she could tell him otherwise. Her own unshed tears stung in her throat - both for the poor woman and little boy she felt as if she knew through Killian’s stories, and for his pain. Her chest ached with the anguish he had harbored for so long, feeling it as if it were her own. If she could take his pain onto herself and give him peace at last, she would do it without hesitation.

As if in response to her thought and the desire to lend her strength, Emma saw a starling light, nearly blinding her as it appeared over Killian’s shoulder.  She didn’t pull away, but she squinted trying to understand what had materialized from thin air right in front of her. It looked like...yes, it was a door. There, where an archway normally lead from the den to the kitchen, was a simple grey door, but for the brilliant white light emanating from around its edges. It couldn’t be ignored for all its radiance, and it almost seemed to beckon her near, drawing her in.

Her eyes widening, Emma forced herself to turn away, breathing in Killian’s scent from against his neck, hoping that the masculine, spicy aroma he somehow still carried, even in his ethereal state, would reel her in as it had before. She knew what must be making itself known before her, and she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge what it meant.

Up until that very second, she would have sworn she wanted that door to appear, to pass through it and leave the cold bitterness of Earth behind. She wanted that door opening up for her to move on, but she just as surely wouldn’t leave Killian as she had been left so many times. She couldn’t abandon him.

For the first time Emma could remember, she didn’t want to change the way things were.

~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~

She shouldn’t have thought the open door would escape Killian’s attention. The man was ridiculously intuitive and seemed to read her like the pages of a favorite book. She had not said a word, had turned back to him, focused on the muscle in his jaw working as he brought his emotions back under control, and managed to ignore the blatant signal beckoning to her until the glow dimmed and the door faded back out of existence. The archway between kitchen and den was just a curve of plaster and paint once more.

But as days passed, Emma coudn’t help worrying occasionally in unguarded moments if a person only got one door. Had she missed her only chance to move on? It wasn’t that she never wanted her peace and rest, or to know what was waiting on the other side. Yet, she couldn’t truly regret her decision either if the alternative had been leaving Killian alone, even if the consequences did trouble her mind.

So she wasn’t sure how Killian had figured it out the morning she came down the stairs to find him already in the kitchen gazing out the window over the sink and bathed in the rising sunshine. Maybe the man was genuinely able to read her mind. He was always able to tell when she entered a room, she conceded as he turned to face her, even before she stepped from the last stair. She felt him the moment he drew near her as well: an awareness, a prickling along her skin, the buzzing sensation of need and desire she had always resisted in life electrified by his presence. Maybe there was no hiding when someone was that close.

With the window and the sunrise at his back, Killian seemed almost outlined by a halo of gold. He came to stand at the counter facing her, and Emma moved to meet him, smiling easily. “Morning,” she offered in greeting, still fighting years’ worth of habitual impulses to start brewing coffee and digging throught he cupboards for cereal - sustenance that she no longer needed.

“Swan,” he’d spoken gently, calmly, but in a way that drew her up and demanded her focus. Reaching out his own larger hand to cover hers where it rested on the countertop, he went right to the heart of the matter. “Emma… what were you thinking?”

She shrugged, trying not to meet his eyes fully as she pretended she didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “What do you mean?” she asked blankly.

He sighed, that apologetic depth of sorrow in his eyes making her swallow hard when he spoke again. “You saw the light at the end of the tunnel, didn’t you? Your door appeared… The evening we spoke of Belle and Gideon’s disappearance…” He paused, spearing her with the intense blue of his gaze and not allowing her to look away. He cupped her chin between his thumbe and forefinger, stroking along her cheek as he did so, the expression on his face begging her to help him understand. “Why didn’t you step through, Love… and go on to your reward?”

The worry and fear on his unfairly beautiful face showed that he already new exactly why she hadn’t, but he deserved the truth. Emma couldn’t give him anything less. Placing her hands over his, squeezing tightly with feeling, she leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “Killian, don’t ask question you already know the answers to,” she breathed shakily, trying to keep the tremble from her voice long enough to speak. “You must know, surely… it was you.”

His head back as he heaved a deep, rattling breath - breaking away from her as he did so. “I hoped I was wrong,” he admitted. “I don’t want to the reason. You shouldn’t be held back from your paradise because of me.”

For a moment his eyes wouldn’t meet hers as he struggled to regain control of himself. Then, he reached out to wipe the pad of his thumb over her cheek and brush the solitary tear she’d shed away. Not letting him have an out, Emma caught his eye once more. “Paradise, huh?” she tried to tease weakly, desperate to make him smile. He was breaking her heart. “You think an awful lot of me, Buddy. We both know I was no saint.”

A huff of air escaped him that might have been a disgruntled laugh in spite of himself, but he pulled her into him, almost clinging to her for several long minutes before finally breathing in her ear, “Nonsense, Emma. You were meant to be an angel. Don’t give up your peace on account of me.”

She hugged him back, but made no such promise. They would have to disagree on that, and he knew it too. They were both too stubborn to change their minds, so days went on and they went back to almost-normal without speaking of it again. Emma simply had to hope he understood. She didn’t want to argue with Killian, or to ignore his wishes. And she did want to go through her door as well, but when the time was right. She realized now that would have to be when they could both go throught it together.

~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~~

It had been March when she’d met her fate in the quiet old house, and she and Killian had drifted through the spring and summer and early autumn, growing ever closer to each other. They had sat on the porch for long hours talking without getting too hot or worrying about bug bites or sunburn; spent evenings curled together under one quilt in the large windowseat of the library watching lightning flash across the sky and thunder roll on August nights. As September came, they snuggled under the comforter on the bed, her head resting on his chest, her ear over his heart as though she could still heart its beat. If she had thought before that she couldn’t leave him, there was no way she could even imagine it again.

There was a chill in the air the September afternoon a thick, cream-colored envelope landed on the front porch, addressed with Killian’s name and a Ms. Belle French scrawled in top left corner. Emma heard the soft sound of the thick paper landing on the proch slats, and didn stop to question how it had gotten there, why the ghost resident of an supposed abandoned house was receiving mail again, but had hurried to where Killian reading in the library, letter in hand.

A more lovely autumn day had never been than when a slant of later afternoon sun lit Killian’s face as he scanned the letter’s contents, a smile dawning over his countenance as if he coudn’t believe the words before him on the page. “They’re alright,” he murmured, half to himself and half to her. “They got away… thought I should know.”  His eyes continued to skim over the handwritten lines quickly, but his beckoned her close, and stunned smile on his face and light in his eyes that did Emma’s heart good. She could see the guilt and the hurt he had carried lifting from his shoulders with each passing second as she came to perch on the corner of the desk at his elbow.  “They didn’t want me to have to harbor a secret… just missed the people who trashed the house that day, and didn’t want to continue putting me in danger…”

He shook his head in disbelief and then stood to sweep her up in his arms, spinning her around as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe, finally, he didn’t.

It was only as Killian set her back on her feet again, as he picked up her hand to kiss the back of it tenderly, and she hummed in contentment, swaying closer to him that a warm inviting light touched the side of both their faces. Turning as one, Emma recognized the sight that had graced her vision once before, but Kiliian’s eyes widened before turning to hers.  “Is that…?” he breathed, hope and uncertainty and awe blending in the question as it trailed off on his lips. 

She nodded, no words coming to her that she could speak past the lump in her throat.

“Well, then, Swan,” he smiled with the beauty and joy of a man whose heart was free at last. “What do you say we embark on a new adventure?”

“I’d follow you anywhere,” she said with a certainty she felt to the bottom of her soul. Clutching his fingers in her own tightly, she walked with him toward the door wreathed in light that had appeared in middle of the bookshelf. As long as she didn’t have to let go of Killian’s hand.

Tagging: @cssns​ @kmomof4​ @hollyethecurious​ @artistic-writer​ @jennjenn615​ @gingerchangeling​ @therooksshiningknight​ @spartanguard​ @drowned-dreamer​ @winterbaby89​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​ @searchingwardrobes​ @tiganasummertree​ @optomisticgirl​ @thislassishooked​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @laschatzi​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @lfh1226-linda​ @thisonesatellite​ @shireness-says​ @profdanglaisstuff​ 

[mmmmalo]

This is a (meandering, non-exhaustive) overview of Homestuck’s use of

by which I do not mean examples of psychological realism in a character’s words and deeds, but rather the various means by which characters’ psyches are expressed outside of themselves. I wish to elaborate on how thoughts, feelings, and desires may find expression in the environment, in the medium of the story itself, and in the form of other characters.

That’s perhaps a little vague, so here’s a ready example of what I mean: brainghost!Dirk. He talks with Jake, but since he is a construct of Jake’s mind, Jake is essentially talking to himself. Brainghost!Dirk is an alienated medium for voicing Jake’s own thoughts, irretrievably distorted through its intermingling with what Jake thinks/wishes Dirk would say (not unlike a puppet). I am claiming that this mode of characterization is not a unique to Jake; the blurring of inner and outer voices is omnipresent throughout the story.

Or, rephrased: what I hope to show is that a great deal of Homestuck is haunted with brain-ghosts, of one kind or other.

An early example of this kind of storytelling in science fiction would be the film Forbidden Planet (1956). The film contains a pair of conflicts which eventually reveal themselves to be one: the scientist Morbius wants some space explorers to get off his planet, and an immense monster (pictured above) appears during the night to attack the explorers. Morbius, it turns out, has been experimenting with a machine capable of turning thought into reality. So when Morbius sleeps, his dream of driving off the trespassers materializes in the form of beast that forcefully enacts the wish.

The beast is declared a “monster from the id”, the “id” being a concept borrowed from Freudian psychology, indicating the part of the mind responsible for the unfiltered generation of impulses, of urges. In the film, this passing mention of psychoanalysis precedes the revelation of Morbius’s link to the beast.

Homestuck hints towards its own mixing of thought and reality with a device similar to Morbius’s dream machine: Sburb.

A snapshot of Dave’s Sburb client (1519) shows that the final subprograms launched during the games installation make reference to terminology associated with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. The terms suggest that Sburb interacts with the ideas in the kids’ subconscious minds (archetypes) and brings symbolic representations of these ideas into conscious reality (manifests the ideas). The game alters the means by which reality is constructed. As with Forbidden Planet, a major result of this is id monsters.

When John slips on a staircase, he flips out (left, 560). And when he nearly launches himself into the abyss with the Pogo Hammer, he has to take a nap before he has calmed down enough to continue (center, 637). Immediately following both moments of vertigo, massive ogres appear. The eventual fight with the ogres begins after John looks over the edge of the platform above his house, into the abyss (right, 662).

All of this suggests that Sburb is reacting to John’s emotional state (fear) to produce in-game content. The game functions as a waking dream.

It should also be noted that Sburb provokes the reactions it elicits. Karkat once mentioned a nagging feeling that the game was mocking him by giving him a planet covered in the candy red blood he had spent a lifetime attempting to hide (2301). Karkat’s paranoia seems to be correct here, and moreover applicable to the cast in general -- John’s house was likely placed atop an immense spire /in order to/ bring John’s dread of falling into sharp relief. The suspicion can be substantiated with a few related motifs.

The story provides two likely origins for John’s fear of heights: his own fall from the slime pogo as a child (2626) and the death of Nanna, which John believed resulted from her falling from a ladder and being crushed by a book (52). What’s more, Sburb’s invocation of the Fall of Man (Adam and Eve being cast from the Garden of Eden) via biting into an apple hints that there is an allegorical significance to John’s more literal fear of heights. 

We can apply these patterns to other characters in an attempt to learn more about them. LOLAR being covered in ocean suggests that Rose is afraid of water, with the likely cause of Rose finding Jaspers dead and washed up on a riverbank (presumed drowned). Dave speaks openly about how his sword fights with Bro left him anxious of metal sounds (7749), meaning the grinding gears of LOHAC were a personalized hell for Dave. Jade’s first imp manifests in response to the sight of a yellow aurora (2998), inviting the reader to investigate why that image invokes a fear response.

But we won’t get to into all of that, not for now at least. Let’s take a step back.

For my reading of the imps as manifestations I’ve been leaning heavily on a piece of film theory devoted to the effects of sequential images. The sequence above constitutes two observations. One, that by this arrangement the viewer will infer the old man sees and reacts to the middle figure. Two, that the viewer’s impression of the old man will change based on the content of the central image, even if his expression is the same. Is he smiling at Nepeta or warm embrace Marvus’s armpit? The answer may influence your interpretation of the little smile.

The neat thing about montage is that the interrupting frame need not bear any obvious relation to what precedes or follows in order to be subject to a causal reading. Moments that occur sequentially can be read as triggering one another, even if what follows any particular moment appears to be a break rather than a continuation.

Example: There’s a moment where Aranea walks into Jake’s dream, and brainghost!Dirk immediately starts razzing Jake about his attraction to the alien girl and threatening to give him a boner. The scene is interrupted by Jack committing a series of gratuitous murders. We then cut back to Jake, and bg!Dirk is now teasing him about his dirty thoughts.

DIRK: You have got to be kidding. Did you seriously just think something THAT dirty? DIRK: You must be doing this on purpose to spite me now. I mean, just wow dude. That was x-rated as fuck. 

