*laying on my stomach feet kicking up* thinking about bouncing on tyun’s thick dick and his hands gripping, making bruises. All the while kai is watching and praising *twirls hair looks longingly into the sky*
i needed time to collect myself after this. youre fucking insane. do it again.
you didnt even know these men. when they approached you at the bar and asked that damn question, you shouldve, logically, turned tail and ran. but you didnt.
"how much?"
they were handsome, startlingly so. one thing led to another and now here you were, bouncing on top of one of them. taehyun, you think his name is. you only heard the other one, kai? mumble it in the car ride over. well, actually, you were hardly doing any work at all. it was taehyun, with his sure grip, definitely pressing bruises in the shape of fingerprints onto your hips, who was putting in the work. his arms flexed deliciously as he forced you to ride him, bringing you up and down like you were little more than a fleshlight. your head was foggy, you felt so stuffed full you couldnt possibly think of anything beyond the way his thick cock was stretching you to your limit. youd never gotten such good dick in your fucking life. yeah, you were positively stupid, babbling nonsense and agreeing with whatever nasty, degrading insults taehyun threw at you.
"open your eyes, slut. look at him." taehyun growled somewhere behind you, bringing you down on himself harder as punishment for you not following his order immediately. you blinked once, twice, three times before kai's figure finally swam into focus. he looked like a dream, fluffy blond hair falling over his eyes. his slack-clad thighs spread deliciously and leaving little to the imagination as he palmed himself. he was staring at you down the length of his nose, chin tilted up for added affect. you shivered under that gaze. he looked like sin, alive and dangerous. a smirk ghosted at his lips as he watched you falling apart on his friends cock, obscene sounds of your arrousal making your ears burn a pretty pink.
"what a pretty thing, taking him so well. bet you can hardly breathe, stuffed so full, hm?" he cooed, head tilting to the side slightly as his gaze raked over you again. you shuddered, nodding pathetically like a fucking bobblehead. he tsked, but the sound was mocking. "hes so mean to you, isnt he, pretty? you need some love, dont you?"
What's the best relationship your muse has ever had, what kind of relationship was it, and what made it so special?
I'm going to use Chaos here because he is my most difficult to be with in a relationship. His ego is enormous, being a domineering fallen god. Although he thinks that he is a monster, the relationships that go past dominant ego and into his more gentle, although still proud, loves.
For instance, @monarchy-of-desires Aislin, even though she was bound to Chaos to be his, she can see through the monster he thinks he is into the broken god gone to seed. She treats him in a gentle way and it makes him feel wanted, not just in a bonded way, but that she sees behind the bluster.
Also whenever he is paired with someone gentle, he wants to be gentle for them. Shout out to his adopted daughter Kara, @orphanedshadow, who he wants to be the best parent to, as his own parents were less than good to him.
He also has good relationships with other dragons, including @siiinfully's Kari and many of Alex's other muses who still revere him as a god. He has a cordial brother like relationship with @rhaigal and the @xdragonsofavaloria, who intrigue him in a big way.
Goodneighbor was on the upswing, that was true enough. But every cultural shift had its growing pains; the Old Neighborhood had its fingers in the very cobblestones beneath Valentine's feet, if not the Statehouse looming above.
Growing pains were evidenced to the synthetic detective by a beer hurled at him from somebody's window. The bottle had missed, but the resulting explosion had him splattered in good ol' Gwinnett Lager.
But Nick could find two things he was thankful for: it was starting to drizzle and rain was as good a free shower as he was gonna get, and he knew damn well that thrown bottle wasn't because he was a synth.
He made enemies in Goodneighbor honestly. That was the nature of this town now, under the new Mayor's credence-- new to an old dog like Nick, at least.
That was where he was heading, still smelling vaguely like the carpet of an old world bowling alley, dripping with both rain and macro piss. The knock to Hancock's office was polite, despite the leering gaze of the Neighborhood Watch.
@redshcdes asked: ❛ we did it. we won. ❜ - for davesprite >:3c
the sky above him is blue. it’s strange how something as simple as a clear blue sky makes his chest feel light. how the feeling of sunshine on his face lifts a weight off his shoulders. he stares up at the barest wisps of clouds that drift in the breeze, lips slightly parted. the same wind rustles his feathers and he flexes his wings ( wing and a half. but who’s counting ?? ).
freedom. that’s what the air tastes like here. freedom and the start of something new.
