#VERSE ;; not a wolf ;; CRACK

[snkts]

"Alright, fine, I got one of 'em blasted fuckin' Instagram deals. ... What's a dilf?"

[full-of-mercy]

' you actually aren't smaller than me. You're taller... but the inches went there ' he's pointing at nicks pants with the biggest shit eating grin he can muster.

"The hell you on about, Spikey? I'm heavier than you-"

And then the words and the gesture connect, and Nicholas stares. Stares. Brows furrow over the rims of his sunglasses, then knit underneath his fringe. He finally looks away, passing his hand over his mouth.

Wiping away a smirk, maybe, a lopsided cant to his lips, even if he cannot dismiss the sudden tinge burnishing his face.

Hand to nape, he chews on nothing. What is he even supposed to say to that?

"-Dammit."

[iorast]

// fixing tags pls hold

[handfulofmuses]

"And since I am dead I can take off my head..."

He does exactly that.

"To recite Shakespearean quotations~"

Someone is certainly full of passion with his singing here.

[graunblida]

incorrect heda-isms: dune edition ( writings from the book of the natblida )

part i. swiggity swag what's in the bag box?

lexa: i don't understand the question and i won't respond to it.

part ii. call shai-hulud

someone: lexa, no you can't! the sandworms!

lexa: i don't care WHO the emperor sends, i'm not paying taxes!

part iii. reverend mother gaius helen mohaim answer your f*ucking distrans i know you received them

lexa: spice is code for drugs, right?

lexa: so we're just navigating through space high as f*uck, tripping balls in the desert, yeah?

lexa: hello? reverend mother? i showed you my nightblood pls answer

[hyaciiintho]

boops Link's cheek!!!

Somehow, this feels like a BLESSING, and he is honored by the boop. The holy boop.

"Th-thank you !!" Should he say thank you ?? He doesn't know, but he's GRATEFUL !! ... For some reason.

[snkts]

...

He has thrown his phone off the roof.

[full-of-mercy]

what is attractive about you ?

"...Huh."

Nicholas smirks, shrugs, then unfastens another shirt button. It is a bit warm.

[sundrop-writes]

Claustrophobia

Isaac Lahey x GN!Reader

Word Count: 800

Teen Wolf Masterlist

Warnings: mentions of the abuse Isaac experienced from his father, mentions of that abuse having a last psychological effect on him (in the form of claustrophobia); Isaac having a panic attack due to his claustrophobia being unexpectedly triggered; this is more of a hurt/comfort fic because the reader helps him calm down. Implications that the reader doesn't know about the existence of werewolves and the supernatural. The reader's gender is not described in any way. Also, I don't know if this is at all sound advice about how to treat someone during a panic attack - not something I am versed in. I think that's it? Not proofread cause I'm on a mental hiatus babey

A/N: I just watched Season 3, Episode 4 (I've been watching two episodes a day and really enjoying the pace of it) and naturally the moment where Isaac gets stuck in the closet called to me like a beacon of whump. So here's this. Also highly recommend pairing this with Claustrophobia by 3OH! 3

...

"Did it have to be a closet?"

Isaac let out a dry chuckle, a seemingly nervous laugh as he eyed up the space apprehensively before stepping inside, putting some of the supplies on one of the shelves.

The two of you began gathering supplies off the cart and loading them into the janitor's closet, carrying out the punishment you had been given. You had been fifteen minutes late to class that morning, and you had heard that Isaac was in detention for fighting - beating up one of the new kids. You knew that since his father died, he had taken on somewhat of a new persona - more bold, more unafraid to get in trouble. But you had a feeling that violence didn't suit him.

It made you wonder what the other guy did to provoke the fight, or what the truth really was. But you felt that it wasn't your place to ask.

"It's not so bad." You remarked, sensing his general anxiety about this activity, but having no clue why.

He seemed fairly confident in every other area of life - he took down guys on the field in lacrosse without even flinching, he walked tall in the halls with confidence (not that you had noticed, not that you stared at him or anything) - it did make you wonder what was so intimidating to him about a closet full of spray bottles and napkins.

"I'm... not so good with small spaces." He remarked quietly, shyly, grabbing some more of the supplies off the cart and stepping inside beside you to begin organzing everything.

Ah. He was claustrophobic. That made sense.