JAKE: (No no stop. See youre talking about it and now i cant help it!) JAKE: (You are psyching me into having dirty thoughts get fucking lost you interloping brain douche!!!) 

DIRK: Don't worry, I'm gone. It's like a goddamn peep show in here and I feel like a sleazy piece of shit watching this from a dark corner of your mind. DIRK: You have a graphic imagination, English. I'm kind of impressed. 

JAKE: (Shut up theyre just thoughts its not even like im trying to have them THEY DONT MEAN ANYTHING!)

The ostensible joke is that bg!Dirk is exaggerating or outright fabricating his account of Jake’s thoughts in order to hassle him. But by way of montage, one can infer that we /have/ seen Jake’s dirty thoughts, in the form of Jack’s display of overwhelming bloodlust. Violence is superimposed over the sexually explicit. 

Whether the scene literally takes place in Jake’s mind is secondary (though such a reading would explain why Jake’s brain ghost is even aware of Jack) -- the use of montage allows Jack’s actions to function as a /metaphor/ for Jake’s thought.

Another example of Jack functioning as a murderous/libidinous avatar would be the death of Mom and Dad. At their little tea party, Dad spills some wine on Mom’s clothes and declares that she must disrobe immediately (so that Dad might launder the garment). Mom calls the aromas wafting from his pipe sensuous. The two clasp hands and declare that all they need is eachother. Then they die! The joke is that while Bec Noir is ostensibly an interruption to date night, he also functions as its culmination, with murder acting as substitute for the sex act.

The link between violence and sexuality is perhaps a hard sell, but I hope to convince you that the reading holds merit. Let me emphasize that the very act of Mom and Dad holding hands was itself sexually loaded.

I owe to HS liveblogger elfstuck the insight that John’s linear 3 card sylladex is a reflection of his short attention span. Consider how John’s role as a game character means he is thrown all around his room, back and forth, as the player figures out what to make of the situation. If you ignore the fourth wall, you’re left with an extremely distracted person, who attention flows easily from one object to another. Accepting the object-in, object-out nature of John’s sylladex and the resulting shenanigans as a metaphor for this, it would follow that the sylladex in general can offer an abstract representation of thought.

In passing, I can mention how the enormity of Jake’s sylladex (it cannot even fit on the page, and contains an object that exceed most players’ size limits) would imply that despite evidence to the contrary, the boy likely has a big brain (and perhaps its being offscreen suggests Jakes own unawareness of much of his own thought). Dirk’s comment about avoiding items that are difficult to shoehorn into his mnemonic schema (4535) could be read as a difficulty maintaining information that doesn’t fit into his personal mental models. The sylladex becomes a metaphor for the mind that requires interpretation.

Under this mode of thought, the moments when Jade’s pictionary modus fails to correctly interpret her drawing become akin to a mental slip-of-the-tongue. For the Tanglebuddies to be misread as enmeshed hands implies an association, in Jade’s mind, of horny Squiddles and clasped hands. John affirms the association much later by miming Tanglebuddies as he attempts to grapple with the question of whether Jade and Davesprite are sexually compatible (5294):

JOHN: how do things even work if you marry a sprite?

JADE: what do you mean 

JOHN: i mean... JOHN: ok, he has a ghost butt, for one thing. 

JADE: uh JADE: so 

JOHN: a GHOST BUTT, jade! 

JADE: SO WHAT IF HE HAS A GHOST BUTT!!!!! 

JOHN: i'm just saying... 

JADE: WHATEVER YOURE JUST SAYING, JUST STOP SAYING IT! JADE: and whatever youre trying to gesture with your hands there, stop doing that too!

It should also be noted that before launching into her “daring dream”, waxing poetic on the miraculous union of the human and the animal with her hands clasped in wonder, Jade successfully captchalogued the Tanglebuddies (796). And more to the point, Jade’s pose in reproduced during discussions of cherub (5961) and leprechaun (6007) reproduction. Hand-holding becomes representative of an (oft-sexualized) union, underlining the euphemistic nature of Mom and Dad’s post-contact demise.

The next example of using montage to communicate thought requires a little more buildup.

There’s a gag in Rose’s introduction where the reader tells Rose to play with her writing journals, and scoots the journals under the bed and retorts that she would only do that if no one were watching (220). At first glance, the moment scans as a minor meta joke in a story filled with meta jokes -- but the trick is that Rose does not /know/ herself to be a video game character, her every movement controlled and observed. Rather, she /believes/ this to be true -- the joke about being watched establishes that Rose is paranoid, as will become apparent in the hostility she assigns to Mom’s every action.

The command prompt and narration are themselves brain ghosts of a sort: the voice deployed in them is always linked to the present point-of-view character. The insults that precede character introductions ( “Zoosmell Pooplord”, etc) become marks of anxiety, an intrusive proclamation of what the kids at times think of themselves (and/or what they think others think of them). “Nice time management skills, sweetheart!” becomes a bit of self-deprecation Rose as she procrastinates, which Rose experiences as having been voiced by some objective observer who judges her deficiencies.

A blurred line divides characters from the voice at the back of their head, belonging to the (presumed) omniscient, omnipotent author-god. This is why avatar!Hussie is dressed as Calliope when he is killed by Lord English. Both Calliope and Hussie are a voice in Caliborn’s head, and thus both present apparent obstacles to an unmediated self.

The left panel (3219) foreshadows the right (3358). Gamzee is not being declared the objectively most important character in Homestuck. Rather, Gamzee is declaring himself /to have been declared/ the most important character in the story. The line establishes that Gamzee believes himself to be in a story (with an author!) and that this author has declared him paramount. Furthermore, “fondly regarding creation” is an modus operandi of Problem Sleuth’s Godhead Pickle Inspector. Applying that turn of phrase to Gamzee’s actions further establishes that Gamzee believes himself to /be/ the god-author declaring his own importance. So it should come as no surprise that 137 pages later, Gamzee outright proclaims himself to be the god(s) he worships.

Going back to montage, it becomes interesting that this snapshot of Gamzee’s megalomania is inter-cut with the creation of Jadesprite -- the moment that dead!dream!Jade merges with Bec, forming a unity with a deity not unlike the unity Gamzee claims with his mirthful messiahs. The interweaving would suggest that Jade and/or Jadesprite experienced analogous thoughts of megalomania upon the moment of ascension.

This would be a good point to mention that not only imps and ogres, but trolls also function as manifestations for the people they impose upon. Karkat is not only an interruption here, but also a continuation. He points out that Jade’s self-loathing, that she cannot safely distance herself from the qualities of Jadesprite she finds distasteful. This is precisely why Karkat ends the conversation by telling Jade to turn off the fourth wall (which divides the self!), as well as the reason he imagines Jade making out with herself: Karkat is on every front presenting the prospect of union with oneself.

The notion of trolls as manifestations first emerges clearly when Rose and Dave receive their packages from John. As they finish reading John’s letter, each is suddenly contacted by a troll and greeted with the command “Answer.” Critically, by word alone it is ambiguous as to whether the command refers to answering the troll or the letter. And as it turns out, these answer occur simultaneously: Rose and Dave’s responses to the letters are embedded in the subsequent conversations. 

Rose receives a letter poking fun at her pretensions, claiming that her attempts to hide her affections for people are futile. In response we get Kanaya, who imperiously proclaims her disdain for Rose, only to suddenly change tact and explicitly seek Rose’s friendship, an entreaty which the oft paranoid Rose accepts. Dave receives a letter imploring him to let go of his insecurities and express himself. In response we get Tavros, the very picture of insecurity, who is fixated on the idea of making Dave shit himself (as part of an ‘emotional constipation’ motif that follows Dave). And Dave complies, in a sense, by way of the quasi-ironic gay treatise that compels Tavros to block him. Each conversation addresses the issues laid out in John’s letter.

Examples can be found throughout the comic. Equius remarking that he talks to Gamzee every day (2220) establishes that Gamzee is regularly haunted by the thoughts of domination that Equius voices -- both in the literal and metaphorical sense. Erisolsprite referring to Dirk as a rock 2oliid piiece of a22 and then calling himself 2ociiopathiic for even thinking something so callous (5516) expresses a conflict already present in Jake’s own mind, echoing the frustration with his own dirty thoughts expressed by the argument with brainghost!Dirk. Feferi’s pronounced enthusiasm for the imminent apocalypse should cause you to question Kanaya’s seemingly neutral resignation towards the end of the world, since Feferi manifests for Kanaya (2328). And so on.

The person being trolled is always being confronted with thoughts or feelings or memories already present within themself. Alien contact always doubles as a brain ghost haunting.

Another example, with some buildup: Karkat invokes the phrase “PERFORATE MY BONE BULGE WITH A CULLING FORK” to express his contempt for Vriska, and on subsequent pages we see Feferi pointing her culling fork at a cuttlefish (2181), as if to suggest that the creature symbolizes the bone bulge. Fast forward to Kanaya, who has just gotten through a conversation with Vriska and finds herself haunted by Eridan, who keeps going on about his romantic desperations and insisting (correctly) that Kanaya’s crush on Vriska is itself romantic. That his notification erupts from an image of cuttlefish held at Kanaya’s waist adds to the air of yearning, as though her own bulge is rumbling. The scene is capped off with a double entendre: “its hard and nobody understands” is playfully poignant jab at an inability to understand one’s own desires (among other things). 

And Homestuck devotes a lot of attention to desire.

It’s long been acknowledged by the fandom at large that Kanaya’s attraction to Light players functions as a joke on the proverbial moth-to-the-flame. As reconciliation with the fire destroys the moth, there’s a morbid tinge to the attraction, as though it doubles as a death wish. And the wish is granted -- when Kanaya dies in Homestuck, she dies to light, either from Eridan’s wand or the laser blasts unleashed by HIC. Even the death of Kanaya’s lusus pertains to light -- the matriorb ripped from her innards is shaped like a miniature sun, as if to establish some loose link between the notion of motherhood and the incandescence Kanaya eventually achieves.

This can be generalized into a principle wherein lusii (and the circumstances of their deaths!) can functions as analogies for the desire of the wards.

Vriska, for example, desires execution. When offering Terezi a flimsy apology for crippling Tavros and proxy-murdering Aradia, Vriska offers to slam her head against her desk in penitence. This moment should be read against Vriska’s addiction to breaking 8 balls, and leaving the broken shards lying around as though she’s inviting the “bad luck” of stepping on them. It /is/ an invitation. Vriska seeks love via violent retribution against herself. This is why in the right panel, Vriska’s blood-spattered head is juxtaposed with a broken 8 ball: the blood came from Spidermom’s execution (which characterizes Vriska’s desire), and motif of 8R8K H34DS connects the moment to Vriska’s idea of apology.

Like Kanaya, Vriska (to a degree) seems to structure her love life along these lines. In the words of @azdoine:

like ppl are actually out here writing Vriska as the top as if her entire Act 5 character arc isn’t about bratting out until Terezi has no choice but to punish her

“oh noo, I, the thief of light, stole all of your luck, and made the coin land on the scratched side! now you have to kill me! but I’m probably going to get away with everything, because you don’t have the guts to stab me with that sword of yours!!!!!!!! if only there was somebody, like you, who could prove me wrong!”

EXTREMELY SUBTLE THERE, VRISKA

Vriska’s approach to wooing Tavros also revolves around baiting execution:

The scene: Tavros leads a horde of imps and ogres into a mystery cave, the top of which is adorned with kissing lizards and an alchemical symbol. Tavros is putting a puzzle of a frog together, but Vriska has already pieced together the puzzle: making a frog universe is, in part, a cipher for personal reproduction. The Ultimate Alchemy is making a baby! And as Vriska says, “real gamers cut to the chase. They power through all the nonsense and go for the gold.” So she brings Tavros to LOMAT and makes the moves on him.

Tavros is equated to a treasure chest by the repeated use of framing and Vriska is GOING FOR THE GOLD, like a WINNER. Tavros later reaches into the same chest for his lance before heading off to attempt to kill Vriska -- affirming that the treasure Vriska seeks here is Tavros’s “lance”.

This setup was suggested by the conversation accompanying the kissing salamanders: Vriska gives Tavros a map with a big red X, saying he should take his legion of imps through the gate and go defeat his denizen. The gate actually leads to Vriska, but she isn’t lying. She is positioning herself to be Tavros’s final boss. The imps are manifestations of Tavros’s pent up rage (much of which was generated by Vriska’s harassment), and Vriska wants Tavros to take that anger out on her. Hence the later panel which uses Vriska’s boots to place a big red X directly over her groin, making explicit the implicit goal of Tavros’s trip to the windmill X-gate.

This pursuit of love through violent comeuppance may have something to do with Vriska’s bitter disappointment that ghost!Aradia did not seem to hate her.

An intermission/introduction of sorts, as we bridge from one discussion of desire to another: did you know that Michael Bay’s Armageddon (1998) structures itself in part around Freud’s Oedipus complex? I say this in total sincerity.

The plot: a meteor the size of Texas bears down upon the Earth, threatening armageddon. Luckily, a crew of rough-and-tumble oil drillers are ready to fly into space and split that mother in two. Oh HELL yeah.

