#beezwritez

Solas tells the truth for once:

"I haven't kissed in thousands of years."

And if Bel'hanin laughs, then he knows it's alright  — everyone knows things will be alright when the Inquisitor laughs, the birds sing, the butterflies flutter, and the veil vibrates like a song around her.

(Somebody had told her they thought the Dalish were always angry about something, always frowning, and she laughed at that. Perhaps they're just always angry to see you, she said, and made them laugh. By Mythal, her whole being is an anomaly.)

And he can taste her laughter and her saliva as if her joy could live inside his mouth.

"I feel the same," she says, "I think I was still twenty when I last kissed."

He hadn't used the word felt, but she likes that word so her doesn't correct her. She's so young, he's taken naps longer than her life.

"I see how five years can feel like a thousand."

She laughs and keeps glancing at his lips, so he kisses her again, and she bites his lower lip once twice. One version of the saying goes like this: May your bite cut as deep as the Dreadwolf's. Her teeth are sharp, and he would let her draw blood if she desired so.

"When you're a young woman," she continues, "slowly aging, it does. Procreating is not just a matter of personal desire; the clan's existence depends on it. I delayed as much as I could and only avoided marriage thanks to the Inquisition."

"We just kissed, and you're already veering into the topic of procreation."

She waves her hand. "Merely a mention. You don't strike me as fatherly."

She isn't wrong, he has never been a father, he didn't want anything in his life he would love more than Mythal, until he loved freedom more and justice more and wisdom and rebellion; still, the comment stings like she's pointing out a flaw, something lacking. He's too old to care, but he does because it comes from her mouth.

He fathered the freed slaves, if anything.

"Maybe I am, you don't know."

He frowns first, but Lavellan frowns deeper.

"There is more than a lot about you I don't know, and not for a lack of interest. So don't get upset if I misinterpret you."

"The mystery keeps me more attractive."

She's too busy rolling her eyes to notice his arm circling her waist, then bringing her flush against him, making a surprised little noise. He knows the cruelty of making her fall for him, but the allure is beyond his self-control. He nuzzles her face until she gives in, and their lips meet again. He hasn't kissed in thousands of years, but his hunger was never dormant — she provides him, satiates him.

Who cursed you, Bel'hanin? 'May the Dreadwolf take you,' repeated a thousand times.

"Why do you hide?" She asks, lips close to his. Then she pulls back, looks him in the eyes, looking for something inside his skull perhaps. "Who did you kill, Solas? What did you steal? Or is it some forbidden magic done with the blood of four virgins that taints your soul?"

"Seven actually, no virgins."

The truth tastes so sweet, he immediately kisses her again. Savour it, vhenan, sincerity, ancient, laugh about it.

"You're trying to distract me," she says and grabs his bottom in retaliation, but she's so shy about it that he holds her elbow to keep her hand there. Her tiny little act of rebellion makes him smile.

"If you stop staring at my lips, then I might deem it time to stop kissing you." She looks away, embarrassed, smiling as well. "With me, you have no obligations, no need to rush against the aging of your body. In time, I'll reveal myself. Little by little, to keep you enthralled."

In time, everything will fall into place, and I'll show you the world in real colors, no obligations, no aging of our bodies.

This time, she doesn't laugh, doesn't smile; there's serious determination in her face. Oh, and he knows this look well: love goes to the frontlines of the battle and love dies. Love stares at you with the utmost gravity because love is no light subject.

"I'm already enthralled." And she means it.

Bill fixes his eyes on her profile, the micromovements of her face --- for some reason the fluttering of her eyelashes and the pull on the corner of her lips seem a lot more interesting than his book of oceanic runes. He's known Rowan for quite a few summers now to comprehend the way in which the worries of her mind show through her skin.

His body is stretched out behind her as she uses his hips to support her back. The sun is out for one rare moment in London so they gathered to go to the park and do a little bit of work outdoors, still, the cold lingers in the air so it's nice being close to each other.

She adjusts her glasses when she notices his stare. "What is it?"

"Something wrong?"

Her chest shows the effort of a deep breath she's purposefully silent about. "No, everything's fine."

He pinches her side playfully. "Why are you so fidgety?"

She flinches with a giggle. "Ha! I'm not."

He stares more intensely until she turns to him and he raises his eyebrows inquisitively.