( he doesn’t know his place here. his purpose was to guide dave, the real dave, through his game. he existed as some kind of plot device, and exposition dump to make sure his player won the game. and now that they’ve won一 what place could he possibly have ?? would anyone want him here ?? seems unlikely now that the gang’s all together again, real dave charming the socks off everyone with that dry wit of his. he’s just a一 )
words snap him out of his self-pitying spiral and he turns. he recognizes her. terezi pyrope. the one responsible for the turn of events that led to his existence. if she hadn’t goaded john into trying to skip through to the endgame, he might not be here right now. he’s not sure if that would be a blessing or a curse. ( then again, without him they would have had to deal with calsprite, which… yeah, better off him. ).
❛ not sure how much i had to do with it, ❜ he admits wryly. ❛ mostly you won. you and the gang, getting all hero on their asses. really stuck it to those assholes. all一 ❜ he squints, tries to do the math to figure out just how many people they’d actually fought in that last battle. ❛ 一erm, four一 fifteen of them ?? ❜ nope, lost that one, strider. try again.
❛ congrats, anyway. mazel tov. hats off to you. cheers. etcetera and so forth. take a bow while the audience cheers and throws flowers at you. but jokes on you because you’ve got allergies. so now you’re sneezing amongst the adoration of your fans. which is fine by them because they’re here to kiss the ground you walk on and they’re thrilled to get your snot droplets all over them. ‘s like a mini-baptism or some shit. hey, do you guys have troll jesus ?? like fuck that guy, real weirdo. crazy fanbase. the catholics did kind of go of with stained glass though. human catholics, i mean. don’t know nuthin’ about troll catholics. ❜
Her heart’s going to fly clean out of her chest any second.
It certainly feels that way. She stares blankly at the ceiling in the darkness, the last tendrils of the dream slowly unwinding from her mind, slithering back to the void. Her breath is rapid, and shaky, and she’s not surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks.
Reality comes back in inches. It’s so quiet here; the only sound is the wind playing with the trees outside their window. There’s a softness covering her, the flannel blanket that carries the familiar, soothing scent of the laundry detergent that she uses.
She pushes herself up shakily. A soft snore on her left has her turning sharply towards the source of the sound; and her heart flips over - in relief or shock, she can’t tell - when her eyes land on the sleeping form of Solas, of her husband, resting on his back with an arm carelessly covering his eyes. As she stares greedily, he snores again, and she makes a low, half-choked sound of disbelief.
He’s… here. He’s here, by her side, and not-
Her hand moves towards him, unbidden, and she touches his face. Feels the softness of his skin, traces over the freckles dotting his nose. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. When she rubs a finger against his lips, he stirs, moves his hand away from his face to blink blearily up at her.
“Vhenan?” his voice is thick with sleep, but it still sounds like him. “What’s the matter?”
His concern, even in his half-aware state, breaks open some dam within her. “Oh,” she breathes through her tears. “You’re here. You’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” She can tell he’s fully awake as he sits up next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He’s awake, and alarmed. His brows are furrowed as he takes in her tears. “What’s wrong?”
“I had a dream-” she hiccups, then cries harder as he wraps his arm around her shoulder. “A bad one.”
He rubs her back, his warmth seeping into her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She hiccups again, sniffs in a futile attempt to clear her blocked nose. Wordlessly, Solas hands her several tissues, and she takes them gratefully. She blows her nose, once, twice, places the used tissues on her nightstand in favor of the glass of water she keeps there. The liquid soothes her throat, replenishes what she’s lost in sleep-sweat and tears.
“Better?” Solas asks. His long, slender fingers softly massage the base of her neck sending frissions of relief up to her scalp.
“Yes.” She takes in a deep breath. The dream’s coming back to her, faint echoes of the vivid, overwhelming images, but shielded as she is by Solas’ touch, she feels none of the emotions that threatened to drown her. It makes it easier to speak about- it.
“I saw you,” she murmurs, hands fidgeting in her lap. “You were dressed funny. Your face was so… blank. So expressionless,” she shivers. He gently takes one of her hands and holds it between his, silently encouraging her to continue. “You had this- this strange orb. It was pulsing with power, so much power… you gave it to a monster…” she exhales. “Some corrupted magister, I think it was. And- and the monster, he- he used it to kill so many people. He blew up the… I think it was the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It looked like it… and he just- so many people died,” her voice trembles, just a little. “And I- I had a cut on my hand,” she stares at the palm of her left hand, half-surprised to see it smooth and unblemished. “It oozed green light and it hurt so bad. And- people hated me for it, but- but they also wanted me to fight the monster. So I did… over and over… and it just… hurt.” She describes the breach, that swirling, vengeful vortex in the sky that spat out demons and death. She talks about red lyrium. “It turned normal men into hate-fueled beasts,” she mutters, blinking blankly into the darkness of the room. “They slaughtered everything for no reason. There was so much blood…” She tells him of the giant demon with too-many eyes and too-sly voice, of betrayal and deadly games played from behind masks and veneers, of ancient places lost and rediscovered and then defiled, of dragons tamed and conquered, and of monsters finally slain.