Except, wait, the movie’s actually about family drama: Bruce Willis finds Ben Affleck sleeping with his daughter Liv Tyler; Willis proceeds to chase Affleck around the oil rig with a shotgun, bang bang bang. Not Allowed. The Protective-Father-Hates-Your-Boyfriend dynamic is presented as an Oedipal triad of sorts: although Tyler is not literally Affleck’s mother, she performs the mom-function of “forbidden object of desire” -- and Willis opening fire is equivalent to the castration said to await trespassers onto maternal soil.

The above reading is buttressed by jokes: Armageddon appears to function within an implicit dream machine, such that the characters’ thoughts and fears can become manifest in their environment. So when it comes to pass that whenever  Affleck climbs into a hole (heehee), a pipe breaks (hoohoo), and suddenly everything goes boom, I read that as Affleck reliving the consequences of boning Tyler, packaged in such a way that the Freudian fear of castration is more explicit. (The relevance of Oedipus to the proceedings adds some humor to Steve Buscemi declaring the entire disastrous situation a “Greek tragedy”)

At any rate, after some shenanigans, Willis comes to accept Affleck’s claim to his daughter and confers the deed, as it were. Willis gives the young couple his blessing and they get married. Hooray!

Except, wait, the movie’s actually about the perpetuation of the oil industry: the dream machine was declared at the beginning of the movie when a petty street-side argument triggered the first barrage of meteors. The meteor the size of Texas (aka Dotty) is triggered by conflicts that haunt the central cast -- namely Willis, who enters the film hitting golf balls at a Green Peace boat. On a metaphorical level, Dotty is a golf ball the size of Texas, striking directly at the Earth instead its self-declared representatives. There’s a certain irony here: the film lampshades that the men who are destroying the world have been tasked with saving it.

The family drama folds into the environmentalist angle: Liv Tyler is a symbol of the earth (which gets drilled). This is the joke when Affleck is bouncing animal crackers around on her belly like she’s host to the Savannah: she kind of is! It’s no coincidence that Willis confers ownership of the oil rig at the same moment that he offers his daughter’s hand in marriage: the motifs are being discussed simultaneously.

But enough of all of that: back to Homestuck.

Armageddon’s simultaneous casting of Liv Tyler into the roles of earth and mother offers a glimpse at the interpretive possibilities made available by Hussie’s statement that Homestuck is in a way a synonym for Earthbound (an RPG in which “homesickness” is a status ailment which can be cured by calling your mom). Stuckness or boundness can be deployed to communicate a sense of longing for “home”.

A good chunk of Homestuck is built upon feelings of nostalgia, taken to mean a sort of intense separation anxiety with the past. John speaks about this when he watches Con Air with Jade – John wants the movie to feel like it did when he watched it with his Dad long ago, but the feeling from when he was a kid is gone. This upsets him. Moreover, John’s freakout starts at the moment Cyrus puts a gun to the bunny’s head (5286): Con Air itself is partly about Nic Cage trying to return to the life he lost when he went to jail, and ‘putting the bunny back in the box’ is a metaphor for the attempt. Cyrus, in threatening the bunny, is highlighting his role as a force preventing things from going back to how they were. Thus, if we are to believe that John is responding to the movie thematically, Cyrus confronts John with his own inability to go back to a happier past – his inability to go home -- and this recognition is met with anger.

In making the leap to the psychoanalytic motifs, it helps to recall the part where baby!Dirk responds to being born by cracking open his ectotube and crawling back inside. Dirk, who aspires towards his “ultimate self”, illustrates here that he envisions his ascension as a return to the ‘essence’ of Dirk from which he (and all other iterations of himself) arose, as represented by the ectoslime. Baby!Dirk gestures at unity with his ectoslime/essence by crawling back into the place from which he was born, which I’m basically claiming is a “return to the womb” on a symbolic level, or at least that this is a useful parallel to draw. (A related motif to think about: Dirk decapitates himself by sticking his head inside a box, which as per Con Air symbolizes the place you wish to return to)

[Hella Jeff sez: “i took (my pants) off because i was banging your mom for a minute there..... AND NOW YOU ARE BANGING HER”]

Castration becomes unavoidable as you try to relate all of this to Dave, whose occasional references to banging hot moms are part of an ongoing reference to the Oedipus Complex. Critically, the complex is not /just/ about wanting to bone your mom, but also fear that your dad will chop your junk off if you do. The breaking of Dave’s sword on the rooftop is a realization of this fear (yes, we’re doing the “swords are phallic” thing). But Dave has no mom that he knows of, so what gives? 

The answer is in the way Bro inexplicably breaks the record emblem on Dave’s t-shirt, as though he has introduced a fissure into Dave’s very identity. Life with Bro has made it very difficult for Dave to be honest with himself, which is to say, Dave pictures Bro’s abuse as having divided him from an ideal “true self”, which can feel emotions without all the anxious ironic detachment. I mentioned before that seeking unity with that from which you came is a “return to the womb”. This is the sense in which the Oedipal mom attraction becomes relevant: the return to the past is sexualized. The ‘home’ Dave wishes to return to is /himself/, and in this sense Dave is his own hot mom (which is related to how often Dave compliments his own looks, as well as the above gif suggesting Dave’s boner – he is literally/metaphorically “attracted” to himself).

(Incidentally: this model of desire, in which a broken subject attempt to become whole again by seeking out its lost half, is basically the concept of the soulmate, as laid out by Plato. Cherub reproduction turns the metaphysical pursuit of one’s lost half into a plot-level objective)

John’s entry item (apple) was linked to fear embodied in a childhood trauma (the Fall), and the same can be said of Dave. Hatching from the shell that contained your primordial goop (Dirk) is analogous to being violently separated from yourself (Dave), which is why Dave’s entry item (an egg) hatching coincided with Bro slicing the meteor in half: the abuse that divided Dave from himself, his “castration” by Bro, is simultaneously the “birth” that separated Dave from his “mother” (which is also Dave).

The general idea is that birth = self-alienation = castration, insofar as all are depicted as modes of being separated from oneself.

The broad motif of ‘being separated from oneself’ can be very useful for identifying brain ghosts in unexpected places. Take for example, Roxy’s fenestrated planes: when they are introduced the narrative is quick to tell us that if someone were caught half in/out of one of the windows when the power cuts out, they would be sliced in half. By the rule of Chekhov’s gun, this introduction should mean we should eventually see someone get gorily bisected by the window, but alas we never do. 

Instead, when Gcat warped the panel away, trapping Roxy between the windows, we were shown the image of a bisected horse puppet in Dirk’s apartment, This signals that Chekhov’s gun has indeed gone off. But rather than splitting a body, it split a soul: Meenah’s introduction follows the sequence because Roxy has generated a shadow of herself, a doppelganger. This is not without precedent: an earlier portion of this post was devoted to exploring the fourth wall as a mode of self-alienation. Roxy’s panel mishap can be considered part of that pattern.

If Meenah functions as an extension of Roxy, all of her actions can be read as bearing some relations to Roxy’s own latent thoughts and desires. Prior to the epilogues, for example, Meenah imploring John not to give her the ring seemed to be yet another Fuck You to the late Chekov: the issue never comes up again. But a psychic link between Meenah and Roxy would suggest that John broke his promise to Meenah by giving the ring to Roxy, and that whatever motivations compelled Meenah to make her request in the first place would also apply to Roxy.

Decapitation is yet another mode of self-alienation, and thus can be construed as a mode of birth. Hence the image of Lil Sebastian hatching from his shell of taxidermied man meat. That’s a motif unto itself, but what I wish to call attention to is the match-cut from John’s broke body to Jake’s broken tower. The juxtaposition collapses the images into metaphor, such that Jake’s loose dome in the woods becomes a decapitated head -- an appropriate addition to the pumpkin patch it rests in, given all the Headless Horseman jokes. We can look to Dirk for for another example of a headless horse-man of the house echoing the head: for a guy who idealizes decapitation to such a degree, it is striking that Sburb aims to provoke him by reattaching his beheaded apartment to its underlying units.

Houses act as metaphors for heads, then “Homestuck” could also interpreted as “head trapped” -- like the title emphasizes confinement within one’s own mind. Such a reading offers up Failure to Launch and Arrested Development (posters on John and Jane’s walls) as alternate synonyms for Homestuck, as each satirizes (or outright mocks) potential failure states in the process of inter-personal and mental development (ie “growing up”). Like Earthbound, both lean on a sense of homesickness in characterizing despondency, as though characters are haunted by the needs that defined their childhood -- or else find themselves needing that childhood itself.

But collapsing nostalgia into infantile regression is far from the only way to approach the house/heads equation. One might read the transformation and growth of houses with Sburb as metaphors for expanding the mind. One might infer that the choreography of events within houses can map out thoughts like dancing bees. One might take the metaphor as a foothold for interpreting the significance of the Sburb logo being at once a house and a window. \I have my own thoughts about Homestuck’s brain-ghost haunted house-minds, but for now, I only hope that this document has raised some interesting questions -- and ideally, that the interpretive approaches I’ve described might be useful in seeking answers.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 30 Review: The Executive Meddling Begins?

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

Welcome to my Garden of Evil, where today we end one era of the history of Strange Paradise and begin a new one: the period of the “Lost Episode” summaries, when the soap opera’s producers forced headwriter Ian Martin to rewrite much of his original story, discarding many subplots and planned plot twists and negating the original episode synopses that had already been sent to newspapers throughout North America. The known published synopses for this episode are as follows:

"Vangie, the voodoo priestess, uses her conjurer's powers to weaken the evil spell which possesses Jean Paul and to plant the suggestion that she come to his private island."[1]

"A secret potion draws Jean Paul to a voodoo priestess."[2]

According to Curt Ladnier’s blog, this is the first episode known to have been altered after the synopses were sent out, but, before starting this review, I had my doubts. Certainly, comparison between the summaries and the aired episodes show clear evidence of script changes by Episode 32, but there was enough ambiguity in certain events in this episode for me to question if this one was even rewritten in the first place. So, without further ado, let’s run a fine-toothed comb through the aired version of Episode 30 and see if we can find conclusive evidence of rewriting.

The episode begins with Holly being pushed down the staircase in the Great Hall. She screams loudly and Jean Paul and Reverend Matt Dawson come rushing to her aid. While they help her over to the couch, she turns to Matt and accuses him of deliberately pushing her. Jean Paul (who is wearing an unusual but fetching ensemble with a dark blazer and off-white pants) is also suspicious of him, because, according to him, the Reverend was there when she got pushed. Handsome devil Jacques, of course, comments:

An indication that Jacques did it, or just commenting on the situation?

For some reason, Jean Paul doesn’t blame Jacques this time, but instead Matt, who was there (as was Jacques, most likely) and who has the possible motive of revenge for rejecting his romantic advances (not applicable, but Jacques does have the motive of liking murder). Here is the conversation between them and my commentary:

Matt: "Mr. Desmond, I resent your insinuation. Why should I want to harm Holly?" Jean Paul: "Or kill her?" Matt: "You can't be serious." Holly: "Whoever pushed me was." Matt: "But I followed you down here to help you, not to hurt you." Jean Paul: "Or to have her." [Is he implying that he thinks Matt wants to take advantage of her?] Matt: "Are you serious?" Jean Paul: "Your adoration is about as obvious as her pretty face." [And your pretty...everything.]

Matt: *getting pissed at Jean Paul* "I have had about all the insinuations I can take! All right, I do care about her--deeply."

Matt: *to Holly* "Now, can't you believe that I'm the last one who would want to harm you?" Holly: "You're the first, because I don't care for you!"

Jean Paul tells Reverend Stalker to leave Holly alone "or you'll have me to answer to," so the disgruntled padre flounces. But on his way out, he has some accusations of his own:

ROFL at Matt’s delivery of this line.

Matt reveals that he still hasn’t grasped the concept of the detained guest.

So now you believe in demons? What made you change your mind?

The dialogue in this episode so far is heavy with exposition as usual, but it feels different this time. Usually, the exposition takes the form of one character telling another directly about the events and revelations from past episodes, but this time it's structured differently, as a two-way expository dialogue rather than a speech with questions and reactions from the listener. It still doesn't feel entirely natural--it still has the feel of exposition dialogue--but it's a different format.

I should also note that, according to Bryan Gruszka of StrangeParadise.net, the script reveals that neither Matt nor Jacques pushed her. The attacker’s name is a spoiler in spite of the fact that Martin never got to reveal that they were responsible, so I shall link to the Week 6 trivia page here for anyone who is interested.

Jean Paul has a possession headache, but no funny headache faces this time.

Jacques leaves the portrait (which decided to disappear this episode) and mocks Matt for believing in him--which, I should note, is a change from last episode, where the Reverend firmly denied believing in devils and called them superstition. He calls Matt's belief in him "a sad testimony to the belief in which he was schooled"--again, even though Matt actually didn't believe in devils until apparently the beginning of this episode. Already this is a break in continuity, which does not necessarily indicate someone tampering with the established canon, but is suggestive of it nonetheless. Of course, that’s assuming that it isn’t just an error, which it might be. (Remember that Martin can’t decide whether or not Raxl knows Jean Paul is possessed!)