You had heard rumours floating around the school after his father died - you had even heard whispers between Scott and Stiles when they were trying to be subtle in their conversations but had a poor sense of tact. Isaac's father used to lock him in a freezer as punishment, among other things. It was a horror you couldn't imagine.

"You-"

You were about to offer for him to leave, offering to finish up the rest of the work by yourself so that he wouldn't have to be burdened by his anxiety, when the closet door swung shut, slamming closed in a strangely violent manner. Isaac rushed to the door, furiously ripping on the handle, trying to get it open.

"It - it won't open-" He gasped, suddenly sounding terribly out of breath.

He was panicking, likely overtaken by horrible memories that you couldn't even imagine.

"It's okay, it's probably just stuck, I can call someone-" You took your phone out of your pocket, trying to reassure him, but his panicked flailing in the small space, now shouldering against the door, trying to ram it down, knocked your phone out of your hand and cracked the screen.

You didn't know if it was still in working order or not, but you knew it would be wiser to calm him down first.

"Something - something is blocking it from the other side!" He said, his breaths becoming more panicked and frantic as he kept trying to charge the door down - how was he not hurting himself?

He was sweating and shaking, and you ached with sympathy for him.

In Isaac's mind, he was right back there. Locked in darkness, clawing against the tiny, enclosed walls, desperate to get out. He was suffocating, he was running out of air, he was gonna die. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't-

Suddenly, your hand moved against his shoulders, a flat, firm palm rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. The pure gentleness of the touch startled his senses back to reality - there had been nobody to comfort him back then. He collapsed against the door, pressing his forehead into the metal, and deeply against his will, he let out a sob.

"Hey, shh, it's okay." You told him, trying to be as soothing as possible. "You're being so brave-"

"I'm not brave." Isaac choked out. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't apologize." You told him firmly, fighting back your own tears of empathy had how distraught he was. "Come on, sit down. Let's take a minute to calm down and breathe and then we'll find a way out of here."

You helped him onto the floor - he practically collapsed into a sitting position against one of the shelves, his entire body shuddering and shaking. Though he wasn't the most naturally affectionate person in the world, he didn't deny your touches when you cradled his head onto your shoulder and continued to soothingly rub his back.

After a few minutes of silence, save for his whimpers as his tears died down, he spoke up.

"I'm sorry," He apologized again. "I just - my dad..." He trailed off, barely able to voice it.

"It's okay," You told him, and for once in his life - he actually felt okay, here with you, in your arms. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Thank you." He sighed.

When Scott came and got the two of you out of the closet (after Isaac had apologized a dozen more times for cracking your phone screen) - he could sense something in the way Isaac looked at you now, but he didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

[veltana]

Buy my heart - 1

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~1,2k

✦ Rating for this part: Mature

✦ Warnings/tags: Alpha!Bucky, Omega!Reader, slow burn, eventual smut, omega auction.

✦ Summary: Bucky buys you

✦ Note: Due note that this is a drabble series, the parts will be short but I still hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to come back and read Lloyd's series, set in the same verse! 😉 Bucky's scent is based of my favorite perfume of all time ÆTHER XTRÆM 🤤Reblogs, comments and asks are much appreciated!

Series masterlist

Masterlist | AO3

Everything is numb. As you stand on the podium in front of the faceless crowd with the lights in your eyes, you don't feel a thing, except the uncomfortable sensation of scent blocker on your skin. As soon as you pulled the thin dress on for the auction you decided that the only way you would survive this is if you just turn every emotion off.

Paddles go up. Paddles go down. The man beside you rambles fast but you don't listen. It's not irrelevant how much you sell for, since your family needs it to pay off their debt, but you can't take it in.

Instead, you focus on your breathing. The mask-covered mass in front of you is grass on a meadow on a windy day. Breathe in. They sway towards you. Breathe out. They sway away.

You don't want to look at who raises their paddle the most, and even if you did, you wouldn't be able to identify them since everyone's face is concealed by the same black mask. But you'd find yourself scrutinizing their hands and build, trying to guess if they're old or young. Honestly, you dread both: a young pup with an overly cocky attitude who knows nothing about caring for an omega, or an old lone wolf who is too frail to do anything himself and would require constant care.

The sharp crack of the club startles you from your self-induced meditation. That's when you finally hear the sum you've been sold for and some of the tension in your shoulders drains away. It's enough. Your family will be fine.

