bloom and the blight

‘I love you’ is not the end of your problems.
You think three words simplify everything – they don’t. His mind screams murder, homicide hurtling like a cold metal machine through veins like jagged scars; his soul puddles around his shoes like an otherwordly night. He makes it hard to think with all the shrieks he shoots into your skin, all the tears he traces in your throat, and do you think eight little letters will fix that? Do you think three small syllables can undamn devils? Naïve nymph, think again.
The beauty in his eyes is lost in the madness like roses buried in thorns. Please hear me: his songs are screams for help. Please heed me: his smiles grow flowers, but blood blights the blooms. Please listen: he is a wildfire. Please be warned: you will only collapse into constellations of ashes.
Those three words taste sweet on your ears, but don’t you know how often insanity falls in grains of sugar?
‘I love you’ is not the end of your problems.
—  it’s only the beginning // abby, day 142

prompted from adjectivebear, who asked for snuggles before the fireplace with optional hot baths. I did both. 

Water dripped from her skin and her hair onto his skin as she leaned over, and her skin brushed over his own, wet and warm and soft. She pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose, shifting in the bathtub and stirring up steam.

“Turn around, Solas.”

At his questioning stare, Siryn laughed. “You’re terribly stiff again. Turn around. I know what I’m doing.”

He hesitated only a moment longer until he did as she had asked, and felt her warm hands at his back, a soft touch at first that turned firm and yet careful, moving across his shoulders and done his spin, rubbing and kneading …

“You are skilled in it”, he noted, while her warm hands messaged his neck.

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