What's with this lighting effect? Did the director decide that Jacques looked too sexy under normal lighting, so they decided to use underlighting to make him look scarier and less hot? Because the effect is not scary. It makes him look like a Muppet, and Muppets are not scary.

Jacques is getting better at impersonating Jean Paul, as evidenced by this deeply ironic part where he comforts Holly. “Have no fear, cherie,” he says, “I will protect you.”

Meanwhile in the Not-So-Hidden Temple, Vangie gives Raxl a bottle of some potion to slip Jean Paul, which she tells her "is not to kill, but to prevent more killing. It is a Conjure brew to free his mind to make it more responsive to mine." This must be what the Lost Episode summaries are referring to! She doesn’t outright state in this scene that she wants Jean Paul to bring her to Maljardin by boat, but she says that’s what she wants in the episode before this one, so anyone who has seen Episode 29 would already know that.

An interesting detail not mentioned on the trivia page: before parting, Vangie asks Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent, to pray to her mother.

Vangie teleports/floats back to the main island, which frightens Quito until Raxl assures him that “the Conjure Woman has found her way home.” They leave the temple and begin traveling down the long tunnel back to the crypt. Unbeknownst to them, Reverend Dawson is there, searching the crypt wall for the Not-So-Hidden Door:

Come on, Matt! It’s not at all hard to find!

He finds it and pushes on the door just as Quito starts pulling it open. When Quito grabs him, both of their expressions are priceless:

I can’t decide whose expression is funnier.

“I was not trespassing in your sacred temple, Raxl!” he cries, then insists that he was only down there “to find a means of saving your master.”

“You knew of the temple because I showed you, a man of your-”

“I have not betrayed its sanctity,” he interrupts, even though he was clearly trying to find it so he could search it for the poison. The implication is that, if he visited without Raxl and Quito’s permission, he would betray the temple’s sanctity. He tells her about the missing cyanide, she tells him about the missing conjure doll and silver pin, and then she assures him that neither Jean Paul nor Jacques could have hidden either in the temple because neither know about it.

Up in the Great Hall, THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES is relaxing pompously when Raxl and Quito enter. He orders Quito to prepare to sail to the main island, which leads Raxl to declare, perhaps over-confidently, “The Conjure Woman got to him even without [the potion]!” This negates the second summary which explicitly indicates the potion as the means of “draw[ing] Jean Paul to [Vangie],” but not the first. Also, what makes Raxl think that this is evidence of Vangie’s influence over him? Apparently Jacques choosing to go to the island out of his own free will isn’t a possibility.

Matt asks if he can return to the main island, but Jacques refuses, declaring that “today is a rather special trip for a lady and myself,” referring to his deliciously evil girlfriend Elizabeth Marshall. The Reverend responds by asking if he trusts her not to reveal the secret of Erica’s death, which Jacques uses as yet another opportunity to make Jean Paul look like a murderer by saying, “There is no one dead here--that I don’t pronounce!” And then he threatens him again:

Someone’s on Jacques’ list of people to kill!

We next see Jacques strutting into the French Leave Café wearing a pair of huge round sunglasses over his eyes. Ironically, the demon who is normally so fond of black clothing has changed into Jean Paul’s off-white suit jacket, although he retains the same red shirt and red-and-black striped tie. I’m thinking that Jacques picked out both outfits and changed before heading out because he just felt like playing dress-up that day. Typical 17th-century fop, just with more modern clothes.

Jacques’ new outfit.

Gold-digger Elizabeth clinging to Jacques as though she’s worried that Vangie will try stealing him from her. Makes me wonder what her 17th-century counterpart’s relationship was to Vangie.

What, no joke about how you “still can’t stand the heat?” I’m shocked!

Even on a date in a public place, he tries to make Jean Paul appear interested in committing murder. He asks Elizabeth how much her daughter’s inheritance is, in case she dies, and then gleefully reminds her of her accident earlier that day!

Back on Maljardin, Quito returns from the main island by himself. While Holly is sipping some of Raxl’s tea (in the literal sense only, unfortunately), he walks up to her holding a shiny stone and offers it to her. She takes it only reluctantly, which reminds me of another Lost Episode summary, this one for Episode 33:

Source: Cleveland Plain Dealer (October 24, 1969).

Quito doesn’t show any signs in this episode of being undead, but he does give Holly a sparkling stone, with little reaction from her. Later in this episode (not in the aired version of Episode 33), Holly gives the stone back to Quito despite his insistence that she keep it, which brings him to tears when he is alone with Raxl towards the end. These events suggest a rewrite more strongly than the original summaries at the top of this page do, because the newspaper summary for Episode 33 clearly indicates that these events were originally slated to happen three episodes later, but moved to this one during rewrites.

What about Quito? It certainly appears that Holly’s won Quito’s heart.

Meanwhile at the French Leave Café, Vangie approaches Jacques and Elizabeth and insists on reading their fortunes, although Elizabeth does not want to hear it. She lays the “King of Scepters” (or, rather, the King of Swords--see the screencap at the beginning of this entry) on their table and Jacques freaks out, enough apparently to de-possess Jean Paul:

Hooray! A headache face!

So did Vangie’s Tarot card make Jacques de-possess him? Or was it something else?

At the end of the episode, Jean Paul invites Vangie to Maljardin himself out of a desire to contact Erica. Much like Jacques’ decision to visit the main island earlier this episode, it comes across as something Jean Paul would decide to do of his own accord, without magical influences. Therefore, I think that we can say that Ian Martin’s original idea for Vangie to use her powers to convince him to take her to the island was indeed scrapped--and that was probably a good thing, because this feels more natural.

The episode ends ominously, with Jean Paul willingly putting everyone’s life on the line to contact Erica’s spirit. Not so different from Jacques wanting to kill everyone.

In conclusion, Episode 30 shows distinct signs of having been rewritten since the release of the Lost Episode summaries. Not only did Vangie’s means of allegedly convincing Jacques to visit the main island and Jean Paul’s motivation for bringing Vangie to Maljardin change, but events originally planned for Episode 33 were moved to this one. There are other minor details that, too, suggest a rewrite: the different mode of exposition and Jacques’ lack of devil/Hell jokes where Martin would have likely inserted them just a week ago. The episode feels different from the earlier Week 6 episodes, but not enough to suggest a new writer.

Coming up next: The last Bad Subtitle Special until the end of Week 8, followed by a review of Episode 31. A mysterious force is tampering with the cryonics capsule, while Alison uncovers even more clues to the mysteries surrounding Erica.

{ <- Previous: Episode 29   ||   Next: Episode 31 -> }

Notes

[1] Fitchburg Sentinel, October 24, 1969.

[2] San Mateo Times, October 17, 1969.

[theharellan]

misconception: that solas doesn't form meaningful bonds during his time in the inquisition other than with a romanced inquisitor

send me meta this is actually a different meme but shush | accepting

i’ll be talking about this until the day i die, but solas makes plenty of meaningful relationships beyond not only the romanced inquisitor, but the inquisitor, period.

game mechanics overly emphasise the relationship between any canon companion and the play character, so i sort of understand where this misconception comes from. their arcs are decided, in part, by their relationship to the player and so it would be really invalidating if, say, you has negative solas approval but he still made it clear that he had accepted the reality of the world around him b/c of his friendship with the iron bull, for example. it’s one of the ways the developers make sure their choices matter.

luckily, this is an rp blog, so i can say that an inquisitor can treat solas like absolute shit and he’ll still make ties in the world and realise how fuckin wrong he was, as he well should.

i’m on a tangent and i haven’t even rly started answering this yet, so here we go:

a befriended inquisitor is just as important to solas as a romanced inquisitor. just as important to his development, to his epiphanies, etc. much of the dialogue goes unchanged regardless of if a relationship is platonic or romantic. even if he doesn’t have romantic feelings for the inquisitor, he still feels the whole world change upon meeting them. he still compares them to the ancient wisdoms he’s known in a pre-veil world. i’ve seen jokes that say the lines have romantic overtones, but really i think solas is just the sort of person to form highly emotional friendships. falon’din and dirthamen are implied not to be brothers, but “twin souls,” something that myself and other a-spec ppl have likened to queer platonic partners. while those two have undoubtedly sullied the term for anyone who opposes them, what i’m trying to demonstrate is that solas comes from a society that doesn’t find close platonic friendships odd.

but like i said, this goes beyond the inquisitor.

the fandom vastly understates his relationship with cole most of all. often he’s depicted as one of his fathers, which i can appreciate as a joke, but i feel like it undercuts how important that relationship is– for both of them.

cole goes to solas first when he’s experiencing trouble after adamant, not the inquisitor. not even if they’re a mage. b/c he knows he can trust solas to not use him. solas involves himself in cole’s well-being potentially even if he loathes the inquisitor and everything they are, something he didn’t do for wisdom’s sake, but is willing to for cole. and regardless of the option chosen, solas continues to support him and ask after him:

Solas: How do you feel, Cole? Are you…Cole: I am me. I cannot be bound, broken. I will help the hurt and kill the killers.Solas: I see. I… let me know if I can help.

solas offers affirmation and support for cole, talking him down from what seems to be a panic attack at one point:

Cole: It’s brighter here. Glittering. Glaring. Glinting. I can’t…Solas: It’s a mild tremor in the Veil. Nothing to worry about. Focus on what is here, in this world.Cole: But… what is here?Solas: Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin.Cole: (Breathes.) Thank you.Solas: It’s nothing. It can be overwhelming for anyone.

and when cole tries to fix what’s fundamentally broken in solas, solas doesn’t spurn him. this isn’t to say characters who do react with venom when cole oversteps bounds are wrong, cole being able to see in heads doesn’t mean he has the right to speak their pain aloud, but i think it demonstrates the patience solas has for cole being who he is. it has the potential to go down a path that solas doesn’t quite… get. assuming the trespasser line “he didn’t want a body, but she asked him to come” is referring to solas, solas is someone who desperately doesn’t want to have a physical body and is probably afraid of cole having the same regrets as he does.

their relationship also goes both ways. cole offers him support throughout the game, understanding solas in ways that others can’t. not necessarily through any fault of theirs, but being able to key into solas’s emotions goes a long way. and then you get to trespasser, where cole is the one person to speak fondly of solas and the only one to approve if you say you have to save him from the vidasala. imo if we go by game canon solas is closest to cole, even closer than a befriended or romanced inquisitor. since this is an rp blog, that obviously varies, but as it stands no one understands solas like cole and no one understands cole like solas. a cole who becomes more human is likely to become alien to him in some respects, but from canon banter it’s clear that solas is willing to try. this was a very long winded way of saying solas loves cole.

beyond cole, it’s hard to argue solas forms emotionally intimate relationships with others in the inquisition. that being said i also don’t think they have to be emotionally intimate to be meaningful.

it’s, like, 100% canon that he hangs out with people outside of when we drag him places. blackwall has banter that implies they talk regularly, at least enough for blackwall to conclude that solas “knows all there is to know about everything” and even ignoring that they canonically play diamondback together. in banter they swap their experiences at war, although given they’re both hiding something they’re both being vague about it. still, solas clearly comes to regard him highly enough that he’s mad about the revelations of blackwall’s personal quest. a combination of solas having more in common with him than he hoped, and that for all solas has done wrong “killing civilians for fun and profit” wasn’t one of them. and solas seems to have come to respect him enough to apologise, backing out of his initial reaction to accept that thom had taken a step to becoming someone better.

josephine also references speaking to him, despite them never speaking on-screen which was a crime. she says “he has the most fascinating stories” and in ambient dialogue with her agents references occurrences where they seem to speak to nobility together. again, i wouldn’t say they had a deep bond, but i think they developed a rapport.

as for people i do think solas was genuinely friends with, there’s cassandra, varric, and iron bull. unlike the former two there isn’t really a reference to them hanging out outside of banter, but given their relationship i at least like to imagine they spend some time together.

varric and solas clearly spend time together before you meet them in-game, for one. long enough that varric thought of a nickname, though whether “chuckles” was decided on right there or earlier it’s hard to say. the two have actually a pretty funny rapport going, varric being one of the people to bring out solas’s sense of humour without much difficulty. and when they’re not joking around, they have interesting conversations. i’ve actually been wanting to rewrite the balcony scene with thora, my dwarf inquisitor, and solas to incorporate the fact that varric– who makes his living writing– doesn’t match his narrow view of what dwarves should be. it’s just one way the game steers solas in such a way that he isn’t allowed to grow unless the inquisitor gives him permission to, similar to how his view of the qun will flip-flop depending on if he’s talking to iron bull or a friendly qunari inquisitor, but i digress.

with varric, cassandra, and bull alike he demonstrates that he’s more capable of changing his mind than people give him credit for, i think. he admits he might have been mistaken in his interpretation of the dream of a man living his days alone on an island.

cassandra and solas’ relationship started out very hostile from the sound of it, but the hostility is worked out before the inquisitor wakes up, so much attention isn’t drawn to it. solas says he gave up his staff, and while i don’t think he was ever technically a prisoner, i also don’t think he would’ve been allowed to up and leave after that point. he references that she threatened his life if he didn’t get results, and yet in banter he’s complimentary towards her, most notably her ability to surrender the chance for power when she feels she is unfit for the role and that she’s capable of changing her mind. idk, i think their relationship demonstrates the best of both characters– cassandra’s ability to be less hard-line than she is around the likes of varric’s, solas’s ability to respect people with differences of opinions to him, both of their abilities to change their minds about the other.

