#they’re just sleeping.. and will not be dead.

[evanbi-ckley]

He feels like he’s being weighed down. Like he’s under water or a heavy blanket. His limbs are heavy, and he can’t get his eyes to open. There’s muffled sound nearby, but he can’t make out anything coherent. He’s also really warm. Uncomfortably so.

Is this what death is like? Is he in Hell? Or something Hell-adjacent? Were all the fire and brimstone idiots he refused to give the time of day actually right about something?

But then the heat is gone and there’s a cool breeze that skims across his skin.

Does he have skin? Do people feel their skin once they’re dead?

He’s still debating with himself as he gets pulled further under.

~***~

What is that annoying, repetitive sound? Did he change his alarm? Why the fuck can’t he turn it off?

~***~

It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

He can’t even tell what hurts, but something fucking hurts.

If he could just open his eyes and get up to take some ibuprofen.

Also his nose itches. Why can’t he fucking scra-

~***~

“Fucking bees.”

~***~

He’s warm again, but it’s not uncomfortable this time. 

He feels safe. And alive. 

He doesn’t feel as weighed down anymore.

It’s difficult, but he cracks his eyes open. He’s - in the hospital? That’s definitely a hospital ceiling and hospital lights and hospital machines beeping.

He turns his head to the left - slowly - and sees his arm is in a giant cast. That explains why he can’t lift it.

He turns his head to the right just as slowly. He’s surprised to see a head of curly hair lying next to his hip, a large hand in his own. 

When he flexes his hand, the curly head pops up immediately.

The man looks at him with bloodshot eyes that clearly haven’t seen sleep in days. He’s young - not alarmingly so but certainly younger than Tommy. The stubble on his jaw has gone far past 5 o’clock shadow and has entered the realm of beard, making him look slightly older. But who -?

“Tommy?” the man asks. His voice is low and raspy, possibly unused.

“Uh,” Tommy says. His own voice sounds even worse.

Without hesitation, the man turns - without letting go of Tommy’s hand - and pours a cup of water from the pitcher on the table next to the bed. Then he brings the cup up to Tommy’s mouth, a bendy straw pointing toward him.

Tommy drinks slowly, his mouth feeling like parchment that’s been left out in the sun too long. 

“Thanks,” he says.

The man sets the cup down and says, “Yeah, so um, h-how do you feel?”

He thinks for a bit, taking stock of himself.

“Sore. Numb in places. I assume they’ve got me on the good stuff?” The man nods, a cute smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But there’s also the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen sitting next to me, holding my hand. So all told, I’m doing pretty well.”

The tips of the man’s ears turn pink, and a cute blush spreads across his cheeks. Adorable.

“You don’t have to flirt so hard, Tommy. You should know by now, I’m a sure thing.”

Ah, so -

“So we’re,” Tommy gestures vaguely with his head, “together?”

“Uh,” the man laughs uncertainly, “for about six months now, yeah.”

“Oh.” Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “But you’re so…” He trails off, not really knowing where he was going with that.

“So…what?” the man prods.

“Take your pick,” Tommy says. “Young? Pretty? Out of my league?”

“Sweetheart.” The man says it like they’ve had this discussion before, but he’s smiling. “Don’t try to amnesia your way out of being with me. I called dibs forever after our second date.”

Tommy smiles lazily. “Dibs forever, huh?”

“Yep. You’re stuck with me.”

Humming as if he’s considering the pros and cons, Tommy finally says, “I guess I can live with that.”

The man’s smile is blinding. “Evan,” he says. “Evan Buckley. In case you forgot.”

It comes back to him then - a cruise ship rescue in the middle of a hurricane, a basketball game, a kiss, a first date that ended terribly, more dates that ended perfectly, slow dancing in the kitchen, long nights together that ended too soon. A call during a bad storm, total engine failure, glass and fear and rain and acceptance and trees and blue eyes and a smile like warm sunshine.

“Evan,” Tommy says, pulling him closer. “Baby.” He kisses him softly. “I love you more than anything. How could I forget?”

Evan has tears in his eyes and leans their foreheads together when he says, “Don’t ever do that again. I thought I lost you.”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I thought so, too. I thought I’d never get to see you again. I’m so sorry.”

The next kiss is wet with tears - Evan’s or his own, it doesn’t matter. They’re here, and they’re both okay, and they’re together. That’s all that matters.

“I love you, too, by the way,” Evan says once they pull apart. “Can’t believe you waited to tell me until after you almost died, but I’ll take it.”

“I’ll say it every day until I actually die, okay?” he says. He gets a smack to his good shoulder for his effort, but they’re smiling too hard for it to have any weight.

There’s a long road ahead with recovery and therapy and stubbornness and frustration, but they’ve got this. They’ll get through it all. 

Together.

part 1

part 2

part 3

also now on ao3!

[msmk11]

Everything to Everyone

James Potter x fem!reader

WC: tbh I don’t know, I just raw-dogged this in the app

CW: ANGST, HURT-COMFORT, panic attack, r is very sad and doesn’t take care of herself

Summary: you can’t keep doing this

A/n: Don’t know what this is; might be garbage; but this is just a reflection of my brain and my desperate need for someone like to james to comfort me rn; I need to be someone’s everything 😭

<>

It’s all too much, trying to be everything for everyone all of the time. It consumes you- the need to help others, to serve them in any way possible. To be their shoulder to cry on. The arms to hold them. The voice cheering them on. The hands to build them castles in the sky.

Perhaps it’s founded in your insatiable hunger to be well-liked, loved even.

Maybe it’s rooted in your fear that everyone will leave you, and that maybe maybe, if you try hard enough, they won’t.

Regardless of its cause, your involuntary obligation to others has pushed you to the edge, leaving you broken and exhausted. You want to cry out for help, for someone to notice, but they don’t. It’s not their fault. You know it isn’t. They can’t read your mind for goodness sake. But still, you wish they’d notice. To stop and think about you for a moment.

Today is no different, your list of promises to others longer than the one to yourself. Although it’s a Saturday, your day is jam packed with plans. First, you’ve promised Peter that you’ll make a quick trip with him to Hogsmeade this morning to pick up fire whiskey for the party tonight. After that you’re due for tea with Mary at Madame Pudifoots before you have to rush back to Hogwarts to meet Remus and Lily for a study session in the library. And fuck- at some point you’ll have to stitch up a hole in Marlene’s jersey and braid Sirius’ hair for the game. And the game. You’ve promised James, your lovely boyfriend and captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, that you’ll be there. He needs his “lucky charm.”

You’re down in the common room at 10 on the nose, sleep still heavy on your eyes despite the time. Peter ambles down the stairs a few minutes later, his big jacket wrapped tightly around him.

The cold air outside is bitter on your nose and burns your cheeks. You bundle your face further into the collar of your coat and wish you would’ve worn a scarf. As you walk, Peter yaps on to you about the girl from his Divination class that he has a crush on. You’re enthusiastic that he has a crush, and that he feels comfortable enough to share it with you, but your heart hangs heavy in your chest regardless. You can’t quite muster up the genuine smile you usually give to everyone, and instead settle for a dim but encouraging one.

After you triple check that Peter can carry all of the fire whiskey back to the castle, you trudge across the way to Madame Pudifoots. Mary is already nestled into a corner when you arrive and she waves brightly at you. While the warmth of the shop and your friend is welcome, the thick perfume in the air and the sweet array of biscuits and cookies makes your head ache and stomach churn. Much like Peter, the brunette does most of the talking, catching you up on gossip around the castle. You give a lot of dramatic gasps, wide eyes, and giggles, but they’re as fake as the flowers on the table before you.

By the time you arrive to the library with what feels like a whole ton of books slung over your shoulder, you think you could drop dead from exhaustion. You find Lily and Remus in a heated discussion about some charms theory and wonder if they’d even notice if you slipped out. Of course, Lily catches your eye in the next second and waves you over. She quickly brings you into the debate, and you give the redhead your two cents. Your opinion, it seems, sets off a whole other conversation. Luckily, this time, you can just tune them out, instead focusing on the words of the book before you. Although now that you’re looking at it, all of the words seem to be swimming together in a blurry mess. And, is that a wet spot on the page? Are you crying? You reach up and, sure enough, another hot tear trails down your face. Panicked, you bend down under the guise of tying your shoe and wipe them away quickly. Remus and Lily can’t see you crack. They can’t.

You know that it’s all really getting to you when Sirius lets out more than one yelp as you do his hair. He complains that you’re going to pull it all out, and perhaps he isn’t wrong. You loosen your grip slightly but wince when you brush over one of the fresh cuts on your hands from sewing up Marlene’s jersey. The bandaid covers the cut, but doesn’t dull the slight throbbing pain in your palm. The pain and Sirius’ whining makes you want to yell at him and tell him to do it himself. But you don’t, and instead stay quiet. When his hair is finished, you peck his forehead in apology and boost his vanity.

“Oi, Black! Trying to steal my girl, are you?”

You nearly start bawling on the spot at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. Relief and calm wash over you as you feel his strong arms wrap around you. Instinctively, you lean back into his chest and sigh, closing your eyes.

You’re certain that Sirius and James are bantering back and forth some more but you tune them out in favor of enjoying the vibrations of your boyfriend’s voice through his chest. It’s pleasant enough that you think you could fall asleep.