She looks away immediately with a defeated sigh. "I never seem to breathe properly when I'm around you... and it makes me restless."

He grins in that cocky way he'd acquired after becoming a curse breaker, that way that makes her want to either roll her eyes or bite his lip.

"And I haven't even given you a reason to be out of breath yet."

She makes a surprised noise. "Yet?"

He wraps his fingers around her elbow and tries pulling her closer for a kiss but she stands her ground. "I'm writing, Bill."

"When do you need to submit that?"

Rowan was always on her best behaviour, but with a promotion in sight, she wanted to be indispensable and irreplaceable. "Tomorrow!"

"Then you have five minutes to spare."

She's back at adjusting her glasses that misaligned with his pull. "Five minutes!? You'll take me out of my line of focus!"

She makes a sound of frustration but allows herself to be pulled this time.

He gives her a look -lips parted just so, eyelids heavy, green-blue eyes clouded with hunger- that makes goosebumps spread up her arms. "I've already stolen your focus."

He lifts a hand to brush her hair behind her shoulder, but keeps his hand on her, making circles with his fingertip on her neck. Neither cares about her glasses, he's learned to get around them while kissing her.

"You can't possibly be serious." She does a little gagging noise. "This is ridiculous. Preposterous. Where have you ever even found a ring in this place? It's- Ha, It's laughable. You audacious and ridiculous little man."

A-'s face remains unchanged- an amused little smile without teeth and very very soft eyes- throughout her barrage. His hand doesn't shake.

He's resting on his side, weight of his torso on his lean elbow, and M- is sitting before him with her legs together on her side like a mermaid, the effect enhanced by her washed out pink hair falling off her shoulder like seaweed.

He looks at her with the mesmerized and expectant serenity of the yet-to-be-drowned sailor. "And your answer is?"

She gives a perplexed little gasp laugh. "Obviously yes. I'll marry you."

They're lying together in a much too small bed for both of them --- too short for A-'s legs and too narrow for M-'s girth ---, as naked as the corpses populating the facility, leeching off of each other's heat in the cold night.

He had fucked her until she shook like convulsions, it was an ugly sight and it made him want to burrow into her even harder. Which he did. Then he fucked her until sweat was beading on her skin, and he could smell her in the air. A-, she had chanted like a demand. He then came with his nose pressed to her cheek, breathing sharp and raggedly like an animal.

Softly, he bit her cheek, then her earlobe, sickened at his insatiable hunger for such a mean heart.

They had lain there quietly, letting the sweat dry off, looking up at the ceiling until the lines blurred. Then she had gotten up some thirty minutes later to piss and get them some water, he pulled the ring box from inside his bedside table drawer. Little morganite stone that matched her hair in insipid shades of peach pink.

While she brushed her hair, he had placed the open box between the two of them and no question needed be spoken, not really.

Now he doesn't smile, but there's humor in his face. He pulls her down and kisses her gently with the tranquility of a man who had known she'd say yes, of the sailor who had sailed just to meet his fate in the throat of the siren.

She doesn't smile either, with the focus of a woman victim to the inevitability of this occasion.

Natural like entropy was natural, they'd marry each other, they'd exchange vows, they'd share a house and a life and plans, they'd have an exotic pet, and plants to die under their neglect, they'd learn all about each other's diseases and be aggro about it, they get old and bitter together but the important part is the together, if they ought to grow bitter either way might as well do it in suitable company.

Whatever happened externally was inconsequential; even if the world goes up in flames or they get shoved into the cryo tanks, their corpses would only rest in peace side by side. Husband and wife, cruel companions.

She holds his face with one hand, his soft, heavy-lidded eyes stare lovingly. "You won't own me."

"If that was my plan, I would've bought you."

"Off of who?"

"Yourself. We all have a price, dove."

"And what is yours?"

She lies parallel to him, lets him knead the soft fat of her waist. He looks a thousand years old, he looks thirty something, he looks so incredibly tired, M- knows she won't ever have eyes for another.

"I'm already sold."

She already knew the answer, but she asks anyway. "To whom?"

"John." She laughs a little. "John and his dreams. This forsaken planet. If at the end of it, it's all for nothing, I at least want to go holding your hand."