heck, there’s even the option for some emotional intimacy. cassandra offers her condolences about wisdom, solas comforts her when her faith is shaken, providing hope when she realises her power did not come from the maker as she was taught. he’s also at his misotheist finest in this conversation:

Solas: You seem troubled, Seeker. Still plagued by thoughts of your order?Cassandra: I… am reminded of what I was told following my vigil. They said my abilities were a gift from the Maker, a reward for my faith and dedication. But it was a trick, wasn’t it? A ritual no different that the Harrowing, simply magic…Solas: Do you know how rare spirits of faith are? How difficult it is to draw them to this world? You should be proud, having accomplished something so remarkable, not ashamed it was not what you thought.Cassandra: Thank you, Solas. That… does make me feel better.Solas: Your faith does you credit, Cassandra. I hope your Maker is worthy.

he’s well-aware that cassandra is resolute and uncorrupt, capable of fixing what went wrong with the seekers (even if he is cynical about the inevitable degradation of any organisation). i really don’t know how you read their dialogue and think solas didn’t deeply connect with her in ways that shaped him regardless of his relationship with the inquisitor.

now iron bull is someone whose relationship with solas varies wildly depending on the inquisitor’s choices, and another character whose choice is undercut by the realities of a choice-based narrative. if the chargers are sacrificed they’re under no circumstances friendly, ableit solas seems to pity him in that case. otherwise, solas engages with bull in a way other characters don’t. but to be fair to them, i think solas understands better than any other party member what it’s like to lose your culture and home to help the people you love. through their conversations before his pq– which often got very heated, possibly the angriest solas gets in banter– solas listened and learned and kind of sussed out what bull’s fears were, what was keeping him in the qun. and like, i also think solas has a lot of experience knowing what ppl who are trying to pry themselves out of a toxic religion are also dealing with? what i’m getting at is iron bull imo reminds solas of the elves who fought the evanuris, people who had doubts about the societies they were raised in and broke from it, but still carried the damage it did to them. and he takes steps to reassure bull that “madness” isn’t something he ought to fear, b/c he isn’t a mindless beast but an incredibly intelligent person, capable of playing chess without a board. something that takes considerable practise and was for centuries considered a miracle in our world. there are issues with how solas approaches it, his understanding of the qun is flawed and imperfect, but he literally offers himself as a means of support when bull expresses fear that he’ll “go savage”:

Solas: You have the Inquisition, you have the Inquisitor… and you have me.

and after that i have a hard time imagining that they would never hang out more casually. solas would never be as close to bull as the chargers by any means, and you may not even consider them friends, but again their banter really reflects a significant relationship that would effect him without the inquisitor’s input. assuming they save the chargers, anyway. personally, i consider them friends

i just hit 2000 words and i’m starting to see why i let this sit in my drafts for like a year, so i’ll try to wrap it up. there are other characters i think have an effect on solas despite their relationship having its ups and downs. sera, namely, someone he seems to respect and resent simultaneously, grudgingly admitting he envies her at one point. their relationship is one of the most frustrating in the game but also my favourite due to how similar they are when you get down to it, sera i think on some level reminds him of when he was young, hence why he tries to give her advice. in another world, given time, i think they could’ve been friends, albeit friends who sometimes drive one another up the wall. much of what they say in-game reflects itself– solas talking about organisations degrading, in time, sera saying if you chop off the head of a government another will show up and muck up all the work you did to overthrow the first. they’re both artists, elves who feel disconnected from others of their kind. we don’t get enough of their positive interactions for me to claim they’re friends in-game w/ a straight face. rp wise, however, it’s been one of my favourite things to write, as they navigate a strange not-hostile relationship. also i just adore sera as a character, i wish there wasn’t such a divide between solas and sera fans b/c they both parallel and contrast w/ one another really well.

for one final note i do want to talk about specifically my solas interpretation, the relationships i either hc he’s built or he’s built through roleplay. my solas had a part to play in the rebuilding of skyhold alongside freed circle mages, teaching them practical magic they were denied learning in the circle and becoming something of a role model (god help them) for the more radical mages. solas served with the inquisition for a year in canon, three years in my canon. once he works past the haze of how wrong the veiled world feels i can’t believe solas, who constantly tells the histories of people– real people– whose stories he felt were important enough to remember and retell, even seemingly insignificant ones about baking bread or seeing sunlight for the first time, would connect with precisely none of the people around him on a personal level. not when we see his ability to do just that in-game, even with people without a mark on their hand.

tl;dr give solas friends. remember your inquisitor is not the be-all and end-all of his life and that he’s had 1000s of years to forge relationships with people who have just as much as an impact on him, and his time with the inquisition is no different. i don’t doubt all of us have hcs about how the companions have changed our inquisitor’s life, for better or worse, so i can’t see why it’d be any different for the companions. solas included

[the-canary]

Starlight - B.B (4/6)

Summary: Mysterious, but life changing things always happen if you just let life take its course – you decided to try it for once. (Modern AU!Reader/Bucky Barnes).

Prompt: Emily Dickinson: XXI

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: This is for @abovethesmokestacks ‘s Summer Writing Challenge. Revelations! And me using that certain type of knowledge. 

Feedback is always welcomed.

It starts off timid at best, a good morning here and hello there throughout the day between the two of you though while taking into mind that there is a 3 hour difference between the two of you, as Bucky moves from Arizona and into California. The first step of more interaction is a bit before that when Bucky decides to sends you a series of photos from the Grand Canyon late in the afternoon. A huge smile is on your face for the rest of the work day that even Wanda couldn’t help but notice, as she shakes her head at your brightening attitude. You are slowly getting back into the rhythm of things and while it hurt just a little, you were used to your mother not talking to you once more.

It’s such a drastic change from a few months back that one day Wanda can’t help but ask.

“Are you seeing someone?” she asks during one uneventful lunch break, as you look up from your phone, looking away from the wildflower trail pictures that Bucky had sent you earlier in the day. Her brown eyes are curious as you look at her, but there is also a huge grin on her face -- waiting for your answer.

“No,” you manage to say, but the next thing that comes out of your mouth is a bit bitter as you aren’t sure what the hell Bucky is to you at this point, “I’m just chatting with a friend who’s traveling.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind if I asked you?” she quips with a hopeful tone, as you raise an eyebrow though a little bit fearful about what your sort-of work friend wants from you, but you would always be kind enough to listen to anyone out at least once.

“Ask what, Wan,” you ask cautiously, as she gets up from her seat and moves to sit on your desk and as much as you enjoy her company, you can’t help but lean back like a frightened cat.

“I am going on a double date in a few nights with my boyfriend Viz,” she explains and you watch her carefully from your corner of the cubicle, “And I actually needed a date for my brother. ”

“Wanda--” you say in annoyance as she puts her hands up as if trying to defend her idea.

“He’s a good guy. I think you could hit it off,” she gives you a sweet smile and deep down you know she is trying to look out for you in a certain way. Wanda is the type of person that wants to see everyone happy and in her own way and that means is she’s together with someone, she wants everyone around her to be happy together as well. It was a little annoying, but you could tell she was coming from a good place not unlike --

No romantic life either, what good are you for anyways?

“Could I think about it?” you give her the most vague response possible. Her smile wanes for a moment  before she agrees since she sprang it up on you last minute before going back to her side of the office. You take a look at your phone for a moment before ignoring it for the rest of the work day, uneasy over what had just transpired and feeling like you were doing a disservice to Bucky as well.

 It’s been awhile since Bucky has had a “bad episode” as he moves from Arizona into Southern California and he is sure that it is from the easier transition and travel he has been having since entering the state. However, as Sam liked to point out in his most recent phone call -- Bucky also had a new connection to the world around him, someone that supported him in on this new journey. He wasn’t short changing Steve, as his lifelong friend, or Sam, who had been helping him since they meet at the VA. However, with you there wasn’t any old standards to uphold nor was there any coddling because of what he was facing. You knew a different Bucky and while he had been scared to show you the side that was scared of the dark, that had nightmares or heard voices sometimes -- you didn’t turn away. You didn’t put him under an x-ray, but gently accepted him at his own pace and that’s the most Bucky had ever gotten from anyone.

It had help that you had shared a bit of yourself during those days back in Arizona, and Bucky wholeheartedly took in everything you had shared and kept it in a corner of his heart. It also wasn’t helping that every time he sent you a new set of pictures, you were ready and waiting with a cute comment even if some of his pictures were a bit blurry -- Bucky wasn’t as good with his phone camera as he was with his carry-on one. He knew that this wasn’t healthy: how he looked at your very first picture together in the front of his journal, how he wrote to you sometimes in it, how he missed your warmth in the middle of the night and the sound of your laugh when he had something funny to say.

“Have you thought that maybe you’re sweet for her, Buck?” Steve finally breaks the ice that Bucky has been avoiding during the call between Hemet and Death Valley National Park. Bucky can’t help but want to deny it, but his oldest friend knows him better than anyone else. Bucky remembers the flower trail he had just sent you a few hours before, wishing that you had been there with him smiling and laughing at just how blurry his pictures tend to come out -- but you can only do that through emojis.

“Maybe, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice breaks towards the end, as he comes to another realization, “But, I don’t think I deserve her.”

The voice rings loudly in his head one more: He’s no good. He’s no good for anybody.

Death Valley National Park, CA

Neither you nor Bucky have contacted each other in the past few days, what with you trying to convince yourself if you should go on the date as Wanda had asked and Bucky dealing with his own turbulent emotions at the prospect of falling for someone he barely knew. Yes, he knew you lived in New York just like he did, you had a growing love for astronomy and mythology from all the old stories that you read up on, and that you have anxiety plus a strained relationship with most of your family. But, he also knows that you laugh at the strangest things when he says them in just the right tone, you carry a book everywhere you go, and that you enjoy lazy mornings more than anything else.

Bucky just thinks that it’s a case of meeting someone at just the right (or bad) moment and getting attached to them. It had happened to him all those years ago with a redhead in college -- one that he had been hopelessly in love with and couldn’t see the dangers of until it was almost too late. Looking out at the vast desert wilderness, Bucky wasn’t sure what to call what he was feeling towards you -- it was deeper than an infatuation but not quite that l-word yet, but he knew give time it could be. How could this have happened to him?  

My grandma always said that the universe will guide you to what you need.

He remembers you saying that with a fondness in your voice, and he wants to believe that with all his heart. He takes a seat on the steps of the small VR that Tony, Steve’s good friend and the designer for his prosthetic, had let him use for the time being -- the man was loaded and though they’re weren’t on the same wavelength all the time, Tony knew when someone needed a breather and would gladly helped one of his friends if need be. Blue eyes stare out at the darkened sky with a drink in hand and the soft melody of a familiar song not too far away from him, as he finds the stars that lovers destined to only meet once a year -- their time having already long past them.

Vega and Altair.

And thus Bucky sends a message, desperate and lonely, not really caring about what time it might be on the other side of the coast, just hopefully that he can hear your voice once more.   

Can I call you?

Truth be told, it takes you awhile to see Bucky’s message because it’s the same weekend night that you are having your double date with Wanda, her boyfriend Viz ( it’s a nickname , she swears), and her older brother Pietro. And while he could be sweet and rather humorous, it just didn’t feel right -- it felt like you were trespassing into a tight group that had known each other for years and were trying their hardest to make you feel included. It didn’t help that deep down you couldn’t help but compared the track star to Bucky because while one was lively with grand gestures, you were more used to the reserved silence of someone else.   

Both you and Pietro know that there isn’t going to be a 2nd date, but he is happy to meet the person that his sister talks so much about and you are happy to have a new potential friend, since he seems more like a sibling that won’t stop annoying you after everything is said and done. It’s nearly 10pm when you finally see Bucky’s message and as you lay down into bed, you hope that he still wants to talk -- because oh how you miss him.

Hey! I was a little busy, but if you still wanna call I’m all ears.

You’re in bed already, trying to read by lampshade as you try to get a bit sleepy but are too anxious about Bucky’s call. While there had been several messages and pictures traded between the two of you, this would be the first time you were actually going to have a phone call. It wasn’t that you hadn’t wanted to, but you didn’t want to bother Bucky at an odd hour or if he was enjoying the moment somewhere else. You jump at the sound of your phone ringing, as you pick up to see a picture of Bucky from that weekend -- hairy sticking all over the place with a bright smile and eyes, as he laughed over something off screen which had given you the chance to take said picture. You take a deep breath before answering.    

“Hey, stardust,” he breathes out as a greeting and you can’t help the goofy smile on your face.

“Oh, that’s a cute nickname,” you giggle out.

“Well, I’m glad you like it then,” he admits, his voice not showing that he was actually quite nervous over how you were going to take said new nickname, but your reaction made him joyful, as he took a nervous gulp of water before resting on the doorframe of the RV.