You’re only startled out of your stupor when James’ soft lips press gentle kisses to each of your eyelids. Your eyes flutter open and you smile at him softly.

“Hi angel,” he greets, pecking your lips.

You return the kiss eagerly and James chuckles.

“Ready for the game tonight?”

You’d forgotten about the game momentarily, but now it comes rushing back. The thought of having to do anything else besides just lay in your boyfriend’s arms makes you want to cry. You swallow the lump in your throat, “of course, Jamie. And I’ll have your jersey on like usual.”

He gives you another quick peck, “my lucky charm.”

And then he’s moving away from you, far too fast for your taste, and you nearly whine. He collects his water and broom and turns back to you with a grin.

“See you at the game, love.”

You only whisper out a goodbye before he’s gone.

The game has been going on for far too long and you’re beginning to lose all feeling in your extremities. Like usual, James is playing great. And you’re proud of him, you really are. But you don’t want to be here anymore. You just want to lay in your bed and close off the world, rotting away in a puddle of self-induced misery.

But this fact in itself makes you feel worse than you already do. The guilt of it all- of being fake, insecure, and unsupportive- is eating you alive. Your friends deserve better. James deserves better.

It’s too much, too much, too much. And you feel like you’re suffocating.

So you’re beyond relieved when Gryffindor catches the snitch and you can leave. Though you normally stay to congratulate James, you don’t have it in you to do it. You figure you’ll see him later, so you rush back to the castle, trying to escape the notice of your friends.

While your bed calls to you most, living in a dorm doesn’t promise any privacy. So you go to the only place you know will- the room of requirement.

It accommodates you enough. The room has shifted into a remarkable replica of your bedroom back home. You collapse onto the bed instantly and your head barely hits the pillow before the sobs you’ve choked back all day finally escape you.

It’s like a dam breaking loose, a flood of emotions overcoming you. Sadness smashes into you like waves, guilt grips your throat tightly, choking you, anger heats your face, and self-loathing broils in your stomach. You can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t.

Why, why, why, why, why?

You’re so tired of giving, giving, giving. Being everything to everyone and nothing to yourself. Your body is a storm of emotions but your heart is the eye of the hurricane- silent and hollow.

You curl in on yourself, grabbing onto your legs tightly, trying to grip any sense of reality you have left. But your body shakes and your hands slip. It does little to ground you and you’re lost in another dimension, another reality. You can’t breathe, nothing feels real, and the world feels like it’s ending.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, everything, everything, everything.

“Angel, you gotta breathe for me.”

A voice breaks through your fog but you can’t focus in on what it’s saying.

“Baby, my love, look at me. You gotta take a breath.”

Through your shaking and tears you barely make out James’ figure. And when your eyes clear a little you see his eyes. It’s the first real thing you sense again, and you grasp onto it desperately. His hazel eyes stare at you, so calmly, and you get lost in them.

“Angel can you take a deep breath?”

You try to breathe but fail, only spluttering out short, shallow breaths.

“Not quite, my love. Here, match my breathing.”

James grabs your hand and puts it on his chest. You feel him breathe in deeply and hear him blow air past his lips.

“Like this.”

Still shaking aggressively, you try to inhale. Your breath is harsh and unstable, but at least longer and deeper. You purse your lips and blow, just like James does.

“That’s my girl. You’re doing it.”

You continue to breathe in and out. Each time, your breath slowly gets better. Stronger.

“Good, good. Can you tell me what happened?”

You try to think about all that’s happened and your breathing picks back up again. Tears prick at your eyes and you shake your head.

“No, no, no. It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m sorry, we won’t talk about it.”

Your body trembles and you nod appreciatively.

“Do you want a hug?”

“Y-yeah.”

You’re too weak to move towards him, so James reaches out and draws you into his lap. You bury your face in his chest and grip onto his jersey sleeves tightly. His hands rub soothing circles on your back, soft, slow, and repetitive. He intermittently places kisses to your hair, mumbling words of praise and encouragement in between.

The world starts to come back to you.

The soft sounds of James’ breathing and the whoosh of your shirt material under his hand.

His smell, a mixture of cologne and sweat.

His hot breath on your ear as he whispers to you.

His red jersey smushed against your face.

The remnants of your salty tears on your lips.

“I- I can’t keep doing this,” you mumble out. It’s barely audible, your voice hoarse from your meltdown.

“What’d you say, angel?”

“I can’t keep doing this, Jamie.”

He pulls you away from his chest and looks deeply into your eyes, his own so filled with concern.

“You can’t keep doing what?”

“Being everything to everyone all of the time. I- I can’t. It’s too much. I give and help and say yes when I can’t. But, but I can’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, my love,” James sighs, hugging you impossibly tighter, “you don’t have to, not anymore. You don’t have to be anything to anyone besides yourself. They’ll love you regardless. I promise.”

“But what if they don’t?” You whisper, your voice thick with tears.

“I’ll love you regardless. You’re my light, my love, my life just because you’re you.”

He pauses thoughtfully.

“You don’t need to be everything to everyone when you’re already everything to me. And hopefully soon, you can be everything to yourself.”

[starboye]

starring: simon "ghost" riley x male reader

request: Hey OP saw that you wanted some requests for Ghost and I was wondering if you could write some Ghost x male reader 🤭🤭 where they’re roommates (could be civilian AU or military) who both claim to be “straight” but are so gay for each other. I kind of make this opened ended there’s like zero Ghost x male reader stuff 😭😭

warnings: smut, some fluff i think, cursing, pervert!simon, pervert!reader, civillian!au, jerking off, fingering, making out

you and simon ended up as roommates after learning that he had nowhere to stay after getting of his mission and now every day is a struggle to stop yourself from pouncing on the man, you and him both claimed to be straight, casually bringing it up while on a mission with the 141 team but your actions tell a different story, longing glances and drawn out touches says that you both like each other, but both of you don't know that about one other, to sure that the other is strictly straight and doesn't hold any feelings.

the dynamic is kind of simple around the apartment, you usually cook and clean while simon is out working and he'd do the same when you're out, but recently simon has wanted to take the role of cleaning more often, that was a lie though he hated cleaning but when he realized he could use it for his own perverted nature he was eager to do it more, when doing laundry he'd steal a pair of your used underwear just to sniff it and jerk off with it.

fucking into his fist in the dead of night when he thinks you're sleep, using your underwear as a sort of gag to capture his deep groans, the imagination of fucking you senseless flooding his mind over and over till he came with choked back grunts that you heard unbeknownst to him, you both sitting on the couch watching tv the next morning as if he didn't imagine fucking you till you moaned every letter of his name.

and you well you weren't nearly any better than him, always sneaking into his room when he was at work to lay in his bed, sniffing whatever scent of him was left on his pillows and wrapping yourself in his blankets to then finger yourself to the thoughts of him using you like a cum rag, filling you up over and over till you cant think, and you knew that your fingers could never match up to what simon probably felt like but you wanted to know so bad.

you both wanted each other so badly but never knew if the other wanted it to, till one fateful night where you were both chilling in the kitchen cooking up some dinner when you turned around and bumped into simon, his hands quickly moving to hold your waist so you don't fall and you both stood there for some time, just staring into each others eyes "oh uh sorry" he stuttered releasing his grip on you and baking up "don't be" you quickly say wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss the man.

you having to stand on your toes just to reach his mouth with yours and with that you pulled back, a couple more seconds of silence following before he's picking you up and taking you to his room, and my god was that night good, you were both living out your fantasies of each other simon cumming over and over again till he was milked dry and you ending up a messy and incoherent mess splayed on his bed.

after that it was like to rabbits fucking constantly, over and over, day and night or even morning time by this point the neighbors were begging you guys to calm it down but that still didn't stop you guys, to drunk off one another love to even think of stopping, now here you were making out on the kitchen counter with simon after trying to bake desserts like you too didn't fuck that morning, after simon came home from work, and before dinner seems like tonight's gonna be a loud one.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

[ikilledyvette]

(Realized I was never gonna finish this long ass 9-1-1 fic before the premiere, so today I’m doing the seriously condensed version for Tumblr—which I still have to break into two parts, ffs.)

It’s Thursday afternoon, three days before Father’s Day, and the atmosphere at the 118 is grim. Gerrard is gone, at least, and everyone celebrated with cake—specifically, a Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead! cake, complete with a chocolate house crushing little black boots—but to everyone’s surprise, Buck isn’t exactly welcoming Bobby home with open arms anymore. He hasn’t forgiven Bobby for resigning in the first place. Making matters worse, Margaret and Philip Buckley are flying in for the weekend. Also, Eddie is depressed because Chris hasn’t called since he left for Texas six weeks ago, and Eddie doesn’t expect to hear from him on Sunday, or possibly ever again.

Hen tells Eddie Christopher will forgive him. “He’ll come home. He just needs a minute.” Eddie says that six weeks is a hell of a minute, but Hen persists. “You’re a good father,” she says, ignoring Eddie’s humorless laugh. “You messed up; I’m not saying you didn’t. But that doesn’t negate all the good you’ve done, too. Kids, they want you to hear them. They want you to show up, so when Christopher calls, pick up the phone and listen. You two love each other, Eddie. It’s going to work out.”