An attendant leads you away through dark corridors before leaving you in another changing room. They've brought your old clothes but you don't touch them. They smell like home. Like your family. And you can't go into this new life with it, you have to leave it behind.

If the attendant is confused about you still wearing the sheer dress they provided when they come and collect you, they don't let it show before walking you out.

The air is cold against your skin but there is a car idling just outside. Well, it's a limo. The driver opens the door and gestures for you to climb inside. Guess this is your ride. Time to meet your alpha.

Pressing down every feeling of panic and dread you walk on bare feet the short distance. The door shutting just behind you makes you jump. A moment later, the car starts moving.

The first thing you notice is that it's dim in the back of the limousine since the tinted windows don't let the streetlights in. The only illumination comes from small spots in the ceiling.

The second thing you notice is him. He's at the other end of the seat. Maskless with a glass of something in his hand that he swirls before taking a sip, staring at you over the rim. He's tall, broad-shouldered, short hair that looks soft with a neatly trimmed beard framing his face.

Then the smell hits you. It's easy to filter out the artificial notes of his cologne from what is his pure natural smell. It's a woody musky scent with a light tone of florals buried beneath that is not sharp or strong. It just fills your lungs with a warm, sensual feeling. For the first time in your life, you think you understand what other omegas rave about when they say that the smell of alpha is unlike anything else. The omega in you wants to slide up to him and rub yourself all over him, but you resist.

“Hello, little darling,” his rich voice fills the compartment. “Hello, sir,” you respond and is pleased when your voice doesn't waiver. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I prefer if you call me Bucky.” “Bucky,” you try, and nod, although it feels odd on your tongue. You've never addressed an alpha by a nickname before.

He doesn't ask for your name and you don't offer it, the less personal this is for you, the better. Bucky might have bought your body but your mind is still your own and he can never take it away from you. If he never calls you by your name, the better.

“Why do you still have that dress on?” he asks. You pluck at the fabric. “I couldn't take my old clothes with me.” “And no shoes?” “No, sir. I mean, Bucky.”

He picks up his phone. You hear the dial tone and then a woman's voice answers at the other end. “We need clothes, all types, but for tonight just get some underwear and something to sleep in. Then he directs his attention to you. “What size are you?” After hesitating a second, you tell him and he passes the information along before he hangs up.

The car slows and sounds as if it's driving on gravel. Bucky finishes his drink and studies you. There is a tick in his jaw as if he's irritated. Without a word, he starts taking off his suit jacket.

The blood in your veins turns cold and you press yourself back against the door. You don't want him to touch you. The dress might be sheer but the thought of being naked with him in the back of the limo is not appealing in the least.

But his actions surprise you. He holds out the jacket for you. “Wear this. My men are loyal but I don't need them to ogle you and get distracted.” There is no hiding the way your fingers tremble as you take it from him. After putting it on you realize that in a way, he's marked you with his scent now, but without touching you. It shouldn't make you pleased, but it does.

When the car comes to a stop you reach for the handle but with something very close to a growl he instructs, ���Wait there,” before stepping out. You pull your hand back quickly and place it in your lap. Moments later the door opens. “Since you don't have any shoes, I'll carry you,” he explains, reaching for you, but you shuffle away. “I'll be fine, I promise, you don't need to do that.” His jaw ticks again. “No, you will hurt your feet, darling. Come here, now.” You hesitate still, but you're not prepared to find out what the next tell of irritation might be, or if the twitch in his jaw is the only warning you're going to get.

You move closer to him and hardly have time to process what happens before you're in his arms. He carries you near his body with your face pressed against his fine dress shirt. It's dark outside but the mansion he carries you towards is well lit. There is no doubt James Buchanan Barnes is a very rich man.

After stepping inside he still doesn't put you down. You want to object but decide against it as he carries you up a flight of stairs and into a room, where he puts you down on a soft carpet, then steps back.