The silence that falls when she’s done feels deafening. Finally, finally, Solas shifts, pulling her between his legs, her back pressed to his chest so she’s enveloped by his arms and legs. She sighs, softly, contentedly; she feels safe, at last. He presses kisses to her temple, over and over, nuzzling his face against hers.
Something else comes to her. “You left me,” she blurts out, hastily rolling away from him. “You broke my heart, and you left me all alone. And then- and then when I finally found you, you-” she raises her left arm, looks at it. It’s whole, and entirely normal; there are no poisonous green lines snaking up the length of it, no pulsing power in the palm that will burst out in a flash of agonizing pain. “You took my arm,” she whispers, rubbing her left arm with the fingers of her right. “You- you said you were the Dread Wolf, that you were going to destroy the world, and then you amputated me and… and you abandoned me,” the words are heavy with accusation and anger. “You turned your back on me, and you just… walked away.”
He sighs. “Vhenan,” he shifts, attempting to coax her to look in his direction. “Vhenan, you cannot truly be upset with me over something you saw in the Fade.” She staunchly refuses to look at him. He sighs again, shifts till he’s within her line of sight. “No, I have never given an artifact to a corrupt magister. You would know if I had. No-” he forestalls the objection that wants to pour out of her mouth, “not everything you see in the Fade is a memory.”
She sulks, deliberately turns her head from him. Solas takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room. “Vhe-” she jerks her head away from him again. “Vhenan, please.”
“You left me!” she hurls at him again, as though it explains everything.
“It was a dream. I would never leave you.” Slowly, as though he’s attempting to calm a skittish horse, he reaches across the distance between them. She lets him touch her, lets him turn her so she’s facing him once more. “Ar lath ma, Neria. You are my heart, my home. Leaving you would be like depriving myself of air; I would perish.”
Her eyes fill up with tears again; she sniffles. “Promise you’ll stay with me?” she sobs, flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Solas holds her to him, so tight he’s almost crushing her, but she welcomes the pressure. “I promise.” He waits till the tears stop, stroking her back slowly the entire time, before suggesting they go back to sleep. She agrees, but she doesn’t get any rest.
She’s not really sure if she believes him.
----
Monday
It’s silly to let a dream haunt her so, Neria knows. She’s aware of it, but she can’t seem to stop herself from giving Solas the cold shoulder. Each time he asks her a question, she replies with one-word answers, tersely spoken. Creators bless him, he hasn’t pressed her, hasn’t demanded an explanation for her strange behavior - for it is strange, and out of character for her. Instead, he gives her gentle affection, coming back to her again and again even when she pushes him away.
She thinks she hates him more for how damn understanding he’s being.
He’s at work, and she’s got the T.V. on as she prepares dinner. It’s some trashy reality show about the heiresses of Orlais; one of them’s getting married, apparently, and to accompany the raucous laughter and the garish opulence of the yacht wedding, fireworks are set off, bursting in the sky in a shower of sparks of blue, red, and green- green, like-
Her fingers turn boneless, and the knife clatters to the floor, but she doesn’t hear it.
She’s there. Arms bound, and the sky is falling, and there are people shouting at her; her heart thunders, she’s so confused, so terrified. There are people shouting at her, strange ghostlike figures with hoods over their heads and viperous green eyes, smoke curling out of their ears and noses and mouths. They scream at her, spit at her, but she can’t hide, there’s nowhere to go, she’s being pulled forward, forward, forward- she doesn’t know what’s going on, but there are soldiers, and she’s running up a snow-covered mountain, amidst bodies charred to the bone, and- it’s horribly, horrifying, it’s wrong, so, so wrong, she knows this, she knows this, but how can she fix this, she can’t- she didn’t cause this, how is she meant to fix this, she tries to shout at the ghosts but they don’t listen, they scream at her over and over and their voices are too high and they hurt her head and her hand is throbbing now, viciously, violently-
an arc of too-green light, and more pain, so much more pain, but the ghosts are pleased-
She can’t breathe, her chest is clogged with the freezing wind and panic and terror- but she can’t stop, can’t stop, this - whatever this is - is too urgent, too important, she has to keep going, has to, it doesn’t matter that no one believes her, it doesn’t matter that everyone hates her, she has to- do- something- and there’s green high up in the sky, so wide and large and massive and it’s scary and she doesn’t want to be here she wants to run away she wants to hide she wants to-
The phone rings, and she’s jolted back to her kitchen, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, where an advertisement for laundry detergent is playing on the television.