But Eddie’s gaze just drifts to the kitchen, where Bobby is quietly looking at the stack of uneaten fire-engine-shaped mini-waffles that Buck refused to eat, even though he’s the one who bought Bobby that ridiculous novelty waffle-maker in the first place

“You ever think maybe love just isn’t enough,” Eddie says, and Hen isn’t sure how to answer that.

*

Meanwhile, Chimney, thankfully, has the day off and is drinking a beer with Tommy. (Hen, left to deal with these weird morose vibes at the 118 by herself, quite rightly considers this a betrayal and has appropriately sworn revenge.) Chimney and Tommy talk a little about their own families: Tommy hasn’t spoken to his dad in years; meanwhile, Chimney finally gave up months ago after actually telling his dad how he really felt about being abandoned. He just needed to hear his father apologize once, just once—but he couldn’t do that, not even that, and Chimney decided enough was enough. 

Tommy, who’s only ever met the Buckley Parents one time (but has quickly clocked to Buck’s wildly shifting moods whenever discussing them), asks Chimney how much of a disaster this weekend is likely to be. Chimney tells Tommy that—apart from big family secrets and the general emotional trauma—every time the Buckleys visit, someone comes close to death: warehouse fire (Buck), lightning strike (Buck), viral encephalitis (Chimney). 

“Maybe don’t go up in a helicopter till they’re gone?” Chimney suggests, and Tommy says, “Jesus,” and gets another beer.

*

Back at the 118, things have gone from bad to worse. A call leads to Buck recklessly risking his own life to save someone. He walks away with only a few bruises, but Bobby yells at him for nearly getting himself killed. Buck snarks that he must still be that young, impulsive hothead after all. Bobby, a bit at a loss, tells Buck that he has come a long way, but he can’t put himself in danger just because he’s angry at Bobby. 

“What is this really about? You can talk to me, kid. I’m here.”

“Right,” Buck says, scornful. “You’re here. For ... how long again? Seven more, I think you said? No—no, you never actually said, did you? That one’s on me. Right, Cap?”

The bell goes off, ending the argument. Bobby tries to talk to Buck again after the shift, but Buck is already out the door. He barely gets any sleep that day before he and Tommy drive over for The Big Family Dinner. Tommy tries to talk Buck into staying home, suggesting they go tomorrow night instead, but Buck insists it will be a Thing if they don’t go.

Dinner goes badly. Margaret and Phillip aren’t intentionally rude or actively malicious, but there’s still a thread of casual biphobia in much of what they say: Evan’s always going through these phases. Well, if it’s not a phase, Evan, you must have known; how could you not? Please don’t misunderstand, Tommy, of course we like YOU. Very much! Yes, Tommy, thank you for your service. We’re just saying, Evan likes to throw us for a loop now and then. Really, Evan, you’ve had so many girlfriends you’re basically straight, aren’t you?

Buck finally loses it shortly after Maddie goes into the other room to check on Jee Yun. Margaret suggests that while she’s happy that Buck and Tommy are happy, of course—happy for now, at least—she’d just hoped Buck would’ve started to settle down by now, get serious about someone, rather than start experimenting. Phillip also jokes that he’d thought Buck had outgrown making bids for attention, and Buck just—snaps. 

“Why did I have to work so hard to get your attention again? Right. Cause it was too hard to look at me. Cause I was the reminder of what you lost, the screwup you got left with. Maybe if Daniel had grown up and turned out bi, you’d—"

—and Margaret slaps Buck across the face. 

It shocks everyone, very much including Margaret, but when Buck finally blinks and glances at his dad, Phillip automatically moves to stand behind his wife, silently taking her side. Buck, a bit dazed, mutters he’s sorry and tells Chimney not to tell Maddie what happened, right before Tommy all but pushes Buck out the door and drives him home.

Buck, still a little shellshocked, mostly can’t believe he said what he said, insists he shouldn’t have gotten that upset, and tries to brush off Tommy’s efforts to comfort him. Tries to get him to leave. Tries to distract him with sex when Tommy refuses to leave. Tommy, not having any of it, sits Buck down and talks a little about his own childhood, how he’d run away from home after his father had found out Tommy was gay, how—broken and bleeding—Tommy had never called, never looked back. Buck protests it’s not the same because Margaret and Philip aren’t abusive, have never hit him before tonight, aren’t really homophobic—at least, not in the same way—and also, Buck deserved that slap. 

“Who throws a dead kid in their parents face?” Buck asks, miserable.

“Someone who lived under the shadow of a brother he never knew about for 30 years?” Tommy asks, then takes Buck’s hand and makes Buck look at him.

“Look, maybe it’s not the same. You’re never going to convince me you deserved it, Evan, not any of it—but what I’m saying is, when people repeatedly hurt you? You don’t have to look back. You don’t have to keep trying. You can, if that’s what you want—but you don’t have to forgive anyone just because they’re family. That’s not what being a family should be. And, for what it’s worth, that includes Bobby, too. Just ... maybe consider what you’re actually angry about—or if it’s even anger you’re really feeling here—before deciding to cut him off for good.” 

Slowly, Buck sinks into Tommy’s side. Tommy wraps an arm around him. Kisses him gently just above birthmark.

(Part II is finished, coming tomorrow or the next day)

[nomie-11]

Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

<- previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter ->

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The sun is bright and welcoming, a warm breeze lifts her hair. 

An older woman is standing in front of her, a red poppy in her hand. Her smile is familiar, her laugh is contagious, and as Genevieve looks at her, she can see that the woman in front of her looks like her too. 

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She moves to take a step forward, but with each step, the woman takes another step back. 

They’re in a field of flowers. The flowers are soft and the grass is lush, while the mountains roll behind them. Snow covered peaks give way to the spring streams, and the green dress the woman wears is covered in white lilies. 

The woman opens her mouth, and speaks. “Wake up,” She says, but Genevieve nods her head no. She can’t respond, but she never wants to leave. She’s home. “Wake up.” She says again. 

Genevieve’s voice returns to her. “Mother,” she whispers, reaching out to the woman in front of her. “I don’t want to wake up.” 

Her mother opens her mouth once more, but the voice that comes out is no longer hers. 

“WAKE!” The voice bellows. It’s Tairn. 

But why is he here? Genevieve looks at her hands, and she knows that she is young. Far too young to even know about the possibility of her bonding a dragon. But then her hands are red, covered in blood, and the voice screams out once more. 

“Wake before you die!” The mountains rumble, and suddenly her mother’s green dress is covered in blood. “Now!”

Her eyes fly open, and she gasps as the last remnants of the dream disintegrates. She’s not in a field of flowers, she’s in her room in-

“Move!” Tairn bellows, and Genevieve shoots out of bed, her hand stealing the dagger from under her pillow as she moves. 

“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects over a sword that is now impaled into the bed where Genevieve once lay. She stumbles, her movements still clouded by sleep. As her knees hit the floor, she unsheathes another dagger from under her mattress. 

She scans the room from her point on the floor, blowing the now grown out hair from her eyes. Her eyes meet the eyes of the unbounded first-year, but he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in her room. There are four men, three women. 

The door slams behind a girl as she runs out of the room. It clicks in Genevieve’s mind, she’s the one who opened the door. 

The rest are all armed, all determined to kill an unkillable rider. Her hand tightens around the hilt of her daggers and her heart rate skyrockets. 

“This was a stupid mistake,” Genevieve says, her eyes glistening with the thrill of the kill. “Guess it won’t do much good to ask you to leave nicely?” 

“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!” Tairn’s echoing, commanding voice resonates within her. She moves, but there isn’t much room for her to move. 

“Damn it! I told you she was fast!” Oren hisses from the other side of the room, blocking Genevieve’s exit. 

“Violet should have killed you during Threshing,” Genevieve barks, her voice loud and commanding. She knows that if her voice is loud enough, someone will hear, Liam is just across—

A woman lunges for her, and she dodges, sliding along the icy pane of her window. The window!

“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine and I cannot get there fast enough!” 

“No window. Got it.” Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of Genevieve’s nightshirt sleazes as it lodges in her armoire, but she misses her actual flesh. She spins, ripping the rest of the sleeve off, lunging her own hands towards the girl. 

  The hit lands, her dagger plunges down into the torso of the girl, and a surge of adrenaline. 

The girl collapses to the floor, her weight trapping Genevieve, and her body feels as if she was dead. Scrambling out from under her, Genevieve’s breathing is ragged. 

“Fuck! You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts, registering the sudden death of his companion. “I’ll do it myself.” 

“She’s dead,” Tairn confirms, and another surge of adrenaline flies through Genevieve. It feels as if lightning was dancing across her skin, burning her, boiling her blood. Genevieve is panicked, but she moves her dagger to fend off an attack to her left, slicing down a forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a man’s thigh. 

“Use your brain!” Tairn bellows, and she lands an awfully hard dagger to a man’s gut. He collapses down to the floor as well, his sword tumbling after him. But now she’s cornered between the desk and the armoire. There are too many of them. They all rush in at once. 

In her state of overwhelming confusion, the daggers are snatched out of her hand with appalling ease, and her heart seizes as Oren grips her throat. Another attacker is pinning her hands behind her with a torn blanket. She attempts to sweep for his knees, but her lifts her off the ground and she never makes contact. She’s too far away for anything. 

“No. No. No.” She repeats over and over in her head, digging her nails into her palms, puncturing her skin as she attempts to claw free. His grip never eases as he crushes her throat. Air. There’s no air. 