“Clothes should be here in about twenty minutes. When was the last time you ate?” “Uhm, this morning?” “Allergies?” “No, but I really don’t like tomatoes.” “I'll inform the chef,” he nods, before continuing, “This is your room. Mine is across the hall. For tonight, stay here, I'll have food brought up. Tomorrow I’ll give you a tour and we'll talk about what is expected of you going forward.” You nod. “I suggest you take a nice long bath, before eating and going to bed.” “Yes, Bucky.” Your obedience seems to please him because the lines between his eyebrows disappear. “Have a good night, little darling.” And then he leaves.

next

[itsrubesshawty]

Ok so I’m pretty sure in the redacted verse vampires can’t conceive, so imagine a couple of years time darlin and Sam adopt a baby (most likely a wolf shifter), yap yap yap, darlin and Sam’s (now toddler), playing in the backyard with darlin on a bright summers day with a little paddling pool splashing each other, while Sam tries to observe through one of the many blackout curtains in their home, wishing he could be spending time with them too ☹️

The afternoon sun hung high over the backyard, drenching everything in golden warmth. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the distant smell of barbecue from a neighbor’s house, but all Darlin’ cared about was the pure, unfiltered joy ringing through the air.

Their little one—a wild, giggling ball of energy—splashed through the shallow water of the paddling pool, their tiny hands sending up droplets that sparkled in the sunlight. Darlin’ let out a playful yelp as cool water hit their bare arms, retaliating with a flick of their own, making the toddler squeal with delight. The air was filled with laughter, the kind that settled deep in the chest, warm and full.

And then there was Sam. Stuck just inside the house, hidden behind the thick blackout curtains, his silhouette barely visible through the crack in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips as he watched them. Every instinct in him screamed to be out there—to be beside them, to feel the heat of the sun on his skin, to scoop up their child and press a kiss to their damp curls. But the sun wouldn’t allow it. It never had. Still, that didn’t stop him from being there in every way he could. He watched, memorizing the way Darlin’s face lit up, how effortlessly they handled the chaos of a playful toddler. His heart ached with love, pride swelling in his chest at the life they had built together. He didn’t need sunlight to feel warmth—not when it was right there, in them.

Darlin’ must have sensed him, because they turned toward the house, eyes meeting his through the dimness. Their smile softened, knowing. With a glance at their child, they scooped up a cup of water and—without warning—hurled it toward the door. A sharp, laughing hey! rang out from inside as Sam recoiled, just barely avoiding getting drenched. Darlin’ smirked, victorious, while their toddler clapped excitedly, completely unaware of what had just transpired but delighted nonetheless.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Sam called from the safety of the shadows, amusement thick in his voice.

His chuckle rumbled through the doorway, low and warm. He couldn’t be out there with them, not the way he wanted. But in moments like this—watching the love of his life, their child, the world they had carved out together—it almost didn’t matter. This was his family. This was his everything.

[snkts]

"..."

Looks at his glass.

"Never tried it with moonshine before..."

"Eughhh... I'd rather go back to Morph's bathtub 'shine..."

[snkts]

logan, holding natasha like simba from the lion king: my niece can shoot so many people

[multifamdomfan]

Holy Ground

AU: Rockstar Crowley / Manager Aziraphale

Rating: Soft, pining, slow burn, romantic tension

---

Crowley wasn’t subtle.

Not when he performed shirtless on stage, hair wild and eyes glittering like sin.

Not when he flirted shamelessly with the audience.

And definitely not when he stared at Aziraphale from the stage like he was the only one in the crowd that mattered.

Which, to Crowley, he was.

Aziraphale, ever the professional, refused to entertain the idea. He wore crisp suits, kept his schedule tighter than Heaven’s HR department, and always responded to Crowley’s antics with a tight-lipped sigh and a “Really, Crowley.”

But Crowley noticed things.

Like how Aziraphale always made sure he had lemon-ginger tea after shows because “you strain your voice when you growl like a bloody wolf.”

Or how he refused to let any interviewer twist Crowley’s words.

Or how he never missed a performance, even if he insisted it was “purely business.”

Crowley had been in love with him for years.

So, he wrote a song.

He didn’t tell anyone what it was about. Not the band. Not the press. Not even Aziraphale.

Especially not Aziraphale.

It was a soft one—rare for him. No screaming guitars. Just a haunting piano, a slow, pulsing rhythm, and his voice, rough with honesty.

“He don’t know he’s holy,

Don’t see the light he leaves behind,

But I’ve knelt in cathedrals less sacred

Than the space where our fingers brushed that time…”

He played it for the first time in London. Full crowd. Sold out. He didn’t introduce it. Just sat on the stool, adjusted the mic, and let it out.

Backstage, Aziraphale stood frozen, heart hammering. He recognized the lyrics. Recognized the melody. Recognized the soft way Crowley sang the word “angel.”