Her heart’s still racing. She picks up the knife from the floor, but she can’t seem to stop her hand from shaking.
Vhenan. Would you mind picking up dinner on your way home?
She half-expects him to refuse. It’s what she would do, were she in his place…
Of course. Is there anything you’re craving?
Damn him. How dare he?
She sinks to the floor, phone clutched to her chest, and cries. She’s not sure why.
----
Tuesday
She can’t stay home. She’s already on edge, but walking into their bedroom makes her too jittery. Makes her feel as though everything is going to come crashing down around her. Desperate for a change of scenery, she texts her best friend.
How ‘bout some coffee? My treat.
Dorian’s quick to reply, as always. Of course. How does three sound? I’ll splurge on the donuts.
They sit by the window in the farthest corner of the room - their usual table. She’s eschewed coffee in favor of some strawberry lemonade - the last thing she needs is caffeine ruining her already fitful sleep.
“So,” Dorian asks, peering at her over the rim of his cup, his moustache quivering slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean? We do this all the time.”
He quirks an elegant brow. “You look like death. You have more bags under your eyes than I take on vacation with me, and that would actually be an understatement, not an exaggeration. Something’s clearly got you all shaken up. Did you have a fight with Solas? Do I need to have words with him?”
“No, I-” her hand trembles, and some of her drink spills on her white shirt. “Dammit,” she grabs at a napkin, goes to prevent the stain from setting-
The red liquid is spreading outwards on the cloth. It’s so- red. So angry. So like-
-like blood blooming from a wound-
She’s running through walls lined with red, dark rank-smelling liquid around her feet, the scent of iron and copper in her nose and on her tongue. There’s too much red, too much, and- there’s a humming sound, loud and haunting and it’s so furious and she doesn’t know why- how dare it be angry when she’s the one who deserves to rage- always that sickening squelch before the red sprays out, she doesn’t want to do it but she does, wants to hurt them the way they’ve hurt everything around her-
Dorian calls out to her, concern ripe in her voice, and she lifts her head towards the sound, eyes not fully seeing- he was there too, running by her side, running amidst the muck and the filth and the ichor, so desperately optimistic despite the grim and the dark and the bleak
Red, red and dead everywhere- and Solas is here,, too-red and too-sad and too close to death with haunted and hopeless eyes and she can’t bear it, can’t bear it, it’s too much, there’s no hope there’s only fear and despair and she’s helpless as she watches the love of her life die spilling more red than she thought he had and it isn’t fair it isn’t right IT ISN’T RIGHT IT’S TOO MUCH SHE NEEDS TO GET OUT SHE NEEDS TO GET BACK-
“Neria!” she jolts as she’s shaken roughly. Dorian’s looking at her, unsettled but deeply worried. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Dorian-” he mouth is too dry, but the sight of her drink makes her recoil.
“Talk to me, please.”
She does. She tells him everything, then turns to look out of the window as she waits for him to tell her she’s crazy.
He doesn’t.
Instead… “I’ve had dreams like that before,” he confesses quietly. She stares at him, wide-eyed. “They can be… haunting.” There’s so much sympathy in his eyes she can’t quite bear to look at his face.
“How do I get rid of them?” she asks.
“They’ll leave, with time.” He reaches out, covers her hand with his own. “You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She’s not convinced. “Thanks, Dorian.”
----
Wednesday
Neria is being kind to herself, as Dorian suggested. The long, tapered candle gives off a pleasant, soothing scent, filling the air with vanilla and lavender. There’s a stack of magazines on the table, a cup of tea by her side, and she’s curled up on the couch with a soft wool throw tucked around her legs.
She hasn’t registered a single word she’s read.
With a deep sigh, she shifts, pulls another issue from the stack. Jostles the table as she does. The candle falls over before she can stop it. The flame touches the paper, which instantly ignites.
There’s a goddamn fire on the table; she knows she should do something, that she needs to put it out, but- she cocks her head to the side and finds herself just staring at it.