“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone. 

He who? Genevieve tries to respond, but she can’t breath, can’t think. 

“Finish her!” The one who’s hands pin Genevieve’s hands behind her back yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”

They’re after Tairn. 

His roar of rage fills Genevieve’s head as Oren lowers her body, flipping her around as he curls his arm so her back is against his chest. She can feel her feet back on the ground, but her vision is dark, her lungs fighting for oxygen that isn’t there. 

The greedy eyes of a bleeding first year stare back into Genevieve’s blank face. “Do it!” She demands. 

“You’re dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in her ear, and his hands fall away, replaced by a blade. 

Air rushes into her lungs as cold metal caresses her throat, the oxygen flooding her blood and clearing her head just enough for her to know that this is the end. She’s going to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be her last, an overwhelming feeling of 

sorrow seizes her chest. 

What about Violet? Does she graduate? And Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer? Do they survive too? And Xaden, does Xaden regret not kissing me once more? 

The knife tip touches her skin. 

Her bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the stone wall, but she doesn’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before a harsh yell pierces her vision. 

“Now run!” Tairn screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down her spine and through her arms, then rushes to her fingertips and toes. 

A man to her left lunges at her, sword in full motion, and she’s dagger-less. 

In a last resort, she snaps the blanket that binds her hands, and holds them out, hoping to stop him in his tracks, but she doesn’t. Her hands make contact with him, and immediately he freezes, falling to the floor. 

“Go!” Tairn demands. 

She blinks at the man who has seemingly died from her touch. He isn’t breathing, isn’t moving. He’s dead. 

And before another one can take a hit on her, Genevieve darts to the door, nearly slamming full force into Xaden, who fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of gods. 

He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him. Relief immediately floods Genevieve’s mind, she feels so relieved that she could cry. 

“It’s about damned time,” Xaden’s gaze snaps to Genevieve, his onyx eyes flaring in shock and relief for a millisecond before he strides forwards, his shadows streaming before him as he stands at her side. He snaps his fingers, and the mage light illuminates the room around them. 

“You’re all fucking dead.” His voice is eerily calm and all the scarier for it. 

Every head in the room turns. 

“Riorson!” Oren’s dagger clatters to the floor. 

“You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goosebumps up her arms. “It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.”

”But you know he should have never bonded her!” Oren says, putting his hands up, his palms facing them. “You of all people have reason to want her dead!”

“Dragons don’t make mistakes.” Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but Oren by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of her like lifeless puppets. 

Xaden prowls forward as though her has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts Quinn’s dagger out from under the first girls’ body. 

“Let me explain.” Oren eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble. 

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger. “You’re lucky she only had two daggers on hand, or you would already be dead. But I’m here to kill you now.” He slashes forward so quickly that Genevieve barely catches the moves, and Oren’s throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent. 

He grabs for this throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him. 

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick walks in, sheathing his sword as his gaze rakes over the room. “Morning Genevieve,” He nods. “No time for questioning?” His gaze sweeps over Genevieve, cataloging her injuries, catching on her throat. 

“No need for it,” Xaden counters as Bodhi enters, saying the same greeting, doing the same quick assessment that Garrick had. 

“Let me guess,” Bodhi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re on cleanup?” 

“Call for help if you need it,” Xaden answers with a nod, and suddenly, Genevieve is swept out of the room as she follows Xaden to his quarters silently. 

——————————————————————

Sitting on the bed in the center of his room, Genevieve rests her head in her hands, her breaths shallow as if she was still being choked. 

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. 

“Yes. You’re alive.” Xaden steps closer to her as he sits next to her. Her entire body shakes like a leaf as the adrenaline leaves her system, leaving her tired and hurting. 

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” She says, her tone an attempt at joking.

A few seconds pass in silence, just the sound of her breaths coming in short wheezes that Xaden can only describe as painful resonating in the walls of Xaden’s dorm. She shoves herself off of the bed quickly, muttering a quick apology as she nearly launches herself onto the trash can. 

She throws up once, then dry heaves for a moment. Xaden immediately is next to her, his hand warm on her back. 

“It’s just the shock,” he says, his hands soft on her back. “Are you hurt?” His words are clipped, but they’re gentle, and the pain in her body ebbs forward at the reminder that it's there. Every breath feels like she’s shoving broken glass into her lungs, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m still angry at you.” She whispered, her voice hoarse and dry after throwing up. 

“Come on, Gen,” Xaden mutters, lifting her up off the floor next to the trash can and putting her gently onto the floor. “Tell me where you’re hurt.” 

The blood of the three cadets Genevieve has killed has dried underneath her finger nails, staining her hands red as she looks at them. Xaden killed three cadets, too, but he doesn’t look nearly as shaken as she does. Quinn’s dagger glitters on the table next to the door, but its blade is covered with blood, accentuating the ruby in the hilt. 

Genevieve can barely breath, her lungs burning with pain and fire. His fingers are warm under her chin as he tilts her head up so she’s looking at him, instead of her blood-crusted hands. “You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with your ribs?” He says, his voice comforting as a hint of panic swirled behind his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” She lies. 

His focus snaps back to her eyes, his gaze no longer soft. 

“Don’t lie to me,” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth, that she can’t help but nod. 

“That’s rich coming from you,” She snaps, but her voice is too soft to have any real bite, and for some reason Xaden knows that Genevieve doesn’t mean it. Not right now, at least. Xaden’s eyes are trained onto hers, begging to know what’s wrong. “It hurts,” she finally admits, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her talk. 

“Let me see.” And she nods, so he pulls her nightshirt over her head, gently pulling it off so as not to shake whatever is hurting more than it already is. Their eyes meet, and a warmth flutters through her stomach. But the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and inspecting her right side, fingers gently stroke over the bruising on her ribs from when she clattered to the floor. 

“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice still quiet. 

“Come on, let’s go,” He says, and all of a sudden, when Genevieve turns around to grab her boots, he kneels on the floor in front of her, boots in hand. “I need to take you to the flight field.” 

“Why?” She asks, and Xaden can’t help but feel like it’s almost as if she was a child again. Her voice is soft and innocent like a young girl who hasn’t seen anything, but he knows that when she wakes up tomorrow morning, refreshed and strong for the day, she’ll be back to normal. She’ll be back to ignoring him and casting him glares whenever he tries to give her pointers. 

“You and I need answers,” He says, finishing up her boots before handing her the cloak he must have grabbed when ushering her out of her crime scene of a room. “That was one hell of a signet if that's what that was.” 

Oh right, she can feel herself remember what she had just blocked out. The whole touching people and then they die thing. 

“And we have to ask Tairn what the hell just happened,” Xaden’s jaw flexes. “And I’m not just talking about the attacks. How the hell did they get past your locks.” 

Genevieve stumbled, her legs weak as she tried to fall into step beside Xaden. His arm snaked around her waist to keep her steady. 

“I don’t lock my door,” She said, her voice soft but the words rang clear. 

“Sorry?” Xaden says, his tone indicating that he wants her to try again. To say something else. Anything else. “You don’t lock your doors?”

”I don’t lock my door.” She repeated, not changing. “It scares me. I don’t like being behind locked doors.” 

“You know it locks from the inside, though,” Xaden says, dragging her down one confusing hallway after the next. She’s lost all sense of direction as mage lights flicker on and off above her. “You’re not going to be locked in.” 

Genevieve’s breath hitched as she tried to keep up with Xaden’s long strides. Every step jarred the ache in her ribs, but she bit her lip, refusing to let him see just how much it hurt. She wasn’t fragile. She had survived worse—much worse.

”I know,” she whispered, her voice sounding distant, like it was floating from someone else. “But it’s not the same. The feeling is the same.” 

Xaden’s brows furrowed as they walked. His face resembles concern and confusion. His hand still anchored at her waist tightened slightly, keeping her upright.“What do you mean?” 

Genevieve inhaled shakily, avoiding his gaze. Her mind raced, flashing back to the darkness, the dungeon, the cold stone walls that seemed to press in on her from all sides. The memory of Lilith’s mocking voice, the rattle of chains as she was left alone in the pitch-black cell with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing, clawed at her insides. Locked doors were cages. Locked doors were suffocating. 

She cleared her throat, willing herself to focus on the present. “I don’t like the idea that someone can lock me in, even if I’m the one doing the locking.” 

His grip on her waist loosened as the words sunk in, understanding flickering in his dark eyes. He took a breath, as if searching for the right words. “You’re not there anymore, Gen. No one’s locking you in.” His voice was quieter now, and it had an edge of softness she hadn’t expected from him. 

For a brief second, she almost believed him. Almost. But the remnants of fear still clung to her chest, suffocating her almost as much as her buried ribs. The weight of it all—the kills, the literal blood on her hands, the secrets—was too much. She couldn’t afford to feel safe. Not yet. 

She quickly broke her eye contact with Xaden, moving away from him, “I know.” She said, and her voice was strong. “Let’s just go to the flight field now.” 

The ground shifts beneath her feet as though it’s rocking, but she knows better. It’s her head, the rust of the pain and the stress, and now the reminder that this happened because she was too weak to even lock her doors. Her breath catches, and her steps wobble. 

Xaden moves next to her again, steadying her. They just continue down the pathway in a silence she can’t find herself to try and break. He just stands next to her as they walk down the cold stone corridor. 