And he knew.

He knew.

After the show, Crowley came backstage, trying to act casual.

“So… what’d you think?” he asked, pretending to be nonchalant as he peeled off his jacket, but his voice cracked on the last word.

Aziraphale didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward, eyes impossibly wide and glassy. And then, very quietly, he said:

“…Was that for me?”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. I mean. It could be about anyone, really. Very generic. Could be about a priest. Or a ghost. Or a very dramatic pigeon—”

Aziraphale kissed him.

It was soft. Careful. Like Aziraphale had been holding back for years, and now, with one verse and a chorus, the dam had cracked.

When they pulled apart, Aziraphale whispered, “I know you’re not subtle. But I had to be sure.”

Crowley’s grin was so wide it nearly split his face.

“Guess I’ll have to write a sequel.”

---

The next album was called Divine Intervention.

Track 2: “Holy Ground (For A.Z.)”

Track 7: “Miracle”

Track 11: “Yes, Angel, It’s About You (Stop Asking)”

And Aziraphale still made him drink the lemon tea.

Even if it was now with a kiss on the cheek and a blush.

---

Here's the full lyrics

"Holy Ground"

Written by A. J. Crowley (aka “The Serpent”)

For A.Z.

[Verse 1]

He walks like heaven never left him,

Like mercy draped in linen white,

He speaks and I forget I’m burning—

One word and I forget the night.

He don’t see the way he saves me,

Doesn’t know he calms the storm,

I’m a devil in a leather jacket,

But he’s the fire that keeps me warm.

[Chorus]

He don’t know he’s holy,

Don’t see the light he leaves behind,

But I’ve knelt in cathedrals less sacred

Than the space where our fingers brushed that time.

And I would fall, I would drown,

If I could stay where he’s around—

‘Cause when I’m near him, I swear it now:

I’m standing on holy ground.

[Verse 2]

He reads old books like they’re people,

Makes tea like it’s an art divine,

Keeps my chaos in his pocket

And still pretends everything’s fine.

He won’t let himself be worshipped,

Thinks love’s a thing he has to earn,

But I would sing a thousand lifetimes

Just to feel his quiet return.

[Chorus]

He don’t know he’s holy,

Don’t see the light he leaves behind,

But I’ve knelt in cathedrals less sacred

Than the space where our fingers brushed that time.

And I would fall, I would drown,

If I could stay where he’s around—

‘Cause when I’m near him, I swear it now:

I’m standing on holy ground.

[Bridge]

I’m no saint, never claimed to be,

Wrote my name in ash and sin—

But he calls me “dear” and suddenly

I’m someone worth letting in.

[Final Chorus]

He don’t know he’s holy,

He don’t see the light he gives,

But if angels walk among us,

Then he’s proof that mercy lives.

And I would fall, I would bow,

I’d burn it all just to allow

One look from him, one whispered sound—

I’m standing on holy ground.

[Outro]

He don’t know he’s holy…

But I do.

And I always will.

---

[full-of-mercy]

Bites him.

Nicholas arches a brow down at Meryl, crooking a finger to hook into the inside of her cheek. Not that he's ever seen a fish in his life, but this is sort of how it goes, isn't it?

"Y'sure about that? Hardly know where I've been."

[sammakesart]

In Which the Dread Wolf Is Saved By, of All Things, Love.

The blade slices into his palm, blood seeping from the wound and soaking into the leather of his glove. A thought emerges as she watches him: It is the same hand that once held the mark on her own palm. He squeezes his fist, the blood dripping down onto the stone. 

“My life force now sustains the Veil.”

His eyes find hers, a brief moment as their gazes meet and hold. An eternity, over too soon. 

“With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures.”

Her gaze falls to his fist, and her heart aches. It is done.

“The Titan’s dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help soothe its anger.”

She watches as he looks down to the dagger, then extends it to Rook.

“I will go,” he says. His eyes meet hers once more as he speaks his last words. To her. For her. “And seek atonement.”

He tears his gaze away, and she watches as he turns, his steps sure and steady as he walks toward the tear in the sky.

They are running out of time.

It is then she makes her decision, though it was no decision at all. She knew—she has always known—what she would do given this choice. 

“But you do not have to go alone.”