Yellow and orange and heat, so much heat it blisters and warps-
Shouting, and screaming, and panic; smoke handing thick and heavy in the air, wood charred black and glowing red, help us, save us- There’s too many of them, too many, what can she do- nothing, nothing, there’s nothing to do, she’s going to die, they’re going to die, everything is going to burn to ash and she can’t do anything- but- wait- she can, she can, she’ll do all she can so he lives- he is everything to her, she won’t lose him, she can’t lose him- it hurts, it’s anguish that shakes her bones, she doesn’t want to leave him, she doesn’t want to die, but there’s nothing else she can do-
she’s scared and terrified and petrified and she wants to curl up and cry. There’s panic in her belly and it’s desperate and gnawing and everything around her is burning, burning, it’s too hot even with all the snow and her fingers blister and her toes blister and her face blisters and she’s screaming and she’s falling and she’s burning and she’s falling-
Warm arms - not hot, but warm, and so familiar and so welcome - wrap around her. Solas’ arms are trembling as he rocks her back and forth, his lips pressed to her forehead.
“Are you okay,” he asks, his voice hoarse, when she finally pulls away from him.
Her throat feels strangely sore. “Yes,” she croaks, then remembers the fire and jerks upright. There’s nothing there; the candle’s been put out, the only victim a few pages half-burned. “You put out the fire?”
“It was a small one,” he murmurs, still unwilling to let go of her. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles.
She knows he isn’t convinced.
----
Thursday
The news feed is uninspiring. There’s a new picture up of Sera and her newest girlfriend at the beach. It’s time for a Widdle fun! the caption exclaims. Photos of Orlesian Fashion Week posted by Vivienne, with little remarks under the designers she admires. A slightly-blurry video of Cullen and his mabari pup; she can’t help but smile at their antics. She scrolls past a banner advert for Rainier’s Furnishings, and she absently makes a note to check it out; Solas could use a new desk and bookshelves for his study.
The Thedas Travels page has a slideshow of pictures. Ten Places You Must See Before You Die, it’s titled. Curious, she checks it out. Boulevard of the Seas in Antiva City, The Winter Palace in Halamshiral, The Argent Spire in Minrathous, Adamant Fortress in the Western Approach...
She stares at the picture of the large, grey-stoned bastion. An Orlesian fortress constructed by dwarves, this relic of the Divine Age stands on the very edge of the Abyssal Rift and once belonged to the Grey Wardens-
Clang of metal striking metal, scent of blood fresh in the air. Ichor on her face, in her hair, on her hands. She’s running again, chasing a ghost, frustration ripe on her tongue- the ground shatters beneath her and now she’s falling, she’s falling and plummeting and dropping and it’s endless and she lands into nightmares and terror and everything is sickly and wrong and makes her skin crawl and the sly voices lick at her ears and make her shudder and cloud her mind and sap her resolve-
but she’s grim and she’s determined and she punches ahead and she’s a leader and she has to she has to there’s no other choice- until a choice has to be made and she doesn’t want to make it but she has to but she doesn’t and she tumbles out with grief blocking every pore and loss flooding her chest but there’s too many eyes on her to falter so she can’t even cry but that’s all she wants to do is cry and apologize and weep and- what has she done what has she done
When she wakes up, she’s in bed, the covers tucked around her shoulder. Her head throbs viciously. Weakly, she sits up, and finds a cup of warm tea and several chocolate chip cookies waiting for her.
There’s also a small bottle of aspirin.
She starts to cry again.
----
Friday
It’s a bright, sunny day. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. Outside, she can hear the distant rumble of a motor as someone mows their lawn. There’s faint birdsong drifting in, and the scent of warm spices from the stove. She’s smiling and humming along to the music in the radio as she pours the batter into a greased pan.
She’s happy, and she’s in love, and she’s going to surprise Solas with his favorite cake. Life is good.
A ballad floats out through the speakers. It’s soft, and sweet, all violins and cellos, and it builds up to something deeper, something that thrums in her veins and fills her blood with desires, until her core aches and throbs-
Come, dance with me before the music stops. It rings so clearly in her head she finds herself turning, seeking him out. Her hand in his. His hand at her waist, heavy and warm. She’s floating across marble, the stars in the sky insignificant in measure to the light in his eyes. Scent of rose and jasmine thick, almost cloying. The rustle of vines as she’s pressed up against the wall, his mouth at her neck, teeth nipping, tongue soothing, fingers drifting under her dress moving slowly upwards, teasing, stroking, there but not quite where she wants him, where she needs him-
Champagne on his tongue, passion on her breath, his gaze locked on her as he pushes into her, slow, steady, filling her so perfectly till he’s hilted as deeply in her body as he is in her heart. Her gaze never leaving his as he begins to move, hips slapping against hers, the sound muffled by the low hum of conversations from below the balcony. The music hangs in the air as he guides her to peak, as he makes lovely, lewd promises against her lips, her legs wrapped around him, trapping him, demanding more, neck bared up in offering, his mouth latched to her pulse-
Close, so close, so high up- she leaps off, soars, dives off the cliff into the sea of pleasure, washes up on the shore sated and breathless- he loves her and she loves him and she wants him and he wants here and it's lovely, beautiful, magnificent-
Solas walks out of the study.