“Why are you taking me to the flight field?” She asks again, her voice now clearer than before. “Because I can talk to Tairn whenever I want to, so unless you want to talk to him, there’s no reason for this.” 

Xaden stayed quiet, but his eyes watched her sharply. 

“You’re insane,” Genevieve said, her voice dropping to a tired murmur. “I can’t believe you want to talk to my dragon.” Her words were a mix of frustration and disbelief, but there was something else beneath it—something softer. Maybe even relief. 

Xaden didn’t respond, just continuing to take her farther and farther down the hall and then to a stonewall end of the tunnel. A few hand gestures and then another click sounds before he pushes open the door. They step into the crisp, freezingly cold November air. 

“What the hell,” she whispers. The door is built into a stack of boulders on the eastern side of the field. 

“It’s camouflaged.” Xaden waves a hand and the door closes, blending into the rocks as if it’s a part of it. “When you get better at lesser magic, I’ll teach you how to use this door as well.”

As they walk towards the center of the field, the grass grows behind her every step. It turns a little greener as she moves closer, and browns as she leaves, almost as if she was breathing life into the winter stricken earth with every step. Flowers bloom behind her movements, red poppies and white lilies spring across the field, illustrating her path. 

But Xaden and her don’t notice. They’re just focused on her hands, on the death that sprang from them. 

There’s a sound that she now recognizes as the steady beat of wings, and she looks up to see two dragons block out the stars as they descend. The earth shudders as they land in front of them. 

“I’m guessing the wingleader wants a word?” Tairn steps forward and Sgaeyl follows, her wings tucked in tight, her golden eyes narrowing in on Genevieve. 

“Yes, I want a word. What the hell kind of powers are you channeling to her?” Xaden demands, staring up at Tairn like he isn’t… Tairn. 

Yep. Ballsy. Every muscle in her body locks, sure that Tairn is bound to torch Xaden for impudence. 

“None of your business what I choose or do not choose to channel towards my rider,” Tairn answers with a growl. 

This is going well. 

“He says—” She starts. 

“I heard him,” Xaden counters, not sparing Genevieve a glance. 

“You what?” Her eyebrows raise so fast they nearly hit her hairline. Dragons only talk to their riders. That’s what Genevieve was taught. Despite whatever mate bond they have going on, Tairn should only talk to her. 

“It’s absolutely my business when you expect me to protect her,” Xaden retorts, his voice rising. 

“I got the message to you just fine, human.” Tairn’s head swivels in the snakelike motion that puts Genevieve on high alert. He’s more than agitated. 

“And I barely made it.” The words come out clipped through clenched teeth. “She would have been dead if I’d been thirty seconds later.”

“Seems like you had thirty seconds gifted to you.” Tairn’s chest rumbles with a growl. 

“And I’d like to know what the fuck happened in there!”

Genevieve inhales sharply. 

“I may hate him right now, but you said you wouldn’t flame him,” Genevieve reminds him, her words begging. “And he just saved me.” 

Tairn grumbles in response. 

“We need to know what happened in that room.” Xaden’s dark gaze cuts through Genevieve like a knife for a millisecond before he glares back at Tairn. 

“Don’t dare to try and read my rider or I, human, or you’ll regret it.” Tairn’s mouth opens, his tongue curling in a motion Genevieve knows well. She steps between the two, her gaze narrowing. 

What in Malek’s name does that mean?

“He’s just a little freaked out. Don’t scorch him.” 

“At least we agree on something.” A feminine voice sounds through Genevieve’s head. 

Sgaeyl. 

In awe, she blinks up at the navy blue dagger tail as Xaden moves to Genevieve’s side. 

“She talked to me.” 

“I know. I heard.” He folds his arms across his chest. For a moment he understood her second of frustration because that was his dragon, his beautiful blue dragon. “It’s because they’re mates. It’s the same reason you can feel my emotions. The same reason I’m chained to you.” 

“Don’t make it sound so pleasant.” She quips, her eyes never leaving Sgaeyl. 

“Gen, don’t do this right now,” he turns to face her. “But you and I are exactly that, Gen. We’re chained. Tethered. You die, I die, so I damn well deserve to know how one second that cadet was alive and the next he was on the floor dead as if his life was taken from him. Is that the signet power you’ve manifested with Tairn? Come clean. Now.” His eyes bore into hers as she finally moved from Sgaeyl. 

“I don’t know what happened,” She answered honestly. 

Xaden’s frustration simmers, his gaze sharp as he watches her, watches the flowers that seemed to have spring from the frost coated ground around her, the vines that snake up her legs. “You’re telling me you don’t know how you killed someone just by touching them?” 

Genevieve shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, her ribs aching with every breath. She truly didn’t know how to explain it. One moment she was fighting for her life, her body reacting on instinct—then there was a hold of energy, like something had snapped within her, and everything had unraveled. The cadet had fallen at her feet, eyes wide and unseeing. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her mind replays the scene-the surge of power, the warmth in her hands, the sudden absence of life. It hadn’t felt like her. It had felt other. A force she had no control over. 

Xaden grits his teeth, but before he can respond, Tairn lets out a low rumble that reverberates through the ground beneath their feet. The dragon’s golden eyes flicker between the two of them before settling on Genevieve. 

“It was your signet,” Tairn’s voice echoes in her mind, deep and resonant. “You are a life-weaver, Genevieve.” 

Her breath catches, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the sound of his words. Life-weaver? She had heard of rare signets that could manipulate the life force of others, but they were legends—whispers passed down by riders who had never known anyone strong enough to possess such power. 

Xaden’s hand reached out to her, and panic immediately flashed through her eyes. She took a step back, shaking her head. 

“No, no, you can’t touch me,” She says, her voice rising in panic and fear. “I don’t know what will- I didn’t mean to—” Her words falter as her gaze drops to her hands, still stained with the blood of the cadet. The memory of that fleeting connection with his life—how it had pulsed and then slipped away like sand through her fingers—burns fresh in her mind. She had taken it, without even realizing it. 

Sgaeyl shifts, her broad wingspan stretching, casting a shadow over the group as her voice cuts in, smoother and more refined than Tairn’s. “Your power, Genevieve, is not just in taking life. You can give it as well.” 

Her brows furrows in confusion, her heart pounding. Give life? The concept seems too foreign, too overwhelming. she had always seen herself as someone who had survived by taking—taking control, taking lives, taking what was necessary to keep herself from falling apart. The idea of giving, of restoring life, feels impossible. 

“How… how do you know that?” She asks, her voice small. 

Sgaeyl’s eyes gleam as she tilts her head, her voice patient but firm. “It is in your nature, Genevieve. You want nothing more to live, and signets are manifestations of a rider's truest desires. In time, you will learn to control it.”

Xaden is still beside her, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Genevieve and his dragon. He seems torn between awe and concern, his dark eyes glancing between Tairn and Sgaeyl before settling on Genevieve once again. 

“And what happens if she doesn’t?” Xaden asks, his voice low. There’s a tension in his tone, a hint of fear that Genevieve hasn’t heard before.

Sgaeyl’s gaze sharpens, her voice no longer gentle. “If she cannot master her power, the consequences will be devastating. For her and those around her.” 

A chill runs down Genevieve’s spine. She can feel the weight of the warning in Sgaeyl’s words, the unspoken danger lurking beneath the surface of her newfound abilities. If she couldn’t control this power—this ability to manipulate life and death—then every touch, every moment of weakness could mean someone else’s end. The thought makes her stomach twist. 

“How do I control it?” She says, and she hopes her voice hasn’t cracked to give away the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to suppress. “How do I make sure I don’t hurt anyone else?” 

Tairn steps forward, his massive form towering over her as he speaks. “You will learn, Genevieve. But it will not be easy. This power comes at a cost—every life taken, every life restored, will demand something from you.” 

Xaden’s eyes darken at Tairn’s words, his protective instincts flaring. “What kind of cost?”

Tairn’s tail flicks, his eyes narrowing on Xaden before turning back to Genevieve. “That is for her to discover. The balance between life and death is delicate, and every choice will weigh on her soul.” 

Genevieve swallows hard, her mind racing. She wants to scream, to push the dragons and Xaden away, to shut out the overwhelming reality that her signet might be something far darker and more dangerous than she ever imagined. But there’s no escaping it now. This power is a part of her, whether she likes it or not. 

Xaden steps closer, his gaze softening as he looks down at her. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens… we’ll figure it out.” 

She looks up at him, her chest tight with emotion. The weight of what she has done, of what she might do in the future, threatens to crush her. But in his eyes, she sees something else—trust, perhaps, or maybe just a flicker of hope. Something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. 

“I’m not ready,” she whispers, her voice trembling. 

“You don’t have to be,” Xaden replies softly. His hand reaches for hers, and when his fingers lace through hers, she feels a warmth—life, not death—flow between them. But she immediately retracted hers, and watched as a flash of hurt echoed over his eyes. “We’ll take this one step at a time.” 

Tairn and Sgaeyl watched silently as the two stood there, connected by the fragile thread of shared understanding. Neither dragon speaks, but Genevieve can feel their presence, a steady and unwavering reminder that her journey has only just begun. She isn’t alone, not anymore. 