She rolls her eyes. "How romantic." She kisses him. "How would you like it? Fire? Lava? Starvation? Violence? Tsunami?"

"What do you think of nuclear winter? Though the bombs will be more likely, unmade even before the light hits us."

"Or maybe some virus," she says with the wonderous tone of a child. "We have enough corpses for something fun to sprout. Something new and clever."

"If that's what brings you joy." He kisses the back of her hand. "You'll want a dress?"

"Of course. Not white, though. I already wear enough white as it is... and you better wear a suit."

"But of course, I rarely get the chance lately."

"But where will we get all of that?"

"I told you, I have my ways."

"Don't tell anyone yet. I would rather have this take place after we're done negotiating the nuclear deals."

"As you wish. It's not like we'll be going anywhere." He squeezes her thigh. "Beautiful wedding photos with the cow wall for backdrop."

"Bone soup as an appetizer. Barbecue for the reception, entreé, and dessert. Perhaps some marrow for a palet cleanser."

"I hear some sort of sweet can be made by adding sugar to the boiling water of the hooves."

She heaves. "Mouthwatering."

He laughs, finally, full-chested. "M-, I love you."

She makes a face. "Terribly saccharine."

He brushes her pink hair off her forehead, caresses her soft, plump cheek. She has a face that would've driven kings and prophets mad some thousand years back.

"Like humankind has loved the moon and its mysteries. For millennia, in dreamlike wonder, in poetic reverie and fascination."

Dweomer can't emote, but her pause tells Laerryn enough. "I can feign surprise if your ladyship would prefer." She gasps expressively. "Or perhaps 'I can't believe it'!"

Laerryn laughs. "Don't lay it on me so hard."

"You still feel attracted to him, it's no surprise you'd act upon it."

"But I'm smarter than that... I should- I should..."

She joins her hands n the desk. "Was it good? I'm not built for physical intimacy but I know pleasure."

"Good? Yes." She rubs her nose. Good was not enough to describe his mouth on her neck while she lied wrung and spent. "Otherwise why would I keep coming back?"

"Because you like his company?"

She chuckles. "In small doses..."

"If it doesn't hurt anyone, I don't see the harm. Anyone includes you."

Laerryn ponders her own pain. Ever since the day everything broke bad she's been living in a constant state of discomfort broken by intervals of manic focus and numbing exhaustion. Being with the Ring gave a semblance of peace, but they were always a reminder of him.

But in Loquatius' arms it was easy to forget it all even their mutual turmoil. She gave herself over to him and he became responsible for her emotions, her body an extension of his will, no concern except that of returning what he was giving her.

No, no hurt. Not from him, not more than she already caused herself.

A much longer n sadder successor to the hair braiding excerpt. No quotation marks bc I wanna be experimental, hopefully it's understandable.

~1.5k words. Post Evandrin's death.

Loquatius had only ever known grief as a concept, something external, real, but intangible.

Until yesterday. Until Evandrin.

It had been quick, the interval between the fading and the funeral. Patia and Loquatius had been making sure to have it all set up, so neither Zerxus nor Laerryn would have to worry about any bureaucracy in this time of pain --- also because it would start getting really hairy having to explain what illness had taken Evandrin without a body to examine, luckily for them, forgery of memory and documents isn't something any of them is morally above.

What Loquatius hadn't expected was for the pain to hit him as well, a quiet creeping, soul-deep and unshakable.

All he had known were either immortal or lived long enough to feel as such, and Avalir has been safe enough that violent deaths were a distant reality even for fighters like Evandrin.

This wasn't violent, but the rupture wasn't any less painful.

Laerryn last saw him the night before --- he watched her kiss him goodnight for the last time, how her hand rested on his barely there hair ---, it happened in the morning, and by the late afternoon, the whole city had gathered to pay their respect to its First Knight.

Loquatius read a speech, a week in the making, but enunciated from memory as not to offend his loved ones. He had lost hope a week prior, he wanted to make sure due respect and honor were paid to his dear friend. Evandrin knew it too, Loquatius promised then to make sure his memory lived on, that Elias would only know of his father as a hero greater than those of myths.

A whole twenty-four hours have passed since they dispersed the funeral and memorial -- hours of arranging reports, hours of trying to calm down Zerxus, hours of arranging killing disclosing some of the archives regarding the first Knight --, and Laerryn finally returns home from the Labyrinth.