She strides towards him. Plucks the book from his hands. Pulls him down to her, slides her mouth against his.
He goes willingly with her.
----
Saturday
Elfroot, spindleweed, embrium. They’re growing well in their troughs, the leaves and stems a pleasing, soothing shade of green. She sighs when she sees that the trays in the shaded spot she’d reserved for growing deep mushrooms are empty. Still, she’s quite pleased with the crop of dawn lotus and crystal grace - she might even have enough to send over to Merrill.
She makes her way to the dragonthorn tree. It’s such a strange one, with it’s palmately lobed leaves that shine a deep, glossy green, and large orange-red berries that cluster in groups of two or three. Native to the Forbidden Oasis, it serves as a reminder of that one vacation she’d taken with Solas, just the two of them in a well-hidden paradise away from the rest of the world.
The sun glints off the swaying leaves. The wind whispers into her ear, cools the sweat that’s beaded at the nape of her neck. The scent of the earth hits her, loamy and rich-
The land is lush and verdant, more shades of green than she can count. She moves through grass softer than a dream, trails her fingers along slender, fuzzy leaves, the canopy above her dappled with sunlight. The smell of petrichor mingles with that of herbs, both known and unknown. Flowers bloom, a hundred different colors and sizes and scents. This is paradise unknown. It’s a marvel, and awe swells within her, wonder and amazement that such a place exists… so much beauty, such exquisiteness, then- flashes of gold, towers of red, hulking, misshapen, dead-eyed- pools of red, splashing up her legs, smeared across her face, running down her arm- the air changes from sweet to bitter and and she tramples all that is pretty beneath her feet as she rushes to stop greedy hands from grasping, from drinking- and she despairs that something so marvelous is despoiled, befouled, and she’s angry now, raging at those who would so pollute and defile so sacred a sanctum-
Something brushes against her arm. It’s a branch, laden with blooming red flowers, and she has, in her daze, clipped it while it was still growing.
Distressed, she takes it with her when she enters the house, places it in a vase filled with water.
The flowers are dead the next morning, withered and sadly drooping. Dry, shrivelled red petals lie scattered across the table.
She carries the ache in her chest all day.
----
Sunday
Neria watches Solas check his wallet, making sure the printout of his boarding pass is safely within. His small green carry-on suitcase is waiting by the door. He shrugs on his coat, checks the time on his watch before looking up at her. “It’s time to leave, I think. I do not expect traffic, but it’s better to be safe.”
She nods.
He crosses over to her, cups her cheek. She nuzzles against his palm. “It is only four days,” he watches her carefully. “Not years. I will be back. I promise.”
“I know,” she replies, but it rings hollow even to her own ears.
He places his luggage in the trunk, and she drives him to the airport. A strange kind of silence fills the air - it feels ominous, almost. Like the Fates are watching the two of them with bated breath. It gives her goosebumps, prickles the back of her neck.
The airport is bustling as it always is, and she parks in the short-term parking. He’s clearly surprised, but makes no comment. “I’ll walk with you,” she explains, and he accepts without question. They share an embrace before he walks away to join the line for the security check. He doesn’t look back, his focus on the screen of his phone.
It slams into her then.
There’s rubble and dirt and ruins of ruins and she’s bloodied and bruised and aching in places she shouldn’t ache, but she wanders around, desperate, despairing; he’s not there- she’s terrified, her skin feels frozen not with the cold but with the lack of his warmth, his essence- he’s not there, she can’t tell where he’s gone, she’s alone- he’s gone, and left her alone, and the loneliness steals her breath and leaves her gasping and her heart bursts into razored shards that pierce through her soul and she can’t breathe, where is he, where is he- she is victorious, triumphant, she should be happy, she can sense it, but instead she’s filled with dread and heartache and there’s a gaping hole in her chest and she’s empty, so empty, and she- she can’t-
“Solas!” she bursts out, loud enough to catch the attention of everyone around her. Her husband turns towards her, a quizzical look on his face. “Don’t go. Please.” There’s a desperate don’t leave me that’s hanging in the air over them.