———————————————

The next morning, Liam Mairi was added to Genevieve’s squad, his own squad being dissolved as a result of him being one of three left. Amber Mavis was executed by Tairn’s fire for organizing an attack on a sleeping cadet, and Genevieve found herself face to face with the horrified eyes of her own squad mates. 

“So you killed them?” Sawyer asks, trying to get his facts straight. “With no weapons? Just your hands?”

“No,” Genevieve corrected. “I only killed one of them with my signet. The other two I stabbed. If you're going to look at me like I’m a monster, at least get your head out of the clouds and be realistic.” 

Sawyer glanced up and down, his eyes traveling from the unnaturally lush grass at her feet to her white hair. “What even is your signet? And what happened last night?” He asked again. 

“My signet is Life Weaving,” she said again. “Don’t ask me what it means, I have a day until Professor Carr starts training and then I learn what Life Weaving really is. And for the last time, I was attacked in my sleep by Oren and Amber Mavis and five other cadets. Two of them I murdered with a dagger and one of them I murdered just by touching him.” Her tone was final, and left no room for argument. “Now can you stop asking me? And I don’t like the face you’re making!”

“Gods, Genevieve,” Ridoc said, his voice low with a mix of admiration and fear. “You show up on the craziest dragon and now manifest the craziest signet?”

Genevieve stared at Ridoc, her eyes cold and calculating. His tone was laced with a sense of awe and apprehension, which only served to amplify her discomfort. She could sense the shift in the atmosphere around her squad—whispers and sideways glances punctuated the air as news of her signet traveled from person to person. They were both intrigued and frightened, and Genevieve didn’t need to be an inntinnsic to understand why. 

“Don’t get too caught up in the spectacle,” Genevieve said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the squad. “It’s not a show. It’s survival.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could feel the vines growing up from her feet, twisting and winding up her legs and around her. The weight of her own abilities and the consequences of her decision were heavy on her shoulders, almost as heavily as Xaden’s gaze. 

Liam, who had been silent until now, still getting used to the squad, getting acquainted with the new people, nodded slowly. 

“You did what you had to do,” He says, and a flower blooms in the palm of her hand accidentally. “You didn’t want to kill them but you had to. And you’re alive now, isn’t that what matters?” 

“Exactly. I did what I had to do,” She shot a glare at Sawyer. “Now stop looking at me like that!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He says, putting his hands up in mock defense. “I just didn’t know everytime I high-fived you I was risking my life.” His voice carries a tone of joking play. 

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed at Sawyer’s attempt at humor, the flicker of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite herself. The tension in the air eased slightly, though the discomfort lingered beneath the surface. 

Liam’s thoughtful observation had brought a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, and Genevieve could see how the squad was beginning to adjust to the new dynamics. The lush grass beneath her feet seemed to pulse with the lingering energy of her confrontation from the night before, a reminder of both her power and her peril. 

Sawyer cleared his throat, his playful facade faltering as he looked around at the other squad members, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. “Alright, alright. I get it. No more questions about the ‘craziest signet.’”

Ridoc, still with a glint of respect in his eyes, stepped forward. “We should focus on what’s ahead. We’ve got new training sessions starting soon, and we need to make sure we’re all on the same page. We go to the archives tomorrow, and then Genevieve and Sawyer start in Professor Carr’s class, so hopefully we can get some information on their signets.” 

The group nodded, everyone in agreement with the plan. 

“Alright team,” Rhiannon continued, stepping forward with her usual blend of authority and empathy. “Let’s put the past behind us and focus on the present. We need to be prepared for what’s coming. Signet training with Carr is going to beat Genevieve and Sawyer’s asses, so let’s get to it!”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the squad was united in their resolve. The previous night’s chaos had shaken them, but now there was a shared purpose in their eyes. Genevieve, though still reeling from the events, felt a flicker of something she hadn’t fully acknowledged—hope. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was there, nestled among the cracks of her hardened exterior. 

The squad’s camaraderie was palpable, a shared commitment to overcoming their trials together. the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a cautious optimism. The lush grass around Genevieve continued to grow, a visual testament to her power and the new path she was forging. 

As they began to disperse, preparing for the day ahead, Genevieve felt her head clear for the first time since the attack.

Life really does go on after signet manifestation. 

——

Violet sat across from Genevieve at a secluded table in the archives, scribes that Violet knew, bustled around them, but Genevieve’s eyes were trained on the single book in between them. 

“I searched the entire archives and I could only find one thing on Life Weaving,” Violet says, “and it's from a guy who lived 400 years ago.”

“Great,” Genevieve groaned. The past few days had been hell for her, with everyone finding out what her signet is. From her squad, it was just her and Sawyer so far that had manifested their signets, and Professor Carr was of no help in figuring out what Life Weaving really meant, so she was on her own. Not to mention, she had been practically ignoring Xaden since October, now it was mid November, and the only time she had talked to him was when he came to save her. “Let me guess, it’s in some obscure language that only you or the scribes know, so I can’t even figure it out for myself.” 

“Let me finish.”Violet said, her voice snapping. “His name was Korrin Lysander, and according to this he’s the only other known Life Weaver, ever. Even then it was considered a rare and mythical power, even of the most skilled of riders.” Violet���s fingers gently brush over the worn pages, revealing a faded illustration of a man with pale eyes and pale hair, hand glowing with ethereal light as vines twisted behind him. “It’s said that Life Weavers can manipulate the very essence of life itself—both creating and destroying.” 

Genevieve leans in closer, her eyes scanning the text as Violet continues. “Lysander’s notes are vague at best. He describes it as a power tied to the rider’s deepest desires and emotions. He mentions something about ‘balancing the scales’ of life and death, but it’s mostly cryptic.” 

Liam appears from behind a bookshelf, pulling up a chair and sitting right next to Violet. Genevieve casts a sideways glance at how close the two of them are, but ultimately she ignores it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she turns the pages. The weight of the power she’s discovered presses heavily on her, each turn of the page feeling like a step deeper into the dark, uncertain path. 

“So this Life Weaving thing… it’s not just about killing, it’s about giving life?” Liam asks, snaking an arm around Violet. “And sorry, I searched all the old Tyrrish texts, but nothing. Sawyer and Ridoc are in the Luceran section, but no luck there either.” 

“Exactly,” Violet replies. “It seems like Lysander could heal as well as harm, but the specifics are unclear. Seems like his main mode of fighting was through rapidly growing vines and using them as whips or ropes. He also writes about the cost—how each act of weaving could take a toll on the rider’s own life force.” 

Genevieve’s brow furrowed as she absorbed the information, her mind racing with the implications. The idea that every time she used her signet, it could drain her, chip away at her own life, sent a chill down her spine. The thought of losing herself bit by bit, becoming weaker each time she saved someone else, felt like another chain around her neck. 

“So, I could heal people, but it’d drain me in the process?” Genevieve’s voice was quieter than she intended, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the ancient pages. She already carried the weight of her survival, the guilt of who she’d had to become to stay alive. But not, the possibility that her power could take even more from her—strip away her life—was overwhelming. 

Violet glanced at her, her expression more sympathetic than usual. “It seems that way. Lysander’s writings are frustratingly vague, but I had Jesenia help me, and we found that there’s enough here to suggest that in order to be able to take you need to give too, and giving is easier than taking. It does suggest that the power isn’t infinite though, the more you use it, the more it could cost. It’s all about balance—creating life, taking life, it all seems to go hand in hand.”

Genevieve swallowed hard, leaning back in her chair. The tension between her and Xaden over the past few weeks had been like a boulder pressing on her chest, and now, with this new layer of uncertainty, she felt even more isolated. It had been bad enough when her squad found out about her signet, the fear and awe in their eyes as she realized what she was capable of. But now, learning that the very thing that had saved her life in that brutal moment could also lead to her undoing…

“How in Malek’s name am I supposed to balance something like that?” Genevieve muttered, running a hand through her dark hair. “What if I can’t control it?”

Violet doesn’t respond immediately, instead, flipping another page and scanning the text. “You’re definitely not the first person to feel that way,” she finally said. “Lysander writes about the early days of his power, when he was terrified of using it, afraid that he’d lose control. But he learned!”

Genevieve scoffed softly, her skepticism cutting through her fear. “That’s great in theory. But Lysander had time. I don’t.” 

Liam, still seated close to Violet, finally spoke up again. “That’s why we’re here, right? To figure this out before something happens. And you won’t be on your own. You’ve got us.” 

Genevieve glanced at him, her lips twitching with a hint of a smile. Liam’s loyalty was something she could always count on, even when everything else seemed uncertain. But the truth was, this was a path she’d have to walk largely alone. Life Weaving was rare, mythical even. No one, not even her friends, could truly understand what it felt like to have this burden. 

Except Xaden. Shadow wielding was almost as rare as Life Weaving. He would know. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with gratitude and exhaustion. “I know.” 

But the unease lingered, heavy and suffocating. The memory of that night—of the cadets lying lifeless at her feet, of the vines she hadn’t even realized she’d summoned—flashed in her mind, and a part of her wondered how much of her life had already been taken. 

“What now?” Liam asked, breaking the silence. “Do we keep searching? I could go back and run through the Tyrrish section again, just to see if anything is stashed away?” 

Violet shook her head. “There’s no point. We’ve combed the archives top to bottom. If there’s anything more on Life Weaving, it’s buried so deep no one’s found it in centuries.” 