The two of you trade pleasantries for awhile going over how you were doing at work and what he had seen since you had left him, though less about the details and more about he had been feeling. It should have been just like talking with Steve or Sam, but Bucky couldn’t but notice how more open he was about his feelings and you never deterred him from talking about anything that came to mind. Your laugh sending a warm feeling through his chest and he couldn’t help but get dragged into your stories over work or just random little moments in your daily life -- wishing he was there to share them with you. Eventually, you both run out of things to talk about as the clock reaches midnight and that’s when Bucky decides that he has to ask you -- to see just exactly if there is any inkling over what you might actually think of him, if he might have a chance with the star that has been shining so brightly in his life.

“Do you think everyone feels lonely when they fall in love?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

“Wow, that’s deep, Bucky,” you murmur with a soft laugh that catches his heart as he stares at a familiar  constellation, as you admit the last part a bit more bashfully, “But, I can’t really tell ya about that, I’ve never been in love before.”

“Never ever?”

“Not that I can think of. I mean there have been dates and stuff, like tonight,” you say without much thought and Bucky swears he stops breathing for a moment, though a little sad over the idea you had never been in love before, but he could understand from what he knew about your past, “But I have never been crazy over someone like that, but maybe that’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“You went on a date?” Bucky says as calmly as possibly, already waiting for the utter defeat of realizing his feelings too late, that you had already been taken away from him, “H-How did it go?”

“Hmm, he was all right, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,” you state, as Bucky lets out a sigh of relief trying to mend together his bleeding heart, though he can’t help but be a little envious at the mysterious man that you had gone out with, “So what about you, have you ever been in love?”

“I think I was once,” Bucky explains, though clearly confused himself, “I think I am now, but it’s not the same feeling?”

“Oh, what do you mean?” you can’t but ask.

“Have you ever heard of Vega and Altair story?” Bucky explains, giving a bit more detail before going on and you can’t help but let out a sigh, though you aren’t sure if it’s due to the story or how he talks about this woman, “They’re only meant to meet once a year. It’s maddening, doll. Sometimes, it feels like she’s a dream, something I came up with in my head until I hear her voice or see her messages. But, I’m scared -- that if I tell her or if she learns about the past me, she’ll disappear and I’ll never seen her again.”  

“Bucky Barnes, you listen to me,” you exclaim, jumping in momentary anger from your bed as you let out a tirade at this mystery woman, “Any gal would be lucky to have someone like you, if she doesn’t return your feelings, then it’s her damn loss. And I know it’s hard, but don’t you ever lower yourself for another person, ya hear me?”

“You’re a little scary right now, doll,” Bucky exclaims, as for a moment your fierceness over him reminds him of Peggy, though if you only knew it was you he was talking about. It’s ironic, but he still appreciates it either way, “But thank ya.”

“Just stating the truth,” you state confidently, as Bucky shakes his head on the other side of the phone.

The conversation swings from there to all the things, mainly constellations, that Bucky can see from the outside of the RV, and you can’t help the smile growing due to the fact that it isn’t bothering as much as before, something you had worried about when leaving Arizona. A smile can’t help but appear on your face as you close your eyes and just imagine yourself being there with him. His voice, deep but soft, slowly easing the tension and anxiety you went through just a couple of hours ago being forgotten as you started to fall asleep.

“--If I turn a bit more, I can see Lupus,” he remarks offhandedly, turning to the right for just a moment though he is surprised as to what you have to say next.

“Hmm, that one reminds me of you,” you state with yawn, remembering the talk from some time back that only made you wonder now if you could be like Cassiopeia in his eyes as well.

“And why would you say that, stardust?” he says with an easy laugh that makes your heart sped up for just a moment, as you turn on your bed and can’t help but think that’s it’s missing a mass of warmth you had gotten too quickly used to. You cuddle closer to your largest pillow and let out a sigh.

“Wolves get a bad rep, but they care about each other,” you explain and Bucky is happy that you aren’t there to see the massive blush reaching down to his neck in that moment, “Loyal and protective, it all reminds me of you.”

“That’s really sweet of ya,” is all he can manage to say through his embarrassment, as you hum in response. With that Bucky comes to the realization that you are falling asleep and while he wants to spend the whole night talking to you once more, he knows that it is late in New York with the 3-hour time difference.         

“It sounds like you’re falling asleep on me,” Bucky remarks with teasing quip as all you do is give him a hum in response, “Well, I should let you go then. Sweet dreams, doll.”

“Sweet dreams, Buck,” you response in kind, the tiredness and ache of tonight and not being near him dragging you somewhere where you can be -- at least for a few hours, “ Love ya. ”

And with that you leave a very confused Bucky Barnes on the other side of the phone, unsure of what you meant with your words, but with a hopeful beat in his heart at the possibilities he hasn’t felt he was worthy of for years finally flourishing around him. And for a moment, he wishes he was back home -- back in New York where he could be close to you, but for now he had to keep playing at being Altair for a bit longer.   

Part 5

[cloudgazercadash]

1, 35

1. What is their specialisation and why?

Thora has a specialisation that isn’t accessible in DA:I, aka the Beserker specialisation. She learned it before Inquisition, although informally, and there’s the potential for her to get a professional trainer during Inquisition the same as an Inquisitor with one of the in-game specialisations. I was talking to Joly the other day about the idea of Thora meeting Oghren, and finding herself in this place of really not liking him but also forcing herself to interact with him because she realises he could teach her more about being a Beserker. Realising that though made me very disappointed about the complete lack of Oghrens to plot with.

As stated in DA2, “The dwarven culture is in decline, and many dwarves have turned to the surface, bringing their customs and battle traditions with them.” (x) Thora learned from a Surface dwarf who learned from a Surface dwarf and so on, until you eventually reach someone who was trained by a professional Orzammar Beserker such as Oghren. She pursued it for a few reasons. First, anchoring herself in dwarven culture is something that’s incredibly important to Thora. It’s why she educates herself about the Stone as best she can despite being raised by Andrastians, and it’s why when the opportunity to study an ancient dwarven battle style presents itself, she takes it.

Second, Thora’s appetite for battle and blood is low. Working herself up into a rage so potent she can hardly think straight is a coping mechanism. Not a particularly healthy one, either, there’s a reason that after Trespasser she doesn’t want to relearn how to fight. But for the years where she has to battle just to get by (or to save the world) it’s the thing that’s stopping her from breaking down after every battle.

Third, while it’s not the healthiest way to deal with her pent-up frustration, it’s more or less the only place she gets to explore what’s making her angry until later in Inquisition. Before the Conclave, living life as a Carta dwarf, it was pointless to express why she was angry in her head because the reasons she was angry were things she couldn’t change. Then as Inquisitor/Herald, it takes her a while to form connections with people, but she does eventually find a place where she can talk about her frustrations without battle needing to be an outlet. Because when it comes down to it, although she strives to be optimistic and kind, she’s found herself angry about the way the world is (and rightfully so tbh) which leads her to feeling guilt for that. Her friends in the Inquisition and her agency to do more about what she’s angry about helps her grow past that.

35. What did they think of Bianca?

When Bianca showed up she trusted her and took her at her word, which in hindsight was a mistake. She knew Varric was capable of lying, but trusted his judgment anyway.

She was friendly to Bianca throughout the quest up until the revelation that she lied to get them here, at which point she got a little mad. If Bianca had been honest with them from the beginning, the quest would have more or less panned out the same. Bianca, of course, couldn’t have known that so I can honestly say lying would have been the better move from her perspective (though being honest with Varric, at least, would have been ideal. Especially because Varric has been shown capable of lying to protect people he cares for). But from Thora’s perspective, she was used for basically no reason.

What’s more, she was lied and used to by a member of the Smith Caste, one of the most respected castes in Orzammar and a caste that still has a lot of respect on the Surface– both by kalna Surface dwarves and by human society. Thora may be in a completely different position than she was a year or so ago, before the Conclave, but she still carries a lot of the hurt from being essentially the Most Casteless even among Casteless that she can’t just let that detail drop. It was kind of a slap in the face, realising that even as Inquisitor dwarves of higher castes could still use her. It does teach her a lesson, though, one she’ll keep in mind when interacting with other high caste dwarves in the future.

Ultimately though, she doesn’t hold a grudge against Bianca and I think the two could be friends if they were allowed more time together. There’s a lot about Bianca she respects and has sympathy for– both of them have experienced the pressure to marry, and Thora loves the idea of her being made a Paragon. Two Surface Paragons within Thora’s lifetime isn’t something she would have ever dreamed of as a girl.

[giftofshewbread]

The Sinner in the Saint

By Pete Garcia

One of the greatest paradoxical mysteries in all of the known universe, is that of the mystery of Christ in the believer. How can an all holy, all righteous, divine Being who is Creator and will not tolerate even the tiniest infraction of His divine law…dwell, inside His fallen, sinful, creation? Certainly, the Apostle Paul wrestled with the significance of this concept and was given the understanding to explain for our benefit. He says;

“I now rejoice in my sufferings for you, and fill up in my flesh what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ, for the sake of His body, which is the church, of which I became a minister according to the stewardship from God which was given to me for you, to fulfill the word of God, 26 the mystery which has been hidden from ages and from generations, but now has been revealed to His saints. To them God willed to make known what are the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles: which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we preach, warning every man and teaching every man in all wisdom, that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus.” – Colossians 1:24-28

According to Scripture, the age we live in now, has been on the mind of God since eternity past. Being omnipotent, and knowing the end from the beginning, God knew that there could only be one way. When a person becomes spiritually born again by God’s grace through our faith, they must take on the righteousness of God, through the Son’s sacrificial atoning work on the Cross. (John 3:3, Eph. 2:8-9, 2 Cor. 5:21) At the moment of conversion, a believer does not go from being evil to being righteous per say, but goes from being spiritually dead, to being spiritually alive. Although we are spiritually regenerated from within, we still must dwell in the shell of the fallen, fleshly, man which causes the believer to have two natures, the divine, and the sin nature.

Think about it this way, before a person becomes born-again, what God sees in that particular individual, is only them in their sinful, fallen, spiritually dead, state…of which He will not and could not share His glory in and with. For starters, we couldn’t physically exist with Him in a fallen state. Moses had to hide himself in the cleft of a rock and could only cast his gaze at the shadow of God walking past, and he still glowed for days. John on Patmos, witnessed the resurrected and glorified Christ (or Christ in His natural state), and he fell over as dead. Physically, we couldn’t survive the experience of witnessing God in our flesh, without God dimming down (if that is a way to put it), His own Being. We must be born again, in order to receive the glorification (think upgrade) to our mortal status.

When a person becomes a believer in the finished work of the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, (1 Cor. 15:1-5), they realize that there is nothing they can do to earn what God the Son has already accomplished on Calvary’s cross, (John 19:30). Then by placing their faith in that finished, perfect work, instead of relying on their own feeble efforts, they have in affect, allowed God the ability to quicken their dead, spiritual nature, in which He substitutes His own righteousness, in place of theirs.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not imputing their trespasses to them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation. Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us: we implore you on Christ’s behalf, be reconciled to God. For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.” – 2 Cor. 5:17-21

At that point, the believer is no longer seen by God as fallen man, but redeemed man. God see’s the Son’s blood if you will, painted over the believer, much as it was painted over the door at the first Passover. That God would choose to inject if you will, Himself through the Holy Spirit into and sealing the believer, is beyond our comprehension. If anything, it shows us that God is infinitely loving, and infinitely good, and infinitely merciful while still remaining infinitely holy and infinitely righteous. So He is able to both keep the divine order in tact by not violating His own laws, or violate the principle of free will, which is necessary for man to willingly come to their God of their own volition.

In terms of the grander scheme, God chose to redeem fallen man, by becoming a Man, while remaining fully God, which would also allow Himself the ability to both serve man as our brother, and kinsman redeemer. At some point yet future to us now, Christ will first redeem His bride at the Rapture of the Church (the catching up), and then redeem Israel and Creation through the seven year Tribulation. We see this played out in type in the book of Ruth, (the Gentile-bride), and what we will see played out in reality, in Revelation 5-6, where Christ takes the title deed to the earth (which was lost from Adam), from the hand of the Father and begins opening the seal judgments, because only He is worthy to redeem man, as He is both God and Man.

Assessment

Where many Christian denominations, teachers, and individuals get things wrong concerning the doctrine of Salvation (Soteriology) is, that they confuse the ‘tenses of salvation’. When you are born-again, you become as Paul writes, a new creation. You are that proverbial caterpillar who is transformed into the butterfly. Once that happens, you can never go back to being a caterpillar. Once you are truly born-again, you can’t be un-born, spiritually speaking. In other words, since you can’t earn your salvation by your works, neither can you ‘un-earn’ or lose your salvation by your works. If salvation is a gift of God (it is), then it’s not based on our own efforts, by solely God’s mercy and grace. (Romans 4) The tenses of salvation are;

1. Justification – are saved from the penalty of sin. It is a one-time event for the believer (happens at the moment of salvation)

2. Sanctification – being saved from the ravages of sin. It is a lifelong event for the believer (happens throughout the life of a believer)

3. Glorification – will be saved from the presence of sin. It is a one-time event for the believer (happens at the Rapture of the Church)

Salvation happens when we come to the end of ourselves, and trust wholly in the finished work of Christ at the Cross. We come to Calvary as sinners, unable to save ourselves. Sanctification happens over the life of a believer, and it is Christ who promises to ‘finish the good work He began’ in us. (Philippians 1:6) Sanctification is that maturing process every believer goes through from the point of their rebirth, until the time when either Christ call’s us home through death, or we see Him in the air at the Rapture which is the Glorification.