For a moment, they stare at each other. She doesn’t dare to breathe.
Solas makes the slightest, most imperceptible nod. It’s enough of a response, and all the air in her lungs whooshes out of her. He picks his way through the crowd, and makes his way to her side.
Tension, that she hadn’t known existed, flows out of her. Neria’s shoulders slump with relief. She feels as though they’ve passed some unknowable test.
“You’ll stay?” she questions, hardly daring to believe.
“I will always be where you are, vhenan.” He takes hold of her hands. “Shall we go home?”
She doesn’t care that he’ll miss his meeting. Doesn’t care that everyone’s looking at them. Doesn’t care that she’s been acting so strange and aloof and afraid all week.
Because it doesn’t matter, not any more.
He stayed, when she asked him to. And that’s all she needed.
The last of the dream dissipates from her consciousness, leaving only the certainty of his love in its wake.
“Ar lath ma.” She smiles up at him, bright and beatific, rises up on her toes to kiss him. “Let’s go home.”
from sept 18th - sept 25th all posts will be tagged & au modern day .
the basics
name: emma swan
age: 34
occupation: jack of all trades at hooked craft brewery, bar & tap
important relationships: henry swan ( son, 17 ), isabella mills ( niece/god daughter ), killian jones ( boyfriend ), regina mills ( best friend, pain in the ass ), robin locksley ( good friend, annoyance ), roland locksley ( asker of too many questions ), mary margaret nolan ( mom friend ), david nolan ( dad friend ), august booth ( former foster brother, co-worker ), ruby lucas ( co-worker ).
biography
tl;dr: emma grew up in the foster system. she met regina when she was 17 and pregnant with henry. the two are best friends who love each other a lot and fight like sisters. basically raised their kids together. met killian through regina’s fiancé robin. the two did not get along at first -- basically frenemies to lovers, it’s pretty cute. henry is her whole world and she likes to think she can beat him at video games ( spoilers: she can’t ).
emma’s life did not have some fantastical start. she was not the product of of true love or abandoned on the side of a road somewhere in maine. instead, she was born to a scared young woman who had no business being a mother. she lived with her for the first three years of her life, but her mother had problems (primarily drug use) and after an arrest that would put her in jail for a year, emma was taken into custody by social services and put into the foster system. and while she would spend her childhood in foster homes imagining her parents would come back for her someday, or that she’d be adopted by some millionaire like little orphan annie, she’d eventually come to realize not all adults were reliable, and that for some being a parent was not a life time commitment.
growing up in the foster system taught emma a lot about rejection and abandonment, a lesson she learned most prominently from a boy named august who in the time they spent as foster siblings quickly became her best friend. for the first time in her life she’d found herself really relying on someone who she believed would always be there for her. but life, emma learned, had a funny way of giving you what you need and taking it away in the same breath. just as quickly as she’d come to depend on august he was taken away, without a word or a forwarding address, teaching a heartbroken emma she’d have to grow some thick skin to survive this world.
at twelve years old emma finally found herself in a stable home with a woman who really seemed to care for her. ingrid didn’t treat her like another pay check, but as a kindred spirit. she really seemed to love her, and so emma learned to love her in turn. at thirteen, ingrid officially adopted her and for the first time emma truly started to believe her life had changed forever. she had a permanent home, a real mom, a school where she made real friendships.
and then high school hit and emma had her first real experience with romantic love when she met a boy who was a few years older than her and a whole lot of trouble. this brought tension into her relationship with her adoptive mother who insisted she was making a mistake, but emma was in love! they dated on and off throughout her early years of high school, but reliability was not his strong point and when emma found herself single and pregnant at seventeen she knew she’d have to do this on her own. but she never could have guessed just how alone in it she’d be. you see, ingrid did not respond well to the news, telling emma if she wished to stay under her roof she had only two option - terminate the pregnancy or give her child up for adoption. Neither of which sat right with the young blonde, the product of a teen pregnancy herself, emma believed it was her job to break the cycle.
so, being stubborn and strong willed emma packed up her things and set out to make a life for herself and the little baby growing inside of her. it wasn’t long before she’d meet regina, her father henry (who would become her own son’s namesake), and her daughter isabella who put her on the right path. what started as a chance meeting was the start of a meaningful friendship that would turn into a family of sorts. emma and regina lived together for years, raising their children together and bickering like sisters, and when regina met robin emma was the first to tell her she’d found her happy ending, even if it would take the couple a while to get their act together.
it’s through robin that emma met killian. her annoyance turned reluctant friend and then lover, she jokes he wore her down, but more accurately she thinks through all the snark they learned to trust, respect, and eventually love each other. still, she could have never predicted that what started as an impulsive kiss in their friend’s bathroom would become the love of her life. of course she shouldn’t be surprised, to this day their spats are an elaborate form of foreplay.
now she lives with her son and her boyfriend, working odd jobs at hooked craft brewery, bar & tap and enjoys near weekly dinners with her chosen family. it’s a bit hokey, and very cheesy but she’s happy -- completely -- and really not looking change anything.