“Maybe she could practice on Ridoc?” Liam proposed, his voice light, as usual. “Kill him quickly and then revive him. He’d never know the difference.” 

“Be quiet!” Violet said, lightly hitting him on the arm. 

Genevieve’s hands tightened into fists on her lap. She could feel her chest tightening, her breaths shallow. Her instincts were screaming for action, for something to fight against, but there was no enemy in sight—just this invisible force tying her to a power she didn’t understand. 

“I need time,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I need to figure this out before it kills me or one of you.” She stood abruptly, pushing back the chair and grabbing the book, clutching it tightly as if it held the key to her survival. 

Violet stood as well, placing a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “It won’t-”

“Don’t touch me!” Genevieve said loudly, earning a harsh shush from one of the scribes nearby. Violet immediately retracted her hand, mumbling a quick sorry. 

“You don’t have to do this alone, Genevieve. We’ll figure it out together. Xaden will—”

”Don’t,” Genevieve cut her off again, her voice sharp. “Xaden and I… we’re not..” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The weight of their last encounter still hung heavily between them, unresolved and festering. She couldn’t think about him now, not when she didn’t know how to even deal with herself. 

Violet hesitated but nodded. “Just… don’t shut him out forever. He cares more than he lets on. And he’s literally in your head, all day every day, you can’t avoid him.”

Genevieve didn’t reply, her focus already shifting to the book in her hands. she needed answers—needed to understand what she had become. The path ahead was dark, but it was hers to walk, even if it meant risking everything in the process. 

————————————————

Hello all! I’m back a day early with this chapter, just because all of a sudden I’m getting a lot of love on this work, and I want to keep you all happy (make you all watch Genevieve slowly descend into a self-dedicating madness).

Either way, I’m going to update again on Wednesday this week with Chapter 12, and then Chapter 13 next Saturday or Sunday, but I want to know- I wrote chapter 13 with a little smut (😬) and it’s my first attempt ever so It sucks, do you still want me to post that?If no one says no I’ll post it with a warning LMAO.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and what do you think of her signet? I spent so much time thinking about it, and it’s definitely very much based off of the fates from Greek mythology. Please like and leave a comment on what you thought! Thank you~

[flowercrowngods]

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

[bunmurdock]

Hi I have mm thoughts like imagine having a kid with Matt and your worried how it will change your body but infact it just makes him love you more like your feeding your guys kid ? He wants to be there loves feeling you up even more need to pump for later ? He ain’t complaining

Also if it isn’t already taken I would love to be 🦋anon 😊

NEW EMOJI FRIEND! i believe someone has claimed 🦋, would you like to claim a different emoji (or multiple)? nicknames are ok as well!

maybe i'm ovulating, but you got me deep into dad!matt feels:

oh my god okay so imagine matt murdock as a husband and dad.

you're worried about how your body's changing, but to him? it just makes him fall in love with you more. you’re carrying his kid, feeding them—he’s in awe of it. he’ll rest his hand on your stomach, tracing his fingers over every little curve, whispering how incredible you are, how much stronger, more beautiful you've become.

and when you’re pumping? he’s right there. nothing but support, hands still gently resting on you, maybe teasing with that smirk of his. he’d joke about being jealous of the bottle but would also be dead serious about helping however he can. "don’t worry, sweetheart, i’ll take care of this later," in that playful yet sincere tone.

then there’s matt with the baby, lying on his chest, tiny hands tugging at his glasses while he chuckles, that crooked smile breaking through as his eyes soften. "guess they’re taking after me already, grabbing things they can’t see," he murmurs, voice thick with affection. he’s smiling the whole time, completely wrapped up in the little miracle you both created, his vulnerability showing in the way he holds them just a bit tighter, like he can hardly believe this is real.

he’s still matt murdock, though—always thinking ahead, always ready to protect, but softer now. he’s got one ear on the baby, the other on the world outside, but right there, in that moment? it’s all about you and them. just the three of you, and him never wanting to be anywhere else.

forget the baby monitor—matt is the baby monitor. he hears everything. every tiny breath, every little coo. you'll wake up in the middle of the night, maybe panicked that something's wrong, and he’ll already be halfway across the room, whispering, “they’re just stirring, sweetheart. go back to sleep.”

no need for gadgets when you’ve got matt murdock with those insane dad reflexes. you’ll be sitting on the couch, and suddenly, the baby tips over while trying to crawl, and before you can even react, matt’s already caught them mid-air, all casual like it’s no big deal. "gotcha, kiddo," he’ll say with that teasing grin, acting like he didn't have superhuman reflexes in that moment.

"how do you know they're about to cry?" you’ll ask one day with an eyebrow raised, and he’ll lean in close, smirking, "i can hear their heart race before the tears even come." or when you’re about to check if the baby’s too warm, he’ll casually slide in with, "not a fever, just working up to a diaper change."

and the baby? loves grabbing onto him. they’ll tug at his hair or smack at his chest, and he just lets them, totally patient, playful, letting them explore him like he's their favorite jungle gym. "strong hands," he’ll tease with a grin, "just like their mom." and you’ll gasp and swat at him.

and then there’s the moments where you’re not even aware, but matt? he’s got you both clocked—whether it’s catching the baby from rolling off the bed or knowing exactly when you need an extra hand without you having to say a word. "you know," he’ll say softly, wrapping an arm around you. "i hear you too, sweetheart. every breath, every heartbeat. i’ve got you—let me take care of both of you."

he’s so in tune with everything, it’s almost like magic. but it’s just matt—hyper-aware, always ahead of the game, being both the city's greatest protector and this ridiculously loving, protective dad who somehow knows what the baby needs before they even do. and you? he knows you just as well, maybe even better, appreciating every bit of who you are, body and soul.

masterlist | share your mm thoughts

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

required reading (sirius/remus)

a/n: this is just a fluffy few words of wolfstar, really. they’re a little bit in love.

‘Tired yet, Moons?’ Sirius skipped the last two steps of the staircase down to the common room, and flopped down next to his friend, hair swinging behind him.

‘Only a tad,’ mused Remus, flipping a page with his wand. Books floated effortlessly in the air before him, and a little distance away a candle sat on the coffee table, flaring in time with each inhale and exhale of his breath. Outside, the sun had sunk into its usual slumber, and time had begun to pass in the liquid, dreamy kind of way it often does at night.

‘D’you really have to be reading this late? What’s it even for anyways?’

‘Charms.’ Remus’ eyes were vague and far away as he answered.

‘Mate, Flitwick won’t care if you miss a deadline for a reading. Come to bed?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Sirius elbowed him gently in the ribs and sighed when he was batted away.

‘Rem, I’m serious. You’re his favourite student, besides Evans - you could be stood over a dead body with a smoking gun and he still wouldn’t believe you murdered someone. He’ll let you off this once.’

Remus snorted.

‘I’m well aware of who you are, Sirius. And I don’t fucking care if Flitwick will give me an extension, I’m finishing this book on time.’

Sirius paused to regard his friend more closely, taking in his ink-stained fingertips, his messy curls. His eyes were tired, but his jaw was set with a firm and quiet determination and something told Sirius not to push it.

‘Fine. But give your brain a break, and let me read.’

‘I don’t want you pitying me, Padfoot,’ came the reply, as the book in question was vehemently yanked out of Sirius’ reach by an invisible string.

‘I’m not pitying you, you self obsessed fuck. I can’t sleep, and I reckon reading’ll help take my mind off things. Now give over, and swap places with me.’ A resigned grunt of agreement, and the two rearranged themselves, attempting to accommodate for Remus’ lanky legs and Sirius’ tendency to sprawl. Eventually, they settled down comfortably, with Remus leant sleepily against Sirius’ shoulder.

‘Christ Moony, have you read all of this since dinner?’

‘Mm.’

‘You’ve done well.’

Remus laughed a little, and averted his gaze so that he was staring into the embers nestled in the fireplace.

‘I do my best,’ he replied quietly.

Sirius felt a sudden wave of admiration for his friend in that moment. His friend, who worked himself to the bone trying to make up for the days he spent in bed each month, trying to prove he was worth looking at as something that deserved a future. His friend, who, even on the brink of exhaustion, would still entertain the Marauders’ antics with a smile and a sarcastic comment and a suggestion or two. His friend, who would attend every single Quidditch practice without fail, despite having very little interest in it, just to watch the people he loved succeed. His gorgeous, gorgeous friend with those deep, kind eyes that smiled even when his mouth didn’t and his pretty, lilting accent and- this was not the time. Sirius turned his attention back to the book, trying not to think about the warm weight of Remus’ body against his own, or how he smelled so pleasantly of parchment and chocolate and cologne.

‘Where am I picking up from then, Rem?’

‘Top of the right hand page.’

‘Gotcha.’

An hour or so passed, and the book drew to a dull close with a final chapter on the Proteo Charm. The darkness outside had deepened, and thickened, becoming viscous and heavy. It pressed against the windows, making the common room seem even cosier in contrast. The air was warm and sleepy, the fire completely entrancing, and for a moment after Sirius finished speaking the two of them sat in silence to let the last of the consonant softly fade away.

‘Thanks, Padfoot.’

‘Anytime, Remus. Anything for our Moony.’