Christian’s still sin, (1 John 1:8-10) because it is in our fleshly (human) nature to sin. If Christian’s were physically separated from our human bodies at the moment of conversion, then we would no longer desire to sin. But since we aren’t, and we must wait for that future day when Christ changes us from mortal and corruptible, to immortal and incorruptible, our sin nature is something that we must contend and hopefully overcome in the meantime. Again, Paul speaks to this;

“For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.” – Romans 7:18-20

Sin is what interrupts our relational process with God once we are already believers just as disobedience interrupts our relationships with our own parents as we were growing up. Sin, and moreover, unconfessed sin doesn’t make us unsaved, it simply makes the believer miserable, because now he is both redeemed by God, yet out of fellowship with God…while being reviled by the world and accused by the Accuser. In other words, it is a bad place to be.

But, the believer has at his or her disposal, a reconciliation for sin. (2 Cor. 5:18) We have a Mediator for our sin. (1 Tim. 2:5) We have access to the very throne room of God. (Heb. 4:16) We have the ability and the liberty to confess our sins, and have them wiped away as if they never happened, since they were already paid in full at the Cross. (Col. 2:13-15) But this liberty isn’t free per say, because it will impact how we live in the here and now.

And one day, we will have to give account for what we did with our salvation at the Bema Judgment. (1 Cor. 3:9-16) We are not judged for salvation, because that is already settled. What we are judged for, is what we did with our salvation. And if a believer is constantly living in unconfessed sin, he or she is hard pressed to still be doing God’s will, thereby frustrating God’s plan for your life and now missing out on reward that God had intended to bestow upon you.

“Therefore we make it our aim, whether present or absent, to be well pleasing to Him. 10 For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may receive the things done in the body, according to what he has done, whether good or bad. 11 Knowing, therefore, the terror of the Lord, we persuade men; but we are well known to God, and I also trust are well known in your consciences.” – 2 Cor. 5:9-11

But if the Bema Judgment sounds frightening, it is not meant as punishment, even though there will be reward and loss. For many have sacrificed much, and some all, to try to be the men and women God has called us to be. And God wants very much to bestow His riches on His own, so that we may share in His merciful bounty.

“But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.” – Ephesians 2:4-6

“So it is now after salvation, begins the lifelong process of sanctification for the believer….till we all come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to a perfect man, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ; that we should no longer be children, tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the trickery of men, in the cunning craftiness of deceitful plotting, but, speaking the truth in love, may grow up in all things into Him who is the head-Christ” – Eph. 4:13-15

Conclusion

For too little is made of the Rapture of the Church in regards to the actual purpose of it. The Rapture is that future tense of salvation, known as glorification. It isn’t just to escape the wrath that is scheduled to visit the earth, but also serves specific purposes in regards to our physical nature. Just as it will be at the Sheep and Goat Judgment, (Matt. 25) where Christ separates and judges the nations between those who can and cannot enter into the physical, millennial Messianic Kingdom, the Pre-Tribulation Rapture of the Church also separates the worthy from the unworthy.

The Rapture of the Church separates His redeemed Bride (the Church), from this sinful world, and to an even further and more personal degree, separates the individual believer, from the sinful bodies in which they’ve had to dwell in while living in this fallen world. (1 John 3:1-3) The Rapture is the process that transports us from our current abode, to the heavenly. The Rapture changes us from our mortal estate, to an immortal one so that we may straight away, stand at the judgment seat of Christ, as we must be judged first, in order for Christ to then exact His perfect wrath on a Christ-rejecting world. (1 Peter 4:17)

“Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; nor does corruption inherit incorruption. Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed-in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.” – 1 Cor. 15:50-54

Even So, Maranatha!

[diagk]

Unexpected.

Chapter 22 –> Yes and no.

AU fanfic featuring Solas/Dread Wolf. After the Trespasser events Solas walks through the eluvian only to find himself thrown into the modern-time England. Year 2016. Yup. That’s it.

First Chapter: Read here or on my AO3 account; Read Chapter 22 on AO3

So... half of the chapter is *NSFW. If you're into this then you can stop reading after they move to the living room. You have been warned.

“I think this is it,” I admit showing him a round light blue oval shape stone.  Solas turns from his box to look at the object in my hand.

His eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure?”

I nod enthusiastically as I can feel the pressure and slight buzzing at the back of my mind receding. It has been a constant presence, always there, almost unnoticeable at the beginning. And since it started subtly I guess I got used to it being ever present. Not even guessing its meaning. As my mind goes quiet I feel refreshed and relaxed. I stand up and join him by the box he's been rummaging through.

We are in my aunt’s attic going through the things she left me. I knew that the focus Monica mentioned would be among the trinkets my aunt left me. I feel a pleasant bliss spreading through my limbs at the simple thought of now seeing another possibility brewing at the edge of my mind, getting ready to be seen. There's so much I didn't mention to Solas. The visions has been occurring more frequently, sometimes I had to think what the issue at hand was as I got distracted by them. Luckily, nobody noticed anything. Well, apart from Solas who notices almost everything. And now that he knows he's more than over sensitive and over caring to let me go through this alone.

I appreciate that. A lot in fact. Although his protective attitude gets on my nerves sometimes.

I put the focus stone in my pocket and kneel next to him. Then giggle.

“I cannot believe I kept it all. Look at those ugly things.”

Solas looks diligently at the old dolls. “Are they yours?”

I shake my head. “Most of the stuff here is my aunt’s. She must have accumulated it throughout the years.” My eyes scan the boxes neatly stacked around the attic. There's no way I'll be going through all of them. We’ve already done five.

“Ah, this is the painting I mentioned to you before.” I stand up and go near the window to drag the cloth cover off the frame. I stare at the landscape and cringe a bit upon seeing it again. In great detail the artist presented dull hills with forest to the left flowing into a lighter part on the right. The blue of the river sneaking between the hills makes it a bit easier on the eyes. The clouds hang heavy and the sun barely dares to peek out from above the horizon. Timid sun rays illuminate the river and the right part where a crowd of people gathered around the scattered camp fires.

I turn to Solas to make a snarky remark but stop myself seeing his shocked expression.

“What's wrong, Solas?”

He outstretched his hand and touches the canvas with his fingers. “It's… near the camp in the… This is where I was planning on going after the meeting with the Inquisitior.” He points to the far corner of the painting. Further away from the crowd. “How is that possible? How would anyone know? Was it in the game?”

I return my gaze to the landscape and shake my head in denial. “No, it wasn't. I always found the painting unassuming and depressing with all these dull colours. I have no idea who painted this and why. But there must be a reason my aunt wanted me to keep it.”

“It's unbelievable that someone would know— Do you think they could share your gift?”

I stare at him silenced. That's a possibility. What if my aunt had the same gift? Could she predict this? And Solas? If it was her, then was she able to see her own sister—? No, I don't want to think about it. Or make assumptions.

I point to the crowd to the right. “So, they are elves?”

“One assumes so,” he admits quietly.

“And who are they?” I point to the barely visible figures emerging from the forest. I can make out shapes of people on foot and horses. Horses? Soldiers or travellers? How many are they? It seems that the trees are not the only things casting shadows as I can spot many figures. I get closer and notice shapes of armour. Soldiers, then. Some of the footmen hold spears or long sticks—staffs! Oh my, they are Mages!

“I believe that you're correct, vhenan.” Lilting voice admits quietly.

I don't realise that I say it all out loud. Also, that I have taken out the focus stone and held it tightly in my hand. I step away from the painting and look at him, my breathing heavy with revelation. I look at him.

“The Inquisition is back, Fen'Harel. You have to keep the peace if you want to succeed in your plans.”

Solas turns to me slowly. “When?”

“You have a few years before they reach you. Your ranks are not free of spies though. Should you fail in keeping peace that it where your revolution falls and you'd have no choice but to use your last resort measures.”

He nods solemnly. “Ma serannas, Rass’an Vath. You confirmed my suspicions.”

“What did you—? Ah.” He's pensive and serious. I understand what he called me but why would he use an Elvhen title, I do not. No, wait. Actually, I do.

“Is that what All-Mother was?”

A long sigh leaves his lungs before he dares to look at me. “To a degree,” he admits. “Although I doubt her gift was as extensive as yours. You seem to have it in abundance.”

“And how would you know that, Wolf? I have barely scratched the iceberg of it.”

“A—a what?”

I roll my eyes at his baffled expression. “Touched barely the top of the issue. I don't know the extent of it and you seem to be certain I have it in abundance. How come?”

He smirks. The nerve of this elf. “Would you believe me if I said I can sense it in you?”

I'm going to throttle him. Maybe also push him down the stairs…

He continues with his smirk. “Your gift is extremely rare, Rass’an Vath. If anyone learns about it they will try to use it to their advantage. And…” he sighs, “if you go with me, I will try to use it to my advantage.”

My breath catches in my lungs. The Dread Wolf admits something like that. Unless… I furrow my brows.

“Don't play games with me, Solas.”

“And why would I? The moment I started you'd know that I did. So, what's the point?” He's a picture of pure innocence. Rrrright.

I start laughing hard. Oh my, I almost have fallen for his game. Oh, he's good. Really good. No wonder though, he had millennia of practice. Still giggling I approach him and embrace him by the neck. His breath hitches when I drag my nails up his skull. He closes his eyes for a moment and groans happily.

“You need to teach me that, ma’lath. I want to see all your colours… I think that the sight is going to be—“

I don't finish the sentence as he slants his lips against mine, groaning as he drags me flush against him. Ahh, the game is on. I let him have the control as he's keen to have it. His kisses return to being gentle pecks along my face before I whisper to him, “I love you, Solas.”

He freezes and his open-mouth breaths the only indication that he's alive. The lust in his gaze is transformed into tenderness and his lips stretches into a genuine smile. “Ma’lath. Emma lath.” He kisses me again with devotion and gentleness you'd not expect from a man wielding an army of—oh, it seems I still hold that focus stone in my hand. Conspicuously, I put it back in my pocket. The sizzling in the back of my mind returns but it's gentle. Like a comforting presence of a long-known friend. I sigh against his lips and let him embrace me.

“We're quite a match, vhenan. I will never get tired of you.” He jokes to relax the atmosphere but I know it to be true. Fate or chance, as the All-Mother would question, decided to put us together and so we shall carry this burden with diligence. Oh, it's such a burden to be bonded to the Dread Wolf. Just horrible. Wait, when did I change my mind? Just a few weeks ago I was terrified by that thought. So, what happened to make me change my mind? Ah, wait, I died. That's what happened. Also, I suspect that having an essence of an Old God helps one to change perspective on understanding life and love. Blasted Elves. They could not come up with something less life changing? I guess simple was not in their dictionary. Urthemiel, you are deluded if you think I let you keep whining, I tell myself.

“Lunch?” I grab Solas’ hand and he scowls when I lead him towards the exit. I giggle. “You won't regret it. Trust me.”

He sighs and follows me diligently to the kitchen where I take the ingredients out of the fridge. He joins me at the counter.

“I didn't think you'd cook,” he remarks, his eyebrow raised.

“There are things you don't know about me. It may take you quite a while to learn about them,” I try to suppress the smirk. We work in comfortable silence for a long while. I catch him glancing at me, he's clearly surprised at my skill. Oh well, I let him process the information, which should not be surprising given that I ran a household before. Granted, it did not indicate that I was able to cook.

“My mum taught me how to cook. She was from France and always loved food. So every Saturday morning we spent in the kitchen baking or cooking or making marmalade. My dad joked that I would become wider than taller but with the amount of exercise we did after the bakey-time I was in no danger.”

“That sounds wonderful, love. You don't talk about your parents.”

“No, I don't. Their passing left a hole inside me. I thought I managed to mend it when I met David but…”

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to remind you of this.”

I shake my head. “If the Inquisition game taught me anything is that you need to let the pain in and talk about it. As time passes you feel better. You don't forget but it's acceptable. And you can manage. That's what Cole did, right?”

He stops chopping the carrots. “Cole?”

I snort. “You know, the spirit-boy? With big hat and deadly skill?”

“Yes, I know who Cole is, ma’lath.” He chides me rolling his eyes. It looks dorky. “I am still unaccustomed to you knowing everyone in the Inquisition, that's all.”

“Of course, I do! I was making the decisions after all!” I laugh but am met with silence. I chance a glance away from the pan and see him staring at me. Speechless.

“So… you decided to make him more spirit?” To which I nod. “Also to make Daeva the Knight-Enchanter?” I nod again. “What about the Iron Bull?”

“Saved the Chargers. He became Tal-Vashoth. Had high approval with him, so he did not-… maybe I should not continue.”

“No, please. He did not—what?” His eyes are dancing with eagerness and curiosity. Oh well, I can't see any harm in revealing Bull’s possible treason. So I tell him.

“Were you able to prevent”, his voice wavers, “my spirit friend from…” He looks to the side, sadness filling his gaze.