The first time Theodore Clairmont set eyes upon Selwyn d’Alessi was at arms practice.
The newly accepted Magistrate Wolves huddled together in the main hall of headquarters, radiating equal parts eagerness and trepidation. Despite undergoing the grueling testing process together, they were by no means friends, only choosing to stay in the pack out of sheer self preservation - everyone knew lone wolves rarely made it to Spring.
Teddy’s foot tapped impatiently to a beat only he could hear. They had been kept waiting for over half an hour, during which a woman had entered the room, only to ignore them, keeping to the outskirts, head bent over paperwork. Futile glances were thrown in her direction every couple of minutes, only for each set of eyes to quickly dart away when she looked up, gaze level and cold. Hushed whispers told him she was Selwyn d’Alessi, a more experienced Magistrate Agent, one of the youngest ever.
But Teddy refused to be intimidated.
A couple steps and he was towering over her small form. “I wasn’t aware that arms practice could be done without arms.” Said in good humor, grin lifting the corners of his lips.
She ignored him, pen scribbling away.
He decided to try a different tactic. “Or maybe you can give me private lessons on a different type of arms.” He leaned closer. “You in mine.”
This time, Selwyn looked up, and he realized belatedly that she was young, likely as young as him. And beautiful. The second option didn’t seem so bad now.
“Maybe,” she answered, a coy smile matching his own. She seemed to ponder his proposal for a moment, mischief glittering in her eyes. Teddy decided right then that there was no sight more breathtaking than a woman up to no good. “There’s an arms room down the hall. Off-limits to Wolves, of course.” She closed the space between them, whispering in his ear, her lips lightly brushing against his skin, “Perfect for private beginner lessons.”
Although Teddy tried his best to discreetly follow her directions to the room, he couldn’t help the slight spring in his step and shake of his hands as he fumbled with the door knob. It was locked, as he guessed it would be. Selwyn seemed the type of woman that enjoyed setting challenges.
A couple minutes and a silent thank you to his wild high school years later, he was inside. The room was pitch black, a sort of darkness that seemed almost unnatural.
But before he could ponder that thought, Selwyn’s voice sounded in his head, a soft caress that made him shiver with anticipation. Take off your clothes. Well. If that was how she played the game, Teddy was more than happy to oblige. He managed to strip off his shirt and pants despite the opaque darkness.
A click.
He froze. Because he knew that sound - the sound of a gun’s safety. Slowly, the pitch black of the room receded, as if the darkness had only been clouds obstructing his view.
And before him sat a table of Magistrate Officials, some wide eyed, some glaring, one with a gun pointed directly at Theodore Clairmont Jr.
Selwyn’s voice sounded again in his mind, and he could almost swear he heard laughter in the words. Lesson number one.
Pandora can feel something broad against her back. She can’t tell where she is or if this is some nightmare that she’ll have to wake herself from. There’s a pain in her chest but doesn’t have any time to think about it because she can feel something dragging her. Whatever type of dream this is had to be brought on by something drank - this is why she doesn’t drink. It only causes more issues than it solves. But, that’s something for tomorrow Pandora to remember and now she just wants to sleep.
“Hey, listen to me.” A voice drags her back to the present and a groan escapes her lips. They’re too loud. Why can’t they let her sleep? “Pandora, stay with me.”
Finally, she opens her eyes and Henry’s face is the first thing she sees. His brows are knitted together with something that looks similar to concern written on his face. She can feel his hands pressing against her, hard and steady on her ribcage.
That’s odd.
She notices his hair out of place and reaches up, fingers sticky with blood and sweat, to push it back into its correct spot. A trail of red stains his forehead and she frowns. She goes to wipe it away but one of his hands stops her, making her frown even more. “Henry, there’s something-”
“Don’t.” It’s a warning, but one that weighs heavy with panic. She knows him by now, knows all of his tells hidden within his words. Something is very, very wrong. Her eyes move from his face to his hand, eyes concentrating on his bloodstained fingers and it hits her - that was her blood. “Let me take care of you.”