She hasn't eaten, bathed, or spoken since the morning before.

She walks into the apartment slowly and apathetic, as if the place is as foreign as how she feels.

He wants to comfort her, but he's far too attuned to her to even try.

He stands up from where he was, waiting for her, and holds out a hand. Let's get you cleaned up so you can rest, darling.

Laerryn nods and takes his hand.

Laerryn's head pounding hard enough that she doesn't hear them walking in.

She feels sick to the point of throwing up — which she did already, nothing but the bile of her empty stomach — which comes with a hunger she has successfully ignored up until now. Wetness on her nape and chattering teeth accuse a high fever, even in the stale cold of the labyrinth, sucking all of her energy, but damn it if she isn't gonna drag her burning and exhausted body to try and do something to stop the city she- they love from damnation.

She looks through notes, maps, prototypes, and manuals with blurry wet eyes looking not for answers — not even the most deranged minds could've predicted a situation such as theirs — but for a flick of inspiration that'd guide her through the pitch darkness she finds herself in. She's trying her best to recall what the betrayer god had said, but all her thoughts are stained with the image of Loquatius' body at the foot of the tree laid over a pool of his blood. Tries to focus on something anything other than the guilt of leaving him behind, other than the emptiness she felt the second he truly died, other than this excruciating pain.

She doesn't have much time left so from the suffering and the remnants of her sense of duty she harvests motivation. She's doing it for him, for her own heart, for his heart.

Just once, Laerryn, don't fuck up, she cries to herself. This one time try and do it right.

Extremely hazed out in grief and heat, she doesn't even budge at the soft-spoken "Darling" that comes from behind her, quite certain her mind's playing tricks on her.

It's only when Patia's clear and sonorous voice calls for her that she believes this isn't just an illusion. She turns at once, aware of all of them on the peripheries of her vision but laser-focused on Loquatius and his grey-white glow.

She barely breathes as she runs into his arms, can barely maintain her knees straight as their mouths meet in a soft kiss.

She holds his face, the distinguishable silky softness of his skin against her palm. "You're alive..."

A half-smile appears under his glittering tears. "I guess."

She steps back to see that, not only is he still as naked and barefoot as when the tree exploded, his blood's still leaking from hundreds of paper-thin cuts, now equally smeared all over her. The sight doesn't horrify her as much as imagining his pain does, and as much as it makes her shiver, the deeply metallic smell of it keeps her grounded in reality. He's alive, barely but nonetheless.

Her sobs return in full force. "I'm sorry. What have I done? Then I left, I left again! I'm so sorry."

He holds her face, making her look into the deep blank of his eyes. "Shush, no, no! You had no idea! I don't know how— I don't know what happened..."

Patia's voice is gloomy when she speaks again. "Zerxus brought us back."

Laerrynn feel out of sorts when she turns to see them, yes, Patia and Nydas are both covered in their own blood, thick dark red blotch on the side of his stomach and half of her arm missing magically stitched together at the elbow, but it's Zerxus in the pristine of his armor and the thick curled horns on his head that make her wrathful.

There are punches thrown and discussions that steal her attention for those precious minutes, but nothing she can't participate in while minimally tending to Loquatius.

She removes her deep purple wrapping cape and helps him cover himself, careful with his cuts, then searches her drawers for a vial of healing potion, nothing potent, just enough to rescue her in a minor emergency, and turns it into his mouth — all the while fervently discussing with Zerxus. It'd be funny if it wasn't tragic, somehow the scenario feels familiar from a few in happier days when her dear friend was still around.

///

She's used to holding the world up on her shoulders, yet at this moment the world is burning against her back and thoughts are darting left and right in her head, ramifications of possibilities branching out to all sides in an entanglement she's trying to undo as the prophecy is spoken and ideas emerge and die down again.

She's facing the waterwall where Zerxus claims to have seen the Lord of Hells earlier that day when she feels Loquatius' hands massaging her shoulders. "I don't mean to put any pressure on you, dearest, but you're the heart and brain of this city, and if you don't... I'm sorry, that didn't come out very encouragingly."

"It did, it did." She inhales deeply.

"You're burning," he says in her ear, massaging her harder.

"I'll be fine in no time. Losing you all did an instant number on me."