“No. That was inevitable, I'm afraid.” I say gently.

“Ah,” he sighs sadly. Then he continues with setting the table.

“And Cassandra?” He breaks the silence once we sit and eat.

I smirk at that one. “Yes, making her the Divine was funny at the time. Especially with her aversion to wearing dresses. But now I think it may be to your advantage. She's more than a reasonable woman and can be convinced if the cause is just.”

“And do you think my cause is just?” His eyes bores at mine. He takes a sip of the water from his glass and observes me patiently.

“It is no longer yours, Solas,” I say carefully. “You may be the instigator of it but as the elves amass your cause becomes theirs. You're no longer alone in this, alone in making decisions, alone in paying the price, alone in working towards the goal. You are theirs.”

“Do you really think so?” He asks after a long silence.

I stand up and walk over to him. He turns on his stool to face me. His eyes are so sad and serious. Also his expression is that of a lone man carrying the weight of his past decisions. I caress his cheek before replying. “They need you to be who you are, Solas. You cannot leave them on their own. They require a leader and you need to suppress the urge to run away. You need to be one. For them, for their future.”

“Do they even have one?” He muses, his voice light and yet it carries a shade of doubt.

“We all have a future as long as we have hope,” I tell him. He mulls at the words and then a slow smile brightens up his face.

His hands reach for mine to kiss them gently. “Ma serannas, vhenan.”

I smile at him. I also smile as I know I’ll be there at his side to help him whenever he starts doubting again. And then I sigh internally as I realise I have made my decision. I will go with him to the other side.

There’s still so much to do here though. To organise my personal affairs before we leave but for now… all I want is to show him the marvels of this world. Of my world.

I take the plates and feed the dishwasher for later. Then we move to the living room where we curl on the sofa watching the first “Bridget Jones” film. We laugh at the plot.

Solas holds me close to him and his fingers sneak under my shirt to caress my side. I hum appreciatively and nuzzle closer to nip at his jaw. He shifts me on top of him so I have an easier access to his neck. The action makes me feel the hardness between his thighs and I hum again. His other hand lands on my hip which he starts circling with his thumb. Then he shifts me on top of him.

His hands move under my shirt lifting it up to expose my breasts to him. He groans at the sight and move his mouth closer to trails kisses between them.  He sits up and arranges me so my thighs at his sides. Then he palms my breasts through my bra; his nose and mouth mapping the valley of my raising chest. His kisses stop at my collarbone and then he leans back to admire my form. Greedy eyes takes me in; I retaliate by running my hands across his shoulders to his neck and then down his chest to end up at his navel. I grab his shirt and he helps me to take it off. I return to caress his stomach and his muscles flutter under my ministrations; he moans openly. I think it’s been a long time since he was touched like that. The same can be said for me.

My shirt lands on the floor next to his own. Thirsty hands caress my sides while I feel his hot breaths and wet tongue leaving trails in a pattern only known to him. The sounds coming from his mouth, something between groans and soft whispers of my name make me arch my back and grind my hips against his hardness.

“Solas?” I sigh against his neck right to his ear.

“Yes, ma lath?” His hands move lower and grab my buttocks firmly. He whispers quiet praises into my skin lighting it aflame. His hands are steady and yet, as they discover the planes of my body, so unaccustomed to this kind of touching, I feel him shiver with pleasure.

I guess this does it.

“Shall we go upstairs?” I murmur in his ears to which he replies by groaning loudly and kissing me fervently. His quiet yes is breathed between kisses.

After a few moments, when I am convinced we would end up doing it here on the sofa, I reluctantly stand up and, followed by Solas, climb the stairs. He’s close; his hands do not stop caressing my body wherever he can reach. After I enter my bedroom I am enveloped from behind in his strong arms and his lips lap at my neck. My breasts are covered by his splayed fingers and he expose my nipples and taises them to attention. I grab his hips to drag him flush against me. His hard length positioned between my butt cheeks moves as he rolls his hips. I keen and shiver. How long has it been since I had a man? A man who made me so wet?  I am ready for him in that instant, my body yearning for his. I desire to feel his hardness inside me at that very moment. But if I want to prolong it we need to slow down. I would not want our first time to end after ten seconds.

So, I still my hands and take a step forward. He notices and his hands loosen around my breasts. I turn my head slightly to inform him, “I think a shower would be appropriate, don’t you?”

His Adam’s apple bobs and his nostrils flare. The blue of his eyes is almost covered by the dark of his pupils. He nods after a few moments, licking his lips in anticipation.

I walk slowly to the bathroom leaving a trail of clothes behind me. I do not shut the door as I hope he wold join me. When I approach the mirror and look at my reflection I barely recognise myself through the haze of lust. This is not the woman who greeted him all those months ago; this was a new woman, confident and ready to move on. I drag my hand along the contours of my face, enjoying the perfect sight of my freckles and smiling lips. Have I thanked him enough for curing my eyes? Hmm, maybe a remedy is in order, I chuckle to myself. I take a few steps back dropping my gaze to my breast, then waist and my thighs; definitely I have changed. Noticeably. I will not regret this, I tell myself when finally I step into the shower and turn the water on.

Just a few breaths later I can feel his hesitant fingers running along my shoulder blades and his warm lips on my shoulder. I lean against him and hum approvingly. I want this. With him.

His touch is gentle as if he was afraid of hurting me. As his fingers skimmer along my ribs and lower to my hips I can feel him hesitating. The hot of his tongue licks along my earlobe and I moan when he nibbles at it with his teeth.

“Solas,” I whisper and turn around. His gaze is lustful and centred on my face. His kisses are too gentle for my liking at this moment.

“I’m not as fragile as you think I am.” My hand stop his advances and I make sure I have his attention. “I will not break easily.”

His gaze lowers to my breasts and then my legs. He takes a couple of steadying breathes. So, when our eyes meet again his gaze is determined. And lustful. He steps close so there’s no space between us and his hand holds my head as he slants his mouth against mine. No more doubting or hesitation.

Our moans fill the bathroom as his hands leave my head and travel down to cup my breasts again.  I moan into his mouth and he uses the opportunity to sneak his tongue in. The passion he was showing before has doubled. He grinds his hips while his long fingers tease my breasts. Circling around the nipples, pulling them slightly, and squeezing the fullness of them in each hand before bending his head down to suck on them in turns. I am done. Almost coming from this action alone. He breaks for a moment and stands tall to look at his work. I’m flushed and panting heavily. His eyes follow his hands as he trails them down my body. I shiver under his touch and he smiles. He stops at my hips and then looks at me expectantly. The distance he puts between us at that moment allows me to take a good look at him. His chiselled muscles and strong thighs make me tremble of what is to come; I greedily trace the valleys on his stomach with my fingers and his gaze gets clouded by desire. His straining cock twitches whenever my hand circles his navel. Then, I lick my lips and it spurs him into abandoning all pretence and kissing me hard on the lips.

He does not waste time and his hand travels immediately down between my thighs. His long fingers caress my folds, slowly at first then with more favour. I bare my neck to him as my head hits the glass. He is more than happy to leap at the chance and sucks at it while his nibble fingers dive into me. Two. Then three; I moan shamelessly and he groans against my neck. I will definitely have a hickey comes the morning. Slow practiced movements of his fingers. Stretching me, rubbing in all the right places. His thumb dances around my pearl and I find myself panting heavily canting my hips towards him. He laughs against my throat and then leans away to look at me. His gaze is calm and so entranced as if my pleasure was bringing him the satisfaction he seeks. Which it probably does as he moans as well when I finally shatters around his fingers. He drags my high for a while and then, again, licks his fingers covered with my come. Once done, his lips curve into a satisfied smirk and he leans towards me again. His nose trails along my cheek and towards my ear. “Delicious. I want more.”

I hold to his arms when his hands grab my thighs to hoist me up against the glass at my back. His hot lips still at my ear.

“May I have you, vhenan?” He whispers above the sound of falling water at his side.

“Yes,” I moan and that’s all he needs to direct me onto his length. He coats his cock in my slickness before angling himself to sheath himself inside me. We both groan as he breaches me. He lowers me so the gravity takes care of things. I feel him shivering in pleasure when he’s half way inside me. His ragged breaths are indications enough that he enjoys this. The chanting of my name alternated with vhenan make me tighten around him.

“Relax, emma lath. You’re so tight. Hamin, vhenan.” The use of Elvhen has the opposite effect as I tighten even more. He stops.

“This will not do,” he decides and then slips out of me. The loss of him leaves me disoriented and pouting. He chuckles and turns off the water. Then touches my cheek and smirks. “I would prefer the bed, vhenan. Where I can touch you to my liking.”

My pouting does not stop but I follow him. When we are next to my bed he indicates for me to lay down and he climb right next to me. We kiss again and his hand roam freely along my ribs, my stomach towards my breasts which he squeezes lightly.  His head bends down and his lips catch the nipple which he sucks on. I moan in pleasure and he alternates to the other breast positioning himself between my spread legs.  My folds are glistening with moisture as he covers himself again with my juices. Then he pushes in, slowly, holding my hips, he guides his cock inside me, advancing at a torturously slow pace. My moans do not deter him as he continues his movement by taking me inch by inch. The pleasure floods me as I arch my back and grab at the sheets at my sides.

Finally he’s fully inside me. So, he stops his movement allowing me to adjust to his size. I pant and heave and pulsate around him. His pupils, so dilated, take me in, caressing me with gentle glances despite his gaze being heated and heavy. Trying to last longer, to rein in the immense pleasure threatening to overcome his limits he stills and waits for it to abate. When he has it under control his hips snap sharply and I release a long moan. He does it again. The sheet gets dragged towards me. He leans over me supporting himself on his arms. His fingers at my hair.

“Look at me, vhenan.” When I do he continues. “You’re exquisite, wonderful, warm. You’re more than I have ever expected to receive.“ He nips my lips playfully. “You’re the one I will desire forever. The one I will long for. Always. The one to complete me. Ma vhenan’ara.”

“Solas, wait,” I tell him. He stops again. His eyebrow raises in silent question. Although I feel him twitching inside me, his pride would not allow him to lose his self-control even in the most vulnerable of situations. “Change back your ears. I want to see you the way you are.” I try to suppress the shivering of my voice.

He beams at me and then his eyes glow the light blue and his ears elongate. This is Solas, my elven man. We both grin at each other. The happiness in his eyes and his quiet vhenan, repeated over and over again, confirms that he appreciates this request.

And then he snaps out of the joyful break and rolls his hips. I moan and he starts moving in and out at a quick pace. Grunting against my neck, nipping at my shoulder, my cheek, my earlobe and my lips, which he takes possession of giving praise to the feelings. He tells me how beautiful I am, how tight, how warm and inviting, how good I feel around him. I come easily when he still drives deeply inside me.

He waits until I ride my high before angling my legs higher and diving deeper than before. His strong and deep trusts make me pant and claw at his back. I also grab his hard buttocks. Racking his skull with my fingernails sets him on moving even faster. Ragged breaths and dirty strings of Elvhen escape his swollen lips from the feverish kisses. He touches me everywhere he can while his cock swims inside me. He rams it in before he drags it almost all way out. Then he repeats. We are both sweating profoundly at this stage and my throat is raspy from shouting his name after voicing the pleasure for such a long time. He’s near his end. He slows down for a moment to brace my head and ask my permission to come inside me. I nod and it’s all to set him aflame. His ragged breaths faltered by a long grunt as he spills inside me burring his cock as deep as he can. The groan are muffled by his lips latching at my throat, his teeth marking me as his.

He stills above me and I caress his sweaty back with my hands. I feel him chuckling against my throat before he raises his head to look at me.

“That was…hmm.” Hazy eyes glance at me tenderly. With all the love and happiness written on his face. The tips of his ears are pink, as well as his cheeks.

I laugh in response. “Yes, it was.”

We embrace each other while our bodies cool down. His caresses along my arms and my back have no end as well as his kisses. I see him smiling and humming against my skin. With his eyes closed and soft whispers on his tongue. My hand goes to his ear. “A shower?” I propose.

His stops his wanderings and I see a cheeky smile returns to his face. “One of the many tonight, if I can venture into foreseeing the next couple of hours.”

“What do you mean?” I ask confused while he raises his body off me and starts to kneel. His hand reaches out to me to help me get up.

“You thought this was it? That I have had my fill of you?” His mouth quirks.

I follow him into the bathroom on shaking legs. My body tingles all over and I feel tired. A good kind of tired though.

He sets the water on warm. “We have barely started, ma lath. Shall I remind you what I promised you the other night?” His smirking could not be more unnerving.

“Oh?” I play coy. “We’ll see about that, shall we?”

--

He gets good on his promise and we sleep very little this night. The sheets need to be changed twice and the shower cubicle used more than I dare to admit.  The morning finds us entangled in each other and he cannot refrain from taking me again.

I don’t complain though. Oh no. Far from it. But it means that I need to be careful when taking lightly on his promises.

--------

vhenan - my heart vhenan'ara - my heart desire emma lath, ma lath - my love ma serannas - thank you rass'an vath - teller of possibilities, clairvoyant (my own)

a large footnote: thank you to my never-tiring Beta, for advice and patience ;)