He had stopped before she spoke, perhaps hearing the fall of her steps, perhaps in the hope of one final goodbye. He turns as she finishes her declaration, his lips parted in surprise, but he clasps her hands as she stretches them towards him. His grip trembles ever so slightly. She notices the shine in his eyes as tears well, but he does not deny her. He only offers her a warning. It is the only thing he can offer her. 

“Where I am going is terrible.”

She smiles, shakes her shake. 

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me. We make this journey together. Always.”

The words are reminiscent of the last verse of Dalish wedding vows. She wonders if he catches the significance, but by the way his grip tightens, she suspects he understands. 

She leans in, but then stops, waiting for him to close the last stretch of space between them. His lips meet hers without hesitation, cracked and bloody as they are. She doesn’t care. He tastes of iron and ash, and yet still of him. 

His mouth moves against hers, and she wishes to wrap her arms around him, to pull him close, but she fears causing him any further pain. She has seen the wounds on his face, saw him clutching at his right side as he ascended the steps before she crossed the threshold. She can only imagine the wounds hidden beneath his battered armor. She had glimpsed the state of his dread wolf as it tore the throat out of Elgar’nan’s archdemon. 

There will be time for such things later, after he has rested and healed. Time will never be something they are in want of now.

***

He savors her for as long as he dares, then presses his lips firmly against hers before pulling away. His mouth curves into a soft smile. Just for her. 

There is no force—divine or otherwise—that can part him from her now. Not unless she wishes it.

He holds her gaze for one more moment, the burn of tears still threatening to spill sting his eyes. But he blinks them away quickly, and glances back at Rook. 

“Thank you, Rook.”

Then his eyes fall back to her. He cannot get enough. 

He is not unaware that Rook had to have had a part to play in this once-thought impossible reunion. 

There will never be words or action enough to show his gratitude, especially to someone he has so gravely wronged. And yet, they still have orchestrated the return of his heart to him. A gift he knows he does not deserve, but he will endeavor to earn. 

He squeezes her hands once more—one flesh, one formed—and turns, walking towards the last remaining tear in the Veil. He crosses his hands before him to keep from reaching out, reaching back to hold her to him. She must make this choice freely. 

He doesn’t even dare look, afraid if he does, he will find no one and nothing. That these last few minutes have all been a dream conjured by his addled mind and his bone-deep exhaustion—for what else could it be but a dream? That, after all this time, after everything he’s done, she would seek him out once more. That she would forgive him. Love him still. Choose to be with him, despite where he must go. 

There is a moment where he fears she has changed her mind, or he was correct in his first assumption that she was never here at all. His chest tightens… and then releases as he feels her hand rest upon his shoulder. She is here. She is real. 

With the last ounce of strength he has, he wraps them in his magic and spirits them into the Fade, leaving her world behind. Perhaps for good. 

He took away her ability to choose once, many years ago, when she first asked to join him while standing in the Crossroads. It had torn him in two to deny her, but he knew then that he could not allow her to follow the path he had to tread. Could not allow it to twist her hope into despair, like his own purpose had been twisted long ago. 

For so long, his life has only been duty and destruction. He is unsure of how to be anything else.

When he finds himself once again in the prison of his own making, his knees give out from under him. The weight of the last few hours, few weeks, few years, dragging him to the hard unforgiving stone of his regrets. But this time, he is not alone. 

She kneels before him, carefully cradling his face in her palm, her skin so warm against his. “Vhenan,” she whispers as her thumb strokes lightly over his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize he is crying, truly crying. The tears that had threatened to fall when he first took her hands in his have now been set free. He crumples into her lap, his forehead pressed the against her stomach as she gently strokes his head and down his back, offering words of comfort, her voice thick with her own tears. She has saved him. He has doomed her. 

The weight of that realization is enough to crush him to dust. He pulls back, eyes searching hers. His hands shake as he reaches up to hold her face. Perhaps there is still time…

“These are my burdens to bare,” he rasps. “I cannot ask you to carry them with me.” 

“You do not have to, vhenan.” She holds his hand to her cheek. “I chose this. Freely. Just as I chose you.”

She presses a kiss to the heel of his hand, the one still wet with his blood. “Being with you is no burden, Solas, not to me. It is a joy.”

Their foreheads meet, pressed together as they once again take each other’s hands.

She is here. She is real. He still cannot believe it.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

Then he says the words she had gifted him, a vow he will hold sacred for as long as they both shall live. 

“Vir shiral malasa. Bellanaris.”