[captain039]

PART 4 The 2029

Old man Logan x reader

Warnings: AOB dynamics, age gap, angst, swearing, mutants, intimacy, eventual smut, claiming, heats, ruts, needles, drug usage, dystopian world, plus size reader, sexual assault,

Mutation: Telekinesis, energy manipulation, telepathy

Notes: Sorry I’ve been so inactive I’m really am tryna finish my Hugh Jackman stories xD

As you lay there on the edge of the large king bed, Charles next to you, Caliban on the small sofa in the room and Logan leaning against the wall looking out the window looking like a guard dog.

You want him to lie down, rest, sleep, the overwhelming urge to be good omega and serve your alpha. You stare at the bedside table a little harshly trying to control yourself and your thoughts, the voices have quieted down and stopped now that you focus on it. Growing up in the omega facility they made you control your powers, forced more like till they discovered a truely mutant canceling agent, so you took too many lessons in controlling your mutations, there had been a few times you sent the guards mad on purpose trying to escape but you would just be sedated till you were willing to cooperate so you gave up and gave in. You see Logan shift a small quiet groan leaving his mouth as you hear his hip pop. It makes you jolt and sit up in worry. The old alphas eyes snap to yours frowning.

“You should be asleep” he speaks softly but gruffly putting on a hard face like he’s not in pain.

“Lie down” you mutter getting off the bed as quiet as you can. He raises his eyebrow at you and you keep his gaze.

“Sit down at least please” you whisper and the old alpha sighs and listens. He sits down carefully the bed dipping under his weight, your mind goes into taking care mode kneeling down and taking his boots off.

“Hey-“ he says surprised but you ignore him taking off his boots and socks and lying them neatly by the bedside table. You take off his jacket too and he lets you, eyes watching you carefully. You fold his jacket and lay it on the bedside table nodding to yourself once you’re happy before gesturing for him to lie down. The old alpha grumbles but does as you say. You nod pleased with yourself you finally got your alpha to settle. The thought runs through your mind, ‘your alpha’ you glance to him seeing as he sighs body tense and no doubt in pain. He closes his eyes as you take up his post by the window figuring someone needs to keep look out. You wonder what he’s thinking about but you don’t peer in his mind, not after what you saw, all that family, the x men and the x mansion. What goes to your mind though is the alpha red headed woman, Jean, her name echoing through your mind like a taunt. She’s dead you saw it saw young Logan dig her claws in her stomach and cry. He was handsome when he was young he’s handsome now in a rugged way. You watch the alphas body relax and his breathing evens out, you’re thankful your own body relaxing as he sleeps. You keep look out eventually sitting down on the floor against the wall. Your head lulls and hangs your eyes closing and body drifting to sleep, you jolt to wake yourself up looking out the window seeing silence. You’re just about to dose off again when you hear it, a helicopter. You’re up looking out the window, you force your mind to reach out, there’s ten soldiers and a whole helicopter.

“We need to leave” you almost scream at the voice by your ear. Logan’s already up, waking up Caliban and Charles picking up the old man.

“Tell Jessica we’re leaving, and to keep her family inside” Logan orders you and you nod as he carries Charles down stairs, Caliban behind him. There’s a shot that rings out though, you half expect pain but feeling nothing till Caliban thuds to the floor. You rush to the mutant, holding the home in his chest waking the family you were staying with.

“They’re here for us stay inside!” Logan orders and growls alpha tone coming through as the mates look to each other and hold their son close.

“I’m sorry” you whisper to Caliban staying by him. Liam rushes downstairs and you hear him talking to Logan distantly as Jessica urges her son in the bathroom. Logan comes back up picking up Caliban too with a grim face. You follow them outside seeing Liam throwing some bags into their truck. Charles is in the backseat and Logan plays Caliban in the tray of the Ute. Liam chucks the keys to Logan giving you a small smile before going into the house again to protect his family. Your heart fills and beats rapidly before you jump into the truck. Logan takes off quickly into the corn fields. Your heart pounds as you look back to the house seeing the soldiers and the helicopter flying overhead. You pray the family doesn’t get hurt. The alpha drives quickly apparently knowing where to go, you assume Liam told him as you end up on a named dirt road.

You’re staring back at the house now distance your eyes going wide the world slowing as a loud explosion goes off the and house goes up in flames. Your heart shatters and breaks you let out a cry before you’re grabbed and brought into the old alphas lap somehow. He’s pushed the seat back got one hand on the wheel the other tightly around you.

“Don’t look” he says pressing your head to his neck in silent order. Your body shakes and you cry against him. His hands on your neck keeping a gently but firm hold as you continue to cry and he continues to drive. Your arms are stuck between your bodies as you try to process what just happened.

As the car finally stops on the side of the road by a forest you slowly wake up from your slumber and mumble incoherently at the warmth under you. You open your eyes feel the warm alpha under you breathing evenly and shallowly, he’s asleep. You glance to the backseat seeing Charles asleep also and you think about falling back to sleep yourself before you realise Caliban is dead in the back of the truck. You sit up slowly from Logan’s shoulder seeing his head leant against the window eyes closed. His arms tighten around you suddenly a frown on his face and you curse yourself for moving. His eyes snap open like a startled animal and you freeze on instinct at the sudden anxiety filled alpha scent let out by him. You act on instinct, cup his cheeks his frown deepening before he recognises you in his waking up state. You brush your thumbs over his cheeks feel the surprisingly soft beard hair he has coating his face. He watches you, like a predator, eyes narrowed slightly as you gently move your fingers through his beard testing smiling softly to yourself before his scent calms down fully. His arms haven’t moved from around you, well sort of around you now that you’ve lifted yourself up. His hands rest on the spot just above hips not gripping anymore just lying there. You want to kiss him. You look to his lips shamelessly and wonder what they’d be like pressed against yours in such a moment. Your eyes move to movement though, Charles moving in the back and suddenly Logan’s guiding you off his lap and onto the passenger side. It stings a little, but you understand as he gets out and helps Charles, takes him to the woods behind some bushes. You sag against the leather in the truck, you need to go to the toilet too, you need a damn shower also, but you’re not going out in the woods on the side of the road.

After Logan helps Charles back in the car he grabs a shovel from the truck and heads back to the forest. You know what he’s doing, digging a grave for Caliban. You get out the truck after a while, close the door gently and head to Logan. There’s a stale scent in the air from him as he digs, muscles tense, his eyes glaring at the earth. You wonder if you should help, see if there’s another shovel but the look Logan gives you is heart breaking and you go to him instead wrap your arms around him and comfort him like any omega would. He keeps one hand on the on the shovel one by his side as you force him to bury his face in your neck. He’s so tense and his body no doubt aches, you can smell the emotions in his scent he lets off, feel them even. He leans into you though and you know you did the right thing as his free hand rests on your back, large fingers spread out as he breathes you in. You don’t expect him to cry even though it would do him good, he’s too tense and out in the open to fully let go, but this, this you can offer him.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 335

Danny Phantom and… Naruto crossover? Yep. 

Because Uzumakis? Canonically bat shit insane. Will look at Death and laugh. Probably invite them to dinner. Will create things just because they can, with no care for what types of rules of reality they are actively breaking. Will take a look at those rules as suggestions. 

And Uzu? An entire island nation who got slaughtered, who were betrayed. They have Unfinished Business! Things to DO! Projects to FINISH! Descendents to FIND! If they can find a way from this green place! 

And then? There is a child. Like, if someone took the appearance of an Uchiha and gave them the disposition of one of them. He is Lost. Was following a map, that they all wanna grab because oooh they wanna learn how it works and make their Own! Sentient Map! Give! 

But? The child? Mentions that some ghosts can break through the bounds of this reality? Can get back to the land of the living? They just need? To figure out which direction to go in? And anyone knows, you give the Uzumakis even the slightest chance of success, and they will all take hold like a small angry dog. 

It is Chaos. The dead have risen. The entire Uzumaki clan are back- again! Unkillable! Can fly! Can go through walls. Invisible! And that’s just the basics! They are vicious, petty, angry bastards that need no sleep! Will be taking all their stolen stuff back now!

Have formed an alliance with the Uchiha ghosts, who are pissed. It is an unholy thing of explosions and spite. 

[franollie]

Hold me . . . please

[yennao]

Decided this place doesn’t have an Older Danny that’s fucked up enough. I need him heavier on the ice powers. I took it upon myself to start cookin.

Here’s a 28 yo, depressed, technically homeless, absolutely miserable ghost who continues to protect amity park with the same love he always has.

[carebeardean]

payneland spiderman au where masked Charles rescues Edwin, who immediately starts yelling at him for putting himself in danger & Charles is like mate did you recognize me by the sound of my voice🥹?

Edwin using Every Inch of his willpower not to look at Charles ass in spandex is like of course I would recognize you anywhere. you absolute fool.

2 years after they start dating Charles puts it together & laughs so hard he busts a rib

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

hello good evening tonight i’m thinking about shoko and how desensitized she is :33 thinking about a naive reader who admires her and looks up to her and feels their world come crashing down when she has to put a scalpel to their best friend’s corpse after a mission gone wrong and doesn’t even bat an eye .

[stuckinapril]

I think I realized how severely humor infects all spaces when I witnessed two of my coworkers at the neuro clinic I’m interning at laughing at putting in a patient as deceased

[vcrnons]

second night in a row there’s been a massive fuck off spider in my bedroom and i’ve been left to fend for myself