His breath smells sweet and coppery. "Are you hurt?"

"You died, Lo-"

"Are you hurt?"

"I got knocked back but nothing I can't handle."

He rests his head on her back. "I wish we could just... a selfish part of me wishes we could just disappear from all of this."

"But we can't... we can't..." Even if she were to take the world itself and transport it across dimensions, the demons and Betrayers would still be stuck onto them like leeches. Maybe the world didn't have to be hurled away, perhaps— "...but they can!"

She turns to him, to them. "I'm getting a really bad idea."

And in this mix of arcane inspiration, backed confidence, and perhaps a hint of arrogance, they lay out a plan or a resemblance of one. She is a capable woman, overqualified even, and her great machines still live and thrive, loaded with seven years worth of arcane energy. But she's also confident in the people surrounding her in their capacities, each crooked yet fitting each other like bizarre cogs in a well-oiled machine.

And the most indispensable piece, glowing with magic, overflowing her system with power:

Loquatius' hand never leaves her waist. "I have no clever plan to solve anything, but I do have a duty to our people, to report what's happening. I can get word down to Cathmoíra." A gleam of hope burns in his eyes. "We can save a lot of lives. If I—"

He doesn't get to finish and barely sees Laerryn coming his way before their lips are already on each other. For a few seconds, in the intensity of their kiss, in the high of her taste, he can pretend the world isn't ending, their friends aren't watching, and there's no duty to fulfill — there's just a man and his wife kissing, lithe tongues, bodies pressed together, arcane energy in a natural flow between them. Natural yet intentional, as a pleasant heat sparks within her flesh, she becomes aware of the spell he cast on her and moans into his mouth.

Zerxus clears his throat a second time which drives Laerryn to press Loquatius a little harder against herself, a mixture of laughter and a grunt comes from his lips. He's amazed at himself for wanting her at a time like this, but not enough that he perplexes himself, seeing as the desire haunts him since the first time he laid eyes upon her.

When they're done, Zerxus proceeds talking but neither of them looks.

Loquatius rests his forehead on hers. "When we're done saving Toramunda, I'll take proper care of you."

"And I'll let you."

Which would be odd an answer were they anyone else, but he understands where she comes from and smiles.

I sooo sorry for taking so long, but I kept going on and off writing this and then I got caught into it and ended up incredibly long 🙈 Also I think I derived from the initial prompt so sorry for that x)

I considered writing Scottishly but then I'd take double the time, so just pretend is there xD Tried using as much info as I could, still I'm sure it won't be all accurate x) Also a lil Indigo mention bc yes xD

I really hope you like it 😘

From this prompt list.

Ship: Juniper Moss × Charlie Weasley

Time: 1997

Wordcount: 3.5k (well...)

CW: Injury/torture description (nothing too graphic), mention of suicidal thoughts, grief, yearning, angst (like you asked xD)

/////

Charlie’s house isn’t exactly made for two, at least not comfortably, Juniper knows it well — it’s all too small, from the sofa to the bed, the tight kitchen, the few utensils, and the one bathroom. But she’s also aware he’s making his utmost to make this as comfortable for her as he can and it tears her up.

He gave up his bed for her and acquired more cutlery and plates, he did abundant grocery shopping, and with magic tried increasing every space possible. She felt like a waste of space and time with the way Charlie was bending backwards to serve her, but where else could she go? In her state travelling would be unsuitable and even if she could, go back home to who? Go back home just to witness the empty space left by Marwa’s absence, her sweet and welcoming smell still on her bedroom, her shoes by the bed and her books on the nightstand, unread, her clothes still in the wardrobe never to be worn again.

The thought plagues her every morning like a dull pain even worse than that of her physical self. But still, she gets up, for Marwa — to keep pushing through, to finish what she risked her life for —, but mostly, for Charlie, the one who has believed in her enough to carry the weight of her grieving soul in his arms, in his home, in his attentive care. Because, yes, she needs care and who better to get it from than somebody like him, somebody her heart is weak for.

She’s still exhausted, but gets out of bed, cleans herself and brushes her hair the best she can, looks in the mirror and tries her hardest not to hate her scars, her looks, herself. Marwa hated her self deprecation, hated how that treatment of herself made her reckless about her own safety. Juniper can almost see it, Marwa would shake her head and say, “You’re better than this”, she’d agree even if she didn’t believe in that but she’d try to, for Marwa, always for her. Living has been difficult, but surviving should be enough for now.

When she walks into the kitchen/living room and its delicious aroma, it almost seems like she’s dressed to go out into a snowy day in three layers of Charlie’s clothes — a thin long-sleeved sweater, a thicker one, and a sheep lining coat, not to mention the two layers of trousers and a cap to top it off —, but that’s the only clothes Juniper could stand to wear without shivering down to the bone, one of the side effects of the Ice Curse they used to torture her for days on end. Only God knows how she survived, very close to dying from hypothermia, skin battered and frostbitten, trembling like crazy once she was rescued, unable to be heated up fast due to the cursed nature of the cold.

Charlie tries a smile over his shoulder and it’s genuinely the warmest thing in the house. In comparison, Charlie’s simply in a sweatshirt and his favourite trousers, trying to flip pancakes using his wand. “Morning, Junie. Sleep well?”

“Aye. The earmuffs helped.”

“I’m glad it did.”

She tucks herself onto one of the chairs by the small round table. “Sorry, I woke up late.”

“Hey, don’t, don’t apologise.”

“You always insist on preparing me breakfast, you’ll be late for work.”

“I’m staying at home today. My superiors wanna see how the new girl does without my help, Ursula her name.” He levitates the pancake from the pan onto a sloppy pile on the plate. “Ha! Didn’t burn a single one this time.”

“Uhm, I was getting used to the sharp taste of coal in the morning.”

When Sawyer first opened her eyes, two days after she was born, I cried.

I was changing her into clean cloth diapers on the bed, the fabric stiff from its newness and she kept closing her legs, rubbing her little toes together and reaching her tiny hand up to rub against her cheek, I barely knew what I was doing, barely understood the grandness of what I had become just two days prior.

But even in my cluelessness, I comprehended joy, that for the moment everything was so simple and sublime. So, after observing my okay job of folding the diaper and my glorious job of building her into life, I leaned in and touched the tip of my nose against hers, taking in her delicate and peculiar newborn scent, and humming a song my grandpa used to sing me.

And with a throaty sound in response, she fluttered long lashes open and that so familiar shade of green nearly had me taking a step back. Bright like an emerald, alive like a luscious tropical leaf, elusive like a Kelpie underwater. Not golden or amber. Like his, his, his.

I had to sit down, to look away. I crawled down to the floor, curled against the bedside, in tears, sobbing as quietly as I could to keep Barnaby blissfully away in the kitchen.

At first, I thought it was for nothing except emotions motherhood had dawned on me, everything so new and drastic. But the realization came quickly. I had never been one to cry for no reason, so my tears were, as I concluded, of relief --- she wasn't like me.

She wasn't cursed.

These eyes only Jacob and I possessed in our family, the one trait that undeniably linked me to him. Only he and I had been cursed with seeing and hearing too much, tied to ancient magic, and sought after in the least pleasant ways.

In that sense, I was much like my mother. She also rejoiced in how Jacob and I looked so much like dad, even with her precious beauty. Except the reasons were completely different. Though partially from my love for Barnaby and every detail of him, like she had felt about dad and me, it was mostly because being like him would be way less of a burden --- a kinder heart, and a brighter spirit, not the leaves of autumn but the grasses of spring.

I wanted her to be mine but not like me, so at least in this prayer, I had been answered.

But as if sensing the arrogance of my ways, she started bawling and shaking right behind my head. I couldn't blame her, after all, she offered me her very first gaze, and I looked away. I finally finished my task, carefully wrapping her in the softest of our tartans in the lack of proper clothes for babies, trying to shush her tears away.

I then climbed onto the bed with her tiny body pressed to my chest, apologizing for my callousness and hoping she'd understand, in some subconscious way, that I had nothing but all-consuming love for her regardless of what I could have seen when she opened her eyes.

She was close to ceasing her crying when he came rushing in, wide-eyed and alarmed. "Everything alright?"

I smile, not trying to hide the tears that painted my face. "She has your eyes."

For just a moment I couldn't translate what feeling went through his face, nor would I dare to dig into his mind for any meaning. Soon a smile bloomed as he came closer and looked lovingly at her.